by M. Z. Kelly
“We can’t say. Do you know if he had any friends? Someone who we might talk to?”
He scratched his scruffy chin. “Just some older woman who came by about once a month.” His gray eyes brightened slightly. “I remember her calling him Ara once when I was working on the dock near his boat.”
“Ara,” Amy said. “You sure of that?”
“I’m old, but I still got my memory. Sure, I’m sure.”
“Could she have been his mother?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Dunno.”
“Can you describe her?”
He sighed. “Maybe around sixty, dark brown hair, a little on the heavy side. Not much to look at.”
Amy had a photo of Jeremy Halsey from his college year book and pushed it over to Hal. “You ever see this guy around Benedict? He’d be about five years older now.”
She got a snort and a headshake. After we’d run out of questions and were about to leave, Amy said, “You know a seven-letter word for ‘rectum’?” Hal shook his head before she went on. “I’m looking at it.”
When we were in the car and headed for Hutton Street, Amy went on a mini-rant about Hal being no help. I mentioned that Benedict had used the first name Ara on the rental application.
“It’s probably the name he went by as a kid,” Amy suggested. “I got a friend named Martha who uses Marta, but it’s much better.”
“Hal also said the woman who visited him called him Ara.” I said to Max, “Can you see if Rosie can run the names Aaron and Ara Benedict through the databases?”
“’Course.”
We found that the address Benedict had given was a small, run-down house that appeared deserted. After knocking on the door and not getting an answer, Amy went next door and talked to a man who was picking up his newspaper in the driveway. We followed her over as the man was telling her about his neighbor.
“Not around much. I think he works as a baker.”
“Do you know where?” Amy asked.
He shook his head. “No, but he’s always coming home with boxes of donuts or something in pink boxes.” The man regarded the three of us. “What’s this about?”
“We just need to talk to him.”
Amy thanked him, and we huddled in Benedict’s driveway, where Amy got an idea. “Maybe I should use my pick on his lock.”
“Not a good idea,” Max said. “The feds will likely be here soon, with a warrant.”
As Amy was debating the merits of breaking and entering with Max, my gaze wandered to the trash cans at the side of the house. I knew that sometimes trash was the hidden treasure in law enforcement investigations, and walked over to the receptacles.
As I was going through the trash, Amy said, “What you doing?”
“Looking for treasure,” I said.
I dug through the trash, finding pizza boxes, assorted other discarded items, and, finally, an envelope. Bingo. It was empty, but had a return address in Kingston, a resort area about an hour from the city.
I showed it to the others. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m hungry,” Amy said. “Let’s get something to eat.”
We found a deli named Rizzo’s, where we had sandwiches and talked about the case. Amy had a mouthful of Ripper, a hotdog dipped in chili, as she said, “The way I see it, Halsey hooked up with this Benedict guy to kidnap Christina and steal her trust fund. When Amy panicked, he shot Halsey to keep him from talking and planned to take his half of the bounty.”
“So, where does that leave Benedict now?” Max asked. “He knows he can’t touch Christina’s trust without the feds coming after him.”
“It leaves him with a kidnapping that turned into murder, and a victim that’s gotta go bye-bye, along with my fee.”
I was quiet as I worked on my turkey sandwich and mentally sifted through what we knew. The pieces of the puzzle were all there in front of us, but something was still bothering me.
“Earth to Mads,” Amy said. “You have a stroke?”
“Just thinking about something. How do you suppose Halsey and Benedict knew about Christina’s trust fund?”
“Maybe she told Halsey about it when they dated in college.”
I shook my head. “Sam told me her uncle left the money to her only three years ago.”
Amy and Max both studied me for a long moment. Max gave voice to what they were both probably thinking. “You think there’s somebody else who was working with Halsey and Benedict?”
“Maybe this sounds crazy,” Amy said, before I could answer, “but do you think her mother could be in on this? We know that she didn’t want to go to the police when Christina went missing.”
Max answered. “There’s an old saying about blood being thicker than water. I know something that’s even thicker: It’s green and has dead presidents on it.”
FORTY-EIGHT
After discussing the possibility that Effie Blaze was in on her daughter’s kidnapping, we decided to go by and see her on our way to check out Jonathan Raines. We found her at home, worked up into a frenzy.
“The FBI was just here,” Blaze said, after we took seats in her living room, which was undergoing renovation. “They showed me a picture of the man who was at the bank with Christina. They think he’s holding her hostage.”
“His name is Aaron Benedict,” Amy said. “But he also goes by Ara. Did he look familiar to you?”
She shook her head, her eyes becoming heavy. “Not at all. I don’t understand anything that’s happening.”
Amy glanced at Max and me, then forged into deeper waters. “Are you sure about that?”
Blaze brushed the tears off her cheeks. “Of course, I’m sure.”
“When you called me about Christina, you didn’t want me to go to the police. Why is that?”
Her voice went up a notch. “Because I was worried about my daughter’s safety.” Her eyes narrowed on Amy. “What are you getting at?”
I decided to try to deflect some of her anger and took over. “We only want to help. If you know anything about what’s going on, it’s imperative that you tell us. The man who was with your daughter at the bank is probably desperate.”
Blaze stood and paced around the room. She stopped and looked back at me. “Desperate. What does that mean?”
“It means there’s no telling what he’ll do next, and your daughter is in danger. This is your chance, maybe your only chance, to help her.”
Blaze sat back down. “That man. It’s possible I’ve seen him before, but I’m not sure.”
“Where did you see him?”
Her head slumped forward, her emotions surfacing. “I know this sounds crazy, but I went to Billy Mercer’s funeral. Christina doesn’t even know I was there, but I felt sorry for him after I heard what her boyfriend had done.” Blaze looked at me. “I think the man in the bank was at the funeral.”
“Do you think he was a friend of Jeremy Halsey?”
She sighed. “I have no idea.”
“Did you ever ask Christina about him?”
She shook her head. “She was there with Jeremy, so I never mentioned it.”
“Do you think the man could be a member of the Mercer family?” Max asked.
“I doubt it. I just remember him being at the gravesite services, then leaving.”
“Have you ever seen the man since Billy’s funeral?” Amy asked.
Blaze shook her head.
I gave her a moment, then said, “Tell us about Christina’s trust fund.”
She shrugged. “It was left to her by her Uncle Charlie. They were very close.”
“We understand it was around a half-million dollars.”
“If you say so. Christina and I didn’t really talk about it, other than her saying she would probably use the money for her children’s education...” She teared up. “...if she ever has children.”
I gave her a moment, then asked her about Christina’s phone call. Other than Blaze telling us her daughter sounded upset, she insisted Christina hadn’
t said anything that would help us find her.
We spent another half hour with Blaze, trying to work different angles to see if she would tell us more, but we didn’t get anywhere. We told her we would be in touch, and Max drove us to Jonathan Raines’s apartment. Along the way, we discussed what Blaze had said.
“Maybe Christina and Aaron Benedict are involved in a relationship,” Amy suggested. “It might be that Benedict and Halsey were secretly working together to steal her money. When the opportunity presented itself, Benedict took the opportunity to eliminate Halsey so that he could take everything.”
“If that was the case,” Max said, looking at Amy in the rearview mirror, “you would think Christina would have mentioned something to her mom about him.”
“Mads?” Amy said, touching my shoulder. “Do you think Effie’s dirty?”
I glanced back at her. “I don’t know. I guess only time will tell.”
“That’s the one thing we ain’t got.” Amy slouched down in her seat. “This case is going south faster than crap through a flock of geese.”
“Maybe we should talk to Billy Mercer’s mom again,” Max suggested. “It’s possible she knows something about Benedict.”
“It’s worth a shot,” I said.
Jonathan Raines lived in the rear of a subdivided apartment in Queens. Rosie had gotten his address for us, telling us that the records she pulled up on the Internet appeared to show he lived alone. We stayed in the car because it was freezing outside, watching his place for twenty minutes, but not seeing anyone coming or going.
“You ask me, the lunatic is holed up in there,” Amy finally said in frustration. “Maybe we should knock on his door.”
“And say what?” Max asked.
“We could say we’re collecting money for our church. Since he said something to Reverend Taylor about ending people’s suffering, maybe that will give us an opening.”
I was also frustrated by the wait and knew we had to be home to meet with the FBI agents about Christina Blaze in a half hour.
I told Amy, “Let’s give it a shot, but we’ll let you do the talking.”
“Why me?”
Max answered. “Cuz you like to talk, and you’re good at making shit up.”
Amy sighed. “All right. Let’s go.”
We bundled our coats tighter as we trudged up the steps to Raines’ flat. We were surprised when we got to the door, and it opened. A thin, dark-haired man, who I assumed was Raines, peered out at us. He didn’t have a shirt on, despite the freezing weather. His long hair was uncombed, and there were several deep cuts on his chest that appeared partially healed.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
Amy was startled by his appearance, but managed to gather her thoughts. “I...we...we’re collecting money for our church. It’s to help out people in need.”
Raines stared hard at her before his lips turned up. “And how are you going to do that?”
“We wanna help feed them. Anything you give would be greatly appreciated.”
Raines rubbed his eyes, his smile slipping away. “The misery of this earth shall end, but not because of anything you do.” He stepped back and slammed the door shut.
We moved off the landing, as Amy said, “He’s as crazy as a tick that smells blood.” She looked at the apartment next door. “I’m gonna go talk to his neighbor.”
We went next door, and Amy rang the bell. It was a couple minutes before an older man came to the door.
“Not interested,” he said, starting to close the door.
Amy pushed a hand against the door. “We just wanna ask about your neighbor, Mr. Raines.”
The man regarded her. “What did he do now?”
Amy glanced at us, then took the lead again. “He’s been acting out. What can you tell us about him?”
“I can tell you he’s crazy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He walks around half-naked, whipping himself.”
“What exactly do you mean?”
“He’s got some kinda wire contraption and hits himself until he starts bleeding, then walks around talking about suffering.”
“Did you ever call the police about him?”
“Yeah. They came out once, but he denied everything, said his injuries were from falling down.” The man lowered his voice. “Don’t tell him I said anything.”
“You’re afraid of him?”
He nodded and began pushing the door closed. “He’s insane.”
As we walked back to our car, Amy said, “There’s no doubt Raines is behind everything that’s happening. The problem is, how do we prove it?”
My phone was ringing. I saw the call was from Sam, as Max said, “I think it’s time we went back to the detectives assigned to Jessie Walker’s case.”
I answered my phone and listened to what Sam had to say. “I appreciate the information,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
I ended the call, and Amy said, “Sam having trouble keeping it in his pants ‘till tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “He called to tell me that Billy Mercer’s mom is dead.”
FORTY-NINE
Amy and I spent the rest of our afternoon being interviewed by the FBI agents assigned to the Central National Bank shooting. The agents didn’t volunteer much information about the case, other than telling us there was a possibility that Christina Blaze was acting under duress, something that we already knew. We filled them in on what we knew about Aaron Benedict, including our conversation with Hal at the Shipyard Marina. We purposely didn’t mention that we’d gone to Benedict’s house and talked to his neighbor, unsure that we’d found anything worthwhile in the suspect’s trash.
I’d learned from Sam that the death of Billy Mercer’s mother had been ruled a homicide. She’d been found shot to death in her home by a neighbor who’d heard the gunshots. There was nothing in the way of evidence found at the murder scene, but Sam and I both speculated that the shooter was Aaron Benedict. We decided the killing might have occurred to keep Mercer from telling the authorities what she knew about him.
On our way home, Amy had insisted that we stop at a store called Three Guys from Brooklyn, where she bought a couple six-packs of something called Final Gulp. She explained about the craft brew as we took seats on the sofa and she passed out cans of the beer.
“A couple of brothers spent over a decade coming up with the brew,” she said, hoisting her beer. “Legend has it they spent a night drinking the stuff and ended up dead.”
I looked at Max before tasting the beer. “You think we’ll survive?”
Max looked at her beer can. “Not sure, but, if this stuff is lethal, I’m laying off. I got a big weekend with Sonny starting tomorrow.”
“Drink up,” Amy said. “It’s only deadly if you have more than two six-packs.” She took a big gulp of her Final Gulp, then said to me. “Don’t forget, we gotta go shopping tomorrow for our dates.”
“You’re still on with that producer?” I asked, after tasting my beer. I grimaced and put the can down. “This stuff tastes like something a skunk brewed.”
“It’s just the backwash. You’ll get used to it after a couple cans.” She took another swig, burped, then added, “And, yeah, me and Chase are gonna chase ghosts around Medford Park all night.”
“Sounds pretty romantic,” Max said. She smacked her lips, set her beer down. “This concoction really does taste like skunk-water.”
“Get over it,” Amy said, working on her beer again. “The question of the night is: What we gonna do about our cases?”
Maybe it was some kind of weird cosmic coincidence, but there was a knock on the door. Max went over and let Mojo into our apartment.
“Look what the cat drug in,” Amy said, as Mojo came into our living room.
“I just came by for my paycheck,” Mojo said, eyeing the beer on the table. He picked up a can. “I love this stuff.”
“Go ahead. Consider it your
paycheck.”
Mojo popped open the beer and sat down. He took a big gulp, wiped his mouth, and said, “I gotta bring home a paycheck or I’m gonna be out on the streets.”
“You ain’t done enough work for a paycheck.”
“I found out about that Halsey guy living in Hoboken. That oughta be worth something.”
Amy sighed, found per purse, and tossed him a couple twenties. “Make sure this gets in Mads’ aunt and uncle’s hands.”
Mojo stuffed the bills in his pocket. “What about other work?”
“There is that issue of Holmes’ identity that we talked about,” I told Amy.
“You think he can handle it?” Amy asked.
I shrugged, remembering what she’d said a few days ago. “What’s he got to lose but his nuts?”
Mojo smiled. “This sounds like it could be potentially painful, but I’m up for anything.”
Amy shook her head. “It’s against my better judgment, but there’s this guy who calls himself Holmes. We think he was a detective at one time. He calls Mads and gives her information about cases she’s looking into. We need you to find out who he is and where he lives. And, just so you know, he wears a mask.”
“A mask? You mean like some kind of a superhero?”
“Or a freak. We’re not exactly sure, since we’ve never seen him.”
Mojo drained the rest of his beer and burped. “No problemo.” He picked up another beer. “May I?”
Amy rolled her eyes. “Go ahead.”
Max spoke up. “Maybe we could also have him look into the Jessie Walker case, snoop around at the hospital.”
Amy reluctantly agreed, after I seconded what Max had said, and mentioned that Holmes had also been at the hospital. She said to Mojo, “Don’t do anything stupid, but we think the stepson of the doctor who runs the oncology ward could be offing the patients.”
“Offing, as in killing them?”
“Yeah. His name is Jonathan Raines, and he’s even crazier than you, so don’t cross him. You get any information, you call me right away.”
He saluted Amy. “Ten-four. I’m on it, colonel.”
Amy massaged her temples. “I must be outta my god-damned mind.”
