by T. E. Woods
“What’s TOD?” she asked. When they called out in unison time of death, the numbers next to her father’s notation made sense.
Bludgeoned…strangled…raped?…Sydney’s throat tightened as she read her father’s scribbles. Torn…mud…tracks.
“You getting anything, Syd?” Rick asked.
“I think Dad was jotting notes of what he observed when he arrived on scene. Evidently her body was found in an alley?”
“Yes,” Horst answered. “Between Blessed Sacrament and her home. Susalynne was a latchkey kid. Her mom worked days over at Oscar Mayer. According to her mother’s report, Susalynne came home from school that day. She was always supposed to check in with the downstairs neighbor.” Horst sifted through his file. “One Jenny O’Reilly. Your dad writes that Mrs. O’Reilly gave her a bowl of potato salad, then sent Susalynne upstairs to do her homework.”
“Then how’d she get in the alley?” Sydney asked.
“That’s what your dad was trying to find out.”
Sydney continued her page-by-page, line-by-line perusal of that first notebook. Each time she came across a name her father had written, she’d call it out. Horst cross-checked the name on his lists and announced who that person was, when Joe Richardson had interviewed them, and what the outcome was. By the time she finished with the first notebook, she felt she had a good handle on how her father conducted a murder investigation but was no closer to anything that could have led to the next step than when she started. Frustrated, she set the notebook aside and reached for the second. Ian Moran’s name was on page seven.
“Here he is,” she called out. “Dad wrote called 9:43 next to his name.”
“That means Moran reached out to him,” Horst said. “Probably wanting to shut down any negative publicity the church might be catching. I remember the headlines. No reporter ever failed to mention Catholic grade school student whenever they identified her.”
“Your cynicism is showing, Horst,” Rick teased. “Could be he was reaching out as the family’s pastor.”
“If I’m recalling correctly, Moran was the bishop’s right-hand toady by that time.” Horst huffed out his disgust. “You get that high up, all you care about is keeping your footing.”
Sydney was taken aback by Horst’s contempt. He’d always demanded Sydney keep an open mind about people.
Twenty-five minutes later she was through with her father’s second notepad, none the wiser for having spent the time. She reached for the last one. She didn’t run across Moran’s name again until she was halfway through the pages.
“Here’s Moran again,” she said. “United Way. That’s what Dad’s got next to his name.”
“Maybe that’s where Moran agreed to meet him,” Rick offered.
“Or maybe it’s a place Moran wanted Joe to check out,” Horst suggested. “Mark that page, Kitz. We’ll come back to that.”
There was something about her father’s handwriting on the rest of the pages in that notebook. It was as difficult to decipher as it had been all his life, and it was written in the same black Bic rollerball ink that came from the only pens he ever used, but it was different. Perhaps unnoticeable to the casual eye, but Sydney had spent her life reading notes and letters and to-do lists put together by him. She ran her fingers over the last few pages. Her father had pressed so hard that his writing left rutted traces on the paper. There were dozens of black ink dots, too. Like her father had sat, peering over the pages, tapping them with his pen.
You were angry when you wrote this.
On the penultimate written page, Joe Richardson had drawn a diagram marked by various points. Each dot had one, two, or three letters above it. Some dots were connected by a single line. Others were connected by two or three. A few dots floated alone, linked to no other.
Joe Richardson’s last entry in that particular notebook was about two-thirds of the way through the pages. There was only one word. RED.
Sydney had no idea what it meant, but she knew it meant something.
Her father had underlined it nineteen times.
Chapter 43
“You have no idea how thrilled I am to see a pleasant face.” Leslie Arbeit reached from her chair and wrapped an arm around Sydney’s waist.
“Hey!” Charles Arbeit made a show of looking offended. “I know I married out of my league, but I’m not exactly last week’s garbage.”
Sydney smiled at the easy goodwill the two of them had for each other. A small voice inside her asked if she’d ever have that for herself. But Sydney pushed it aside with little effort.
“What brings you two in tonight?” she asked.
Leslie pulled out a chair and urged Sydney to join them. “It’s Friday. Mother and Father have gone to the Avenue for fish fry, thank God.”
Sydney glanced around the room. Things were running smoothly enough that she could take a few minutes. “They’re still here?”
Leslie took a sip of her dirty martini. “Can you believe it? And they’re showing no signs of packing up and moving on.”
“It’s not so bad,” Charles cajoled. “Your father’s busy with Moran all day. Barney’s been good about stopping by to visit your mother.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Leslie countered. “You with the shiny uniform announcing to all that you’re far too busy to be bothered by family pulls on your time. Me, however?” She shook her head. “Do you know, Sydney, she’s actually come to work with me? Twice! I tell her I have a business to run, but she insists she’ll be no bother. Ha! Every person in that building stops what they’re doing when Elaina Fitzgerald, wife of the grand pooh-bah who started it all, comes into view. They’re all too busy fawning over her, no work’s getting done. And of course, there’s Mother, lapping up every drop of adoration.”
Sydney recalled Ted Fitzgerald, the imperious creature with the giant walking staff she’d met on Tuesday, and imagined Elaina might be quite thirsty for a bit of adoration.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Sydney said. “How can we make your few precious moments alone with each other all the more special?”
Charles’s phone rang before Leslie could answer. He checked his screen and turned a plaintive face toward his wife. “Sorry. Gotta take this.” He turned to Sydney. “Keep my girl company for a few minutes?”
“Of course. Would you like to use my office? You’d have more privacy.”
“I’m good. The night’s too lovely to miss a chance to sit on a bench outside.” He stood and rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Be right back.”
Both women watched the imposing figure of Charles Arbeit leave the restaurant.
“He’s so busy,” Leslie murmured. “I worry about him.”
“He’s doing what he loves. And from all I hear and read, he’s pretty good at it, too.”
Leslie’s smile was wistful. “It’s all he’s ever wanted.” She paused. When she spoke again there was a vulnerability in her voice. “I’d hate to think what would happen if he was forced to choose between his work and me. I’d be out on the street, I’m certain.”
Sydney reached out to touch her hand. “Well, Miss Prairie Construction…Miss Huge House in Maple Bluff…Miss Chamber of Commerce Board Member…what am I missing?” She was glad to see Leslie’s smile widen. “Something tells me the street is the last place you’d end up.”
“I am lucky. I know that.” She laid her own hand over Sydney’s. “Lucky to have met you.”
In that moment, Sydney knew she felt the same. She hoisted an imaginary glass. “To new friends.”
Leslie lifted her own martini glass. “Here’s to them becoming old ones.”
They chatted about trivial matters. Leslie was going to Atlanta at the end of August to present at a national conference of mayors. Sydney was getting closer to hiring a new server.
“Your hair looks spectacular
tonight, Syd.”
Sydney brought a hand up to pat the back of the updo she’d spent a total of three minutes creating after she’d left Horst and Rick. “Thank you.”
“What I wouldn’t give to have hair as dark and thick as yours.”
Sydney sighed. “And here I was thinking how lovely it would be to have hair as golden and delicate as yours. It’s like the ethereal frosting on a fairy cake.”
At that absurd comment, both women burst out in full laughter. It was loud and long enough to gather questioning stares from neighboring tables, which only served to fuel their hilarity. When it finally subsided, both women wiped tears from their eyes.
“God, that felt good,” Leslie observed.
“Agreed. Just what I needed after the day I had.”
“Oh?” Leslie asked. “What’s making it tough?”
Sydney hesitated. “Probably nothing in each piece.”
Leslie nodded. “But there’s just so many pieces, aren’t there?”
“Sometimes.” Sydney changed the subject. “What keeps your folks in Madison?”
Leslie’s face clouded over. “You tell me. Dad’s holed up with Father Moran every day.”
“He’s still here, too?”
Leslie nodded. “Gave me some jive that he’d forgotten how lovely Madison is in the summer. God, you don’t think they’ll all stay ’til the first snow, do you?”
Charles Arbeit returned, his face a picture of grim determination.
“Everything okay?” Leslie asked.
He gave a terse nod and resumed his seat.
“I was just telling Sydney how I hoped Mother and Father weren’t planning on extending their stay much longer,” Leslie told him.
Charles took a long pull from his glass of scotch. “You know your father, Leslie.” His voice had lost all of its earlier bonhomie. “He’s going to do what he’s going to do. Nobody can stop him.”
Chapter 44
Sydney stopped running, bent over, put her hands on her knees, and waited for her breath to settle. She checked her watch. 8:43. She calculated how long her usual Saturday morning five-mile run had taken her.
Just under fifty minutes. Not bad.
She vowed to make it better by the end of the month, stood, and wiped the sweat off her upper lip. Then she leaned her right arm against her condo building, bent her left leg up, grabbed it with her left hand, and counted slowly to twenty as she stretched out the muscle. Then she turned to repeat the procedure on her right leg. She was mentally on eighteen when her eye caught sight of him. He was across the street, walking in her direction.
Clay must have seen her at the same time. He lifted his hand in greeting. She did the same. For several long moments they stood there. Each looking across Wilson Street. She wondered if she ought to wave him over.
It’s Saturday morning, she remembered. He’s headed toward his accountant with the Low Down’s weekly report.
Then Clay lowered his hand. He was close enough for her to read his regret. He turned away and resumed his walk down Wilson. Her eyes followed him until he turned the corner.
He never looked back.
She slumped against the building.
“Tough run?”
Immediately on high alert, she turned to face the male voice behind her. She stuttered back two steps when she recognized Ian Moran, dressed, as she was, in running gear.
“I’m sorry.” His eyes filled with concern. “I hope I didn’t startle you. I came around the corner and saw you looking across the way. And when you fell against the building, I—”
“I didn’t fall.”
He nodded. “Very well. I was just concerned.” He looked up the street. “Is this your usual route? Running, that is.”
She wasn’t sure how much to share with him. She certainly didn’t want to tell him that she lived in the very building he saw her leaning against.
I’ll bet he already knows.
“Yes,” she said. “My usual.”
“Are you finished? I mean with your workout.”
Why was a man with his power so guarded when speaking to her? She chalked it up to a celibate life, imagining he had little interaction with women in running clothes.
“Yes.”
“Me, too.” He pointed to the west. “I’m still down at St. Paul’s. I ran from there to Willy Street. Thought I’d take in the farmers’ market.” He hesitated. “Would you join me?”
“At the market?”
“Yes.” He smiled, and she was forced to reassess her theory that he didn’t know how to deal with women. “Tell me, does Stella still sell that delicious spicy bread?”
“ ’Til it runs out. If you want some, it’s best to get there early.”
He tilted his head toward the square, where a bustling farmers’ market was held every Saturday in summer. “Whaddya say? My treat.”
If forced to describe what was going on with her at that moment, Sydney would have described it as a sort of humming inside her. A vibration. She had the image of one of those science exhibits, the ones where an arc of electricity is bouncing between two poles. That’s how she felt in response to Ian Moran’s invitation to spicy bread at the farmers’ market. One pole crackled with the energy of being in the company of such a powerful, and powerfully handsome, man. She imagined the tales he could tell about global travels and international finance. She wanted to know him, to learn about his life and his experiences, what he thought and what he believed. Equally as potent was the opposite pole. This one sizzled with a warning that time spent with Moran would be wrapped in the very drama Clay had accused her of chasing. It told her to steer clear…no, more than that…It told her to run for shelter.
“I have plans,” she said. “Do you remember how to get there?”
She watched his countenance change. But to what, she wondered. Is that rejection I see? Disappointment?
Or anger?
Moran cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders.
“It would be difficult to miss the capitol building, Sydney.”
She nodded. Then she stood there as he turned and jogged away. She waited until he was out of sight. Then she keyed in her entry code and went up to her unit to shower.
* * *
—
“I think our next step is to reinterview everyone Joe did,” Horst announced.
It was 3:00. He and Sydney had been with Rick at his apartment since noon. They’d been through the evidence box and had brought one another up to date on what they’d found.
“What now? We’re taking on the McFeeney case?” Rick frowned. “What happened to duffel bags of money? What happened to finding our dirty cop, or cops?”
Horst shook his head while he tilted back on Rick’s kitchen chair. “Don’t know what to tell ya, kiddo. My spidey sense is telling me they’re connected.”
“Let’s stay focused on the money,” Rick insisted. “The sooner we get your name cleared, the sooner we’ll know who the bad guys are. McFeeney’s case has been cold for eighteen years.”
“Maybe it’s heating up again,” Horst offered.
“Maybe your vision is clouded,” Rick countered.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rick raised his hands. In confusion or frustration, Sydney couldn’t tell. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re feeling a little guilty about Joe’s death. You said yourself you wish you’d gone in with him that day.”
Sydney shot Horst a look. He must have told Rick about the day her father died.
“Could be you’re trying to right the score,” Rick continued. “Maybe you think if you crack the case that got Joe killed, there’d be some kind of reckoning.”
Horst settled his chair and stood. “I don’t need any accounts settled between me and Joe Richardson. I was a good partner to him. And I do
n’t need you sitting there trying to get inside my head, either.”
“Gentlemen!” Sydney stood and went to Horst. “What do you say we all take a step back? Huh? Everybody take a deep breath, maybe? We’re all tired. Maybe a little punch-drunk with all that’s going on.”
“These cases are connected, Sydney,” Horst insisted. “I can feel it.”
“You’re grasping, Horst,” Rick countered. “We don’t have time to waste.”
“What do you say we practice our walking and chewing gum at the same time?” Sydney suggested.
Both men looked at her, waiting for an explanation.
“Can we agree we’re basically dead in the water on the missing money?” she asked. “At least until Monday?”
“We’ll be in place,” Rick said. “We know where the initial drop gets made and we know the general transfer point. This time we’ll follow it through to its endpoint.”
“A brilliant plan,” Sydney agreed. “But not one we can implement until Monday. That leaves us with the balance of today, all of tomorrow, and most of Monday with nothing to do. Why not use that time to test Horst’s theory that these cases are connected?”
“I like it,” Horst said.
Rick glowered.
“You must think something’s there,” Sydney told him. “Why else would you have risked liberating my father’s old case box from storage?”
Rick was quiet for a moment. “We put this on the back burner as soon as it’s time to follow the money?”
“Of course,” Horst said. “We’ll strike when that iron’s hot, you can count on that.”
“So, it’s a plan?” Sydney asked both men.
“I’m in,” Horst said.
Rick nodded.
Horst offered him a weary chuckle. “You want to make a side bet? Twenty bucks says I’m right.”
Rick thought for a moment. Then he smiled and shook his head.
“No, you German hound dog. I know better than to bet against your spidey sense.”
