In the Shadow of Revenge

by Patricia Hale

  His lips brushed mine. “My kind of woman,” he whispered.

  Two hours later we came up for air.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I mean with Ben having just left and now...you know. Is it too soon?”

  I looked into his eyes and remembered the day he’d driven me home in the rain with my bicycle in the trunk of the police car. I’d felt it when we’d stood in my driveway and he’d laid his hand on my shoulder. There’d been safety in his touch, the same as there was now. He knew where I came from and as Hilary would say, could withstand the shit storms.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt Ben, but I’m where I’m meant to be.”

  “So I’m not just a rebound?”

  “The past eighteen years have been a rebound. I’m taking my first real shot.”

  “I hope so,” he said and pulled me against him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Nick had left before midnight but when I woke up in the morning, I was anything but alone. I could feel him all over me, smell him on my skin and taste him on my tongue. I felt like a kid on Christmas. I’d torn off the wrapper and gotten just what I wanted. After a shower and coffee, I was heading out the door when my phone rang. It was my mother; so much for Christmas.

  “I’m disgusted with you,” she said as soon as I’d answered.

  “Hi, Mom.” Big retaliation.

  “Who do you think you are refusing to help your brother?”

  “I’m not going to argue with you. I’ve already been through this with Jarod. Let it go.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. He’s my son.”

  “He’s abusive.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “His girlfriend filed a restraining order citing domestic violence. He threw a beer mug at my face. What’s he have to do, kill someone before you get it?”

  I held the phone away from my ear and let her go on about my lack of family loyalty and whatever the Bible says about doing unto others. I wanted to remind her that it also says an eye for an eye. When she’d run out of steam I asked, “Are you done?”

  “I’m done all right and so are you. I don’t want to see you again until you can start acting like a member of this family.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  She hung up.

  I flopped down on the couch, leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Stitch was on me in seconds and I looked into his face. “She’s fucked up,” I whispered to him. He pushed his head against my chin and purred. From the couch, I could see the doorway of my bedroom and beyond that, the photo of Grandma Hattie on my dresser. I felt a pull coming from the picture as clearly as if she were saying my name out loud. I got up and went to her. Standing in front of the photo a clammy chill settled over my skin and my stomach got queasy. I knew she was telling me to get the board. The pull had never been so strong.

  Laying the board out on the floor, I knelt down beside it and reluctantly reached for the planchette, wondering what it would tell me. The current skittered up my arm and I drew a sharp breath. The disc moved under my fingers and I looked down at where it was taking me. W-A-I-N-W-R-I-G-H-T it spelled out. I sat back on my heels, my head throbbing, sweat rolling off my temples. “Hilary or Duane,” I was about to ask it. The phone rang.

  “I’m bored,” Hilary said when I answered. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “I was just leaving. Are you okay?”

  “If being stuck in a rehab is considered okay, then yeah.”

  “I’ll come by later,” I said, wiping the sweat off my neck. “I gotta go.”

  I glanced at my grandmother’s photo wondering if the stress of all that was happening was making me crazy. I slipped the board and planchette back into the box and returned it to its place inside the trunk.

  On my way to work, I stopped at a red light and tapped my foot on the brake, deciding. When the light turned green, instead of taking a right toward the parking garage, I turned left and took the on ramp for Route 295 North to Millers Falls. Hilary’s call this morning had assured me that the board was directing me to Duane and since I had to get the cassette tape out of the garage, now was as good a time as any. If Wainwright held true to form, he never made it to the garage before 10:00 a.m. It was nine-fifteen.

  I parked my car a block away. The street was quiet and I approached the garage from the side. A chain-link fence that had been cut and bent back in several places leaned precariously over the concrete lot. I stepped past it and made my way down a long row of cars lining the side of the building. The Bronco sat in the weeds at the far end. When I reached it, I took the key from the glove box then went around to the front. A car was parked under a tree directly across from the garage, but from what I could see, it was empty. I took a deep breath to calm myself, turned the key in the lock and let myself in. I was shaking and sweaty and just wanted to grab the cassette and get out of there. I stepped into the back room and pulled open the closet door. Duane Wainwright’s body tumbled out onto my feet, his throat sliced.

  I wrenched my foot out from under his weight and jumped back, away from him and the blood that had seeped beneath the door. My breath was coming in gasps and I looked over my shoulder, sure that whoever had done in Wainwright was standing right behind me. I turned and ran for the door, but when my hand touched the knob, I hesitated. I needed that cassette.

  Outside, a car passed. I forced myself to calm down, listening for any movement inside the garage, but my heart pounding in my ears was the only sound within the silence. I took a couple of steps forward to where I could see Wainwright’s body, half expecting it to have moved. I watched him until my breathing slowed. I knew I should call 911 and took my cell out of my pocket. For a couple of moments I stared at it, my mind racing. I pressed 9, but instead of continuing I took a deep breath, hit end call and dropped it back into my jacket. The air was getting thick with a coppery stench and I forced myself back to the body. Stepping carefully around Duane, I reached into the closet for the shoebox and looked inside for the cassette. Nothing. I shook the box assuming it was hidden under something else, but still didn’t see it. I picked up the contents one by one and moved them to one end. There was no cassette in the box.

  “Fuck,” I whispered. Duane Wainwright’s killer had beaten me to it.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It’s a thirty-minute drive from Wainwright’s garage to my apartment, but I didn’t remember any of it. What I did remember was the way the blood had congealed at his neck, like a slathering of blackberry jam. Standing in the middle of my kitchen floor I couldn’t get that image out of my head, at least not until I looked down at my feet and saw that his blood had also found its way onto my Nine West pumps. I stared at the stain trying to digest the fact that Duane had been murdered. Not that I was surprised or would miss him, but he was Hilary’s father after all. I stepped out of my shoes and tossed them into the sink, emptied my pockets onto the table and took off every bit of clothing I had on, put it all into the washing machine and covered it with detergent and bleach. I turned the dial to hot.

  After scrubbing my skin raw in the shower to remove any trace of Wainwright, I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and left a message for Michael that I would not be coming in to work. I sat at the granite counter in my kitchen and sipped a cup of tea, wondering what was on that tape. It must be something big if Dobbs had killed him for it.

  I thought about calling DeLonge, but he’d want to know why I was in the garage in the first place and I didn’t have an answer. Sooner or later so
meone else would discover Wainwright’s body. Let them make the call. Right now, I wanted what Dobbs had. I sipped my tea and wondered how hard it would be to break into a house. I called Nick.

  “Can you come over?” I asked as soon as he answered.

  “No work today?”

  “I don’t want to discuss my morning over the phone, but there’s something we need to talk about.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. Is this going to be one of those ‘You’re a nice guy, but...’ conversations?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “I need you as soon as possible.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Nick, please. Just get over here.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  As soon as Nick arrived, we’d go to Maine Medical Center. There wasn’t a lot of love between Hilary and Duane, but they had a connection in a screwed up sort of way. Even when your parent’s a total loser it’s hard to let go if that’s all you’ve got.

  An hour later the intercom rang and I buzzed open the foyer door. When the knock came on my apartment door I swung it wide expecting to see Nick. Instead, Sergeant DeLonge and two uniformed cops were standing in my hallway.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions, Counselor.”

  “Come in,” I said, taking a step back. “What about?” I had a pretty good idea.

  “We found Duane Wainwright dead in his garage about an hour ago and have reason to believe you were on the premises.”

  I knew enough not to give them anything. “Why would you think that?”

  “We have our reasons,” DeLonge said. “We’re gonna have a look around and then we’ll take a ride to the station.”

  “You’re not doing anything without a warrant.”

  He held up a blue envelope and walked past me. The two uniforms split off in separate directions.

  What the hell did he have on me that would have gotten him a warrant that fast, I wondered. I followed him into the kitchen. My shoes were sitting in the sink. In the corner, the washing machine whirred its final spin. I was fucked and I knew it.

  DeLonge went over and lifted the lid. “Bag this,” he said to one of the cops, pointing to my wet, freshly laundered clothes. “And those.” He nodded toward the shoes. “We should probably bag the cat too,” he said.

  For the first time I noticed Stitch sitting on the counter beside the sink, his nose and whiskers smeared with blood.

  “You’re not touching my cat,” I said.

  DeLonge laughed. “I think we’ve got enough without him.”

  “You don’t have anything.”

  “An eyewitness good enough for you, Counselor?”

  “What’s going on?” Nick stepped into the kitchen.

  “Long time no see, Marquette. How’ve you been?” DeLonge asked.

  Nick nodded. “DeLonge. What’s this about?”

  “We’re discussing the murder of Duane Wainwright with Ms. Minos. Seems she paid him a visit this morning. And now he’s dead.”

  Nick looked at me.

  I shook my head.

  DeLonge snorted. “Let’s continue this little gathering at the station.”

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” the sergeant said.

  “I’ll bring her in my car,” Nick said.

  DeLonge looked like he wanted to argue, but turned and headed for the door. The two cops smirked and followed.

  “You’ve got ten minutes,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s only because I know you, Marquette, and I’m feeling generous.”

  I closed the door behind him. “Generous, my ass. You fucker,” I said once he was out of earshot.

  “Cecily, what’s going on? Wait a minute.” Nick held up his hand. “Tell me on the way to the station. Let’s go.”

  On the drive downtown I explained to Nick about breaking into Wainwright’s garage. I told him about the cassette I wanted in the shoebox and that the first time I’d been there, Dobbs had shown up too. Today, the cassette was gone and Wainwright was dead.

  When I finished, he hit his palm against the steering wheel and shook his head. “You hired me to investigate Dobbs. Why the hell are you sneaking around Wainwright’s garage? If you weren’t so busy doing my job for me, I’d have found Wainwright and we wouldn’t be on our way to the police station right now.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I had the idea and...”

  “And you should have called me before you went ahead with it.”

  “I figured you’d tell me not to.”

  “Damn straight I’d tell you not to. You’re a lawyer, stay in the courtroom. Let me find the dead bodies. DeLonge’s the kind of cop that doesn’t give a shit if he’s right. He’ll take anyone to keep his percentages up.”

  “He told me he has an eye witness.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said and I sort of meant it.

  We parked on Middle Street. Nick took my arm and guided me across the street and into the Portland police station. DeLonge was waiting at the desk.

  “Unless you’re her lawyer, you’re gonna have to wait out here,” he said to Nick and motioned him to a metal folding chair leaning against the wall.

  Nick looked at me. “This might be the first time I’ve regretted leaving the force.”

  “I’ll be okay,” I said. “I know the ropes. You call Amelia at the market, let her know what’s happened and tell her to go see Hilary.”

  Nick took a seat on one of the chairs and pulled out his cell phone.

  I followed DeLonge into an interrogation room. “Does Hilary know?” I asked as I sat opposite him at the wooden table in the center of the room.

  “His daughter?”

  “She’s in rehab at Maine Medical.”

  “I’ll send someone over,” he said, then picked up a remote control and pointed it at the television in the corner of the room. “Someone dropped this off at our front desk.”

  The screen came to life and I saw myself in Wainwright’s parking lot walking toward the Bronco then getting in and I assumed, getting the key. Then I opened the front door of the garage. The date in the corner of the video told me it was a recording of my first visit. “What the fuck?” I said to DeLonge.

  “My question exactly, Ms. Minos.”

  I sat back and watched myself come back out the front door, return the key and leave. The video went fuzzy for a few seconds and then resumed. This time, the date in the corner of the screen was today’s and I again watched as I got the key and went inside then came out moments later running to my car. After I drove away, the video footage moved back toward the front door and whoever was filming stepped into the garage, walked through the office and into the back room. The video ended with a close-up of Duane Wainwright on the floor, his throat sliced wide open.

  DeLonge looked at me, his eyebrows raised. “A little hard to dispute that, wouldn’t you say, Counselor?”

  I felt my heart racing and slipped my hands between my thighs to keep them steady as I looked at DeLonge. “You know I didn’t kill him. Somebody set me up, and I’ll put money on it that it’s Dobbs. If you’d helped me when I came to you in the first place we wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

  DeLonge stood up and hooked his thumbs over the waistband of his pants. “All I know is that I’ve got a dead guy, a video of you going in and out of the building and his blood at your apartment. That’s good enough for me. Now it’s up to you to prove me wrong.”

  “Screw you, DeLonge,” I said. “I want a lawyer and not because I need one. I’m getting the hell out of here. And I want to talk to Nick.”

  “Not protocol, Counselor, you know that.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, DeLonge.”

  He smiled and closed the door.
r />   A few minutes later Nick walked in. “They’ve got some pretty compelling evidence,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  “How do you know what they have?”

  “DeLonge told me.”

  “He has no right to discuss my case with you. You’re just a PI.”

  “Just a PI?”

  “You know what I mean. You aren’t on the force and therefore have no right to police information.”

  “Aren’t you splitting hairs?”

  “I’m looking for a technicality. I think I’m gonna need one.”

  Nick sat across from me at the table in the interrogation room. I figured DeLonge was standing on the other side of the two-way hoping to get lucky.

  “Look,” I said. “I went in there because I was looking for that cassette, which was gone and probably taken by whoever killed Wainwright. If DeLonge had paid attention to me months ago Wainwright might still be alive and Dobbs would be sitting here instead of me.”

  Nick shook his head. “The fact is, your fingerprints are all over the garage, it’s you on the video and they found Wainwright’s key at your apartment. I don’t think you’re walking away from this.”

  “Do I have to tell you too that I didn’t kill him?”

  “Of course not. I’m just saying that they’ve got a case against you.”

  “He was dead when I got there. The M.E. will be able to determine time of death and that should clear me. You know as well as I do that Dobbs set me up.”

  “If he did set you up, he may have taken timing into consideration and left just before you arrived.”

  “How could he have known I was going to the garage this morning?”

  Nick shrugged. “Just throwing it out there.”

  “Call Michael Steele. Tell him I need a lawyer, now.”

  Nick left the room. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or hurt by my PI remark. I hadn’t meant it in a derogatory way. I was looking for anything that might challenge due process and give me an edge, because I sure didn’t have one now.

  By the time Michael got to the station with a lawyer in tow, I’d been read my rights, fingerprinted and formally arrested for the murder of Duane Wainwright. Charles Tisby is Maine’s version of F. Lee Bailey and the mere sight of him allowed me to exhale. Sure enough, Michael and Tisby worked their magic and I was sitting before a judge by four o’clock.