Forgotten Place

by LS Sygnet

  "All right. I can see that your case takes priority for the time being. Can I call you at this number? What's going on with your home phone, Helen? The voice mail is full and –"

  "Sorry. I'll take care of it. I have to go."

  My Expedition was visible from the windows in the third floor room, winding around the circle drive in front of the house toward the garage. "I'll be in touch."

  I muted the ringer and stuffed the charging phone behind a box. I ran down the stairs to the second floor and turned the television on in the media room. By the time Orion ferreted out my hiding place, it would simply look like I had accepted my fate as his charity project.

  He found me curled into a chair watching the History Channel.

  "Are you all right?"

  I shrugged. "Maybe a little hungry. How did the interview go with Samantha Wine?"

  Johnny grinned. "Did you just admit that you're hungry?"

  "Give it a rest, Orion. You act like I've been on a hunger strike."

  "What sounds good? Chinese? A sandwich? More ice cream?"

  "An apple and peanut butter."

  "I know better than to think you've got fresh fruit in the house. Crevan picked up some basics while you were sleeping last night. How about some chicken soup now and we'll pick up the apples and peanut butter on the way home from the Linder interview?"

  "Guess that's all right."

  I got up and shut off the television and followed him down the stairs that opened into the kitchen. "Are you gonna tell me about Wine?"

  "Promise to eat no matter what I tell you?"

  "I said I'm hungry." I wasn't, but food consumption seemed the most directly accessible route to getting Johnny out of the picture in a hurry.

  He started warming the canned soup on the stove. "She's convinced that Linder is the only person capable of attacking Journey," Johnny said. "But while we were there, I got some information about Isabella Ireland's medical condition."

  "Pick's disease," I said. "How is that relevant to someone trying to hurt her daughter now, Orion?"

  "I was thinking about one of her symptoms, the paranoia," Johnny said. "Maybe something real evolved into irrational fear, maybe it didn't. I keep coming back to David Ireland's office and what you said about what his killer was looking for that night. Do you think if he'd known what he was after that we would've had a clue anyone had been in the place?"

  "Probably not."

  "It was ransacked. I asked Crevan to bring the old file over tonight. I'd like your take on the crime scene photos, Doc. Southerby could've told us so much more if he hadn't died."

  "Could have, yes. There's no guarantee that he would've said a word beyond the confession, Johnny. These guys for the most part, take what they really know with them to the grave."

  "Prison is the better option," he shook his head. "What's that old saying? Better to rule in hell than serve in heaven."

  "You read Paradise Lost?"

  "Don't sound so surprised. I do know how to read."

  "Seems like it would interfere with your dumb jock façade is all."

  "I went to Catholic school. We read all kinds of stuff that would surprise you."

  "This information about Mrs. Ireland and her disease, specifically the paranoia, why is it piquing your interest all of a sudden?"

  Johnny shrugged and poured the warmed soup into a bowl. "Crackers?"

  "Toast please."

  A grin threatened at the corners of his lips. He popped a slice of bread into the toaster oven and leaned against the counter. "She was fixated on what happened to her husband, and by all accounts, as this dementia progressed, it became the single thought she had, certainly the last one she was able to articulate. Do you know what the last words she ever spoke to her daughter were?"

  "Not a clue." I spooned a tiny bit of soup into my mouth. "Enlighten me."

  "She said honor thy father."

  "Catholics," I snorted. The words struck a little too close to home for me, considering that Wendell was rotting away in prison while I lived off his ill-gotten gains. I started plotting how I might right that wrong from whatever country without an extradition policy to the U.S. became my home in the near future.

  "I think there could be something to it. What if," he postulated, "Southerby didn't find the file David had on Datello? If it were you, where would you look if the office held no clue?"

  "Because I'm a criminal mastermind, a chip off the old block?"

  The timer on the toaster oven buzzed. "Plain or buttered?"

  What the hell. The more calories the better. "Buttered."

  "No, I don't think you're a criminal mastermind or a chip off the old block. I'd give you my unvarnished opinion on the matter, but I can only imagine what having that discussion would do to your appetite. Let's just bear in mind that I'm asking you as the expert in criminal profiling. Where would our assassin go if he was charged with finding specific information and he couldn't find it in the obvious location?"

  "The victim's home. You don't need me to state the obvious, Orion." I tore the crust off the bread, dipped the buttered toast into my soup and nibbled. "Did someone break into David Ireland's home the night he was murdered?"

  "No." His mouth turned downward.

  "What?"

  "I didn't even think about it at the time because we had already caught Southerby and he was dead."

  "And?"

  "Isabella called the police several times to report an intruder, someone lurking outside her house."

  "And nobody believed her?"

  "There was no evidence that someone had been there, Helen. We thought she was terrified, and justifiably so after the way David died."

  "That could be the answer to who attacked Journey yesterday. Southerby wasn't working alone. Question is, what could Journey possibly know about this, and why the urgency to pick up where things left off sixteen years ago?"

  "You said it last night, Doc. It's the same reason she can't talk right now. Her subconscious knows something. As for why this is an issue again now, I haven't the first clue. If Isabella knew anything, she isn't capable of talking about it now."

  Neither was Journey. Talk about evil irony.

  "You're convinced Linder isn't involved," I said.

  "Not convinced, but I'm leaning strongly in that direction. It'll be interesting to hear what you can pry out of him this afternoon. I talked to Ned on my way over here. Seems like Datello's insurance guys aren't the mom and pop variety of Linder's caliber. He couldn't find a link."

  "Where's Ned now?"

  "Making sure we know where Linder is for the appointed hour."

  "I take it he didn't show up at the office today."

  Johnny grinned. "Nope, but Ned said he hasn't left the house either."

  Chapter 13

  There was a moment of silent communication between Ned Williams and Johnny Orion when he dropped me off at Ned's car across the street from Linder's house. I didn't have to ask what it meant.

  "Meet me at division when you're done. I'll pick her up there."

  I gritted my teeth but kept the hateful remarks buried for the moment. Maintaining outward resistance would only prolong contact with Orion, and he needed to be convinced without a doubt that I was snapping out of my funk. Stubborn man. I was with the program again, whether he realized it or not, and the reasons had nothing to do with his efforts. I wondered when I'd have another private moment to talk to Levine again. Hopefully Avery Ritter was on his way back to Washington.

  "You have a little bit of color in your cheeks this afternoon, Helen."

  "Et tu, Ned?"

  "He's worried. Cut the guy some slack, Helen. Do you deny that you feel better this afternoon?"

  It was relative. Physically a little stronger? Maybe. But the waves of anxiety crashing with tsunami force in my stomach weren't exactly what I'd call pleasant.

  "You're sure Linder is home."

  "Positive. He had pizza delivered half an hour ago and came to the door in a ba
throbe."

  "We can only hope he's alone and didn't simply don the robe to cover his diaper."

  Ned shook his head. "Yeah, Johnny told me about that nonsense this morning. I'm gonna have to get you to explain the allure of that particular fetish to me someday."

  We walked shoulder to shoulder up the curved sidewalk to Linder's modest brick ranch. The neighborhood was old, but with a quaint charm that only an area with stately trees lining the streets could achieve. Mother nature covered a multitude of architectural sins.

  "Who's leading this conversation?" I asked while my finger hovered over the doorbell.

  "Be my guest. I'm not sure I've had the pleasure of seeing you in action, Helen. The legend looms large."

  I snorted and depressed the button. When Linder's pizza was delivered, he hadn't bothered to completely close the front door. The buzzer hummed loudly, followed by the sound of creaking leather and bare feet slapping over hardwood.

  Linder flung the door open, gloriously buff (sarcasm intended). A stubby, flaccid penis hung between thighs whose muscle definition had definitely seen better days. White skin gleamed in contrast to the patches of dark brown hair that peppered the slight swell of his abdomen and pectorals that looked a little too fleshy.

  His eyes crawled over me in a creepy perusal that finally settled on the badge at my hip. "Ah hell, you're not who I sent for."

  "Did that sound like solicitation to you, Ned?"

  He chuckled.

  "James Linder?" I flipped open my ID. "Helen Eriksson, Darkwater Bay PD. Please put some clothes on so we can talk."

  "I can talk just fine the way I am."

  Unbelievable audacity from such a poor specimen of male physique. If he thought it would rattle my resolve, he was wrong. "Very well, Mr. Linder. It's cold out here, and since you're not dressed, perhaps you'd be more comfortable if we had this conversation inside the house."

  He opened the security door and waved us inside. My stomach decided that the blast of alcohol breath was almost reason enough to revolt against lunch. I sucked in a steadying breath through my nose and blew it out through pursed lips.

  The interior of the room was dim. Clutter consisted of empty liquor bottles, pizza boxes, a dizzying array of dissected newspaper sections and the sexual paraphernalia Johnny figured we'd find: adult diapers, baby powder, a riding crop, handcuffs, a gag in the shape of a penis.

  Linder's eyes followed my gaze. He grinned. "This is no offer of money, detective, but are you interested?"

  "Sir, I'm a criminal profiler with a doctorate in psychology. My only interest in your psychiatric condition is how it harms others. Sit down."

  The quiescent flap of skin between his legs twitched. Mommy issues. Right. Strong women were exactly this guy's cuppa. Journey's innocence was incongruent with Linder's type.

  Linder sat in the middle of the sofa, his legs making a wide V. One hand rested in the juncture of thigh and hip. He was interested in the cop game, particularly bad cop with me playing the leading role.

  "When was the last time you saw or spoke to Journey Ireland?"

  His eyes narrowed and the interest his body started to show evaporated. "Why? What did that lesbo bitch friend of hers say about me this time?"

  "I presume you're talking about Samantha Wine."

  "She's the one, though she like being called Sam, and I suspect she enjoys strapping on a cock to make her feel like the man she thinks she is."

  "That's really an interesting thing to say, Mr. Linder." I perched on the cushion of an arm chair. "You like tough women. What is it about Ms. Wine that you don't like?"

  The sound of grinding teeth makes a distinct noise. Not quite a squeak, not quite the grit of bone rubbing against bone. "If properly channeled, she would make an outstanding dom. Ms. Wine can't get out of the driver's seat in any context, not for five seconds."

  The attraction to Journey became obvious. "That's what you like the most, isn't it, Jim. You like women in specific roles, and the more antithetical they are to the everyday persona of the woman, the more exciting you find it. Was that why Journey dumped you? You wanted her to take a dominant role, thought you'd ease her into it by showing her how it's done?"

  "You shrinks are all alike. You hear one innocent little statement, and suddenly you're masters of the human psyche."

  "I'm right, aren't I?"

  "No, you're wrong. I ended the affair with Journey. She was simply too young, too immature, too... closed minded to finding mutual pleasure through fantasy."

  "Where were you yesterday morning?"

  "Tied to the bed with that penis gag shoved in my mouth while Mistress Mercy Divine flogged the shit out of my backside. I'm surprised you didn't notice the welts before I sat down."

  "What is Mistress Divine's legal name?" Ned pulled a notebook from his breast pocket and poised his pen.

  "I haven't the foggiest notion. She's in high demand down on Mercer Boulevard. I've been waiting for a weekend of her tender mercies for months."

  I looked at Ned. "Mercer Boulevard?"

  "That's right, detective. I know who you are. You're new to our little version of Sodom in the modern era, aren't you?" Linder leered at me. "Mercer is what you'd call Darkwater proper's red light district. Every sexual itch known to mankind can be scratched down there."

  "I see you've been catching up on the news while you wait for your next scratch session. Did you happen to read about what Journey Ireland survived yesterday morning?"

  "Another personal tragedy to add to the long list of life's grievances against the poor girl, or so says the Sentinel. Don't get me wrong. I hold no ill will toward her beyond contempt for her choice of friends."

  "How did a shriveled up has-been like you ever meet someone like Journey?" I asked. "You look like a cross between every abhorrent 1980s sexist stereotype and a poster child for STD's, Mr. Linder."

  Nicotine stained teeth bared. "I'll take that as a compliment. As for how I met Journey, she was a client."

  "Insurance, or have you started selling your flesh to support your fetish habit?"

  "Auto insurance," he chuckled. "God, but you are spectacular. You're a bit thin for my taste, but you know what they say about the willowy girls."

  "No, and I don't want to hear it. Is Danny Datello one of your clients too?"

  "The casino guy?" Linder scowled. "What's he got to do with anything?"

  "Answer the question," Ned injected with authority. His tone said patience with Linder's antics was growing thin.

  "Honey, if I had an account as lucrative as that, do you think I'd be living in a shit hole neighborhood like this one? Guess again."

  "Even Datello would demand more professionalism from an insurance agent than one who can't be bothered to show up for work by Tuesday afternoon," I said. "Lets get out of here, Ned. Linder doesn't have the intellect or the ambition to involved in this case."

  "Agreed."

  "I'd be insulted if I gave a damn," Linder sneered.

  "Like I said, clueless."

  He called after me on the way to the door. "If you change your mind about giving your frustrations a healthy outlet, detective, you know where to find me."

  Ned pulled the door shut and shook his head. "Disgusting. What makes a sweet kid like Journey Ireland fall for a piece of garbage like that?"

  "I'm sure he can play the role of a normal human if he believes the payoff will be worth it. Journey was a temptation he couldn't resist. Corrupting the good girl, releasing her inhibition, painting the blank canvass with his twisted world view. Pick your preferred cliché, Ned. Orion is right – in this instance at least. Linder is too much of a coward to step outside the realm of role play and make a legitimate attempt on someone's life. All game, no guts."

  "Speaking of clichés, I thought that saying was no guts, no glory."

  "Regardless, after we verify his alibi with the Mistress Mercy Divine, I'm sure he'll be completely eliminated as a suspect. I'd offer to help you scour this Mercer Boulevard, but
I have a feeling I won't be allowed to burn a single calorie without executive consent."

  At least Ned had the decency to keep his mouth shut instead of defending Johnny.

  "If he's no longer a suspect, where does that leave us? We've got nothing."

  "We have the link to David Ireland's assassination. I haven't had the opportunity to review the file on his murder yet, but Lord Orion assured me that Crevan is bringing it over tonight. I'd like to have another chat with Journey Ireland in the meantime. I don't suppose I could talk you into swinging by MSUH before I'm deposited into the custody of the ball and chain."

  "I keep thinking about what he said to you last night, Helen. That thing about not having the energy to walk from here to there."

  "A gross exaggeration, I can assure you. Did I seem so frail to you yesterday in the hospital garage?"

  "Frankly, yes, you did. I don't think you've miraculously recovered over night either. A little color in your cheeks is a good sign, but I don't blame Johnny for intervening, Helen. If he hadn't done it, Lou would've, and I can promise you this. You would not be recovering from the comfort of your home. You'd be back in the hospital being fed through a tube. Maybe you should think about that before you start bashing Johnny."

  "Perhaps I'm not as frail as I look."

  Ned rolled his eyes. "Your bones poke through your clothes, Helen. I can practically count the ribs from twenty paces."

  "I've always been lean. Is it my fault you people never noticed before?"

  "Lean, yes. Emaciated, no. Take an honest look at this from our perspective, Helen. What if we were talking about Maya? Wouldn't you be concerned enough to step in and intervene if she were the one floundering?"

  "I am not floundering."

  "Fair enough, but you went through hell and made matters worse but cutting off everybody who wanted to be there for you. Be thankful that Johnny stepped in before Briscoe comes home. I'm not sure what he'd do first, paddle your backside for such foolishness or deposit you out at Dunhaven to have your head examined."

  "Briscoe?" I couldn't keep the scoff out of my voice if I tried. "Why would it matter to him?"