by A W Hartoin
Seven forty-five. Uncle Morty might be awake. His sleeping habits were the subject of some speculation. He rarely slept and when he did it was during the day. Some of my friends were still convinced he was a vampire, despite his distinct non-sexiness. I decided to brave his wrath and called him on my way out of Wink’s
“What?”
“You owe me,” I said.
“For what? Puttin’ up with you?”
“For my phone and tracking me. Thanks a bunch.”
Silence.
“Morty?”
“I didn’t do it. Get out of your nana’s house. I’m calling Tommy. Go to a hotel with good security.” He was panicked. So bizarre I couldn’t speak for a second.
“It’s okay. Chuck did it,” I managed to get out between his multitude of safety orders.
Then there was a string of cuss words so creative I think he made them up on the spot. They involved donkeys and icebergs. I passed by a woman opening a shop and got a strange look. He was that loud.
He took a breath so I said, “Are you done?”
“Hell, no.”
“To be continued then. Did you get anything on Christopher?”
Uncle Morty grumbled, but finally gave me the scoop. Christopher was squeaky clean. No problems anywhere at anytime. He had a slew of recommendations from both male and female teachers. That wasn’t terribly unusual for a date rapist, if that’s what he was. If Wellow had done a report, it wasn’t in the system. Morty thought he round filed it.
“Anything on Faith’s mother?” I asked.
“Dead when she was two. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Ruled accidental.”
“What about her father? What’s his deal?”
“I’m working on that guy. Not much on him. Works for a tech company specializing in interactive media. Travels a lot. Russia is a frequent spot, but he goes to Hong Kong and Malaysia, too.”
“I hear you can get anything in Russia, if you know the right people,” I said.
“That’s the same everywhere. He doesn’t text or use the phone much. His email is all work-related and would bore you to tears.”
“No private email?”
“None that I can find. No mortgage. Leases his Mercedes. Credit cards are paid off every month and they’re only used occasionally, mostly for travel. He likes cash, unfortunately. No arrests. No tickets. He likes Breaking Bad and writes book reviews on Amazon, mostly Sci-fi.”
I laughed. “You hate him.”
“Ya damn skippy. Nothing there and everybody’s got secrets. I’ll break him.”
“Maybe he’s just a regular guy.”
“Screw that. I’m a regular guy and I cheat on my taxes. Everybody has something.”
Uncle Morty wasn’t a fan of goodness in general. He might not believe in it at all. If Mr. Farrell had a secret, Uncle Morty would kill himself to find it. If nothing else, he wanted to prove himself right.
“Anything new on Mrs. Schwartz and the call to the school?”
“You can handle that.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” I asked.
“Go to the school, ya moron. I got shit to do.”
“Like what? Are you hitting on Star Trek actresses?”
He growled. “Mind your business and get ‘er done.”
He hung up and I got on the streetcar out to the Garden District. A light rain started and I closed my window, shivering in the chill. The driver was the chatty sort and we talked about Wink’s and po’boys until I got off at a row of shops before the Latter Library and bought a jacket and umbrella, before heading off into the wilds of Uptown.
That was Nana’s territory. She loved houses, architecture, and history in general. She and I would walk the Garden District streets, comparing Italianates and French Second Empires. I googled the Farrell address and found it was right in the center of all the best addresses. Mr. Farrell must have some bucks to have paid that off.
It took me a half hour to find the address, despite Google helping. Somehow I made two wrong turns and ended up back on St. Charles. But I found it, eventually, and I wasn’t disappointed. Mr. Farrell had serious bucks as in Bled family money. The mansion took up half a block and was a Greek Revival with two story white columns and black shutters. I’d seen that house a million times, but never paid much attention to it. Nana didn’t like it. She said it had more money than style and preferred the smaller Italianates with their black ironwork and lush greenery. I hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but now I decided I agreed. That house was the equivalent of a trophy wife. She was an eye-catcher, meant to impress, but with little else to recommend her, except the price tag.
I took a picture and sent it to Uncle Morty. He texted me, “On it.”
That house had to cost around seven million. What the hell did Mr. Farrell do for that tech company?
I turned off my phone and slowly walked across the street, taking in the broad expanse of the mansion’s front. It was pristine icy white and the landscaping was minimal, lots of green lawn and a few plantings up by the front gallery. Very clean. Little imagination. So this was Faith Farrell’s house. I sort of felt sorry for her in a strange way. I grew up in what a lot of people considered a mansion and The Bled mansion was my second home, but both houses had a warmth that the Farrell house lacked.
The front gate opened without a creak and I walked up the brick walkway, feeling more and more nervous with every step. The floor of the front gallery didn’t creak. My flats padded over the shiny slick surface with only a whisper of noise and that made me more uncomfortable. Old houses were supposed to make noises, plenty of groans and grumbles. The Farrell house was plenty old. 1850’s was my guess, but it felt new and…unhappy.
No doorbell, of course, so I lifted the weighty brass knocker shaped like the god Pan. He was fierce and held the actual knocker in his grimacing mouth with bared teeth and a hint of tongue. Pan was older than the house he was attached to. He didn’t quite fit. The knocker thunked down and I imagined the echo through the mansion. There would be servants and who knew how long it’d take them to get there. I dropped the knocker a second time and went to the right of the wide black-lacquered door to peer in through the sheer curtain that hung over the glass side panels. The fabric was excessively gathered so I could only make out the forms of the interior but none of the details. There was a wide open stair rising out of the center of a receiving room. No furniture at all. Only a huge chandelier graced the room. Then I saw movement on the staircase. Someone was coming down from the left, but they stopped only a third of the way down. My instinct said it was a woman.
I dropped the knocker twice in quick succession and went back to the window. The figure was still there. Not moving. I tried again and then finally someone went past my window and I heard the methodical sound of locks being thrown open with force. I closed my umbrella and fluffed my damp hair as the door opened six inches. I expected an elderly housekeeper wearing the usual getup of a grey sweater and gum-soled practical shoes. What I got was a young Hispanic girl about twenty, wearing a stiff black uniform. Her hair was pulled back so tight into a bun that it held up her thin brows and gave her a mildly surprised look.
“Yes,” she said.
“Hello. I’m Mercy Watts and I’m here to see Faith Farrell.” I said it louder than necessary for the benefit of the person on the stairs. I couldn’t see if they were still there.
“Miss Farrell isn’t taking visitors,” said the maid.
“Is she ill?”
“No.” She tried to close the door and I stuck my foot in the crevice. Ouch.
“I think she’ll see me. It’s about Mr. Berry,” I said, not withdrawing my foot, even though she was pushing the door against it.
The maid frowned, but in a way that said she had no idea who Mr. Berry might be.
“Miss Farrell,” door shove, “is not taking visitors at this time.” Another shove and I felt the bones of my poor foot sort of stack up on each other. I threw my shoulder against the door and
knocked her back a little. That door was seriously heavy.
“Look. You might as well let me in. I’m not leaving until I see Miss Farrell. This is important.” I shoved again and I caught her off balance. The door opened and I saw her, Faith Farrell, standing on the stairs. She couldn’t have been more different than the girl in Derek’s pictures. She wore a navy blue A-line skirt, a white oxford, black Mary Janes, and thick tan pantyhose. If Faith wasn’t so young and fresh-faced, she could’ve passed for a middle-aged secretary.
“Faith, I need to speak with you!” I called out, my voice echoing through the empty room.
She didn’t move and stared at me with a mixture of curiosity and fear.
“Callie!” yelled the maid.
There was the sound of running footsteps and another person hit the door, forcing me back. It slammed shut. My last image was of Faith, leaning over to get a last look at me. I darted over to the window and saw two black-clad figures dragging a third up the stairs. Faith. What was going on?
“Who are you?” asked a deep voice behind me.
I spun around and found a man standing on the gallery behind me. He wore a light grey suit of the two thousand dollar variety and a tasteful tie. Above the tie was a face I wouldn’t like to see ever again. It was that unfriendly. People didn’t usually look at me that way unless they were trying to kill me. He glared at me with brown eyes under heavy black brows. His skin was thick, full of folds and lines from extensive sun damage, making him seem older than he probably was. His full lips were pulled back in distain, showing teeth that were so white they had to be veneers. I would’ve darted past him, but the rain had started in earnest again. It came down in sheets, giving the feeling of a solid wall.
“I said who are you?”
His voice made my heart go tight in my chest, but I said with a smile, “Mercy Watts. I’m here to see Faith Farrell.”
“My daughter isn’t taking visitors.” If anything, his eyes got harder. “She isn’t feeling well.”
“So I hear, but this is about her case.”
He said nothing and I almost mentioned the poisoning, but something held me back.
“It’ll only take a minute,” I said.
“She’s been through enough. I’m not going to have you upsetting her.”
“I understand, but—”
“But nothing. Leave.”
With anyone else, I would’ve argued, but Mr. Farrell wasn’t one you could win an argument with. He didn’t move so I went around him, forcing myself not to be a coward and pass by closely when I wanted to keep at least five feet between us. I walked into the downpour and opened my umbrella. When I got to the gate, I glanced over my shoulder. He was watching me. And I thought my dad was a looming presence. Tommy Watts was nothing compared to that.
I walked down the street, measuring my footsteps so I didn’t look like I was hurrying away. I wanted to, badly. When I turned the corner toward Tulane, my phone rang. Think of the devil. It was my dad and a feeling of relief washed over me.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I just left the Farrell house,” I said, tripping over a heave in the brick walk beside a much more pleasant Greek Revival.
“Get anything?”
“Oh, I got something alright.”
“Spill it.”
Dad liked facts. I had no facts, just feelings. I knew nothing more than I did before.
“Sorry. I’ve got nothing, really. I couldn’t get in. The guards were in place.”
“What did you get?” Dad asked in a tone that was sharp and wary.
“I told you. Nothing.”
“Who did you see?”
“Faith at a distance, a maid, and Faith’s father.”
“Tell me what you felt, Mercy. Just say it. It’s okay. Whatever it is.”
“He killed his wife.” I slapped my free hand over my mouth. Where did that come from? I got to St. Charles Ave. and waited for an opening in the traffic to cross. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“Don’t you?”
“No. I wasn’t thinking that at all.”
“The evidence says you were.”
A tour bus stopped to let me by and I dashed across to make my way to campus.
“You can’t listen to me. Uncle Morty says the mother’s death was ruled accidental.”
“It was, but that doesn’t mean it’s right.”
I headed past a rather ramshackle Tudor style house, down the street toward Derek’s frat. I didn’t plan on getting him to go with me, but Faith’s father and the rain changed that. I felt vulnerable after his hostility. With the decreased visibility, the black hoodie guy could walk right up to me, and I wouldn’t know it until it was too late.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“I’ve got a few markers I can call in.”
“To do what?”
“To take a second look at Pamela Farrell’s death, of course. Morty just texted me. Her insurance settlement was huge.”
“Do we really have to borrow trouble?” I asked as I turned to walk up the garish steps of Derek’s house.
Dad’s voice grew hard. “We didn’t borrow shit. Donald Farrell tasked us. He could’ve been polite to a young woman who showed up on his doorstep, but he wasn’t. He scared the shit out of you, didn’t he?”
I rang the doorbell. “Maybe a little.”
“Well, I’m going to scare the shit out of him. I’m damn good at it, too. Ask anybody.”
I didn’t need to ask. I knew first hand. Dad chased one of my dates down the street with a bat after he showed up for our date with a bottle of Colt 45 in hand and smelling like weed. I never saw Shane Ridley again, but I heard through the grapevine that he had to throw his underwear away. Dad was plenty scary when he chose to be.
“Don’t we have enough victims to deal with?’ I asked.
“We don’t make the victims, Mercy, my girl. We just deal with their deaths.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
That had an ominous tone to it, and I felt a bit sorry for Mr. Farrell. Dad would make his life miserable until he was satisfied, which he rarely was when it came to crime. If he got a whiff of something not adding up, he’d be on Farrell forever.
“I only wish Chuck was still there. You could use some backup on this,” he said.
I rang the doorbell again. “He is, unfortunately.”
“What the…Chuck is still there?”
“I left him at Nana’s this morning.”
“Are you kidding me? Stevie didn’t show? I thought we had that skinny idiot.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve got him, too,” I said.
“Then why is Chuck still there? He’s supposed to get him and get out before the Costilla brothers get wind of Stevie’s whereabouts. I don’t want one of those freaks anywhere near you.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. They’re still here.”
“What did you do?” asked Dad. Darn it. I was so enjoying him being pissed at someone else for a change.
“I didn’t do anything. I don’t want either of them.”
“I knew I shouldn’t send a boy to do a man’s job.”
I laughed. “Chuck will be thrilled that you consider him a boy.”
“He’s a boy when it comes to you. You need to stop it now.”
“Stop what?”
“You know.”
“I don’t.” The door opened and an unknown frat guy looked out at me curiously. “Gotta go, Dad.”
“Mercy!”
I hung up with pleasure and smiled past the dripping curl that hung in my face. “Hi. Is Derek here?”
“Dude. You really know him?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“I thought he was bullshitting me,” he said.
“Is he here?” I asked.
His shoulders slumped. “Nah. He’s at Intro to Criminology, I think.” Then he perked up. “I can help you.”
“Thanks
, but I was looking for an update.” I put my umbrella back up. “Tell him I stopped by.”
Darn that Derek. Any normal student would’ve taken one look at the downpour and said screw it, but not my guy. He had to be good and go out in this deluge. I’d have to find the one person who might know exactly what happened to Faith Farrell on my own. I wasn’t leaving Tulane until I found Anne Marie Murphy.
Chapter Twenty
ANNE MARIE WAS a girl after my own heart. I found her in her dorm room, wearing pajamas, not going anywhere. She knew who I was and, after a moment’s consideration, she asked me in and offered me a mug of Swiss Miss she made in her mini dorm microwave.
I accepted and sat on her new roommate’s bed, blowing on my steaming mug and watching her fuss around to avoid talking.
“This isn’t going to hurt,” I said after she rearranged her books for the third time.
Anne Marie pulled her shoulder-length curly hair back into a big barrette and plopped onto her bed, resigned to talking at last. “I know.” Her heart-shaped face tried to look glum, but couldn’t manage the expression. She was just too adorable with pale Irish skin and a sprinkling of freckles below her green eyes. Her face was made to be happy.
“You know why I’m here?” I asked.
“About Faith.”
“About the rape specifically, yes.”
“Why do you care?”
I sipped my cocoa, allowing her to stew for a moment. “I shouldn’t care if a rape was brushed under the rug?”
Anne Marie tucked her legs under her bottom. “Of course, you should.” She was not convincing at all.
“I really came here about Christopher Berry.”
She’d been about to reach for the books again, but her hand stopped in mid-gesture. “What about Christopher?”
