by David Wind
I walked toward Broadway, pulled my cell and called Femalé to see if there was anything new. The answer was no and I told her I was taking the night off.
“You okay boss?” she asked, the velvet huskiness of her voice an echo in my ear.
“No.” I hung up before she could say anything else and headed to O’Brien’s to start my own version of a wake.
It took me thirty blocks and a half hour to reach the pub and let the air conditioning wash over me. My sweat dampened shirt clung to my skin. It had been hot out, but I hadn’t realized just how hot it was as I’d walked the streets, lost in my thoughts over Scotty.
I started my wake with a bottle of Pride Mountain Cabernet Franc, Scotty’s favorite California wine. O’Brien hadn’t stayed in business for all these decades without knowing how to make his regulars happy. He had a private stock of his best customers’ favorite wine and liquor.
O’Brien joined me in a toast to Scotty. Over the next two hours, I drank and talked about Scotty with O’Brien and several of the regulars who had known him. We went through three bottles of the wine before switching to eighteen-year-old McLaughlin, my personal favorite.
At one point, O’Brien brought out a steak and stood over me like a medieval Irish Friar while I ate it. When I was done, and still able to focus on the faces in the mirror, he poured half a snifter of Martell’s XO, a smaller one for himself and a third. When the hand picked up the third snifter, I found Chris smiling down at me. I glared at O’Brien. “Traitor”.
We three toasted Scotty one more time and when I drained the glass, Chris half pulled me and half carried me from the stool to his waiting unmarked NYPD car. He drove me home and I was too tired and too drunk to argue.
When we reached my place, I forced my head to stop spinning and turned to Chris. “I miss him.”
His eyes spoke before he did. “Me too. You need some help up?”
I didn’t attempt to shake my head. I knew better. “I’m okay. Thanks for the ride.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Morning,” I mouthed. Getting out of the car, I walked as straight as I could to the building. At the door, I turned and waited for him to pull out before going inside. When he was gone, I battled the key into the slot and opened it.
My first stop in the apartment was the bathroom, where I took four aspirin and shrugged out of my clothes. I hit the bed and gave into the darkness calling me while offering up a silent prayer for no dreams.
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I woke up at six with a light thudding over my left eye. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been and I couldn’t recall a single dream. I showered, shaved and made a pot of coffee.
All the while, something ate at my mind. I worried at it for a little while, but when nothing came, I stopped; knowing it was would surface when it was ready. As the coffee brewed, I hooked up Scotty’s laptop to its power cord and turned the computer on.
Breakfast was a passing thought: my stomach wasn’t ready after last night’s drinking. Instead, I read Scotty’s journal for breakfast. I found four more entries about the woman he was not having an affair with, but not a hint as to who she was. His description of her was pure prose, and it made me want to meet her, just to see if she lived up to his image of her.
‘Her eyes are the color of emeralds; her skin has the texture of woven silk. She wears a different perfume every time we meet. And we spend hours talking. There’s something familiar about her and it’s haunting me. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t figure it out—but I will.’
His writing told me he was infatuated—yet he refused to have an affair. Why? Then I found another notation, dated two weeks before he was killed.
‘Got it! I found the piece. He’s not casual. Everything he does has a purpose. The scene was too casual. I can finish it now.’
I’d had the exact same thoughts after reading both scenes. I was glad Scotty had been able to finish the play the way he wanted it done. Then I realized I would have to finish the play for him. Could I do so and find Scotty’s killer? I didn’t see any choice.
Fast-forwarding over the next two weeks, I came across another entry about Albright. He had come to Scotty again, demanding he either finish the rewrite or let the actors hone scene two.
‘He’s an arrogant ass! I pushed him, telling him the play would go on when I was ready. He got angry and told me he’d have the rest of the investors take a vote and override me if I didn’t have the rewrite finished by next week. I told him to try. He would lose the fight! He pissed me off. I didn’t tell him that I found what was wrong and was almost finished with the rewrite. But he won’t get enough of the backers to take control. I have fifty-two percent tied up between myself and my personal Angels.’
Was that it? Was I wrong? Had Scotty pushed too many of Albright’s buttons with his challenge? I would find out soon enough, which gave voice to another thought: how did Scotty know he had the other Angels on his side? Then I thought of how he’d set up the backers. Scotty would have offered his old backers a chance before any new Angels were bought in.
My stomach had settled enough to eat. I put his journal on hold and made some eggs, had another cup of coffee and dressed in a charcoal suit. I reached the funeral home by 9:30 and went into the offices, signed a couple of papers and went to the viewing room. No one was there, which gave me the next fifteen minutes alone with Scotty.
The people started to arrive at ten. Most of the crew from the play wandered in and took the rear seats. Rebecca Thayer came over and gave me a hug. She had dark circles under her eyes, strong evidence she had been grieving since we’d talked in the theatre. She took a seat near the front. Femalé came next, dressed in a conservative dark burgundy number. She took my hand in a gentle grasp, and still without a word, went to the far seat in the front row. She was followed by Samantha Collins from Save Them.
My father and mother arrived next and, out of character, my father hugged me before going to a seat in the front row. My mother looked tired and on the verge of tears. She’d always considered Scotty her own son. After hugging me, and kissing my cheek, she sat next to my father. A few minutes later William Bolt and his wife entered, followed by Chris, Amanda and Anna. Chris was dressed in his formal police uniform, his chest decked out with ribbons, his hands encased in white dress gloves. All but Chris joined my parents. Chris stayed next to me. I looked at the two families, glad they were here. They were Scotty’s family.
Paul Gottleib arrived next, shook my hand and went to the front row. He was followed by an auburn haired woman. She had soft and sad hazel eyes, the shadows beneath them spoke of the crying she had done. A spray of freckles bridged her nose, not quite hidden by her makeup.
She offered out her hand. “Serena Hirsch,” she said in introduction. “Thank you for having your assistant phone me.”
I took her hand. It was cold and small inside mine. “Scotty told me about you. He liked you a lot. I’m sorry.” It was unnecessary to tell her Scotty’s journal had told me.
“Thank you.” She walked in and went to the casket, where she stood to look at Scotty’s face. A little while later, she moved to the middle of the seats and sat down.
The next twenty minutes were filled with more handshakes and sad words until almost all the seats were filled. A steady stream of people walked up to the casket to say their last goodbye. The casket was three quarters closed and all that was visible were Scotty’s face and shoulders. There was no need for his hands to be seen—not even the experts at the funeral home could hide what had happened to them.
The Angels showed up in mass, except for Albright. They filed in and took up the fifth row. Lia Thornton paused in front of me, her green eyes moist with sadness and shook my hand before going to her seat. Her blonde hair was pulled into a stark bun and her face had a minimum of makeup—just enough to be presentable. She wore a royal blue linen suit with a simple mauve blouse beneath the jacket.
As she walked to a seat, I wondered what had ha
ppened to Albright. I didn’t have to wonder long; two minutes later, he stepped into the room. His black silk suit, white shirt and burgundy tie made him look like a Nordstrom’s manikin. With his hand extended, he stepped close to me. I bit down on my dislike for the man, and took his hand. It was limp and damp and didn’t help me to like him any more. He shook Chris’s hand before going to a seat next to Lia Thornton. A dozen more people came in and stood against the wall. All the seats were taken except for the three in the front row, two being held for Chris and me.
Gina Torrelli came in a moment later. She put her arms around me, kissed my cheek, and then whispered, “How are you holding up?”
I returned the pressure of the hug. “I’m good.” She gave Chris a hug before taking the empty seat next to my mother.
I went back to watching the procession of mourners file past Scotty, and as I did, I saw Lia Thornton join the line. When she reached the casket, she paused to look down. Her shoulder’s bowed and she reached out. The fingertips of her right hand trailed across his lips.
Her action triggered shocks in my mind. It was way out of character. Could Lia Thornton have been the ‘She’ Scotty had written about? I couldn’t see it as reality. She wasn’t his type, and I knew Scotty wasn’t her type, not by the wildest stretch of imagination. Yet, there was something in the way she looked at him.
By the time I got my thoughts straight, she’d returned to her seat and the funeral director entered the room with the pastor of Scotty’s church in tow. “Shall we begin?”
“Both Captain Bolt and I will speak,” I told the pastor.
“Of course…. Mr. Storm and Captain Bolt, may I offer my deepest condolences. I know how close both of you were to Scotty. He is…he was a great man.”
“Thank you.”
“Who will speak first?”
“I will,” Chris said.
“Then I’ll get started, please, have a seat.”
Chris and I took our seats as the pastor went to the podium. I had met him several times over the years. Before Scotty had had his first hit, he’d joined the small foundling theatre company in the old west side church. He’d also begun to go to services there, where he’d discovered a spiritual part of himself and had made a deep connection with the church and its pastor. Over the years, he’d become a benefactor to the church as well as its theatre company.
Yes, I thought as the pastor spoke, Scotty had done a lot of good things in his short life. I listened for a little while, but I knew everything he said, and my mind began to wander. I turned, my eyes skimming over the peoples’ faces, wondering if any was the one responsible for our being in the funeral home today.
Stopping myself, I returned my attention to the pastor’s words. “Scotty was much more than just a playwright. He was a man who believed in the inherent goodness of people. He never gave up on anyone and was always willing to offer a helping hand.”
The pastor paused. Then his eyes settled on me and he said, “When his best friend was convicted of a crime he did not commit, and the rest of society dismissed him as a murderer, Scotty held him innocent and spent two and a half years visiting him every week. He was relentless in the certainty of his friend’s innocence and never gave up on him. Finally, his belief was validated, and the real murderer was caught and his friend was freed. And still, this act of love and friendship was but a small part of Scotty Granger’s make-up.”
Again, the clergyman’s words faded as the force of what Scotty had done for me hit like a tidal wave. Scotty had kept me alive and sane: He and Chris had never given up.
“While most people knew Scotty, and knew he founded an organization to help find missing children, only those closest to him understood the reason. When he was twelve, a year after his father’s premature death, his eight-year-old sister, Elizabeth, disappeared while walking home from school. She was never found. This tragedy formed the roots of what made Scotty Granger so passionate about life and fueled his desire to help others. And he helped hundreds of lost and missing children over his too short life.”
The pastor’s voice went deeper as he called for everyone to pray with him and began to speak the Twenty-third Psalm.
I found myself saying the words with the rest. When the prayer ended, the pastor straightened his shoulders. “There are two very special friends of Scotty’s who would like to say a few words. Captain Bolt,” he called.
Chris stood, straightened his uniform jacket before striding to the front. Once there, his white gloved hands grasping the sides of the rostrum, he swept his eyes over the room. “I’ve known Scotty for twenty-three years, as boy and man. Never once did I doubt Scotty was my friend. He was a man of integrity, as much my brother as he was my friend, perhaps even more.”
“We grew up together, on the upper east side. We went to school, played, and with Scotty pushing Gabe and me, we learned about movies—good movies, the classics that made the old films into art. Then Scotty taught us about plays. About the way they were crafted and about how actors could take the mere words a playwright put to paper and turn them into emotional whirlpools to draw you in and hold you transfixed.”
“They say,” Chris took a breath, “Scotty was a genius. They say his future was assured, and he would one day become one of the immortals of the theatre.”
Chris drew his uniformed shoulders back. “But now he won’t have the chance to live up to his press. His death has robbed us all of his genius, his love, and his beautiful heart. Still, there’s something that cannot be taken from me, or from anyone else—the memories of everything he did and everything he was.”
“Goodbye, Scotty,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
Chris stepped from the podium and returned to his seat. I waited until he was seated before making my way to the podium.
Looking out at the faces, I gathered my thoughts. “The last place I ever expected to be is standing before a group of people while my friend lay in a coffin. When I was in prison, I learned the world was not a just place, and good does not always defeat the bad. But I learned too, because of Scotty, good can allow one to accept the bad and move passed it.”
I wrestled away the emotions clogging my throat. “When I first met Scotty, he was always alone. He was smaller than Chris or me, a runt who was picked on without mercy. But there was something different about him, an inner strength. After talking to him for two minutes, I knew I wanted him as my friend.
Chris told you how he felt about Scotty. The three of us were like triplets. We did everything together. And Scotty was the glue that held us together. I could speak for days about Scotty, but I won’t. It isn’t necessary. All of you are here because you knew him, and because he touched some part of you.”
I closed my eyes and pictured the Scotty I had grown up with. “And Scotty left a big piece of himself to the world with his plays. Those will never be forgotten.”
I looked out at the sea of staring eyes. There were a lot of tears. I turned to the coffin and to Scotty. My anger mixed with sadness to form a hard knot in the pit of my stomach. “As you stood by me during the darkest times of my life, I will do the same for you. I promise… no, I swear I will find the one who did this to you, and make sure justice is served.”
I walked over to the casket, bent and kissed his cold forehead. “Goodbye, my friend, I will miss you.”
I returned to my seat as the pastor took my place. He read the prayers for the funeral service, and when he was done, said, “There will be no gravesite services. Scotty has requested cremation. Thank you all for coming.”
And so, Scotty’s funeral ended, and my quest had nothing left to prevent it from moving forward—nothing except the unknown and the unimaginable.
Chapter 14
Two hours after the funeral, and the all too quiet lunch with my parents, Femalé and the Bolt family, I was back in the office with my door closed. What I couldn’t get out of my mind was the sight of Lia Thornton touching Scotty’s face—was there more to the gesture?
The more I fed on the thought, the more I needed to learn if she was Scotty’s ‘She’. And Angel number one, Albright? Did he have the balls to walk into Scotty’s apartment and shoot him five times? Killing someone didn’t fit for him; but hiring someone might.
I made a mental note to ask Rabbit to sniff out anything about a contract on Scotty. But there wasn’t much power to the thought. A contract killer wouldn’t have shot him five times. The violence of his murder was all wrong for a pro. Then I chewed on the memory of the mysterious call I’d gotten, warning me off the case. Why would I be warned off what appeared to be a burglary gone wrong? It didn’t make sense. The call made no sense—none.
A light tap on the door was followed by Femalé coming inside and closing the door behind her. “Three of the investors are here.” The long skirt of her dress made a slight whooshing sound against her thighs as she walked.
“That was fast, which ones?”
“Albright, Ms. Thornton and a man named Davis—one the Angels who was here the other day. Shall I send them on their way?”
“No.” They’d gotten here faster than I had expected, but their arrival didn’t surprise me. “Bring them in here.”
Returning to the door, Femalé waved them in. The trio entered, dressed as they had been at the funeral home. Lia Thornton led the way, her hair still in its demure bun. She and Albright took the chairs in front of the desk and, Femalé brought in a chair from the conference room which she set with the others. She stepped back to the door, but didn’t leave as the third man sat. He was dressed in a conservative brown suit, but his clothing was three levels beneath the other two.
Unseen, I pressed a switch on the front of my desk and started the recorder. “How can I help you?”
Albright shifted in his chair, glancing first at Lia Thornton, then back to me. “We were wondering if you had been able to learn anything yet.”
Aware, even as we spoke, that Scotty’s body was on its way to the crematorium, I sucked in my dislike of the man and gave him a present. “Scotty finished the rewrite before he was killed. I’ll have a copy of it at the theatre tomorrow.”
