Beneath the Cracks

by LS Sygnet

  "My gosh, he looks at least sixty-five."

  "I'm sure your medical examiner explained that the effects of street life and substance abuse often make people appear older than their chronological age," Poole said.

  Was that accusation I saw when he seemed to stare at the fine lines leeching from the corners of my eyes and the dehydration that wrinkled my lips? Last night wasn't wine or even scotch. It was sleep deprivation and fretfulness about more than this case.

  I pushed forward with the other four photographs until I had names and little tidbits of personal information that Poole and Brevard supplied. I thanked them for the help, and explained that because someone finally was willing to identify these men that we'd be able to notify families of their fates.

  "I sincerely hope you find out what's happening to these guys," Dr. Poole said. "Good old Santa already left nothing but coal in their stockings."

  I took the elevator upstairs to the surgical care unit. Forsythe was gone, and Maya was picking at her breakfast tray.

  "You don't look happy."

  "We're back to tea and Jell-O," she sighed. "I got sick on the pudding Thursday night, threw up so hard I popped a couple of stitches. I tried to tell them that it's these stupid antibiotics that are making me queasy. Do you think they can listen?"

  "Hmm, and this is why I hear that doctors make the worst patients." I opened my purse, glanced at the door and procured a Hershey bar. "If you narc me out and I get frisked before I'm allowed to visit, I shall never forgive you."

  Maya whimpered and ripped the chocolate bar out of my hand. "I love you so much, I'd marry you if we weren't so damned addicted to boys."

  Yeah, about that…

  She moaned with the first bite. "So good. Chocolate should definitely be a clear liquid."

  "I'll be riddled with guilt if you get sick from that. And if you throw up chocolate, it'll probably look like old blood and they'll stick that garden hose scope down your throat to have a peek."

  "Bite your tongue," she mumbled. "What brings you here at the butt crack of dawn?"

  "What, I can't come visit my friend before the fog lifts?"

  "Spill it. Visiting hours don't start until ten-thirty. I know you flashed that shiny badge on your belt to get in here. What's going on with the case? Not that I feel the need to listen to more cop talk – my God, Ken has been driving me nuts with all his crime scene evidence collection trivia."

  "Tired of him already, eh?"

  "I'm not quite as fickle as I hear someone else is."

  "Good grief. What is it with this place? Don't people have anything better to do than gossip? And the men are the worst."

  "Cops are the worst," she chuckled. "Ken heard Orion abruptly left town Wednesday night after the love of his life rejected him. It's almost as tragic as Romeo and Juliet. Are you really done with him?"

  "So I was downstairs talking to the guys who run the mobile clinic for MSUH," I cleared my throat. "I have identities on all five John Doe victims, Maya."

  She let my evasion slide. "Good girl! Does it help us figure out who killed them, how they died or if all of this is related to the murder of Detective Cox?"

  "You're as bad as Finkelstein. Now there's an interesting woman," I said. "I was in her office Thursday and noticed her name placard on the desk. Her name isn't Shelly."

  "Oh yeah?" Chocolate melted into one corner of Maya's mouth. "What is it?"

  "Shalimar Finkelstein. She's Jewish."

  "That I knew."

  "Born and raised Muslim."

  "Wow. Isn't that kind of like oil and water?"

  "Or atheist and Catholic," I said with another wave of Johnny-thoughts crashing through me. "She told me that she converted when she married her husband."

  "I didn't know Shelly was married."

  "Divorced."

  "And she's still Jewish?"

  I shrugged. "It took."

  "Speaking of gossip, we're about as bad as everybody else around here," Maya said. "What's on the agenda for the rest of today? Don't expect me to believe that I'm the only plan you have this morning."

  "Sadly, you're not. We picked up Tom Denton last night, and he flipped out. I had to have EMS come sedate him with haloperidol just to get him to stop screaming. He struck me as perhaps hypomanic when we met him the other day at Dupree Farm, but last night really pushed him over the edge. I hope he'll be calm enough to have a conversation this morning.

  "As for Briscoe and Conall, they headed out of town to see what happened when Denton didn't show up with a fresh batch of homeless workers for whatever is going on out there. I should check in with them, make sure they're not curled up sleeping like cats instead of keeping watch over Fort Farm."

  "Fort Farm?"

  "Artillery, remember?"

  Maya touched two fingers to her forehead. "You did mention that. Of course, at the time, Johnny had me sufficiently freaked out over your foray into the biker bar. Helen, Ken says that's a really bad place. They've had quite a few fatal stabbings at Uncle Nooky's – not during my tenure in Bay County, but still."

  "Believe me, that place was a stroll through the museum of white trash compared to some of the bike clubs I've been in. I'm fine. Everything worked out, and I got a good lead in the case. Better to find out now that Johnny is controlling and smothering and a hundred other things I couldn't endure than to get sucked in any deeper."

  Maya crumpled the evidence of her dietary crime and passed it to me for discreet disposal. She hesitated.

  "What?"

  "We haven't exactly gone there before, and even back east when our personal and professional lines blurred a little bit, you never talked about what it was like with him."

  Rick. Oh boy. "We sort of lived separate lives after a couple of years. At first, we poured all of our energy into fixing up our home, an old brownstone in Georgetown. After that, it seemed like I got busier and busier with the case load at the bureau…and I guess I know now what he was busy doing."

  "Are you telling me he wasn't interested in your life, in your work at all?"

  "I wouldn't say that."

  "Then what are you saying, Helen?"

  I shrugged. "I suppose it's hard to explain, or maybe for an outsider to understand. We were like very comfortable, familiar…roommates."

  "And then comes a man like Johnny Orion who doesn't do anything half-assed," Maya said. "No wonder you felt smothered."

  Swallowing didn't budge the growing lump. I cleared my throat. "He is very intense. Like I said, this is probably for the best. I doubt I'll ever be the kind of person who opens up and shares everything about myself with anyone."

  "You're a Scorpio, aren't you?"

  I grinned. "You know I don't believe in that stuff, Maya. It's not scientific at all."

  "But you are. Admit it."

  "Gemini," I said. "So twist that into what you will."

  "Oh even better!" she laughed. "The twins, two sides of one person. Poor Johnny."

  "I have a feeling he'll survive."

  Maya sobered. "Don't be so sure he's going to let you walk away, Helen. Granted I haven't known him as long as Ken has, but he said he's never seen Johnny so…"

  "Infatuated?"

  "Blinded by love."

  I rolled my eyes. "Please. These guys have got to be closet Oprah fans on top of all the other flaws. I bet they get together twelve times a year for a book of the month discussion."

  "Over tea and scones," Maya grinned.

  "I need to get busy. I'll try to stop by later today if things work out." I leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Wipe your mouth. You've left trace evidence."

  Chapter 27

  "Briscoe." He yawned it into the phone and confirmed my suspicions. For a brief moment, I imagined Tony and Crevan snuggled up together under a blanket in the back seat of the sedan. The comical scene seemed so out of place, not because of Crevan, but because I realized that Briscoe would never be Crevan's type.

  The image had been gelling in my head
since Crevan's adamant denial of how and why Belle was blackmailing him. Crevan was gorgeous, a sculpted, coiffed specimen of male perfection. He would definitely be attracted to the same.

  "H'lo?"

  "Sorry, Tony, it's Helen."

  "Oh hey, Eriksson. How goes it?"

  I filled him in on the progress at MSUH.

  "Well glory be. We finally know who these poor bastards were. You hear that Puppy? Hang on, Helen. Crevan wants to put this phone gizmo on speaker so we can both talk to you."

  "Morning, Helen."

  "Hey, Crevan. You two sound well rested."

  "Yeah, don't rub it in. Is that cinnamon latte I smell?"

  "I wish," I stared at the cup of black brew pilfered from the hospital before I left. An oily prism swirled on top of the blend specially formulated to induce gastric ulcers. "Did you see anything interesting at the farm last night?"

  "Not a peep outta the place, Eriksson," Briscoe said. "Nobody seems to know that the mad scientist is AWOL."

  "You might be onto something, Tony. If Denton is a run of the mill mad scientist, we could end up with egg on our face for holding someone as a material witness to his own bipolar mood disorder."

  "Is that what you think is the guy's problem?"

  "Possibly. He seemed pretty manic both times we encountered him."

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Crevan said.

  I heard shuffling in the car. "What's happening?"

  "We've got some activity at the lab, Helen. Tony, get the camera. Not the one on the phone, the telephoto. Take some pictures of this."

  "Tell me what you see!"

  "A van…black…I can't make out the tag number from this angle. We've got two men getting out. They're meeting armed guards at the research building."

  "What are they doing?" The sound of the camera shutter rapidly opening and closing punctuated the silence.

  "They're opening the back of the van, so we can't get a good look at the cargo."

  "Are they more workers?"

  "Negative on that, Helen. They're taking large canvass bags out of the van. The guards are moving them inside the building."

  "Canvass bags? Could they be supplies for the research facility?"

  "Not unless this guy is studying the science of finance, Helen. The bags are stamped with a logo, one you'll recognize when you get your first check."

  "You're right, Puppy. Those are cash bags from Darkwater Municipal Trust Company."

  "Money."

  "Gobs of it from the look of it," Tony said. "Maybe Denton's got an external source of funding for his bovine research."

  "Or maybe those are the proceeds of another crime altogether," Crevan speculated.

  "The drugs that killed Detective Cox perhaps?" Briscoe grunted.

  "We've got to get probable cause to search that building, gentlemen. Until I can talk to Thomas Denton and put the fear of becoming a prison bitch into him, the pictures you've taken aren't going to be enough. In the meantime, I want you to get as many shots of this little financial transaction as possible. Faces would be great."

  "And then what? You know, I think I might've strolled into some poison sumac when I went outside the car to take a leak last night. I could use some medical attention and a strong analgesic cream."

  "When the van leaves the building, come back to Downey. I'll see what I can do about getting a prescription for your jock itch, Tony."

  "It ain't –"

  I disconnected the call and drove the short distance between Metro State University Hospital and Downey Division. My stomach was rumbling before I parked the car. Another half hour wouldn't kill Denton. A little desperation could only work to my advantage.

  Inside the diner, the smell of sausage and eggs and bacon and fresh cinnamon rolls overwhelmed my empty stomach. I took a seat at the counter and started with coffee. The jam on toast reminded me of the last breakfast I clearly remembered eating – croissant and raspberry jam that Johnny brought for breakfast several days ago.

  Half way through a pile of scrambled eggs and sausage and whole grain toast slathered with something called chokecherry jam, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. Downey. I washed the mouthful down with a swig of orange juice and asked the waitress for black coffee to go.

  "Eriksson."

  "Helen, it's Shelly. Where are you?"

  "Breakfast. I know it's a little late," creeping up on nine-thirty to be exact, "but she's pouring my coffee to go and I should be in the house a soon as I can walk across the street." Saturday. Sabbath not over. Call from inside Downey. "Uh-oh. What happened?"

  I peeled off a twenty and mouthed a sincere thank you to the waitress and took off for the door. "Did we screw up without realizing it?"

  "Get over here now," Shelly snapped. "Right now, Helen."

  I broke into a dead run.

  "Downstairs in the tombs," the desk sergeant directed when I hit the front door. "She's waiting for you."

  "Did something happen? Is Denton talking?"

  The sergeant shook his head, not in a negative affirmation way, more the pitiful situation variety. I charged down the stairs where Shelly paced and kept a small throng of uniformed officers at bay.

  "What happened?"

  Shelly pointed into the open cell door. Thomas Denton lay on the floor, lips bright pink, as if he'd been exposed to carbon monoxide.

  "Don't go near him, Helen."

  "Why not? Is he –"

  "Dead," she said. "And I know that smell. Don't go near him. I already called CSD and the medical examiner. They're sending Winslow and Forsythe over right away."

  I cringed. I met Ken on my way out of the hospital and knew Maya wasn't going anywhere. Billy Withers rolled a gurney off the elevator. "CSD is right behind me," he said. "What do we have?"

  "Where's Winslow?"

  Billy shot me a quizzical glance. "Uh…off."

  "Off where?" Shelly's voice rose higher than it's usual modulated tone. "This is the second time we've had a suspect die in this building under suspicious circumstances and I will not see this investigation fall apart because we do not have the best pathologist on the case! I don't care where she is or what she is doing, I want here down here. Right now!"

  "I uh…" he glanced at me again. "I honestly don't know where she is, lieutenant."

  Shelly picked up on his body language. She impaled me with a glare. "Are you familiar with the history of this division, Detective Eriksson?"

  "A little bit. I think I know what suspect you're talking about. The one who died while Tony and Orion were questioning him, right?"

  "If you know anything about –"

  "CSD," Smith's voice boomed through the corridor. "Unless you're one of us or from Bay County ME, get out."

  "Where is Lieutenant Forsythe?"

  "Off," Smith said. "But we've got this lieutenant."

  "For the love of Christ! Does no one listen to me when I give a direct order? I want Winslow. I want Forsythe. I want them here, right fucking now. Do you understand me? No one touches this man or an inch of this holding cell until they are here! Do I make myself clear?"

  "Shelly, we should talk," I said softly. "In private."

  "Unless you plan to pull Winslow and Forsythe out of your Prada handbag, I don't think I'm interested in hearing what you have to say, Helen. Forgive me, but this is a serious matter, one for which I am ultimately responsible!"

  "You really need to listen to me," I said. "And I can't talk about this with all these people around."

  "Fine. Someone find Briscoe and Conall and get them over here immediately!" Finkelstein stomped through the corridor and surprised me when her short legs managed to take the stairs two at a time. "This had better be earth shattering news, Helen."

  "It's not my place to give you the details, but Maya Winslow absolutely will not be able to come to this crime scene. She won't be able to perform the autopsy."

  "Why not? And what are they doing over there at the county office, letting the two highest ranking people off du
ty at the same time?"

  "Ken is with Maya."

  She threw up her hands. "Fantastic! And the city and county are on hold while they're off on some romantic holiday?"

  "Shelly, it's absolutely not what you're thinking. I mean, partly it is, because…well…"

  "I know; it's not your place to out your buddy's relationship."

  "She and Ken are involved, but they're not away on a romantic vacation. Shelly, Maya's in the hospital."

  Finkelstein slumped into her chair. "Why wasn't I told about this? What's wrong?" She pointed sternly when I opened my mouth. "The next words I hear had better not be that you can't say, Helen. I think under the circumstances that you absolutely must say."

  "Without giving you all the private details, I will tell you that she had surgery last Monday."

  "And she's still in the hospital on Saturday? What did they do, chop off a limb?"

  "Not a limb."

  Her creamy brown skin paled. "Serious?"

  "Very."

  "Chemotherapy serious?"

  "Yes," I said. "She took me into her confidence as a friend. The county supervisor is aware of the situation and they all felt that Maya's staff could handle anything that came up in the meantime. Will you tell me why you're so adamant that she personally handle this case?"

  "He smells like almonds," Shelly said.

  "Oh no…"

  "And if you really understand the history of my division, you know that a second death of a younger man under suspicious circumstances is not something we needed to have happen again."

  "Shelly, there were paramedics from the city service here last night. They gave him an injection of haloperidol to settle him down. I saw them prepare the dosage myself. I stayed with him for more than an hour until the drug took effect. If it had been cyanide, he'd have died right in front of me."

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. "This is why I want Winslow on this case. We need to know without any doubt this time what happened to Dr. Denton. I will not accept some generic cause of death when even my untrained nose can smell cyanide."

  "Let me make some calls and see what I can do," I said.

  The path to probable cause at Dupree Farm evaporated before my eyes. Why Denton? How could this happen? Who could gain access to a material witness held in the basement of a busy police division?