Dark Waters (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries)

by Bartlett, L. L.

  I did just that, and then sat in my car for the next twenty minutes writing down my thoughts and memories of the mugging and the near-death experience. My pen had practically danced across the pages as I wrote. When I finished, I looked at my watch and realized I had twenty minutes to make it across town to meet Sam.

  Mike had been right. I may not have found clarity or understanding, but writing down my experiences had been cathartic. Not that the memories wouldn’t surface again, but somehow I felt better for having acknowledged them in a concrete form.

  I closed the notebook and set it on the passenger seat before starting the car. I’d acknowledged one set of angst. Would examining Morrow’s personal possessions bring on another?

  Chapter 15

  I was glad I’d left my camera in my car’s trunk after our last investigative foray, since that meant I didn’t have to go back to my place to get it.

  When Sam and I arrived at Adam’s Mark’s East Ballroom, a long line snaked out into the lobby and out the front door. I felt sorry for the poor schmucks who didn’t have umbrellas, and even those who did have one looked pretty damp around the edges.

  Sam flashed his newspaper ID and waited to be let in to have a preview of the auction preview. The guard made a call and we waited for our escort to arrive.

  We turned away, trying to get a glance inside the ballroom.

  “If I’m supposed to be your photographer, how am I going to touch the stuff? Won’t they expect you to hold onto whatever you want me to scope out while I take the shot?”

  “Hmm. I hadn’t thought about that,” Sam admitted. “We’ll just have to fake it.”

  “This doesn’t bode well,” I said under my breath as a handsome woman of perhaps fifty approached. Her hair was not a natural strawberry blonde, but it suited her and complimented the coffee-colored suit she wore.

  “Hello, I’m Diane Kelly. I’m the PR liaison for Meier’s Auction House, which is coordinating the sale for Bison Bank. I’m happy to accompany you while you look through the items going up for auction tonight.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said and introduced us; she shook both our hands. I got no bright flash of insight from her, which was fine with me since I didn’t have a clue what I might encounter when touching Morrow’s stuff.

  “If you’ll follow me,” Diane said, and Sam dutifully fell into step, with me a half-pace behind them.

  “I’ve read through the program,” Sam said, “but what’s your take on the assembled goods?”

  Diane paused and sighed. “The sole reason for the sale is to try to recover as much revenue as possible to repay those who lost their life savings through poor financial decisions.”

  “That’s a nice way of saying the people who trusted Morrow were swindled,” Sam said.

  Diane did not dignify his statement by agreeing.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d experience upon entering a room that housed so many of Jack Morrow’s possessions. The word that best describes it is overwhelming, but the sensation bore no resemblance to the aura still attached to the chalk cube. It wasn’t so much Morrow I sensed in that ballroom, but an overwhelming sense of greed, which was uncomfortable to say the least.

  I viewed the large ballroom through the lens of my Nikon and snapped a picture. It seemed to have been divided into sections, with one corner set up to look like a clothing store with racks of suits, boxes and boxes of new and barely worn shoes and monogrammed slippers, and tables of other clothing.

  I paused to take another photo as we walked along the aisles of merchandise on offer, and Sam turned to me. “The catalog lists clothes, shoes, household accessories, and sports memorabilia. What do you think will give off the strongest vibes?”

  “I have no idea,” I said as we started off again, passing a table piled with expensive, custom French-made shirts. “Is it likely Diane is going to let me handle anything?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

  “All we have to do is ask.”

  But we didn’t — at least not just then. Instead, we walked along the rows and rows of largess: shelves filled with Jack Morrow’s books; his artwork collection; his stereo equipment and collection of CDs, which favored classical composers. Richard could have enhanced his own collection from the pickings. Also among the loot were knick-knacks, souvenirs of Morrow’s travels to other countries, and several sets of antique French and Russian dinnerware. I snapped pictures of gold-plated cutlery, as well as baroque mirrors, along with gold-and silver-leafed picture frames with images of Morrow’s family still gracing them. It was like an estate sale: one person’s lifetime collection of flotsam and jetsam up for sale to the highest bidder.

  Sam paused and turned to Diane. “Is it okay if we take a closer look at some of this stuff?”

  “Are you registered to bid?” she asked.

  “No, but I figured it might be a more powerful experience to hold something that Jack Morrow might have actually touched,” Sam said, laying it on thick.

  “Mr. Nielsen, don’t tell me a hardened newsman like yourself actually admired a man like Jack Morrow.”

  “Not admire, but perhaps I’m in awe. How did the man sleep?”

  Diane shrugged. “Go ahead,” she said, amused.

  Sam picked up one of the silver frames with a picture of good-looking man — an ivy leaguer, for sure. “What do you think about this, Jeff? Wouldn’t a picture of your girlfriend look great in this?”

  He handed me the frame, which I held in both hands, staring at the photo.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong!

  I let out a breath. “Maggie looks great in every picture,” I said.

  “And who’s the guy in the photo?” Sam asked Diane.

  She shrugged. “A family member, I would guess. I’ve seen photos of Morrow’s wife, but I can’t say I’ve seen pictures of any of his other family members.”

  I knew Sam would be on it like a tick the minute he could get a moment to check Google images.

  A big, locked display case held an assortment of rings, watches, cufflinks, and tie tacks. I didn’t even know people still wore tie tacks. Sam eyed a watch in its original case. “Is that really a Rolex?”

  “It’s been authenticated,” Diane said with a nod.

  Sam looked almost coy. “Any chance we could…?”

  “Try it on?” Diane finished.

  “I may never get another opportunity to see the real thing.”

  “You can get a knockoff on just about any corner in Manhattan,” I commented and could tell by Sam’s glare that my opinion was not welcome.

  Diane withdrew a set of keys from the pocket of her skirt and unlocked the case. She reached for the Rolex and handed it to Sam. He slid the stretch band over his wrist and smiled, then he looked at me and seemed to realize his mistake. He might have just tainted the piece so that I’d get his vibes — and not those of its former owner. “It sure is nice,” he said, flexing his wrist to try and make it catch the light. I took a picture of it, figuring Sam might like it for himself.

  He took it off and handed it to me. “Try it on for size. Who knows, if it looks good, you may even get one in your Christmas stocking.”

  “Is that an offer?” I asked, slung my camera strap over my left shoulder and took it from him, sliding it onto my right wrist, which felt awkward and unnatural. I stared at the face of the watch, and it wasn’t Sam’s aura that came through, but must have been Morrow’s. A man who’d once felt powerful and unstoppable, but during the last days he’d worn the watch, he’d felt panicked and emasculated. A looming jail sentence would certainly have had me sweating in the same manner. If I’d had more time to wear the watch, would I have picked up more? Like where he’d supposedly hidden a chunk of his ill-gotten gains? Maybe, maybe not.

  I took the watch off and handed it back to Diane, who put it away and locked the case once more. “Shall we continue the tour?” she suggested.

  Finally, we came to the land of sports memorabilia, which included baseball cards, signed footballs and several
framed jerseys from Buffalo Bills players that spanned the years from O.J. Simpson to Jim Kelly. How much would Morrow have been willing to pay for a ring if the Bills had ever won a Super Bowl? The prospect of the team going to the playoffs seemed possible early in the season.

  I studied all the items on offer. To think all this stuff had once graced the walls of the home we’d seen the day before, or had some of it come from Morrow’s office, or maybe his sky box at Ralph Wilson Stadium?

  “Damn, look at that,” Sam said and pointed to a baseball encased in a cube of Lucite. “A signed Ty Cobb baseball. What do you think something like that would go for?” he asked Diane.

  “Anywhere from two to eight thousand, but we’re hoping to get at least five.”

  Sam winced. “Out of my league, I’m afraid.” He eyed the rest of the collection, his envious gaze coming to rest on a bat signed by Joe DiMaggio.

  Uneasy, I took a step back.

  “What’s the estimate on the Yankee Clipper’s bat?” he asked.

  “Anywhere from two to four thousand. If we get three, we’ll be quite happy,” Diane said.

  “Any chance I could hold it?”

  Diane forced a smile; she was getting tired of show and tell. “Of course.” With great care, she picked up the bat and handed it to him.

  Sam studied the signature on the barrel end and whistled. “It’s dated, too. During the time he was married to Marilyn Monroe.” He shook his head in admiration. “What I wouldn’t do to have this baby hanging on my living room wall.”

  And then time seemed to slow to a crawl. I watched in horrified fascination as Sam gripped the handle with both hands and assumed a batter’s stance.

  The image of a Reggie Jackson special flashed before my eyes, the bat arching down at me from above.

  Sam drew the bat back toward his shoulder.

  I took two steps back but something was in my way.

  The bat swung toward me, but it wasn’t Sam who held it.

  The teenage thug’s fury-filled face loomed before me once again.

  Panicked, I pushed at whatever was in my way, stumbled, and fell to the floor with the sound of shattering glass ringing in my ear.

  “What on earth?” Diane practically screamed in my ear. “Get off of me.”

  Suddenly Sam loomed over me, pushing me away as he tried to pull Diane to her feet.

  Shame burned within me and I struggled to my feet, making a grab for my camera, which had hit the floor. I heard the rattle of the broken mirror within it and my heart sank. “I’m so sorry, I — I — ” but I didn’t have a decent explanation for my abhorrent behavior.

  Diane pulled her suit jacket down and tried to brush the wrinkles from her skirt. She raised her angry gaze to take in my face and her annoyance immediately dissipated. “Are you all right?”

  I suddenly realized how hard it seemed to breathe. “Yeah.”

  “You don’t look it,” Sam said.

  I didn’t feel it, either. My heart pounded, and the back of my collar was damp with sweat. I coughed and cleared my throat. “I think I need a drink. Water fountain?” I asked hopefully.

  “Hang on a minute. I’ll see if I can get you a glass,” Diane said kindly.

  She hurried away, almost as freaked out as I was.

  “What the hell was that all about?’ Sam asked once she was out of earshot.

  I turned away. “I’m sorry. I — ” But there was no way I could explain it to him what I’d just experienced.

  “Wait a minute. When you got mugged — didn’t they come after you with — ?”

  He didn’t finish the sentence.

  I suddenly felt frozen and realized I was shaking.

  And I felt stupid, and panicked, and emasculated — just like Morrow had felt when he’d last worn his Rolex.

  Or was the already-fading sense of terror a remnant of Morrow’s anxiety?

  Not a chance in hell.

  “I’ve gotta get out of here,” I told Sam.

  “I’m sorry, Jeff. I forgot. You know I wouldn’t have — ”

  “Forget it. I’ve had a bad couple of days. Too many reminders of what happened….” I didn’t — couldn’t — explain farther. “Make my excuses, willya?” I asked, but didn’t wait for his reply and dashed for the exit.

  I barreled through the doors and into the corridor, which was seething with even more people. Gaze leveled on the floor, I charged down the corridor and headed for the lobby.

  Once outside, I practically ran for my car, though I couldn’t have said why. No one was chasing me, and yet I couldn’t seem to let go of the feeling that I had to escape. And escape to where? Maggie had too much on her plate to indulge me and my insecurities. I didn’t have to work. There was only one other place I could go — back to Richard’s. Back to what, until just a few days before, had been the first real home I’d had in way-too-many years. I knew I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

  I unlocked my trunk, but took a moment to try out the camera. I looked through the viewfinder, but everything was a blur. My beautiful Nikon was ruined. I placed the camera inside and shut it, then got in my car and headed for the only friendly place of comfort I knew.

  Richard looked at the platter overloaded with four, inch-thick Angus steaks Evelyn had picked out at the grocery store. He and Brenda could have shared one between them, and it was more than apparent that Evelyn hadn’t expected — or wanted — Jeff to join them for dinner. Not that he could have convinced his brother to do so.

  “Here’s a clean platter to put the steaks on when they’re cooked, and the fork to turn them. And remember, I like my steak cooked through,” Evelyn said, practically pushing him toward the door. Thank goodness it wasn’t raining, although he wasn’t sure that would have deterred Evelyn from her dinner choice.

  “I like mine rare,” Da-Marr said as he entered the kitchen from the hall.

  “Then you go out and supervise. You stayed in your room all day, you could use some fresh air,” Evelyn said, and pushed him toward the back door as well.

  Richard threw a look over his shoulder as he passed into the pantry for the outside door and saw his wife give him a pained smile. Only a few more days, he reassured himself, only a few more days.

  Richard headed out to the backyard and the barbecue, wishing the house had a more direct route. Built in the 1920s before people added decks and patios, the house was lovely but not always user friendly.

  He set the steaks down on one of the low tables and lit the grill. A thoroughly bored Da-Marr dragged himself up the deck steps and settled on the rail. He’d spent the day sulking.

  Richard put the first of the steaks on the grill and glanced over at Da-Marr, who stared vacantly at the large expanse of lawn, its fringes no longer decorated with the last remnants of summer.

  “So, you’re going to school in January,” Richard said.

  “I guess,” Da-Marr muttered.

  “Are you really going to take criminal justice?”

  Da-Marr shook his head.

  “Then what will you take, or do you really care about going to college?”

  Da-Marr shrugged. “I’m going because my family has decided it would be the best thing for me.”

  “And what do you think would be best for you?”

  A sly smile crept across Da-Marr’s lips and he sat up just a bit straighter. “Being a hip-hop producer. Yeah. People would be begging me to get their shit out in front of the masses. Everyone would kiss my ass. I’d have respect. Real respect.”

  “And how likely is that to ever happen?” Richard asked, trying not to sound entirely negative.

  Da-Marr’s posture took a hit. “Shit, man — it ain’t never gonna happen. Truth is, I don’t wanna go to college. I got more street smarts than school smarts.”

  “Everyone needs to do something with their life,” Richard said.

  “Like you?” Da-Marr said with contempt.

  “Hey, I’m a doctor. That’s not an insignificant achievement.”

/>   Da-Marr snorted. “From what I hear, you’re too soft to be any good.”

  Richard’s back stiffened. Just what had Brenda told Evelyn, and how much had she shared with Da-Marr?

  “You’re kinda old to be havin’ a kid, too.”

  “I wasn’t aware fatherhood was dependent on a timeline.”

  “I had a kid,” Da-Marr bragged.

  Richard hadn’t expected that revelation. “Oh?”

  “Sure. I got a picture.” He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a wallet. He fumbled inside and pulled out a creased and rather fuzzy photo of an infant. “Da-Marr Junior,” he said with pride.

  “How old is he now?”

  Da-Marr shook his head. “He died. He was born too soon. That’s why Aunt Evelyn knits baby hats for preemies.”

  “Are you and your son’s mother still together?”

  Da-Marr shook his head. “She’s a real bitch. Wanted to get married. Hey, I got things to do before I get tied down. And since our kid was dead, why bother?”

  Richard couldn’t help himself. “Why indeed?”

  “I’m gonna make something of myself and she woulda weighed me down.”

  “I don’t know. Brenda’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  Again, the young man shrugged. “You’re lucky. You got born to rich people.”

  Maybe, but he hadn’t been happy — really happy — until Brenda had entered his life.

  “What do you see yourself doing for the next couple of months before you start school?”

  Da-Marr moved his head to look at Richard. “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe you should get a job.”

  “I ain’t got no skills.”

  “As far as I know, McDonald’s is always hiring.”

  “I ain’t working no shit minimum-wage job.”

  “Have you ever had a job?” Richard asked.

  “Yeah, a shit minimum-wage job. I ain’t doin’ that again.”

  “You’ve got no major in mind, and no job skills. What do you see yourself doing in five years?”

  Da-Marr’s expression was blank. Had he — or Evelyn — thought that far ahead?