The Merchant of Death (Playing the Fool, #2)

by Lisa Henry

“Hey. The power’s out in the copy room.”

  “Yeah,” Julie said, “the cafeteria just called. They’re out too. I don’t know what’s up. Maintenance is checking it out now, but I’ll let them know to check the copy room too.”

  The woman walked away, and Henry left his mop leaning against the table beside Sylvia and followed. The woman went back to her office, and Henry slipped into the darkened copy room. He shut the door and pulled out his flashlight, then opened the paper shredder and shined the light inside. This was a long shot, but the shredder wasn’t too full, and Henry poked around, looking for anything of interest.

  Was surprised when he found a strip of blue paper with

  ely,

  Crow

  on the bottom.

  And ear T on the top.

  Something from Crowley? Or was Henry just so desperate he was seeing what he wanted to see?

  He looked around for other strips of blue paper. Found several more. He gathered as many as he could before he heard voices in the hall. He shut off the flashlight and wedged himself under the folding table by the copier.

  No one came in.

  He slipped the strips of paper he’d gathered into his pocket, and put the lid back on the shredder.

  Once the voices retreated, he left the copy room. Went back to the atrium to collect his mop. Took it to the maintenance closet, and flipped the fuses on.

  Then he left the closet, took the keys back to Julie, and returned to Viola’s room.

  “I need her to leave me alone,” Mac said, slamming through the drawers of his desk, searching for his favorite pen.

  Val didn’t answer.

  “I need her to get the fuck out of my face so I can do my job.”

  “And what exactly are you doing, Mac?” Val leaned against his door frame, her arms crossed.

  He looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re supposedly on leave, but you’re in and out of the office, making phone calls, asking Dennis to run checks on names—”

  “He told you?”

  “Is there something I should know?”

  He straightened. “I’m just trying to not fall too far behind.”

  Great, now he was lying to Val. He was helping Henry masquerade as his twin sister, he was visiting crime scenes he hadn’t been invited to, he was letting a navy suit–wearing hell fiend try to destroy his reputation . . . and now he was lying to the one person who didn’t make him crazy. Who trusted his judgment.

  “How was your doctor’s appointment?”

  He blinked.

  “Aha.”

  “Oh that,” he said, a beat too late.

  “Cut the shit, Mac.”

  He sighed. Rubbed a hand over his chin. He was gonna have to tell her sometime. “I went to check out where Lonny Harris’s body was found.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ve gotta figure this thing out, Val. Bixler’s saying this guy was her informant. This guy turns up shot through the head and the heart, and he was gonna make a complaint about me? What the fuck is going on?” He glanced back into the drawer. “And where the fuck is my pen?”

  “Your pen?”

  “Yes, my pen. My fucking pen that I always use. Has someone been in my fucking desk?”

  “You want to take a breath?”

  “Not really.”

  Val just stared at him until he took a breath.

  “I don’t know this guy, Val.” He shoved Lonny Harris’s file across the desk. “I don’t know him, or any of his associates.”

  He had a feeling he could list them in his sleep now, though. David Halloran. Charlotte Jackson. Remy Greig. Gary Bowers. Audrey Vega. And pages and pages more. Six pages of associates in total, and not one of them made a tiny ping on Mac’s radar.

  “Bixler’s pushing me on Henry too.” He shook his head. “She wants to interview him.”

  “You know where he is.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I do. Sort of. Yes.”

  “Then get in touch with him.”

  “He’s a little busy at the moment.”

  She kept staring.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m in deep shit.”

  “I know. But we’ll sort it out.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know yet.” She entered the office and sat across from his desk. Crossed her legs. “You don’t think . . .”

  “What?”

  “I keep coming back to Jeff. Wondering how we— How I missed that.”

  “Val.”

  “He worked here for five years. And he didn’t— I mean, he did a good job. And now I’ve got to go back through every case he touched and try to figure out if he sabotaged it somehow. And it’s just, like, no. I knew the guy. I would have noticed if something was up.”

  “Who knows when Maxfield bought him? He could’ve been loyal to the Bureau for years, and then last summer his wife mentioned wanting a bigger house . . .”

  “I don’t understand. Why put yourself through it? You’ve got to work like a fucking dog to get in here, and why put in the time if you’re gonna throw your whole career away the day some sleazebag promises you a briefcase full of cash?”

  “Dunno. Jeff was proud of the work he did here. Maybe he was even prouder of being able to play us.”

  “And now I’ve got to wonder about everyone else. Are there other signs I’m missing? People I’ve thought were loyal, who—”

  “The thing with Jeff was a freak incident.”

  “What about this OPR business?” Val said. “You think it’s a coincidence, them turning up at the same time Lonny Harris turns up dead? Throwing old cases in your face? Telling you Harris says you bought coke from him? Mac, anyone who’s seen your record would know that’s a lie. You’ve always tested clean.”

  “I don’t know. Nobody knew Jeff was working against us. I guess they figure I could have secrets too.”

  “Someone’s got it in for you, Mac. And if it doesn’t have something to do with Rasnick’s death, I’ll eat my fucking sensible shoes.”

  “Maybe so.” Yeah, this looked bad. But what could Mac do but go on living his life? He’d keep investigating the Harris thing. And he’d keep helping Henry out at St. Albinus—though God knew that was probably the worst decision he could make short of telling Janice Bixler to go fuck herself. “But let’s see what happens. They’ve got nothing on me but the word of a dead guy.”

  “What I’m saying, though, is should I be looking into anyone here? What if whoever’s orchestrating this Harris shit is someone close to you?”

  “I don’t think we’ve got another mole.” He wanted to believe that was true. Lightning didn’t strike twice and all that.

  “Didn’t Maxfield tell you there were bigger fish than Jeff on the payroll?”

  “It was a pissing contest. He would have said anything to rile me.”

  Mac didn’t know why he was arguing against the possibility of another mole. But he didn’t want to believe it anymore than Val did. Nobody here was his friend, apart from Val—possibly Penny, although that might have been a stretch—but he didn’t think they had anything to do with Lonny Harris or Janice Bixler.

  But when he found out who’d told on him about the mood swings, he’d . . .

  Address the issue calmly and courteously, so as not to give Janice Bixler any further reason to think he was on drugs.

  Val shook her head. “I don’t know, Mac. This is weird.”

  “Weird,” he agreed. “You know a good lawyer?”

  Someone knocked on the door. “Mac?” Dennis stuck his head in. “I found something on that guy.”

  “That’s great, Dennis,” Val said. “What guy?”

  “Oh, uh . . .” Dennis looked back and forth between Mac and Val. “Some doctor Mac was wondering about.”

  Val raised her brows. “Are you really going to make me ask what’s going on, Mac?”

  “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”

  “I definitely do.”

 
Dennis slipped past Val and handed a folder to Mac. “You’re after a bad one.”

  “Thanks, Dennis,” Mac said. “I owe you one.”

  “I’ll get you the sign-up sheet,” Dennis called as he left. “You’d make a good ump.”

  “I’m going to read over your shoulder.” Val got up and came around to Mac’s side as he spread out the papers on top of poor Lonny Harris.

  “Shit,” he said as he read. “Fuck.”

  “Who is this guy?” Val leaned closer to see the print.

  “He’s the guy whose hospital Henry’s currently checked into.”

  “Hospital?”

  He reached for the phone. “I’ll explain everything in a minute. But I’ve got to warn Henry.”

  He started to dial. Realized he didn’t know Henry’s number. “Goddamn it.”

  He looked up the number for St. Albinus and called. Got the receptionist, who said she’d page Viola. Nothing happened for a few minutes. Then the line went dead.

  Mac set the phone down. “I have to get ahold of Henry.”

  “What happened to explaining?” Val asked.

  “Henry might be in trouble.”

  She raised a finger as though she was about to lecture him, then sighed and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Mac. Just . . . Fuck, just be careful, okay? You are this close to tripping up. This fucking close. They’re gunning for you, Mac, and I don’t fucking know why.”

  “Yeah.” He squeezed her hand and drew a breath, ignoring the stab of pain.

  Henry.

  Fuck everyone and everything else. He had to warn Henry.

  Henry waited until he couldn’t anymore. Mac had promised he’d come back. He hadn’t specified a time, but still, Henry would have expected him by now. Henry shut himself in Viola’s tiny bathroom, took out his phone and Mac’s card, and dialed. Mac answered on the third ring. He sounded breathless.

  “Henry!”

  “Mac, where the hell are you? You’re not gonna believe what I’ve—”

  “Henry, listen. I need to tell you—”

  “I did an independent study during craft time today. Partially reassembled a document from the shredder.” Henry couldn’t make himself slow down. Mac wanted to blow him off because he thought Henry didn’t have a case? Well, he’d have to listen now.

  “Henry—”

  “It’s a letter from Crowley’s son to an organization called the Terminal Patients Alliance. I don’t know how Carlisle got ahold of it. The TPA handles cases of suspected involuntary euthanasia. I don’t have the whole letter, But Crowley’s son accused Dr. Carlisle of falsifying a death certificate. I think—”

  “Henry, listen,” Mac interrupted again. “Dennis turned up some information on your director. Seth Carlisle is an alias. Two years ago, under the name Timothy Klein, he was director during a suspicious death at a nursing home in Missouri. He was never charged with anything, but money from the alleged victim was routed into a private account. The hospital claimed it had been willed to them, but it disappeared with Klein. He is a dangerous man. I need you to get out of there immediately.”

  “What?” Henry didn’t really care who the fuck Carlisle—Klein—was. He already knew the guy was a piece of shit. He just needed to prove it to the cops. “Mac, I’m so close. I just have to find out how Dreama’s involved, and—”

  “Henry!”

  Henry had to hold the phone away from his ear a little.

  “Your work there is done. We take this straight to the police, and you get out of there. Immediately.”

  “That’s gonna be hard, Mac. It’s pajama party night, and—”

  “Henry, I’m serious. Get out of there.”

  “Please,” Henry whispered, glancing at the bathroom door. He thought he’d heard a sound in the main room. “I can do this. You just have to trust me.”

  “No,” Mac said firmly. “I am up to my elbows in shit right now, and I don’t need you adding to it. When you leave, come straight to my office and—”

  Henry hung up, frustrated. The phone started buzzing immediately, and Henry stared at it. The cops or the feds, it didn’t matter—both would take weeks to get through all the red tape and investigate Carlisle, and in that time, Carlisle could easily get rid of any and all evidence that Crowley had been coerced into changing his will and then killed. The phone stopped. Then started up again. “Fuck you, Mac,” Henry muttered to it, hitting Ignore. He stuffed it in his dress pocket and opened the bathroom door.

  And found himself face-to-face with Dreama Carey Coleman.

  Mac tried to redial Henry’s cell. Twice. In each instance, it rang seven times, then stopped. Not even a voice mail. Was Mac surprised?

  He waited another minute, then tried again. Nothing.

  He went to get a coffee—decaf—and tried to think about Lonny Harris. What it could mean that a guy had turned up shot through the head and the heart, Rasnick style. And that the same fucking day, Janice Bixler had materialized like the Ghost of Cases Past to guide him through all the shit he’d ever screwed up. But all he could think about was Henry, who was no doubt going to do something stupid, unless Mac stopped him. And suddenly Mac wondered why the fuck he was sitting here trying to call Henry instead of going to Zionsville and stopping him.

  Probably because Janice Bixler from the Office of Professional Fucking Responsibility would be on him like a ton of bricks if she found out what was going on at Zionsville. But then, what the hell did it matter? She couldn’t think much worse of him. And it would be so satisfying to piss her off even more.

  This must be how Henry feels around me.

  He drummed his desk.

  Stared at the clock on the far wall. It was past six. Normal people were getting home about now, taking their jackets and shoes off, and relaxing for the evening. Mac had been normal once. Before Henry.

  Goddamn Henry.

  Henry has his instructions. He knows he’s supposed to leave immediately and come here. He can make his own fucking decisions and live with the consequences. He’s made it twenty-five years without you. He could probably have a franchise of films produced about all the times he’s escaped death and danger and then gone to bed with some gorgeous guy.

  He doesn’t need you.

  He clenched his fists.

  Yes, he does. For the moments when he’s a stupid fucking kid, no artist at all, he does.

  He stood and gathered his keys.

  He was going to Zionsville.

  “What were you doing in there, Viola?” Dreama asked. Her voice was as cheery as ever, but Henry thought he detected an edge to it. Crazy old bat. He would never understand why some people found the elderly endearing. Even Mr. Crowley, whom he’d tried to like for Vi’s sake, had scared the shit out of him.

  Henry moved past her to the bed. “Peeing,” he said in Vi’s voice.

  “You were talking to someone.”

  “Myself.”

  “Oh dear. We’ve discussed this. If you want to seem more like a grown-up, you have to act in a way that’s socially appropriate. Do grown-ups talk to themselves?”

  “I had to remind myself how to do the sink.”

  Dreama smiled. “Next time remind yourself quietly.”

  I wish your body would quietly remind your brain that it’s getting to be about time for you to cross the river Styx.

  “Why did you leave craft time?” Dreama asked. “Sarah said you didn’t finish your project.”

  He made a mental note to tell Mac about this interrogation technique—the third degree, delivered with oozy cheer by a senior citizen in a Precious Moments sweatshirt. Way scarier even than a coffee-deprived Mac.

  “I was tired.”

  Dreama cocked her head, her face crinkling into an expression of concern that Henry didn’t buy for a second. “You do look tired, sweetie. Do you think you should nap?”

  I think you should get the hell out of my sister’s room.

  But this might be a useful opportunity. “Yeah.” He yawned. “I want
a nap.”

  “Of course you do. Lie down, now, and we’ll—”

  The phone went off in Henry’s pocket. He and Dreama both held very still through the first couple of faint buzzes.

  Fuck.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone.

  For fuck’s fucking sake, Mac.

  He thought about answering it. Trying to give Mac some signal that he was trapped in a room with the Pooh bitch from hell, and that she looked a little like she might be planning to very slowly and sweetly cook his heart and eat it.

  But he could handle this. For sure. The FBI would thank him once he blew this case wide open for them. Maybe they’d even upgrade his hotel. The phone buzzed in his hand, the screen glowing.

  “Viola,” Dreama said softly. “Where did you get that?”

  I don’t know; where did you get your hideous sweatshirts and parched soul?

  “My cousin Mac,” he said smoothly. The phone stopped buzzing.

  “You’re not allowed to have a cell phone unless we approve it.”

  Yup, mein Führer. Noted. “He wants to talk to me sometimes.”

  Dreama shook her head. “Your cousin’s behavior can be very inappropriate. I wonder, Viola, what he wants to be able to talk to you about? Why is he showing up in your life now wanting to talk? There’s no record of him visiting you before.”

  “Um, my mom said, when I was a kid, she said Cousin Mac wasn’t allowed to come by. So maybe he got lonely? And now he wants to see me, since he wasn’t allowed before?” He didn’t know where he was going with this. He just needed to find a way to get Dreama Carey Coleman out of the room. And maybe a fake dark family secret was the way to go.

  Dreama seemed suddenly eager, hungry for more. “Why wasn’t your cousin allowed to come around?”

  He shrugged. “Mom said he shouldn’t be around kids.”

  “Did he ever do anything that made you feel uncomfortable? Like what he did last time? Touching you, or . . . or . . .”

  He did his best to appear anguished. He twisted his fingers together and let his lower lip waver. “He wrote me a letter. It had dirty words in it. He—he gave it to me when he was here.”

  He took a seat on the bed, tucking the phone into his pocket as he did.

  Dreama tugged at the front of her sweatshirt and stepped toward him. “Where is the letter?”