by Polly Iyer
“Naw, I don’t think so.”
She was still laughing when he said, “God, you’re beautiful when you laugh. I wish I could hear it.”
Putting his face between her hands, she mouthed. “I guess there are some things we’ll never know about each other, no matter how deep we dig.”
Luke stiffened. “Might be best.” He backed away. “You’ll like Jeff. He’s a stand-up guy, and he’ll take good care of you.”
Abby felt his body language, noticed the change of subject. What did she say to make him pull away? Not now, Abigael. “Aren’t you overreacting? Do you think my intruder is still after me? He’s been quiet for a while. Maybe he knows I don’t have what he wants after all.”
“Maybe, but I’d rather err on the side of caution where you’re concerned.”
“Then let me stay in my own house. If this Conti guy is going to be around, I have more room. He can stay in the spare bedroom.”
“Deal,” Luke said.
“What does Jeff do when he’s not instructing?”
“Nothing any more. He has one of the most successful studios in the Southeast.”
“What did he do before?”
“Better you don’t know. He’s safe, dependable, and good at what he does. That’s all you need to know. Oh, and I mentioned my plans to Pete. He said he’d be available if you need him for any reason.”
* * * * *
Abby pictured Jeff Conti as over-muscled, dim-witted, and gruff, the typical movie karate-expert bodyguard. Of course, she had no idea if he was over-muscled, but he sounded neither dim-witted nor gruff. In fact, he had a soft, cultured voice and curious mind. She found him refreshing. He made friends with Daisy first thing, so she liked him immediately.
Most people went out of their way to either ignore her blindness or solicitously trip over themselves because of it. But Jeff asked questions about her work and her handicap with no inhibitions or hesitations. In turn, she asked about his lifestyle and his work. What Luke had been reluctant to tell her didn’t give Jeff one moment’s pause.
“I was Special Forces in the first Gulf War, then hired out to the highest bidder for a few years before realizing we were causing more problems than we were solving. I hated what I was doing, so I came home and came out.”
Being a psychologist, the question of nature versus nurture had always fascinated her. “Did you always know you were gay?”
“From the moment I got stirrings from looking at Johnnie Michniak in seventh grade. Of course, I didn’t know what that meant, so I did everything a man was supposed to do—dated, made out, even married—but something was missing. It took years to acknowledge that gay is who I am.”
“What about your wife?”
“She’s the one who made me come out.”
“Wow, really?”
“Great woman. She knew the difference. We’re still good friends. You can’t see me, Abby, but no one would look at me and say queer.”
“Do you have a partner?”
“Four years now. We have a great relationship. Eric’s a chef, so I eat well.”
Abby smiled. She felt the same way about Luke. “Luke says you own a martial arts studio.”
“Yes, that’s where we met.”
“And you made a pass.” She said it as light-heartedly as tone allowed.
“He told you? Ratfink.” Jeff laughed. “Yeah, first thing. Luke’s a damn good-looking guy. When he made clear that wasn’t his bag, we moved on. No hard feelings.” He paused. “Does that bother you?”
“No, I commend you on your good taste.”
Abby assumed Luke had filled Jeff in on Stewart and Graeme Collyer. Jeff’s instincts would determine whatever seemed out of the ordinary.
“I want to go outside and get the lay of the property. Be right back.”
Abby let her imagination run wild, conjuring visions of Rambo-type contraptions scattered around the house only soldiers of fortune would know how to implement. She hoped her neighbors didn’t call the police when they saw him surveying the grounds.
Luke and Jeff were making too much of this. Stewart was the real target, and so far he had cleverly avoided being caught by the people who wanted to harm him. Abby was the bait.
And Graeme Collyer was the shark.
Chapter Thirty
The Ultimate Pissing Match
Luke met Charleston Detective Norm Archer at a coffee shop around the corner from his precinct station. He reminded Archer to address him face to face. “No need to shout. And don’t get impatient if I ask you to repeat something.”
“Damn, I thought you’d at least have hearing aids.” Norm munched on a potato chip. “You mean you can’t hear anything?”
“Nothing that means anything.”
“And you’re going after Graeme Collyer? Even if you could hear, you wouldn’t know he was coming up behind you. That’s how good he is.”
“Then I’m not at a disadvantage, am I?” Luke wondered if his sarcasm came through.
Archer shook his head. “It’s your ass.”
Archer’s physical stature mirrored Luke’s—six-one, one hundred-eighty pounds and in rock-solid shape, although he judged the cop to be a few years older than his own forty-two years. That’s where the resemblance ended. Remnants of teenage acne scarred Archer’s face, but instead of detracting from his looks, he appeared rugged—a sexy tough guy in a film noir. Touches of gray threaded a full head of perfectly groomed dark blond hair. His custom-made suit and tie screamed Italian, and peeking from under onyx cuff links on a starched white shirt, Luke spied a gold Rolex.
Either Charleston pays their detectives much higher salaries than Hub City, he has family money, or he’s on the take.
“What do you know about Martin Gentry’s plane crash?” Luke asked.
“I pulled the case to refresh the facts.” Archer mouthed his words carefully. He pulled a pair of designer reading glasses from inside his breast pocket and referred to the notes he’d compiled for their meeting. “Gentry’s plane went down almost nine years ago. Pilot error, they said. The only suspicious element, to me anyway, was the pilot had been a crack birdman in ’Nam. Flew more than a hundred missions. Not the kind of pilot who makes mistakes. No one else found it suspicious. Planes go down; happens all the time. End of story.
“I have to be honest, Luke. I’m not about to resurrect that plane crash and go up against Carlotta Gentry without more than your hunch or the ravings of some lunatic.”
“That lunatic is a Gentry, and he’s like that because Carlotta Gentry made him that way.” Luke refrained from mentioning that Stewart never implicated his mother, but what Stewart said about Scanlon would be interpreted as the ravings of a lunatic. Archer looked around the restaurant as if checking to see if anyone could overhear. Luke took care to lower his voice.
“Carlotta Gentry is buddy-buddy with the police chief and most of Charleston’s judicial elite. That’s how she got Stewart transferred to a hospital of her choice and why they issued a news blackout. Something called power. She inherited it from her marriage to Martin Gentry, and she holds onto it with an iron fist.
“It’s hard to explain a city like this,” the detective continued, “although I’m sure Hub City isn’t much different. The cradle Charlestonians are very cliquey. She’s accepted because she’s filthy rich and married a Gentry, and she’s done whatever necessary to insinuate herself into every phase of Charleston society. Her foundation is known all over the world, a daily funding sponsor on public radio. But, and this is a big but, she’s a Serrano, the daughter of a Boston waste-disposal multi-millionaire rumored to be mob. No one talks about it, but that’s the conclusion. Bottom line? The powerful kiss her ass more out of fear than respect, although there’s that too. You’ll have a hard time getting anyone with credentials to speak against her. If others have suspicions of wrongdoing, they won’t blow the whistle for fear of a Serrano backlash. Half the city is in her pocket for one reason or another. The other half is on the take
.”
Luke didn’t catch all of Archer’s comments, but he got enough. “So, I have my work cut out for me.”
“Yes, you do. Matt Devon was a good reporter and an even better friend. But he was foolhardy, and telling him to back off only made him more determined. He got screwed the first time he tried to nail Carlotta Gentry for manipulating the test results on Synthetec’s drug and playing numbers with the stock, and he ate crow until he regurgitated. Unfortunately, he ate it raw until he got his new stove.”
Luke wanted to smile at the imagery but then thought about Matt. “Did you hear from him before he was murdered?”
“Hey, it’s not murder yet,” Archer said. “And no, I didn’t speak to him. Matt called that morning, but I was on a stakeout and had my phone turned off. He left a message he had proof that’d send a shock wave through this city, but by the time I called him back, he was already dead.” Archer played with another chip, then focused on Luke. “I feel awful about that.”
“We’ve all been through the Monday morning quarterbacking, wondering if we’d done this instead of that, the outcome might have been different. You had no control on this one.”
“I keep telling myself that.”
“What do you think he meant by shock wave?”
“Beats the hell out of me. Matt talked like that. Everything was an exposé. I took his hyperbole with a grain of salt or else I’d have spent all my time tracking his leads.”
“Did CSU go over the inside of the car?”
“Like a mother digging for nits in her kid’s head. Nothing. Whoever drove him off the road got whatever Matt had with him and took a hell of a chance doing it. Traffic either way would have exposed him.”
“I want you to listen to the disks Matt sent me. I think you’ll find them interesting.”
“We’ll go to my house. I don’t want to bring this to the precinct until I hear what you have. Carlotta Gentry has cops on her payroll, and I’m not sure who they are. Even then, it’s not a done deal. When I get involved, I want solid evidence of wrongdoing. These are powerful people. I’m not going back to directing traffic.”
Luke followed Norm’s unmarked car for about a mile. He pulled into the driveway of a two-story Georgian and kept going until he reached a small carriage house on the backside of the property.
“Nice place,” Luke said.
“Big house is my sister’s place. Been renting this since my last divorce.”
Luke took in the small, expensively-furnished house. “Last divorce?”
“Cops don’t make good husbands. Hard to close it off at the end of the day and come home like you’ve been at summer camp. Women get tired of the lonely nights. You married?”
“Divorced. Just once.”
“I’m off for the rest of the day. Good excuse for a beer.” Archer took a couple of longnecks from the refrigerator, handed one to Luke. “How’d you get involved in this mess anyway?”
Luke recounted the story. “Sounds like a soap opera, doesn’t it?”
“Sounds like destiny to me. You in love with this woman?”
Luke hadn’t verbalized his feelings to anyone. Those around him might have guessed, especially Pete, but no one knew for sure. “Yeah, I am,” he admitted, surprised how easily it rolled off his tongue.
“I remember the shooting. Even though it happened in Hub City, Stewart Gentry was a hometown boy. Shocked everyone around here. Killing your own kid, blinding your ex-wife. No one remembered Stewart as a potential murderer.”
“I don’t think he was,” Luke said.
“I knew him. My father and Stewart’s father were close friends. That’s another reason why this whole thing is a little tricky for me.”
“So you’re the old Charleston money you talked about.”
“Yup.”
“Accounts for the watch,” Luke said, pointing at the Rolex.
“Rolex or not, I’m still the black sheep. Like Stewart. Men with our family backgrounds aren’t groomed to be cops or artists. Sorry if that sounds snotty; it’s a fact. Stewart is an ugly chapter in Charleston’s history. People around here prefer to believe he’s dead.”
“Abby thought so. Her mother never told her the truth in an effort to protect her. Stewart’s showing up knocked her for a loop.”
“I guess if your dead ex-husband suddenly turns up, being knocked for a loop is an understatement. I’ll listen to the disks, then we’ll go from there.”
Luke relaxed into a modern leather chair—some famous designer, he thought—and read Field & Stream. Peeking over the top of the magazine, he watched Norm make a few notes on a pad as he listened, saw him grimace. Luke caught his wave when he finished.
“We can discuss this over dinner,” Norm said. “I’m gonna take you for the best seafood you’ll ever put in your mouth. This is one time you’ll be glad you can’t hear. The place is noisy as hell.”
Two hours later, Luke, stuffed with hushpuppies and crab cakes he’d devoured at Hyman’s Seafood, raised his beer glass to his lips. Norm confessed that from everything he’d heard on the recordings, he believed Luke’s theory. Proving it was something else, especially since it incriminated some of the most powerful people in the city.
“The only witness, Valentina Kozov, won’t testify,” Norm said, downing his third beer. “She never referred to Graeme Collyer by name, and Carlotta Gentry’s name didn’t blip the radar screen. Kozov mentioned the offshoot Synthetec lab but said she’d deny knowledge of it, under oath. If we find her. That, my friend, is not good.” Norm wiped his mouth with his napkin and continued. “Furthermore, Scanlon’s name never came up. I’d need probable cause to pull him in, and I don’t have it. I doubt he’d talk anyway. Psychiatrists are like that. They’ve got everything figured out before they’re grilled.”
The more Archer laid out the facts, the more depressed Luke felt. The cop was right. They didn’t have enough to build a case.
“In addition,” Norm went on, “you can’t prove the pills you took from the cabin were Stewart’s. You said there were no identifying marks.”
“Right.”
“Which translates to zero proof they were manufactured by Synthetec or any other pharmaceutical company. Could be a private concoction. Even if Collyer drives a Lincoln Navigator, that doesn’t prove he drove Matt off the road or terrorized your girlfriend and her mother. You know how many people drive those behemoths? In short, everything is circumstantial. The captain would throw me the hell out of his office, and who knows if he’s in Carlotta Gentry’s employ.”
“I know I’m right.” But Luke also knew everything Norm said was true.
Norm brushed crumbs into the palm of his other hand and flicked them into his empty plate. “I think you are too. But I got nothing.”
“Did Matt’s autopsy show anything that would cause him to loose control, like drugs?”
“No. The M.E. listed the COD as suffocation due to compression.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Nowhere. Not unless we can get someone to talk.”
“Well, it won’t be Collyer. I know men like him. He’d go to his death before ratting out his boss.”
“I’d concentrate on Scanlon,” Norm said. “He’s a slimy little creature. Ever see him?”
“No.”
“You’re in for a treat.”
“Maybe I’ll get a closer inspection,” Luke said. “Think I’ll ruffle some feathers while I’m here.”
“I’d go with you, but I’m afraid that would border on official.”
“Naw, thanks anyway. I don’t want anyone to know we’ve connected yet. My digging around is off the record. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Be careful. You’re a good lip reader, but you still can’t hear.”
“Ya think?”
* * * * *
The next morning, Luke entered the Scanlon Psychiatric Clinic and asked to speak to Dr. Herbert Scanlon. The flustered secretary retreated inside a glass-enclosed office and pick
ed up the phone. He strained to see her lips, but she saw him watching and turned around. After a few minutes, she returned and mouthed that Dr. Scanlon would be with him shortly, then ushered him inside a well-appointed office and told him to make himself comfortable.
Luke glanced around. Leather and mahogany, Persian rugs, gilt-edged books. Expensive. Lots of money in psychiatry. Or was it pharmaceuticals? Probably both. Scanlon was obviously a multitasker.
Luke did a double take when Herbert Scanlon entered the room. He looked as close to an albino as Luke had ever seen. His skin and hair were matching pale; colorless eyes like watery opals stared without expression. He stood about half a foot shorter than Luke and carried half the volume. Scanlon met Luke’s proffered hand with a limp return, his skin dry and soft, as if it had been dusted with talc. Luke couldn’t hear his voice, but he could tell by watching Scanlon’s mouth that he overemphasized his pronunciation. The psychiatrist knew Luke was deaf. So did his secretary. Which meant this visit wasn’t a surprise. How in hell…
“My secretary said you wanted to speak to me about Stewart Gentry.”
Luke noticed the little man flapped his eyelids like a lizard, exaggerating his bizarre appearance. “Yes, I appreciate your seeing me without notice. I’m sure you have a very busy schedule, so I won’t take up much of your time.”
“I don’t discuss my patients, Detective McCallister. That information is confidential. What is your connection to Stewart Gentry anyway?”
As if you didn’t know. “He’s been harassing his ex-wife. She’s a friend.”
“What makes you think I can do anything about that? Stewart walked out of the residential wing of this facility where he’s been for the last eight years. The authorities have been searching for him, without success.”
“Are they, Doctor? If so, this is the quietest manhunt for a murderer I’ve been party to.”
“The Gentry family has suffered enough bad publicity, Detective. They prefer the search be kept from the media. They’d succeeded, until your city’s department made it public. Stewart isn’t dangerous. He’s come a long way in eight years. True, he’ll never be what we term ‘normal,’ and he’ll always have minor psychotic episodes, but as long as he’s on medication he’s no danger to himself or anyone else.”
