by S. M. West
No. No. No. Not another brick wall.
“Dammit.” He tightens his grip, fingers whitening around the steering wheel.
Bending my neck, I grasp my head in my hands, resting my elbows on my thighs, and sink into the seat.
“It’s most probably a burner and has already been dumped. The same guy checking into Elliot’s phone…” Kit pauses, looking over at me, and our eyes lock. “He can check this number out too.”
The effort it takes to curve my lips into a smile is saddening and makes me all the more grateful for the man sitting across from me. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do if I was in this alone.”
“Well, you’re not alone.” He squeezes my thigh and his tender gaze warms me.
The sun fades beneath the pinkish-lavender sky and soon we’re parking in front of Elliot’s multi-million-dollar Georgian style home in Forest Hill, an affluent neighborhood in Toronto.
I’ve only been here once or twice before and never for too long. While the home is lovely, it’s too extravagant and austere for me. Come to think of it, it’s a little like its owner, Elliot.
Kit curses with just a look at the house, then gets out of the car. I track him with my eyes from the car, not sure why he reacted that way. The front of the house is hard to see given the time of day and the fast-vanishing light. Then I see it.
Yellow tape, the kind the police use to mark a crime scene and bar entry to a building, is crisscrossed over the door in an X formation. This is another blow to our chances at answers and to my sternum.
Whoever is behind this, looking for Elliot and demanding I give them something—whatever this something is—they are always several steps ahead of us.
I scramble from the car, my brain whirring with endless possibilities and my body prickling with dread.
Kit’s already coming back to me, scanning the street before stopping in front of me on the lawn. His grim expression causes my arms to wrap around my middle as if to ward off any further doom.
“What do you think happened?” My pulse drums in my ears and I shiver.
“It’s hard to say. It could mean a number of things…either way, it’s a crime scene.” He stares directly across the road at an elderly woman standing in the window of her home, unapologetically staring out at us.
Without another word, he sprints across the street, motioning to the woman to come outside. She doesn’t blink or hesitate, turning from the window with a nod.
“Kit, what are you doing?” I jog after him, my stomach churning as I lower my voice as if someone might hear us. As far as I can tell, we’re alone.
“Just going to ask her a few questions.”
The neighbor greets us from the top step of her majestic home and the woman looks vaguely familiar. Maybe I’ve seen her before when at Elliot’s—I can’t be sure. Or maybe it’s because she reminds me of Helen Mirren with her soft gray bob framing her face. She’s tall and classy.
But what’s most absurd and triggers a struggle for me not to hang my mouth open, is the floor-length fur coat and chandelier diamonds dripping from her ears. She’s dressed as if she’s off to dine with the Queen of England.
“Hi, sorry to bother you. I’m Al Foley, Elliot Foley’s cousin, and this is my wife, Anne.” He holds my hand and I smile tightly as he inches us forward. “My cousin lives across the street.” He points to the home.
“Judy Richardson.” Her haughty tone is almost cold but not quite, as if her curiosity prevents her from being downright rude. “I know Dr. Foley. Nice man…or at least that’s what I thought.”
Kit quirks a brow and as much as I want him to delve into her last comment, he doesn’t.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Richardson.” He extends his hand and she offers the top of hers.
She expects him to kiss it. Without pause, he plays the part, bringing her milky white hand to his lips. “I was hoping you could help me.”
Seamlessly, he shifts from charming gentleman to concerned relative, fidgeting and worrying a frown as he peers over his shoulder at Elliot’s home.
“I haven’t been able to reach him and we were worried so I thought we’d swing by and check on him. What happened?”
The elderly woman softens her gaze at the big guy beside me. “Oh, dear, I can’t say for sure what’s going on over there. But whatever it is, it’s not good.”
Shit. Is this why Elliot hasn’t responded? Something’s happened to him?
She inches forward, now standing beside us and looking across the street at the dark home with the loud yellow tape marking the door.
“I haven’t seen Dr. Foley in days. But the other night…” She grips his forearm with her frail, vein-wrinkled hand, and the ruby on her ring finger, the size of an eyeball, winks at me.
“I’m no busybody but this neighborhood is my home. It’s safe. We’re fine upstanding people.” She pauses, looking for our agreement, which we readily provide with quick nods. “I’ve been here since marrying my beloved George, may he rest in peace, and I make it my business to make sure nothing untoward is going on, you know.”
Her finger waggles and we nod again, wordlessly encouraging her to go on. It’s only a hunch, but all this has to be connected to the men at the clinic, Elliot, me…all of it.
I’m concerned for Elliot, sure I am, but I’m more anxious to understand more about these people who are after me. They have already made it clear they aren’t afraid to threaten or do harm, but just how far are they willing to go?
“I’m a light sleeper and just happened to be passing the window the other night when I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
Mrs. Richardson leans in and lowers her voice, looking left then right as if someone might be lurking nearby.
“Three big men, all in black, broke into Dr. Foley’s house in the dead of night. They kicked the door in, and at first the alarm caused quite a racket, but it didn’t last long. They must have known the code, or guessed at it, or something.” Her slight frame trembles and I feel the fear in my bones.
“What did you do?” My words are shaky.
“Well, I called the police. I was worried Dr. Foley was in there.” Now she’s wringing her hands and staring earnestly at Kit. “Like I said, on that night, I hadn’t seen him in two days, which isn’t unusual. The man’s a doctor, you know, and works all kinds of odd hours, but what if he was home?”
“I understand.” He offers a low, solemn response, giving the woman all of his attention. “What happened next?”
“They destroyed the place. All the lights were on. They weren’t in the least bit concerned about being quiet. The police didn’t arrive in time—they missed them by mere minutes.” She tuts her tongue against the roof of her mouth and shakes her head in dismay.
I wrap my arms around my middle, suddenly colder. The woman is visibly distraught and I sense her eagerness to talk about this, to feel like she’s doing something. The feeling is mutual. I’m irritated, almost angry with how much effort we’ve put in and have so little to show for it. This sounds like another one of those moments.
“Did you talk to the police that night?” Briefly, Kit searches my expression, checking in on me, and I put on my best I’m okay look.
“Why, yes. They had me on the phone with the operator until they arrived. Lovely woman I spoke to. So calm and kind. Then they came to my house. It was quite upsetting. This is a good neighborhood. I’ve never seen such unsavory beasts on these streets. I don’t know what Dr. Foley has gotten himself into…” Mrs. Richardson trails off, looking to both of us, as if hoping we can fill in the blanks.
“Do you know who you spoke to from the police? I’d like to be able to talk to them and find out more.” He steadies the woman, who’s frail and wobbly, while she nods.
“Yes, yes. I have his card right here.” One hand slides into the pocket of her fur coat and she produces a business card, shaking as she hands it to Kit.
He holds the card to the light over the doorway. The Toronto Police logo is the fir
st thing to catch my eye, then the bold black letters of Detective Jack Holman.
Shit. This doesn’t feel like a good thing.
I don’t know much about how the police work, but Toronto’s a large city. The precinct Holman works out of is nowhere near here and yet he’s working both the clinic explosion and the break-in at Elliot’s house? Something isn’t right and I don’t believe this is a coincidence.
Kit
“All right, call me when you can.” I end the call and Caro stares at me expectantly.
Today, Friday, is the investor party, and we’ve spent most of the day waiting around for more information. Finding Elliot is still our best shot but we need a lead.
And Maggie and Nick are back today. Then Caro goes to stay with them. I should be ecstatic about that, although I have no intentions of leaving Nick and Caro to figure this out on their own. But I’m not happy about the idea of her leaving. I’m dreading it.
“What did your contact with the police say?” She’s impatient, pushing from the counter in my direction. We’re in a holding pattern until we have something more to go on.
“We got interrupted, so he’s going to call back. But like I thought, the phone number on the label is a dead end. A burner phone. And as for Elliot’s phone, Holman’s already on it so Paddy couldn’t do too much digging. But what he does know for sure is, they haven’t found Elliot. His house was broken into, but Elliot wasn’t there so the police don’t know if anything was taken.”
“Holman’s all over this.”
“Yeah, it looks that way. And while Holman could argue we should have said something to him about Elliot, don’t you find it telling that he hasn’t mentioned Elliot to us? Questioned us about him?”
“Yes, why is that?” She cocks her head to one side, puzzled.
“Not sure. It’s most probably a test.” I rake a hand through my hair. “And my guess is we’re failing.”
“A test?”
“Yeah, he doesn’t trust us, and we haven’t said anything about Elliot so he might figure we’re hiding something, or that we don’t know anything at all.”
“I know this is ironic to say given we haven’t been completely honest with him, but it’s hard to trust Holman. So now what?” Her frustration is clear in the way she twists her lips.
“Have you heard anything from your friend at the lab?”
“No, I—” My phone rings and she pauses.
“I have to take this. It’s him again.”
Padraig Owen is a career cop with only a few years left until retirement, and once upon a time, he was on Nick’s payroll. Caro didn’t want to know about those kinds of things back then and she sure as hell doesn’t want to know now. All she knows is he’s with the police, he’s well connected, and his information has always been solid.
Nick called him in the day after the explosion. It had been a long time since we’d talked to him. Part of going legit means cutting ties with dirty cops. But this situation called for a reunion.
Paddy helped arrange a crew to check the Home for explosives and he was also looking into tracking Elliot down through his phone. After last night at Foley’s place and the neighbor handing us Holman’s card, I called Paddy and asked him to look into Holman as well.
If anyone can help with getting answers on Holman, it’s Paddy.
The detective is working the Foley break-in, Caro’s too, and Elliot’s possible disappearance, plus the clinic explosion. Both incidents were in vastly different neighborhoods attached to different police stations in the city. Someone had to have deliberately assigned him those cases, or Holman somehow made it so.
“Hey, Paddy, can you talk now?”
“Kit, my boy, yeah. Sorry about that before. I had to talk to the boss. Listen, where were we? Oh yeah, I’ve got some interesting stuff. I had to be discreet—nosing around cases and a detective that I have no cause to be isn’t good for my health.” He laughs and it comes out more like a smoker’s phlegm-coated cough.
I cringe at the thought of him hacking up a lung. “Hit me.”
Caro’s phone rings and she answers, walking into the bedroom, probably so we can both talk without disrupting each other.
“Well, as I’m sure you’ve already figured out, Holman’s approach to things is…let’s just say questionable. It isn’t clear if he’s dirty, but it’s safe to say there ain’t a loyal bone in his body. His allegiance is to himself and money.”
I bite back my laugh at his hypocrisy. He could just as well be talking about himself. As a cop, Paddy’s done things he shouldn’t for money. “What else?”
Caro stands at the doorway to the bedroom, staring at me. Her call was quick and she doesn’t look any more or less hopeful than she did before.
“And you were right, Holman called in markers to get assigned both cases.”
“Thanks, Paddy.” I rake a hand through my hair, the knot in my chest loosening at what I already suspected, despite having more questions than answers with this news.
“But that ain’t all. It’s the weirdest thing and definitely cause for concern—Holman’s a detective with the Drug Enforcement Unit. It makes no sense for him to show up at the clinic explosion unless there’s a known drug affiliation with that location and the same goes for Foley’s B and E. I found nothing, although, like I said, I could only dig so far.”
“Shit.” And the knot is back tenfold. The elephant sitting on my chest makes it hard to breathe.
This isn’t enough to say if Holman is working for the bad guys, maybe on their payroll to find Elliot, or working another angle. Basically, we have to be extra careful where Holman is concerned.
“I’m not done. Holman also has a BOLO out on Foley. And get this, you and Caro Archer are listed as persons of interest.”
“Why are we being flagged? We aren’t hiding.” Although maybe we aren’t as easy to find as some would think. If Holman is working with whoever is behind this, they’d know how to find Caro, know she’s with me. So far, we’re safe at my place. This could mean Holman has another agenda. But what?
“Nah, you don’t have to be hiding. It’s a way to be alerted if your names come up in any calls or investigations where the police are involved. You’re entered into the CPIC and if your name pops up, the OIC, in this case, Holman, will get a call.”
“Paddy, slow down and speak English.”
He full-on guffaws and the sounds spewing across the line make me want to gag. I’m surprised he’s still standing with the way he smokes and drinks.
“CPIC stands for Canadian Police Information Centre. It’s a database for info on anyone of special interest to or under surveillance by police; all charges and convictions—”
“Got it. And OIC, that means officer in charge?”
“Sure does.”
“Okay, so Holman knows about the connection between Foley and Caro. He just isn’t sharing.”
Great, just what we need, or more specifically what I need. Caro doesn’t have a record, I do. And if Holman has a “be on the lookout” for us then he does suspect us of more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“It looks that way.” He coughs once more.
“Thanks, Paddy. Appreciate it.”
“Sure thing, Kit. Watch your back.”
“Will do.”
“And say hi to Nicky for me.” He’s on the cusp of another coughing fit and I end the call.
Caro clears her throat. “What about Holman?”
“Like we thought, he shouldn’t be on both cases. Something isn’t right.”
I hesitate to mention the BOLO. Telling her he’s got his eye on both of us will only cause her to worry even more.
“So we continue being careful around Holman.” She inches toward the photographs once more. Since staying here, she’s stopped there several times, drawn to those images on the wall. “Do you think he’ll mention Elliot to us?”
“Yeah. My guess is he’s waiting for the right moment to catch us off guard.” Like befo
re, I step in behind her and also take in those I care about the most in this world.
“Most probably.” She points to my favorite photograph, her tone carrying a faraway quality to it.
The image is of Caro in my lap, cupping my face. Neither of us are looking at the camera. We only have eyes for each other. Not even a second after the picture was taken, I’d kissed her, never wanting to let her go.
“Who called you?” I rub at the stubble on my jaw, dipping my gaze to the floor, unable to linger on the photo or the memory anymore.
Especially with her next to me but no longer mine.
“That was my friend from the lab.” She swivels abruptly away from the wall to face me and holds up her splintered phone. “He confirmed it’s OxyContin, one hundred and sixty milligrams.”
She blows out a breath, glancing back to the pictures. It’s brief and then something shifts as if shutters block out the past. I get it, recognize it all too well.
“What do you think it means?” Caro’s wicked smart and knows full well what all of this means. She either refuses to accept what’s right in her face or she needs someone—me—to spell it out for her.
I’d rather not be the one but I’m not going to pussy out now. Maybe a dose of reality will jog her memory.
“Your clinic was getting shipments of OxyContin, and from the looks of that box and the container under the floor, in large amounts.” With one more look at the pictures, the past, I head to the kitchen for water. “This could mean the clinic was a place to hold the stuff temporarily, before it hit the street, or someone was dealing out of the clinic.”
“No.” She’s right behind me and adamant. “I would have known if the clinic was being used to deal drugs.”
Rounding the corner into the kitchen, I catch the flush on her face before she dips her head to stare at her painted toes. We both know that isn’t necessarily true. She had no knowledge of the drugs being shipped to the clinic, so it isn’t a stretch to think there could have been a lot more going on right under her nose.
