* * *
Another call to LMI last night proved futile. Once again, Leon had been put on hold before being told Mr. Wyngarden had left for the day. He had no clue where their offices were located, or what the time zone difference was, but he found it hard to believe. Every time he called before—no matter the time of day—he’d always reached Wyngarden.
Common sense practically begged Leon to lay low, screaming at him to put his current project on the back burner until he ironed out the situation with LMI. But Leon never left a project unfinished, a solid work ethic. Not because he was greedy about the number of projects he took on either. Quite simple, really. Every few months or so, he had to complete a task. Before the headaches started.
This particularly nasty case had already involved a lot of time and research. Two months ago, John Smeltzer’s biographical sheet arrived in Leon’s post office box. When he read of Smeltzer’s misdeeds, he knew he’d savor the project.
Smeltzer, a white-collar sales representative for a Kansas based pharmaceutical company, beat his two children. Often. Smeltzer’s wife turned a blind eye to the abuse. As in most abuse cases, her husband clearly terrified her. Although Leon thought she should be held to some culpability, he reluctantly drew the line, a line that kept him from crossing into the nebulously dark side that people like Cody dwelled in.
The most damning evidence against Smeltzer pointed toward his children ending up in the emergency room on several occasions. Child welfare services were called in to investigate. The children—backed up by Mrs. Smeltzer—claimed their injuries were the result of playful rough-housing. Leon knew better, nothing “playful” about it. And LMI’s research confirmed his findings.
Every Wednesday night, Smeltzer met with a few other reps at a trendy, high-dollar watering hole called Vraney’s. For the past two Wednesday nights, Leon sat outside the bar, noting where Smeltzer parked and what time he left. Smeltzer typically departed at ten o’clock, always alone. Best case scenario.
Good idea or bad, Leon anticipated hammering the last nail into his project tonight.
* * *
Before finishing a job, Leon always lost his appetite. Not from nausea; more like the intense expectation of a child on Christmas Eve.
His stomach whined as he pushed his food around with a fork. Several times, he nearly took a bite then lowered his utensil. He knew what to expect, this job being no different from any other. Still, he went through the motions. His mother’d impressed upon him the importance of a balanced meal.
As he prepared to toss away his uneaten meal, the lunchroom door opened. Helplessly, he watched as the person he’d successfully avoided all day entered.
“Hi, Owen,” said Rachel. “How’s your lunch?”
“Afraid I heated it a little too long. It’s a bit dried out.” Leon returned his attention to his lunch.
“Oh, sorry.” Rachel pulled a plastic container out of the refrigerator and presented it to him like a gift. “You can have some of mine. It’s not very good, but I promise I won’t overheat it.” Leon blinked at her, determined not to smile. “If you’d like,” she added quickly.
“No, thanks anyway. I’ll soldier through this.”
She walked away, studying her dish. When she pulled the microwave door open, her shirt sleeve slipped down her arm. Red marks blistered her skin.
“Rachel…what happened to your arm?”
She yanked her sleeve down, folding her arms across her chest. “Oh. Nothing, really. I…burnt myself last night making my dinner. Sausage and onions.” Her laugh sounded desert dry and desperate. “Can I join you?”
“Sure.”
Rachel slid into a folding chair and brushed a straggler hair-lock out of her eyes. “Owen, I’d like to thank you for listening to me yesterday.”
“No problem. I’m sure you’d do the same for me.”
“And thanks for making me laugh. You made me feel better about… everything.”
“I didn’t do anything—”
“And I wanted to…apologize if I made you uncomfortable. It won’t happen again.”
Leon dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin, buying time, not knowing how to respond. Best to sever all ties now. Yet a part of him—a neglected part—desired human contact. “Rachel, come on. We’re work buddies, always will be.” He held his hand up for a high five.
Grinning, she slapped his hand. Leon looked at her arm when her sleeve dropped down again. She swept her hands into her lap, her sleeves falling naturally into place.
“So, sausage and onions, huh?”
“Yep, gross, right?”
“Ah, well, I don’t know…” Some time ago, Leon taught himself to cook—a much safer hobby than his preferred choice of recreation. After realizing he’d be a life-long bachelor, he graduated to creating his own dishes. Became quite adept at it, too. Sausage and onions did sound less than enticing.
“I know, right? I know they’re gross. It’s just something I can throw together fast…and cheap.”
“Nothing wrong with fast and cheap.”
“What’re you eating?”
“Stuffed chicken breasts with spinach, mushrooms, crabmeat, havarti cheese…and a hint of chili pepper.”
“Wow…and you made it?”
“Yep.” He cut a slice off—he had no use for it—and slid it into her container. “Try a bite.”
As she chewed, her eyes roved from side to side like a novelty cat clock. Then her taste buds sprang alive. “Oh my God, Owen! It’s really good. Not dried out at all.”
“Thanks. Maybe you’d like to try some of my other dishes…some time—”
“Sounds good. Better than sausage and onions.”
After an unsettling pause, Leon said, “Yes, and it might be a bit safer for you.”
“What do you mean?”
Leon gestured toward her arm. “I mean, you won’t burn yourself if someone cooks for you.”
A slight, but undeniable, grimace puckered her mouth. “Well…clumsy in the kitchen, the way I always am. I’d better get back to work. You know how Capshaw can be.”
“Yes, I’ve had the pleasure many times.”
“Bye, Owen.” She dropped her dish in the sink and hurried for the door.
As much as he hated to admit it, Rachel had embedded herself underneath his skin like a parasite, not a particularly unwanted one either. And it disturbed him. He didn’t know when—or how—it happened. He couldn’t deny she ignited his sexual desires. Worse, he actually liked Rachel.
Yet he couldn’t understand why he liked her. Were there genuine feelings—an alien concept—involved?
Or did he want to protect her?
The marks on her arms weren’t from burns. Someone grabbed her, twisted hard.
Leon closed his eyes and silently repeated his first rule. “Don’t get involved. Don’t get involved. Don’t get involved…”
* * *
“Bored,” muttered Detective Brian Sidarski to his empty office. Happened every time a lull settled in. He stared at the stack of paperwork on his desk, hoping it would magically vanish. The repetition of filling out forms didn’t satiate his need to work, real cop work. Yet, whenever he was on the job—a murder case—anxiety kicked in. He didn’t see too many happy endings. Over the years Sidarski had witnessed more than his share of misery, pain, and suffering. A lot for a quiet Kansas suburb.
He wanted the job both ways—sparkly endings and definitely not boring. Impossible in police work.
Though he often hated the job, he excelled at it. Due to his no-nonsense attitude, his fellow policeman and detectives shunned him socially. Called him a stick-in-the-mud, like he should apologize for doing his job. But even the naysayers begrudgingly acknowledged his work in the field. More cases were closed under his watch than any of his peers. Not really saying much. Most of the Barton cops were a lazy lot, doing the minimal police work necessary until they clocked out from their shift, time to weight lift some beer mugs.
Sidarski drew a
fingertip around the rim of his coffee mug and grinned at the slogan on the side. World’s Best Detective, it read. A gift from his nephew. His nephew saw Sidarski as a maverick, an action hero of sorts. Sorry to disappoint, kiddo. He never felt like a hero when he had to tell people bad news, something for which the police academy never properly trained him. Though in all fairness, no amount of training could prepare anyone for delivering tragic information.
Every day he dreaded the inevitable phone call regarding a new murder, living in a permanent state of unease. On the other hand, boredom seemed much worse.
Insistent knocking rattled his door. Sidarski swiveled in his chair, his back protesting from his recent weight gain. “Come in.”
A young rookie cop poked his head inside. “Um, Detective?”
“Yeah?”
“I, um, think I might have something for you. It might be nothing, but—”
“What is it, Stevens?”
“I, uh, just got a phone call. Might be a crank.”
“Give it to me.”
Sidarski had no clue how he’d soon long to be bored again.
Chapter Four
Leon’s heart jumped, maybe even missed a beat. The tape had split in half. To be sure, he ran a finger over the two pieces again. Maybe he accidentally broke it himself when he checked it. However, the nearly imperceptible scratches marking the doorknob plate didn’t lie.
Stepping back, he studied the apartment parking lot. No service trucks or people in cars, nothing unusual.
A burglary; has to be. At least, that’s what he hoped. Burglars didn’t report their findings to the police.
Leon entered his apartment, stopped, and listened. Over-powering silence smothered him with its stillness. A quick glance at the kitchen showed everything in order. Except a hanging pan, swaying ever so slightly like a tired pendulum. Vibrations from his footsteps? Or had someone been there very recently?
With his back against the wall, he inched down the hallway. The first bedroom door was closed. He’d left it open earlier. Fairly certain he did, at least. When he entered the bedroom, the hallway rectangle of light expanded across the room. The cinderblocks against the wall retained their pyramid shape, but the top block was missing. Every time he used a brick to weigh down a project, he always made sure he replaced it. Always.
Forsaking stealth, he burst into his bedroom and headed straight for the closet. Patting down his suit pocket, he felt the reassuring bulge of his LMI cell phone. He dropped to his knees and wrenched out the loose floorboard. The black plastic trash bag shook in his hands as he opened it, crackling like sticks on a fire. Everything appeared to be there: his emergency money stash, the hypodermic needles, his contract with LMI, and his dossier on John Smeltzer.
Leon sat against the wall, light-headed. Someone had definitely been here. To what purpose? Nothing had been taken; nothing disturbed other than a cinder block, and he might be mistaken. He could’ve forgotten to replace the block, a thought nearly as troublesome as an intruder. A detail-oriented memory was crucial in his field, the last thing he could afford to lose. But he knew his memory hadn’t failed him. Not for a minute.
Perhaps LMI sent a message, flexing their muscle, letting him know they could get to him anytime, anywhere. Showing him who was boss.
The overhead light glinted off the photograph in Leon’s hand. Smeltzer’s grinning visage taunted him. He really should know better than to keep something like this in his apartment. Old habits die hard. While working on a project, he enjoyed looking at the subject each night. It gave him a sense of serenity. And excitement. Maybe the time had come to discard this much-valued ritual.
Before tucking everything back into the trash bag, the photo slipped out and floated into his lap. Smeltzer’s cocky grin practically defied Leon to put a stop to his abusive actions.
His mind made up, nothing would deter him from his work tonight. After he completed this project, maybe—maybe—he would stop until he figured out the problem with LMI. Maybe—almost certainly.
The doorbell’s razz sounded faint and far away, yet more strident than an overhead crack of thunder. Leon bolted to his feet, his head spinning to keep up. He steadied himself against the wall. His visitor pounded on the door, the echoes resounding deep into Leon’s chest.
Leon looked through the peephole. An overweight balding man stood on the stoop. He appeared relaxed, hands in his pockets, just taking in his surroundings, exhibiting non-threatening body language.
Leon braved himself and opened the door. “Hi, can I help you?”
“Owen Gribble?” Judging by the clipped manner in which the man asked his to-the-point question, Leon knew he was a policeman.
“Yes. And you are?”
He flipped his wallet open, shutting it too quickly for Leon to see anything but a flash of gold. “I’m Detective Brian Sidarski of the Barton Police Department. Would you, ah, mind if I came in and spoke with you for a moment?”
Denying the police entry felt like a very bad idea. Leon stood aside. “Sure, no problem, Detective. Come in.”
The detective took one step in and turned around. “Do you live alone?”
“Yes, I do. What’s this about? I just got home from work.”
Sidarski rubbed his head, keeping his gaze fixed on Leon. “I honestly hope nothing, Mr. Gribble, but I’d be negligent if I didn’t follow up on it.”
“On what, exactly?”
“Just a short while ago, the police department received a phone call—an anonymous one—suggesting we check your apartment. Do you mind if I take a quick look through?” Sidarski added with a shrug, “I can always get a warrant.”
“Um, no, that’s not necessary…but I might be able to help you if I knew what you’re looking for.”
“Quite all right. I don’t want to interrupt your routine. Probably nothing more than a prank call.” His tone sounded amiable enough, yet Leon sensed an underlying distrust.
“Okay. Mi casa es su casa.”
Sidarski scuttled down the hallway, a direct path toward Leon’s bedroom. “Gracias,” he called back. Leon hustled after him.
“Nice clothing.” Sidarski rifled through Leon’s hanging suits. The hangers scraped along the metal pole, sounding like a jail cell clanging shut.
“Thank you.”
“What’d you say you do, Mr. Gribble?”
“I didn’t… I’m an accountant.”
“Explains the nice suits.”
“Well, I don’t make that good a salary, but I make do.”
Sidarski gestured toward Leon’s bed. “Anything of interest under the bed?”
“Just dust bunnies.”
“Really? I’m interested in dust bunny collections.” With some effort, and a noticeable grunt, Sidarski lowered to his knees with a clump and peered under the bed. He stood, clapped his hands together several times. “You lied.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Not a dust bunny to be found.” Sidarski grinned. “Let me take a quick spin through your other rooms, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Once they left the bedroom, Leon’s nerves settled. A bit. “Detective, would you like a bottle of water? I’m gonna grab one.”
“Thank you, no. I’m fine.”
Leon opened the refrigerator, plunged one hand in. He nearly screamed. Nestled between the bottled water and leftover chicken breasts sat something you can’t buy at any grocery store. A woman’s severed head. Staring at him. Streaks of dried mascara trailed down her cheeks, black tears of death. A few small drops of blood dotted the vegetable rack. Blood. God, he hated blood.
Leon clamped his hand over his mouth, struggling to keep his nausea at bay. He grabbed a trash bag out of the drawer. The bag cracked and popped in his shaking hands, loud firecrackers of guilt. A quick swoop lassoed the head into the bag, and he pulled. The neck stuck to the rack as if soldered into place.
He heard Sidarski’s footfalls entering the bathroom. Closer. Last room before the kitchen. No time.
<
br /> With one mighty tug, the head wrenched free. Leon stumbled back a step, holding onto the bagged head with no idea what to do with it.
The window!
He threw open the window above the sink and tossed the parcel into the alley. Leaning over the sink, he splashed cold water onto his face, his hands trembling, and patted his face like a masseuse.
“You say you got home at five-thirty, Mr. Gribble?” called out Sidarski from the bathroom.
“No…more like…just a few minutes…before you got here…” Leon’s voice dragged away into a dry whisper. The window closed with a slight creak, an explosion of guilt in Leon’s ears.
“Sorry?”
“Five forty-five…or so.” Leon wiped his face dry with a hand towel. When he turned, Sidarski stood quietly behind him, stealthy for a big man.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Gribble? You look…pale.”
“I’ve just been running around since I got home from work…and it was a helluva’ long work day.”
“Yeah, I understand those.” Sidarski jerked his chin down the hall. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a cinder block collection before. Mind if I ask why you have them?”
“Oh. They’re for a project I’m working on. Homemade shelves for the bedroom.”
“Huh. I wouldn’t think you’d want to build something for an apartment.”
“I don’t follow...”
“I just always thought apartments were somewhat…transitory.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Just seems like shelves would be something you’d want to build in a home or somewhere where you intend on being for a while.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Sidarski tapped a hanging pan. “You like to cook?”
“Yes, I do. What about you? Are you a ‘foodie’?”
“I’d like to be. Just really don’t have the time.” Sidarski strolled closer to the refrigerator. Leaning against it, he folded his arms.
“Detective, what was the phone call about?” Leon brushed by the detective, hoping he’d follow him into the living room. Sidarski stayed stubbornly planted.
Secret Society Page 4
