Forgotten Place

by LS Sygnet

  "So that's why," I mused. "It doesn't explain the speed in preparing the body though, nor does it answer the question of why they didn't do more than pump him full of chemicals instead of the normal procedure."

  "Maya said the same thing," Crevan said. "She plans to call the mortuary for more information after she finishes the autopsy. Lucille McNamara has no idea that Harry was laid to rest after an unusual preparation for interment, but she is relieved that after all these years someone is finally questioning his cause of death. She said that as kind as Dr. Storm appeared when he talked to her, she never completely believed the explanation he gave."

  "Did she mention which hospital tried to revive him?"

  Johnny glanced at me again.

  "Oh don't tell me," I groaned. "Another case of paramedics pronouncing him dead and delivering him to the morgue?"

  "I'm telling you Doc, it happens all the time."

  "Not even for the occasional charred remains or auto accident where death is obvious, Johnny, but for someone who isn't yet dead when EMS is called, it absolutely shouldn't happen that way. The medical examiner's office should always retrieve bodies. This isn't some quaint little burgh out in the middle of nowhere.

  "But given the unusual circumstances of McNamara's death and the similar ones with Mitch Southerby, I think it's safe to say that we might be looking at our link between the two men."

  "Southerby couldn't have been murdered, Doc. He was alone in that interrogation room for a minute tops. Do you expect me to believe somebody slipped into the room, killed him, got out and nobody noticed? I was right outside the room, and I can promise you, nobody went in there when I left."

  "Southerby could've killed himself," I said. "If we had his body, we could determine how he died."

  "Why confess to the crime if he planned to kill himself, Helen?" Crevan asked. "And how would he have done it? People are thoroughly searched when they're taken into custody. You know that."

  I turned to Johnny again. "Tell me exactly who was present when you brought Southerby to Downey Division."

  "Lou was there. Me, Tony, about a billion officers downstairs, the desk sergeant, Chief Weber..." he fell silent.

  "Who else?" I watched the recollection flicker across his face.

  "Lowe was there. We bitched about it later. He was lobbying for McNamara's job before the guy was cold."

  "And Lowe was present when McNamara died too."

  "Doc, you're not thinking that these are more of his victims, are you?"

  I tapped a finger against my lips. "I'm not sure what I think, Johnny. Let's wait for Maya to see if she can determine the cause of death for the body we do have before we try to figure out how Southerby might've been murdered."

  "And if Harry was murdered, then what?" Crevan asked.

  "Then I guess we'll be having another conversation with Jerry Lowe."

  "We? No way, Doc. I'm not letting that psycho get within fifty feet of you."

  "Oh really? Just how did you plan to prevent it when I was supposed to testify against him? It could very well happen in the future if the additional psychiatric evaluation determines that he's fit to stand trial after all."

  "As interesting as it is to watch you two draw blood," Crevan interrupted what simmered at the surface and threatened to boil over, "I need to get back to work. Ned left a message while I was with Mrs. McNamara. The doctors are discharging Journey this afternoon. We've got to figure out where she goes from the hospital."

  I glanced at Johnny.

  "To Helen's place," he said. "I'll give Chris a call and get a couple of our men posted to make sure the place remains secure, and we should probably see if Shelly can provide an undercover officer from Downey to play the role of decoy. If her assailant is paying attention, I don't want him led straight to Doc's house."

  "And what are you guys doing for the rest of the day?" Crevan's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Or did I only think I saw sparks flying again before Weber's public resignation?"

  "What you saw," Johnny's jaw paused moving long enough to clench the muscles into a tight bunch, "was a PDA designed to piss someone off. It was about as genuine as a wooden nickel."

  I shrunk deep into the bucket seat. Heavy censure pushed me there and held me down. Crevan and Johnny chatted for a few more minutes – thankfully about the case, before he left the car. Johnny drove away from central and headed back to Beach Cliffs.

  It took a few miles to find my voice. "It wasn't my intention to make you mad at me, Johnny."

  The firm set of his lips didn't budge. Johnny stared ahead intently at a road I was certain he knew well enough to drive in his sleep.

  "If you were concerned that your new girlfriend would see it," we were only a few floors down from his penthouse at the time, "or you know, read about it in some gossip column, I'd be happy to tell her that it meant nothing."

  The joint in his jaw dimpled deeply.

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I get so tired of these guys thinking that the world needs to tiptoe around and live by the standards they dictate –"

  "Leave it alone. You can't undo it, Helen." He pointed at the phone in the tray between the front seats. "Why don't you call Levine now?"

  My fingers trembled when I dialed the number I knew by heart. I waited, holding my breath while David's end rang.

  "You've reached David Levine. It's Wednesday the twentieth. I will be unavailable until Thursday afternoon. Please leave a message."

  I clicked off.

  "No answer?" Johnny glanced to his right.

  "He must be out working a case. The outgoing message says he won't be available until tomorrow afternoon."

  "Huh," Johnny grunted. "I always figured he had to be available all the time, particularly when working a case."

  "I'd call his work cell, Johnny, but if he's involved in a case, I'd hate to interrupt him. It's tough, doing the job he does."

  "Right," he muttered. "Must always respect the..." end mumbled too low for me to understand.

  Fingers tiptoed over the console to the arm resting there. "Hey, I am sorry. The last thing I wanted was to make you angry. I like our truce, and I don't want to think that my stupidity put an end to it before it got start–"

  "I'm fine," still, his arm jerked away from the light touch of my fingers. "It made me angry that you would invite Datello's ire while we're investigating what could be the one thing we have a shot at using to build a case that'll hold water."

  "Or, it might've lulled him into thinking we're busy being... distracted with each other."

  "Until he has his goons start watching to make sure we're not up to something else," Johnny said. "How long will it take them to figure out you really hate me, Doc?"

  "I don't –" the protest died, evolved into something other than a quick denial of what I had claimed on more than one occasion, "know."

  "Egging this man on is a mistake. You will not do it again. Are we clear?"

  I nodded, whispered, "Yes."

  "If Levine is unavailable until tomorrow afternoon, you should be able to call him by morning, yes?"

  "I guess so. Technically."

  "So afternoon doesn't literally mean after noon?"

  "I'd suggest two his time."

  "You'd know his habits better than I would," Johnny muttered. "I don't understand why you expect him to tell you the truth about anything, Helen. His interests run parallel to the FBI's, or so I would imagine."

  "They do and they don't."

  "Care to explain that one?"

  "He's my friend," I said. "He's always believed in my innocence."

  "I find it odd that you didn't tell him the story you finally told me," Johnny said, "the suicide and all that. Surely he would've draped you in his cloak of protection and made the big bad Seleeby go away before you ever thought of leaving Washington."

  My lips rolled in between my teeth.

  "Interesting," Johnny said.

  "Why are you so determined to take care of me when you ca
n't trust me the tiniest little bit? Do you want me to tell David the truth about Rick when I call tomorrow? Do you really feel like answering questions about how that suspicious gun made its way into one of Marcos' businesses? Or how that business happened to blow to kingdom come?"

  The masseter muscle ticked rhythmically.

  "Or do you want him digging into how you got the idea in the first place? That's the better question, Johnny."

  He pulled off the road and stared at me. After a long pause, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "It's a compliment really. You don't think like a criminal."

  "And you do?"

  "Why shouldn't I?" the words tore from my throat and bounced hard off the interior of the car. "I was raised by them, Johnny. You think I don't know who told you exactly what to do to make my little problem with the FBI go away? I'm not stupid, and neither is David Levine. If the FBI... no, when the FBI discovers you were on the east coast that weekend, visiting with Wendell Eriksson of all people, how long do you think it'll take them to do the math?"

  His eyes fixed ahead for long silent moments before Johnny's chin dipped to his chest and he laughed softly. "In the first place, I don't see Wendell ever cooperating with the FBI. He most certainly wouldn't do it if it resulted in doing something that hurt you. In the second place, Wendell knows more about the crime families out east than probably everybody in law enforcement combined. Given my active investigation into Datello for the past two and a half years now, I don't find it unusual that I'd want to have a chat with him at all. And last, but by no means least, I think my curiosity about a man you told me was dead might've been a legitimately motivating factor in our little meet and greet, particularly after the FBI sent me the file that told me Wendell was alive and well and incarcerated in upstate New York."

  "It opened the door to scrutiny you really don't want to endure, Johnny."

  "I'm not afraid of the FBI. I'm not even afraid of you telling David what I did, Helen."

  "So now you trust me."

  He threw the SUV into gear and jerked it back onto the street. "Not in the slightest. What I trust is your desire to make sure the questions stop and that this matter with Rick is buried once and for all. I get it. You're not capable of really caring about anybody else, are you?"

  It wasn't easy to hear, but it pretty well summed up how I was feeling about myself.

  Chapter 21

  Ned and I were in my office, pouring over aged yellow legal pads filled with notes David Ireland left behind when he died. The notations were written in a type of shorthand. Most of what we read could be correlated with a key code Zack faxed over that included a brief summary of the open cases Ireland was working sixteen years and three days ago.

  A plate with a croissant stuffed with chicken salad and sides of white grapes and deviled egg potato salad appeared in front of me. I looked up. Orion extended a tall glass of sweet tea.

  "Thank you."

  "Are you making any progress, Ned?"

  Ah, silent treatment. How intimately acquainted we have become lately.

  "Well, we've got a system down now that Zack gave us the key to the map. The stacks on my right are notes we've managed to link to his open cases. We've still got four boxes of more-of-the-same waiting for review. If you're up to it, we could sure use the extra eyes."

  "Take a break, Ned. Come out and have some lunch with me. You look like you could use a half hour of thinking about something other than this case."

  I noticed that the invitation didn't extend to me. Fine. Better than fine. I shoved the stack of pages to my right, tossed them onto Ned's pile, and ate my lunch. No more cutting off my nose to spite my face – or defy Orion. The best plan was to cooperate, get my strength back, and spend every spare minute I could find at a local dojo sharpening my injury-dulled jujitsu skills.

  I ate quickly, the food sitting in my belly like a bag of rocks. Instead of focusing on the previous stack I delegated to Ned's pile, I grabbed one of the untouched boxes and started looking for anything that didn't look like Ireland's work product.

  At the bottom of the box, I found a stack of newspaper clippings ranging over a fifteen year period. Some were from the Sentinel, some were photocopies of papers from my turf – the five boroughs and beyond. My interest piqued. Hadn't Johnny mentioned something about clippings about the death of Datello's father? It was the only thing in Ireland's files so far that wasn't mind numbing notes on fraud cases.

  I started sifting through the clippings. Sure enough, the obituary notice for Antonio Datello was there. In red ink along the margin was one of Ireland's shorthand notations: EX2012. I scanned the notes Zack faxed.

  Nothing.

  "We're missing something. There has to be another case code in here." What could EX mean? I started thinking about everything that was happening in Darkwater Bay according to the history of the city as provided by Tony Briscoe. EX. EX. What was it? Ex as in former? Ex as in... extortion? Hadn't Don Weber told me that the blackmail situation started about six months before Harry McNamara died?

  Had Weber and Hardy confided in David Ireland? If so, if EX were code for extortion what did the 2012 mean? The year 2012? Of course not. No one could possibly know the significance of this years a decade and a half ago. Something else then. An address perhaps.

  I put the obituary aside for a moment and started searching through the rest of the clippings. Half way through the stack, I found a photocopy from the New York Times, detailing the disturbing murder of Antonio Datello. The photo at the top of the story was taken from a distance, but showed enough of the grisly crime to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.

  A large blood stain was splattered against the windshield in front of the steering wheel. Datello must've climbed into the boat of a Cadillac and been shot by an assailant hiding in the back seat. The windows of the car were intact.

  Twenty-two caliber weapon. Wasn't that what Orion said? I scanned the article. Two shots instead of one explained the exit wound. I wondered at the logistics of such a kill. How had the assassin held Datello in place? Did he wait until the seat belt was fastened?

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what I would do in a similar circumstance... what Dad would do.

  "Go lay down. If you're sleeping in the chair, it's time for a nap."

  I startled, jumped enough to nearly fall off my chair. One hand clasped my heart. "Jesus, you scared me half to death, Johnny. I wasn't sleeping."

  "I'd rather you rest. Ned will keep working on the files. I've got some business that requires my attention this afternoon before your house guest arrives."

  "I thought..."

  "As it pertains to this case, you can come with me. This isn't about David Ireland. You didn't sleep well last night, so please don't argue with me, and go take a nap."

  I stomped to the doorway and squeezed past him. Johnny gripped my upper arm. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  He held two pain pills in his hand.

  "I don't need them. I feel fine."

  "I'll leave them with Ned if you change your mind or wake up in pain. Please take them."

  I dragged heavy air in through my nose. "Exactly how long are you planning to be gone?"

  Johnny shrugged. "Not sure, Doc. You're in good hands until I return. Crevan's bringing dinner. Detective Mackenzie will spend the night. That alone should improve your mood."

  "I thought you said you had business this afternoon, not that you'd be gone indefinitely. You're going off to close this case without me, aren't you?"

  Johnny's grin was plastic, forced. "I've got a thing. Surely you remember those days, Doc. It's not about the case, so you can withdraw your claws. Nobody's going to deny you the pleasure of arresting Datello yourself."

  Yeah, I remembered what Johnny's things involved. The weight in the pit of my stomach hardened to cast iron. I drifted past him and out of sight into my bedroom. Why did it bother me so much? Wasn't this what I wanted – for Orion to buy a
vowel and get over me?

  I curled into a tight ball in the center of the bed and closed my eyes. Maybe he was right. The world might not feel so rotten after a nap. Then again, rested brain cells might help me figure out how to lose my protective detail and dig to the bottom of what was really going on with the Ireland case on my own.

  Damn them all. They were doing little more than holding me back.

  ~

  Sunset came around a quarter to five on this, the second shortest day of the year. At least it did in normal parts of the world not blanketed by dark gray clouds muting what little light filtered through the atmosphere at the end of the day.

  I woke to pitch blackness and a deep sense of disorientation. Movement sent a sharp pain shooting from left shoulder to fingertips. Reality floated back in a hurry. More of a slicing breaststroke than a float.

  I should've taken the pain pills Orion offered.

  The other bit of reality that punched hard into my midsection was that Johnny had to be absent. No way would he have let me sleep all afternoon. Hell, now I'd be up all night.

  I tossed aside the light blanket I couldn't remember bringing to bed and inched toward the edge. My shoulder throbbed whether I moved it or not. The glow from the clock on the nightstand revealed that it was six-thirty, well after the last rays of sunlight sunk beneath the ocean for a December night.

  The first steps were a groggy wobble before I got my bearings and stumbled toward the bedroom door. The living room was quiet, dimly lit with one lamp. Where were all these alleged guards assigned to make sure I held up my end of the Faustian deal I struck with Johnny this morning? I rubbed my eyes and ventured into the dark and silent kitchen.

  Weird. Where was everybody?

  A sliver of light spiked the darkness in the family room. Ah. My office. That's where everyone was. I pushed the door open and found Crevan and Ned with their heads together speaking in low tones.