Rhodes just was not sure he was the right man for the job. He had no badge and no resources to conduct an investigation with. All he could do was examine the facts the police had gathered and come to a conclusion. He would further investigate anything the police may have overlooked, but in his experience, the chances of that happening were slim.
The detective on the case would have already followed up on all leads. If those leads did not lead to a suspect, the case had turned cold.
It was rare that evidence suddenly popped up unexpectedly. It did happen, though. A witness grew a conscience and came forward to the police. A worker discovered something pertinent to the case while performing his job. An accomplice who was bitter with the killer gave him up out of spite. But all these happenings occurred due to forces beyond the detective’s investigative powers.
Rhodes took a slow sip from his glass. It was almost half empty. Rhodes hoped Yates would arrive before he took his last sip.
The bar’s door swung open and two men came in. They looked around and then came over. They sat on the stools on either side of Rhodes.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Marty Rhodes,” the one on his right said.
Rhodes turned and looked at him. The man was heavy with a shaved head, and he had a long handlebar moustache.
The other said, “You are right, Barry. It is Marty Rhodes.” He was big with broad shoulders, and a scar ran down his left cheek.
Rhodes squinted. He was not sure who either of them was.
The first man smiled, revealing his gold tooth. “Forgotten me already, have ya?” He then slapped Rhodes on the shoulder.
Rhodes’s back tensed, and his fist tightened. He was ready to give him a piece of his mind, but as there were two of them, he let the situation play out.
“It’s your Uncle Barry.”
Rhodes’s eyes widened. Barry Kowalski was a friend of Rhodes’s father. Rhodes had not seen Barry since he last spoke to his father, which was years ago.
“You still robbing banks?” Rhodes asked.
Barry laughed. “That was the old times, boy. Now, like the banks, I loan money out to desperate people.”
“What do you want?” Rhodes asked, realizing he wanted very little to do with him or his buddy.
Barry leaned over. Rhodes could smell his foul breath. “You see, your dad owes me a lot of money. Heck, he owes a lot people a lot of money. But seeing that we were buddies way back, I’ve been giving him a free pass. The interest on his loans is so low that even the banks would think I’m crazy. All I’m asking is that he pays me back what he owes me. That’s it.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Rhodes asked.
“He said you’d have the money.”
“He did?”
Barry smiled. “Yep.”
“And you believed him?”
“Of course not. I trust your dad as much as he trusts me, which is not saying much. I actually wanted to see you, Marty. I guess the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.”
Rhodes knew he was referring to his time in prison. The inference irritated him.
Rhodes said, “I don’t have any money.”
Barry stood up. “Well, that’s too bad, because now I’d have to put our history aside and do something really bad to your dad.”
“How much does he owe you?” Rhodes blurted out. He quickly regretted his words.
“Three grand.”
Rhodes sighed. “Give me some time. Let me see what I can do.”
“I knew it.” Barry laughed and slapped him on the shoulder again. “You were always a good kid, you know that.”
Barry and his goon left the bar.
TWENTY-THREE
Rhodes was furious. He could not believe his dad was pulling him into his problems. He always did that. Although when Rhodes was a detective, his father stayed away from him. He had made some attempts to contact his son, but they were too few to count. Rhodes believed his father was worried his criminal lifestyle would force Rhodes to take action against him.
His father knew how much Rhodes despised him. If given a chance, Rhodes would not have hesitated to throw his dad in jail. It was better if he stayed away from his son.
Now that Rhodes was no longer a detective or in prison, his father somehow wanted him back in his life.
Rhodes would deal with him when the time came. Right now he had a job to worry about.
He watched as Tim Yates entered the bar, looked around, spotted him, and came over.
Rhodes held up his glass. “Do you mind paying the bartender for the drink?”
“Sure,” said Yates.
When his tab was paid, Rhodes took him to a corner booth by the windows.
Once they were seated, Yates said, “You were right. When my lawyer sent a letter straight to the chief’s office, Detective Crowder had no choice but to let me see how far he’d gotten on the case.” He slid over a thin file. “I’m afraid he didn’t get too far.”
Rhodes did not flip it open. He just tapped it with his index finger.
Yates understood. He slid over a thick white envelope.
Rhodes did not touch it. “I want you to know something. I was convicted of murder and spent ten years in prison for it.”
“I know who you are,” Yates replied. “I did an internet search on you before I came down. I read the article from the Franklin Daily Times. That reporter, Hyder Ali, wrote a detailed piece on you. It told me everything I needed to know.”
Rhodes said, “Then you know that with my background, I’m not allowed to perform services as a private investigator.”
“I didn’t know that, but if anyone asked, I’ll say I paid you for consulting services.”
“Consulting?”
“Sure. I’m getting an outside opinion from a former police detective on my son’s case. That’s it.”
Rhodes mulled Yate’s words over. Without looking inside the envelope, he put it in his pocket.
“I’ll start work right away,” Rhodes said.
“How will I find you?” Yates asked.
“I’ll find you.”
Rhodes stood up.
Yates put his hand on his arm. Rhodes glared at him. Yates quickly let go. “I’m sorry, but this is about my son. I hope you won’t disappoint me.”
“I promise I will do everything I can to find the person responsible for your son’s death. But I can’t promise you that I will be successful.”
“I can live with that.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Jo was at her desk when Irina came over.
“I spoke to the neighbors, and they all said the victim was a quiet guy. He kept to himself and didn’t really interact with anyone. He used to be in a relationship, but that was a long time ago.”
After her visit to Silvio Tarconi’s apartment, Jo had sent Irina to find out more about him.
“How did the neighbors know he used to be in a relationship?” Jo asked.
“They used to see him with a woman.”
“Did they know who she was?”
“I asked the neighbors, but they had no idea.”
“How long ago was it?”
“Almost three years.”
Jo frowned. “That doesn’t help. But it makes sense why no one reported him missing.”
Irina said, “I also spoke to the rental company, and they said they never had any problems with him. He paid his rent on time, and he never caused any trouble. Even his neighbors agree they never had any disputes with him.”
“So he was a good tenant and a good neighbor. Then why was he targeted?” Jo wondered aloud.
Tarik came over. “I did some digging on the victim’s family.”
“And?” Jo asked.
“Nothing that will help us, I’m afraid. He was an only child, and his parents died when he was young. His grandmother raised him, and she passed away ten years ago.”
Jo said, “No family. No friends. No relationships. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“How s
o?” Tarik asked.
“If the killer chose a victim no one would miss, then why leave his body on the train with a message on it? The killer was making an example of Tarconi, which I’m sure of. But why?”
Chris suddenly appeared and said, “You guys are having a party. Why am I not invited?”
“We’re not having a party,” Irina said. “We’re discussing the case.”
“It’s a joke,” Chris replied. “Don’t you guys joke back in Russia?”
“I’m from Ukraine.”
“Same thing.”
Irina’s face turned red. “No, it’s not.”
“It is. Russian and Ukrainian women are hot. Same thing.”
“Have you ever been to Russia?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
Irina was surprised. “When?”
“When I was a baby. My parents took me with them.”
“That doesn’t count.”
Chris shrugged. “Hey, I was there. I just don’t remember my visit.” He leaned closer to her. “If you want to take me to Ukraine and meet your mom, I’m all for it.”
Irina had come to the U.S. on a student visa. After completing her studies, she decided to apply for immigration. Once she received her U.S. citizenship, she applied to the academy and got in. She had a mother in Ukraine. She supported her by sending money. Irina’s hope was that once she became a full-time special agent, she would try to sponsor her mother’s immigration.
“Why would I want you to meet my mother?” she asked.
“I mean, once we are dating, I should meet your family, you know.”
Irina frowned. “You’re not my type.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Chris asked. “I have a job and I live by myself.”
“No, you don’t,” Irina corrected him. “You live in your parent’s house.”
“They are in Florida most of the year, so I technically live by myself.”
“It doesn’t count.”
“It’s a big house. There’s room for everyone.” He winked at her.
“I feel sick,” she said.
“Okay, so who’s your type?” he asked.
She thought about it. “You ever watch the show American Sport Challenge?”
Chris shook his head. “Never heard of it.”
Jo said, “Neither have I.”
Tarik said, “I have. It’s a show where men and women go through a series of extreme obstacle courses.”
Irina nodded. “I’m training to one day compete in it. If you got on that show, I would go out with you.”
Chris let out a mock laugh. “No problem. How hard could it be?”
Tarik put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t even think about it. Even I won’t be able to get through one of the obstacles.”
Chris stared at him. Tarik was in far better shape than he was. He took a big gulp and then walked away before his big mouth got him in deeper trouble.
TWENTY-FIVE
Ellen watched as the man cut the donut in half. He placed a grilled piece of meat in the middle. He covered it up with two strips of bacon and a slice of cheese. He then proceeded to fry the entire donut burger.
Ellen wanted to gag.
She was at the opening of a new restaurant where the food was made to clog your arteries. The chef was a man in his late thirties. He had a bushy beard, his hair was tied in a ponytail, and his arms were covered in tattoos.
Ellen could tell Walt was salivating. Men and their fried foods, she thought.
“I call this a heart attack waiting to happen,” the chef said.
No kidding, Ellen wanted to say. She smiled at him, but it was mostly for the camera. “So, how has the response been since you opened up?”
She shoved the microphone closer to his bushy face.
“It’s been great,” he replied with enthusiasm. “We can’t keep up with the demand.”
Ellen had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. She had been at the restaurant for almost an hour, and so far, she had only seen two customers walk in. Neither had bought anything. They were just curious to see what was on the menu. When they saw items such as deep-fried butter covered in batter, or a deep-fried chocolate bar eaten in a bagel, or even deep-fried waffle sandwiches stuffed with French fries, Ellen could not blame them for leaving.
She did feel sorry for the chef, though. Before opening the restaurant, he had worked as an investment banker. After years of advising people to follow their dreams, he decided to quit his secure job and invest all his life savings in a dream of his own.
Ellen felt sorry for herself too. She could not believe she had let Miles talk her into letting Dan Ferguson cover her story. She should have been following up on all the leads, not Dan. In fact, Dan should have been the one watching this idiot destroy his life. Why would you throw money into a business that was nothing but a novelty? Surely, people would not keep coming back every day to have the same heart-attack-inducing meal? It was just plain stupid.
Ellen watched as the chef let the donut burger bubble and simmer in the hot oil.
She wanted to yell, Take it out! It’s burnt enough. Instead, she asked with a smile, “How long do you let it cook?”
“Until it’s hard and crispy,” the chef replied.
No kidding.
Walt was almost licking his lips.
After a few more grueling minutes, the chef pulled out the roasted donut burger and placed it on a plate. He then covered the burger with a thick layer of mustard and ketchup. He placed a leaf of lettuce next to the burger.
When Walt zoomed in on the burger, Ellen finally rolled her eyes. The leaf of lettuce was a contradiction in so many ways.
“There you have it,” the chef said, as if he had prepared a masterful meal. “When you try it once, I promise you that you’ll want to try it again.”
Ellen faced the camera and said with a smile, “We will definitely be trying it, and why don’t you come down and try one for yourself? This is Ellen Sheehan for BN-24.”
Walt turned off the camera. Ellen turned off her smile.
Before the chef could say something, Ellen walked away. She heard Walt ask if he could try the burger. “Sure,” the chef replied with enthusiasm.
Ellen had no desire to watch grown men gorge on something dripping in oil.
She took a deep breath as she stepped outside the restaurant.
She could not do this anymore. She could not cover any more of these kinds of stories. It took a lot of energy on her part to not walk out on the segment, but she had kept thinking of her career.
She now wanted to yell, What career?!
She bet Janie did not have to endure what she just had to go through.
Ellen firmly believed she was on par with Janie. In fact, she was better than her.
It was her superiors at BN-24 who did not appreciate her. She wanted to quit and go work for any other station.
But who would hire me? she thought.
Her résumé was not filled with earth-shattering stories. It was filled with the likes of the one she had just covered.
Bridgeton was a big city, and BN-24 was its number one news station. Ellen feared if she walked out, she might end up in a small hick town covering their annual beaver festival.
No. She would not let that happen. She would bite her tongue and do whatever was necessary to stay above her competition. For now, she would do everything Miles and his boss would want from her. The moment she got her chance, though, she would not let it go.
She stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She had quit a few years ago, but the urge to smoke had come back with a vengeance.
She hated herself for craving cigarettes again. It was not that she was overly concerned for her health; she was more concerned for her physical appearance. Her mom used to be a heavy smoker, and she had ended up with lung cancer. But it was the way she looked in those final years that stuck in Ellen’s memory. Her mother’s face had become etched with deep wrinkl
es, particularly around her mouth. Her teeth had turned yellowish, and her eyes always had a glazed look.
Ellen put the pack away. She would not mess with the one thing she had going for her: her youthful beauty. She loved being in front of the camera, and she wanted the camera to love her back.
Her shoulders sagged. Right now she was not feeling any love. Not from the camera, not from her superiors, and not from herself.
She was not sure how many more of these segments she could do.
She took a deep breath and recited her mantra: “You are better than this. You can do this. You can achieve all your goals. No one will give it to you. You have to reach out and take it. Don’t worry about the short-term pain, think of the long-term gain. You are Ellen Sheehan. You are a star.”
Her cell phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her pocket.
The number was blocked.
She watched as the phone kept ringing.
I should pick it up, she thought. It can’t be worse than the day I’m having.
“Hello?”
“Is this Ellen Sheehan?” asked a voice. It was heavy and deep, as if someone was purposely altering it.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is not important. What is important is that tomorrow you will get a big surprise. At Chester Station, get on the eight o’clock train going north. I promise you, you will not be disappointed.”
Ellen grimaced. “Is this a prank call? If it is, it’s not funny.”
“It’s not,” the caller replied. “I saw you on TV. I want to help you.”
“Maybe I don’t want your help.”
“After I hang up, I am going to call Janie Fernandez from SUNTV. I’m sure she’ll be interested in what I have to say.”
“No, wait!” Ellen yelled. “I’ll be there.”
“Eight o’clock train, going north,” the caller repeated.
He hung up.
Ellen stared at the phone. She was unsure of what to make of it.
Walt came out of the restaurant. “You missed it,” he said. “It was the best burger I’d ever eaten.”
“Forget about that,” Ellen said. “I need you tomorrow at eight o’clock sharp.”
“Is it a big story?” he asked.
Close Your Eyes Page 7
