by LS Sygnet
“You said he was married to this woman, Helen, yes?”
“He was. Of course when he was arrested, she filed for divorce immediately. I guess I didn’t blame her for that, really. I mean, using her, her position at the FBI was more than in the back of my head all along. I just figured maybe she loved Rick, that she’d stand by him, or at least be curious enough to dig into the reasons why he ended up laundering money for the family.”
Wendell grinned in the shadows. No, Helen wouldn’t give a damn about the whys or hows that particular arrangement came to be. She’d remove herself from it – as far as humanly possible. Up until Rick’s arrest, there were no indications that Helen was even tempted to really break the law. At least not by killing someone.
“But I suppose in the end, it was clear that she loved Rick about as much as he loved her. Not at all. I never understood why Rick didn’t fall for her. She’s actually quite… beautiful.”
Hackles rose. “I thought you said you love your wife.”
“I do,” Datello sighed. “I just occurs to me, far too late I suppose, that Helen and I always had more in common than either of us were willing to admit. She came from bad people too, you see, and she turned her life around. I thought getting as far away from Sully as possible would be enough.”
Wendell gritted his teeth. How anyone could compare him to Sullivan Marcos – well, it was insulting in the supreme. Still, he dug for more. “Go on, my son.”
“Some of the things that have been said about me since my death, they make me sick, so angry and sick I think I could become what everyone says I’ve been all along.”
“Ah,” Wendell said. “This business about the woman who kidnapped your daughter. It’s been in the news, her attorney claiming that you arranged a legal adoption before you died, that this Melissa Sherman was an unwitting victim in all of it.”
“Yeah,” Datello said forcefully. “I’d never do that to Celeste, or Sofia Helene. She has the most wonderful mother in the world.”
Wendell couldn’t suppress his chuckle.
Danny stiffened.
“I apologize, but Sofia Helene?”
“Gratitude,” Datello admitted. “She did save my daughter’s life after all.”
“I presume you’ve returned to Darkwater Bay for reasons other than watching over your family,” Wendell said.
“Well, the lies make what I’d like to have happen pretty much impossible. Maybe if I’d contacted Helen three years ago and told her the truth, she would’ve helped me. Now, for obvious reasons, I can’t do that. I’m dead after all, and I’ve got to stay that way.”
“You want Helen’s help?” The possibilities grew exponentially in Wendell’s mind.
Datello laughed. “I know. Crazy, isn’t it? Suicidal even –”
Wendell reached for the latch on the screen and flicked it with his thumbnail. It swung open before Datello could finish whatever he planned to say. He startled instead.
“You recognize me, Danny?”
“Why would you open the screen?”
“My name is not Father Joseph O’Malley, though the reason why the rest of this God forsaken city needs to believe that will become abundantly clear in a moment.”
Datello paled. “Who are you? You’re not a priest?”
“Hardly,” Wendell said dryly. “Relax. I’m the last person who would share your secrets with the police – any branch, including the FBI.”
“Why?”
Wendell smiled faintly. “Because, young man, like you, I too am dead. And if you want my daughter’s help, I have a feeling that I’m the only person who can get it for you.”
Chapter 9
The phone rang three times before a muffled “h’lo” yawned over the connection. Devlin grinned. “I’d like to speak with Officer Michael Lucero please.”
“This is Mike. Who’s calling?”
“Detective Devlin Mackenzie. I’m calling from Darkwater Bay regarding Wendell Eriksson.”
“Jesus,” Lucero groaned. “Don’t you fuckin’ people ever get sick of talking about that bastard? He’s dead, and it’s about time.”
“I’ve got his daughter here with me, former Special Agent Helen Eriksson, officer. We’ve got a few questions about the visitors Mr. Eriksson had in the months before his death. On two of those occasions, Attica’s records indicate you were on duty and transferred Mr. Eriksson from isolation to a private visiting room.”
“Yeah, the one of ‘em was from your neck of the woods. Listen, I don’t exactly keep the records from the prison with me here at home.”
“We’re looking into some crimes that haven’t been solved yet, Mr. Lucero, and if Wendell Eriksson was part of these crimes, we’d like to learn about it now rather than later.”
“His kid’s there, you say?”
“Hang on a minute,” Dev engaged the speaker function on the phone in my office and replaced the receiver.
“Officer Lucero, this is Helen Eriksson. I understand you knew my father for a number of years,” I said. “I’ve also learned from the prison’s records over the course of this investigation that my father had very few visitors until a few months before he died. In fact, he had as many visitors in the space of two weeks last fall that he had in the previous two years.”
“Yeah, that’s right. I warned the old man that the cops would come knockin’ sooner or later. A guy like that doesn’t commit a one time crime, begging your pardon.”
“No need, officer,” I said. “Believe me, there were reasons that I severed all ties with Wendell Eriksson when his crime came to light.”
Dev shot me a glare. I simply shrugged. It was true, just not in the context that I led Lucero to believe.
“I’m very interested in the two visitors he had in late October, early November last year. Anything you can recall, anything that might help us track down these men, would be appreciated. We’ve already spoken to the warden at Attica, and unfortunately, the video records from that time period have been recycled.”
“First guy said he was a cop. Big guy, like I said from Darkwater Bay, blond, tough looking guy. He chatted with Wendell for about half an hour and left. Never came back. Wendell got agitated after he left and started demanding a phone call.”
My interest spiked. Of course, the visitor was Johnny, but he had no way of knowing how Dad would respond to his visit. “Did you allow him to make the call?”
“Shit,” Lucero muttered. “Yeah, I let him make his goddamned call. He called that old cop from the city that never gave up on your father’s innocence. Sergeant Ben Hanks, retired down in Florida. The old coot always made sure Wendell had long distance calling cards available so he could make any calls he needed to without having to call collect.”
“Did you hear what they discussed?”
Fingernails make a distinct sound when scratching hairy flesh. It was muffled over the long distance connection, but I imagined Lucero engaged in debate before he answered me.
“Sir?”
“We’re supposed to give them privacy, but they all know that their phone calls are recorded. Can’t have them plotting murder and mayhem from the inside.”
“So you heard what he said to Sergeant Hanks?”
“Yeah. He said he was in desperate need of cash for the canteen.”
Devlin snorted. “What the hell – he was agitated because he wanted candy bars?”
“Hell, I never bought a word out of Eriksson’s mouth. In fact, I figured he and his wily old pal worked out some sort of code, but never could figure out what it was. When they talked on the phone, it was always pretty benign stuff, asking after each other’s health, talking about the Knicks.”
My jaw dropped. “I’m sorry, did you just say my father asked about the New York Knicks?”
“Sure. They’re pretty popular with most the guys on the inside, what with most of ‘em being New Yorkers.”
I shook my head at Devlin. Dad hated the Knicks, which was odd for a cop in New York City, but Dad wasn�
��t originally from the state, and had ingrained his loyalty to the hometown – Beantown – into me for as long as I could remember.
“Though I gotta say, there were times old Wendell asked about the Knicks when the season was long over. Maybe he was hoping for a high draft pick, huh? Your old man didn’t have many redeeming qualities, but I figure that was one of them. Maybe the only one.”
I refocused on the original request. “I take it you got to know Wendell pretty well over the years.”
“I don’t mean to be offensive, ma’am, but it’s no secret that I thought your dad got off too easy. Guess you could say I knew enough to know his sentence wasn’t the glorious victory for the justice system that it could’ve been.”
“And you’re sure that’s all he asked Mr. Hanks for, money for the canteen?”
“A-yup. Damnedest thing. The way he was yelling you’d have thought the big blond dude threatened his life.”
“And the second visitor, what do you recall about him, if anything?” Dev asked.
“That one came after I called the feds to let them know this cop from the west coast showed up to see Wendell. Some agent, older guy. What was that dude’s name? Shortest visit in the history of Eriksson’s life. The guy came in, flashed his badge and so I got Wendell out to the room for a visit. He saw the guy, sat down, and when the man identified himself, he clammed up and demanded to return to his cell.”
“Did the man say what he wanted to talk to my father about?” I asked.
“Nah, but it was pretty obvious it was about that other guy who came. I mean, Eriksson’s crimes were all in New York, maybe a few in Jersey too, not the pacific northwest.”
“Did he ask to call Mr. Hanks after that visit?” I asked.
“Sure did. They talked about the Knicks for about ten minutes. Eriksson had all kinds of questions about the new roster that day. ‘Course, I thought it was a little strange that he’d be so interested in how tall they were, weights, so forth. Maybe he just wanted to believe we’d get the trophy that time around.”
“Do you recall what the man looked like?” Devlin asked. “His name, anything at all would be helpful.”
“The name was... Noel. Like Christmas.”
“Noel?” I clarified.
“Sure. Jeremy Noel. That was the name. Tall guy, maybe six four, dark hair, dark eyes.”
“Dark as in brown?”
“Nah, I don’t know. He just looked… dark.”
“Like African American?” Devlin asked.
Lucero chuckled. “He was as white as Wendell. He just had dark coloring.”
“Any idea how old he was?”
“He had some gray. I’d say late fifties, sixty tops. Hey, couldn’t you guys get all this information from the feds? He was their guy, after all.”
“We didn’t have a name, apparently. The one we were given was Noah,” I said, “so Officer Lucero, I do thank you sincerely for your cooperation.”
“Sure thing. And ma’am, I am sorry for your loss. It ain’t easy when a parent dies, even if he’s a bad parent.”
I rolled my eyes, and Devlin disconnected the call.
“You think he gave us the wrong name on purpose, Helen?”
“Who, Lucero?”
“No, your dad.”
I shook my head lightly. “You heard what the guard said. Dad didn’t stick around to talk to the guy. Who could he be?”
“I haven’t got a clue, but if we had the wrong name, don’t you think that might matter to David Levine? This guy could be a legitimate agent.”
I picked up the receiver and dialed again and thrust the phone into Devlin’s hand. “He doesn’t know that I’m aware of any of this.”
“Levine.”
“Agent Levine, it’s Devlin Mackenzie. I just finished talking to Mike Lucero. I think our information about Wendell Eriksson’s visitors was wrong. Seems like the agent who visited him last November was a guy by the name of Jeremy Noel. Johnny wondered if you could look him up for us. We’d really like to know if somebody else has information about these missing kids and any links back to Wendell.”
He nodded to me. In the silence, Dev answered benign questions about my sleep of all things, and yes, confirmed that my appetite was improving, the troublesome side effects less. He grinned, “But she’s complaining about her clothing sizes. A lot.”
I drew back a fist in playful threat.
“I see. Still no Jeremy Noel. Huh. I’m not sure what to make of that either, sir. Since the video is a dead end, I’d imagine we’ll never know who this character really was.”
The ankle monitor around my leg distracted me for a moment. There were answers I needed, answers I couldn’t slip away and get as long as Johnny kept constant tabs on me. What if we were wrong? What if Sanderfield was the last of the human trafficking conspirators? We had no evidence that Lyle Henderson was really involved. And even if Melissa Sherman was somehow the default leader now that everyone else was dead, she was behind bars, probably wouldn’t see freedom in her lifetime. Was it really necessary for me to essentially endure house arrest now that the most immediate threat was gone?
And then there was Dad. If he was convinced that Henderson posed a threat to anyone, I suspected that he’d simply die of old age in his sleep, no questions asked.
It was the one bit in the Sanderfield assassination that made me certain Dad had nothing to do with it. It wasn’t subtle at all. An unexpected death might raise red flags, but if it happened within the realm of possibility, people could accept it.
The caliber of ammunition used on Sanderfield left no room for doubt – or much left above the stump of his neck. Not Dad’s style. So who did it? Did it really matter?
“Yo,” Devlin poked my arm. “You want to talk to Levine?”
I grabbed the phone. He was already chuckling.
“Devlin said that you drifted into the room about the time that he updated me on your condition today, Helen. He said you looked half asleep.”
“Just thinking about Sanderfield,” I said. I hadn’t actually had much of an opportunity to talk to David about any of this.
He sighed. “You know as well as I do that we’re not going to find much by way of smoking guns or red-hot leads, Helen. This isn’t some long distance serial killer about to unleash his psychopathy on Darkwater Bay either. Think of it as a political assassination, which is exactly what it was.”
I frowned, picked at the cuticle of my right thumb with the phone tucked between ear and shoulder. “Yeah, but whose political career really got killed when Sanderfield died, David? Sanderfield’s or Collangelo’s?”
“I thought that was rather obvious.”
“And perhaps it was designed to be obvious.”
“Helen, how could this possibly hurt Joe Collangelo?”
“Because now that Sanderfield is dead, he reopened the very unpopular-in-Montgomery OSI to investigate the murder. And I don’t mean to cast my husband’s skills in a negative light, but you know as well as I do how this will play. Johnny and his men won’t catch the killer. So Joe fails again. His law enforcement experiment is more of the epic failure that Sanderfield said it was. In death, he proves that he was right all along.”
“And whoever replaces Sanderfield now has a ready-made platform,” David said. “Jesus, are we really suggesting that his own party stands to gain the most by Sanderfield’s death?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I said dryly. “The fact that Sanderfield wasn’t popular in Darkwater Bay is meaningless. More than this city elects the next governor. I’m not saying that they had their own candidate killed, but hell, they’d be idiots not to milk this for all the sympathy they can.”
“You can bet they’re scouring the state looking for some unimpeachable candidate to replace Sanderfield,” David said. “Speaking of he with impeccable morals, where is your husband today?”
“Off running some errand. He was gone when I woke up, Devlin was here, and I haven’t exactly had time to interro
gate anybody yet.”
Devlin shrugged.
“And apparently, Dev has no idea where he is. I found a note when I woke. He’s out, will be back later. Hugs and kisses and all that nonsense. David, while I’ve got you on the phone, how are things going with the Marcos emergency that hauled you back home?”
He sighed. “Franchetta. What a nightmare that man is becoming.”
“Has he changed his story yet again?”
“No,” David snorted. “He’s adding to it now. He claims that he has no idea how the gun got into Sully’s waste management facility. He’s certain that your ex-committed suicide, but says that Sully didn’t order him to keep tabs on the man, that it was basically a freebie, that he figured there were no missing funds, that the master somehow managed to persuade the puppet to hide a huge chunk of cash for a rainy day. He also said that he was contacted by someone who questioned him with Mark Seleeby who insinuated that it would be in his best interests to continue to point the finger of guilt at you for Rick’s death and claim that you simply disposed of the weapon in the Potomac River.”
My heart seized for a painful ten-count in my chest. “And?”
“We’re looking into it. He gave us specific locations of bars and convenience stores where these calls were prearranged, names of the people who delivered the messages to him of where to be and when so he’d intercept the calls. Of course, Sully’s legal team was somehow made aware of all of this and they’re screaming that Franchetta’s lies are adapted to the needs of the federal prosecutor.”
“I see. And why is my name being dragged into the matter again?”
“Reasonable doubt, I’d imagine. If Marcos can point the finger at a bitter ex-wife in Rick’s death, insinuate that perhaps you planted that gun in his waste management facility, that you were present when his nephew was murdered –”
I groaned.
“Yeah, you see where all of this is going. Not that Franchetta’s new details aren’t helpful, Helen, but it does rather offer the defense a compelling point in that his story has changed a number of times.”
