Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2

by Micheal Maxwell

  “Then lunch ought to just about even the score.” Cole smiled. “Call me when you get something.” Cole bent and wrote his cell phone number on a Post-It note.

  On his way to the elevator, Cole remembered he needed to finish his paperwork in the personnel office. As he went through the door, he heard Beth Swann’s throaty laugh. As expected, three of her admirers were gathered around her cubicle.

  “Mr. Sage!” she called out, spotting Cole. “Nice to see you again.” And as if on cue, the fan club disbanded.

  “Hello. I just remembered I have some paperwork to finish.”

  Beth stood and crossed the aisle and spoke into a cubicle. “Phillip, this is Cole Sage. He’s joining the paper and needs to set up or transfer or whatever you do to retirement stuff. Can you help him?”

  “I suppose so,” a less-than-enthusiastic voice sighed from the cubicle.

  Beth looked at Cole and, as she cleared sight of the cubicle, put her index finger in her mouth and did an exaggerated fake-gagging face.

  Cole stuck his head into the cubicle and said, “Hi. I’m Cole Sage.”

  “Yeah, that’s what she said. Have a seat.” The man in the cubicle did not look up.

  “So, how do we transfer my account from Chicago out to here?”

  “Is it a 401k, Keogh, ERISA, Roth, IRA, what? Are you vested?” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft snapped.

  Cole stood up and stuck his head outside the cubicle.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I was looking for the AARP sign.”

  “The what?”

  “American Association of Retired Persons, I figured I missed the turn and wound up there.”

  “Hilarious. Can we continue?”

  “What was your name again?” Cole said with a forced smile.

  “Ashcroft. Phillip Ashcroft.” He did not give his special name.

  “You like your job, Phil?” Cole sensed an anger and hostility that seemed to seep from the pores of the pale man in front of him.

  “Not particularly. It’s Phillip,” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft said with a condescending groan.

  “That was my guess,” Cole began. “I used to hate my job, my life, actually. Then, you know, the strangest thing happened, Phil. I realized that I was the one out of step. Everybody else was having a great time, and I was the fly in the oatmeal. You, my friend, need a change of scenery.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Has it done any good?” Cole frowned.

  “Hardly,” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft sneered.

  “That’s a shame. Look, Phil, I haven’t a clue what kind of plan I have because I have been alone most of my adult life. Until recently, I really didn’t care how long I lived or what happened.”

  “Are you going to start telling me about Jesus?” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft interlaced his fingers and placed them on the desk in front of him.

  “No, unless you think that would help. I could tell you about Jenny.”

  “And who is that?” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft sneered and cocked his head to one side as if to say, “I’ll wait until you finish.”

  “My granddaughter.”

  “How sweet.” Ashcroft gave Cole an unnatural smile.

  “I just think that it’s more fun to be happy than a sourpuss and you, Phil, are a sourpuss. Now, take those fellas that hang around Beth’s cubicle.”

  “Idiots!”

  “Exactly the point I was about to make. She wouldn’t give them the time of day. But just living in hope that she might, makes them happy and gives them a reason to come to work.”

  “She’s a bitch.”

  “Harsh. Did you ask her out, Phil?”

  “Phillip, and I don’t think that is any of your concern.”

  “See, you got to roll with it. I bet Beth has rejected those idiots a dozen times, but it doesn’t keep them from enjoying the chase. Lighten up, Phil, life’s too short.”

  “Is that the secret, Mr. Sage, embrace your rejection?” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft’s tone was cold and pure hatred.

  “I don’t know, but you attract more flies with honey than vinegar, right?” And with that, Cole stood up and stepped across the aisle. “Beth. How about lunch today?”

  “Sure, that would be fun!” Beth put both hands over her mouth to squelch a laugh. It was obvious she was listening and enjoying Cole’s attempt to reform Phillip Ashcroft.

  Cole went back and sat down across from Phillip Wesley Ashcroft and smiled. “See, a little friendliness gets the job done every time.”

  “I find your condescending manner and flippant interference in my affairs offensive and insulting, Mr. Sage. In future, please confine any conversation we may have to the status of your retirement package as provided by this company. Am I clear?” Phillip Wesley Ashcroft’s face was ablaze with repressed rage.

  “I am truly sorry if I offended you, Mr. Ashcroft. I have been where you are, and it is no fun. My only thought was to help you realize there is a way out. I won’t bother you again. I’ll e-mail you the information on my Chicago account when I receive it.” Cole stood and moved to the aisle between the cubicles. “You know, Mr. Ashcroft, anger is a time bomb, it can ruin your life. Try to find something to make you happy before it’s too late.” As Cole passed Beth’s cubicle, he softly said, “Meet you in the lobby at 12?” She nodded.

  Phillip Wesley Ashcroft did not respond. Reaching into his desk drawer for a white plastic bottle, he squirted a glob of his homemade hand lotion into his palm. He rubbed the tops of his hands repeatedly and massaged the lotion into his skin. “I have something that makes me happy,” he muttered. “I bring salvation. I save the world from future cruel bitches like Beth.” He fairly vomited out the last few words.

  He would find another girl to save. He would do it today. He must leave soon. He would have to wait, though, until Beth returned from lunch with her newfound boyfriend. The desire was so strong, Phillip Wesley Ashcroft could barely remain seated. He closed his eyes and pictured a sweet little girl with a box of Cracker Jacks. She offered him the prize. His rage began to recede. He would go find her at lunch. He imagined walking hand in hand with her through Golden Gate Park. Moment by moment, his anger eased, and he was a child again.

  Cole was late getting downstairs to the lobby, but Beth Swann patiently waited by the front door. She gave him a brilliant smile as he waved hello.

  “So, where to?” Cole asked.

  “There’s a new little Japanese place around the corner, want to give it a try?”

  “Sounds great.”

  The small talk they made as they walked to the restaurant centered on the weather. Most of the way, they walked in silence, bobbing and weaving through the noontime crush of people on the street. The Katsu was small, but already attracting a good lunch crowd. Cole spoke to the hostess in his limited, but charmingly affective, Japanese and she took them to a table in the corner near a window.

  “And he speaks Japanese. The wonders of the Wondrous Mr. Sage never end.” Beth teased but was impressed. “Sorry about Phillip’s flare-up.”

  “Hey, I was out of line. Not your fault. Sometimes I don’t know when to shut up. Must be support group hangover.”

  “Support group?”

  “Yeah, I went to a sexual abuse support group last night to talk to a priest and must have still felt the urge to reach out.” Cole offered an embarrassed raise of his eyebrows. “The parents of Lucy Zhang, the last little girl murdered, spoke very highly of their priest, and I thought he might have some insights or thoughts to add background to the story I’m working on.”

  “Maybe Phillip should go to a support group of some kind. That guy is really creepy. Did you see his hands? They look just like a woman’s.”

  Cole sat up straight in his chair. “What did you say?” he urged.

  “I said he gives me the creeps.”

  “No, no, about his hands,” Cole insisted.

  “Didn’t you notice? They are as smooth as silk and not a hair on them. They look just l
ike a woman’s in a hand lotion ad.”

  “Oh, God,” Cole gasped. He could feel his heart racing and his face go flush as he fumbled for the cell phone in his pocket. He hit the number for Ben’s phone. “Pick up, come on!”

  Beth sat across the table and stared at Cole like he suddenly had lost his mind.

  “Ben? Cole. What did you say that the little girl, Camilla, what did she say about her attacker’s hands?”

  “Como las manos de una mujer, it means ‘like a woman’s hands.’ Why?”

  “I’ve found the killer.”

  Within 10 minutes, Lt. Leonard Chin arrived at the Katzu restaurant. Outside, four patrol cars idled, their occupants awaiting instructions. Cole described Ashcroft and made a case for how closely he fit the profile of the man they were looking for. But hands were the link. “Like a woman’s hands” is what Camilla kept saying. Beth described how Ashcroft frequently used lotion and how smooth and hairless his hands were.

  “The little girl is our only witness. I really don’t know if she can make an ID without going into a tailspin. Ben says she isn’t much better than when they brought her in.” The detective rotated his cell phone in his hand as he spoke.

  “Ashcroft doesn’t know that.”

  “There is that. You want to come along? It’s a hell of an angle for your story.” Chin smiled.

  “How about me?” Beth broke in for the first time.

  “You do have to go back to your desk.” Cole smiled. “This kid’s got the heart of a reporter. Should we let her tag along?”

  Cole and Leonard Chin waited behind the grey double doors separating the personnel department and the short hallway leading to the elevators and watched as Beth made her way to her desk.

  “How was your date?” called out a voice from behind a cubicle.

  “Very interesting, Tim.” Beth shot back, trying to sound flirtatious.

  “If you’re looking for interesting—” a second voice began.

  “Mr. Sage is a whole other level, Eric.” The banter with her admirers helped to calm Beth as she approached her desk. “I’m ba-a-ack.” Beth half sang toward Phillip Wesley Ashcroft’s cubicle.

  Without a word, Ashcroft stood and made his way to the back of the office. His thoughts raced with anticipation as he imagined the smile of a pale blonde girl approaching him across a grassy, shaded park.

  Beth held her breath and didn’t look up as he passed her desk.

  There was a long frozen moment as Phillip Wesley Ashcroft came through the door into the hallway. Cole stood to the right of the doors against the wall next to the elevator. A flash of anger, then apprehension, crossed Ashcroft’s face as their eyes met. Before either could speak, Leonard Chin approached Ashcroft from the left.

  “Phillip Ashcroft, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will—”

  “Mr. Sage, is this when I am supposed to embrace my rejection, or is this a new form of acceptance?” Ashcroft spoke without guile or emotion.

  “—be used against you in a court of law,” Chin continued, unfazed by Ashcroft’s interruption. “You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?”

  “I wish to be addressed and referred to as Phillip Wesley Ashcroft at all times.”

  “Do you understand these rights?” Chin pressed.

  “What is it you think I have done?”

  “I have read you your rights, Mr. Ashcroft, as required by federal law. Do you understand them?” Chin’s tone hardened.

  “Of course. What is this about?” Ashcroft said, void of emotion.

  “You are under arrest for the murder of Lucy Zhang and the attempted murder of Camilla Salguero.”

  “That’s all?” Ashcroft smiled, turning to face Leonard Chin for the first time.

  Chin spread his feet ever so slightly. “No, I will do everything in my power to tie you to the deaths of two other girls as well.”

  The elevator doors opened, and Ashcroft glanced at the two women who exited and headed for the offices farther down the hall.

  “Do you have some form of identification?” Ashcroft snapped.

  “How’s this?” Chin took Ashcroft’s wrist and in an instant his hands were cuffed behind his back. He removed a radio from his belt and keyed the microphone. “Ready for transport.”

  “On our way, Lieutenant.”

  “So, will I make the papers, Mr. Sage?” Ashcroft smiled for the first time since Cole met him.

  “Yes, but not for what you’ve done. The story will be that you have been stopped and what you won’t do again.”

  “What I did, Mr. Sage, was to save those little angels from becoming arrogant snotty bitches like your new friend, Miss Swann. They are forever frozen in time as sweet, kind, thoughtful, and full of hope, the light of new discoveries sparkling in their eyes.”

  “There is no light, Phillip. You saw to that.”

  The elevator doors opened and two uniformed officers crossed to where Ashcroft stood. The older of the two nodded to Chin, took Ashcroft by the arm, and guided him to the elevator.

  Ashcroft turned and looked at Cole. “You know, Mr. Sage, you have done me a great service. Wherever I go, I now can dwell in the glow of the sweet moments I spent with each of those girls without the restraints and tedium of being forced to work here. I can be alone with my memories and delight in the fantasies I will build around them. Thank you, Mr. Sage.”

  The elevator doors glided closed.

  * * *

  The call came at 1:53 a.m. It took a long moment for Cole to register what the caller was saying. When he did, a wave of numbness came over him.

  “Mr. Sage? I’m sorry to inform you that Michael Brennan has passed away.”

  No one called Brennan ‘Michael’, Cole thought, he was Mick to everyone.

  The caller was a charge nurse at Weiss Memorial’s Emergency Room. Kind, but efficient and to the point, she continued. “An ambulance brought Mr. Brennan in about 11:30. He was in a coma when they arrived and died peacefully about an hour ago without regaining consciousness. You are listed as next of kin. I am very sorry for your loss.”

  After asking Cole if he would be making the funeral arrangements, she hung up.

  Mick Brennan left specific instructions for his funeral: There wasn’t to be one. Friends and colleagues could gather as he was “planted,” as he put it, and he asked that Cole say a few words before they “threw dirt in his face.” As Cole reviewed the clearly labeled documents Mick left in a file folder on the kitchen table in his apartment, he wasn’t sure if this was an attempt at humor or a slap in the face to those who might show up.

  With the help of Olajean, Cole wrote an announcement for the graveside service and then distributed it to the few people Mick would have wanted there. As promised, Cole took Mick’s obituary to the publisher’s office along with a note from Mick requesting it be printed as is. To Cole’s great relief, the publisher wasn’t in.

  With a few words of common condolence and a hug for Mick’s secretary, Cole entered his old friend’s office and closed the door. Even though he would never enter the room again, Mick Brennan still was very much present. The smell of the cigarettes lingered, and the sweet aroma of his Old Spice after-shave hung in the room like incense.

  Cole methodically went about shredding the papers in Mick’s desk drawers. The few mementos that Brennan hadn’t already taken home were carefully packed in a box that Cole brought up from his office.

  An office is a strange thing, Cole thought. All the years a man spends behind a desk in it, all the decisions, all the memos, plans, and orders; all would be forgotten with a new paint job, and someone else’s personal effects on the shelves. Mick Brennan was gone. A new editor sat down the hall, prepared to fill this space.

  * * *

  The graveside service was scheduled for 11 o’clock. Per Brennan’s instructions, there were no pallbearers, and the flo
wers were limited to one bunch of white chrysanthemums on the casket. The casket of dark mahogany looked handsome with its handles of dull pewter. The mortuary prepared four rows of six chairs. It proved to be about three rows too many.

  At 10 minutes after 11, Cole stood and faced the odd mix of colleagues from work, old friends, and a young man in a dark blue suit, white shirt but no tie.

  “Michael Francis Brennan was my friend,” Cole began. “He was not easy to love. Many of you know that well.” Several of the mourners chuckled. “Say what you will, though, I never in all the years I knew him, ever saw Mick hurt anyone intentionally. He was gruff, short-tempered and demanding, but it was all to ensure that the paper he loved was as good as it could possibly be.

  “I first met Mick when I did an internship at the Sentinel; I was in my early 20s, fresh out of college and ready to take on the world. The first piece I gave him he wadded up and threw in the trash. ‘Where the hell do you learn to write?’ was all he said as he crumpled it. ‘Do it again.’ I did, again and then again. I called him every name I could think of while I worked, but over the next six months, he taught me more than I learned in four years of college. He was a hard taskmaster, but it was because he wanted me to be the best newspaperman I could be. When I returned from a stint in Southeast Asia, he gave me my first job at a stateside newspaper. I owe everything I have become as a journalist to him.”

  Cole cleared his throat and stared down at the casket in front of him. “Mick did not believe in God. So, I can’t say he’s in a better place or we will see him again. None of the typical things you would say at a funeral seem to apply. He often made fun of my faith, as simple as it is. He would tease me about fairy stories and ‘rip offs’ of other religions that he claimed filled the Bible. ‘Jesus is cool, but he don’t pay the rent’ was a favorite of his for poking fun. I’m no saint and would never preach to anyone. But I would be remiss to if I didn’t get the last word in our years of theological debate.” Cole smiled and looked down at the casket. “So, here you are, Mick, all dressed up and no place to go.” Nervous laughter from the mourners broke the silence.