Shatter the Night

by Emily Littlejohn

  I raised the other eyebrow. “Over a comic book?”

  “Okay, I exaggerate. But seriously, people were pissed off. They wanted some kind of resolution. The most popular comic book fan site online pushes the theory that the author was himself a double agent and was killed in action.” Jimmy lowered his phone, held up the comic book. “Look at the author and illustrator’s name: anonymous. That’s extremely unusual in the comic world.”

  Finn took the book from Jimmy. “You learned all that in the last ten minutes from your phone?”

  The intern nodded. “Dude. Ever hear of this little thing called Google?”

  “‘Dude’ me one more time and I’ll make sure you spend the next week fetching coffee and filing reports,” Finn responded. He added grudgingly, “You’ve got skills, son, but that attitude of yours is going to get you in trouble. How about a little respect for your elders?”

  “Sure thing, boss. Sir. Although you know I’m only like seven or eight years younger than you, right? It’s not like we’re a generation apart. So, in the original comics, Ghost Boy is killed. But then years later, he’s resurrected by a cult devoted to spreading mayhem across the globe. Or at least, sort of resurrected. They’re only halfway successful and Ghost Boy comes back to life as a zombie general. He travels around the world, leading armies of evil.” Jimmy paused, set down the comic.

  I asked, “If the comic is the message, then does our killer fancy himself an evil half-dead double agent?”

  Jimmy shrugged as Finn rolled his eyes. I didn’t blame either one of them.

  It was both confusing and ridiculous.

  I continued. “Say the killer models himself after Ghost Boy. Cedar Valley is hardly the headquarters of an evil army. And I certainly can’t think of any martial arts experts who’ve also spent time in the KGB or the CIA or MI6 or any other spy agency. An antique gas mask, a Japanese military pistol … dynamite … Ghost Boy … There’s something else going on here. It’s as though ghosts from the past have touched down in Cedar Valley, returning to old familiar haunts.”

  “Gemma, ghosts didn’t kill Caleb Montgomery and Mike Esposito. The killer or killers can’t stay hidden forever; sooner or later, masks will come off and we’ll get them. Jimmy, do you have any sense of how easy it is to get ahold of these comics? Is this something we could track to a single seller?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “That was the first thing I thought of, but no. Each volume is pricy but not so rare as to be traced to, say, a specific store in New York. I saw dozens of copies for sale online in the couple of minutes I just spent browsing. I can take the time if you like to put some feelers out there? See if anyone’s been aggressively scooping up issues?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s worth the time, to be honest. These comics are personal to the killer; I’d be shocked if they were recent purchases. My gut is that the books have belonged to the killer for years.”

  “Then why leave them behind?” Finn asked.

  None of us had an answer for that, though I finally offered, “Maybe the killer’s evolving. Shedding his Ghost Boy persona as he turns into something else. Something worse.”

  Finn pushed up from the desk. “We should get a start on Mike Esposito’s background. Who he was, what he liked to do, and what he and a retired judge might have in common.”

  As we strategized next steps, something unsettling occurred to me. I realized I did in fact know someone who was a martial arts expert, and while she hadn’t spent time in a spy agency, she’d sure done her share of time in the military: Fire Investigator Liv Ramirez.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A few hours later, I had a more complete picture of Michael Esposito’s life. While Finn had worked the crime scene notes and the list of evidence collected, Jimmy and I tried to peel back the curtain on Michael Esposito. If there was anything, anything at all that linked Esposito to Montgomery, it could break our cases wide open.

  We reconvened in the small conference room, with the last of Jimmy’s pastries and a fresh pot of coffee to sustain us.

  I went first. “Michael Esposito was thirty-seven years old at the time of his death. He lived alone in the basement of a Victorian on the north side of town. No pets, no living relatives. His landlord, who lived above him in the main house, said he was a perfect tenant. Never any trouble, though he was gone for long stretches of time. Curiously, she thinks he either had a girlfriend in another town or was a spy for the CIA. Anyway, I’ve got a couple of officers searching his apartment. He owned a rather valuable vintage motorcycle and honestly, that’s about it for assets. Oh, and he played on the local softball team. His buddies are devastated and are holding a wake for him tonight at the Stop Sign.”

  “Interesting choice for a wake.” Finn smirked. The Stop Sign was a topless bar on the outskirts of town, sandwiched between a gas station and a pawn shop. It was far from a high-end establishment, and in fact, rumor had it that the owner wouldn’t hire any staff who had all their teeth. It was a badge of honor at that place, to be missing a few pearly whites.

  Finn gave a mock shudder and added, “If I go out before you, Monroe, please don’t let any of my buddies plan my funeral. What else do you have? Any local relatives?”

  “As far as family, Esposito didn’t have much. Both parents are deceased, and I didn’t find any record of siblings or even cousins. He appeared in town about seven years ago and worked a few odd jobs here and there until he was hired on at the bank.” I paused, reviewed my notes. “According to the manager, who is very shaken up, Esposito’s performance there has been steady. Usual absences, illnesses. Takes two weeks of vacation a year. The tellers and customers all love him. He’s especially popular with the older ladies; a number of them make weekly visits to the bank simply to bring him cookies. Jimmy? What’d you find?”

  The intern smiled like the cat who’d caught the canary. He opened his notebook, waited a moment, then smiled even wider. “I found a connection between Caleb Montgomery and Michael Esposito. Actually, two connections. And they’re big ones, guys. Like, big.”

  “Jimmy?” Finn asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “What the hell are you waiting for? Speak, man.”

  “Okay, okay. So, four years ago, Caleb Montgomery sold a parcel of land to Mike Esposito. It’s an acre on the north side of town that includes a small cabin. I spoke with the realtor who handled the sale; apparently Caleb was looking to rid himself of the property and Esposito made him a good offer. The deal went through and that would seem to be the end of it. Except six months later, Edith Montgomery rear-ended Esposito on a deserted country road in Belle Vista.”

  “Belle Vista?” I was surprised and my first thought was the penitentiary. “They were both there on the same day?”

  Jimmy nodded. “Now, don’t get too excited. It was the last evening of the tri-county summer fair. Edith Montgomery served on the planning board. Any guesses why Esposito was there?”

  Finn snapped his fingers. “The softball championship. The Cedar Valley Starfighters always play the Belle Vista Belly Rubbers at the fair.”

  “Exactly.” Jimmy smiled. “It’s a great matchup.”

  “Wait just a minute. Our softball team is the Starfighters? And theirs is the Belly Rubbers?”

  Finn gave me a look of pity. “What did you expect? The Red Sox?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Jimmy, what came about from the accident?”

  The intern closed his notebook with a resounding clap. “Edith Montgomery was convicted of a misdemeanor. DUI. Turns out she’d had one too many glasses of champagne that day. She was sentenced to community service and lost her position on the board. Apparently it was quite the scandal. There were quite a few other boards and commissions she was a part of, and all of them, every last one of them, kicked her off. Edith, of course, blamed Esposito. She testified that he had all of a sudden swerved, then stopped dead in the middle of the road.”

  I tried to think back to three and a half years ago, tried to
recall a time when Edith was suddenly ostracized from the community for one mistake. She’d done so much good for the town over the years, poured thousands of dollars, and hours of time, into countless charity events.

  Bull often said it was a long hike up to heaven and a quick tumble down to hell, and I thought I understood what he meant.

  Edith’s fall from grace had been quick and likely very unpleasant.

  It had also been quiet. I hadn’t been aware of it, couldn’t remember Bull or Julia breathing a word of it. Then again, it wasn’t my social circle, not exactly. They’d have known, though.

  And, I was sure, Edith had slowly been making that climb back up over the last few years. She was involved in a great many number of local organizations and it had been clear at Caleb’s memorial service that her standing had been restored.

  But had her pride?

  Had she simply been biding her time, waiting for the right moment to take out both Caleb and the man whom she blamed for her ruin?

  I thought about her claim of strange noises, odd lights in the Old Cabin Woods … I’d found nothing at the edge of the forest, but maybe there had been nothing there to find. Maybe that was all just another distraction.

  Finn said, “If Edith had anything to do with the murders, she’s not working alone. She was at Caleb’s memorial service at the time Esposito was shot. And we all saw the video footage; a man pulled the trigger. I suppose it could have been a woman but the build sure looked like a man.”

  “Tom Gearhart, her brother?” Jimmy suggested.

  I shook my head. “No, Tom was by her side during the service. Although … oh no.”

  Finn sat up, leaned forward, his eyes on mine. “What?”

  “He stepped away. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes before you called me, Gearhart entered the elevators. I don’t know where he went; Edith said he was ill. Gearhart could have taken the elevator to the basement, exited the building, cut across that alley, and been at the bank three minutes later. Add a minute or two in the basement to swap his suit for the casual clothes and there would have been plenty of time.” I exhaled, thinking through things. “We know Caleb and Tom didn’t like each other. And Tom seems to worship the ground Edith walks on.”

  Jimmy jumped in. “You said the dynamite thief was fat, but moved like a dancer, right? It could have been a disguise. And Gearhart’s an actor! He knows how to change his walk, throw on a costume, and become someone else. It all fits.”

  “Everything except Ghost Boy. What does the comic book have to do with it?” Finn stood, scratched at his back. A few of the hairs at his temples had started to lighten from black to silver. Another couple of months, a year maybe, and more hairs would have turned. For a moment, I saw Finn as an older man, with more salt than pepper in his hair. He’d be retired somewhere on the coast, living the good life on a boat, a pail of shrimp at his feet and a frosty beer in his hands.

  For now, though, Finn was a forty-year-old cop with a rumpled suit and a look of confusion in his eyes. “Look, let’s stay on Esposito for a minute. His landlady said he’d be gone for days at a time, right? We know he’s got a cabin somewhere. That’s a likely place to start looking for signs that he spends time there.”

  I called the officers who were searching Esposito’s apartment and gave them the address of his cabin. If there was anything of interest there, Finn and I could check it out after the officers. But they called me back an hour later with not much to report. One of the officers added, “Unless you count skin flicks, in which case there are a few dozen here. Nothing unusual, just your standard naked ladies and so-so plots. Frankly, I’m not surprised one bit. We met Esposito’s landlady at his apartment in town; she’s about a hundred years old and nosy as hell. If I had to guess, this place is Esposito’s hidey-hole, his man cave.”

  I hung up, dejected. I’d been hoping for a little more discovery at the second residence to help fill in the picture. So far there was nothing to indicate Esposito lived a life out of the ordinary. There was nothing to indicate that he’d be a target for a crazed killer.

  Finn checked his watch. “It’s late. Let’s break and get back on this on Monday. We’ve been working nonstop, going in circles. Everyone could use a day to regroup. We hit this hard, first thing Monday morning.”

  * * *

  That night, at home, after Grace was in bed, Brody and I went over the final head count for the wedding. There would be close to a hundred guests, mostly friends and work colleagues, some family. We sat on the floor in the den, a pencil sketch of the dining hall at the Tate Lodge between us. It was the most tedious puzzle I’d ever done in my life, and I wasn’t shy about telling Brody that; figuring out who should sit next to whom, and at what table, made me feel as though my soul was slowly seeping out of my body.

  “Make a game out of it, Gemma.” Brody poured us each another glass of wine, his spirits high. He loved this sort of thing. “Okay, table ten. It’s closest to the dance floor, but farthest from the buffet. Do we know anyone who’s trying to lose weight?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not having a dieter’s table at my wedding. Let’s put your sisters there, and a couple of eligible bachelors from your work. Maybe we can make a love connection.”

  Brody stared at the diagram, his lips pursed in concentration. “I suppose that could work … though Sarah has very sensitive hearing. If she’s too close to the DJ, she’ll get upset. And I don’t think Jeff Junior is going to like sitting there, either. The kid is growing like a weed, he’ll want to be near the food.”

  Jeff Junior was the son of Brody’s second youngest sister, Naomi. Jeff Junior, as everyone called him, was twelve and, if Naomi’s frequent Facebook posts could be believed, had the appetite of a linebacker in the NFL. Jeff Senior, Junior’s father, was himself a generously stout man with a belly that shook in two counties when he laughed.

  “Yeah, let’s put Jeff Junior, Jeff Senior, and Naomi near the buffet.” This was giving me a headache. “You’re so much better at this than me, honey. Couldn’t you go a lot faster if I stepped out?”

  Brody shook his head, carefully penciling in names on the sketch. “It’s too entertaining to watch you sit there and squirm. I realized yesterday that we’ve done most of the wedding planning separately. This is good for us to do together.”

  “That’s not true!” I protested. “We agreed on the Tate together … although I guess we toured it at different times, didn’t we … well, the DJ. We picked him out together.”

  “No. He was recommended to me from a buddy at work. You spoke with him on the phone and gave him a deposit before I could even think about a playlist.”

  I exhaled and hugged the pillow in my lap tighter. “Is that what you’re mad about? The DJ? We can find someone else.”

  Brody looked up at me, laughter in his eyes. “I’m not mad about any of it, Gemma. I’d just like to do some of this with the woman who is about to become my bride. Okay?”

  I nodded and took a large swallow of wine. “Okay.”

  One long hour later, we were done and Brody released me from the room with a steamy kiss and a sincere thank-you. Feeling good about my generosity in the face of such soul-numbing labor, I decided to spend some time on real, actual, meaningful work.

  I went online. Though I had extensive training in modern firearms, my historical knowledge was weak. I started by reading up on matchlock guns and flintlocks, muskets common in the seventeenth-century American colonies. Then on to revolvers. To my surprise, though I may have known it at one point and forgotten, it wasn’t until 1835 that the Colt revolver appeared. That was a pivotal moment in mankind’s history, for with the appearance of the Colt revolver, guns entered the world of mass production. They became cheaper, more accessible to the common man. Deadlier, too. With each new model came better accuracy and ease of use.

  There was a lot of information as well about the various Nambu models. I scanned the websites for anything that seemed relevant to our case, but there was little connection
I could make between the historical weaponry and our small town in Colorado until I stumbled onto a footnote on a website that referenced an Aimee Corn in Avondale, Colorado.

  Avondale was one town over from Cedar Valley.

  I did another search. Aimee Corn. She was a published military historian and sometime college professor. According to the biography on her website, Corn’s research was specifically focused around Camp Amache, also known as the Granada Relocation Center. The internment camp in southeast Colorado had housed thousands of Japanese-Americans during World War II.

  “What the hell, it’s worth a shot.” I found her email, then logged into the police server and sent her a quick message from my official work address. I didn’t expect much. Corn wasn’t a weapons expert. But maybe, just maybe, she could provide some context to the investigation. To my surprise, as it was quite late, a reply came just fifteen minutes later. Corn wrote that she’d love to meet with me, in Avondale, and was I free tomorrow on Sunday? She listed her address and a suggested time, and asked that I confirm.

  I sent her a response back and then went to bed, falling asleep quickly with the knowledge that the next day might help bring some answers.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Some towns are pretty and some towns are gritty …

  The refrain, lyrics from a popular song by the Beetdiggers, a local band, ran through my mind, over and over. The words felt appropriate as I drove from Cedar Valley to the more remote, less colorful Avondale. It wasn’t hard to compare the two towns and have Avondale always come up short.

  Cedar Valley had the ski resort, the picturesque Main Street. We had unique shops with actual artisan products, instead of the typical plastic tourist trinkets. Our restaurants were locally owned, and the town had been built up, organically, house by house, business by business, over the course of nearly two hundred years.