by Lee Perry
“And that is exactly what he wanted you to help him build tonight in front of the TV.” Catherine snickered and squeezed the arm around Jordan’s waist, “Sometimes I think Cam has your DNA and not mine.”
“Oh, no,” Jordan emphatically shook her head, “he wants to be a zookeeper when he grows up, I always wanted to be in law enforcement.”
“And did you have your own character in your self-made town?”
“Of course,” Jordan chuckled, “I was the sheriff and I rode around on my own tiny plastic horse, checking in on everybody.”
She snickered, “Of course you did.” They entered their bedroom and Catherine asked, “Just because Stiger confessed to killing Campbell and refuses to confess to killing Hannah as well it doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her, right?”
Jordan closed the door behind them, “He checked his phone and claimed he was in a restaurant that night with his wife and friends. He said he paid with his credit card so I’ll check that and talk to the restaurant staff but…” She waved one hand dismissively and drew back the covers on the bed with the other, “I think I believe him.”
Catherine sat on her side of the bed and checked the monitor connected to Cameron’s bedroom, “Wow, really?”
“Yeah, I can’t imagine a scenario where he’d have motive or contact with Hannah that would end up in some sort of confrontation where he hits her in the head.” She sighed heavily, “Mary’s team found Helga’s jewelry in a safe in Campbell’s bedroom, but that was it, he didn’t have any of the missing art Mattie’s been cataloging.” Catherine shut off the light and snuggled next to her, “Stiger’s house and office were clean… you hacked his work and home computers?”
“Of course.”
“And you checked for records of storage lockers and the like?”
“I did… but didn’t find anything like that.” She yawned. “I’m hoping Mattie’s finished figuring out what’s missing from Helga’s extensive art collection.”
“Still no luck finding any of it?”
“Nope, none of it’s come up on any searches for art sales; legal or otherwise.” She settled in the nook between Jordan’s chin and shoulder, wriggling close. “You know, Helga owned one of three Stradivarius eight-string mandolins, made around 1705. It was called Mandolino della Vergine.”
“It had a name?”
“His musical instruments were considered works of art, so yes; it’s Italian for The Mandolin of the Virgin.”
“It’s kinda’ hard to picture the Virgin Mary banging away on a mandolin.”
Catherine snorted and gave her a nudge, “She also owned one of two surviving Stradivari harps, the one she had was called Piccolo Arpa.”
“The Little Harp?”
“Yes.”
“And are they missing?”
“No,” Catherine inhaled, enjoying the scent of Jordan’s hair, “Mattie just found the story so moving I left them in their own Special Gifts category. Helga sold both those instruments and used the money to pay for care for her nanny’s daughter, Ninette Randolf.”
“Who?”
“Ninette Randolf, she was found wandering the streets and foraging in garbage bins for food back in ‘87… I guess she was pretty out of it. Anyway, a social worker researched her wages via Social Security and discovered she taught painting and worked for Helga and her mother on and off over the decades.” She paused a moment to yawn, “She was one of only a few women of her time painting in oils and not watercolors.”
“Wow,” Jordan exclaimed, “sexism extended to painting back then?”
“According to Mattie, women of Helga and this woman’s time weren’t considered strong enough to work in oils; they were suited for watercolors while men painted in oils.”
“Jesus,” she muttered, “what bullshit.”
Catherine snickered soflty, “Helga paid for Ninette’s apartment, medical and round the clock care, and when her dementia was so profound she had to be moved to a specialized facility she paid for that too. She was ninety when she died in ‘96, Helga didn’t attend the funeral, but she sent the doctor caring for Ninette a seventy thousand dollar check for funeral expenses. The checks she wrote for her care totaled a little over three million dollars.”
“So Helga Lynch was both generous and loyal.”
“And sweet…” Catherine began to mumble as she drifted off, “She insisted the staff take her to the salon to have her hair done… an’ bought her magazine subscriptions an’ when she couldn’t… anymore she wrote to the doctor how the staff… should read ‘em to her… when she, um lost the… ability.”
“Lost the ability to what, read?” Catherine didn’t answer and Jordan grinned, “You know,” she kept her voice to a low murmur, “before you go to sleep you’re supposed to say it’s alright for folks to speak to you and not through you while you sleep.”
“Unh huh…”
She placed a kiss on soft hair, “Sweet dreams.”
Her chin rested on folded hands she rested on the balcony rail. She was watching a girl execute pirouettes on the stage below when she felt a nudge next to her.
“That was me.”
“Really…” she smiled, “How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
The scene changed and she sat in a straight back chair against a wall. Across the mirrored room, a young woman dressed in a black leotard and wraparound skirt stretched at a dancer’s bar.
“And this was me when I was twenty or so.”
This time Catherine turned to the speaker sitting next to her, “Revisiting good times?”
“I suppose so.” Helga grinned, “I could move on but I feel like I should wait to see how it all plays out.”
“Someone murdered you day nurse, Hannah.”
“I know,” Helga first nodded then shook her head, “so sad.”
“Do you know who killed her?”
She nodded again, “I do,” she pulled vibrant eyes from the now dancing young woman and locked eyes with Catherine, “and soon you will too.”
Catherine’s eyes flew open and she sniffed, scrubbing briefly at her face before checking the time. “Would’ve been quicker to just tell me.” She muttered grumpily.
“Huh?” Jordan mumbled and rolled over to place a sleepy kiss on her lips. “Good morning.”
Catherine chuckled low in her chest, “Good morning.”
New York City, NY
“Hey, Mattie,” Jordan stared at the screen, clicking though her emails, the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, “Have a minute?”
“Sure, hey, congratulations on the Campbell collar.”
“Thanks, I’m calling about the cleaning girl who saw the guy stealing Helga’s Rodin…”
“Yeah,” she could hear Mattie clicking her mouse, “uh… Brenda Jensen.”
“You interviewed her?”
“I did, she was polite, didn’t have much to say regarding the theft, only that she got a fleeting glance as someone ran out the front door; probably male, dark clothes.”
“Okay, I’m gonna’ interview her again. Since we can’t connect Stiger to the Babcock murder Catherine and I are gonna’ rejoin you on the missing art project and see if we can catch a break somewhere.”
“Great, any and all help is welcome.”
“I’ll call you if she remembers anything else.” They hung up and she dialed Brenda’s cell phone, the voice mail function activated and she listened to Brenda Jensen instruct the caller to leave a message before hanging up. Nuts. She scrolled through her contacts, tapping the number for Gary Tauscher.
“Agent Hawkins.” He answered, sounding impatient, “I am just in the middle of something if I can call you back?”
“Tell me if Brenda Jensen is cleaning today in Helga’s apartment.”
“What? No, she hasn’t been to work in nearly a week now... why?”
“I need to talk to her about the Rodin theft.”
“Why? It was found…”
“I know; do you have any
other phone numbers for her other than her cell?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“Alright, thank you…” She hung up, feeling a tiny red flag wave distantly.
“Hey,” Catherine entered their office, “what’s up?”
“Looking for the cleaning girl who saw the Rodin thief and she’s not answering her phone. How’s your morning going?”
“Really fine, I got to crack some code for Bea.” Her eyes crinkled merrily, “It was fun.”
Jordan’s phone rang and she noted the caller ID as she answered, “Stewart.”
“Yeah, Jordan, I just got a call there’s a buttload of Helga Lynch’s relatives downstairs demanding to speak to the agent in charge of obstructing the Lynch will.”
She slumped in her chair, “And that would be me.”
“Yes it would.”
“I’m on my way down.” She hung up and stood, grabbing her jacket.
“What’s up?”
“Oh, a bunch of Helga’s relatives are downstairs demanding to talk to the agent in charge of making their lives miserable.”
“Yikes,” Catherine cringed in sympathy, “I take it they’re not here to thank you for your dedication and hard work.” She smiled when Jordan chuckled. “Anything I can do to help?”
Jordan slid her phone into her jacket pocket, “Yes, actually…” she pointed at her screen, “could you put out a BOLO for Brenda Jensen?” She grabbed a notebook and walked over to where Catherine sat at her desk, “You know my username and password, her information is on my screen…” She bent to place a quick kiss on her lips.
“Mmm…” Catherine hummed, “happy to oblige.” Jordan flashed a grin and left and she walked around to sit at her desk, resting her shoes on the swivel chair’s wheels so her feet wouldn’t dangle above the floor. She had watched Jordan create BOLO’s before and she stared at the screen while her fingers flew over the keyboard. Signing in as Special Agent Jordan Hawkins, she accessed Brenda Jensen’s New York driver’s license from the Department of Motor Vehicles, making sure she had the right Brenda Jensen before linking the file to the bureau’s Be on the Lookout alert program, available to law enforcement agencies nationwide. She waited to make sure the alert uploaded successfully and just as she returned to her desk and sat, Jordan’s computer emitted an insistent beep. Oops… she thought, I must’ve gotten something wrong. She returned to Jordan’s desk, expecting to find an error message and her eyes opened wide in shock at the alert window that filled the screen.
Jordan’s phone vibrated just as she was about to enter the conference room and she executed a smooth u-turn, pulling it from her pocket, “Yes?”
“Jordan? The alert found Brenda Jensen; she’s in the city morgue.”
She sagged, “Cause of death?”
“Bludgeoning and strangulation. Four days ago.”
“Okay…” She walked a small circle in the wide corridor, “Okay, I’m gonna talk to these people then I’ll be right back.” She hung up and turning on her heel, entered the conference room and nodded to the receptionist waiting for her just inside the door. “Thank you.” She murmured, releasing him from babysitting duty so he could return to the front desk.
Four white and gray haired individuals sat on the far side of the table facing her and Jordan stood opposite, “Hello, I’m Special Agent Jordan Hawkins, and…”
The woman in the middle cut her off, “We were given to understand you are responsible for preventing Helga’s will from being enforced.”
Jordan sat; grateful the swivel chair was ergonomic and pulling a pen from her jacket pocket, opened her notebook on the table. “If you would introduce yourselves…” She smiled pleasantly and the woman’s eyes narrowed in irritation before she answered,
“I am Elizabeth Lynch Sullivan; my father was Jefferson Lynch, son of Joseph Kendrick Lynch by his first wife, Marion.” Her voice cut through the air with the subtlety of a bandsaw and Jordan struggled not to wince. “This,” she motioned to her left, “is my husband, Harold Sullivan and on my right is my brother, Dennis Lynch and next to him is our cousin, Eric Lynch.”
Jordan made notes while the woman spoke and when she stopped, she smiled again, “Thank you, I’m sorry the Sur…”
“We have already spoken to a Miss Hanson at the Surrogate’s Court, and she informs us Helga’s will is being held up in probate due to interference by you.”
“That’s true,” Jordan nodded, “in a manner of speaking. Due to the existence of two conflicting wills, signed within two weeks of each other just prior to Helga’s death and the fact that…”
“Agent Hawkins,” Mrs. Sullivan’s voice dripped with disdain, “there is clearly no controversy here, the first will clearly names us as…”
Jordan had enough and cut her off, “Three murders have been committed since Helga’s passing, Missus Sullivan.” She waited a beat for that to sink in before she continued, “So far Helga’s day nurse, accountant, and a young woman who cleaned her apartment have all been murdered, rather brutally, by having their heads bashed in.” The quartet paled and Harold Sullivan’s mouth dropped open when she added, “We are still looking for suspects in two of those murders, so you will all provide me with your whereabouts for the following dates so I can verify your alibis.” She flipped to a fresh page in her notepad and wrote the time and dates of death for Hannah Babcock and Brenda Jensen at the top. She laid her pen on top and slid it across the table to Mrs. Sullivan. “Write your name, address, phone numbers, and where you were on the dates written at the top of the page. If you are unable to remember where you were you may take the remainder of the day to find out and contact me.”
The room fell silent as they solemnly wrote on the pad, each sliding it to the next and when they finished, Mrs. Lynch left the pad in front of her, making Jordan stand and reach across the table to retrieve it. “Thank you.” Her smile was professional and humorless and she remained standing while she read their alibis, “Neither you or your husband, Missus Sullivan, can remember where you were on these two days?”
“Eliza and I lead very busy lives, Agent Hawkins.” Harold Sullivan finally spoke, “We’ll get back to you.”
She reached in a jacket pocket and withdrew her business card, placing it in front of him. “You have until the end of this business day, Mister Sullivan. If I don’t hear from you I will have you and your wife brought in for a formal interview, is that understood?”
“Agent Hawkins?”
Jordan turned to the man seated next to Mrs. Sullivan, “Yes, you’re Dennis Lynch?”
“Uh, yes. I think you should be aware that there are eighteen additional Lynch family members formally protesting the Surrogate Court’s delay.”
Jordan groaned internally but kept her tone professionally pleasant, “The Surrogate’s Court cannot proceed with probate until the FBI has resolved these murders, and I will not tolerate any interference by anyone.”
“Well,” Mrs. Sullivan harrumphed, “this couldn’t be more inconvenient.”
Jordan muttered, “Lord, those people were irritating.”
Catherine looked around her monitor, “I downloaded the city coroner’s autopsy report for Brenda Jensen onto your desktop.”
Jordan slid her jacket off, draping it back over her chair, “Thank you” She sat and accessed her email, “And thanks for running the BOLO for me.”
“Anytime…” Catherine rolled her chair around to Jordan’s desk.
“Okay.” Jordan opened the file, making sure the gruesome photos of the body were contained in a separate folder. She highlighted the section listing cause of death and their brows arched in surprise, “She was strangled, bludgeoned, and injected with Succinylcholine?”
“Succin…” Catherine shook her head, “but it says… she carefully pronounced the words, “Suxamethonium chloride.”
“Same thing,” Jordan said, still reading, “it’s often shortened to just s-u-x… pronounced, sucks.”
“I’ll bet it does.” Cath
erine muttered.
“They use it in hospitals as a paralytic when they intubate someone.”
“Uh, oh…”
“It’s also used to euthanize horses…” she turned to her, “and in some cases to murder people.”
“Like Brenda Jensen?”
“Well,” she squinted at the screen, “It says here she was strangled, struck on the back of the head twice with a blunt object and then injected at the base of her jugular with that paralytic, probably to make sure she stopped breathing long enough to die if she wasn’t already dead at that point.”
“So she fought hard?”
“No, no defensive wounds, maybe the killer was too angry to stop or just worried she was still breathing.”
“Definitely not the same as Hannah Babcock…”
“Definitely.” Jordan sighed heavily, “It says her body was found dumped in the alley next to her apartment building.”
Catherine looked from Jordan to the screen and back to Jordan again, “And?”
“And I think we have enough here to get us a formal interview with Gary Tauscher and a search warrant for his car.”
PART 4
“Rich beyond the dreams of avarice.”
– Edward Moore, The Gamester, 1753
New York City, NY
Gary took the warrant and stepped back so Mary and her team could enter Helga’s apartment on the ninth floor, where he lived. “You’ve done this already, Agent Hawkins.”
“During the investigation of Hannah Babcock’s murder,” Jordan stepped inside, “yes. We are here today to investigate the murder of your cleaning girl, Brenda Jensen.”
He looked genuinely shocked, “Brenda’s dead?”
“Someone bashed in her head, Gary, just like Hannah Babcock.”
“But…” he sputtered, “but I don’t have anything to do with that.”
