by LS Sygnet
She lit a long, slim cigarette, dragged a mouth full of smoke no deeper than the back of her tongue and exhaled a plume across the desk into Crevan's face. "You're Belle's soon to be ex, right?"
Johnny's patience for shenanigans was beyond worn thin. One long arm reached over the desk and plucked the cigarette from her fingers and crushed it in an overflowing ash tray. "Save yourself some money, sweetheart. Either learn to inhale or stop wasting your hard earned cash on a cosmetic bad habit. It doesn't make you look tough, no matter what you think."
She glared and lit another. "You always a sexist macho pig, Commander Orion?"
"Pretty much, yeah. Show some goddamned respect. We're trying to find out who's trying to kill this alleged best friend of yours." He turned toward Crevan. "What do you think? Does she strike you as capable of empathy toward another human being?"
Johnny hadn't noticed the uncomfortable cloak that had fallen over Crevan until he looked. He frowned. Someone turned the world on its ear while he wasn't looking.
"You know Belle professionally?"
Ah. Made sense. The divorce had remained a touchy subject for Crevan. Johnny finally understood why after recent events with Helen. Shit, they weren't even married. He could only imagine what his friend was enduring.
"Byline only. I recognized the name. There aren't a lot of Conall's running around the city. As for my empathy toward Journey, she has more than that, Commander Orion. She has my loyalty as well. Amy called and said you're finally looking at Linder for something he won't be able to weasel his way out of. Please. Make my day and tell me its true."
Johnny pulled a gold case from his breast pocket and procured a real cigarette. He lit it and inhaled deeply. Stress and frustration blasted from his nostrils. "Funny thing, Ms. Wine. This is where police work differs from what reporters do. We're required to have evidence before we can act on something, where as you all pretty much make any old bullshit up that you please and cross your fingers that it's too much bother for someone to file a lawsuit for libel."
She cocked her head to one side. "Did I tell you it was all right to smoke in my office?"
"I didn't ask. Let's cut the crap, shall we? What is it that James Linder did that's so worthy of being a person of interest in the attempted murder of your best gal pal?"
Her lips pursed in a moue of disgust. "Are you serious?"
"Quite," smoke hissed through his clenched teeth.
"God, you guys really are as incompetent as can be, aren't you? I'm a fucking reporter and even I know about his criminal record."
"Watch your mouth," Johnny growled. "And paying hookers to change your dirty diapers is a far cry from cutting a woman's throat." He savored the look of shock on Sam's face before charging onward. "Didn't get that from a basic rap sheet anybody with a credit card and an internet connection can find, did you, Sam?"
She was the one to crush out her smoke this time. "Seriously? That's what he wanted from the prostitutes?"
Johnny was on a roll with inspiration. "You tell me. Or didn't Journey give you the details of which sex act he demanded before she dumped his sorry ass?"
She shook her head. The tough bravado melted away to something decidedly more vulnerable. "My God. What's wrong with that man? Journey is…"
"The exact opposite of you?" Crevan asked.
Sam nodded. "Not that I'd go for that kinky junk any more than she did, but sheesh! How much garbage should one woman have to face in her life?"
"A friend of mine, female in case you figured a knuckle-dragging primate like me doesn't have any female friends, once said that the universe is full of random shit. There's no predictability where it hits. I don't know if I agree with her, because I sure see trends that some people seem to attract it more than others."
Wine nodded absently.
"Like what happened to Journey's father," Johnny continued. "I'm not sure you were old enough at the time to understand what was happening, or who was most directly responsible for getting answers, but if it matters to you at all, I was the cop who arrested Mitch Southerby."
Her eyes widened. "I see."
"And I find it too coincidental that somebody tried to kill his daughter in a parking garage on the sixteenth anniversary of his murder. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to hear your theory on why James Linder might do such a thing. See, in my opinion, that took guts, and Linder's not what I would call a man's man. We don't appreciate the finer qualities of diapering and suckin' on a rubber tit, you see."
Johnny sensed Crevan's discomfort, but felt a perverse thrill at making the cocky young woman squirm. "So which is it, Ms. Wine? Does James Linder have a big set of brass ones that would make him fearless enough to try to kill the woman who scorned him in broad daylight, or is he the type to run around town bragging about how he bedded the sweet young coed and dumped her because he got over his midlife crisis?"
The aforementioned young brow furrowed. "Well if it wasn't Jim, who was it?"
"I'm so glad you asked me that question," Johnny said. He pulled an envelope out of his pocket. "See, I decided to dig into more history than Jimbo's sordid past last night, and I came across this article."
The unfolded document slid across the broad expanse of Samantha's desk. Confusion flickered for a moment. "You investigated me? What possible motive –"
"I know that Journey was attacked by a man. Twice. What I'm interested in the most is this article you wrote about her mother."
"Isabella has one of the less common forms of dementia. How does that relate to someone trying to kill Journey?"
"You chronicled the early years of Isabella's disease. The memory loss, the disrupted sleep, the akathisia and aphasia – had to look those up, Sam. Impressive research you did."
Her eyes narrowed to slits. "And?"
"What interested me the most was something you talked about specifically in regard to Isabella. The perseveration and paranoid thoughts. I really wished you'd been more specific."
"It's no secret that Isabella was left scarred by David's murder. Journey would be the first one to tell you that she started reliving those memories almost constantly. It was as if her brain was stuck in one track of thought."
"She did mention something about that to Dr. Eriksson yesterday... men lurking outside the house. Was that something she said when the dementia started, or had Isabella felt that way right after David died?"
"I was ten years old. I'm afraid I don't remember much more beyond Journey being sad and not being able to visit our houses for a very long time."
"You interviewed Isabella, correct?"
"Yes of course."
"Did she mention anything specific in that repetitive way you call perseveration?"
"One thing, yes, but if you actually read the article, Commander Orion, you know that the neurologist I quoted said that paranoia and repetitive thoughts and speech are common in Pick's disease."
He nodded. "Still, I have to ask what she said, Ms. Wine. See, I just don't buy it about Linder. Is he a creep? Sure. Did he deserve tougher consequences for solicitation? Probably. Is he a cold blooded killer? I can't see that one. The worst I can imagine him doing is taking his little fetish games a step too far, maybe not cluing his partner in on what would happen, omitting the safe word or whatever those types have to do to get their jollies."
Samantha drummed her fingers on the desk. "It was nonsense. I can't imagine how it could possibly help you."
"If it was nonsense, why the secrecy?" Crevan asked. "It isn't as if we're asking you to reveal a confidential source."
She shook her head lightly. "All right, but I'm telling you, it's little more than gibberish. For the first couple of years when Isabella's condition was noticeably deteriorating, all she wanted to talk about was David's disk."
"His disk?"
Sam nodded. "See what I'm saying? It made no sense. What's a disk? The neurologist said that the aphasia made it impossible to know if disk was the word Isabella heard in her mind. It could've been golf club
s for all we know. That's what expressive aphasia is. The word they think isn't the one that comes out when they speak."
"Was there anything else she repeated regularly?"
"Yes, but that wasn't so confusing. One of the last things Isabella was able to say clearly never varied until the day she lost the ability to speak. She used to say honor they father to Journey all the time."
"I take it the Ireland's were religious people."
"Not particularly. They weren't atheists or anything, but Isabella in her own way I believe, repeated that because she wanted Journey to remember that her father was a good man, to live by his example and always try to do the right thing."
Johnny flicked his cigarette butt into the ashtray. "What nursing home is Isabella in now?"
"Sisters of Mercy Convalescent Home. She's been there for about three years. But it won't do any good to speak to her, Commander Orion. Isabella Ireland hasn't spoken a word in eighteen months."
Chapter 12
I was two seconds away from bashing a chair through the pane glass window in the back door when the chime for the front gate sounded. I didn't know who it was, but it was a detail Johnny obviously neglected. My first option for escape had been to get the gun out of my purse and shatter the glass with one clean shot.
The bastard not only took both of my guns, but all the ammunition. Not that it mattered. Even in top form I couldn't throw a bullet hard or fast enough to shatter glass. Plan B was the chair. Plan C? My savior at the gate.
I depressed the button on the intercom. "Yes?"
"Helen Eriksson?"
"Who's calling please?"
"Special Agent Avery Ritter, FBI."
My heart took off for the cliff. Good thing Johnny locked the doors. The temptation to jump overwhelmed me. I cleared my throat. "And you're looking for Dr. Eriksson for what reason?"
"I'm here to ask a few questions about her late husband Rick Hamilton."
"She can't speak with you right now."
"Ma'am, I understand that Dr. Eriksson was recently injured. The FBI is interested in discussing a possible relationship with that shooting to her husband's illegal activities."
Was this guy serious? How dumb did he think I was? "Sorry, Helen is at physical therapy right now. I don't know when she'll be back."
"If you could open the gate, I wouldn't mind waiting for her."
Sure you wouldn't, bozo. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Agent Ritter. I don't think Dr. Eriksson would be very happy with me if I let someone in her home without her permission. You should try calling for an appointment."
"I've been trying to call her for the past couple of days. No one has returned my calls. It's urgent that I speak to her miss."
I backed away from the intercom. Now what? Mark Seleeby had been banished to farming versus militia manure inventory in Idaho two months ago. Was this one of his team members, picking up where he left off? I cursed Orion again for removing any means of communication with the outside world. I needed to call someone, but who?
David. Inspiration – as well as a long history of running to David when all else failed – kicked into overdrive.
Rather than hoof it up two flights of stairs to the attic storage, I opted for the seldom used elevator. In one of the boxes, I had a box with the various pre-paid cell phones I used when I first came to Darkwater Bay. There were chargers to be had too.
Bet you didn't think about that, did you Orion?
I started tearing through boxes until I found one of the long battery depleted phones. Finding the right charger took another ten minutes, but as soon as the device had power, I turned it on.
Five bars. "Thank you, universe."
I dialed David's cell phone number.
"David Levine."
"It's Helen."
"Hi."
Uh-oh. That was a little more somber than I expected to hear. "David, I'm sorry I've been avoiding you."
"I know why you're calling, Helen."
"You do?"
"Yes."
"Why is this thing with Rick alive again?"
"Interesting word choice, dear. When we last spoke, I told you that things were progressing as anticipated with Sully Marcos and Eddie Franchetta."
"Did something change?"
"Marcos' lawyer provided concrete evidence that there were additional accounts Rick managed for Sully."
"And this is about me in what way? How many times do I have to tell you that I had absolutely no idea what Rick was doing or how he did it?"
"Seleeby claimed last spring, as you recall, that a sizable amount of money had been embezzled from Marcos. The evidence his lawyer presented showed that money disappeared from one of the accounts Rick had hidden that Seleeby's team never found."
"All right, but I still don't see how this relates to me. If Rick knew about this account and money disappeared out of it, doesn't that sort of give Marcos another motive for having him killed?"
"Ordinarily, I'd have to agree with you, Helen, but in this instance, the answer is an emphatic no. We're not talking about a hundred thousand or even a quarter of a million in pilfered funds. Someone stole twenty million dollars from Marcos. His interest would be getting that money back, not killing the one man who would probably be able to quietly find it."
"So I'm back under the microscope and Franchetta is walking free. That's what you're telling me, isn't it?"
"Nobody believes that Franchetta saw you do anything the night Rick died. As a matter of fact, he's no longer cooperating with the investigation and has recanted his allegation that he saw you with Rick that night. Apparently, he realized that doing so put him in the area and provided reason to believe that he could've been the one who killed Rick, particularly since the alleged gun was found in one of his known hang-outs."
"Ritter said that the bureau is trying to ascertain if my shooting was related to Marcos. I can tell you right now, it certainly was not. Unless the bureau believes that Marcos is into funding homegrown terrorist groups on top of everything else."
David fell silent.
"Oh my God. That's it isn't it? You learned something about that waste plant Sully was operating quietly through a company of a company with ties to his criminal enterprise."
"I can't get into the details of it, Helen. Please think about talking to Agent Ritter. I promise you, he's nothing like Seleeby. In fact, you know the man who took Mark's place running the taskforce investigating the Marcos family. Remember Joel Soule?"
"Yes, vaguely." One hand spanned my forehead and started rubbing.
"He too thinks it's ridiculous that you had anything to do with Rick's murder. His focus is completely on ferreting out any and all information he can get on Marcos. Right now, this militia thing is a good lead. The missing money looks like the reasonable doubt Sully plans to use to prove he would've never ordered a hit on Rick. However, if your ex-husband had any idea who embezzled that money, it would be a compelling motive for murder."
I stopped pacing the mere inches the electrical cord charging my cell phone allowed and sat down hard on one of the boxes in storage. "David, I promise you. I had no idea what Rick knew. We weren't communicating. Even through the divorce, nothing was said outside the presence of our attorneys. If you want me to authorize my divorce lawyer to tell you the substance of those conversations, I'll do it. But I cannot go through another round of this."
Bile churned in my stomach. My palms were damp and it felt like even the very nuclei of every cell in my body shook in protest. Maybe Johnny had given me more peace than I realized with his brash act. And what the hell were the odds that in doing so, he had inadvertently exposed a far greater threat to a vast number of people than Sully's usual crimes?
"Nobody thinks you were involved beyond the periphery, and only in the vague sense that you had the misfortune of being married to a guy who had a business associate that was the nephew of a criminal like Sully Marcos. If that were enough to arrest someone, a lot of people would be facing charges."
Why wasn't Marcos talking about Rick's blood tie to the family? I started pacing along my three foot tether. So much more was going on behind the scenes. I couldn't believe that I hadn't taken fifteen seconds to consider any of it, to think about what I knew from a distant perspective instead of clinging to my anger.
"Helen?"
"I'm here," I said.
"Will you talk to Avery Ritter?"
Even if I wanted to, it wasn't an option right now. No way would Orion allow it. Explaining to David why I was under house arrest by an ex-lover would open the door to a discussion I absolutely could not have.
"This is the worst time you could possibly imagine, David."
"Are you having problems, dear heart?"
"It's a case." Should I tell him the possible link to Danny Datello? Absolutely not. Given the close family relationship between Danny and Sully, the bureau would probably suggest combining resources.
"You're back to work! Congratulations, Helen!"
"If Ritter will give me some breathing room to close what I'm investigating right now, I'll answer his questions," I agreed without the intent of doing any such thing. My empty plate was suddenly heaped with an unhealthy dose of urgency again. Close the case, nail Datello, get Orion off my back once and for all and disappear out of the reach of the FBI. It was clear that no amount of interference from anyone would change the path one rash act had put me on.
"How much time do you need?"
I gnawed at my lower lip. "I'm not sure. I'll try to call you later and give you an update on what my timeline looks like. We've got a slew of detectives working this one. I hope it won't be long."
"Helen, I've got to be able to tell Joel something beyond she'll cooperate later, but I can't say when. You know how this works. Give me something concrete."
"A week," I muttered. "Maybe less. Like I said, there's a lot that has to happen on this end first. I owe it to a lot of people to maintain my focus on the current investigation. Believe it or not, we actually prevented a murder this time, but unless we catch the perp, he'll keep trying."
