by Terri Reid
“I don’t know what the big deal is,” another man’s voice inserted. “So Sidney needed his old files. Who gives a damn?”
“The judge said to watch for anything that might be suspicious,” the first one said.
Art turned to Sam in surprise. “Judge?” he mouthed.
“Nothing suspicious about Sidney needing his files,” the other man argued. “Sidney had nothing to do with Blackwood. Besides, they ain’t down here.”
“They could be hiding,” the first man said. “We gotta search. I’ll take over there, behind those shelves on the north side.”
Art and Sam heard the click of a magazine being loaded into a revolver.
“What the hell is that for?” the second man asked, shocked.
“We don’t want any loose ends,” the first man said.
“You can’t kill two detectives,” the second man argued.
The first man chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry, they would have died in the line of duty,” he joked. “Just like Blackwood.”
Suddenly the lights in the room started to flicker violently.
“Hey, what’s going on here?” the second man cried.
“Just a power surge or something,” the first man said.
“Yeah, well I don’t like it,” the second man said. “This place gives me the creeps.”
Then the lights went out, and the room was plunged into blackness. “Ahhhh!” the second man screamed. “I just felt someone touch me.”
“Don’t be an idiot!” the first man yelled. “There ain’t no one next to you but me.”
“The morgue can be a frightening place.” The ethereal voice seemed to surround them.
“Did you say that, Crandall?” the second man asked.
“Shut up,” the first man said, his voice shaking. “Just shut the hell up.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?” The voice whispered into the first man’s ear, causing him to shake violently. “Do you?”
The lights flickered back on. Crandall’s face was ashen. “You saw, right? You saw that Sidney isn’t down here, right?” he insisted.
“Yeah. Yeah,” the other man gasped. “Ain’t no one down here but us, right?”
“Right. And we’re getting the hell out of here,” Crandall exclaimed. “We’re getting out of here now.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice,” the second man agreed.
Art and Sam were silent until they heard the door slam shut on the other side of the room.
“Did you hear…” Sam started, but then stopped when they both heard another sound in the room.
A soft chuckle seemed to echo all around them. Sam gulped loudly, and Art nodded.
“Yeah, I did,” Art said, and then he cleared his throat and asked, “Um, we can’t be seen going back out the door now. So, you don’t have a way for us to get these files out of here without getting caught, do you?”
“Who are you talking to?” Sam asked.
Several boxes on a high shelf in the far corner of the room slid over revealing a small window. Art looked at Sam, and Sam shook his head. “Yeah, I don’t want to know who you were talking to.”
Art bent down and picked up three boxes of files. “Well, I can tell you one thing,” he said as he stood up and made his way toward the window. “He’s on our side.”
Sam grabbed the other three boxes and followed Art. “Wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it for myself,” he muttered. “Still don’t know if I believe it. How about you, O’Reilly?”
Art smiled and shook his head. “I’m Irish,” he replied. “I have to believe it.”
Chapter Fourteen
As the sun rose, a beam of daylight filtered into Brooke’s bedroom, slowly moving across the floor, then hitting the bed and finally shining onto her face. Moaning in her sleep, she lifted her arm to shield her eyes, but the damage had already been done. She was awake. With a soft sigh, she opened her eyes, sat up in bed, and immediately regretted that decision. “Oh. My. Head,” she gasped, holding her head in her hands and trying to get the pounding to stop. Bit by bit, she slowly lowered her head back down into her pillow and moaned with relief as the material enfolded her. Blindly reaching for her phone on the nightstand, she felt around the keypad and pressed the speed dial to her office. The receptionist answered in a far too cheery voice, and Brooke ground her teeth.
“Hey, Samantha,” Brooke said softly, trying not to add to the thrumming between her temples. “It’s Brooke.”
“Oh, hi Miss Callahan,” Samantha replied in a larger than life voice. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Brooke winced. “I’m sure it is,” she replied, trying not to whimper. “But I’m afraid I won’t be participating in it. I’m staying home sick today.”
“But Miss Callahan,” Samantha challenged, “you’re never sick.”
Brooke bit her lower lip and took a deep breath. “Well, today I am,” she said. “Would you please let Emma know that she needs to reschedule things for me?”
“Sure thing, Miss Callahan,” Samantha said. “I hope you feel better.”
“Thank you, Samantha,” she answered. “I do, too.”
She quickly disconnected before Samantha could offer her chicken soup or advice on how to deal with various ailments. She really liked Samantha, usually, but today she couldn’t handle her perky attitude. Fumbling with her phone, she pressed the second number on her speed dial.
“Help me,” she pleaded when Niki answered the phone.
“I’m already on the way to your place,” Niki replied. “And I’ve got a cure for what ails you.”
“Thank you,” Brooke whimpered.
“Can you make it to the door to let me in?” Niki asked. “Or should I use my extra key?”
“Use your key,” Brooke replied. “I owe you.”
“Oh, girl, I know you do,” Niki said with a soft laugh. “But, considering the circumstances, I’ll give you a pass this time.”
“Thank you, again,” Brooke said.
Niki chuckled softly. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m hanging up now. I’ll see you in a few minutes, and don’t you move from that bed.”
“I couldn’t if I wanted to,” Brooke admitted.
True to her word, a few minutes later Niki was opening the front door of Brooke’s apartment and hurrying down the hallway towards the bedroom. “Honey, I’m here,” she called, and Brooke heard her try to doorknob. “Girl, why is your bedroom door locked?”
“It seemed like the thing to do at the time,” Brooke replied weakly. “Use the same key. It will open the door.”
She heard Niki push the key into the lock, and the door clicked open. Peering into the bedroom, Niki saw the blinds were open and sunlight was pouring into the room. “Ouch,” she said, going over to the other side of the room and closing the blinds. “That must have hurt.”
“Mmmmm, hmmmm,” Brooke moaned. “Thank you.”
Niki placed her bag on the side of the bed and pulled out a sports drink. “Okay, let’s start with this to get some hydration into your body,” she said, twisting open the lid.
“Now, you have to sit up, just a little,” she instructed.
Brooke slowly moved up, and Niki shoved a couple more pillows behind her to keep her in an upright position before she handed the bottle to Brooke. “Just sip slowly.”
Brooke took a sip, and the cold liquid sliding into her mouth and down her dry throat felt good. “Okay. Better,” she croaked.
“You just sip that for a little while until your throat is wet enough for you to swallow some pills,” Niki said.
“Pills?” Brooke asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Milk thistle and vitamin C,” Niki replied. “The milk thistle will help your liver process all the alcohol you marinated it in, and the vitamin C helps get rid of the toxins in your body.”
“I’m ready,” Brooke said, and after Niki handed her several tablets, she swallowed them down with another drink of the sports drink.
&n
bsp; “How are you feeling?” Niki asked.
Brooke sat still and assessed her body for a moment. “Not like I’m going to die as much as I did earlier,” she admitted.
“Good, now you can eat something,” Niki said.
Brooke shook her head and then moaned. “Oh, that hurt.”
“Food,” Niki insisted. She pulled a banana out of her bag and handed it to Brooke. “The potassium will be good for you.”
Brooke obediently took a bite. “I might be sick,” she said.
“Not on your good sheets,” Niki reminded her.
Brooke looked at the sheets she’d splurged on a month ago and took a deep breath. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I won’t get sick on these.”
Niki smiled. “So how did you sleep?” she asked.
“I had the weirdest dreams,” Brooke said, allowing a faint smile to appear on her face. “I actually dreamt that my father was here, in my room, asking me to solve his murder.”
“Wow, that’s crazy,” Niki replied.
“Yeah,” Brooke said, her eyes misting slightly. “In my dream he left me a polaroid photo of the two of us.”
Niki’s eyes widened. “Maybe it’s a sign or something,” she said. “Maybe it’s meant to be.”
Brooke slowly shook her head and took another bite of banana. “I don’t believe in signs,” she said.
Niki smiled at her friend. “I thought that being Irish meant you had to believe in signs,” she laughed as she bent over to take the now empty sports drink bottle. Then she saw something dark poking out from underneath Brooke’s pillow. She pulled it out and studied the old photo.
“Irish or not,” Brooke chuckled, “I still don’t believe in signs.”
“Well,” Niki said, her voice a little shaky, “do you believe in ghosts?”
Chapter Fifteen
“Listen Crandall, you go back into the morgue, find the boxes with Blackwood’s files and destroy them,” Judge Callahan growled into the phone. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to; his fury was understood. “If I know anything about my daughter, she’ll be requisitioning them by this afternoon.”
He paced back and forth in front of the huge, oak desk in his private chambers. The matching oak bookcases behind the desk held the appropriate collection of law books, and his diploma from a prestigious Ivy League law school hung in a suitably ornate frame. He paused and leaned against the edge of the desk.
“No, I want it done now. You can extend your shift,” he continued impatiently. “Do you understand?”
He stood again, walking to the window that looked down on downtown Chicago, absently watching the pedestrians strolling across the street below.
He turned away from the window and walked back to his desk. “And Crandall,” he finished, “don’t make me regret my association with you.”
He hung up his cell phone, placed it down on the leather desk blotter and walked to the framed mirror hanging on the wall. Peering into it, he took a deep breath, purposely relaxing the tensed features on his face, and then carefully straightened his tie. The office phone rang, and he reached back and pressed the button. “Yes?” he answered shortly.
“Your wife is here to see you,” his secretary’s voice floated through the speaker. “Shall I send her in?”
“No, have her wait,” he replied. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready for her.”
He took another long moment at the mirror and then strolled back to his desk. Pulling open a side drawer, he withdrew a number of manila files and systematically scattered them across the desktop. He opened another drawer and pulled out a yellow legal pad and placed it to the side of the folders. Finally, he shrugged his jacket off, placed it carefully on the back of his chair and then took his seat in the large, leather office chair. Reaching over, he pressed the intercom button. “You may send my wife in now,” he said, ending the call before his secretary had a chance to respond.
Picking up a pen and leaning forward over the desk, he jotted down some nonsensical notes on the yellow pad and placed his forehead in his hand as if he were studying a difficult issue.
The door opened softly, and Amy Callahan entered the room, strolling quietly to the desk and taking a seat while she waited for her husband to acknowledge her presence. She knew the game. She’d played it for nearly twenty-five years, and she was well-versed in the rules. Reece’s secretary came forward to close the door, but Reece waved her away. “You can keep the door open,” he said. “She won’t be here for that long.”
Slowly, Reece turned his head and met Amy’s eyes. “Amy,” he said cordially, “so nice of you to finally arrive.”
Amy bit back a retort. They both knew full well that it took forty minutes to get from their home to his office on a good day. And when his secretary had called her and asked her to come, it was the middle of the morning rush hour. Taking a deep breath, she nodded and smiled. “What can I do for you, Reece?” she asked.
Templing his fingers, he studied her for a moment, and then he sent her a patronizing smile. “Actually, my dear, it is not what you can do for me,” he began, “but what you can do for your daughter.”
Amy sighed. “I’ve called her every hour on the hour since we met with her,” she explained. “There’s not a lot more I can do.”
“I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here,” he replied, his eyebrows rising for emphasis and his voice lowering. “If she decides to investigate her father’s murder, she is placing a target on her own back. We were worried about her being targeted when she was a child. Now as an attorney...” he let the sentence hang in the air.
Rising from her seat, Amy gasped. “They’re not after her already?” she asked. “Is she…”
Lifting his hand to calm her, he shook his head. “She’s fine,” he replied condescendingly. “For now. But I’m afraid her independence and stubbornness might prevent her from doing what’s best for our entire family.”
Her heart pounding in her chest, Amy slowly sank back into her chair and tried to regain her composure. “And what would be best for all of us, Reece?” she asked.
Sitting back in his chair, Reece nodded, pleased with her response. “I’ve written her a check for fifty thousand dollars. I believe she’s been working too hard. I suggest this would be a good time for her to tour Europe,” he replied. “And by suggest, I mean she has no other choice.”
He glowered at his wife.
“I would like you to convince her that going to Europe would be best for all concerned,” he continued. “And, Amy, you do know that I don’t like to be disappointed.”
Nodding again, Amy slowly stood. “I will speak to Brooke this morning,” she said, sliding around the desk and moving towards the door.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Amy,” his cold tone stopping her in her tracks.
She turned and faced him. “Yes?”
“If she continues pursuing this on her own, she could end up on the bottom of the Chicago River,” he said emotionlessly. “And you will have no one to blame but yourself.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Are you going to call your mom back?” Niki asked Brooke as they sat together in her kitchen. Brooke was sipping on another sports drink while she and Niki searched the internet for anything they could find about Bruce Blackwood, but so far everything seemed to have been wiped clean.
“I don’t know what to say to her yet,” Brooke admitted. “I’m still angry, but I don’t want to be unreasonable.”
“Brooke, she’s called you twelve times,” Niki reminded her.
“Yeah, well, I waited more than twenty years, so I guess she can wait, too,” she replied.
A brisk knock on her apartment door caused Brooke to wince slightly, but she was relieved that most of her headache had dissipated. Automatically sliding off the kitchen stool, she started heading towards the door.
“Wait, don’t answer that,” Niki called to her.
“What?” Brooke replied over her shoulder. “Why not?�
��
Niki shook her head and met her friend’s eyes. “Because this is a high-rise with a doorman and a locked entryway,” Niki replied. “And unless someone has a key, they don’t get upstairs. And, if they had stopped at the front desk, you would have gotten a call.”
Brooke froze, her hand nearly to the doorknob. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she replied. “But I have to answer the door.”
“Why?” Niki asked.
“Because if it is a bad guy and he thinks I’m not home, he might try to break in,” she replied. “At least this way we’ll know who we’re dealing with.”
“Okay,” Niki said, nodding and slipping a knife from the block on the counter. “Go ahead.”
Brooke sighed. “Niki, that’s a serrated knife,” she said. “I’m pretty sure a vicious loaf of French bread isn’t at the door.”
Niki stuck that knife back in the block and pulled out another. “There,” she announced.
The door shook a little under the second onslaught of knocking, and Brooke turned to answer it. “Who is it?” she called.
“It’s O’Reilly. Art O’Reilly,” came the answer from the other side of the door. “I need to talk to you.”
Her heart skipped just a little at the memory of the handsome detective. Stepping forward, Brooke unlocked the door and opened it. “Hi,” she began, but grabbed the door tightly in one hand and the doorjamb in the other when she saw he had company. “I didn’t know you weren’t alone.”
“Oh,” Art said, smiling. “This is my partner, Sam Sidney. Sam, this is Brooke Callahan.”
Sam smiled. “Well, you don’t look like a bad-ass lawyer,” he said with a grin.
She smiled back at him. “At the moment, I don’t feel like one either,” she replied, stepping away from the door and opening it wider. “Come on in.”
They both entered the apartment, and as Art walked past her, he turned to her. “I forgot to ask,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, I’m better, thanks,” she said, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I don’t know if I thanked you for last night.”
