“If it makes you feel any better, it’s supposed to be seventy degrees in Savannah on Tuesday.”
“Exactly my point—the weather outside is supposed to be frightful … not delightful. Song lyrics are song lyrics for a reason.”
She wrapped her arm around my shoulders as we walked. “First of all, we have to go to Byron’s wedding next week regardless, and this is your parents’ first year in their new home. It’s not like this is going to become an annual journey. I don’t feel great about leaving my dad and Tommy all alone for the holidays, as it is.”
Her words made sense. Problem was, after all I’d been hit with the last eighteen months, including my brother’s murder, I needed the foundation pieces of my life to be solid. But it seemed whenever things stabilized for me, that foundation was shaken by another earthquake—my parents’ move being the latest tremor, even if it didn’t seem significant compared to other more earth-shattering events of the past year
“C’mon, JP—this has nothing to do with your parents’ move, or Christmas traditions, and we both know it,” Gwen said.
“It’s not?”
“It’s about our meeting later today.”
“I don’t really want to talk about that.”
“We knew this day would come, and Noah won’t truly get to rest in peace until justice is served. So the only way to face fear is head on.”
Which is exactly what I did when my brother Noah was murdered, dedicating every moment to bringing his killer to justice. But once the arrest was made, I tried to stash it in the back of the closet behind the winter coats—it was just too damn painful to deal with, and it got worse with time. But we were just months away from the trial of Grady Benson, aka Officer Jones, and the thought of that monster returning to the light, set to have his day in court, unnerved me.
“The way I look at it, is we’re one step closer to making sure that Benson is serving his life sentence, and he won’t be able to hurt anyone else ever again,” she continued.
“But he’s getting exactly what he sought—a public forum to broadcast his sick excuses for killing his victims, Noah included. He’ll be able to drag us all through it again.”
Her grip firmed on my shoulder. “No—what he wants is for people to see him as an avenging angel, and admire his noble acts. He’s in for a rude awakening when he realizes that his audience believes him to be the evil he thought he was destroying.”
“I should have shot him when I had the chance.”
“You chose not to because that would make you just like him. And I’d be willing to bet, if presented with the same opportunity, you wouldn’t change anything.”
I wasn’t so sure I’d make that bet, but telling my girlfriend that I’ve had visions about killing Grady Benson in ways that would make some of the terrorist groups I’d covered blush, might get me sent to therapy, so I said, “You’re probably right. It’s just hard to relive this.”
She hooked her arm through mine, reminding me that we were in this together—a team. But it wasn’t necessary. My relationship with Gwen was one of the few things I felt secure about in my ever-changing world. The rock of stability that I gripped tightly to as I braced for the next earthquake.
Chapter 4
Before the midnight train to Georgia left the station, we still had some unfinished business. The first stop being Gwen’s father’s house.
Despite some gray in the temples, Rick Delaney still resembled the strapping carpenter I remembered from my youth, so it was easy to forget that he was now in his mid-sixties, and just a few years removed from a near-fatal heart attack. But Gwen hadn’t forgotten, and her biggest concern was leaving him and her much younger brother, Tommy, to spend the holidays alone.
I have a good relationship with my own father, but Gwen and Mr. Delaney have a special connection, almost as if they’re an extension of each other. It was to be envied.
“Are you sure you guys are going to be alright all alone?” Gwen asked, upon releasing their embrace.
Mr. Delaney smiled. “I’ve spent most of the last year living with my daughter and son, along with my daughter’s friend and her two children. I mean no disrespect, sweetheart, but I’m sort of looking forward to the silence.”
The daughter’s friend he spoke of was Allison Cooper, who moved back to Rockfield with her children last summer, after her husband was murdered in the Huddled Masses case. She was taking her kids to spend the holidays with her late-husband’s family, which should put my whining about our trip into perspective.
“And besides, I’ll be working most of the time—remodeling a bathroom at a house on Skyview, and putting in a kitchen floor up on Blueberry Bush.”
Gwen seemed to accept his answers, but the concern never left her face.
Before we headed out, Mr. Delaney shook my hand with his vice-like grip that always made me wince. “Just bring my baby girl back safe,” he said. When Gwen and I get together that isn’t always a given, but I guaranteed him that I would.
As we made our way down Main Street, I again questioned our decision to leave. The shops were decorated and trees were sparkling with lights. A light snow fell, as carolers sang in the background. The place was like the home office of Christmas.
Our next stop was a weathered colonial on Main Street, which housed the Rockfield Gazette newspaper. Gwen currently ran it, while I served as a contributor. And by contribute, I mean do my best to stay out of her way and not screw things up.
Murray Brown, the founder of the Gazette, and a friend and mentor to both Gwen and me, was in the office, sporting his usual bow tie, and typing away on his 1950s typewriter. He claims that he will keep writing as long as the typewriter keeps churning, and he expects it to outlast him.
Gwen continued on her concern tour. “Are you sure you’re okay with me being gone the next two weeks?”
Murray smiled. “The Rockfield Gazette did survive multiple decades before you came along, Gwendolyn.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Murray. It’s just that you retired to spend more time with your family, and here we are in the holiday season, when people should be with their families, and I’m deserting you. You’re going to end up working the entire time.”
Retired might be overstating Murray’s current employment status. He had slowed down his schedule—writing for Wednesday and Sunday editions only—and handed over day-to-day control to Gwen. But he was still very much involved.
“I look forward to spending some time back in the big boy chair,” he said with a touch of excitement in his voice. “And I’ll have plenty of help—I have numerous high school and college students coming in during their winter break.”
I noticed the gleam in his eye—he’d always been a teacher at heart, just as he’d been for Gwen and me. I could tell that he looked forward to passing along knowledge to these young whippersnappers. Hopefully they would look up from their smartphones long enough to pick up a few things.
Our last stop was my brother’s home, a split-level ranch house, just over the border in the neighboring town of Bridgewater.
Ethan was standing beside his packed Sequoia. I’d rented one for each of us, as it made sense not to be adding miles to our own vehicles … not that my hand-me-down Jeep could have made it anyway. I’d purchased the insurance, but with the way things have gone lately, I probably should have splurged on bulletproof glass.
Ethan made a subtle—read: passive aggressive—look at his watch to indicate that our tardiness was throwing off his rigid travel schedule … as if he was the one scheduled to meet with the incoming Attorney General this afternoon.
It annoyed me, of course. Even though we have found common ground since my return, and lived in peace for the most part, we’ve always been oil and water.
My sister-in-law, Pam, stepped between us and welcomed me. She seemed to have a sixth sense for when our sibling rivalry was about to boil over. She was the one to follow my mother as the head of the Rockfield Historical Society, so she was versed
in the concept of the past repeating itself.
Right behind Pam was my eleven-year-old niece Ella, wearing a John Wall Washington Wizards jersey—her favorite basketball player—that was her pre-Christmas, Christmas gift. We bumped fists, because that’s how all the cool uncles roll.
She’s the star player of the Rockfield Elementary School basketball team that I coach. I’m actually suspended for the first few games of the season due to an outburst I had last season that got picked up by a website called Celebrity Meltdown, and ended up being a key piece of evidence in the Huddled Masses case. It’s a long story. Ethan recently increased my suspension, which makes him look like a tough-on-crime, anti-nepotism crusader, and allows me to go on my vacation. Who said we couldn’t work together?
Rounding out the squad was my nephew, formally known as Eli. He recently announced that he prefers to go by Whit, based on his middle name of Whitney. His reasoning was the high number of E-names in the family—Ella, Ethan … even Ella’s best friend is named Eliot.
My mother named her children based on famous Connecticutians. I was named after John Pierpont Morgan, more famously known as JP Morgan, while Ethan is the namesake of Revolutionary War hero Ethan Allen. He kept the tradition alive when he named his son after Eli Whitney of cotton gin fame. I was glad that somebody in our family still understood the importance of tradition.
Our convoy hit the road with Ethan taking the lead. Gwen piloted our vehicle, claiming that my mind was too much on our upcoming meeting, and she didn’t feel safe with me behind the wheel. She was right, as usual.
I drifted off to sleep, but there weren’t sugar plums dancing in my head. My dreams were an endless loop of images of Grady Benson bashing in Noah’s head with his nightstick, and then sending him over the side of the bridge, attempting to make it appear to be a suicide.
I awoke when we stopped at the Maryland House rest area. It was also where the Sequoias parted ways. Ethan and family headed directly to Washington DC, where they would spend their afternoon at the Smithsonian. Gwen and I continued toward our meeting.
When we got off the exit for Chevy Chase, Maryland, my stomach tightened. It was the toniest of DC suburbs, and we followed the soothing voice of our GPS to the home of Sam Reinhold, which by local standards was rather mundane—just your simple mansion. As we approached, I pictured Grady Benson waiting for me inside the house, ready to pounce. And even though I knew he was locked away in a maximum-security prison in Colorado, I still had a feeling that bad things were behind the door I was about to enter.
Chapter 5
“You okay?” Gwen asked, just as I was about to ring the doorbell.
“Yep.”
“You really okay?”
“Nope.”
The door opened, and a young smiling woman greeted us. “I’m Emily—Mr. Reinhold’s assistant, and you must be JP Warner,” she said and led us inside. “Glad you made it safely.”
I smiled back at her, and started to introduce Gwen. But Emily beat me to it.
“I’m a big fan of yours Ms. Delaney. I used to read your work at the New York Globe religiously—I always wanted to be a journalist.”
Gwen thanked her, but was never as easily won over by compliments, as I tend to be. She also gave me a subtle look to let me know, that in the unlikely possibility that I would ever have an assistant, she will be much older and a lot less skinny than Emily.
We stepped into the modern interior, which surprised me by the warmth it exuded. It said a family lives here, it’s not a temporary rental while Daddy is working in Washington.
Sam Reinhold is a US Attorney best known for putting away organized crime figures like Mafia don, Frank Rossini. So he’s one serious dude. He’s the son of longtime US senator from Georgia, Casper Reinhold, and in one of the worst kept secrets of all time, Sam Reinhold would soon be nominated by the incoming president for US Attorney General. But of most importance to me, he would be handling the case against Grady Benson, the man who murdered my brother.
A child’s scream, followed by a loud crash, caused us all to jump. Emily rushed ahead into a living room. The nosy journalists followed.
Sam Reinhold was on the floor with a young boy standing over him. They were both wearing matching red sweatshirts with a large white G on the front—representing the University of Georgia, where he’d done his undergrad work before going on to Harvard Law School. I always do my homework.
Sam rose to his knees, clutching a football. “Please tell me someone saw that,” he called out with a childish grin.
“Saw what?” Emily asked, confused.
“Just one of the greatest catches of all time … and more importantly, I saved my wife’s vase in the process.” He pointed to what looked to be a very expensive artifact sitting on a glass table.
“I’m sorry—I was letting in Mr. Warner and Ms. Delaney.”
“That’s okay,” he waved her off. “I’m sure all those security cameras we have in here must have caught it.”
Like I said, one serious dude.
The young son helped his father to his feet, and the future Attorney General walked to us with hand extended. “It’s good to finally meet you both in person.”
We’d had numerous phone interviews over the last month, but this was a different animal. It made it feel all too real.
He was a lanky six-foot, with light brown hair swept to the side. It would often fall over his forehead, and he would use his fingers to sweep it back. I noticed a tad of gray creeping in, which didn’t go with his boyish face.
Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of the front door. “Uh oh,” he muttered.
Victoria Reinhold entered the room with their two daughters, looking like the Blonde Nordic Olympic shopping team, heaped with overflowing bags from well known department stores.
I could feel the security presence in the doorway at the end of the room. When Daddy puts scary mobsters away for a living, a simple trip to the mall can sometimes be more complex. The room grew tense.
I recognized her look—it was one I often receive from Gwen. “Samuel Edward Reinhold, were you playing football in the house again?” she asked in a sweet Georgia drawl.
He pulled out one of his best courtroom performances, trying to win over the skeptical jury. “Football in the house? Why I wouldn’t think of such a thing.”
She smiled. “I can smell your sweaty hair all the way across the room … and you might want to put some ice on your bad shoulder when you’re done here.”
He conceded, which they sealed with a kiss. We were then introduced, “Please call me Vicky. Victoria sounds stuffy … so DC.” Followed by his young daughters Paige and Leigh.
“Can we give it to him now, Mom?” Leigh asked, excitement in her voice.
“Go ahead … although, I’m not sure your father deserves an early Christmas gift after breaking house rules.”
He took the package and stared at it like he had X-ray vision. “I can’t decide—tie or aftershave? Tie or aftershave?”
“They’re both wrong,” Leigh exclaimed.
“It’s a hat!” Paige followed, as Sam Reinhold pulled out the red winter cap with University of Georgia logo on it, matching his sweatshirt.
“I love it!” he said and kissed the girls. “And I really can use it. I’ll never get used to these DC winters—can take the boy out of Georgia, but not the Georgia out of the boy.”
He put it on, and checked himself in the mirror over the fireplace. “I think I’ll wear it to dinner with the Ambassador tonight.”
“If you want me to end up a widow you will,” Vicky said, before looking to the children. “Why don’t you go upstairs and start wrapping those gifts.”
The children giddily ran up the stairs. And Sam followed. “I’m going to go change into more professional attire, and I’ll be back shortly so we can get down to business,” he said.
“You don’t have to change on our account,” Gwen said.
He looked to us, an intensity in
his eyes. “I will always represent myself in the most serious manner when it comes to this case. I want you to know how committed I am to putting that piece of trash away.”
We were definitely on the same page when it came to that.
Chapter 6
“So you’ve come all the way from Connecticut? That’s one long trip for a meeting, especially this time of year,” Vicky Reinhold made conversation with us, while we waited for her husband.
“We’re actually going to visit JP’s family for Christmas, and it was on the way,” Gwen said.
“So where y’all headed?” Vicky asked.
“Savannah,” I said. “My parents recently moved there, and it’s their first Christmas in the new house, and we wanted to be there for them as a family.”
Gwen flashed me a “you can’t be serious?” look.
Vicky lit up like the large Christmas tree behind her. “Savannah!? That’s where Sam and I are from.”
“We’ve never been there,” Gwen said. “We’re planning to spend about five days. Anything you can recommend?”
She had much to recommend. “You must” go to this place, “you have to” do that, this restaurant is “to die for.” She also invited us to a party that the Reinhold family was hosting for Sam in Savannah for the wink-wink, job promotion he may or may not be nominated for.
“We’d love to, but we’re going to go on vacation the first week of the new year, with a wedding in between, so we won’t be able to make it, Gwen said.
“Sounds like you’re a couple of busy bees. So where y’all going on vacation?” Vicky asked, sounding more excited about our trip than we were.
“I wish I could say, but it’s a secret,” I said.
“A mystery destination—how romantic. But wherever you end up, I guarantee that it won’t be as interesting as Savannah.”
Emily returned holding a phone. “I have a call for you, Mrs. Reinhold.”
“Please take a message—as you can see, I’m busy entertaining guests at the moment.”
Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3) Page 35
