Blood of His Fathers (Sinners and Saints)

by Michelle Chambers

  “Creating the perfect environment for people like Bernard Greene to spew their hatred,” Drew added cynically. “Where did you get this photo?”

  “Football Intelligence Unit. I know someone who works there. Now I owe him a favor. What I don’t understand, Drew, is what any of this has to do with Tom Addison’s death. I mean, that’s what we’re investigating isn’t it?”

  Drew released a breath. “Addison’s ex-wife was at Marmaduke’s the night of the murder. I drove her home and spoke to her the following morning. A day later she’d hopped a plane to the Bahamas—”

  “Wait, I thought you went high tailing it after Jason McCormack’s wife?”

  “Jessica Addison is Jessica McCormack. She’s also Jessica Wright. Sean’s sister.”

  Drew drained the contents from his glass in one long, slow drink.

  “What? And she married Jason McCormack!” Colin said aghast. “That can’t be right.”

  “Well, it is. I’d told her about McCormack. That she needed to open her eyes about the family she’d married into. I thought she didn’t believe me. But she went to the Bahamas in search of an old plantation at High Rock.”

  “A plantation?”

  “Another piece of the puzzle.”

  “Is this why you’ve got me investigating Nastase—who isn’t Nastase?”

  “The man in the morgue and Nicolae Nastase form a piece of this puzzle too. There are too many coincidences and I can’t ignore my gut feeling about this case. There’s a common thread that links them all.”

  Drew scanned the photo in his hand. “It’s there. We just need to find it.” Before Jess gets killed.

  “The only thing we have to go on at the moment is Finsbury Town Football Club,” Colin said. “The Chairman is Alexander McCormack and the investor is Viktor Marinescu. Ten years ago Bernard Greene had been arrested for aggravated assault. During the interrogation he mentioned Viktor Marinescu. I did a background check on Marinescu. Prior to twenty years ago he didn’t exist and we can’t seem to locate him now.”

  “Keep at it. What did Greene have to say about Viktor Marinescu?”

  “That he was looking to invest in lower division Premier League Clubs.”

  “Lower division? Why lower division? The most investors tend to vie for the top clubs.”

  “I know.”

  “And nobody thought that was strange. So, Bernard Greene knew Viktor Marinescu and Marinescu knows Alexander McCormack. What’s that?” Drew said peering closer at the photo.

  What?”

  “There’s something on Marinescu’s collar.”

  “Some kind of pin. A badge I guess,” Colin said. “It probably wasn’t important. That’s why there’s no mention of it in the files.”

  “Probably. See if you can enlarge it, will you? And let me know what it is. Perhaps it can tell us a little more about Viktor Marinescu and how we can find him.”

  “I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Drew abruptly stood.

  “Where are you going?” Colin asked.

  “To see Adrienne.” He glanced at his watch. It was late, but she would still be at work.

  “Do you want me to come?”

  Drew raised his glass to his lips and drained its contents. “No.”

  “What about Marsters?”

  “I’ll go and see him first thing in the morning. Night, Col.”

  * * * *

  Adrienne Purdy lifted her head at the sound of her office door swinging open.

  “Drew,” she said, unable to keep her surprise from her voice.

  “I thought you would still be here,” he said.

  “Welcome back. When did you get in?”

  “A couple of hours ago, but I needed to see Colin first.”

  “How is he?”

  “Good.”

  “And you?”

  “Fine.”

  Adrienne nodded slowly. She’d been around Drew long enough to know when he was not fine. He sounded the same and looked the same, but his eyes missed their twinkle, their mischief and she missed it too. She angled her head slightly. He’d been hurt. He wasn’t hers anymore, and that bothered her more than it should.

  “A couple of weeks in the sun have done you good. You look well. Healthy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How’s it going with the case? Want some tea? I just made some.”

  Drew stepped further into Adrienne’s small office. “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  He pushed a hand through his hair. “This case has complications, Adrienne. Twists and turns that don’t lead anywhere, and yet I always seem to end up at the same place.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “I need to know what Wesson said about our John Doe.”

  Adrienne smiled. “Colin told me you were interested in that. Why? Do you think he has something to do with the case you’re working on?”

  “As I said,” Drew answered, “this case has complications.”

  “Well, Wesson didn’t say much. He just took one look at the upper torso and said it wasn’t Nicolae Nastase. We’d made a mistake.”

  “But the fingerprints, Adrienne. Fingerprints don’t lie. How did Nastase’s fingerprints become linked to our John Doe? Unless our John Doe was meant to be Nastase?”

  “Which means the real Nastase now looks like our John Doe would’ve looked before the surgery? And don’t forget he has aged.”

  Drew chuckled. “You’ve been thinking about this.”

  “Yes, I have. But I don’t know, Drew. It sounds a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”

  “Say it is true. Why go to so much trouble?”

  “That’s why you’re the policeman, Drew. You’ll work it out. And here’s something else to think about. Our John Doe is approximately eighty-five years old, right?”

  Drew nodded.

  “Well, the files show that Nicolae Nastase must be at least one hundred years old. If he’s still alive, I doubt he’s a threat to anybody.”

  He rubbed his neck with the back of his hand. “You know what. I think I will have some tea. Thanks.”

  “Sure. And you can tell me about your trip to the Bahamas.”

  She crossed the room to the teapot standing on top of the filing cabinet. “Colin tells me you went diving. That can’t have gone well. I mean, with your thalassophobia.”

  “It wasn’t that bad, actually. I had a good dive partner.”

  It was almost midnight by the time Drew returned home. He dropped his bags on the hallway floor and headed straight for the shower.

  Adrienne hadn’t given him much more information than he already had, but something bothered him. It still tugged at the back of his mind as he towel-dried his hair. As if he was missing something important but it kept eluding his grasp. He pulled on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt and went to retrieve the file on the John Doe from his bag. He padded into the kitchen, threw the file on the table and made himself some coffee.

  “Okay, John,” he mused, sitting down at the kitchen table. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He opened the file and started to read.

  He finished his second cup of coffee and closed the dossier, dragging a hand down his face.

  He just took one look at the upper torso and said it wasn’t Nicolae Nastase. We’d made a mistake.

  His hand stilled at Adrienne’s words ringing in his mind and the image of Jason’s tattoo flashing his mind.

  “And what does that tell us?” Drew murmured into the silence. “That Wesson was looking for something else. Something that would identify Nicolae Nastase at a glance. A distinguishing mark of some kind. A birthmark. Or a tattoo.”

  He poured a third cup of coffee. He wouldn’t sleep now anyway.

  * * * *

  The next morning Drew stood outside DCS Marsters’ office with his report in his hand. He paused briefly before pushing the door open, and then came to an abrupt halt. There was a man sitting at Marsters’ desk, but it wasn’t Marste
rs.

  The man stood and greeted him calmly. “Detective Inspector Mahon. Come in.”

  Drew took a step further but remained standing by the door. “Where’s Marsters?”

  “Detective Chief Superintendent Marsters will be joining us shortly, which gives us a few moments to talk.”

  The unmistakable American accent wasn’t lost on Drew and he knew this had to be Agent Wesson. He eyed the agent cautiously.

  “Talk about what?”

  “Come now, Detective Ins—”

  “Drew.”

  Grant Wesson raised an obliging eyebrow. “I take it you also know who I am,” he countered.

  “I do. So we can stop running around in circles.”

  Grant gave a barely perceptible nod of his head. He moved from behind the desk and perched on the front edge. He leveled his gaze on Drew.

  “What were you doing in the Bahamas?”

  “Working on a case.”

  “When did you get back?”

  “Last night.”

  “It’s a little outside your jurisdiction, isn’t it? The Bahamas?”

  Drew folded his arms and leaned his weight against the wall. “I was following a lead.”

  “I see.” Grant reached behind him and picked up a file from the desk. “That would be Jessica Wright, I assume. Her brother was found dead after an organized fight between two rival football gangs, wasn’t he? He’d been murdered.”

  “I think so,” Drew retorted.

  “Any suspects?”

  “Yes. One.”

  “So, would I be right in assuming this case is practically solved.”

  “Not quite,” Drew dismissed. “There are unexpected complications.”

  “And that would be Nicolae Nastase, no doubt,” Grant proffered.

  Both men looked at each other, each aware of what the other was asking.

  “I want whatever information you have on Nicolae Nastase buried. Do you understand?” Grant continued gravely. “I’ve acquainted myself with your case. Sean Wright got caught up in a fight that he organized himself, ironically enough. Many would think he got exactly what he deserved. Your case is simple. Wrap it up.”

  “No. Sean died because I goaded him to spy on a man I knew was dangerous.”

  “Sean Wright was no innocent for Christ’s sake! You’re delving into something that doesn’t concern you because some damn gangbanger, that no one will miss, died.”

  Drew narrowed his gaze picking up on Wesson’s unconscious slip of the tongue. “What are you afraid of, Wesson? What am I going to find?”

  “Nothing. Because you’re off the case, Mahon,” Wesson snapped. He sprang to his feet.

  Drew clenched his jaw. “You can get me pulled me off this case, but I won’t back down quietly.”

  “You could jeopardize years of tenuous peace in the Balkans,” Wesson barked. “You have no idea of what you’re doing.”

  “I’m investigating a murder, Agent Wesson,” Drew replied coolly. He pushed himself upright. “That’s my job. Detection. No matter where it leads or to whom.”

  Drew took a step closer. “I’m getting the distinct impression Sean Wright was a very small fish in a very large pond. The question is, in whose backyard?”

  “I’m warning you,” Grant retorted stiffly. “Nicolae Nastase is not your problem.”

  Drew gave a wry smile. “Then you shouldn’t have tried to warn me off this case. If you’d kept out of this I probably wouldn’t find out as much as I’m now going to.”

  Drew stormed from the room and smiled to himself as Grant Wesson released the expletive raging on his tongue. He reached for his cell phone and called his Detective Sergeant.

  “Come on Col, pick up. Where are you?”

  * * * *

  Colin stood outside the old house on Myrtle Street and contemplated ringing the bell a second time. He looked about him. The garden was the same, overgrown and unkempt. Not unlike the man who owned it. Erik Pilarczyk. But behind the old man’s disorderly appearance lay a sharp mind and an even cleverer wit.

  As a child, Colin remembered Erik as being very old. Thirty more years only added to this image and his patience.

  Patience.

  Colin smiled to himself. That was something Erik had tons of—patience for a little brat intent on mischief. Patience with a little boy intent on becoming his father’s son, but Erik taught him tolerance and acceptance. Values Colin’s own father hadn’t. Colin shifted uncomfortably. Erik was a recluse—a man protective of his privacy and his past. Colin had done nothing more than try and destroy that. But the old man hadn’t shouted or ranted or raved. Instead Erik had given him a book.

  “Read,” the old man had said.

  Nothing else. Simply, “read”. That book—Colin hadn’t even bothered to look at the title—he’d torn up, right in front of Erik’s face. His contempt for the old man had been evident in word and deed, yet Erik hadn’t berated him. He gave Colin another book and another and another when each book suffered the same fate as the first.

  “Don’t you think you should know something of what you speak? How else can your mind form an opinion?” was all Erik had said before closing his door the final time.

  And thus began Colin’s education and the broadening of his mind. He’d regularly visited the old man in his musty home after that. They’d read and talked and listened to music, although Erik never spoke about himself or his past. And Colin learned to study hard.

  “There was a risk your books may not have changed me, but served to strengthen my beliefs,” he’d once argued.

  “Then it would be your choice, Colin,” Erik had answered. “An informed choice. A pity, but your choice all the same.”

  He’d not understood the old man’s words, so Erik elaborated.

  “If you started smoking I wouldn’t like it, but I would be even more disappointed if you started smoking because you would emulate your friends rather than because it was something you chose to do.”

  The ancient door creaked and scraped open dispersing the frail voice from his head. Colin prepared himself to greet the man he’d not seen for more than fifteen years.

  Erik’s old eyes squinted in the harsh glare of the morning light. “Colin?” The weak voice shook with doubt and disbelief.

  “Mr. Pilarczyk,” Colin smiled. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “And you, my boy,” Erik cried.

  He clasped Colin’s hand between his gloved ones, squeezing it painfully in his joy. But Colin didn’t mind. He quickly enveloped the old man’s thin fingers in his own and made a mental note to buy Mr. Pilarczyk thicker gloves.

  “Forgive an old man his emotions,” Erik said. His cheeks were wet with tears. “I never thought I would see you ag—” His voice broke.

  Colin reassured and comforted and stepped into the old house. He led Erik to the back of the house to the living space. Nothing had changed.

  Colin breathed in the familiar smell. He’d always loved this house. The furnishings were mismatched and outdated but it’d been more like a home than his father’s austere Victorian townhouse only a few streets away. He scanned Erik’s collection of dusty well-thumbed books. Books in Polish, German, English and French. It was good to be back.

  “How long will you stay?” Erik asked. Hope lit his face.

  “I can only spare an hour, Mr. Pilarczyk. I’m working.”

  “Ah yes. My Colin, the great detective.”

  “Hardly, Mr. Pilarczyk, but it’s an irony of life that has always made me laugh.”

  “Why? You were a good boy, Colin. I saw it long before others did.” Erik pointed a lean, crooked finger at Colin’s face. “Even before you saw it in yourself.”

  “Lucky for me. I’ll make some tea, yes?”

  “Yes, make some tea, Colin, then I want to know what it is that brings you here today, that makes me so happy.”

  * * * *

  Colin sat down in the shabby armchair next to the piano.

  “You know,�
� Erik said. “The term fascism was first used by the Italian dictator Benito Mussolini in nineteen nineteen. The term comes from the Italian word fascio, which means union or league.”

  Erik’s eyes lowered to the photo in his hands. “It also refers to the ancient Roman symbol of power, the fasces. That was a bundle of sticks bound to an axe. It represented civic unity and the authority of Roman officials to punish criminals. I haven’t seen this symbol since—” Erik sighed. “It’s a long time since anyone needed my expertise in this area.”

  “I knew if anyone could help me it would be you, Mr. Pilarczyk. I still remember your books on phaleristics and numismatics.”

  Erik stood and shuffled across the room. “I want to show you something, Colin,” he said. “It’s time for you to know something.”

  He opened a drawer and began searching through the papers propped untidily there. All the while he spoke in a low and careful voice.

  “In the third decade of this century anti-Semitism emerged as a powerful influence in Romania’s political life with the establishment of the Legion of Archangel Saint Michael.” He pivoted back toward Colin, and elaborated. “You know it as the Iron Guard.” He resumed his search in the drawer. “That was June nineteen twenty-seven.”

  The sound of Erik’s searching fingers stilled and his voice faltered. He shuffled back to Colin and gave him a photo worn and yellowed with time. “The leader of the Iron Guard at the time was Corneliu Zelea Codreanu.”

  Colin peered closer at the photo, specifically at the little boy holding the man’s hand. “And the little boy? Who is he?”

  Erik smiled sadly. “The little boy is me. His son.”

  Erik drew his cardigan tighter about his thin body and returned to his chair by the window. He gazed out onto the garden dotted with the last night’s snowfall. A red-breasted robin chirped from a nearby tree.

  “There was so much confusion after the first world war,” he said. His voice was distant, but steady and clear. “Unrest, instability, fear and poverty created the perfect anarchy where power was up for grabs. It gave rise to various extreme factions each vying for power. The Iron Guard was the most notorious and most zealous. It represented fascist ideals, preached and practiced anti-Semitism, racism and violence. My father believed in creating a new state of mind for the nation—to unite the nation through a national religion.”