by G. K. Lund
“What brings you all the way up here?”
I listened as Peter laid our search out for her, showing her the paper copy we had been given by the archivist.
“The Father C. Mo…?” She grabbed the paper and looked closer at it, before giving a look of confusion that didn’t bode well. The little description on the paper only revealed it was a foundation that gifted a grant to individuals who filled the criteria of the wishes of the eponymous Father and so on. All in all, it was a barely informative text that only told me the criteria were up to whoever ran the foundation at any given time.
“Okay, let me check,” George said when she got the name right. She typed on her keyboard, fingers dancing over the keys, the wait starting to get to me now. For a moment, I wanted to shout to stop the buzzing noise created by all the people around us. That would probably not make George particularly helpful, nor Peter. I drew steady breaths and waited.
“Hmm, that’s odd,” George said as she stopped typing and started reading on her screen. “Seems there is such a foundation connected to the company, but there isn’t much information. Only says who I’m supposed to call if someone asks about it, and something about… seems you’re in luck too as—”
“Okay then,” Peter interrupted. “Can you please do that? Maybe we’ll get some answers.”
So we waited again while she called the contact person. I was sure I’d not had to go through such slow channels to find out what I wanted to in my previous way of existence, whatever that had been.
“What kind of company is this?” I asked Peter as I looked around. There were a lot of people who had business there. Peter and I stood out, for the most part, wearing jeans, T-shirts, jacket, and a hoodie in his case. I only wore what Ben owned, not caring much about it. The people around us cared though. Suits and pantsuits as far as the eye could see. It didn’t look all that comfortable.
“It’s huge. They have all kinds of branches. For the most part they produce components that other companies need to build computers, farm equipment, ships, you name it. They also own hotel chains, restaurants, food companies, I don’t know… seems like they have a hand everywhere. Which is why they always manage to get through financial crises every time. No wonder the mayor welcomed them when they set up here. The company is as old as shit.”
“Mr. Klein? Mr. Reed?” a voice sounded behind us. We turned and returned to George’s desk again, seeing a woman waiting for us. She was the epitome of authority, I thought, as we shook hands. She was dressed in a pencil skirt, white blouse and a deep green blazer. Her dark hair hung loosely down to her shoulders, and her skin had a light fawn shade with a hint of pink undertones. It was her eyes that were the most striking though. I didn’t really care how people looked, to be honest, but these large and green eyes were something else.
“I hear you are inquiring about The Father C. Moreau Foundation?”
We both nodded at that.
“Well,” she continued. “My name is Saphia Bishop. I’m the Director of Internal Services here at WGI.”
That made Peter visibly stiffen. I had to agree. She was high up in the organization. Why would she care about an obscure foundation that it seemed everyone had forgotten?
“Why exactly are you interested in this?” Ms. Bishop asked us.
I was about to tell the truth, but Peter was quicker. “He’s a reporter, and we’re looking into odd cases about the history of Ashdale. You know, little feel-good pieces.”
She eyed him with politeness, but did not look convinced. “ID?” she asked me. It took a moment and a nudge from Peter to get me to find Old Ben’s wallet. At least I could support the lie by producing Old Ben’s press credentials.
“Current Magazine?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nodded.
“Well, I’m sorry to inform you that there is no information about this. The foundation has been dormant for a long time.” She handed me the credentials back, but I was more interested in the surprised look on George’s face. She didn’t agree with her boss.
“Then—” Peter began, but Ms. Bishop was shaking her head before he had uttered the syllable in full.
“As I said. I hope you understand.”
“Sure,” I said and made Peter stare wide-eyed at me.
“Nice talking to you, gentlemen,” she said as she shook our hands again and added a, “Thank you, George,” as she turned and walked away toward the elevators.
“Why’d you give up so easily?” Peter hissed at me as we walked toward the exit.
“I might be the one without memories, but even I get that you do not argue with Ms. Bishop when she has made up her mind.”
“Okay then,” he still sounded confused. “So now what?”
“We wait here a while,” I said and stopped at the side of the entrance. Through the window, we could see the reception area and George. “Give her a little wave,” I said.
“What? Why?”
“Because she was looking at you like she could not be happier to lay eyes on another human being. And she didn’t agree with her boss when she said the foundation is dormant.”
“Huh?” he said, but at least did as I said. If a non-human entity could spot the signs, then he certainly was clueless about George. Still, what interested me the most was what else George had seen on her computer. She had, after all, said something about us being in luck. She could not have meant Ms. Bishop.
We didn’t have to wait long. I saw her talking to a few people who came her way for help and information, but there was a distinct frown on her face. In the end, a little ping sounded from Peter’s phone.
“Guy coming out the door now?” he read, looking like a question mark.
I turned around and saw an Indian man walking through the large doors. He was not dressed as per the code in the Fortress, but more like Peter and myself. A dark red shirt and dark jeans. His clothes looked somewhat rumpled though. His short hair was thick and dark, and a large but trimmed beard covered the lower part of a face that seemed older than it should be. Too many lines for someone who was no more than a few years older than Ben? According to Old Ben’s driver’s license, he was twenty-eight, and I would put this man in his mid-thirties maybe?
I turned back toward George and raised an eyebrow while indicating the man with discretion. She nodded a confirmation and then turned and greeted some businessmen.
“That’s the guy we need to talk to,” I said and turned back, only to find the man had already walked far into the parking lot. “Oh no.” He walked with a goal in mind and clearly knew where to go.
“Are you sure?” Peter asked as we started running to catch up before the man disappeared from sight.
“Yes,” I shouted as I jumped over a small flowerbed. I ran toward the parking lot and managed to trip over a damn bottle that lay on the ground. One moment the body obeyed my subconscious orders, the next a foot lost its step and rolled forward on the garbage. I slammed against a red Toyota and grunted in pain as I slid down the side of it. It took me three long seconds to force the damn meat-sack to move again, to simply straighten up and keep walking before I could gather it into a run again. I heard Peter catching up, but spared him no attention as a car door slammed shut and an engine was turned on. No, no, no. George had said we were in luck. That meant this man knew something I needed to know. He was connected to the foundation. I needed to get a hold of him.
I rounded the corner of a black SUV, no garbage stopping me this time. All I had was a clear line of sight to the man as he sat inside the car and pulled the seatbelt on. The man didn’t see us approaching and never stopped. He turned the engine on and backed up a little before he turned the wheel and drove off. Apparently, he did not check his damn mirror. I saw his gray car disappear between several other parked ones. He drove quickly, and a little bit unsteadily.
“No,” I gasped. “No.” Now we had to go through the whole thing again, trying to get to George in a building where we were not welcome. I stared at the empty space where the car
had been parked in angry disbelief.
“Got it,” Peter said with a winded and triumphant voice a little behind me.
“What?” I turned to see him standing with his cell phone raised in front of him like he’d just won a grand prize. “The license plate.” Peter smiled between his deep breaths. “I snapped a pic.”
Chapter 20
A sharp and almost metallic smell made itself known as Olivia stood in the bathroom, blow-drying her hair. Long strands of dark hair flew past her face as she looked around. A gas leak? If that was the case, then the apartment was filled with it now. The appliance in her hand told her otherwise though as it began heating up all of a sudden.
“What the hell?” she said, looking at the dryer, and then realizing the smell came from it. It was overheating. She turned it off, pulled the plug and left it on the floor to cool down; she heard another sound from the living room. A generic melody crying for her attention. Already? She wasn’t due at work for another hour.
She ran out of the bathroom, grabbed the phone and saw Spiteri flash across the screen before pressing accept. If her partner was calling her it had to be important.
“Chris?”
“Yeah. Thought I’d give you a heads up.”
“Yeah?”
“You got a hit on the prints on that hammer of yours.”
Technically ours. They had lifted several good prints from the tool, blood samples as well. She hadn’t expected to get a hit on the prints though, as her suspect wasn’t in the system.
“You sure?”
“No. I’m calling to waste your time.” His voice was bone dry.
“My suspect isn’t in the system. No priors.”
“Maybe it’s not him.”
It’s him alright.
“Just check the damn file, Chris,” she said. She didn’t want to wait until she got to work. She heard him move around their desks until he found the file on hers and checked it, a faint rustle of papers. A few seconds later he saw what he was looking for.
“Some guy named Alwin Cooper.”
“Who?”
“Never heard of him. Says here he works as a security guard for WGI.”
“Huh.” Olivia didn’t have a better response than that. It had to be Reed. Not some WGI security.
“Want me to send some uniforms to pick him up?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Chris.”
After the call she sat on the couch a few minutes, mulling this new information over in her head. How could the prints not belong to Reed? Was she missing something? There was something suspicious about the man. She knew it as certain as she knew the sun rose every morning. You got a sense of these things after years as a cop. There was something not right about him. Wasn’t there? She ran her hands through her still damp hair in frustration. What if she was wrong? It was one of her worst fears to become one of those cops with tunnel vision. Stuck on one track, not seeing the other options. But she was so sure.
She shook her head and got up. She wouldn’t end up like that. No, she needed to follow up on this, and follow up properly. Just because some other man’s prints showed up on the murder weapon, didn’t mean Reed wasn’t involved.
The ride from Curtain Fields, where she lived close to the food market, went unusually smooth, making her wonder if the city had taken the morning off. As she crossed Central Bridge though, her mind went blank. The metallic structure loomed over her and kept her and her car safe over the Ashdale River below. As she drove off in Harrow, her mind returned to the sight of Reed’s body as he had been found. Pale, broken and sunken. Dead. She was sure of it. None of them had done anything to get his heart started again. He had been too far gone. And somehow he had gasped for air, his eyes open. He had looked like he was in immense pain. Like he couldn’t get the cries of pain out. His bones had not looked broken after that, but they sure had before. Odd angles, and a fractured piece of bone sticking out of his leg. All of it gone. That was impossible. It was also impossible that she and the other cops, as well as the paramedics, had been seeing the same hallucination.
Olivia decided not to think more about it, and parked the car before entering the large concrete building that constituted the 2nd Precinct. It was buzzing with life in there, but she steered clear of both cops and others milling around in the reception area. A blend of smells from bodies, sweat and an assorted mix of perfumes and colognes hit her, but it was no longer overwhelming. Like rotting flesh, one got used to everything with enough exposure. There was something about the reception area though. It was always a little too hot in there, a few degrees too much, no matter the time of year. It never helped with the smell.
At her desk, she found the file Spiteri had called about, but not the man himself. She had no idea what case he had left the building for but assumed it was important. He could handle himself anyway. Olivia sat down and began reading the file. Sure enough, an Alwin Cooper had left his prints on the murder weapon. Thirty-five years old. Born in Ashdale. No education beyond high school. A prior drug charge was the cause of his prints being on file. Olivia studied his features, but his mug shot wasn’t the best. Wild and filthy curls. An odd fashion choice that had made him go for green hair. A rectangular face, large eyes that seemed glazed as he gave the camera a blank stare, slack lips. Yeah, she thought. He had probably been on drugs when the picture was taken. And this was the guy who had supposedly killed Okanov? Olivia leaned back in her chair and lowered the file into her lap. Well, he seemed as likely to be killed by Okanov as manage to kill him.
Like Ben Reed.
“I don’t want to go there. I want to go with my dad.”
A shrill voice drew Olivia’s attention away from both Reed and Cooper. A girl yelled into Detective Gellert’s face. Knowing him, Olivia thought he kept an unusual calm facing the angry teenager. The girl couldn’t be more than fifteen. All skinny with long spindly legs and arms. Olivia was willing to bet the kid was strong though. Her attitude certainly implied as much.
“Didn’t you hear me, fatass?” the girl shouted in response to Gellert’s calm words. “I want my dad.”
Olivia watched this spectacle with distant eyes, suspecting what was happening. When she also noticed Rita from Child Services enter the office space, she knew for certain. Had seen it too many times. Had lived it. As far as she knew, Olivia was the name her birth mother had given her. Jones happened to be the name of her adoptive parents. When they had been killed in a car accident, an accident she herself had survived at the age of eight, she had gone into the system. Three different foster homes until she was eighteen. All things considered, she had been lucky. The good thing for this girl was that she had three years, four at the most before she would be considered an adult. Olivia wondered at her own analytical judgment of the scene on the other side of the room. She was usually more considerate when she had to call Child Services herself. Maybe it was the distance created by someone else dealing with it. She seldom thought much about her childhood anymore. It had not been too bad, and it had not been especially good. Sometimes she dreamed she was back in the different homes. Not nightmares exactly, but they never gave her a good feeling. The car crash would sneak up on her though. Usually in times when things went well. She could still remember the sounds – screeching tires, metal twisting, her adoptive mother’s scream. Her own. Her adoptive father crying out their names as he bled out.
Olivia focused on Rita who talked to the girl with a stern look on her face, her voice low and friendly though. She always managed to calm them down. As expected, the girl sat down with a huff, arms crossed in a silent demonstration. She had been shouting for her father. Olivia could only guess what had happened to her mother. At least the girl knew where she came from. That was more than Olivia had. She strongly suspected, as had other people over the years, that she was at least part Native American, but as to what tribe she had no idea. Sometimes she thought about DNA tests, but she had always discarded the idea. It would only tell her what group of people that might have given he
r a home. It was too late now anyway. She had been given up for a reason. She hoped it was because her birth parents, or maybe only her mother, had wanted to give her a good chance in life. Even if it hadn’t turned out quite like that.
“Jones.” Costa’s familiar voice broke through the crowd of police in the open office space. Olivia turned her attention toward his office. The only one with doors and walls. “A word,” he added and waved her over.
Olivia wished the girl luck and put the file in her lap back on the desk before she did as her boss wanted and headed over to his office.
“I hear you got a match on the prints?” He nodded toward the door, and she closed it behind her.
“Yeah. Some guy named Cooper. Not on my radar at all.”
Costa didn’t sit down behind his desk but hovered uncertainly behind it. That was unusual, she thought.
“And he’s connected to WGI?”
Olivia opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself a moment. She knew her boss was friendly with the company but was he going to ask her to do something unsavory? “Um… I think he’s just a security guard there, sir.” To her amazement, her boss looked relieved. “Anything I should know, sir?”
Costa shook his head. “No. But I think you’re smart enough to understand. It’s not easy to go after people like that even at the best of times.”
When one had ample evidence, she thought. Yeah, she understood. She didn’t think his aversion was only rooted in difficulties with the rich and powerful though. They both knew that firsthand. The reason she’d left New York was dealing with people with enough money to try and circumvent the law.
“You don’t need to remind me of that, sir.”
He nodded and dismissed her. Still, as she walked back to her desk, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all bigger than a drug addict’s possible involvement in killing a skilled hitman. She glanced toward Gellert’s desk again, catching a glimpse of the girl as she now followed Rita out. The girl’s head was bent as she walked toward this new stage of her life, but Olivia noticed her clenched fists as well. Hopefully, she’d make it through the next few years. She looked strong enough.
