by Thomas Kies
And indeed, I should have been elated.
I don’t know if it was because I had just been given a formal warning from my bosses at the newspaper and was a hairsbreadth from getting fired. I don’t know if it was the time I spent with Isabella Orleans or my confrontation with Frank Mancini.
I don’t know if it was because Kevin was out of the hospital and I didn’t know what the prognosis was.
I’ve owned the Connor’s Landing story right from the very beginning. I was there the night the bodies were found and I was instrumental in helping the police catch the killers. It was my byline, and my newspaper was the only media outlet that would carry the story come tomorrow morning.
But, instead of being happy, I felt as if I was standing on a beach and in the far distance, I could see the dark shadow of a tsunami rising up on the horizon. It was a hunch that something bad was coming and I couldn’t stop it.
Chapter Twenty-one
On my way back to the office, I tried to call Kevin again. The machine picked up and I looked at my watch. It was after six.
Where the hell is he? He left the hospital hours ago. Why isn’t he home?
I tried his cell phone and it went straight to his voicemail.
Maybe he’s gotten good news. And to celebrate, they’re all at Coldstone Creamery for ice cream. That had to be it!
I didn’t leave a message and I fought back the urge to drive by his house.
Instead, I went straight back to the office. The last thing I needed was to add fuel to the fire of anxiety and doubt already burning in Laura’s and Casper’s suspicious minds.
As I sat down at my desk, I saw that Laura had left for the night and Casper was glued to his computer screen. There were only a few reporters left in the newsroom but I felt their eyes sneaking glances at me like those lasers on a cop’s rifle that light up where the target is.
I ignored them all and went to work.
I needed as much background information as I could get on both Jim and Aaron Brenner. When I was a young reporter, I would have painstakingly gone through the newspaper’s voluminous library of press clippings to find any relevant stories that might shed some light on their lives. Then I would have spent time on the phone, interviewing neighbors and friends to get an idea of how these men were perceived in the community.
I still like to do that.
But now that we’re in the twenty-first century, I Googled them.
Jim and Aaron moved to Sheffield with their family when they were both in their teens. Their father was an auto mechanic right up until he died of a heart attack at the age of fifty-three.
Their mother worked as a clerk at McCurdie’s, a small department store and died a year after her husband passed away.
I found a piece on Jim and Lynette’s wedding that had taken place ten years ago, coincidentally in the same church that Kevin’s Uncle Jack had belonged to. The same one where Uncle Jack had been struck by lightning.
There was a news report on Jim Brenner’s arrest for assaulting his wife in a bar. He’d pled guilty and was sentenced to a five-hundred-dollar fine and probation.
I found out when Jim started his body shop, bought his house, and when he and Lynette got divorced.
I even managed to punch up the announcement about Lynette’s engagement to George Chadwick. There was no mention of Jim Brenner in that story.
I’m very good at finding things on the Internet.
I finished with Jim and turned my attention to Aaron. That’s when I found something that I hadn’t expected.
According to a news story, Aaron borrowed nearly a half million dollars from Connecticut Sun Bank to buy an apartment building in Bridgeport. He immediately took out an insurance policy worth a million and a half dollars on the building. Two months after the purchase, the building burned down. Miraculously, no one was killed but ten residents, including three children, were treated for smoke inhalation and minor burns.
Aaron filed his claim.
If it hadn’t been for the tenacity of a suspicious young executive at the insurance agency who pressed for further investigation, Aaron would have gotten the money, paid off the bank, and walked away with a million dollars. As it turned out, the police eventually were able to ascertain that the fire had been deliberately set “with flagrant disregard for human life.”
Aaron received three years in prison.
The young executive who had relentlessly pressured the police into further investigation? John Singewald, who eventually rose to the level of CEO.
The same John Singewald who’d been hacked to pieces along with his wife and four other people out on Connor’s Landing last Wednesday night.
On a whim, I called Mike Dillon’s cell phone.
When he answered, I immediately asked, “So how long have you known about the connection between Aaron Brenner and John Singewald?”
I heard Mike Dillon chuckle. “After you told me about Jim Brenner showing up at the sex club, we punched up both Jim and Aaron’s records. It made it much easier to go to the judge for a search warrant.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I was peevish that he’d made me waste so much time researching Aaron’s past.
“Consider it payback for not telling me who gave you the tip about the incident at the club.”
I countered, “I can’t tell you who my source is. You know that. But let’s not forget that I’m the one who told you about the incident in the first place.”
Nothing but aggravated silence on the other end of the phone.
“Who gave you the information that helped you make this arrest?” I asked testily.
Finally, he answered, “You did.”
“Who’s going to get dinner out of this?”
“You are.” I could almost hear him smiling over the phone.
“Okay, then. Is there anything else you’re holding back on me?”
“Nope, that’s pretty much it. I’m going home.”
“Say hello to Beth for me.” I’d never met his wife, but heard from some of the other cops that she could be a real ball-buster. Rumors said that she disliked the long, crazy hours Mike had to put in and she was making his life miserable.
Another silence hung for a moment before he said quietly, “Genie, one more thing I haven’t told you. Beth left me five months ago.”
Those empty spots on his office wall? Where his wife’s photos had once hung?
I tried to think of something comforting or glib to say. When I couldn’t come up with anything, I settled for honest.
“Her loss, Mike.”
Chapter Twenty-two
I hung up the phone feeling vaguely depressed. Whether or not Mike’s wife was a bitch was irrelevant. He loved her and she left him. She’d hurt him and that made me sad.
I did my best to shake it off and wrote the story about the police arresting Jim and Aaron Brenner. I finished my shift, grateful that I didn’t have to interact with Casper again. The clock on my computer screen showed it was a little after ten. Any other time, I would have headed home for a cocktail and some cuddle time with Tucker.
But I wanted to see why the hell I hadn’t heard from Kevin.
Less than twenty minutes after I’d left the office, I was parked in Kevin’s driveway.
His pickup truck was sitting in its usual spot. Lights were on in his house and even from my car I could hear the high-pitched shriek of a power saw.
Was that why he hadn’t heard my phone calls?
I walked up to the door and rang the bell.
My only answer was the shrill screech of a circular metal blade tearing through wood.
I knocked as firmly as I could on the door but the noise continued to drown me out. Finally I tried the doorknob. It was unlocked, so I let myself in.
The air was filled with wooden particulates and the sweet smell of saw
dust. “Hey,” I shouted.
The earsplitting, metallic scream continued unabated so I walked toward it, into the kitchen where Kevin was carefully slicing a thin line off the top of a panel of wood stretching across two sawhorses.
For a moment I thought of Isadora Orleans and her slow, steady workmanship with oak and pine. She created almost supernatural pieces of art.
Watching him work, total concentration etched across his face, I knew that what he was doing was equally magical.
I am so in love with him.
Kevin must have seen me out of the corner of his eye, because he looked up, switched off the saw and pulled his plastic goggles up onto his head. He was covered in wood dust. He smiled. “Genie.”
I waved back at him. “Hi. I tried to call you a couple of times. I was worried.”
I want…need to know what the doctors say.
He put the saw down on the kitchen counter next to the sink. “I’m sorry, I didn’t check my voicemail.”
I had a vague feeling that he was lying to me. I pushed ahead anyway. “So…what did the tests show?”
“Genie.” Caroline came up behind me.
I turned to greet her and was gratified when she hugged me.
I wrapped my arms around her shoulders, feeling the soft cotton of her tee shirt against the palms of my hands. I squeezed her back, “Hi, honey. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
She nodded toward her father’s work area. “Yeah. Have you ever tried sleeping at a construction site?”
I took a look around and appreciated how much he’d accomplished since the last time I’d been in the kitchen. The ceiling was complete, the recessed lighting was installed and the walls had been repaired. They weren’t painted or wallpapered but at least no insulation or wires were showing.
It looked like the counters were all where they were supposed to be and half the cabinet doors had been hung. It was a huge improvement.
I patted the girl. “I see what you mean.”
Caroline still had her arms around my waist.
She sure doesn’t act like I’m traumatizing her into an eating disorder. Aunt Ruth is a walking, talking bag of crap.
“When did you guys get home?”
“The hospital released Dad around five-thirty but then Ruth dragged us out to Giordano’s for dinner,” the girl explained.
I looked over at Kevin. I noticed for the first time the sheen of sweat covering his face. Smudges of sawdust streaked across his face that only confirmed to me that this guy was hard, rugged, and rough around the edges.
My carpenter warrior.
“You stopped for dinner? And then come home to work your ass off? I would have figured that all those tests would have worn you out. So what’s the verdict?”
He shrugged. “It’s all good.”
Relief washed over me like a tide of holy water. I wanted Kevin to be good…to be better than good. I wanted him to be great.
“It’s good? So you’re okay?”
“It’s good. I’m like a horse.”
I hugged him and held him close. “I think you’re more like a horse’s behind.”
Kevin squeezed me back and then broke away, making a small show out of unplugging his saw. “I’m done for the night.” He came over and gently kissed Caroline on the forehead. “Go to bed. We’ll start again in the morning.”
She hugged her dad. “Okay, see you in the morning. I’m glad you’re okay.”
He put his forehead against hers. “Me too, baby. Tuck yourself in. I’m going ask Genie to take a short walk with me. I need to get some air, okay?”
Caroline’s smile faltered a moment. Then she reached out and squeezed my hand.
Does she know, or suspect, something that I don’t?
Caroline left and Kevin touched my arm. “Give me a minute to wipe off my face. I’ll be right back.”
When I was alone, I studied the work he’d done. It was first class, but there were telltale signs that he was hurrying, a rough edge on one of the counters, ceiling trim that didn’t fit snug in the corner, a cupboard door that hung a fraction of an inch too low.
I opened up one of the cabinets and moved things around until I found what I was looking for. A bottle of Dewar’s poorly hidden among containers of cooking oil, spices, and condiments.
I pulled out the scotch and found two small glasses.
Hesitating, I thought about what Kevin had said in the hospital. That they wanted to see how much of his liver was functional.
No scotch for Kevin.
Before I could put the bottle back, Kevin came back into the kitchen. His face looked scrubbed and he was wearing a clean shirt.
In one practiced movement, he took the bottle and poured two glasses. He picked up his and downed it in one gulp, closing his eyes with content. He opened them again, still holding the bottle. “Let’s go sit in the backyard.”
“This first.” I stepped up to kiss him. I could smell the soap he’d used to wash his face and the deodorant he’d put on in a vain attempt to cover the scent of his sweat.
I couldn’t help myself. I wrapped my arms around his waist and hugged him tight, my face pressed hard against his chest.
“You shouldn’t, I’m a mess,” he mumbled, hugging me back, still holding the half empty bottle, kissing my neck.
“That’s why I love you.”
“C’mon,” Kevin led me out the kitchen door.
The temperature was easily twenty degrees steamier outside and a hundred percent more humid. Immediately, I felt beads of perspiration under my arms.
A slice of new moon hung like a neon hook in the sky, barely illuminating the stacks of lumber and piles of scrap that were the professional rubble of Kevin’s backyard. Invisible crickets chirped a soothing symphony in the tall grass along the fence.
We sat side by side at the picnic table and Kevin poured himself another drink. I hadn’t yet sipped at mine.
“So what’s the deal at the hospital? What was that business about liver function?”
He looked up at the sky. “You ever really look at the stars?”
I didn’t look up at the sky. I already knew what was there. Instead, I concentrated on sipping at my scotch and nervously watched his face.
“I read someplace that we’re looking at light that’s been traveling through space for millions of years. We’re looking into the past, seeing stars that may have already flamed out. They’re already dead. But we can still see their light; still see what they looked like when they were burning, when they were still alive.”
I don’t like the way this is sounding.
“What did the doctors say, Kevin?”
“So it’s like we’re looking at ghosts. We can see them, but some of those stars are already dead.”
“What did the doctors say, Kevin?”
His eyes left the sky and looked into my own. He sighed. “Liver failure.”
I glanced down at the bottle of scotch sitting on the table. “Should you be drinking that?”
“Damage is done.”
“How bad?”
“Close to total.”
I blinked my eyes. “What’s that mean?”
“It means I have maybe three months.”
As those words left his mouth, in my mind, the crickets stopped their symphony, the cars on the highway ceased their incessant hiss, the crescent moon dimmed and the stars flickered. At those words, it felt as if my heart stopped beating.
“What?” I asked, stupidly.
He reached out and put his hand over mine. “It’s terminal.”
“No, it’s not!”
He slowly nodded and his grip tightened on my hand.
“I’m serious. I don’t care what they say. We’ll do what we have to do to beat this. What about a transplant? They do it all the time.”
“They were very honest. I’m an alcoholic. I brought this on myself. I’m not a candidate.”
“Bullshit. We’ll fix this.”
Simple as that. You can do anything if you set your mind to it. You have a plan and be ready to do what’s necessary to get the job done. Right?
“We’ll get a second opinion. I know one of the top gastro guys at Yale. I’ll make an appointment for you tomorrow morning.”
Kevin gazed into my eyes, silent.
Don’t answer me. Let me take care of you. Let me make you better.
He nodded. “Sure.”
I cannot cry. No crying.
“I haven’t said anything to Caroline, yet.” His words were simple, stunning in their meaning.
I took a hard sip on my scotch and felt the amber liquid light a fire all the way down my throat into my stomach. “Yeah, I think it’s too soon. Let’s find out for sure how bad this really is.” I sounded braver than I actually was. “No point getting her worried over something we can get fixed.”
Denial is such a wonderful thing.
We stopped talking for a few minutes and listened to the sounds of the night and looked up at Kevin’s stars. They truly were beautiful. The ambient illumination of the city streetlamps wiped away the more nuanced and subtle of the tiniest stars, but the bold ones poked their way through the night like the hot, brave souls that they were.
“I ever tell you that when I was a kid,” Kevin said, “I wanted to be an astronaut?”
“I thought you wanted to be James Bond.”
“That too. I thought I could be both.”
We both sat quietly for a moment. I was surprised to see silent flashes of heat lightning in the distance. That’s a phenomenon that always amazed me. These strange flashes of light with no attendant rumbles of thunder—a meteorological magic trick.
I could use a magic trick right about now, a really good one.
“I didn’t get to be James Bond and I didn’t get to be an astronaut. In the end, I really didn’t do anything meaningful at all.”
I surprised both of us when I reached out and cuffed him hard along the back of his head.
“Oowwww,” he complained. “That hurt. Why’d you do that?”
