Heartless: a Derek Cole Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 1)

by T Patrick Phelps

  Derek sat behind his steering wheel, turned on the engine of his Buick, and nodded to Thomas.

  “I will wait here till I see you get in your car, start it, and drive out of here. I will be in contact as needed. Get to where you’re going and stay there. Understood?”

  “Got it. And Derek? Can I call you Derek?”

  “Derek is fine.”

  “If you do find Alexander, please don’t kill him. He is my brother, you know, and I’d actually like to meet him. I know my parents would too. At least my mom would. Honestly I’m not sure about how my dad feels.”

  “You didn’t hire me to kill anyone, and I don’t kill people as a rule. All I care about is keeping you and your parents safe. Now go.”

  “Okay. But if things get rough, please don’t kill Alex. Promise me.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The man who answered the doorbell ring seemed disappointed. He had the look that only someone expecting someone else can display.

  “Doctor Rinaldo?”

  “Yes,” the aging man answered.

  “My name is Derek Cole. I’m a freelance detective and have been hired by the O’Connells ...”

  “Come in,” the doctor said as he dropped hold of the door handle, turned and shuffled back into his home. “I didn’t expect someone like you, but I’m not surprised, either.” His speech was slurred just enough that Derek could both fully understand his words and know that happy hour was growing long.

  As Derek followed his host into the home, he could see that recent half-assed attempts had been made to clean the house. A single four-inch, arching, dust free path was clearly visible on the table that stood just inside of the double-door entry way. A discarded paper towel lay wadded up on the ground beneath the mirror that greeted visitors on the eastern wall of the entry. In the room to his right, a room Derek assumed to be a study, a Dyson vacuum cleaner was carelessly left, still plugged in and leaning against the far wall. On the study’s solid birch and mahogany desk, adorned with a MacKenzie Childs desk lamp, sat piles of paper that were spilled across the desk but still spoke of the days when they were never out of alignment.

  Derek followed him through an entry way clearly designed to impress visitors and into the living room off to the left of the entry. Mark Rinaldo gestured with an indifferent hand towards a brown leather sofa as he dragged himself towards a Bristol leather accent chair that sat across from the sofa.

  Doctor Mark Rinaldo sat down in his spacious, very well appointed living room, holding on loosely to a tumbler filled of some brown liquor. His home was in a cul-de-sac full of million dollar homes, and while the home of Doctor Mark Rinaldo had among the best curb appeal, it was obvious to Derek that outside appearances do not always equate to inside beauty.

  “Sit, if you want. Stand if you prefer.”

  Derek sat, removed his moleskin, and let his eyes wander until the doctor sat with a heavy and exaggerated sigh.

  “My wife decorated every square inch of his place. Spared no expense,” he said. “No expense was spared. Not even when it came to the type of paint the contractors used in the closets. Top shelf, head to toe.”

  After refusing an offered drink, Derek asked, “And your wife? Will she be joining us today?”

  “Thirty-nine months ago, I announced that I was going to hang up my stethoscope. Retire early. Fifty-five years old. Gerti was happy as hell. Oh, sure, she loved being married to a doctor, especially to a chief of medicine, but she knew that the job was hard on me. She was as happy that day I told her that I was going to retire as she was the day we brought our son home from the hospital after he was born.

  “The next day after I told her, I met with the board of directors at Saint Stevens, and I let them know my decision. No one was surprised. They knew I was getting tired of dealing with the job, the other doctors, and the damn insurance companies. They knew that once the government started shoving their noses into healthcare that they would have plenty of their more tenured doctors decide to call it a career.

  “When I got home that night, Gerti was lying face down on the kitchen floor. She was alive, but something was wrong, obviously.” Mark Rinaldo paused, pulled long and hard at his drink, emptying it in a flash. He reached over to the end table next to him where he had conveniently placed a bottle of Johnny Walker blue. He poured a heavy drink before continuing.

  “Brain tumor. That’s what it turned out to be. Damn ironic, isn’t it? That the day I announce my retirement and the day we should have spent making love and planning how we were going to spend all our money, was the same day we find out she won’t be around long enough to spend a dime of it.

  “She died two months and eleven days after I announced my retirement. Horrible disease, that brain cancer. Ripped away her memories and turned her into someone I didn’t even recognize. And she was the wife of the chief of medicine at one of the best cancer hospitals in the mid-west. Died just like anyone else. So, no Mr. Cole, my wife won’t be joining us today.”

  “I am sorry for your loss, Doctor,” Derek said. He knew that the doctor was at least two scotches into his day. “Doctor, I need to ask you some questions about an Alexander O’Connell.”

  “His name is Black. Alexander Black. And I know that he escaped and that he killed a few doctors and that he is coming for me. I got a call from some chief of police in New York. I also got an email from Alexander Black.”

  “An email?” Derek asked.

  “An email. Must have been sent right after he killed Adams and the other doctor. What was his name? Curtis? Jacob Curtis I think.”

  “I am not sure of the exact names, but Curtis and Adams are the ones who were killed. According to my employer, they were both killed in a lodge owned by a Doctor William Straus over in Piseco Lake, New York,” Derek confirmed. “The email, Doctor Rinaldo, what did the email say?”

  “Oh, it was very polite. Short and right to the point. It said ‘Doctor Rinaldo, can you tell me, please, who is buried in Alexander O’Connells grave? No need to send a reply. I’ll stop over to collect your answer.’ He signed it just ‘AB.’ I actually figured it was him knocking on my door when you showed up.”

  “Aren’t you going to take precautions in case he does show up?”

  “Precautions about what? About saving my life? Hell, no. I will get what I deserve.”

  Derek had seen unexpected reactions from hundreds of people. Some were his clients, and some were the targets of his client’s displeasure. As he sat across from Doctor Rinaldo, Derek genuinely felt that Rinaldo truly had no interest in taking any precautionary steps to keep himself safe from whomever had killed the three in Piseco Lake and all but said “you’re next.” Derek understood that he was having a conversation with someone who had already given up.

  “Can you confirm that the story I’ve been told about Alexander is true?” Derek asked as Mark Rinaldo finished and poured another tall glass of scotch.

  “Not sure what you heard. But if you’re asking if Alexander Black was born without a heart and that we screwed up and sent him to that asshole William Straus out in Long Island to cover our asses; if you’re asking if that is true, then yes. It’s all true.”

  Derek sat in silence at the confirmation. He wanted to believe the story that Thomas had given him but found it nearly impossible to do so. As he sat across from Mark Rinaldo, the man who started the entire series of events in motion with his decision twenty-two years ago, he began to see how that decision had worn on the doctor.

  “Not a day has passed that I didn’t regret what I did. What I regret most is that I included other people in my decision.” Mark stopped, slurped in the final drops of scotch left in his glass, then sat the glass down on the table next to the near empty bottle of blue. “And now, my decision has killed three people. Three people, dead because I panicked and chose the route of a coward.

  “I hope that Alexander Black or O’Connell, whatever he wants to call himself, does come and pay me a visit. I’ll tell him that everything was
my fault. Everyone was doing what I told them to do.”

  “If his recent actions are any indications, you know that he will try to kill you?”

  “I hope he does.”

  “I can get you somewhere safe.”

  “You believe in heaven, Mr. Cole?”

  The question took Derek by surprise. “I suppose. I hope so, anyway.”

  “Well, I do. And I also believe that unless I pay for my sins, for what I did to Alexander, to his family and every doctor I got involved in this mess, that I won’t be headed to heaven. My wife is there. I know that to be true, and I’d like to see her again.”

  “Doctor Rinaldo,” Derek said, “back twenty two years ago, when Mrs. O’Connell gave birth, you are certain that one of the babies, Alexander, had no heart and only half of a lung?” Derek needed to be certain that he was very clear about the bizarre birth.

  “Three doctors, myself included, all determined that the baby did not have a heart and was not breathing. Skin went blue then turned a horrible shade of gray. No color at all, that gray. Death gray.”

  “But the baby was still alive?”

  “Depends on how you define being alive. Damn thing was moving around, eyes opened, kicking its legs. Kept gasping for air like a damn fish thrown onto the beach.” Mark Rinaldo reached for the bottle of blue. He paused, looked at Derek, then returned his empty hand to his lap. “We had no idea what was keeping that child alive. No idea. And I had no idea what to do in a situation like that. How could I have any idea? There wasn’t a policy in place about how to deal with a heartless baby that was still alive. I made the only choice I could think of.

  “Now, I didn’t know what the hell was keeping it alive and really had no idea what to do. But I’ll tell you something, Mr. Cole,” Mark said as he leaned closer to Derek, his scotch soaked breath heavy in the air, “I know now what kept it alive.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Evil, Mr. Cole. Evil and sin kept that baby alive that day and every day since. My sins, your sins, the sins of the whole damn world. Nothing short of evil could do that, Mr. Cole. Nothing short of evil.”

  The room’s air was cut with a chill of uneasiness. Of fear. Of doubt. Of imagined terrors

  “Once Peter Adams,” Mark paused at the sound of that name, “and Stan Mix took that baby out of my hospital and brought it to Straus and his band of misfits, I tried to forget the whole damn thing. Tried to pretend it never happened.

  “I even went to the funeral for Alexander O’Connell and found myself actually forgetting that the body buried in that grave was that of a stillborn baby that was about to be destroyed. Destroyed like garbage, Mr. Cole. That’s what hospitals do with dead babies that parents don’t want to bury. We destroy them and make it as if they were never even born. They’re nothing. Just a mass of tissue. Dead, useless, unloved tissue, Mr. Cole.

  “I never went back to that grave, and if it weren’t for Peter Adams, I never would have even thought of the real Alexander O’Connell ever again. Peter insisted that he keep communications with Straus. That we kept updated with his progress. That asshole Straus was convinced that he’d be the one to figure out what was keeping Alexander alive and that he would become rich and famous. Bastard thought that he’d discover some cure for every disease known to man.

  “Did you hear anything about William Straus, Mr. Cole? The cop who called me didn’t mention his name except to ask if I knew his whereabouts.”

  “Nothing, and I assume you don’t have any idea where he might be?”

  “No idea. But I almost hope he is hiding in some god-awful place. I almost hope that Alexander finds him before he finds me. That’s how I feel about Doctor William Straus. He’s just another sin in this world. Another reason for Alexander Black.”

  Derek knew that trying to convince Mark Rinaldo to protect himself was futile. He knew that Mark wanted, or felt that he needed Alexander to kill him. To purge him from his sins and from his guilt. To reunite him with his wife.

  “Doctor, I don’t agree with your thoughts about not doing anything to protect yourself in case he comes looking for you, but I respect your decision.”

  “Please don’t patronize me with respect. I don’t deserve any of that,” he said as he quickly reached for and emptied the bottle of blue into his glass.

  “Understood. But please understand that I have been hired to protect the O’Connells and that I take my job very seriously. Is there anything you can think of that will help me do my job?”

  “Find Doctor William Straus. He knows everything you need to know.”

  “How about Doctor Stanley Mix and his wife?”

  “Leave them the hell alone!” Mark screamed. “They were the lucky ones. They found each other because of this mess. They have a life. A good life. Don’t involve them, you hear me?”

  “They are already involved, Doctor. I’m sure they’ve been notified about what happened in Piseco Lake. I learned that someone, probably Alexander, had a list of names. Your name and Stanley’s name was on that list.”

  “And Michelle? Was her name on the list?”

  “No. It wasn’t on the list, as far as I know.”

  “Then keep it off,” Mark said.

  “That’s really not up to me,” Derek said as he stood, knowing the conversation had given him all the information it was going to provide.

  “If they know what happened, they are smart enough to take precautions. The police will certainly want to investigate their involvement. But I’ve already told Stanley to deny absolutely everything. Michelle is involved only because she worked for that asshole Straus. Leave them alone! If the police find out that you were looking for them, they’d figure out that Stanley was involved from the beginning.”

  Knowing that arguing with Mark would serve no purpose, Derek agreed not to contact Stanley or his wife, Michelle. He knew that the police would discover what happened and would find out the names of every player in this drama. Derek knew that anyone whose name was on that list would have to pay. He was determined to protect his clients first, and then do whatever he could to make sure that the people on that list paid their obligations to the law and not to Alexander Black.

  As he left Mark’s home, Derek again suggested that Mark at least think of getting out of town. When his suggestion was returned only with a slamming door, he headed back to his car. Once in his car, he called the US Airways reservation number and booked the next flight out of Chicago to Albany, New York. He then tried to contact Henry Zudak, but his calls, three of them, went straight to voicemail.

  “I hope you are somewhere safe, Doctor Zudak,” Derek said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The earliest flight Derek could book was scheduled to depart Chicago’s O’Hare airport at 9:58 p.m. that same day. As he glanced at the digital clock in his Buick Lacrosse, Derek realized he had time to kill. Time to think. To plan out his next steps. To figure out what he would do if he came face to face with Alexander Black and what story he would give to the police if and when they asked him for details.

  In the three years that Derek had been a “freelance detective,” he had made several friends on police forces across the country. While none of these friends would ever invite Derek in on one of their investigations, he knew that if he ever got into a situation, they would have his back.

  He also knew that he had made plenty of enemies during his three years of freelance work. To many, what Derek did was “real police work” and, as such, should be left to the professionals. He was seen as a danger, an outsider, a nuisance to many police departments. Though Derek never intentionally broke any laws, his freelance status allowed him to cut corners that police detectives couldn’t.

  “We have protocols to follow, Cole!” he was often told. “You go running into situations, doing whatever you think you should do and next thing we know, our whole case is blown because you didn’t follow protocol.”

  While Derek had made some mistakes when he first started freelancing, those
mistakes were never repeated as he gained more experience. He learned better how to do his job while assisting and not interfering with the “real police detectives’ work.”

  Over the last few years, Derek had helped police departments that were often understaffed and overworked to solve crimes that would have otherwise gone unsolved. Though he had only been involved in less than thirty cases since going freelance, his skills were sharp and his reputation was, for the most part, stellar.

  Still, the average detective in an average police department wanted nothing to do with any “freelancer.”

  At least not publicly.

  Many of the cases that Derek was hired to solve or resolve were also cases that a local police or sheriff’s department was involved in. Though few would ever welcome Derek’s involvement in front of others, many would quickly learn to appreciate what Derek could do and how he could help their cases.