by T. E. Woods
“I agree with you there.” Horst thanked Rick for the mug he handed him. “She seemed…I don’t know. Itchy. Antsy. Kept asking what we’d come up with.”
“You didn’t tell her anything.” Rick scowled.
“She’s my partner.” Horst took a long pull on his coffee. “I don’t like keeping things from her. But until we know what’s what and who’s who…let’s just say I told her we’re barking up trees, but no squirrels are coming out.”
“It’ll be over soon,” Sydney reassured. “She’ll understand why you did what you had to.”
Horst’s eyebrows raised to alpine heights. “Spoken like a woman who’s never experienced the wrath of Jillian Kohler! She’ll have me buying her beer for a year. Reminding me with each mug that it was not trusting my partner that’s costing me all the money.”
“Then let’s wrap this up as quickly as possible,” Sydney said. “The sooner your penance starts, the sooner it’s over. Were you guys able to talk to Mrs. McFeeney yesterday?”
“It’s Ms. McFeeney,” Rick corrected her. “Bridget never married Susalynne’s father. From what she says, he was out of the picture since before Susalynne was born.”
“Takes a special kind of scum,” Horst commented.
“What did you learn?” Sydney asked.
“Well, for one thing, I think we have the answer as to why your dad had that second interview with Ian Moran,” Rick said. “According to Bridget, Moran was close to the family. Arranged Susalynne’s scholarship to Blessed Sacrament through a mentorship program. Went to her recitals. Birthday parties. Stuff like that.”
“Did that show up in Dad’s report?”
“It did not. In his first report, Moran is identified as speaking for the diocese, sharing his condolences and offering the investigation any assistance he could.” He pointed to the three black notebooks Sydney had reviewed. “Did you see anything in there?”
“Just those two brief entries. One where Moran had called Dad, the other with United Way noted next to it.”
“Joe wasn’t one to write his theories down,” Horst explained. “He never wanted to show his cards ’til he knew he had the winning hand. If he suspected anything about Moran, in all likelihood he wouldn’t have made note of it.”
“You know he’s still here,” Sydney offered. “Moran.”
“He’s not back in New York?” Horst asked.
Sydney shook her head. “I saw him yesterday.”
“Where?” Rick’s voice was more urgent than Sydney thought appropriate. “When?”
“Yesterday morning. After my run. I was outside my condo and there he was.”
“Stalking you?”
She grimaced at his assumption. “He was on his own run. Our paths crossed is all.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Wanted to know if I’d be interested in joining him at the farmers’ market. I begged off. Then I came and met with you guys.”
“And didn’t tell us about Moran?”
“It was an innocent encounter, Rick. The guy jogged off and that was that.”
“Maybe he’s left by now,” Horst offered.
“No,” Sydney said. “The Fitzgeralds were at Hush Money last night. Barney and his parents. They alluded to continued business that kept Moran and Ted Fitzgerald in town. Maybe we could ask Moran about his relationship with Susalynne.”
“If you’re thinking anything predatory, you can rule that out,” Horst said. “When Bridget was telling us how close Moran was to the family, don’t think that wasn’t the first place Rick’s and my minds went to.”
“We went there pretty deep,” Rick added. “But according to Bridget, Moran was nothing more than a strong support for the family whenever they needed him. She even went so far as to tell us she asked Susalynne directly about what went on when she was alone with Moran.”
“Bridget told us Susalynne loved him like a father. Swore that nothing ugly ever went on.”
“And she believed her?”
“Enough to be grateful for Moran’s offer to lead the funeral mass for Susalynne.” Horst got up and poured himself a second cup of coffee. “Enough that she’s still got pictures of the guy scattered around her house.”
“Basically, we got nothing?” Sydney asked.
Rick shrugged. “We know why Joe reinterviewed Moran. Having something crossed off your list is a good thing.”
“Then again,” Sydney offered, “Ms. McFeeney wouldn’t be the first woman fooled by a predator.”
“I hear you,” Rick said. He rifled through the evidence box. “But we’ve been through all of Joe’s stuff. I’m afraid the case is as cold today as it was back then.” He lifted up a small red notebook. “And this thing. I don’t even know why it’s here. There’s only three pages filled. Nothing about Susalynne.”
“Let me see that.” Sydney held out her hand. “You went through this yesterday?”
Rick handed it to her. “Like I said, nothing in it to help us.”
The first thing she noticed was that the cover bore no dates. That wasn’t like her father. She flipped to the first page. A column of letters was listed. Some entries were two letters, some were three. One letter was listed alone. She looked at the entries again.
These mean something, she realized. Something I know.
She flipped to the second page and gasped. Two dates were written. October 5 and October 27. Below them were two letters: FM. She flipped back to the first page. The same two letters were listed there.
“What, Kitz? What are you seeing?”
“These dates. October fifth is my birthday. October twenty-seventh is my Gotcha Day.”
“Your what?” Rick asked.
“The day my adoption became final,” Sydney explained. “It was a private arrangement. I came to live with Joe and Nancy when I was two days old, but the twenty-seventh was when it became official with the court. Every year my parents would celebrate two dates: the day I was born and the day I was officially theirs.” An awareness dawned on her. She stood and rifled through the evidence box, pulling out the third of the three black notebooks she’d reviewed the day before. She went straight to the last page and found the diagram her father had written with an angry, heavy hand. Her eyes darted from the diagram to the list of letters in the red notebook.
“What are you doing, Kitz?”
She shushed them both and double-checked. Then she turned both books toward the men.
“Some of them are the same.” Her heart was beating faster. “The letters in the diagram and the list. And look here.” She pointed to the last entry. The one her father had underlined so many times. “He’s telling himself to go to a red notebook. This is something different. My father used black—trust me, only black—notebooks for his cases. He’s starting a red notebook because this is a whole other thing. Something that has to do with me.” She flipped to the third page of the red notebook. She read the last entry her father made.
Then she stumbled down into her chair before her legs gave out.
“Horst?” Her voice was a whisper. “Dad was killed July seventeenth.”
“You don’t have to remind me, Kitz. It’s a date seared into my soul.”
“You said he had an appointment. He told you to stay in the car.”
“That’s right.”
“What time did the two of you leave the station that morning?”
“Again, like it was yesterday. We left about a quarter to ten. Drove straight to the warehouse.”
She turned the notebook around once more so Rick and Horst could see what her father had written.
“For the love of God,” Horst whispered.
“I’m sorry,” Rick said. “I didn’t know. The birthdays, the date and time. When I looked at the notebook yesterday it meant nothing.”
Sy
dney looked again at her father’s final notation.
7/17…10:00
She turned to Rick. “Do you have a marker? The kind that washes off?”
He disappeared down the hall and came back with three markers. “I use ’em when I teach down at the academy.”
Sydney chose the blue one and went to Rick’s refrigerator. “You two sit down. Watch me.” She uncapped the marker, flipped to the last page of the notebook Joe Richardson kept on his investigation of Susalynne’s murder, and began to re-create the diagram he’d drawn there on the side of Rick’s refrigerator.
“Hey!” he protested.
“It’ll wipe off. We need to look at this.” Each set of letters was arranged in a circle, like numbers around a clock. In the center of the circle was one letter: F. Encircling that were: PC, FM, SMF, BMF, RCJ, US, and DG. Her father had drawn a line connecting PC to DG. Another line connected FM to both SMF and BMF. RCJ and US were linked with their own line, while another connected RCJ to DG. Radiating out of the center, the letter F was connected to each and every other set of letters. She drew a circle around RCJ and US.
“So.” Rick leaned back when Sydney was finished. “Code?”
“I’m leaning toward initials,” she answered. “My dad was pretty direct.”
“Okay,” he said. “Since we find these letters in the notebook dealing with Susalynne’s murder, let’s say SMF and BMF are Susalynne McFeeney and her mother, Bridget. Why the circles around RCJ and US?”
“Those letters aren’t in the McFeeney notebook diagram, but they are in the red notebook,” she explained. “The one he started after he made the diagram. He saw something. He was making connections. Not only in the Susalynne case, but something that had to do with me. Why else would he start a separate book, yet bring the same initials forward? Why would he start that book with my birth and gotcha dates?”
“I’m stickin’ with ya,” Horst said. “But that doesn’t get us any closer to figuring out those other initials.”
Sydney stared at the refrigerator for several long seconds. Then she let out a whoop. “RCJ! Richards, Clumber, and Jackson!”
“Who are they?”
“My parents’ attorneys. Every year, on my Gotcha Day, Dad would raise a toast. First to my birth mother who cared enough to let me come live with them, then to my birth father who he said was strong enough to let me go, then—and always with a grin—he’d salute the attorneys. I can hear him now.” She raised an imaginary glass. “Here’s to RCJ for the paperwork!”
“I don’t know,” Rick said.
“It’s gotta be them,” Sydney insisted.
“Then why aren’t your initials up there?” he challenged. “The only thing I see RCJ connected to is DG and US.”
Horst had his laptop open. “I’ve cross-referenced every set of initials to Joe’s entire interview list. The only matches we get are BMF and SMF. No hits on the others.”
“Maybe they’re not people. Like RCJ isn’t. Could be a firm or a business.”
“US could be the entire United States.” Rick’s doubt of Sydney’s theories came through loud and clear.
Sydney stared at the marked-up refrigerator, running through possibilities. “What if it’s a word?” she offered. “It is circled, like RCJ. What if US aren’t initials? Maybe Dad wrote us. As in the three of us? Him, my mom, and me. That would explain why we were on the second list and not the first.”
Rick shook his head. “If ever there was an example of twisted reasoning, this is it.”
“Can you come up with anything better?” she snapped. “Look at the entries. My father was angry when he wrote these. Horst, did you ever see my father angry about a murder case?”
“No. He used to tell me to check my emotions at the door when working an investigation. Said they blind you to what’s right in front of your eyes.”
Rick sighed. “What have you come up with for F, PC, FM, and DG?”
Sydney was forced to admit that even she couldn’t stretch her imagination that far.
“Give me time. It’ll come to me,” she vowed.
Chapter 48
While Rick snapped photos from his elevated spot behind the ivy, Billy’s spot, Horst kept his eyes on the late-model SUV that had just driven up. “Illinois plates?”
“You bet.”
The passenger door opened and, same as last time, a man got out, scanned the deserted parking lot, and ambled to the vehicle’s back door. He pounded three times on the car and the driver got out, headed to the warehouse, and unlocked the back door. The passenger grabbed two bags, struggled to hoist them over each shoulder, and entered the building. Rick captured every moment with his camera. The pair emerged less than a minute later, relocked the warehouse, climbed back into their SUV, and drove away.
Rick stood and stretched. They’d been in position nearly two hours. He swung a leg over the railing and began his descent. “Ready for the long haul?”
Horst followed him down the ladder. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”
Rick and Horst had met just past sunset on that Monday. They’d scrutinized the McFeeney evidence box so many times Rick, Horst, and Sydney each had the contents memorized. When they parted around noon, each agreed that the best thing to do would be to focus on something else. Sydney said she planned on spending the day at her condo before heading to Hush Money. Horst promised to continue playing the role of innocent man living under a cloud of suspicion.
“Shouldn’t be hard,” he’d said. “Seeing as how that’s exactly what I am.”
Rick spent the day at the gym, frustrated with how out of shape his surgery had left him.
Both men had thought it would be difficult to dissuade Sydney from accompanying them on their mission to follow the delivered money. But she assured them she’d heard enough stories of the backbreaking boredom of stakeouts. She planned to sit this one out. “Text me when you know where the money goes. We’ll meet up after that.”
It was 2:58 on Tuesday morning when Rick parked his CR-V outside a donut shop directly across the street from the location where the locator device had been dropped from the last set of duffel bags. From this vantage point they had an unobstructed view of the entire block.
“Why don’t you catch some sleep?” Rick asked Horst. “I’ll take the first two hours.”
“I’ll let you know when I’m tired,” Horst answered.
The two of them didn’t speak much as the night wore on. Horst asked who was taking care of Jocko. Rick told him he had a high school kid who lived down the block.
“Jocko loves him. And the kid knows there’s not a woman on the planet, I don’t care if she’s sixteen or ninety-six, who won’t stop to scratch that flirtatious hound behind the ears.”
Rick asked Horst if the pressure of the suspension was taking its toll.
“What are you? My shrink now?”
A few words were exchanged about how this part of town was changing. Horst lamented the loss of a favorite music store that used to be a few blocks away. But for the most part, the evening clicked away in silence.
At 5:42, a blue sedan pulled into the parking lot they were watching. Rick and Horst pulled themselves higher in their seats. Rick grabbed his camera and aimed it at the car. A young woman wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt walked up to the front door of a coffee shop, inserted her key, opened the door, and flicked on an OPEN sign.
“Bupkes,” Horst grumbled as he slouched back down.
Traffic started picking up. Several men, carrying large lunch boxes and hard hats, left their cars and headed toward the site where heavy equipment marked Prairie Construction sat. Horst and Rick thought they had something for a moment when an older sedan pulled in and a man with sleeve tattoos running down both arms walked around his car to open his trunk. But he pulled out an empty crate and headed toward the pet store at th
e corner of the strip mall.
By 10:22, Horst was wondering aloud if the bad guys might have arranged an alternate drop-off site. Rick had to admit he was thinking the same thing. Then a late-model Ford Escape, with a color that reminded Rick of root beer, pulled into the lot across the street. Neither man moved as they watched a woman, casually dressed in floral jeans and a pink tank top, walk to the back of her vehicle and pop the latch. When she pulled out first one duffel bag, and then another, both men bolted upright in their seats.
Rick reached for his camera and began snapping photos.
“I can’t read the license plate from here,” Horst said.
“I’ll get it with the zoom,” Rick assured him.
“She’s walking past the stores,” Horst announced while Rick followed her through his lens.
The woman walked back past the developed space, glancing at her sandals as she entered the muddy construction area. She walked over to a silver pickup truck emblazoned with Prairie Construction’s logo in deep blue. The woman set both duffel bags down and rolled her shoulders as if she was glad to be rid of the weight. Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out a key ring, and unlocked the Prairie Construction truck. One at a time, she hoisted the bags inside the cabin. Then she locked the door, double-checked to assure its hold, and minced her way back over the muddy ground to the parking lot. She stopped to examine the damage to her sandals before heading back to her vehicle and driving off.
“Should we follow her?” Horst asked.
“We’ve got her plates.” Rick leaned back against the seat. “Let’s stay with the money.”
Chapter 49
“And that’s it?” Sydney stood in the middle of Rick’s living room. She was dressed in a one-shouldered white satin dress. Rick had whistled when she entered his apartment. Jocko had offered his paw, as though the dog knew better than to jump up on such fine fabric. “You don’t know who put their hands on it?”
Horst had called her once they were confident they had all they were going to get that day. She was already at Hush Money. Horst tried to assure her they could wait until morning to discuss what they’d learned, but Sydney insisted on coming right over.
