Brain Trust

by A W Hartoin

  “Yeah. I recognized the bread. Mom makes it. She has a thing for poppyseed.”

  The officer gagged and turned purple.

  “He doesn’t look so good,” I said with a yawn.

  “I’m thinking about saving him,” said Fats.

  I shrugged. “You could.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  He waved at us frantically and pounded his chest.

  “No body to clean up,” I said.

  “Sold.” Fats went behind him and did the Heimlich Maneuver, succeeding with one thrust. He spewed the rest of the sandwich. Part of it hit the wall and an oil painting that Mom bought at a garage sale a couple of years ago. Mom considered it priceless. It was really worth ten bucks, but I’d have to get it cleaned. The river scene was looking pretty gnarly.

  “You cracked my ribs,” choked out the officer.

  Fats popped all the joints on her hands. “Yeah, I do that.”

  “Hurts.”

  I skirted his spew. “I don’t doubt it. Clean that up, but don’t touch the painting.”

  “Who is she?” he asked between short, sharp breaths.

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Fats. “Get to cleaning.”

  “Hospital?” he asked, clutching his sides.

  I went for the stairs. “Call an ambulance, but I warn you, living this down won’t be easy.”

  His young face went all sad. “You’re supposed to be nice.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Ameche.”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess I am nice. Keep in mind” —I pointed at the floor— “Ameche didn’t do that.” I ran up to the second floor to my dad’s office and collapsed into his big leather chair before opening the bottom drawer in his battered old cop desk. Actually, opening the drawer was a challenge. Dad had kicked the desk so much the side was heavily dented. I braced my feet against the leg and pulled. It creaked but didn’t open.

  Fats came around the desk. “Let me do it before you give yourself an aneurysm.”

  It popped open for Fats. No problem. I suspect it was out of fear.

  I went through the files, all unsolved, and found Cassidy Huff’s in the middle right under my boyfriend, David’s, file. My hand paused on the fairly thin file for a moment. I knew Dad considered David’s disappearance unsolved, but I’d never seen the file before.

  I eased David out of the way and pulled out Cassidy. Her file wasn’t much thicker. Not having a body cuts down on a lot of paperwork.

  “Who’s Cassidy Huff?” asked Fats.

  “Murder victim.”

  “2002. That’s a blast from the past.” She pulled up a chair and loomed over me. I thought about fighting it but couldn’t work up the energy.

  “Blankenship referenced it.” I gave her the rundown on what he told me.

  “Is that how you got Chuck Watts on the task force?”

  I told her about the safe deposit box victim and she said, “Nice.”

  “He doesn’t think so.”

  “Yeah, well. Men have their pride,” said Fats.

  “I was trying to help.”

  She chuckled and opened the file. “Men don’t need help. Get with the program.”

  “I thought I was.”

  Inside, we found Dad’s personal notes. He was super organized and liked bullet statements, which was handy for me.

  Cassidy Huff was a high school senior, eighteen years old, blonde, pretty, and athletic. She disappeared from her high school after a Friday soccer practice. Her parents reported her missing when she didn’t come home and they found her car in the parking lot. There were no signs of a struggle. Most of her belongings were in the car including her soccer bag and backpack. Her green purse was gone. In her physical description, there was a heart tattoo, but that was added a month after the disappearance. Her parents didn’t know she had it. Only her best friend knew. Dad marked the tattoo as “Close Hold”, meaning that it wouldn’t be released to the public and only denoted in his personal file and his partner’s. Dad asked Cassidy’s parents and her friend to never tell anyone about the tattoo. From what I could tell, they kept it to themselves. Blankenship did what he said he did and it made me feel as bad as I could possibly feel.

  There wasn’t much evidence for Dad to go on. No one saw or heard anything. The other members of the team remembered her being in a great mood and going to her car, but that was it. No leads. Not a one, but Dad had a theory and it was Brian Shill, the killer Blankenship named. Shill was a janitor at the high school and was generally described as creepy. He did a good job, but during the investigation, several girls reported him hitting on them and making them uncomfortable with staring and comments. It wasn’t technically criminal, but Dad had one of his feelings and he followed up hard on Shill. During a canvass of Cassidy’s neighborhood, he found three witnesses who saw Shill on her street, driving slowly. His crappy old Firebird was unusual for the neighborhood. Once Dad knew Shill had scouted the area, he found surveillance footage of Shill driving around nearly every day leading up to Cassidy’s disappearance, but he never returned after she was gone.

  But all this was circumstantial. Dad interviewed Shill multiple times and he held up well. He passed a polygraph and claimed he was only in the neighborhood to visit friends. He didn’t produce any friends and had no alibi and he showed up for work on Monday like nothing happened. That being said, the guy was weird and not well-liked. Shill lived mostly online. I thought since he was an Unsub he must have other victims, although Blankenship hadn’t said so. I’d have to tell Uncle Morty and see what he could come up with. I suppose I should tell Chuck, but he could bite me. Don’t want my help? Good luck to you.

  “So this guy walked free,” said Fats. “What a douche.”

  I flipped through some witness statements to find an arrest report. “Sort of.”

  Three years after Cassidy, Dad arrested him for the attempted rape of a fifteen-year-old girl. He served five years and got five years of probation after that. Dad had filed a complaint against the judge, who knew Shill’s grandparents, claiming a conflict of interest. It came to nothing. Dad testified at Shill’s probation hearing and said he was a serial predator who would reoffend. The board shrugged and released him. He was currently out on bond for employing a minor in an obscene act.

  “He’s out right now.” Fats put a finger on his address. “My parents live a couple of miles from this dirtbag.”

  “Shill targets teenage girls,” I said.

  “My little sister is seventeen.”

  “I’d give them a call.”

  “On it.” Fats called her parents and gave them Shill’s address and description. He was a standard white guy, so I doubt that would help much.

  I leaned back and put my feet up on the desk. Shill was obviously important. How did that guy in the Unsub group know about him and Cassidy’s murder details? 2002 was a long time ago and he did know about her green purse. General law enforcement might know about the purse, but friends and family would definitely know it was gone. Rumors swirled in high schools. Friends told friends, who told co-workers, etc. He could’ve found out. But as far as I could tell, interest in the case waned pretty quick. No witnesses and no body left the media with nothing to report on, so it was a fairly obscure case. Maybe that’s why he picked Cassidy. It was just his bad luck that Blankenship helped Shill.

  Fats told her mom goodbye and asked, “Does your father have a file on Blankenship?”

  “Maybe.” I told her about Donatella Berry and how I met Blankenship. “Dad didn’t do much with the case and he didn’t investigate the Tulio murders.”

  “Mind if I take a look?” she asked.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Fats went through Dad’s files and found one on Blankenship. It only contained my information and some light background, but she read it anyway. I typed notes on Shill into my phone and thought about how he could possibly be connected to the Hispanic guy. It’s not like Shill was full up on friends and askin
g someone to go to Hunt and stalk my Mom was a big favor. Maybe another Unsub member, but Blankenship got pleasure out of disposing of Cassidy’s body. There’d be no pleasure in interviewing Blankenship—I should know—and the hospital was high-risk. Why would anyone agree to that?

  “What’s this?” asked Fats.

  I looked up from Shill’s file. “What?”

  She’d gone through Dad’s inbox and held out a letter from Dad’s insurance. “Your mom had an accident.”

  “When?” I took the letter and the creepiest, crawliest feeling came over me as I read it. “Holy crap.”

  “Why is the day important?” asked Fats.

  “Because I wasn’t here. It happened the day I flew to Paris. Mom mentioned that she’d had a fender bender, but she wasn’t hurt so I didn’t think much about it.”

  “It wasn’t a fender bender. The car was totaled.”

  I scanned the insurance claim twice. The details were sketchy, but one thing stood out. “It was a hit and run.”

  Fats sat on the edge of Dad’s desk, making it creak. “And your parents’ insurance had to pay out—”

  “Because they never found the other driver,” I said.

  “I’m thinking that might have been the first attempt on your mother’s life.”

  “And it might’ve caused her stroke,” I said.

  “How do you figure that?” she asked. “It was two months ago.”

  “One of Mom’s doctors thinks a dissection caused the stroke. Car accidents can cause a dissection in the carotid artery, a clot builds up at the site, and they have a stroke later.”

  “Months later?”

  “It happens,” I said. “Is there a police report in the box?”

  Fats leafed through and shook her head. “I don’t see one. Seems like your dad would have one. He tracks everything else.”

  “He should, but maybe Claire was supposed to get it or it could be at her apartment. She takes stuff home. Can you check and see if there’s a file on my mom?”

  Fats went through Dad’s filing cabinets and I called Uncle Morty. He was thrilled as you might imagine. “Whaddaya want?”

  “Mom totaled her car in a hit and run,” I said in a rush.

  He paused and the clicking keys in the background stopped. “Yeah. What about it?”

  “I need the police report.”

  “Tommy should have it.”

  I looked at Fats and she shook her head.

  “I can’t find it,” I said.

  The clicking started up again. “I’ll get it. What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on the circumstances. Mom’s a great driver. What happened? She acted like it was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing, but Tommy taught her well. His defensive driving training paid off.”

  “Um…what would’ve happened if Mom didn’t have skills?” I asked, wincing in anticipation of the response.

  “Oh, she’d be dead as hell.”

  “Tell me.” I held out the phone for Fats to hear.

  On that day in June, Mom had been returning from interviewing a witness for Dad in Illinois. She was on 270 passing over I44 when a SUV came up at high speed behind her. Mom saw it and anticipated them ramming her into the semi in front of her. Instead of jerking her wheel to the right as one might do on instinct, Mom went left. Her car hit the back left corner of the semi and was pinned briefly between the semi and the SUV with the SUV crushing the rear driver’s side door. Mom’s airbag deployed and the SUV slammed on its brakes, freeing itself from Mom’s car and speeding off.

  Uncle Morty said that the responding officer called it a miracle that Mom survived. She was sore from the airbag, but that was it. She could’ve easily been launched off the bridge or been crushed when the car was rammed under the semi. No one got a look at the other driver. Mom said he was a middle-aged white male, but that was just her impression a second before he hit her.

  “Nobody thought this was suspicious?” I asked.

  “I do now, but then…hell, who would want to kill Carolina? Tommy, I can see, and you, of course, but Carolina, no. She’s not the hell-raiser around these parts. We thought it was careless driving, an accident.”

  “Well, someone has a problem with her. With all of us, I guess.”

  “Looks like it. You do anything to piss people off?” growled Uncle Morty. “What am I saying—you did. You’re a trouble magnet.”

  “This can’t be about me. He was working on siccing Cheryl on Grandad for months. Look at him.”

  Uncle Morty snorted. “Ace has been a professional whittler for the last ten years. It ain’t him.”

  “Well, it’s not me. All the people who hate me that bad are in prison.”

  “Yeah, my money’s on Tommy, but why not kill him?”

  “It could be a random lunatic who picked your family because of the media coverage,” said Fats.

  Uncle Morty stopped typing. “Who the hell is that?”

  “Er…my bodyguard. Grandad got her for me,” I said quickly.

  “Ace hired a freaking girl?” he growled.

  Fats slammed her fist on the desk and added a new dent. “Look, you old dump truck. I’m not a girl. I’m a professional.”

  “A professional what?”

  “Bodyguard, obviously,” I said.

  “What’s your name, bodyguard?” Uncle Morty couldn’t have been more sarcastic and that’s saying something. He was a master.

  “Mary Elizabeth,” I said. “You and Grandad come up with a name? We have to put someone in with Mom.”

  He ignored that and said, “You’re being protected by a Mary Elizabeth? That’s freaking ridiculous.”

  “You are a chauvinist pig,” said Fats.

  “What of it? Mercy needs a 200-pound gorilla next to her not some chick with penis envy.”

  “Old man, I could crack you open like a nut.”

  “Come here and try it,” he said.

  What is happening?

  “Did you hit your head?” I asked.

  “Who you talking to?” asked Uncle Morty.

  “You, of course. Since when do you think women can’t do stuff?”

  “Women can do all kinds of stuff, but I don’t want no Mary Elizabeth protecting you. End of story. Tiny can watch you.”

  “I’m calling Nikki.”

  “Huh?”

  I shoved Cassidy’s file back in the drawer and slammed it shut. Wow, that felt good. “I’m going to call your girlfriend and tell her that you think a woman’s name is cause to fire her, ‘cause obviously, she’s incompetent.”

  “That ain’t what I meant.” He was gruff, but I heard a hint of nervousness. “You need somebody who can take a bullet.”

  “Whatever. I’m keeping her and I’m calling Tiny. Dad would want him with Mom. She’s still a target and he’s family.”

  “He’s already here,” said Uncle Morty, noticeably more subdued. “I’ll tell him.”

  “We need to get The Girls another chauffeur.” My stomach got queasy. “Unless they could be a target, too.”

  “They ain’t family. He’s only hitting the family.”

  Fats and I exchanged a look. Whatever was in Dr. Bloom’s file clued her in that the whole family question was in play.

  “But they’re closely associated with us like family.”

  “Yeah, the old bats have been hanging around forever, but I got nobody to put on them without Tommy’s connections.”

  Fats held up a finger. “I have somebody.”

  This is so going to bite me in the butt.

  I cringed. “Who?”

  “My brother.”

  Uncle Morty groused, “Ace know him?”

  “I don’t know. Ask him,” she said.

  “Alright. In for a dime, in for a freaking dollar. What’s the name?” he asked.

  Please don’t say Knuckles or Icepick.

  “Rocco,” said Fats. “Rocco Licata.”

  Not much better.

 
; “So ask Grandad about” —God help me— “Rocco,” I said. “I’m coming back. Mom’s got a test in a half hour. Any word from Nana and Pop Pop?”

  “They got here an hour ago. They’re in with her now. Nurse made an exception.”

  “Thank goodness. And they’re okay. Nothing happened.”

  “Hell yeah, they’re fine, but freaking exhausted. Had to drive after your hissy fit.”

  Fats raised an eyebrow at me and I shrugged.

  I hung up and stretched. “Does Rocco work for Calpurnia?”

  “Occasionally, when she needs some extra muscle. He’s mainly a golf pro with Oz.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t mention that.” I left the office and ran down the stairs to find the officer still scrubbing the floor.

  “It’s clean,” I said. “You’re going to strip off the poly.”

  He got to his feet and eyed me warily. “Are you going to…”

  “Tell my parents? We’ll let this one slide. Don’t run with a sandwich in your mouth. It’s not a good idea.”

  “Tell me about it. My throat’s killing me.”

  “My mom’s got a collection of lozenges in the drawer next to the sink. Help yourself.”

  The officer looked doubtful.

  “If my mother were here, she’d give you a lozenge and probably bake you a cake. Fix your throat.”

  He nodded and we left, trotting down the front stairs in the increasingly hot August sun.

  “I’m thinking you might want to keep me on after this is all over,” said Fats.

  “Oh, yeah, ‘cause I’m dying for you to meet my dad. That would totally make my life better.”

  “Better that than dead.” I got in the truck and turned to her as she got in. “What makes you think I might get dead? I mean, other than this whole mess we’re dealing with?”

  “I’ve heard of The Klinefeld Group before. They’re not the kind of people you mess with and you’re messing with them.”

  Great.

  Chapter Thirteen

  FATS DID KNOW about The Klinefeld Group and it was not good news. Of course, nothing with them was, so I don’t know why I was surprised. A couple of years ago, they’d approached Calpurnia with an offer. They’d help her expand her operations into Eastern Europe, if she’d do them the teensiest favor—help them get control of the board of the art museum. Why they wanted control wasn’t part of the deal and Calpurnia turned them down flat. She might be the head of mafia family, but she wasn’t for sale and she didn’t care for outsiders interfering in St. Louis’s affairs. They went elsewhere and were rewarded with two seats on the board, according to Fats. The new board members were from St. Louis, but they answered to The Klinefeld Group. This was the board that cooperated with the lawsuit against Myrtle and Millicent in a blatant attempt to get control of The Bled Collection.