Sirens in the Night

by Bradley, Michael;

  Samantha was certain that she couldn’t present this information to her superior officer, let alone to the FBI. To walk into his office, and tell him they were looking for three creatures from Greek Mythology would be, in her own terms, a “résumé producing event.” Her only ally at this juncture was Jack Allyn, and perhaps Peter Thornton. As far as Samantha was concerned, the jury was still out on whether or not Peter would believe any of it. He had seemed receptive when they were waiting for forensics to arrive at the comic book shop, but it was hard to tell if he was simply humoring her until he could speak to their boss.

  Emptying her glass, Samantha turned the words of Franklin’s journal over in her head. She thought again of the iron cap, and the old rusted chain she had seen beside it. The three Seirenes had been sealed away for eternity, or so it was thought at the time. The good folks of eighteenth century Philadelphia thought the creatures could never escape. If they had only known . . .

  “Apparently, an iron cap and chain couldn’t hold them forever,” Samantha said aloud to no one but herself.

  _______________

  The white Mini Cooper was waiting in the alley behind the Flimm Building when Jack stepped out into the morning sunshine. Samantha had been correct about the FBI waiting for him at the entrance of the building. He had seen the black SUV pull up by the curb two hours before his shift was over. Luckily for Jack, the building was only accessible after hours with a security keycard, and he doubted that the FBI could override the system. The doors wouldn’t unlock for another half hour, so, figuring that they were hoping to stop him on his way out, Jack slipped down a little known stairwell into the alley where Samantha had agreed to meet him.

  He pulled open the passenger door of the Mini Cooper and dropped into the seat next to Samantha, who was sipping from a Dunkin Doughnuts coffee cup.

  “No sidekick this morning?” Jack asked as he slid into the car’s passenger seat.

  Samantha simply shook her head in reply.

  “So, what’s up with you two anyway? Have you been partners long?” inquired Jack.

  “Only a few months. Peter’s a rookie in the detective division. I’m supposed to be his mentor.”

  “You make it sound like a punishment.”

  “For me, it is. I’m not the mentoring type,” said Samantha, smiling. “Truth be told, he’s a good cop. He’s got the smarts to go far as a detective. He’s just a little rough around the edges.”

  “Have you eaten?” Jack asked.

  Samantha shook her head in response.

  “Great. I know the perfect place for breakfast.”

  While in the car, the only conversation between them was Jack providing Samantha with directions to Monk’s Cafe. As she pulled her Mini Cooper into the only available spot in the small parking lot along the side of the grimy white-painted brick building, Samantha turned and frowned at Jack.

  “Here? Wasn’t this place shut down by the health department once?” she asked.

  Smiling, Jack replied, “Actually, it was shut down three times as far as I know.”

  As she pushed her door open, Samantha replied, “Great. If the Seirenes don’t get me, breakfast will.”

  Jack led the detective into the small cafe and over to his usual table in the far corner. When the waitress, Meg, approached the table her eyes darted from Jack to Samantha, and then back to Jack. She raised her eyebrows at Jack, who simply smiled in return.

  “Mornin’ Jack. Do you want the usual?” the waitress asked.

  “Yeah, Meg. That’d be great.”

  Turning to Samantha, Meg inquired, “And for you?”

  “The largest cup of coffee you have, and eggs sunny side up with sausage on the side. And please hold the salmonella.”

  Meg smirked and then glanced at Jack. “A comedian? She’s a comedian?” Turning back to Samantha, Meg scowled at her and added, “Since you’re a friend of Jack’s, I won’t spit in your eggs before bringing them to you.”

  When the waitress had gone, Samantha looked across the table at Jack. “She doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

  “They’re a little touchy when it comes to the subject of food poisoning,” came his reply.

  “Not to sound like I’m trying to pick you up, but do you come here often?”

  Jack laughed. “Just about every morning. The place may not look like much, but the food’s fantastic.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’m placing my life in your hands by eating here,” said Samantha.

  “So, about this building you told me about . . . How old was it?”

  “Not old enough to date back to Franklin’s time, but the chamber was deep underneath the foundation of the building above,” disclosed Samantha. “The building was probably simply built right over top of the subterranean chamber. I doubt that anyone knew it was there.” She paused for a moment, and then added, “Something that dawned on me last night was that Calithea had been working with a lawyer who ended up dead the next day. He was working on some kind of legacy for her. I didn’t dig any deeper at time because I didn’t see a need to, but now . . .”

  “You’re going back to check it out,” stated Jack.

  Samantha replied, “Yeah. As soon as we’re done with breakfast.”

  “Great. I’ll tag along.”

  _______________

  Samantha and Jack stood alone in the elevator of the Independence Capital building in downtown Philadelphia as they rode up to the twenty-fifth floor. The sound of soft music filled the interior, causing Jack to cringe. During the drive over from Monk’s Cafe Samantha had called her partner, Peter Thornton, to provide him with an update on the previous evening. When she had ended the call, Samantha was still unsure about the state of her partner’s belief in the mythological creatures. Now, she and Jack were approaching their first port of call for the morning, the law offices of Haskell, Seymour, and Meyers. As the elevator doors opened, she glanced at Jack for a moment. She knew that she was breaking department regulations by bringing him along during an investigation. There was no good reason for him to be accompanying her, other than the sense of comfort his presence seemed to give her. As they stepped off the elevator, Samantha was surprised to see an overweight man in grey overalls scraping at the lettering on the glass doors to the law offices. The “u” and the “r” in the name “Seymour” had already been removed, and the man was working diligently to remove the “o” from the glass. James Seymour had only been dead for a few weeks, but it seemed his old partners, Haskell and Meyers, were anxious to remove his name from the firm.

  As they entered the office, Samantha noticed that the face behind the front desk was different, leading her to wonder if she had driven the previous receptionist to quit after her last visit. Samantha remembered that she had been a bit abrupt on her last visit. This young blonde receptionist seemed cold and unfazed when Samantha presented her badge along with her request to speak to Fredrick Haskell.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.

  “No. Usually my badge is the only appointment I need,” replied Samantha.

  The receptionist replied, “Mr. Haskell doesn’t see people without appointments. Perhaps I can schedule something for later this week?”

  Placing her hands on the desk, Samantha leaned toward the young woman, and stared at her for a moment. “Look, sweetie. I don’t have time for this. Please tell Mr. Haskell I’m here. He knows who I am, and he will see me.”

  As the receptionist stepped away from her desk, Samantha and Jack waited silently for her return. For the first time in this investigation, the detective was feeling as if she were getting somewhere. Her nerves had been frayed, and she was exhausted. But she was feeling the surge of adrenaline that she always got when a case started to come together. Samantha was banking everything on walking out of the law office with new information that would lead her to the three c
reatures. She hoped that she wouldn’t walk out disappointed.

  Jack, who had remained silent during the exchange between Samantha and the receptionist, had found humor in the detective’s attitude toward the unfortunate young woman and was forced to stifle a laugh. Never in his life did Jack think that he would be involved in a police investigation, let alone one consisting of such bizarre and unimaginable circumstances. He considered how much had happened over the past couple of weeks and still found it all difficult to believe. Yet he couldn’t deny his own eyes and his own memories. The sight of Jason Spinacker’s body, the attack on Panama Street, and even the attempt on his life from the previous night were all far too vivid and fresh in his mind.

  When the receptionist returned, she led Jack and Samantha to the same conference room where the detective had been during her previous visit. The receptionist closed the door behind them, leaving the pair alone to wait. Jack slid into one of the leather chairs surrounding the oval conference table while Samantha walked to the window and gazed out over the city.

  “She’s hiding out there somewhere,” Samantha said quietly.

  Before Jack could respond, the conference room door opened, and the elderly Fredrick Haskell stepped softly into the room. The man’s blue eyes looked from Samantha to Jack, and then back again to Samantha; his face formed a deep grimace.

  “Detective Ballard, I’m assuming that this is important to justify once again upsetting my receptionist,” said Haskell.

  “I’m sorry to intrude on your morning, but this is of the utmost importance.” Gesturing to Jack, Samantha added, “This is my associate, Jack Allyn.”

  Haskell nodded toward Jack. “How can I help you both?”

  Samantha gave Haskell the politest smile she could muster and said, “If you will remember, when I was here last, it was in reference to James Seymour’s death. You provided me information about one of his clients, Calithea Panagakos. You stated that Mr. Seymour was working on some kind of legacy for Ms. Panagakos. At the time, it didn’t seem important to violate client confidentiality. But based on recent events, I’m going to have to request that you give me full access to the Panagakos file. I need to know everything that James Seymour was working on for her.”

  Taking a slow, deep breath, Haskell slowly shook his head. “Detective, as we discussed during your last visit, I will not violate confidentiality of my clients without a warrant or my client’s written permission. Since you have not presented me with either of those items, I assume that you do not have them. Therefore, you are wasting your time as well as mine.”

  Samantha’s eyes narrowed, and she stared across the room at the lawyer. “Mr. Haskell, your client is currently suspected of having killed two police officers, as well as being connected to numerous suspicious deaths in the city. Now, I understand how important client confidentiality is. But if you really want a warrant, I will get a warrant . . .” She paused for a moment, and then added, “to search every file on the premises, because you never know if someone may have made a mistake and filed a document in the wrong place. While I’m at it, I’ll make sure the media are fully appraised of the situation. And, as an added bonus, I’ll arrest you on charges of obstruction and harboring a fugitive.”

  Haskell glared at Samantha. “Are you threatening me?”

  The detective simply replied, “Yes.”

  Looking at Jack, Haskell exclaimed, “You’re a witness! She can’t do this!”

  Shrugging his shoulders, Jack replied, “I’m just tagging along here.”

  Haskell puffed out his chest, and then gave a loud sigh. “Fine. I will get you our files on Ms. Panagakos.”

  As he turned to leave the room, Samantha spoke. “Mr. Haskell. I appreciate this. And I hope you know that I would never have followed through with my threats. But we’ve got no time to waste. This woman needs to be stopped before she kills again.”

  Haskell glanced over his shoulder. “I understand, detective. I’ll be right back with those files.”

  When Haskell returned a few minutes later, he was carrying a thin manila folder under his arm. He set the folder down on the table and gently flipped open the lid, revealing a stack of documents inside. Haskell gestured for Samantha sit down as he pulled up a chair for himself.

  “You may not be aware of this, but our small firm is quite an old one in the city. We’ve been in business in one form or another for well over two-hundred and fifty years,” Haskell explained. “It’s been a family business starting with our founder, Franklin F. Meyers, in the late 1780s. It’s rare for us these days to have to dig into our files for anything dating that far back, but this was one of those rare occasions.” The elderly man drew an old piece of parchment from the bottom of the stack of documents and then continued to speak. “Very early in our founder’s career, he was approached by a client wishing to draw up a will. According to Meyers’ notes, this woman was leaving for a long voyage, and wished to leave provisions for the disposal of her property in the event something happened to her. Part of these provisions included the firm maintaining the property during our client’s absence. For this service, a financial arrangement was provided from which we could draw a regular nominal fee, as well as any expenses incurred for said maintenance. Obviously, Meyers assumed that this would only be for a few months, but it turned out to last over two centuries.”

  “The money lasted that long?” questioned Jack.

  Haskell nodded. “Oh, yes. The client provided the firm with a large amount of gold bullion, which we have used sparingly over the years to maintain the property in question, as well as pay our ongoing fee for the responsibility as originally agreed.”

  “Hang on a sec. Wasn’t it illegal to own gold during World War II?” said Samantha.

  Haskell blushed slightly. “Ah, yes. It was illegal for quite a number of years. Sometimes, we lawyers bend the rules a little in the best interest of our clients. In the 1970s we liquidated the gold and invested the funds, using mostly the interest to pay our ongoing legal fees.”

  “The history lesson is nice and all, but what does all of this have to do with Calithea Panagakos?” asked the detective.

  Laying the piece of parchment down on the table, Haskell said, “The property in question is a house over in Germantown. Ms. Panagakos arrived in our office claiming to be an ancestor of our client and the rightful heir. James Seymour was working with her to validate her claim and then transfer ownership of the property and the remaining funds to her.”

  Jack glanced at the yellowing palimpsest with its handwritten script, noting the signature at the bottom. Pointing toward the flared autograph, Jack asked, “Is that your client’s signature?”

  Haskell nodded. “Yes.”

  “It’s the same name,” observed Samantha.

  “Yes, we thought that was interesting as well. But Ms. Panagakos explained that it was an old family name that’s been passed down through the generations.”

  Samantha glanced at Jack and could tell that they were both thinking the same thing. Knowing what they did, they were both certain that this was not a coincidence. The signature on the parchment read, “Calithea Panagakos”.

  Samantha rose from her seat, and said, “Thank you, Mr. Haskell. If you can give us the address of that property, we should be on our way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The house on the corner of W. Queen Lane and Knox Street was an old Georgian colonial-style home with broad white trim framing the pale yellow painted clapboard siding. The first floor windows, which were evenly spaced with two on each side of the large white door, were partnered with identical twins on the second floor. Each window was flanked by a set of black storm shutters which, at one time, may have served a purpose but now looked only decorative. The casing around the front door was broad, white, and topped with an oversized horizontal lintel. The three-paneled door itself was white as well, with a large, tarnished brass
doorknocker. The house looked out of place between the nineteenth and twentieth century duplexes, which, over time, had been erected around it. But, as Frederick Haskell had said, the house had withstood the test of time with some help from the law firm. With no owner to consult, Haskell had disclosed, the lawyers at the firm had to make some decisions about what was best for maintaining the structure, including roofing, painting, and landscaping.

  The white Mini Cooper was parked half a block from the house on the opposite side of the street. The two occupants sat quietly, gazing across at the old structure, as if admiring its beautifully maintained exterior. The house stood as a testament to an age that some might have called “simpler times.” But neither Jack nor Samantha was thinking about the architectural significance of the old home. They were far more concerned about what might be waiting inside.

  “It looks innocent enough,” said Jack.

  Samantha replied, “They always do.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  Never taking her eyes off of the old house, the detective replied, “Wait for Peter to get here.”

  On the drive over from the law firm, Samantha had called Peter Thornton, requesting that he meet them at the address provided by the lawyer. They had been waiting on W. Queen Lane for over fifteen minutes, and Samantha was growing impatient.

  “When he gets here, we go in?” asked Jack.

  Samantha turned toward him. “What do you mean ‘we’? You’re staying here. Peter and I will go in.”

  Jack shook his head. “Not a chance. I’ve come too far to be left out at the kill.”

  “I’ll handcuff you to the steering wheel,” stated Samantha.

  “I’ll honk the horn until the entire neighborhood knows we’re here.”

  Shaking her head, Samantha replied, “Jack, I can’t put your life at risk.”