by LS Sygnet
I learned more about the Marcos crime family in the past four months than I imagined existed. There was no turning back now. My focus was sharpened to the lethal width of a razor blade.
Hmm. Razor blades. Now there would make an interesting murder weapon. Danny Datello’s suffering was my top priority after all. Hadn't he made me suffer? After ten years of marriage to cousin Rick, I was worse than humiliated. The insinuation that I’m as dirty as the dearly departed ex-husband or simply flat-out stupid, it was an insult that could not go unanswered.
I had months to salve over the fearful wounds left by what we'd uncovered Jerry Lowe inflicted on the public at large. I wasn't after anyone that simply reminded me of my personal nemesis. Only the real deal would suffice. Then I'd be done. Retribution wouldn't turn me into a career or a monster like the one we captured last spring. It really wouldn't.
I’d be able to move on. That hated phrase taunted me. Get over it, Helen. Justice will be served. Always with a caveat, though. Justice will be served when the cowardly prosecutors think they have a case they can't lose. Of course, I had to take into account the idiot jurors who wanted some slick CSI moment in the courtroom. Morons. Reasonable doubt is not the same as no doubt or absolute certainty.
My justice system didn't fail. Nor would it.
I read meticulously while my brain plotted and churned out undocumented plans for the demise of my last enemy. Fortunately, the rest of the world didn't know that I had other plans.
The doorbell interrupted my daydreams of razor blades and peeling back layer after layer of skin until the fascia and muscle beneath were exposed. I imagined how grisly, black, necrotic and rancid Datello's must be under his skin. If evil had an appearance, surely it could be exposed beneath the façade of Danny Datello.
Again with the damned doorbell! What day was this anyway?
I made my way to the forward section of the house and flung the heavy beast open.
"You forgot I was coming, didn't you? I assumed since the gate was open, you remembered. Do you want me to come back another time? We can do this another day if you like."
Maya Winslow, chief medical examiner for Bay County shot words like bullets and struggled to peek past me for a glimpse of my foyer in awe. I watched her eyes rove over the walnut banister and wrought iron spindles and that curved up the staircase to the second floor to the complementary lighting, a chandelier and wall sconces. She silently admired artwork and tapestries, the earthy tones of walls and warmth of the meticulously laid hardwood floors.
"It's stunning, Helen. Absolutely breathtaking. Please don't tell me you forgot and I have to come back some other time."
"I'll give you the grand tour later. Come to the kitchen. I've got the coffee brewing." Her footsteps echoed behind me as I led the way to that which sustains me. Well, half of it. Caffeine is the base of my food pyramid, followed by wine. Food is at the minuscule tip.
I poured two cups of coffee. "Sugar? Cream?"
"Black's good."
"That's a relief," I grinned. "I haven't had time to get the fridge stocked."
"I can see why," her eyes again devoured the setting, this time of my kitchen and family room. "Helen, you've outdone yourself. How did you get this finished so quickly?"
"There was some money left over from the insurance check, and the rest was out of my divorce settlement. I've been shopping like crazy since before the place was finished. All I needed to do was move truckloads of furniture and such and put everything in order. Did you know that there's a fine furnishings store in Bay View that has virtual room decorating? You enter your color schemes and the room dimensions and you can actually see how your furniture will look before you buy it. Awesome tool. I can't believe everyone in retail isn't using it."
Maya sipped her coffee and hummed approval. "I'm glad I could come see the place, Helen, but I get the distinct feeling that the grand tour wasn't why you really called me."
"It was and it wasn't."
"This is progress for you," she grinned. "Still a little too cryptic for my taste, but I like this attempt at turning over a forthright leaf. I suppose I don't have to guess what the other reason was. I got a subpoena too. Are you anxious about facing him?"
Maya referred of course to the pending litigation against Jerry Lowe, now a mere two weeks away, to determine his competence to stand trial. "He's guilty as sin. There's no question about it."
Maya gripped my hand across the granite island. "Then what's wrong?"
"I'm afraid the judge, like everyone else in the state, will believe that Lowe had to be crazy to do the things he did. Zack Carpenter is putting so much pressure on me to be the person that tips the scales of justice in our favor. You know Lowe's attorney is going to trot out expert after expert witness to give sworn testimony that Lowe was psychotic at the time he committed his crimes. Why would anyone believe me over medical doctors whose expertise far outweighs mine? I warned Zack. He simply won’t listen."
"Cupcake, you've got something all the medical experts in the world don't have."
"I know," the groan wrenched from deep in my gut. "My decade with the FBI exposed me to the stark differences between mental illness and the evil men perpetrate toward one another. I've heard it all before. I'm scared. Too much of this hinges on my testimony, my ability to convince the judge to reject his insanity defense."
"You only hold the clinical side of that argument, Helen. Not all of this rests on your shoulders. Charlie Haverston will be there too, and the other cops who worked with the two of you. I'm testifying; Forsythe is talking about the forensic evidence. You are not alone. Zack can even call Orion if need be."
"He doesn't want to expose the fact that he's been working undercover. There's way too much at stake."
"And there are ways to deal with his testimony while shielding his identity." Maya treaded carefully, perhaps because I recoiled from hearing the name. "Have you spoken to Johnny lately, Helen?"
I shook my head and forced a smile. "I'm busy. He's busy. The planets aren't aligned."
"I'm not sure what happened to make you avoid him –"
"This isn't avoidance. I've talked to Briscoe and Conall on numerous occasions." Then again, they hadn't taken no for an answer, showing up at will with cases they wanted my take on, particularly over the past couple of weeks. It was easy enough to give them an opinion and send them on their way. That had slowly eroded my resolve to steer clear of all things police related into accepting invitations to lunch and dinner.
Briscoe's famous last words just a few days ago: You gotta eat, Helen. Good puff of wind, and you'd go flyin' right off the cliff of your property into the sea.
Orion was different. He left the door open and invited me to walk through when I was ready. That day would not come. Sure, I knew where he was. But I wasn't about to go there.
"Do you know what you need to do to make this official? You need to have a housewarming party. Don't look at me like I've lost my mind. I'm not talking about inviting all of Darkwater Bay in for a tour. Just a few people, friends you've made since you arrived."
"That would be you."
"I was a friend before you breezed into town. Charlie will forever be your friend, Helen. He's so grateful for the opportunity you gave him –"
"He and the others deserved the promotions to detective. It wasn't like central was overflowing with competent men."
"True enough. Ken considers you a friend."
"Forsythe?" I scoffed. "I haven't seen or spoken to him in months."
"Tony and Crevan adore you."
"That may be, but they're hardly –"
"And then there are the guys from OSI who haven't stopped asking how you're adjusting to civilian life."
Code for Orion and Darnell.
"Maya, I don't want a bunch of virtual strangers traipsing through my house and peeking into my medicine cabinet. I've enjoyed the quiet, the solitude. Can't I simply enjoy the fact that there isn't a single orange shag carpet fiber in the place be
fore you start sending out invitations to an open house?"
She chuckled. "It could be very simple. Of course it will be elegant. Wine and cheese perhaps. We could light that gorgeous fireplace… Who did the stonework on that thing? I've never seen anything like it."
Thin slabs of slate were arranged in an asymmetrical pattern that climbed jaggedly up part of the wall in the great room. I didn't want to deal with the mess of a wood fireplace, so the glow of the gas logs wasn't quite as cozy as Maya imagined. In Darkwater Bay's chilly climate, the aesthetic was less important to me than the heat.
"I hired a mason who had some creative ideas about using the space in a more artistic and less traditional way," I shrugged one shoulder. "I'll think about having a little soiree if you promise not to hound me about it. Deal?"
"The irony in your lack of foodstuff is that I'll bet you've got a wine cellar that's fully stocked. Am I right?"
She was. I rolled my eyes. "I can take a hint, Maya. You want the grand tour, so the grand tour you shall have."
"Then get on with it cupcake," Maya grinned. "I've got a doctor's appointment in about an hour, and we've got a party to plan too."
The sun beat down on Preacher's shoulders, high overhead already in the midmorning. Thirst plagued him. Hunger rubbed his belly against his spine with painfully throbbing pulsations. The heat above only served to underscore the misery that lie beneath his cracked skin.
He vaguely wondered at the oddly warm weather for so late in October. Then again, being inside the cocoon of Darkwater Bay these past two years had rendered his skin pale and sensitive to so much sunlight. It was like a mole emerging from darkness after years of seclusion underground.
The work wasn't what he expected either, and through his thirst and hunger-muddled thoughts it frustrated him. He toiled alone, absent the hostile strangers in the van with whom he'd met before leaving Downey, out in a field digging irrigation troughs from what he could surmise on his own. Farming after all, wasn't his field of expertise.
Another dead end. Another glaring failure in his quest to uncover what was really going on in the veiled world of the homeless. For a week and a half he'd been out here, baking under the Indian Summer sky, staring down the golden stalks of corn yet to be harvested, digging through rich, black soil, wondering how he'd ever figure anything out when nothing was what he once thought it was, or at the very least, suspected.
Even now, that he'd caved to the strong pull of common sense and followed the last possible lead, Preacher found himself wondering if he possessed even a shred of a clue.
A shadow loomed a moment before it merged with his, distorted in the muddy ditch. He lifted one hand and muttered the first phrase of the twenty-third Psalm. "The lord is my shepherd, I shall not want …"
"Cut the crap, you fuckin' lunatic," a canvass-sheathed canteen smacked the back of Preacher's neck. "I ain't comin' out here to water you so I can listen to more of your bullshit."
Preacher's fingers greedily grasped the flask. The heat beating down left him feeling flushed and burnt, his mouth dry, energy sapped by more than just the back-breaking work of shoveling mounds of heavy soil in the growing fingers of turned earth. He twisted the metal cap away from the neck and poured the icy liquid down his parched throat. He drained it, held it aloft from his lips waiting for the last precious drops to soothe a leathery tongue.
No, this was not what he signed on for.
And in the swift moments that followed, Preacher didn't question the resurgence of energy, the mental acuity that allowed him to plot how much time it would take to reach the end of this particular trough of muddy soil. He missed the sudden cessation of hunger pangs that usually gnawed at his ribs and twisted his belly into knots. Hell, he stopped noticing that his clothing bagged more than usual in this wretched disguise.
Instead, Preacher looked up at his minder in soft question. "More?"
The man's forehead glistened with a light sheen of sweat in the morning sunshine. "Later," he grinned. "You knock off this Jesus bullshit, and you can drink as much as you like."
Fingers closed around the canteen and yanked it away from Preacher's hand.
"In fact, you do a good job out here today, and tonight, we might throw in a bottle of somethin' a little more to your liking, Preacher."
Preacher fisted one hand around the spade he'd been wielding for days in this futile attempt to learn that perhaps his compadres were simply worked to death. "How much more before we go back?"
The man's eyes seemed to be swallowed by large pupils. "The end of the row."
"This one?" he gestured with a light swing of the spade.
"Sure, man. I think maybe you're ready for a break when you're done with this row. They say it's gonna rain this afternoon anyway."
Preacher's eyes drifted skyward. Not a cloud as far as he could see, which out here, was pretty damned far.
"But you know, if you wanna dig in the rain, that's cool, man."
"I could have the afternoon off?"
His bald head tipped back, raucous laughter parting thin lips. "I never said that, man, but we can find something for you to do indoors. Be a shame to waste all this raw energy, huh?"
Preacher nodded. Energy. Waves of it rippled through his muscles, tightened his spine and itched along nerves suddenly eager for movement. Rain, shine, hell, through the black of night, he suddenly felt that he could do anything.
"Yeah," the man muttered softly. "I think you're about ready for a new job, Preacher. I think you're just about ready for anything."
Chapter 3
An unhealthy dose of merlot sloshed in my belly, jostled by an increasingly nervous stomach. The first cars were lining the circle drive in front of my house. Yeesh. Hadn't anybody carpooled to this stupid thing?
"Hors d'oeuvres are ready, wine is breathing, dinner under candle warmers in the butler's pantry, table is set in the dining room. Music. We forgot music!"
"Calm down." I pulled the tiny remote for the compact Bose hi-fi from one pocket and pressed a button. Soft music floated through the room.
"This is so exciting! I hate it that the guys from central couldn't make it on such short notice, but that was a stroke of genius to ask Zack to come too, Helen. You really need to get to know him better."
"And here I thought you were not-so-silently pulling for Orion."
"Ha! Keep your options open. See who brings the most flowers," Maya grinned.
Melodic chimes startled both of us.
Maya started laughing.
"Stop it. I'm not used to the sound yet. Go on. Greet your guests."
"Oh no you don't. These people are here for you." She planted one hand on the small of my back and gave me a shove. "Your adoring public awaits you."
Zack stood with a regal looking woman of obvious Arabic ancestry at his side. My mind put her in eighteenth dynasty Egyptian garb and imagined the female pharaoh Hatshepsut. Thinner than the literal incarnation. There was something about her that intrigued me.
He smiled warmly. "Helen, this is Lieutenant Shelly Finkelstein from Downey Division. She tells me you haven't been introduced yet."
I extended my hand. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Tony has told me so much about you."
She laughed. "All of it good, I'm sure." An accent spoke of parents whose first language was not English. "We should've met long ago, Dr. Eriksson. I know that Tony and Crevan both have appreciated your insight into some of their investigations. And the fact that you made my career considerably less stressful is a debt I'm not sure I can ever repay."
Of course she meant Lowe. "Please, call me Helen. Won't you come in? Maya's already here, probably pouring the wine as we speak."
Briscoe and Conall weren't far behind. They came together, dressed for duty.
"Are you guys on duty tonight?"
"Our turn for graveyard," Briscoe chuckled. He pulled me in for a hug before I had time to protest. "You got any of that killer java brewing? I know Maya said this was more the wine tast
ing sort of gathering, but we gotta keep our wits about us."
"I think that can be arranged. Go on in and let Maya know that we've got a non-alcoholic contingent to the guest list."
Forsythe approached Briscoe from behind with Steve Smith, his crime scene photographer and Billy Withers from the morgue. He smacked the back of Briscoe's head. "You on later tonight, old man?"
I ushered them into the great room and let Maya play hostess. Strange. I could see the camaraderie between them, knew that they were here because I opened my home, yet I felt oddly disconnected from them. An outsider in my own home. Maya thrust a glass of wine in my hand and jerked her head toward the crowd.
"Get over there."
"I –" was saved by the chimes.
Darnell showed up in uniform. It would've been comical if I wasn't aware of the fact that the man was unfamiliar with the concept of down time. He probably slept standing, pressed, crisp and ready for a news conference. He was alone.
"Commander Darnell, thank you for coming."
He extended a bottle of wine. "I am truly happy that you were able to put your life back together so quickly after what happened, Dr. Eriksson."
I hooked my arm through his. "How about if we make a deal? When we see one another outside the law enforcement world, you call me Helen, and I call you…"
"Of course. I didn't want to be presumptuous, Helen. Please, call me Chris. Or Christopher, if you prefer."
Headlights shined up the drive and illuminated where we stood in the doorway.
"That'll be Johnny, Helen. Not everyone is aware of his position in law enforcement."
"Understood." I mimed locking my lips and tossed the key over my shoulder. "Shall we wait for him?"
"You wait. I can find my way inside."
Orion parked his car and walked toward me as if I were the sole person standing on a vast and desolate landscape. He indulged in a slow perusal, close enough that I could smell the scent of soap on his skin. His hair was longer than I remembered.
