After a while, Brenda called out, “If you don’t come out soon, you’re going to disintegrate.”
I’d dreaded the shower, but it felt so damn good, I didn’t want it to end. “I’m done,” I reluctantly called.
Brenda reappeared to help me towel off and then helped me dress. “Richard, Betsy, and I have already had breakfast. What would you like?”
“Just coffee and toast, please.”
She nodded. “You can eat during our business meeting.”
“Are you okay with all that?”
“If you guys will actually listen to me, yeah.”
“Then let’s get to it.”
A minute later, Brenda and I managed to leave my digs without Herschel escaping, and entered the kitchen. Richard sat at the table with the morning newspaper spread out before him, while CP snoozed in her highchair.
“Good morning,” Richard said, after he’d made sure no feline had escaped.
“Same to you.” I took my usual seat, chucked the crutches, and Brenda helped me settle my leg on the unused chair.
“Do you want anything special for breakfast?”
I shook my head. “Brenda’s already got my order.”
A cup of coffee appeared before me, and then Brenda pushed two slices of white bread into the slots on the toaster.
“Brenda says we’re going to have a business meeting.”
“I’m not so sure of that, but we can at least discuss the things that need addressing.”
“Such as?”
“I got a call from Bonnie Wilder of the Amherst PD. She’s willing to help us.”
“That’s a good sign.”
“I also told her we hadn’t heard a damn thing since your accident, and she got us an appointment later this morning with the Buffalo PD to talk about it.”
“What are we likely to learn?” I asked as Brenda slid a plate with two perfectly browned pieces of dry, white toast before me and took her usual seat.
“Apparently there’s video of the accident.”
I picked up a slice of toast, but my stomach had done a flip-flop at Richard’s words and I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to eat it. “And?”
“That’s all she said.”
Did I really want to see a video of me flying across an intersection and destroying multiple bones in my right leg?
No. But I knew I’d do it because that’s what an investigator does. My specialty had once been crime scenes. I’d studied horrific photos—including those of my murdered wife—but I’d never had to look at photos or video of myself as victim.
“Do you think you’d be okay seeing that?” Brenda asked.
“Of course,” I bluffed. I could be a stupendous bullshit artist if need be. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Detective Wilder is still working on us getting to see the police reports on Alice’s murder.”
“That’s encouraging,” I said and forced myself to take a bite of my by-now cold toast.
“It might take a day or two for the Buffalo PD to find the case files. Stuff that old has never been scanned. Apparently they’re in the bowels of some police station. But it’s a start.”
“That covers two of our three—what?—investigations.”
“What do you want to do about Maria?” Richard asked, and we both turned to look at our moral compass.
“Just what is your impression of this woman?” she asked.
“Not good.”
“Nothing specific?” she pressed.
I shook my head. “I only tuned into the vibes that were attached to the beer she poured for me. But whatever I glommed onto, it wasn’t pleasant.”
“You need to be more specific,” Brenda said, her gaze intent.
I took another bite of toast and chewed while I thought about her request. “Acid,” I said finally. “When I think of her, it feels like I’m being dipped in acid. It doesn’t make sense—because obviously that never happened—but that’s the impression I got from holding the glass she touched.”
“You’ve been wrong before,” Brenda said playing devil’s advocate. “The fortune teller in Clarence. The chalice at the antique shop.”
Brenda wasn’t being cruel; she was pointing out past mistakes—or perhaps they were misinterpretations. Both incidents had happened during the first months after I’d been mugged with a baseball bat and acquired second sight. I’d been batting a thousand for more than a year, no pun intended. It was never pleasant, but I had learned to trust the funny feelings I experienced.
“I have faith in what I felt during that encounter.”
“But it was a fleeting encounter,” she persisted.
“Are you saying Jeff should give the woman a second chance?” Richard asked.
“If it was you, wouldn’t you want the benefit of the doubt?” she asked.
Richard and I exchanged uncomfortable glances.
“I guess,” I conceded. “But that means another nighttime trip to the bar, which is hard for me to do right now.”
“Difficult, but not impossible,” Brenda stressed.
Again, I looked at Richard. After all, he would have to take me there.
“We can do it in the next day or two,” he agreed.
Brenda nodded. “Okay.”
I sipped my cooling coffee and ate another couple of bites of toast before the conversation rekindled. Richard broke the quiet. “What do we do about making this little endeavor into a real enterprise?”
He was hot to make whatever we were doing into a bona fide business, but I was still iffy about wanting to make it official and I got the feeling Brenda felt the same way.
“Let’s take this one day at a time,” I suggested. “Right now, I need to take life one day at a time. I hate it, but I can’t promise I’ll feel up to being able to work—or even think clearly—on a daily basis, at least not right now.”
“I get that,” Richard said.
“I can’t give you a more definite answer. Sorry, Rich. You’re just going to have to be patient.”
He let out a weary breath. “I’ll try.”
I ate another bite of toast while Richard and Brenda looked elsewhere. CP’s little body jerked and she awoke with a start, scrunched up her eyes and began to cry.
“Oh, you’re okay,” Brenda chided, but she also extracted the baby from her imprisonment and plopped her onto Richard’s empty lap. He bounced CP on his knee a few times and the tears and wails subsided. She really was a good baby.
“What time do we meet the Buffalo cops?”
“Eleven.” Richard continued bouncing CP, who’d cheered considerably.
I looked at the clock. It was only an hour away. We’d probably have to leave in half an hour or so.
“What do I do about lunch?” Brenda asked.
“I don’t know when we’ll be home, so you and Betsy should go ahead and eat. I’ll let you know if Jeff and I catch something on the road or will come home.”
Brenda nodded. I could tell she wasn’t exactly happy about that scenario. Richard and I had eaten out the day before. It had been a while since Richard had taken his wife out to lunch or dinner. Maggie was super busy, but maybe I could convince her to babysit so that my caretakers could get a night off from being parents and taking care of me, too. Then again, Maggie was up to her eyeballs in work to get her house ready to sell, and I couldn’t lift a finger to help.
And yet, if Richard offered to take me out to lunch yet again, I knew I’d jump—only not literally—at the chance to be away from the house for an extra hour to two. I don’t think I’d ever experienced such a profound sense of cabin fever as I’d had since breaking my leg. The mugger’s had not only fractured my skull, but had broken my arm, though it hadn’t hurt half as much as the leg injury, and though I’d had limited use of my left arm for a little over six weeks, I wasn’t nearly as incapacitated as I was with this damn multi-fractured leg.
I finished the last of my toast, drained the tepid coffee from my cup, and looked at the clock.
In just about an hour I’d have to face looking at the video of me being whacked by an SUV. I wasn’t afraid, but I was bummed by the whole idea. But I also needed to get past the experience. And yet, I had a funny feeling that watching that video was going to give me a lot more questions than answers.
* * *
The Buffalo Police Department’s B District headquarters was technically on Main Street downtown—just a couple of blocks from where Alice’s body had been found, but Richard had no idea if the sleek looking, two-toned brick building that occupied that corner had been the local cop shop decades before.
He parked the car in the handicapped spot closest to the station’s back entrance off Tupper Street, and then got out to help Jeff exit the Mercedes. Brenda’s minivan was supposed to arrive the next day, which meant hours away from home spent getting the bank draft, acquiring the car, reinstalling Betsy’s car seat—time not spent working on their fledgling hobby—hopefully future business—which had barely gotten off the ground and still had no name. He’d done research online and decided they ought to file as a limited liability company, with himself, Jeff, and Brenda as partners. He still had to draft the articles of organization, apply for a tax number, set up a bank account, and decide on graphics for the website, business cards, and everything else the company would need.
Richard wasn’t about to voice the need to establish the structure for such an endeavor. He still wasn’t sure Jeff—and especially Brenda—was fully on board, but someone needed to think about the legal aspects of such an alliance.
Jeff stood for long seconds, staring at the station’s brick façade, his expression pensive.
“You okay?” Richard asked.
“Sure.”
Richard didn’t believe him for a second. He held the door and Jeff entered the building before him. They proceeded to the reception counter.
“Excuse me; we’re here to see Detective Domkowski,” Richard said.
“Take a seat; I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Jeff looked at his brother and shook his head. “I’ll just lean against the wall—it’s too hard to sit and then have to stand in a short period of time.”
The uniformed officer made a call and about a minute later a plainclothes detective arrived in the lobby. “Dr. Alpert; Mr. Resnick?” He offered his hand. Richard introduced them and shook, but Jeff just nodded, still gripping the handholds on his crutches.
The detective led them down a series of corridors and eventually they paused before an open doorway. The detective held out a hand, ushering them into yet another interrogation room. Richard had seen far too many of them during the past two years, but if their business was going to take off, it was likely they’d be seeing far more of them across the city—and possibly the region.
He got Jeff settled in a chair and elevated his broken leg before taking his own seat. “I’m a bit disappointed that we hadn’t been given an update on Jeff’s accident before Detective Wilder from the Amherst PD contacted you on our behalf,” Richard said.
Domkowski nodded and addressed Jeff. “I’m sorry, Mr. Resnick. I’m a afraid your case fell through the cracks. The officer in charge of the investigation suffered a fatal heart attack and—”
“Oh, God—I’m sorry,” Richard said, cutting him off.
“It was a shock. We’ve been trying to catch up on the cases he was juggling, but it’s been—” The man said no more. Richard had no psychic insight, but from the detective’s expression and tone, the man had obviously lost a friend.
No one spoke for long moments before Jeff broke the quiet. “I’m sorry for your loss, detective. I’m betting your friend would have worked his ass off on this case.”
“You’ve got that right,” Domkowski said.
“Do you have crime scene photos?”
The detective had arrived with a manila folder in hand, so Richard guessed his brother used the question to move things along.
Domkowski pushed the folder across the table, and Jeff opened it. From where he sat, Richard couldn’t see the file’s content. Jeff sported a poker face as he flipped through the photos before pushing the folder toward Richard.
His gaze settled on the first photo, which was of the racing bike twisted into multiple angles and felt his fists clench. Other shots showed blood on the asphalt, and an anguished Dave speaking with a uniformed officer on a sidewalk.
“My brother tells me there’s video of the accident,” Jeff said.
“Yes,” Domkowski said, but didn’t offer to show it. “Do you have any enemies, Mr. Resnick?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Have you had any other troubles of late?”
Jeff didn’t immediately answer, but Richard could see his brother instantly tense.
“I’ve got a problem with my bank, but thanks to the accident, I haven’t had time to address it.”
“Go on,” Domkowski said.
Jeff let out a breath. “I appear to be a victim of identity theft. Someone compromised my credit card, checking, and savings accounts. Apparently, it happened the day before my accident. I found out about it when I got home from the hospital.”
“Again I ask; are you sure you don’t have any enemies?”
“No. Why?”
Domkowski got up and walked to a TV on a stand, which also held a DVD player. He picked up the remote, switched on both and hit play.
The video was black and white and not all that clear. Still, Richard found himself holding his breath as a couple of guys on bicycles approached the intersection. The camera had been situated behind them. It had to be Dave on the left, decked out in spandex riding gear that covered his arms down to the wrists and from his waist to his ankles. Jeff had worn shorts and a T-shirt. A sedan pulled up behind the two.
Time marched on. Dave spoke to Jeff, who reached up to tighten the strap on his helmet, then both men looked forward. The traffic light must have changed, because both riders prepared to take off again. It was then that a big dark SUV roared into the shot, but instead of staying in its lane, it veered to the left as though aiming straight for Jeff. The bike tilted, the handlebars seemed to get caught in the vehicle’s wheel well, sending its rider into the intersection. The SUV sheered right and the bike and its occupant skittered across the asphalt, momentum sending both rolling and sliding across the tarmac until they crashed into the granite curb on the opposite side of the road.
The video froze. Jeff lay face-down on the road, his right leg tangled in the twisted metal of what had once been his sharp-looking racing bike.
The video started once more and the three of them watched the scenario unfold from a different angle—from the opposite side of the street. The bikers spoke to each other. Jeff tightened the strap on his helmet. The bikers prepared to take off. The SUV veered into the shot, took out the left-hand rider and his bike—sheered away, propelling the victim across the blacktop.
The video started once more, replaying the first version of the accident, and Richard at last tore his gaze away from the TV’s screen to look at his brother. Jeff’s gaze was focused on the TV, looking studious, but his eyes had a dark, dead look to them.
The footage played three times before Domkowski hit the stop button. His expression was hard. “After viewing the video, my colleagues and I agree on two points. One, that the driver of the vehicle acted with wanton depravity by deliberately veering to hit you, Mr. Resnick. Second, the possibility that you were specifically targeted.”
Jeff’s gaze shifted to the top of the table.
“I’ll ask the question again; do you have any enemies, Mr. Resnick?”
Jeff shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.
“Then perhaps you’d better think again—and long and hard—about it.”
Jeff shook his head, looking thoughtful.
“What about those guys that got bounced out of the bar last month?” Richard asked.
Jeff’s expression darkened, and then his eyebrows shot up. “I’d forgotten all about that
.”
“About what?” Domkowski asked.
Jeff shrugged. “I’m a—” He paused, frowning. “I was a bartender at a place in Snyder called The Whole Nine Yards.”
“Was?” Domkowski asked. “Did you get fired?”
Jeff shook his head. “Nothing like that. The bar was a three-man operation. The owner, my co-worker, Dave, who was riding with me the day of the accident, and me. My boss had to hire someone to take my place. She’s brought a lot of business to the bar. I may not get asked back.”
Domkowski nodded. “And the guys that got bounced?”
“I didn’t escort them out myself; they were a lot bigger than me. My boss takes care of troublemakers. He’s about six four and has at least sixty or seventy pounds on me.”
“But you were responsible for the guys being tossed out?”
Jeff shrugged. “I guess.”
“Were they drunk?”
“No, but they came in with ’tudes. Big-mouth college students. It wasn’t their kind of bar, although I suppose now that Maria’s there, it just might be.”
“Maria?” Domkowski asked.
“My replacement.”
“She’s brought in a different clientele,” Richard added.
“Yeah, and the till is full, too,” Jeff put in.
“Do you think those guys could have held a grudge?”
“Over something that petty? I don’t think so. And if they did, wouldn’t they have retaliated a lot sooner than last week?” Jeff asked.
Domkowski didn’t answer. Instead, he jotted down a few notes. “Tell me again the name of the bar and its owner?”
Jeff told him.
“I’ll make a point of contacting him and asking about the situation,” Domkowski promised.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Richard asked.
“We’ve contacted every collision shop in the Buffalo area, asking them to report driver’s side panel damage on any black SUV that comes in for an estimate, but so far we haven’t heard back from any of them.”
Shattered Spirits Page 16
