Small Time Crime (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 10)

by A W Hartoin

  “How about you convince your guys that you’re right? How about that?”

  He clenched and unclenched his jaw. “This is just between us, but we just found another cache of bodies about fifty meters away from the first group. We’re up to our eyeballs and the press is going to be brutal.”

  “You deserve it,” I said.

  They frowned, showing more personality than I thought they possessed.

  “Not you personally.”

  “I’m glad you make the distinction. We’re the good guys,” said Gansa.

  I wouldn’t go that far.

  “If you get me off the list, you can be the good guys.”

  “We wouldn’t have hauled you in here, if we could get this done any other way,” said Gordon.

  “What about the Sister’s family, friends?”

  “Everyone that might’ve remembered is dead. Sister Miriam is who we’ve got. The bureau’s stance is that the medal could belong to someone else, a man, for instance.”

  “As in it might belong to one of the killers?” I asked.

  “Correct,” said Gansa.

  Hope lit up in my chest. “Maybe it did.”

  “They’re running that line of inquiry into the ground and you better hope they aren’t too attached to it.”

  I stepped back involuntarily. “Don’t say it.”

  “It’s going to happen.”

  “No.”

  “I won’t do it,” I said. “Send someone else.”

  “They tried,” said Gordon. “Yesterday, as a matter of fact. Blankenship wouldn’t come out of his cell.”

  I touched my lip. The scar, although faded, was still there and would always be there. I’d been forced to go to Hunt Hospital for the Criminally Insane to get information out of mass murderer Kent Blankenship, and I paid for it in spades. He gave me what I needed and it led the FBI to Kansas. I always knew it was only a matter of time before I was asked to go back in and talk to Blankenship. We had what they like to call a rapport, but it was more like ownership, as in Blankenship thought I belonged to him.

  “I’m not going back to Hunt,” I said.

  “You will.”

  “Won’t.”

  “If it’s in the interest of your family or justice, you will,” said Gordon.

  “I don’t like you two,” I said.

  Gansa opened the door. “We know, but that changes nothing. Talk to her.”

  I flounced out with my nose in the air. I wasn’t talking to Aunt Miriam and I sure the hell wasn’t talking to Blankenship. I had three seconds of superiority and then I ran straight into Aunt Miriam, who stood in the hall, hawk-eyed and disapproving.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  I just about turned around. The rookies were preferable. “I was leaving with style.”

  “You look proud of yourself.”

  “I was. Don’t worry. I’m over it.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  She has a cane. Where’d she get that?

  “Um…I’m sure we’re not going to the same place,” I said.

  Aunt Miriam got squinty. “Where are you going?”

  Wherever you aren’t.

  “Well…”

  She brandished the cane. “Speak up. I haven’t got all day.”

  “Home, I guess,” I said.

  “Good, then you’re not busy.”

  “I am busy. I’ve got to look for a job and—”

  The cane came dangerously close to my shin and I jumped back.

  “I need a ride,” said Aunt Miriam.

  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  “I didn’t drive,” I said, trying not to sound happy, but from the increasing squintiness, I failed.

  “We can go together,” she said, marching off down the hall.

  “I’m going to walk. I need the air.” I spun around, looking for an exit or an elevator. The rookies were gone, having slipped out when they saw a chance for escape.

  “This way,” she yelled.

  “I’ll just go somewhere that’s not there.”

  “Carolina Watts!”

  Dammit.

  I jogged down the hall, almost losing a sandal, and caught up to her at the elevator. “I guess we can share an Uber.”

  “I’ll order one,” said Aunt Miriam.

  “You’ll order one?”

  She gave me another core-chilling look as if her ordering an Uber was perfectly normal. It wasn’t. She’d yet to master turning on her phone and that is not an exaggeration. We waited a good five minutes for the elevator, took it down ten flights, and left the building before she managed it.

  “There,” she said in triumph. “These things are poorly designed. I’m going to write a letter.”

  “A letter?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mercy, a letter. That is how it’s done. Civilized people write coherent letters of complaint.”

  “Maybe they did in 1985, but now they email or tweet.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not being ridicu— never mind. Please order the Uber.”

  Aunt Miriam went through her apps and, at one point, somehow ended up playing DJ Khaled at incredibly high volume. My feet were freezing and the flurries had turned into snow. There was an excellent chance that’d I’d have frostbite before she opened her app.

  “This service is terrible,” she said.

  “You should write a letter.”

  She whacked me on the shins and while I danced around in pain, she opened the Uber app and claimed to have ordered a ride.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why are wearing those sandals? Have you no sense of the appropriate?”

  Not usually. No.

  “Homeland Security took the appropriate shoes I was wearing when you got me on the No Fly List,” I said.

  “I did no such thing,” said Aunt Miriam. “I’m certain that you did something.”

  “I’m related to you and apparently we’re close.”

  “There you go.”

  I turned to her and stepped out of cane reach. “Is it Sister Margaret’s medal?”

  Her mouth went into a thin line.

  “If it is, it is. If it isn’t, it isn’t. Just say so and we’re both off the hook.”

  “There is no hook.”

  “I’m on the No Fly List. That’s a pretty big hook. What’s my mom going to say?”

  “Carolina will understand,” she said.

  “No, she won’t and neither will my dad or Grandad or anyone,” I said. “What is wrong with telling the truth?”

  She looked at me and I quaked. “I have nothing to say and the matter is closed.”

  “Except it’s not. She was your friend. Don’t you want to help her?”

  “The time to help her was then.”

  “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do it.”

  Aunt Miriam’s mouth twitched and her eyes got moist. “I will not besmirch her memory by letting this all be slobbered over in the press. She was a dignified person. She will remain dignified.”

  “Wouldn’t it be dignified to catch her murderer, if they were wrong about the priest?” I asked.

  “It was fifty years ago. The person is long dead.”

  “You’re not.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “I do. You know I do. If those dufus rookies are right and I have a feeling they are, that person got away with murdering a nun.”

  Aunt Miriam sighed and her rigid shoulders relaxed, just a bit. “It’s over, Mercy. I don’t want to think about it ever again. Can you understand that?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Of course, I understood. I didn’t want to see Richard Costilla’s face, the teenager I killed in New Orleans, ever again. I didn’t want to remember how Mom looked when I found her stroked out after her attack. But those things were in my mind and pushing them away didn’t make them go
away. It just didn’t.

  “Good. It’s agreed then,” announced Aunt Miriam. “Here’s our ride.”

  A super long, old Q45 pulled up and the driver leaned over to look at us. He didn’t have the moderately friendly look of most drivers. If I had to name that look, I’d say it was dread.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “Naturally,” said Aunt Miriam. “Get in.”

  I got in and the driver looked somewhat relieved that I got in the front seat instead of Aunt Miriam. I didn’t blame him.

  “Hello, William,” said Aunt Miriam.

  “Good morning, Sister Miriam,” said William. “How are you today?”

  Somebody had been trained in Sister Miriam politeness.

  “I’m very well. Thank you,” she said.

  He pulled out into traffic so slowly we got blasted with twenty-eight horns and I counted at least three fingers. William was gripping the wheel like he was afraid it would escape. “I will have you to the hospital in a reasonable amount of time.”

  “I see your skills have improved,” said Aunt Miriam.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Excellent.”

  I shifted in my seat and looked back. “So what are we—”

  “Shush,” she said. “William is driving.”

  I turned back around, so William could concentrate on being at a red light, and tried to figure out what to do. I could call Chuck. He was working on Kansas, at least where it pertained to Missouri. I doubted he had enough pull to get me off the list, but there was also Morley and Harwood, formerly known as Hatchett Nose and Toupee back when I hated them. They were higher up the food chain in the FBI than the rookies. Maybe they could do it. But there was a better than average chance that they’d want something in exchange, like a trip out to Hunt. I didn’t want to go to Greece that bad.

  William pulled up at SLU’s main building and breathed a sigh of relief. “Here you go, Sister Miriam. Have a nice day.”

  “Very well done, William,” said Aunt Miriam. “I will be ordering you later.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She got out and I said, “Okay. I need to go a few more blocks, close to Hawthorne Avenue.”

  Aunt Miriam rapped her cane on my window.

  “I don’t think so,” said William.

  “No, really. I’m not going into the hospital.”

  “The cane says you are. I don’t argue with the cane.”

  I rolled down my window. “What’s up? Is this the wrong hospital?”

  “No,” she said.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  She heaved an exasperated sigh and said, “Oh, fine. I give up, you can come with me.”

  “Er…no, really I’m good.”

  “That’s debatable. Get out of the car, Mercy. You may accompany me on this one occasion.”

  “What occasion is it?” I asked.

  She gave me the stink eye and it was my turn to heave an exasperated sigh. “I guess you’re right, William.”

  “I’m starting to know her pretty well,” he said, “and I’m a little afraid for you.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “I suggest you go on break about three-thirty.”

  William grinned. “Thanks for the tip, but it’s okay. She scares the crap out of me, but she tips well and gives me a good review every single ride.”

  “Really?”

  “I know, right?”

  “Well, good luck and God bless.”

  He gave me a thumbs-up and I got out to follow Aunt Miriam into the hospital. She could really move when she wanted to and I practically had to jog to keep up. I thought we’d be going to the volunteer section where she bullied people into doing the right thing on a daily basis, but instead, we ended up in the doctor’s building on the third floor going into Dr. Amed Harrison’s office, an obstetrician and gynecologist.

  Aunt Miriam marched up to the reception desk and barked, “We’re late.”

  The poor receptionist jumped a foot and hastily said, “It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s free. He had a cancelation.” The poor woman ran to get some paperwork, but Aunt Miriam held up hand. “We don’t need that.”

  “Okay,” said the receptionist. “Right this way.”

  I went to sit down in the waiting area, but Aunt Miriam pointed at me.

  What was happening? Was I seeing a gyno? Had I had my own stroke and completely forgotten that I needed one?

  “I really don’t think—”

  “Quiet,” said Aunt Miriam and I followed her back to Dr. Harrison’s office, a spartan affair with Danish design elements.

  The doctor jumped up and showed us a pair of blond wood chairs in front of his desk, like we couldn’t have found them on our own. He had also been trained.

  “Sister Miriam, it’s good to see you.” Dr. Harrison smiled, but he didn’t mean it.

  “I’m sure it is,” she said. “You have a living to make.”

  “Er…yes, I do and I see you’ve brought someone along today.” He leaned over the desk and extended his hand. “Miss Watts, a pleasure.”

  I shook his hand that was disturbingly moist. “Thanks.”

  He squeezed my hand and said with his large dark eyes intense, “I’m a huge fan. I’m very happy to meet you.”

  That was more worrying than the brick in Aunt Miriam’s bag. “Oh. Okay.”

  I sat down and so did the doctor. Aunt Miriam folded her hands on top of her purse and sat ramrod straight.

  “So…may I ask what brings you along today, Miss Watts?” His eyes were pleading.

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  “You’re not here to help your aunt with her—”

  Aunt Miriam coughed.

  “Um…difficulty?”

  “I didn’t know she had a difficulty,” I said.

  “You’re a nurse?”

  “Yep.”

  Dr. Harrison sat back in his chair and frowned. “She hasn’t told you?”

  “Tell me what? Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “I assume so,” he said.

  “You assume?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t know? You’re the doctor.”

  Dr. Harrison kindly explained to me that this was Aunt Miriam’s third visit to see him and she had yet to tell him what was wrong with her.

  I turned to her and said, “Are you serious? Tell him.”

  “It’s private,” said Aunt Miriam.

  “He’s a doctor. Your doctor.”

  “I will.”

  “When? The next millennium?” I asked. “If you have an issue, let’s have it.”

  Aunt Miriam wouldn’t look at me and she sure wasn’t looking at Dr. Harrison. “I told you I will. I have to get comfortable first.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but gynecologists’ offices don’t get more comfortable than this,” I said. “And he’s the number one gyno in the city. You’re taking up his valuable time.”

  “He’s well paid.”

  “Not enough to just sit there.”

  Dr. Harrison shifted in his chair nervously. “No, no. It’s perfectly fine. Really. As long as it takes.”

  I stood up. “This is crazy. Just tell him.”

  Aunt Miriam stood up and said, “I will. Thursday at ten.”

  The doctor glanced at his calendar. “Yes. I will see you then, Sister Miriam.”

  “No,” I said. “You will not see him then. You’re seeing him now.”

  “It’s fine, Miss Watts,” said Dr. Harrison.

  “No, it’s not. Cancel that appointment. This is why I and all the normal people can’t get appointments when we need them.”

  Aunt Miriam booked it out the door, calling over her shoulder, “Thursday.”

  “You have to cut her off,” I said. “This is nutty, even for her.”

  “I can’t,” he said, resigned and not at all like you’d think the top gyno in St. Louis should look.

  “Why not?”

  “Have you ever heard of
Dr. John Mills?”

  “No.”

  “He was one of my partners. He’s now living in Micronesia, foraging for fruit in the jungle.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Dr. Harrison explained and it pained him to do it. Five years ago, Aunt Miriam discovered Dr. Mills had the habit of soliciting teenaged prostitutes. Being who she was, Aunt Miriam wasn’t content to warn him off or even just call the cops. She wrecked him. I’m not saying Dr. Mills didn’t have it coming. He did. One of the girls was fourteen. But when my Aunt Miriam decides to come after you, you know you’ve been gone after. His wife was informed. The police and his partners, the hospital, the AMA, every professional organization he belonged to, not to mention his homeowners organization and the neighborhood watch. She told his accountant and stockbroker, for crying out loud. Somehow he didn’t go to jail. There was a plea bargain with some ridiculous time served crap, but Dr. Mills completely freaked and when he got out of a cushy mental health facility, he fled the country to hunt bananas with orangutans.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  I squinted at him. “You haven’t been…”

  “Or course not. I haven’t done anything,” said Dr. Harrison. “But Sister Miriam makes me think I did and just don’t remember, so I’m taking no chances. Understand?”

  “Alright, but I think it’s crazy to waste your time,” I said.

  He came around the desk, peeked out the door, and said, “See if you can get her to talk to me. Something is definitely wrong. She’s in pain. I can tell, but I can’t do anything if I can’t examine her.”

  “I’ll try, but you know how she is.”

  “I do, but I’m very concerned.”

  I shook his hand that was happily less moist and went out to find Aunt Miriam in the waiting room.

  “Well, I hope he can help you, Mercy,” she said, loudly. “These things can get serious.”

  “What the—”

  She whacked me with her cane until I left the office.

  “Mercy, I’m going to my office. I will see you on Thursday at ten,” said Aunt Miriam.

  “No, you won’t.” I did an about-face and went for the stairs.

  She came after me, waving her cane and hopping mad. I grabbed the cane, twisted it out of her hand, and brandished it myself. “I’m not going to another useless appointment.”

  Hands went to bony hips and faded ginger hair curled around her face, having escaped from her veil. “We will go to my office to discuss this.”