"Hell, go for it, Zee. Seeing a shrink might do you some good. Just be careful she doesn't have you committed."
"Screw that. I'm more worried about getting torched in my car."
* * * *
Lauren Bannan delayed making the phone call as long as she could. She meant to make it after lunch, but wound up working at her desk well into the afternoon.
So she swore to make it the last call of the business day. Then forgot again. Sort of.
But when she stepped into the kitchen of the small lakefront cottage she'd leased after her separation, she knew she couldn't delay any longer. And like most tasks we dread, it wasn't as difficult as she'd feared.
Nearly eighty now, Jared Bannan's mother had been in a rest home in Miami for years. She was used to receiving bad news. In the home, it came on a daily basis.
"Don't make a big fuss over the funeral, Lauren,” she quavered. “Jared never cared a fig for religion and I won't be coming. I'm sorry, but I'm simply not up to it. Hold whatever service you feel is appropriate, then send his ashes to me. He can be on the mantel, beside his father. I'll be seeing them both before long. How are you holding up, my dear?"
And Lauren started to cry. Tears streaming silently as she listened to words of comfort from an elderly lady she hardly knew. And would never see again.
"I'm all right, Mother Bannan,” she lied. “I'll be fine."
Afterward, she washed her face, made herself a stiff cup of Irish coffee, then sat down at her kitchen table to scan the Yellow Pages listings for funeral homes.
The doorbell rang.
Padding barefoot to her front door, Lauren checked the peephole, half expecting Marty Lehman. He'd been hinting about offering her a shoulder to cry on—
But it wasn't.
"Detective Redfern,” Lauren said, opening the door wide. “What can I do for Valhalla's finest?"
"Sorry to bother you at home, Dr. Bannan, but a few things have come up. Can you spare me a minute?"
"Actually, your timing's perfect, Detective. I have to choose a funeral home for Jared's service. Can you recommend one?"
"McGuinn's downtown handles the department funerals.” Zina followed Lauren through the living room to the kitchen, glancing around the small apartment. It was practically barren. She'd seen abandoned homes that looked friendlier. “Love what you've done with the place."
"I'm still living out of boxes in the garage,” Lauren admitted. “I took the place for the view. The back deck overlooks the lake. Sit down, please. I'm having Irish coffee. Would you like some?"
"Coffee's fine, but hold the Irish, please.” Zina took a chair at the kitchen table. “This isn't a social call."
"Good,” Lauren said, placing a steaming mug in front of Zina, sitting directly across from her. “I wouldn't know how to deal with a social call. Our friends were mostly Jared's business buddies. What do you need, Detective?"
"You sure you're up for this? You seem a bit ... distracted."
"This hasn't been a day to relive in my golden years, but I'm not a china doll, either. Cut to the chase, please."
"Fair enough. We've got an ugly murder on our hands, and you're screwing up our case."
"In what way?"
"By lying to us or withholding information."
"Holy crap,” Lauren said, sipping her coffee. “That's pretty direct."
"You're not a china doll."
"No, I'm not,” Lauren said, taking a deep breath. “I'm a special-ed teacher and counselor, licensed by the state and prohibited by federal law from divulging information obtained in my work. To anyone."
"Are you trying to tell me you know who killed your husband?"
"No. Absolutely not."
"But you know something?"
"Nothing that directly relates to Jared's death. And nothing I can discuss with you in any case."
"Reality check, Doc. A fair amount of evidence points directly at you. Shut us out and you could end up in a jackpot that can wreck your life, guilty or not."
"I'll help you in any way I can."
Leaning back in her chair, Zee sipped her coffee, reading Lauren's face openly. “All right. Let's hit the high spots. In our first interview, Doyle asked why you moved north. You ducked that question. Why was that?"
Lauren glanced away a moment, then met Zina's eyes straight on. “Jared and I needed a fresh start after the death of our son,” she said flatly. “Jared Junior was born with a congenital heart defect. He lived five months. We hoped a new place might help. It didn't."
"I'm sorry."
"It was four years ago. I didn't become a counselor because I'm a good person who wanted to help others, Detective. I was only trying to save myself."
"How's it going?"
"A day at a time. Next question?"
"The big one. When Doyle asked who might have cause to hurt your husband, you hesitated."
"Did I?"
"You just did it again. Are you protecting someone?"
"I'm sorry,” Lauren said, shaking her head slowly. “I can't."
"You can't?I can't believe you'd protect a killer over some damned technicality. Give me a name! Hell, give me his initials!"
"I just told you, I can't!"
"Jesus H. Christ!” Zina said, rising from her chair, leaning across the table. “In Flint I worked gangland, lady. The east side. I've known some hardcore bangers, but I've never met a colder case than you. The guy may have killed your husband!"
"You'd better go, Detective."
"Damn right I'd better, before I slap the crap out of you. But I'm warning you, Doc, if anybody else gets hurt because you held out on us? I'll burn you down, swear to God!"
* * * *
Doyle was at his desk when Zina stormed in.
"She definitely knows something, but won't give it up,” Zina said, dropping into her seat, still seething. “What did you get?"
"More than I wanted to,” Doyle said absently.
"About who? Ferguson?"
"The old man's been in the county psych ward for a week, for evaluation. Twenty-four seven observation. He's totally clear. So I ran Reiser through the Law Enforcement Information Net."
"Cash told us to lay off him."
"I didn't run his name, just his general description and those missing fingertips. Got a dozen possibles, but only one serious hit. A case I actually remembered, from twelve years ago in Ohio. I was a rookie on the Detroit force then. A Toledo hit man called The Jap rolled on the Volchek crime family, busted up a major drug ring. They wiped out his wife and kids as a payback."
"Nobody in our case is Japanese."
"Neither was the hit man. He got that nickname because he had some fingertips missing. Japanese Yakuza gangsters whack off their fingertips over matters of honor."
"Hell, Doyle, half my backwoods relatives are missing fingers or toes because they swing chainsaws for a living. That doesn't make ‘em hit men."
"There's more. After the trial, the Jap disappeared. No mention of prison time, no updates on his whereabouts. Zip, zilch, nada."
"You think the Feds put him in the witness protection program?"
"Probably,” Doyle agreed. “Let's say you've got a witness with a contract out on him. You can give him a new identity, even plastic surgery. But you can't grow his fingers back..."
"They stashed him in chainsaw country,” Zina finished, “where nobody notices missing fingers. You think Reiser's this Jap?"
"I can't think of any other reason a backwoods boat builder would be waltzing with J. Edgar Hoover."
"And this hit man's daughter is in Dr. Bannan's school, so they almost certainly know each other. Do you think she knows who he really is?"
"I know they've been talking a lot,” Doyle said. “I pulled her telephone LUDs. She calls the parents of her students occasionally, probably to discuss problems or progress. But over the past few months she's been talking to Emil Reiser several times a week."
"His daughter's dying."
"And
as her teacher, the doc would naturally be concerned,” Doyle nodded. “But they usually talk during business hours. She calls the shop or he calls the school. Except for last Tuesday. She called him at ten p.m. And two days later..."
"Somebody greased her husband,” Zina whistled. “Wow. But can we move on this? Cash told us to lay off Rieser unless we had rock-solid evidence. All we've got is a possible connection between the doc and a possible hit man. And I guarantee she won't give anything up. That's one tough broad."
"Cash ordered us to give Emil Reiser a pass. He didn't say anything about Mrs. Reiser."
"Rosie was already half in the bag this afternoon,” Zina agreed. “By now she's probably sloshed and looking for a shoulder to cry on."
But Rosie Reiser wasn't at the Lakefront Inn. Her boyfriend told them she'd been called to the hospital. An ambulance had brought Princess Jeanie to the emergency room an hour earlier.
D.O.A.
* * * *
They found Rosie Reiser in the E.R. waiting room, alone and dazed, her hair a shambles, cheeks streaked with mascara like a mime's tears. Her eyes were as vacant as an abandoned building.
"Mrs. Reiser,” Zina said, kneeling beside Rosie's chair. “We're very sorry for your loss. Can you tell us what happened?"
"Emil called. Said Jeanie was gone. She was fishin’ off the end of the dock, that kid loved bein’ outdoors ... But she dropped her pole. And when Emil checked, she was...” Rosie took an unsteady breath. “He called the ambulance, they brought her here. They let me see her before they took her downstairs."
"Where's your husband now?” Doyle asked.
"He split. He knew when Jeanie died, the doc would give him up. Figured you'd come for him."
"You mean Dr. Bannan knows who he is?"
"Hell, she was the one that warned him. That bitch almost got me killed!"
"Warned him about what, Mrs. Reiser? What happened?"
"Our final hearing was coming up, Jared had a buyer lined up for the business, we could cash out and be gone. But Emil kept stalling, wanted to wait because of Jeanie. Him and Jared had a big blowout about it. After Emil stormed out, I told Jared about Emil being in witness protection, hiding out up here. Jared planned to out him in court, make Emil run for his damn life. That way I'd get everything, not just half."
"Clever plan,” Zina said, her tone neutral.
"Marty Lehman didn't think so. He argued with Jared about it. Claimed Jared was an officer of the court, shouldn't give Emil up. Jared told him to screw himself. I thought we'd won. Then the doc tipped Emil what was up and he took Jared out. Told me if I opened my mouth, he'd do me and Mal the same way."
"How did Dr. Bannan find out about Emil?” Doyle asked. “Are they involved?"
"Involved?” Rosie echoed, puzzled.
"Are they lovers, Mrs. Reiser? Are they friends?"
"Hell, Emil's got no friends. We had to live like goddamn hermits out there.” And she began to sob, great gasping yawps of self-pity.
"Mrs. Reiser, do you know where your husband might have gone?” Zina pressed.
"He went with Jeanie when they took her down. He didn't want her to be alone in that place."
"What place—whoa, you mean the morgue? Doyle, the morgue's in the basement. Reiser's still here!"
* * * *
But he wasn't. They found the morgue attendant sitting on the floor, in a daze, his skull bloodied. He said Reiser clipped him with a gun butt. He was gone. And he'd taken his daughter's body.
* * * *
Lights and sirens, flying through town pedal to the metal, Doyle driving, Zina hanging on to the dashboard crash bar.
Turning onto the Point Lucien road, he switched off the sirens without slowing. Not that it mattered. Reiser would be expecting them.
"Eavesdropping,” Zina said suddenly.
"What?"
"When we were out here before, the girl was fishing. Emil signed for her to turn her back. He said she could eavesdrop at fifty yards. But she was deaf."
"He meant she could read lips."
"That's right. And where would a kid learn to do that?"
Doyle risked a quick sidelong glance, then refocused on the road. “In school,” he nodded. “Dr. Bannan teaches hearing-impaired kids and she was in the anteroom when her husband and Lehman were arguing about outing Reiser."
"In an office with glass walls,” Zee finished. “The secretary couldn't hear them, but the doc could have picked up the gist of their argument. And warned Reiser."
"And Reiser killed her husband to—Sweet Jesus!” Doyle broke off. “What the hell is all that?"
Ahead of them, the sky was glowing red, dancing shadows flickering through the trees as Doyle whipped the patrol car around, skidding broadside into the Lone Pine parking lot.
The boat works was engulfed in flame, a seething, crackling inferno fueled by the stacks of dried wood. Black smoke and sparks roiling upward into the winter night. Backlit by the blaze, Emil Rieser was calmly watching the fire consume years of his work. And his daughter. His whole life.
As Doyle and Zina stepped out of the car, Reiser turned to face them, his work clothes blackened with soot, his shaggy mane wild. Holding a hunting rifle cradled in his arms.
Doyle carefully drew his own weapon, keeping it at his side.
"Mr. Reiser, we'd appreciate it if you'd put that gun down, and step away from it."
"Not a chance, Stark. Just give me a few minutes. Jeanie wanted her ashes scattered out here, this is my last chance to do for her. Let the fire go a bit longer, then we'll get to it."
"To what?” Zina asked.
"You know who I am, and what I've done."
"You killed Jared Bannan?” Doyle asked.
"I did the world a favor with that one. I only wanted another month or so. Less, as it turned out. He was gonna wreck the little time Jeanie had left just to squeeze a few more dollars out of the deal. If anybody ever had it comin', that sonofabitch did."
"Was Bannan's wife a part of it?"
"Part of what?” Reiser asked, glancing absently at the fire, gauging its progress.
"Did she know you were going to kill her husband?” Doyle pressed.
"She phoned me, warned me he was going to blow my cover. Tell her I said thanks."
"You can tell her yourself."
"No,” Reiser said. “It's too late for that. Fire's about done. Let's get to the rest of it."
"Please don't do anything crazy, Mr. Reiser,” Zina pleaded quietly. “Do you think your daughter would want this?"
"All Jeanie ever asked for was an early Christmas. She didn't even get that. Maybe it's an early Christmas where she is now. Hell, maybe it's Christmas every damn day. We'll see."
Zina and Doyle exchanged a lightning glance, reading the vacancy in Reiser's eyes. Knowing what it meant.
"Hold on, Mr. Reiser,” Zee said, drawing her automatic. “Please, don't do this."
"Funny, that's what Bannan said. Don't. Please. Something like that. It didn't work for him, either.” Reiser jacked a shell into the chamber of his rifle. “It's on you two now, lady. You can send me over. Or come along for the ride."
And he raised the rifle.
Doyle fired first, spinning Reiser halfway around, then all three of them were desperately exchanging fire as the boatyard blazed madly in the background, flames and smoke coiling upward, smothering the stars of the winter night. A funeral pyre worthy of a princess.
"Do you think he was really trying to kill us?” Zina asked, fingering the rip in the shoulder of her black nylon POLICE jacket, the only damage from the fatal shootout.
"I don't think he cared. He sure as hell didn't leave us any choice.” They were in the car, roaring back through town with lights and sirens. Leaving the smoldering boatyard to the firemen and the crime-scene team. And the coroner.
"What's your hurry?” Though she already knew.
"Like the man said, it's time to settle up. Any problem with that?"
"Nope. I tol
d the doc if anyone else died, we'd be along."
"All right then."
* * * *
It was past midnight when they skidded into Lauren Bannan's driveway. Doyle left the strobes flashing. Wanting the neighbors to know. He hammered on the door. No answer.
"I'm out here,” Lauren called.
They circled the house to the rear deck. Lauren was standing by the rail, in black slacks and a turtleneck, looking out over the lake. Slivers of early ice floating ghostly in the dark waters, as far as the eye could see.
"Reiser's dead,” Doyle said bluntly. “His daughter too."
Lauren nodded, absorbing it, showing nothing. “Did Jeanie go easily?"
"I ... suppose so,” he said, surprised by the question. “She died in her chair, on the dock."
"That's good. It can be far worse, with cancer. What's the rest of it?"
"Emil Reiser killed your husband, Dr. Bannan. He admitted it. Before we had to kill him."
"I'm sorry it came to that."
"It didn't have to! You could have stopped it! Warned us. The way you warned him. You knew what he'd do."
"No. I didn't know that. Not then."
"But you damn sure knew after the fact! And you still didn't tell us."
"I couldn't."
"Because of some damned regulation?"
"No. Not because of the law. I would have broken it. But my obligation wasn't to you, Sergeant, or even to my husband."
"Triage,” Zina said quietly, getting it. “You told me the first day. It was too late to save your husband. Or Reiser. You were protecting the child."
"Jeanie's mother is a hopeless alcoholic, drowning in self-pity, with a violent boyfriend. If I'd warned you about her father, it would have destroyed the little time Jeanie had left. She was already dealing with so much, I simply couldn't do that to her."
"But you knew Reiser was a murderer!” Doyle raged.
"Actually, I didn't, but it wouldn't have mattered. You saw them together. She worshiped him. And he treated her like..."
"A princess,” Zina finished.
"What?” Doyle said, whirling on her. “You can't be buying this crock?"
EQMM, January 2009 Page 16
