The Blackwood Files - File One: Family Secrets

by Terri Reid

  Brooke picked up her empty glass and raised it. “To my daddy,” she said.

  Art sipped at the drink and then slid it out of sight, on the side away from Brooke. “I have to admit, I’m a bit hungry,” he said. “How about you? When was the last time you ate?”

  She stared at him for a long moment and then scrunched up her face in concentration. “I had breakfast,” she finally said.

  “Well, then, you wouldn’t mind sharing some food with me, would you?” he asked.

  She stared at him again. “I don’t know,” she replied, and then she looked at the empty bottle. “And now that my bottle is empty, I probably should go home.”

  She started sliding off the stool and nearly fell.

  “Are you still upset with me?” Art asked, catching her once again.

  Held loosely in his arms, she looked up at him. She could feel the warmth of his body through her suit and could smell some kind of outdoorsy cologne emanating from his skin. The combination sent a warm, whirling sensation throughout her body that had nothing to do with alcohol.

  “I’m sorry,” she asked, slightly breathless. “What did you say?”

  Art smiled, and her heart did a flip-flop. “Are you still upset with me?” he repeated.

  She shook her head. “No, really,” she said. “I’m not.”

  “Then you have to stay for a while and get something to eat,” he insisted. “Or I won’t believe you.”

  She thought about his comment for a few moments as she slightly swayed in his arms. Finally, she nodded. “Okay, that’s fair,” she replied. “I’ll get something to eat.”

  He led her across the room to a large booth and helped her slide in before taking the seat across from her.

  “You smell nice,” she said.

  Art blushed. “Well, thank you,” he replied. “And so do you.”

  “Really?” she asked, pleased with his comment. She lifted her arm and sniffed it. “I always thought I smelled stuffy.”

  This time he couldn’t hold back the smile. “Stuffy?” he asked.

  She nodded slowly. “Yes, you know, proper and stuffy,” she said, and then she leaned forward. “Like the good girl attorney I am.”

  The waitress came over. “What can I get you?” she asked. “The special today is homemade Irish Stew served with fresh soda bread.”

  Art looked across at Brooke, who was smiling at the waitress but not responding. “We’ll take two orders of the stew,” he said. “And perhaps some coffee.”

  She smiled back at Art. “Coming right up.”

  Turning back to Brooke, he sighed. Her hair was slightly mussed, her suit was askew, her eye makeup was smudged just above her lashes, giving her a slightly raccoon look, and her eyes were sad. No matter how much alcohol she’d consumed to mask the pain, it was there on her face. He laid his hands over hers on the table. They were tiny hands and quite cold, he thought. “Brooke,” he said softly. “You can talk to me if you’d like.”

  A single, sparkling tear slid from the corner of her eye and slowly down her face before she could bravely blink the rest back. “I think I remember him,” she whispered. “I think I loved him.”

  She sighed deeply and wiped her cheek. “What kind of person am I? How could I have forgotten him?”

  Chapter Nine

  Niki rushed into the bar and gasped in horror. The stools next to the bar were empty. Brooke was gone. An accident on Lake Shore Drive had slowed traffic to a standstill, and she was twenty minutes later than she had expected. But she thought Padrick would keep her here where she was safe.

  Hurrying over to the bar, she approached Padrick. “You said you’d keep her here,” she demanded. “You said…”

  He nodded and then pointed across the room. Niki turned to see Brooke in a booth having dinner with a very attractive man. “You let someone pick her up?” she whispered harshly.

  Padrick shook his head. “No, he’s one of the good guys,” he explained. “Detective Art O’Reilly. I guess they know each other. He got her to stop drinking and eat something.”

  Niki breathed a slow sigh of relief. “Sorry, Padrick,” she said. “I was so worried about her. She never loses control.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I’ve never seen her like this,” he agreed.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  He smiled at her. “No problem.”

  Niki walked over to the booth. “Brooke, are you okay?” she asked.

  Brooke looked up, and her mouth dropped open. After getting a little food in her body, she was actually feeling quite a bit better. But seeing Niki there reminded her of the phone call. “Oh, Niki, that’s right, you were coming here to get me,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I kind of forgot.”

  Art stood up and extended his hand to Niki. “Hi, I’m Art O’Reilly,” he said.

  Niki shook his hand and smiled back at him. “Niki Jhang,” she replied.

  He motioned to the booth. “Please sit down and join us,” he offered.

  She slid in next to Brooke, and Art sat down. Then Niki turned to her friend. “What the hell is going on?” she asked.

  Art looked from one woman to the other and started to stand. “I’ll go to the bar so you can talk,” he offered.

  “No,” Brooke said. “Please stay. Your food will get cold. Besides, you know most of the story. Might as well hear the rest.”

  She turned back to Niki. “Today, after court, Art approached me and asked me if I had a thing against police officers,” she said. “Because of how aggressive I was in my attempt to win.”

  “You were only doing your job,” Niki said to Brooke. Then she turned to Art. “She was only doing her job.”

  Art nodded. “Yes, I can see that.”

  Brooke smiled. “Actually, I believe I told him the same thing,” she said. “But then he said something that flipped my world upside down. He said that considering who my dad was, one would think I would be on the side of the police force.”

  “But your dad’s a judge,” Niki replied.

  “But my real dad was a police officer,” Brooke said softly.

  “Your…,” Niki repeated. “What are you talking about? Did your mom have an affair?”

  Brooke smiled and shook her head. “No, actually, my real father died when I was a toddler,” she explained. “He was murdered. Reece offered Mom and me a place to be safe, and I guess one thing led to another and they got married and he adopted me.”

  “They never told you about your real dad?” Niki asked.

  “No, I never knew, until today.”

  “I had no idea she didn’t know,” Art inserted. “Or I would have never—”

  “No, you wouldn’t have,” she interrupted. “But I’m glad you did. I would have never known.”

  “So, who killed your dad?” Niki asked, cutting off a piece of soda bread and buttering it before popping it into her mouth.

  “They never found him,” Brooke said.

  “What?” Niki asked. Then she shook her head. “Oh, no. When a policeman dies, they don’t stop looking until they find the guy.” She looked over at Art. “Right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, we’re pretty aggressive about avenging our own.”

  Brooke looked over at him. “So, why didn’t they find out who did it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I can look into it. I can pull the old files. That’s the least I can do for you.”

  “Thank you,” Brooke replied. “I’d really appreciate it.”

  She started to yawn and quickly covered her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized.

  Art smiled. “I think you’ve had an exhausting day,” he said. “I’m not surprised you’re tired.”

  “Why don’t you let me take you home, honey?” Niki said. “We can get your car tomorrow morning.”

  Brooke picked up her purse and started to open it when Art’s hand closed over hers again. “My treat,” he said.

  “But…” Brooke started to argue.

  He s
hook his head. “I insist,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she replied, nodding. “For everything.”

  “No problem,” he said.

  Niki pulled a paper napkin out of the holder and jotted down Brooke’s phone number. “Here’s Brooke’s number,” she said, and then she rolled her eyes when Brooke looked surprised. “For when he gets information on your father’s death.”

  Brooke blushed. “Oh, of course,” she replied. “Sorry, I should have thought of that.”

  Art picked up the napkin, folded it and put it in his pocket. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Good,” Brooke said as Niki helped her out of the booth. “Thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome, again,” Art said with a smile. “Go home and get some sleep. And drink lots of water. It should help.”

  “Help with what?” Brooke asked.

  “The hangover you’re going to have in the morning.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Damn, you’re right.”

  He chuckled. “Good night, Brooke. Good night, Niki. Nice meeting you.”

  “Good night,” Niki said. “And I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.”

  Chapter Ten

  Her hair wrapped up in a thick bath towel, Brooke padded around her house in a large t-shirt, oversized sweats and thick, wool socks. She sipped on the glass of sparkling water between taking bites of banana, a suggestion from an Internet search on how not to get a hangover. Her phone vibrated again, and she looked down at it dispassionately. Another call from her mother. Would she ever give up?

  Picking up the phone, she turned the sound and vibration off and slid it into her pocket. She walked from her kitchen to the huge, plate-glass window that overlooked the city. There was heavy rain splashing against the window, turning the city’s skyline into a dark Monet painting of greys, greens and blues. She looked out into the darkness of the lake. Under the lights from a nearby marina she could she see the white capped waves on the lake lapping up against the breakers and felt herself lulled by the rhythm of the water against the land. A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky for a moment, and a rumble of thunder shook the building with its power.

  “It was a dark and stormy night,” she murmured, staring out into the darkness of the night. With a soft sigh, she placed the glass of water on her glass and steel coffee table next to the window and then laid her head against the coolness of the windowpane. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whispered, her tears mimicking the raindrops on the other side of the window. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember.”

  Wiping her eyes impatiently, she picked up the glass and brought it to the sink. After placing it on the counter, she reached over and turned off the lights in the kitchen, plunging the room into semi-darkness, with only the minimal light from the city glowing through the windows to guide her down the hallway to her bedroom. She left the kitchen and entered the narrow hall that led to her bedroom.

  “Daddy’s girl.”

  Brooke froze and turned back towards the dark room, her heart in her throat. She could swear under oath that she had heard someone whisper. Moving cautiously to the end of the hall, she peered into the room, looking for movement. A bolt of lightning exploded outside and quickly illuminated the room. Brooke gasped and fell back against the wall, positive she saw a shadow lurking in the corner of the living room.

  What could she do?

  She thought for a moment about running down the hall and locking herself in her bedroom, but if someone was really in her home, she would just be trapped.

  Leaping forward, she grasped for the switch and flooded the room with light. She pivoted quickly, poised to fight or run, and then shook her head in confusion. The room was empty. Nothing was out of order. What the hell?

  “Okay, Brooke,” she said aloud to make a sound in the silent room. “There is a logical explanation for this, and you are going to figure it out.”

  Turning slowly, she studied the room again, especially the corner where she thought she saw the shadow. Walking over to it, she looked around, searching for items inside her apartment that could have made the man-sized shadow. The coat rack was too far out of the way. The tall DVD holder was hidden behind the television, and the ficus tree was far too leafy to have cast a solid shadow.

  Walking over to the window, she looked across the horizon, trying to determine the angle of the illumination from the lightning bolt and the objects that might have been between it and her window. A metal tower on a neighboring building, littered with different sizes of satellite dishes, seemed the most likely culprit, she decided. A shadow of one of the round dishes could certainly have passed for a head in the millisecond of brightness in the room. She sighed with relief. “It was just a shadow of the tower,” she said to herself. “That makes perfect sense.”

  She studied it for another few moments, talking herself into the likelihood that the tower was indeed the cause. Taking another deep breath, she nodded at the tower. “Yes, of course. That was it.”

  But when she turned back, her nerves were still on edge. Instead of the comforting, secure dwelling of just a few moments earlier, her living room now seemed like a foreign place. Eager to escape it, she crossed the room, switched off the light and hurried down the hall.

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up when she thought she heard a soft chuckle behind her. Not turning, she paused and held her breath, praying that she wouldn’t hear it again. Thunder from the storm rolled ominously, covering up any other interior sounds.

  “It was the storm,” she whispered, her voice shaking slightly. “It was just the storm.”

  The thunder rolled again, followed by the apartment flickering in momentary brightness from another lightning strike and the sound of rain beating against the building. She felt the tension slowly dissipate as the rain pelted a soft rhythm against the windows. Rain had always made her feel safe and secure, as if she was protected by the enveloping storm.

  With her hand on the bedroom doorknob, she looked back down the hall. Shadows of raindrops sliding down the window danced on her wall. Nothing else, just raindrops. It was just the storm, she reasoned, her body relaxing even more. Just the storm.

  Entering her bedroom, she closed the door and watched the rain stream down the windows. She yawned widely, the sounds of the storm soothing her. She began to step further into the room and then paused, turned and locked her bedroom door behind her. Her inner voice mocked her. Scaredy-cat. But she shrugged. Tonight it was okay to be a little bit cautious.

  Walking over to the nightstand next to her bed, she turned on the dim lamp. Even though there was enough radiant light from outside, she was still feeling a little uneasy. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she slipped off her socks and stared out the window into the storm. Was it the whiskey? Did whiskey make you hear things that weren’t there? Was she still drunk? Maybe that was all this was. Maybe she was still under the influence of alcohol. She smiled. Well, that made a lot of sense.

  With a deep sigh of contentment, she flipped off the light, laid down on the bed and pulled the comforter up to her chin. The sound of the rain pattering against the window continued to relax her, and she quickly fell fast asleep.

  “Brookie.”

  She tossed in her sleep.

  “Brookie, wake up.”

  Pulling the coverlet up over her head, she mumbled. “Tired.”

  “Just for a moment, Brookie. Then you can go back to sleep.”

  Slowly opening her eyes, Brooke tried to focus, but her mind was fuzzy. In the dim light, she could see someone standing at the end of her bed. A man. She must have spent the night at her parents’ house. “Dad?” she slurred.

  “Yeah, Brookie, it’s Dad,” he said. But his voice sounded strange.

  “You sound weird,” she murmured, fighting to keep her eyes open.

  He chuckled softly. “I’m sure I do,” he replied. “I need you to pay attention. Okay?”

  She nodded and yawned. “Okay.”

  “You need to be careful,” he
warned. “There are people out there who don’t want my mystery to be solved.”

  “You have a mystery?” she yawned and snuggled back into her pillow. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Brookie, pay attention,” he said, this time his voice a little sharp. “You need to find out who killed me.”

  “Killed you?” she murmured, and then her eyes shot open wide. She sat up in her bed and looked around. The room was empty. No one was at the end of her bed.

  “Dad?” she whispered, still scanning the room, her heart pounding in her chest.

  “Daddy?” she called louder. “Daddy, is that you?”

  Reaching over, she turned on the bedside lamp. The light dispersed the shadows as it flooded the room. She looked around. The room was empty. Was she just dreaming?

  She started to turn the lamp off when she happened to glance at the chest at the end of her bed. A small piece of paper was lying on top of her folded duvet. Pushing the covers to the side, she climbed across the bed and reached for the paper.

  It was a Polaroid photograph. In it a small child was holding hands with a tall man dressed in a suit. She looked carefully at the child, and although the photo was faded and worn, she knew it was a picture of herself. She studied the image of the man. He was smiling down at her and the look in his eyes was one of adoration and wonder. Here was a little girl who had her daddy wrapped completely around her little fingers.

  As she examined the photo, she felt old memories coming to mind. Holding her father’s hand as they walked to the park. Sharing an ice cream cone with her father. Playing at the beach with her father.

  “Daddy?” she whispered into the empty room. “I remember you.”

  With a shuddering sigh, she climbed back across the bed, and after placing the photo under her pillow, she snuggled back into the blankets with a feeling of comfort and peace.

  Chapter Eleven

  Art O’Reilly pulled his car into the parking lot that was adjacent to the 17th District Police Station. The night was rainy and cold, and traffic on Pulaski Road was steady. He could smell the fry grease from the bar and grill across the street, and his mouth watered. There was nothing like a burger and fries from McGivney’s.