“I doubt a day will go by that I won’t think of his rumpled suits and cigarette-burned neckties, and I will never look down at a finished piece of writing without flinching at the thought of the red editing marks he was so famous for bloodying all over what I thought was a finished draft.
“Thank you all for honoring my friend today. I loved Mick Brennan, and will miss him dearly. Rest in peace, old friend.”
The small group shifted in their seats. Several people wiped their eyes. Silently, one by one, they stood and walked past the casket. Words were softly muttered, and people whispered to each other. The young man in the dark suit remained seated.
The last few to leave shook hands or patted Cole on the shoulder and complimented him on his remarks. Cole turned, closed his eyes, and said a short prayer, asking the Almighty to look past Mick’s shortcomings and consider his heart—maybe let him slip in under the gate.
As he turned to leave, he noticed the young man in the dark suit. Still seated in the back row, he had one arm slung across the top of the chair next to him. As Cole passed, the young man stood up.
“I’m Marcus Brennan.”
“I figured,” Cole said, offering his hand.
“Nice words, pretty much funeral bullshit, but nice words. Everybody’s a saint when they die.” Marcus waited for a reaction from Cole.
“I said what I felt. Your dad meant a lot to me.”
“I tried to get my mom to come. She says he died a long time ago as far as she’s concerned. Let the dead bury the dead and good riddance.”
“That’s too bad. Bitterness can eat you up.”
“We got a lot to be bitter about. Your friend was never there for me while I was growing up. That precious newspaper you spoke so fondly of was his family, not us. He never gave a damn about me or my mom.”
“I’m sorry. I wish it was different.” Cole hoped Marcus felt the sincerity in his words.
“You’re the lucky one. It sounds like you got the attention that should have been ours.”
“Not really. I don’t think in all the years I knew him we ever saw each other outside the Sentinel building. Maybe once. Don’t read what I said up there wrong. He was an asshole pretty much most of the time. He hurt me deeply many times and angered me most of the rest. I’m sure, though, that down deep, in his own way, he loved me.
“I know he loved you, because until the day he died, your picture was on his desk. Of the few things in his apartment, there was a soccer trophy of yours, and three pictures of you. So, don’t think of him too harshly in the end. He was what he was, and it wasn’t what either of us would have chosen.”
“I guess you’re right. Doesn’t matter much now, does it?” Marcus looked down at his shoes.
“Not much does once they lower you into the ground. If you can, find a good memory to hang onto, and let the rest go.” Cole looked over his shoulder at the casket.
Marcus Brennan turned without a word and walked away. Cole thought of mentioning Mick’s will. Marcus didn’t come for his birthright. Cole wasn’t even sure he came to say goodbye. The father and son parted as they lived, wanting the other’s approval and never getting it.
FIFTEEN
The morning after the funeral, Cole went to the Sentinel. His mind was awash with memories as he pushed open the heavy art deco door that stood between the Chicago wind and the last of the city’s original newspapers. Cole was twenty-two the first time he put his hand on the shiny chrome door and he remembered how he felt entering the holy shrine of journalism.
Twenty-five years, a million miles, and uncountable words later, he said his goodbye. He would finish the article on child abduction and murder. The San Francisco Chronicle and the Chicago Sentinel would jointly publish it. The death of Mick Brennan closed the final chapter on his life in Chicago. Cole dreaded parting with his close friends, but the hard part was over.
Olajean called in sick, so Cole slipped past the fill-in receptionist without a word. He called and asked the janitor for a couple of boxes. When he arrived, a stack of six stood outside his cubicle.
As much as he hated the grey carpeted box that he called home for all the “dark years,” there was a sense of comfort in knowing its boundaries. He stared at every square inch of the six-by-eight box at one time or another. There was no muse in this cell, and the first step in the rebirth of Cole Sage was the realization that his only chance of regaining his muse lay outside its carpeted confines.
Two pink call slips lay in his basket, both from Lt. Leonard Chin in San Francisco. Cole tried the number twice but got a voicemail both times. He left a message the second time. “Cole Sage here; got your message. I’ll be at this Sentinel number for a couple more hours and then I’ll be at home.”
The few mementos and pictures decorating the desktop and walls packed quickly. Sorting the files, scraps of ideas, articles, and clippings took a lot longer. As he read a piece he clipped from the NY Times, Cole sensed a presence behind him. Turning, he saw his old friend Tom Harris. The detective looked troubled, his tie uncharacteristically undone.
“Come to help me pack?” Cole said, glancing around at the mess he created.
“We got a problem.” Harris’s voice and expression were something new to Cole.
“What’s going on?” Cole asked.
Harris held up a plain manila envelope. “Is there someplace more private we can talk?”
Cole directed Harris to a small conference room. Harris closed the door behind them and closed the blinds on the small window facing the outer office area.
“This came in the mail today. Thankfully, it was handed over to me. The community service officer that sorts the mail knows we’re friends.” Harris unclipped the metal clasp and slid the contents of the envelope onto the table.
“What is it?” Cole was becoming uneasy with his friend’s cold, emotionless tone.
On the table lay a white 9-by-11 envelope in a plastic evidence bag. Cole’s name and Chicago home address were written in black felt-tip pen. There was no return address, and the bottom left-hand edge was partially ripped open, exposing part of a photograph. The picture seemed to be bare flesh. The envelope was ripped open like it was done in a big hurry.
“Where did this come from?” Cole asked, reaching for the bag.
“Somebody dropped it through the mail slot at the precinct. This was on it.” Harris slipped his hand in his jacket pocket and handed Cole a yellow Post-It note.
“‘Something should be done about perverts like him!’” Cole read aloud. “What is this about, Tom?”
“Take a look.”
Harris opened the evidence bag. He pulled out a second smaller plastic bag that held a small stack of 8-by-10 color photographs and a sheet of white paper with a short note.
“There are six photographs, all of children, all engaged in sexual acts with adult males, all more perverse and obscene than the last.” Harris said in disgust. He turned the one exposed photo toward Cole.
Repulsed by what he saw, Cole turned it face down. When he looked up at Tom Harris, he was looking into the eyes of a stranger. “I don’t understand,” Cole said flatly.
“That makes two of us. What have you got to say for yourself?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? These aren’t mine.” Cole stood, his anger flaring.
“Sit down, shut up, and read the note.”
The note was a simple printed message on plain white bond paper. “Hope you like these samples. This is the stuff I told you about. The new DVD runs nearly two hours and is loaded with our kind of action. These little sweethearts really deliver. PayPal payment preferred (you know the account name), and a smoking hot copy will be on its way!” It was not signed, but Red Hot Angels was printed in red at the end of the text.
“Well?” Harris finally said.
“Well, what?”
“Look, I’m your friend. If this had gone to somebody else, you’d be in cuffs.”
“You think I sent for this?” Cole jump
ed to his feet. His voice was a fierce combination of defiance cut with betrayal.
“I didn’t say that. I just want an explanation.” Harris’ tone softened slightly.
“I haven’t got one,” Cole shouted. “It’s obviously a set-up.”
“You got to help me out here. This is real serious. This links you to child pornography! This guy gets busted, and you’re on his mailing list.”
“When did you get this? You come in here, drop this on me, and expect an explanation? I haven’t a clue what this is about.” Cole sat back down.
“It came while you were in California.” Harris ran his hand through his hair. “Look, the best I can figure is that it arrived ripped at your mailbox. You got an outside mailbox, right? With the little hook thing for magazines and big envelopes? Some snoop in your building saw the pictures sticking out and opened it. The subject matter wasn’t what they were hoping for, grossed them out, and they turned it in to us.”
“Who would do that?”
“How many people in your building?”
“Okay. I get it. So, what am I supposed to do?”
“We can’t just ignore this. Somebody either has a really sick sense of humor, or you are on their shit list big time. You better put on your thinking cap.”
Cole spun the envelope on the table repeatedly. He looked at the jagged tear at the opening. As he flipped the envelope over, the clasp was still covered by the flap. It was sealed. He flipped it over again. His gaze fell on the stamps. The stamp on the left was nearly intact, only the bottom corner was torn away. Half of the stamp on the right was gone, torn away diagonally. Neither stamp bore a cancellation mark on them. The envelope was never mailed.
“Look at this. These stamps aren’t used,” Cole slid the envelope across the table to Harris.
Harris looked at the well-worn envelope. “You’re right. I’m going to have a friend of mine in the lab run all this stuff. I should have seen that. You’re right. Guess I was just too pissed to see straight.”
“Well, Sherlock, that’s why you got me.” Cole gave a halfhearted laughed.
“If you don’t figure this out, you’re going to always wonder if some freak out there’s got your name on his list.” Harris slapped Cole’s shoulder with the envelope as he made his way to the door.
Harris stopped and turned, “By the way, I never thought it was yours for a second.”
“Gee, thanks. You had me fooled,” Cole said sarcastically.
“As far as I’m concerned, this never happened. But it’s kind of like pricking your finger on a needle in a junkie’s pocket. You always wonder if you’re gonna have HIV show up on your next blood test.”
“Thanks for having my back Tom.”
Harris smiled, nodded, and closed the door.
The initial panic subsided, and Cole was left with a seething anger. He stared at the table top. He ran through the names and faces of some of the lowlifes he had run-ins with over the years, but this wasn’t their kind of payback. A letter bomb maybe, a death threat and some white powder to put everyone in a panic, maybe even a dead rat in a box, but this was too real. The higher-class enemies he made were more likely to sue in an effort to cost him time and money they knew he couldn’t afford to lose.
As he walked back to his cubicle Cole’s mind raced trying to think of who would pull such a vile stunt. His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing phone at his desk.
“Sage,” Cole said, answering the phone.
“Cole, its Leonard Chin,” the voice on the other end offered.
“Hello. How’s it going?”
“We’re building quite a case against your buddy Ashcroft.”
“My buddy?”
“Every time I interview him, he asks if he can write or call you to thank you for helping him break his shackles. It’s not everybody who has somebody so grateful.” Chin laughed. “Hey, I think I might have something you can help with.”
“Sure, whatever you need.”
“How far are you from Plainfield?”
“About 40 minutes, depending on traffic. Why?”
“We’ve been going through Ashcroft’s apartment with a fine-tooth comb. Turned up something of interest. Thing is, I need to kind of keep it off the radar. Have you got anybody in the Chicago PD that can do some sniffing around and keep quiet about it? I mean really quiet?”
“A good friend of mine. He just left here a few minutes ago.”
“I’m famous for my bad timing. Here’s the deal. We found a couple of kiddy porn DVDs postmarked Plainfield, Illinois. Outfit calls itself Red Hot Angels.
“It’s Terry.” Cole said, almost in a whisper.
“What?”
“We won’t need a cop. Can I call you back?”
“Of course, no big hurry. Let me know what you find out—but, Cole, it is really important this doesn’t leak.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.” Cole hung up.
Cole reached into the box and pulled out the envelope and note. Red Hot Angels. He ran his fingers over the stamps on the envelope.
* * *
Terry Kosciuszko’s anger and self-hatred were like a snake eating its tail. He hated his weight, yet he fed his unmet desires with massive amounts of sweets, which only made him gain more. More than once, he had stomped on a half-eaten box of doughnuts and kicked them across the kitchen floor. He broke every mirror in the house. Just a glimpse of his massive girth would set him off in an uncontrollable spiral of destructive rage.
The arousal he once got from his collection of pictures, tapes, DVDs, and his hours in Internet chat rooms waned. More and more, he found himself thinking of going out and finding a child. He burned for the touch of soft skin and the feel and movement of another human being. All that stopped him was fear. Fear of getting caught, fear of it not being enough, and fear of rejection. Taking what you dreamed of was a far cry from what you dreamed of being freely offered. So he searched to find new and even more deviant ways to feed the demons within.
When it didn’t work, his anger turned to Jeff and Sophie —his perfect brother, his perfect wife, and their perfect little family. They were all that stood in his way. It was his ranch, his house, and his to sell. They were all that was keeping him from fulfilling his dream to move to Thailand or the Philippines or some other place where they turn a blind eye to lovers of the young. If he could sell this stupid piece of dirt, he would be gone. He could live out his days happily and with the love he so longed for. He would be a god, worshipped for what he could provide a child bride, or maybe two, possibly even three. He would be the master of a harem of child brides. All that stopped him was Jeff’s unwillingness to give him what was his.
Terry’s old green truck shook and rattled as he made his way to his brother’s house. He had no plan, but he would know what to do when he got there. They were such cowards. He scared them before. He would ramp up his game. If his brother wasn’t convinced by Terry’s willingness to kill and maim their pets, maybe he needed to take a bolder step.
The truck rolled to a stop across the street from the long driveway. His message on the white fence was painted over. The blossoms and greens of spring made his brother’s house look like a cover of Better Homes and Gardens. Terry removed every bit of foliage from the farm. His first thought was that he didn’t want to be bothered. The truth was he hated the sight of living things. He soaked the ground with powerful herbicides. He set traps and laid out poison everywhere to kill any rodent or varmint that might wander on to his near-lunar landscape. He sprayed for insects and was relatively sure the property was devoid of any flora and fauna.
Just to the left of the garage, Terry’s eye caught a flash of movement. A large bush shook, and a moment later, Sophie came around to the front of the large shrub with a pair of hedge trimmers in her hand. His pulse quickened. She was outside, he thought. His mind raced. What could he do? He left the truck and started making his way up the long driveway. He stayed close to the fence so as not to draw attenti
on to himself. Sophie snipped, whacked, and trimmed the bush, stepping back to survey her work. Terry moved closer.
For a few moments, he lost sight of Sophie. Their Chevy Tahoe was parked in the driveway, blocking his view. It also blocked Sophie’s view should she turn around. Terry’s breathing was hard and shallow. He was not used to walking more than the few feet from the house to the truck or to the ATV he used to ride around the farm. When he reached the car, he bent over with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath and think of what to do next. His time was cut short; Sophie moved toward the house. He couldn’t let her go inside! He began to panic.
He moved quickly and got in front of her. Put her between him and the Tahoe. “Nice day,” Terry panted.
“What are you doing here?” Sophie stood straight, and her tone was cold and demanding.
“‘While back, a friend of yours paid me a little visit. I thought it was only right to return the courtesy. He’s not very nice, your friend. He said some very unpleasant things to me.” Terry’s words came in short breathless bursts. He was sweating heavily and his face flushed bright red.
“We thought if Cole talked to you, you might drop all this foolishness about Jeff signing over his share of the farm to you.” Sophie tried to move to get a better shot at running for the house, but Terry shifted and moved closer with her every movement.
“I really don’t like you talking to strangers about my business. I’ve tried really hard to send you subtle messages. My brother is stealing what my mother meant for me. It’s mine, and it is my ticket out of here.” He moved within a few short feet of Sophie. Her back nearly touched the side of the car.
“We have a restraining order. You need to leave.” For the first time, fear showed in her voice. She raised the hedge clipper.
Terry’s hand flew out and knocked the clipper from her hand. “You see, that’s what I mean. We’re family. You shouldn’t do things like that.” Terry suddenly shot forward and pushed Sophie back against the wheel well. Her lower back hit hard against the trim over the tire.
Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2 Page 13
