Eye of the Storm

by Sara Reinke

  She smiled and nodded as she rifled through one of the stacks of folders on her desk. “Bryce,” she said. “Yes.”

  “He’s a good-looking boy,” Paul said, setting the picture down.

  “Thanks,” Brenda said. She held something out, and Paul blinked in surprise. M. Geary, the file folder tab read, Brenda’s impeccably neat handwriting affixed in thick, block letters written in felt-tipped marker. “So where are you buying me lunch?”

  * * *

  “It’s not that I don’t think Dan can handle this case,” Brenda told him as they sat opposite one another at a concrete picnic table in the park across the street from the municipal buildings. “And it’s not like I don’t think there’s some merit to the direction he’s wanting to take the investigation…”

  Paul nodded, flipping through the folder, watching out of the corner of her eye as she tore into a chili dog. Despite the fact she was a dainty little thing, Brenda Wheaton didn’t eat like any woman he’d ever met―and sure as hell not like Vicki, who had lived on an unappetizing regiment of salads, yogurt, lean meats and little else. She’d always tried to get him to eat healthier, too, lecturing him about cholesterol, griping at him about his blood pressure. The only healthy habit in your life is running, Paul, she’d say. What between your smoking and eating like some kind of human garbage disposal, I don’t know how you don’t keel over dead.

  That had been one good thing to come out of the divorce, at least. He could eat again.

  Most women would wrinkle their noses at the idea of a hot dog layered with chili, raw onions, mustard, jalapenos and cheese, but Brenda had already put down one and was laying into a second like she hadn’t eaten in a week. She kept making soft murmuring sounds of delight when she’d take a bite. He was curious about the contents of her file on Melanie Geary―desperately so―but found himself pleasantly distracted by those little sounds of hers, and the fact that she handled her food like a man. My God, I could fall in love with her.

  “I’ve just been thinking about what you said this morning in your office,” Brenda said, washing down a mouthful of hot dog with a swig from her soda. “About why you didn’t think this was a hate crime because she was gay. It makes sense. You’re right.”

  And let me guess, he thought, looking down at the folder, feeling like he took a swift punch in the gut as he found a photograph of the victim’s hand. There was nothing left of her fingers or thumb, only raw, red, gaping holes punctuated in the middle by wide, stark circumferences of severed bone. You called Dan and tried to sell him on it, but he wouldn’t bite.

  He turned quickly past the photos, but paused at one of the victim’s face. Most specifically, her hair caught his attention, the matted bits of white dirt caught and tangled in the strands. “Horsehair plaster,” he murmured, reading the crime lab analysis of the particles. He glanced at Brenda, his brow arched inquisitively. “Lead paint chips, asbestos and bits of broken horsehair plaster?”

  She nodded. “Found them down her esophogeal tract, too,” she said. “And her airway. I think the garrotte around her neck was drawn so tightly at the end, she had to crane her head back to try and breathe.” She demonstrated. “Her mouth would have been wide open. She was straining to suck down any air. I think the asbestos, paint and plaster must have fallen from the ceiling, into her mouth and down her throat.”

  “So she was someplace old,” he said.

  “Really old, if there’s horsehair plaster on the ceilings,” Brenda agreed. “I did some research online, and you only find it in houses built before 1930, as a general rule. So that was there, and maybe somewhere down the line before 1971, when the Food and Drug Administration passed legislative restrictions on the use of lead-based paints, someone slapped a coat of whitewash over it. And most old houses have asbestos in them somewhere―insulation in attics, around plumbing pipes, that kind of thing.”

  Paul closed his eyes, remembering the crunch of broken plaster beneath his feet in the dream. He could see the room in his mind, the place in which he had imagined Melanie Geary strapped to a chair. It had been old and dilapidated. Like a basement, he thought. It looked like an old basement.

  “There are three buildings close enough to where her body was dumped to fit that age profile,” Brenda said. She reached for her purse, pulling out some folded sheets of paper, which she handed to Paul. He blinked at her in surprise. “I was going to show them to Dan,” she said, somewhat sheepishly. “But then I…”

  Her voice faded and she pretended to distract herself with a sip of soda.

  But what, Brenda? Paul thought. Why didn’t Pierson listen to you?

  He unfolded the pages and found maps printed off the internet. Brenda had marked the place where Melanie Geary’s body was found―an abandoned lot near a construction company equipment depot on Lattimer Avenue downtown. She had also circled three locations within a six-block radius of the dump site and printed off their individual property descriptions from the county tax assessment website. All three were overgrown lots, with enormous, hulking, turn-of-the-century homes. The houses, like the yards, were in dire need of work. All were boarded up.

  “You could try to get a search warrant for them,” Brenda said. “I know the evidence is kind of weak, but the district attorney isn’t thrilled with Dan’s proposal of a hate crime, either. I know he’d be glad to see if he could get Judge Morrows to move on it any―”

  “Hey, hold on a minute, Brenda,” Paul said, surprised. “I can’t get a search warrant for this. It’s Pierson’s case. You’ll have to take this to him.”

  “I tried that, but he doesn’t want to listen,” Brenda said, her brows narrowing slightly. “You’re the one who told me this morning you think it’s something personal with this guy―that he’s a sadist with a grudge. Look what he did to that girl―do you want this guy out roaming the streets while Dan tries to hunt down some nonexistant gaybasher?”

  Paul was caught off-guard by the unexpected fervency in her voice. He blinked at her, unsure of what to say, and her frown deepened. “Forget it,” she said, rising to her feet. She snatched the file away from him, snapping it shut. “Thanks for lunch. I’ll see you around.”

  She started to walk away, and Paul mentally kicked himself in the ass. “Brenda,” he called. “Wait a second!”

  He hurried after her and caught her elbow, staying her. “Brenda, I can’t get involved in this,” he said helplessly. “That’s not my job anymore. I’d be stepping all over Dan’s ass if I did, and I―”

  “I thought you’d enjoy that,” she said, meeting his gaze evenly. “I’ve never understood whatever it is between you and Dan that makes you hate each other like you do, but I’ve always known it’s there. I just never thought it would keep him from hearing me out on a perfectly plausible idea, just because you had it first. And I never in a million years would have thought it would keep you from diving into a good investigation. I thought you said you missed working cases like this.”

  “I would,” he said. “And I do.” Jesus, would he ever enjoy the opportunity to dish Dan Pierson a big, steaming helping of shit. Did he really blow of the idea of anything other than a hate crime just because it was mine? But Paul knew he didn’t have the right, or authority, anymore to do anything to or about Dan Pierson. “I’m out of homicide. There’s nothing I can do. It’s a big bunch of bureaucratic bullshit, and my hands are tied.”

  She slipped her arm away. “Yeah,” she said. “You’re just McGruff the Crime Dog now, right?”

  Her words hit him like a slap in the face. He stepped back, wounded, and she turned again, walking away. She’s right, he thought. Jesus, for the last year, all I’ve been doing is bitching and griping about working public affairs, saying how much I missed homicide, and how much I’d give to do it again. And now she offers it to me―she’s coming to me for help on an investigation, and what do I do? I give her some whining-ass, talking-head excuse about bureaucracy.

  I really am the mayor’s goddamn monkey boy.
/>   “Brenda!”

  He ran after her this time, sprinting across the grass. She turned to look at him cooly, clearly angry at him, hurt by his seeming dismissal. She counted on me to be a better man―a better cop―than Pierson.

  “I can’t get you a search warrant,” he told her. “Not for this case―not for those houses.” Her eyes flashed. Her mouth opened to debate, and he cut her off. “But I can call Kyle Nelson over in the Building Code Inspection office and put a bug in his ear. All three of those houses look fit to be condemned to me. Let’s see what Nelson says. He can usually have someone out for an inspection in forty-eight hours.”

  She blinked at him, her expression softening, her mouth unfurling in a hesitant smile.

  “It’s not the same as sending a C.S.I. team in, I know, but if there’s anything there that looks suspicious, then we can use that to secure a warrant. Will that work?”

  Brenda’s smile widened. “Yes,” she said. “Thank you, Paul.”

  * * *

  He returned to his office just in time to deliver Jason’s hastily prepared statements about the legal woes of the mayor’s bosom buddy to a small gathering of local reporters in the main lobby of the municipal building. Susan Vey was foremost among them, standing at the head of the back, dressed in a crisp white blouse and a red, short-skirted suit. She smiled at him the whole time he was trying to speak, and he kept feeling tongue-tied for the distraction. His heart might have been harboring feelings for Brenda Wheaton, and his head might have understood that Susan was too young for him, but his groin wasn’t listening. Neither was his libido.

  “Hi,” she said, coming over to him once the dog-and-pony show was over and the other reporters were leaving.

  “Hi, yourself,” he said, looking down at her.

  Her dark eyes sparkled mischievously. “Thanks for the scoop,” she said, pretending to pout. When she pushed that full lower lip out in feigned semblance, he felt a shiver pass through him, settling pleasantly somewhere in his balls.

  “Hey, I didn’t know about either story until I walked in my office this morning,” he said, laughing. When she continued to fake petulance, he shook his head, holding up his hands in surrender. “Alright, I swear to God―the next scoop is yours. I call you first. Hell, I’ll walk over to your apartment and tell you in person.”

  Susan met his gaze, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. “I’d like that.”

  “Susan, it’s the station,” her cameraman said from behind them, holding a cell phone out toward her. It wasn’t David that day; Susan had told him that morning as they’d jogged, that David had injured himself at his night job with the construction company. He was on disability leave for at least two weeks. “They’re wanting a live shot in front of the Liberty Heights billboard at five thirty.”

  She shrugged at Paul. “I’d better take that.”

  He smiled. “Duty calls. I understand.”

  When he returned to public affairs, Jason looked up at him from his desk. “Kyle Nelson from the Building Inspection office returned your call,” he said. “He said he wasn’t able to do anything after all on those three houses you’d mentioned.”

  “What?” Paul asked, taking the little slip from a message pad his partner held out to him. He read the words “historic preservation district” and frowned. Those houses are goddamn junk―practically falling apart! What the hell is this?

  “May I ask why you’re interested in having those buildings inspected?” Jason asked.

  “Nope,” Paul replied, breezing into his office. This is bullshit and Kyle knows it, he thought, reaching for his phone. He didn’t say anything about any historic district this morning. Hell, that whole neighborhood is derelict row, and he said so himself! He didn’t think there’d be any problem with the inspections. He didn’t close his door, which proved to be a mistake. After a moment, Jason appeared at the threshold, holding several sheets of paper in his hands and looking hesitant.

  “I ran a title check on each of those properties,” he said, and Paul, looked at him, startled. Jason offered the slim sheaf of papers.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” Paul tromped over to Jason and snatched the papers from his hand.

  “Because Nelson said those buildings were in a rehab zone, that the houses were on the city historical record, which didn’t make sense. That area is kind of seedy, you know.”

  Paul glanced at him, and the severity in his gaze made the younger man shy back a step in the doorway. “The houses aren’t actually on the record yet, is what I found out,” he said quickly. “All three of them are deeded to a man named Arthur Sinclair, who’s the chairman of the Greater Metropolitan Historical Preservation Society.” He nodded toward the papers in Paul’s hand, and Paul flipped through them, finding a printed copy of an online newspaper article profiling Arthur Sinclair. Prominent local architect helps fund local conservation projects, the headline read.

  “He’s petitioning the city to have them added to the record,” Jason said. “The city is the previous title owners for the properties. Tax forfeitures―whoever owned them before that abandoned them without paying their taxes, so the city claimed them. From what I’ve been able to find, Sinclair bought them earlier this year for a dollar apiece.”

  “A dollar?” Paul said.

  “Apiece,” Jason replied, nodding. “I was going to see if I could find out anything more, like maybe who the original owners were before the city, but I had to work on those media statements. Anyway, I thought it might be something you’d need, you and Dr. Wheaton, I mean.”

  Paul had nearly softened in his expression toward Jason, but his brows narrowed again as he leveled a stern gaze at the younger man. “What?”

  Jason blinked, shying back again. “I…I just meant…I thought it might have something to do with the Melanie Geary case.”

  Paul’s frown deepened. “Were you listening in on us this morning, Jason?”

  “No,” Jason replied, shaking his head quickly. “No, Paul, of course not, I…I just… You mentioned that name this morning, and I…I looked it up in the records. She was listed as a missing person, but her file was upgraded this morning to murder. Dr. Wheaton handled the autopsy. You said that name this morning when she left―Melanie Geary―and I assumed that’s why Dr. Wheaton came to see―”

  “Well, that’s not why she came, and it’s none of your goddamn business anyway,” Paul said, planting his hand firmly against the younger man’s shoulder and walking him three smart steps backward, out of his doorway. “There is no Geary case, not for us anyway, and this has nothing to do with anything.” He waggled the pages in Jason’s face.

  “I’m sorry,” Jason said, looking abashed. He reached for the papers. “I’ll just pitch those in the recycling―”

  “No, that’s alright,” Paul said, because he wanted to keep them, and was secretly glad that Jason had thought to look them up on his own. “I’ll take care of them.”

  He closed the door to his office in Jason’s face.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “And on the weather front, experts are keeping their eye on Felicia, which has grown from a tropical storm to a Category Two hurricane in just the last twenty-four hours,” said an absurdly chipper radio announcer, as Paul drove Emma home from school that afternoon.

  “While the storm is still out at sea, it’s expected to continue strengthening as it moves northwest,” the woman continued. “By the time it barrels across the Bahamas and Cuba by early next week, some are predicting it will be a Category Four. If it continues its current heading and hits the Gulf of Mexico after that, it could only get stronger still―and that has officials in New Orleans nervous. For a coastline that is still recovering from the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, another―”

  Paul switched the radio off, and silence filled the cab of his Explorer. Oh, shit. He felt the first inklings of a stress headache slithering through his skull. He gripped the steering wheel tightly in both hands, keeping his gaze deliberately fixed on the r
oad ahead, purposely not as much as cutting a glance in his niece’s direction.

  “Uncle Paul?” Emma asked, her voice quiet and trepidatious.

  Oh, shit.

  “Yeah, lamb?” he asked, trying to smile. The pain in his head grew, throbbing now in the delicate sinuses behind his eyes.

  “Daddy and Jo are in the Bahamas.”

  Oh, shit. So that hadn’t been lost on her.

  “That’s where that storm is going,” Emma said. Explaining away the Bermuda Triangle was one thing, but this was something else entirely. Paul figured she remembered enough of the countless pictures and news footage of New Orleans after the devastation of Katrina. Telling her a hurricane was nothing, or no more than a great, big thunderstorm wasn’t going to cut it.

  “They won’t stay there if it comes, Emma,” Paul said, turning momentarily to look at her. “Your daddy is a pretty smart guy, and if I know him―which I do―he’ll take Jo and get on a plane and come right back home if it looks like the storm is going to be bad.”

  She looked at him, all dark and uncertain eyes. “You sure?”

  He smiled again, despite the fact the movement, the tensing of the muscles in his face, seemed to send a broad swell of pain lancing through his head. “I’m positive.”

  She might have said something more, but her expression shifted, growing frightened. “Uncle Paul, you’re bleeding…!”

  Even as she spoke, he felt a bright pain sear through his head, making him wince, a tickling sensation inside of his nose, and then a warm trickle as blood slid out of his right nostril. Paul brought his fingertips to his nose, startled, and glanced up into the rearview mirror. He felt a sudden rush of warmth and gasped, alarmed, as blood suddenly seeped through his fingers, running from his nose in a heavy flow.

  “Uncle Paul!” Emma squealed, frightened.

  “It’s alright, honey,” Paul said, his voice clipped and tinny as he pinched his nose firmly. He glanced in all his mirrors, and cut the truck over into the emergency lane, bringing it to a shuddering stop on the side of the highway. He reached past Emma, his bloody fingertips leaving smears against the vinyl of the glove compartment door as he opened it. He pawed inside, grabbing a wad of fast-food napkins. He shoved them against his nose and leaned forward, struggling not to panic.