Perfectly Evil Three

Chapter Ten

Deuce and Nick found the detectives working the Barrows’ case at a regular cop and fireman haunt, the Code Red. It was a bar owned by a handful of officers from a few years back. The owners kept changing as one person sold his shares in the business to another, but one thing remained constant—it was a cop shop and a favorite haunt of the local fire unit.

Deuce nodded to the bartender when they entered the bar. The young woman with her beautiful auburn hair and clear blue eyes nodded back as she went to a refrigerator for two tall ones. Deuce’s eyes never left her, even as Nick pulled his partner down the long bar, having spotted the other two detectives with a few Vice cops watching the Sunday game.

Nick shoved his partner onto a barstool as the bartender set two open beers in front of them. “Thanks, Cammie.” Nick smiled politely as his stunned partner just stared.

The young woman nodded to him, but her eyes were on his partner.

“Deuce,” she said in a bell-like tone, smiling at the target of her attention, who visibly gulped. Nick rolled his eyes.

“Man, do not even go there.” Nick warned out of the side of his mouth as the young woman walked away.

“Hey, she’s legal, and I’m clean.” Deuce muttered taking a huge swallow of his beer as he sat back to enjoy his favorite pastime in the Code Red. The freckles sprinkling the young woman’s face made her look sun kissed and beautiful beyond belief. Her body was worth a second look, a tall leggy Irish girl with a smile that promised pure unadulterated wickedness. Damn.

“And her brother is mean,” Nick said swallowing half his beer in a gulp. “You mess with Delaney’s sister, and you might find yourself on the wrong side of the shift commander.”

“Pete isn’t going to do anything.”

“Yeah, tell me that when you’re scheduled for nightshift for three months, and walking a beat downtown in uniform.”

Deuce dragged his gaze from the girl to his partner. “You don’t think he’ll have a problem with me being black-Hispanic, do you?”

“You’re black?” Deuce playfully shoved him. Nick chuckled, shaking his head. “No, but I do think he’d have a problem with you being a hound. Your reputation with women sucks, partner.”

“I’m reformed.”

“Since when?”

“The moment his sister smiled at me.”

“I thought you had a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, well that’s looking a bit iffy right now.” Deuce flashed a large brilliant smile at Cammie, who blushed and looked away.

Nick hit his partner upside the head. “Concentrate. We’re working here.”

“Huh?”

Nick gave up. Taking a drink of his beer, he looked down the row of cops watching the game. “Gentlemen.”

“Nick, how’s it going?” said Karl, one of the detectives on Charles Barrows’ case.

“Not bad. I’ve got a strange case, and I think it crosses over into one of yours.”

Deuce leaned on the bar to join the conversation, pulling a bowel of shelled peanuts closer. Eating a few, he tossed the shells on the floor. “Do you remember a graduate student named Charles Barrows? He was in an accident about four days ago.”

“Barrows?” Karl shook his head glancing at his partner.

“The kid that took a gainer off a hairpin in the North Hills area.”

“Oh yeah. We believe he took the Scenic Loop Road and took a few side roads to hook up with the Westside Expressway. He didn’t make it.”

“Accident?” Deuce asked.

“Yeah, or suicide.” Karl winced as he drank the final dregs of his beer. “He went over the hairpin down a nice embankment. Hit a tree. The tree won.”

“You sure? What did the EU Investigator say?”

“Jenny and Lee are the investigators. It appears he was taking the turn, but missed. Problem is there were no skid marks. Lee thinks he might have fallen asleep at the wheel, and that’s a possibility. They couldn’t rule out suicide. Charles Barrows’ parents died in a house fire and he had taken time off from school. It’s not a reach to imagine that he was depressed.”

“Maybe, but I’ve got a coincidence that ties him to another case, and in lieu of that, it makes Charles Barrows’ death suspicious,” said Nick.

Nick’s jaw clenched. It was highly unlikely. The coincidence that Charles Barrows was working on a special project with Roland, who also ended up dead, was too problematic to not have a purpose. Charles called Brian, and then he ended up dead, his message deleted. It all tied together somehow. Had to.

“What information?” Karl’s partner asked. “Which case does it tie to?”

“Maria’s parents’ house. It looked to be a burglary, but Charles left a message for Brian Guerin. Someone erased that message, and what we retrieved tied Charles to Roland Garza’s death indirectly.”

“You want our case files,” Karl guessed.

Nick wasn’t going to take their case, not without their consent. “I need them, yeah, but I can pass the case to you, work with you, or you can kick it to me and Deuce.”

“Maria DeLuca’s involved.” The older detective laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t lie, Nick. You want this case, and if we took it, you would be mucking around in our investigation.”

“So it’s mine—ours?”

“Take it. We’ll drop the file on your desk, but keep us informed.” Karl waved to Cammie for another round of drinks. “For this—you buy the next round.” Nick reached for his wallet. “Nick, seriously, you need help or anything—for Roland and Maria, you only have to ask.”

Nick looked into his wallet. “I could use help with the bar tab.”

“Sorry, buddy. On that, you’re on your own.”

* * *

Deuce amused himself while Nick went to find Maria. He started by stopping at the shift commander’s desk to feel out how the man felt about a cop hitting on his sister.

“Hey,” said Nick seeing Maria reading through a file. He glanced around Maria’s office, noting the pictures and books that used to belong to Roland Garza.

Maria closed the file and slid it beneath a stack of files. “Hey, yourself.”

Nick pursed his lips, his dark eyes taking on a flicker of silver as they went to the pile of files. “The Barrows case…how does it read?”

Sighing, Maria pulled out the case file she confiscated from one of the investigators. She leaned back in her chair, not commenting.

“Does Jenny know you have that?”

“Lee gave it to me.”

“I didn’t ask about Lee. I have no doubt that you can wrap Lee or any other man in the department around your little finger. I asked about Jenny.”

“Technically—no.”

Nick took a seat in the chair across from her desk. “You know you shouldn’t be involved in this.”

“They’re my parents.”

“You know the rules on conflicts of interest, Maria.”

Maria passed him the file. “And if it was your mother?”

“Nothing in hell would stop me,” he admitted. “C’mon, let’s go for a ride.”

Maria stood up, grabbing her cell phone and bag. “Where’re we going?”

“Where do you think?”

“I’ll get my kit!” Hey, a woman that had a week like the one Maria had deserved a bit of fun.

Nick rubbed a hand across his mouth, amused at her reaction. “God, I wished you were as excited about me as you are a crime scene.”

Slapping him on the stomach, she walked out of the room past him. “You highly underrate your attractiveness, Detective. If I found you as part of my crime scene, I promise I would be very excited.”

“Funny. You’re very funny.”

“Yeah, I start riots.”

Nick had no doubt that was true.

* * *

The access road that connected the Scenic Loop Road to the Westside Expressway was a narrow sharp turning road that moved through the north San Antonio hill region. The embankment Charles missed was a good forty foot drop, with a steep embankment running into exposed stone and trees.

The area of impact was obvious from the damage to the surrounding area and trees.

Deuce and Nick stood back as Maria walked the road. She carried the file in her hand with the pictures on top. Leaving them, she climbed down to the crash site. Staring at the scar on the tree, and then looking back up the embankment to where they stood, she stared off into space.

“What’s she doing?” Deuce asked.

“Being Maria.” Nick searched for a cigarette while watching her.

He'd watched her for years, worked with her on and off for years. It took a lot of nerve to finally ask her out after spending forever flirting with her. Few men could break beyond the amount of concentration she gave her job, and those who could, found it disconcerting when that concentration shifted to them. It felt like someone suddenly plugged you into an electrical socket.

The Chief Medical Examiner walked a few feet beyond the site and then up a different slope. They watched as she came out further up the road from them. Walking slowly, she walked up the hill before the hairpin turn.

At the top of the hill, she walked back towards them, but her eyes never left the ground. She met up with them and then walked pass them. Stopping, she squatted down next to the asphalt. Looking back, her eyes moved along the tire tracks.

“Watcha got?” Nick asked.

“Nothing. I got nothing.” Maria stood wiping her hands down her pants legs. “There is nothing here, but there should’ve been.” Maria stopped as if something caught her eye. Stooping, she picked up a small piece of debris from the roadbed.

“What is it?”

“Flecking, it looks to be off a bumper.” Maria looked at the file again making a noise in her throat.

“What?”

“Charles Barrows drove a newer model Buick. I guess he inherited it from his parents when they died.”

“And?”

Maria handed Nick the file. “A bumper is a plastic cover and underneath, a reinforcement bar made of steel, aluminum, fiberglass composite, or plastic. A bumper system also should include mechanisms that compress to absorb crash energy—polypropylene foam or plastic honeycomb, also called "egg crate," is often used. For a bumper to be effective, there must be some distance between the reinforcement bar and the sheet metal it should protect.”

“And this?”

Maria glanced up the roadway where Charles Barrows’ car had careened down the slope not stopping or attempting to brake as it hit the guard rail.

“I need to see the car.”

* * *

Charles Barrows’ car was still in the garage used by the Crime Unit. Maria strode through the garage barely glancing to her side. Taking out her phone, she made a call.

Handing Nick the file, she put on a pair of latex gloves before going to examine the car. Moving quietly in the garage, she went to work, ignoring everything else.

Deuce frowned. “What is she looking for?”

“I’m not sure.”

Maria had circled the car, and she stopped to look at the back bumper and then went to her kit and removed her camera. Checking the exposure setting and load, she began to take pictures. Nick had no idea who she had called until Jenny and Lee entered the garage.

“What’s going on?” Jenny Parrish asked. Lee whispered something to Jenny, and Nick noted Jenny’s reaction, also the high red color on Lee’s face at Jenny’s reaction.

“Excuse me,” the woman said as she stepped through the tape around the car designating the sterile area. “Maria?”

Nick watched as the two women conferred. Maria was a senior investigator, but her promotion to the Medical Examiner’s office took her off the investigation rotation. Jenny had taken her position.

The two women talked for a few moments before Lee joined them, and the three investigators suddenly squatted beside the rear bumper of the Buick. It was a few moments before Maria stood up and took off her gloves.

Lee and Jenny also stood, but they went for their tools before going back to work on the car.

“Maria?” Nick was confused. The other team was working on what they had considered a closed case.

“I need to see the body.”

* * *

Mara came through the swinging doors. “We’re in luck, no autopsy as of yet. Last week was busy, and the accident cases were behind violent crimes in priority. Usually a Thursday accident would’ve been autopsied on Friday at the latest.”

Maria continued down the hall to the autopsy room. Turning, she opened the door for the two detectives. “You coming?”

Deuce reluctantly entered the room with his partner. Watching autopsies wasn’t the high point of his daily tasks. “Damn.”

“C’mon, partner.” Nick hit Deuce on the shoulder.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this on a Sunday.”

“Looks like a normal Sunday to me.”

“Sure, you dated her. I didn’t.”

Maria began working on the body of Charles Barrows after an orderly placed the body on the table. Ignoring the two detectives, she went through the routine inspection of the body before cutting.

“Nick…” she called to him.

Nick and Deuce joined Maria at the table, both glancing down at the body. Charles Barrows had been twenty-four. He looked younger.

“Do you see the midline contusions on the chest?” Maria’s finger pointed at an area that appeared almost as a scrape.

“The airbag?” Deuce guessed.

“You would think. It is consistent with full frontal trauma. The sternum is cracked, and ribs on both sides are broken. I can feel the edges. There’s no sign of other trauma, but…” Maria nodded to Nick to help her. They turned the body to look at the back. “Double lividity. He laid on his back and then again on his chest, more than likely across the steering wheel.”

“What are you saying, Maria? He was moved after death?” Nick helped her place the body back on his back.

“Blunt force trauma from airbag deployment would possibly crack the sternum and ribs, cause some damage and tearing to the mediastinum. Characteristic bruising would occur within the marginal areas of the thoracic cavity while compromised. The median partition of the thoracic cavity, covered by the mediastinal pleura and containing all the thoracic viscera and structures except the lungs, would have felt the push of impact, even with the airbag deployed. There should be bruising along the edges of the anterior, posterior, superior, and inferior borders. The middle would’ve been a collecting zone with a deep pooling effect as the interpleural and mediastinal space fills while blood capillaries and vessels explode.”

“Maria, please…” Nick begged.

“Look at his chest.”

Nick and Deuce stared at the pale bloody chest with a slight bluish tinge almost like a bruise, but lighter—more of a skin discoloration.

“It should be a fierce blue bruise as the blood collected in the space—like a severe beating. The surface discoloration is lividity. When he died he lay on his back for a period of time, and then was placed in the car, and second lividity occurred after the accident, but full blunt trauma to subsequent underlying tissue did not bruise. Notice how the back is discolored, and it shouldn’t be. He was slumped over the steering wheel, so that is where the blood would’ve pooled at death creating lividity.”

“He was already dead.” Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “He was killed, rested on his back until he could be placed in the car, and the accident staged. First lividity was on his back, and second was from slumping over the steering wheel.

“Yes.”

“That makes it murder.” Nick rubbed his neck, closing his eyes for a moment. “A dead man didn’t take his car for a drive.”

“I thought all lividity was a dark bruising.” Deuce asked.

“It can be, depending on the length of time that blood is allowed to pool. Lividity can have from a black and blue or a leaden or ashy gray color, as in discoloration from a contusion, congestion, or cyanosis. This is the ash gray coloring, but on his back…”

“It’s the black and blue,” finished Nick.

“Correct. He laid on his back for a much longer time.”

“So if he didn’t die from the accident, what were the cause and the time of death?”

“That, Nick, is yet to be determined.” Maria picked up her scalpel. “You staying for this?”

Nick and Deuce shared a look. “We’ll wait for the report.”

Michael wasn’t surprised to find her on his doorstep. It was late, and he had an early conference call. Maria seemed determined to interrupt his sleep. Pulling her inside, he didn’t bother to ask. Pushing her down on the sofa, he got them both a beer.

Maria held the cold beer against her forehead for a few moments with her eyes closed before taking a swallow.

Michael sat next to her, loose-limbed, holding his own beer in his hand between his legs, too numb to move.

“I honestly don’t know.” Maria closed her eyes, shaking away the need to cry. “I’m so damn exhausted.”

“Can’t normally, but since I know you’re not involved in it, I’ll give you the gruesome highlights.”

“Right. I can tell you that Charles didn’t die in a car accident. I found a piece of bumper from another car at the scene. Normally, it might or might not be part of this accident, so I looked at Charles’ car.”

“What the other investigators missed—it wasn’t their fault. I already had a suspicion that Charles’ death wasn’t an accident or suicide, so I looked at the accident from a different perspective.”

“The car hit the guardrail and went down an embankment to hit a tree. There was damage on the rear bumper. I could see it from the crime scene picture.” She stretched, easing her tired muscles.

“Bumpers are designed to protect car bodies from damage in low-speed collisions, absorbing crash energy without significant damage to the bumper itself. Low-speed crashes occur by the thousands every day on congested streets and parking lots—the kind of impacts in which effective bumpers can mean the difference between lots of costly damage and none at all. Bumpers have little to no benefit in a head-on collision or one from behind going faster than 5 mph.”

“Right. The bumper on the Buick was consistent with a car made today that doesn’t have a rating better than 2.5 mph flat-barrier test.”

Michael went and got them another beer. Taking her empty, he put it on the coffee table before handing her the other bottle.

“The piece I found was from an older car, expensive and with a heavier bumper. It was a 5 mph bumper. Bumpers used to be stronger. The first federal standards prohibited damage to safety-related equipment in low-speed crashes. Next came a property damage standard, effective for 1979 models that prohibited damage except to bumpers and their attachments in 5 mph flat-barrier tests. Cars made during the 1980-82 model years prohibited all but minor cosmetic damage to the bumper itself in 5 mph tests. The result was bumpers that protected cars from damage in many low-speed collisions, meaning lower and less frequent repair bills.”

“The 1981 Ford Escort is a good example. Its bumpers not only withstood front- and rear-into-flat-barrier Institute crash tests at 5 mph without damage as required by the federal standard then in effect, but also sustained no damage in two more demanding 5 mph tests, front-into-angle-barrier and rear-into-pole. Many recent models, on the other hand, have sustained more than $1,000 damage in such tests. One notable exception is the 1998 Volkswagen New Beetle, the best performer in terms of bumper performance since the 1981 Escort. The New Beetle sustained no damage in rear-into-full-width flat barrier and rear-into-pole impacts at 5 mph, and sustained only minor damage in the front-into-flat barrier and front-into-angle-barrier tests at the same speed.”

Sighing, Michael blinked twice from the long boring explanation. Damn if he hadn’t a lifetime of this type of lecturing from his father.

“Maria, as fascinating as this is, no doubt up there with muzzle velocities, think you can nutshell it for me?”

“Sure. Charles was dead, placed in his car, and then another car pushed his car down the steep hill. Since he was dead already, he was unable to steer the car to make the turn. There were no skid marks, so it led to an assumption that he either fell asleep at the wheel or committed suicide. Either way, he went through the guardrail. Now the other car had to use the hill to gain enough speed so that the Buick would break its traction control since the car had to be running.”

“Most modern cars have it. It's basically the system in the car that helps to decrease slipping and sliding in mud, but it also helps the car maintain an inertia relationship with the roadbed. Most roads built today have a tapering roadbed, and the tires of a car follow the natural grooves of the road, unless the road is old. Charles’ car is a Buick LaSabre. LeSabre's available full-range traction control system controls drive wheel torque to help drivers maintain traction on snow, slush, mud, and gravel. Traction control requires optional ABS brakes.”

“When the LeSabre's powertrain control module (PCM) computer detects excessive front wheel spin, it makes a series of adjustments to help the spinning tire regain traction. First, it applies brakes to the wheel. Then, it reduces power by retarding the spark to all engine cylinders. Next, if necessary, the PCM cuts off fuel to up to three cylinders. Finally, the PCM can elect to slow rotation of the drive wheels by shifting the transmission out of first and into second gear. When traction is restored through any of these intervention measures, the PCM returns full control to the driver.”

“Correct. It was more than a 5 mph torque collision, so the rear bumper was damaged when it shouldn’t have been.”

“He was dead at least four hours before the accident. I almost missed it, but a thin shinny-like instrument was thrust upward under his ribcage, puncturing his liver. The blade was so thin and sharp it barely left a mark, the bleeding was controlled by pressure, and he literally bled out into his abdominal cavity. The normal bruising obscured the entrance wound, but not from the inside. Death took about twenty minutes. He knew who killed him.”

“You really are a science geek.” Why it never occurred to him that she was into the strange and bizarre for a real reason eluded him.

Michael noted the distinction. She wouldn’t lie about science, but other things were questionable. “Nick, does he know this?”

Michael rolled his eyes, snapping his fingers in front of her to get her attention that was fast waning. “No, this information. Did you give Nick the same boring lecture?

“He and Deuce are working the case as we speak. They’re trying to chase down Charles’ last movements before the trail is too cold.”

“Talk to his friends, see what he was working on, especially since we suspect it’s connected to Roland Garza’s death.” Maria kicked off her shoes before finishing the beer. Placing the empty next to her other one, she lay down on the sofa, using Michael’s lap as a pillow. “Tomorrow they’ll run the phone records to Mom and Dad’s house to try to pinpoint when and where Charles called from.”

Michael’s hand went to her hair, brushing it away from her face and behind her ear. “You’re tired. You should go home—sleep. There's nothing else you can do tonight.”

“I can’t. What if I fall asleep and when I wake up, whoever has done this killed our parents looking for whatever Charles sent Brian?”

He was with her on that. He couldn’t stand it either. There were too many mysteries, and the only person who had the answers was a young graduate student in her morgue and Roland Garza, silenced six month previously.

“No you’re not. You’re missing sleep, decent food, and a serious shower.”

Maria barely made it two hours before her beeper woke her. Confused, her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkened room. Sitting up in the bed, she tried to place her location when Michael’s voice came from the doorway.

Maria reached for the bedside light. “Where were you sleeping?” she asked suspiciously.

Maria snorted when she looked down at her body. Pulling the blanket up around her breasts, she tucked it under her arms as she dialed the phone. “And my clothes?”

“On the chair.” Michael leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb. “I would’ve left you in your underwear if you had been wearing any.”

“Highly overrated,” she informed him. “If you never wear any, you never have to clean them.”

“Yeah.” Maria waited until the dispatch operator answered before giving her information. She listened, taking a pen from Michael’s bedside, writing information on the notepad there. Hanging up, she nodded to her clothes. “Please?”

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Maria told the two detectives as she joined them.

“I was at Michael’s. I went to tell him what we found, and instead fell asleep on his sofa. He tossed me in his bed, and for his trouble, he got woken up two hours later.” Maria yawned.

“Necessity is the mother of invention, or in our case, the mother of compromise. Neither of us wants to bury our parents.” Maria snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “We’ll revert to type. What do we have?”

“A young mother was killed on her way home from a convenience store. The night clerk has her time indexed as arriving at five-ten this morning, and leaving five minutes later with milk.”

“Her husband is in

Afghanistan

. She left her sister watching her two small children while she ran to the store for milk.”

Maria nodded, not wanting to hear too much at that time. It made it harder when she looked at the woman’s eyes unblinking in a sightless stare.

Once she entered the crime scene area, all other sounds faded away, and there was nothing but her and the woman—her eyes staring—begging.

I close my eyes and I see these spots, like windows traveling by, all of them covered in pictures—things I should know—people. It’s like in the Wizard of Oz, when Mrs. Gulch bicycles by in the cyclone.

This problem I have, I don’t know when it started, and I sure as heck don’t know when it will end. It will end. It must—one way or another.

I saw myself today on a slab, the y-cut, my internal organs gone, weighed. All I could think was—damn my breasts were too small.

I haven’t been home in days. Gussie called just to check up on me, make sure I hadn’t run away in a torrid love affair with a dentist from Fond du Lac, Wisconsin . I don’t know. I see everything like a thread stretched from here to there, and I honestly can’t say that a life living at the foot of a lake wouldn’t be better for me.

I need rest, but I can’t do it alone. On my own, I am defenseless to the visions, the dead. They haunt me, tell me to get up—get to work. I want—I want…

Sitting there in her office, her eyes moved to the doorway that led to the autopsy room. Somewhere beyond the swinging doors was a woman on a cold slab waiting for her husband to come home from

Afghanistan

to sign out her body for burial.

Was there any safe place anymore? This world bred terrorists and serial killers like viruses, spreading like a disease. There was no morality, no conscience as the innocent were slain. Human life was a commodity easily traded for a cause, a desire, or even a sickness, and there was nothing to staunch the continuous flow of bodies gracing her autopsy table.

Maria made a face, but her eyes lacked their usual smile as all humor had long since fled. “Watcha doing here, Dad?”

Brian Guerin took the chair, holding a small white bag in his hand with a cup of coffee in a nice large Starbucks cup. Maria stared at the bag and coffee as if it were a religious icon.

Brian passed her the half dozen Krispy Kreme donuts and coffee. “Hazelnut, six sugars, two creams.”

“Gussie said to tell you that he finished the upstairs bathroom in the ‘blue’ room.”

“Great. I think I’ll sleep in there sometime. I love a room with its own bathroom.”

“I guess it is very nice. He said he has been swimming in the bath all week.” Maria laughed. “Gussie is your friend, but honey, don’t you think having him do all the renovations inside your home is…”

“Then you’re the only one.” Maria shoved a donut in her mouth in three big bites. “I know I could get it renovated faster if I hired a construction firm, but Gussie—he’s an artisan,” she said with her mouth half full. “The final results, albeit it ten years down the pike, will be well worth the time and money spent.”

“A cathouse?” Brian still couldn’t get over it. Maria had bought a house in the historical district which one hundred years ago had been an all purpose entertainment center of its day, run by a madam. It had been a bar and gambling casino, with rooms and women for rent upstairs.

“Someone had to buy it. I think it’s cool imagining what Marquis de Sade things went on in those rooms.”

Brian laughed, shaking his head. “Honey, that’s Europe . This is Texas . The best debaucheries you’ve got in your renovated ‘house of ill repute’ are some crusty old cowpokes going down on a cantina dancer with their boots and spurs still on.”

“Oh, for the love of Pete! Is everyone in this cursed town a snitch?” Maria stretched her spine. “I was tired. It happened. It’s not like a new habit or anything. I still haven’t mastered spitting through my front teeth.”

“Keep trying, I trust you’ll get there.” Brian nodded to the donuts. “Are you going to eat all six or you going to share?”

“Your mom is all Atkins’ diet crazy. How a man is supposed to think without carbo-loading first is beyond me.”

Brian laughed but his laugh did not reach his eyes. He was too busy looking his stepdaughter over. Maria looked terrible. Her face was pale with dark rings under her eyes, and she was eating the sugar and fats as if she hadn’t eaten in days. The last time he saw her so strung out was when Roland died.

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s like all these pieces are swirling around in my head, and I try them in numerous combinations, but they never seem to fit. As soon as I think I have a good chunk of it figured out, something blows it apart. It’s not like I’m missing something as much as I don’t have all the pieces.”

“Twice a week if possible. I just finished writing in my journal, and my, wasn’t that just a walk in self-involvement! It was a convoluted highway of insanity; I couldn’t even make heads or tails from it. I should just delete it.”

“Time is something I might not have in abundance.” Maria sighed, sitting back, her nervous body suddenly boneless as the sugar and caffeine hit. “I can’t explain it, but this feels utterly personal, Dad. I don’t mean your involvement, that someone broke into the house, or even Charles Barrows and Roland. I mean it feels almost personal to me—like I am the objective or target.”

Brian felt a sweat break out on his neck. “You mean like someone is watching you, gauging your reactions,” he said in thought. This wasn’t good. “Explain that, Maria.”

“No, more like they don’t have to. They already know what I’m going to do.”

“Maria.” Brian’s face shifted, darkened as worry and concern moved across it.

“If I’m going to be a puppet, I want to know who’s the puppeteer and why. I can’t do my work deaf, dumb and blind.”

Well, that Nick sure knew how to make a woman sit up and take notice. Last night, she had been so tired, in desperate need of sleep and comfort. Normally, she would’ve given into temptation and dragged Nick into bed with her, but thankfully, he was out with Deuce following leads.

To stop herself from falling into an old habit, she found herself at Michael’s place instead. It was his fault since he was the one to lecture her on ‘addictions’ and the need to quit smoking Nick’s—um, yeah, whatever. It was doubtful Michael would appreciate knowing that he was her ‘sponsor’ for her Nick addiction.

Nick had their undivided attention. “We got the records back on your phone, Brian. Charles Barrows called you from your own office at the University the night he died.”

Chapter Twelve

Carla, Brian’s secretary, sat at her desk working on Brian’s teaching schedule. Smiling when she saw him the door, she stood to get him his usual cup of coffee, but paused when the others with him filed into the office.

“Brian?”

“Carla, it’s good to see you.”

“You as well. I was worried when I heard about your house. Mariah? Is she okay?”

“Irritated that someone messed up her house, and that she can’t keep clothes on her daughter, otherwise…”

Maria made a face at her stepfather. “Ignore him, Carla. Is there coffee?”

“Absolutely. I’ll get some for...” Carla looked at the two large detectives, “...everyone.”

“No, actually, I’ll get it,” Maria offered. “I think Dad needs to talk to you.”

Deuce smiled as a determined look moved over Maria face. She was off to war. The famed coffee pot was in the staff lounge, and it was a fight to get a decent fresh cup. Squaring her shoulders, Maria did all but roll up her sleeves.

Going to the mattress.

Brian entered his office along with Nick and Deuce. Carla followed, but not without flashing a concerned look towards Maria’s back. The Professors were meek and mild people—Maria was not.

“Carla, did you notice anything out of the ordinary in my office last Friday?”

“No, I came in as usual, opened the doors at eight in the morning, and by about a quarter after there was a run of phone calls, mostly from students wanting to know if the rumors about you being missing were true.”

“Wait,” said Nick. “It wouldn’t have been Friday. The phone call took place Wednesday night. No one discovered Barrows’ body until mid-day on Thursday when a cruiser unit stopped to investigate the broken guardrail. They pulled the body and car by early evening.”

“When did Maria get the call?”

“Early Friday morning. She spent the day in Houston , barely getting back and in bed before the call woke her.” Deuce double-checked his time table.

“ Houston ?” Brian sat down in his chair and began to pilfer through his drawers.

“She was testifying in a case that had a change of venue. She didn’t receive Charles’ body. By Friday, she was off looking for you.”

Maria and Michael had found Mariah and Brian in Grand Marais by late Friday, and after spending the night, they all had driven back to Sault Ste. Marie to return the rental car and take a late afternoon flight home.

Maria had returned to work to find Nick and a new case. She worked late. After work, she had gone to El Diablo to dance, and that was where Michael found her.

“Do you remember anything unusual about Thursday morning when you came to the office?” Deuce asked.

“No.” Carla glanced around the room trying to remember that day. She had brought in the mail and sorted it, leaving all personal correspondence on the desk. The plants had needed water, and …

“The storage cabinet was open.”

Brian went to the small bank of cabinets. “Which one?”

“The middle cabinet. The door was slightly ajar when I came in to water the plants.”

Brian opened the cabinet. It contained his investigating kit, cameras, both film and digital, collecting specimen bags, vials with liquid, luminol, tweezers, and other tools. There was a special infrared scope, and extra ammunition for his revolver.

“Brian?”

“Nothing, Nick. It’s all here. I don’t see anything missing.”

Maria rejoined them toting five cups of coffee. Passing everyone a cup, she glanced into the cabinet. “Did you find anything?”

“No.” Brian shut the door. “This is the only thing Carla found out of place.”

The group slowly went through the office looking for any possible clue or a note that Charles Barrows may have left. There was nothing.

“He broke into the office, used the phone, and left a message on your home phone,” Maria sipped her coffee, pacing the room. “There has to be something. If he left information—I’m assuming a case file, then where would it be?”

“Maria, I’m telling you, I don’t know.”

Nick watched the interaction. Taking Maria’s coffee from her, he took a sip having already finished his own. “I think, Brian, that Maria is saying that if Charles was afraid for his life, he would leave it somewhere that he knew you would look.”

“Maybe the clue was in the message he left on the machine,” Maria pointed out. “And, even if it might have led you to where he left the information, we can’t know for sure that the part that contained the clue wasn’t lost when it was deleted.”

Brian scratched his brow, irritated by how helpless he felt. “No we can’t.”

Deuce pushed his jacket back as he put his hands on his hips. “He had to come to you for a reason, Brian. For some reason, he felt you would get the clue.”

Maria stared at her stepfather, “That’s because whereas the rest of us might be good, Brian is the master. He wrote the book on criminal intent and investigation. If the answer is to be known, then he's the man to do it.”

* * *

Michael finished reading the report Mariah handed him. Setting it aside, he concentrated on his lunch while his stepmother continued her one-sided discussion. Occasionally he would nod, but in truth, he had no idea what she was talking about, because the subject kept flipping. Giving up, he sat back and watched her as amusement pulled the side of his mouth.

“I’m rambling.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Michael answered, not bothering to deny it. Yep, she sure as hell was rambling. It was like a freight train—inevitable that Mariah would wear you down if you got verbally in front of her.

“The companies, what do you think?”

“Two of them, I see potential, but the other four—dump ‘em.”

“Dump them?” Mariah grabbed her investment portfolio back. “Which ones? Did you make notes for me?”

“I marked them.”

Mariah scanned her list, her ‘Oh my god’s’ increasing. “Are you sure about this one? I mean, I thought it looked very stable.”

Michael leaned over to see the one she was pointing to, and nodded. “As soon as possible, and that's all I can say.”

“But,” Mariah bit her lip, “I loved this one. The firm is a small old family firm. It recently changed hands when the old man who started it died. It’s been established in this area forever, and it offers a great diversity of goods, easily…”

Mariah stopped talking when she seemed to hear what she was saying. “Oh, it is a nice prime takeover company with a recent turnover so it has a shaky executive branch. Michael, are you about to take over this company?”

“Mariah, sell. You asked. I told you. There's nothing else I can tell you.”

“Hmm, getting into sticky area here, huh?”

“Only if you want to share a cell with Martha Stewart.”

Mariah closed the file. “I think not. There is definitely something wrong with that woman. No one can do that much decoupage without it causing some type of damage.”

Michael laughed, shaking his head. Before he met Mariah, he wouldn’t call his life boring, just gray. He had no complaints, he loved his life, but now it was like living in Oz, and not the Australian Oz. Everything was slightly off and in living Technicolor.

“Why the sudden interest in your portfolio? I thought you were going to let me manage it.”

“Oh, I would, honey, but I figure you have so much to do already. I have the final plans for the Benefit Dance next week.”

“Didn’t we just have a charity thing a couple of weeks ago?”

“We did, but that was a buffet social thing. This is an actual dance.”

“Which is different from the other one how?”

“There's dancing,” said Mariah, staring at her stepson. He wasn’t usually this dense.

“The portfolio, why are you obsessing over it?”

Mariah sniffed, shoving her folder in her bag. “Obviously, I’m preparing for my grandchildren. I need…”

Michael spit his beverage back into the glass as he coughed violently. Wiping his mouth, he glanced at his concerned stepmother with taciturn eyes. “Pardon me? Grandchildren?”

“Well you are going to have some—I mean in the future.”

“Not the immediate future,” he reassured her.

“But Maria said…”

“Maria? Uh-huh.” Oh sure, he could have painted a picture over this. Of course it was Maria. “What, is she pregnant?”

“Do I look like a crazed grandmother who has immediately registered at Nordstrom’s? No. Obviously not. My child has no interest in providing her poor decrepit mother with the fruits of her loins, or yours, and…”

Michael spit out his drink again, coughing seriously as some of the liquid had gone up his nose. Picking up the glass, he waved it to a waiter. “Take this before it murders me. Bring me a scotch, neat—make that a double—triple.”

“You drink too much.” Mariah observed.

“That is a matter of perspective. From my view, I don’t drink damn near enough. Did you honestly try to talk to me about the ‘fruit of my loins’ and Maria’s, and is that independent or together?” Michael held up a hand. “No wait. If you were, don’t. I’m not going to procreate on a timetable. I would like to find this mythical mother of my ‘fruit’ first, and I am praying to God that it is not Maria.”

“Amazing that you should mention Maria as a contender, I’d never imagine it myself.” Mariah’s mouth opened in indignation. “And what’s wrong with Maria?”

“What’s not wrong with her? Mariah, I love you dearly, but Maria—she is seriously a whack job. Any children with her would possibly have multicolored hair, wear colored lenses whether they needed them or not, live on intravenous caffeine and sugar, and wear their underwear on the outside of their clothes—if they deemed it necessary to wear any at all.”

“Her children will be preternaturally intelligent, able to solve the New York Times crossword in one sitting, and…”

“And will no doubt know the identity of a gun from the bullet and its markings, or all the brands of bubble gum made in the last century from the piece someone spit out.”

“Any children of yours would no doubt be delivered in a pressed Armani with double serge, and a stick up their…”

“I’m not uptight!”

“Oh, yes you are! As uptight as you are, Maria is equally as loose and carefree, and I have hoped—no prayed, that that the two of you would find some kind of friendship, maybe rub off on each other—in a good way.”

“I’m not uptight,” he said miffed.

Mariah stared at his plate. “Michael, you’re eating pasta.”

“That is what pasta primavera is, Mom.”

“Did you not read the literature I sent you on carbohydrates and empty sugars?”

“I’m not going on the Atkins diet. Forget it. I live a high profile life. I need all the energy I can get to make my fortune so I can someday afford these ‘fruits of my loin’ that you so desperately want. Work on Maria; she's the poster child for sugar consumption—actually the Cane Growers Association probably has her picture up in their main office as their pinup girl.”

“I tried. She listened, nodded, and then dumped five pounds of sugar in her tea. It was revolting.”

“If you don’t get her under control, all the sugar loading will probably warp her babies. They'll be hyped up speed demons sucking on Ritalin suckers, with mutated genes.”

Mariah was silent, and maybe he should have felt guilt seeing how her face paled at the thought. He should feel guilty—nope, not even a tinge of remorse. There was a definite C-note in his wallet that said Mariah would seek out Maria immediately and drag her to the doctor for genetic testing.

“Michael?”

Mariah and Michael noted that Richard Abbott had stopped at their table without either of them being aware. Standing, Michael extended his hand. “Abbott.”

“I saw Mariah here and wanted to stop.” Richard smiled at Mariah, his green eyes vivid and intelligent. “I heard that someone broke into your home. Martha was very concerned. It was on the news, and I’m glad to hear that both you and Brian are fine.”

“That’s kind, Richard. Please extend my gratitude to Martha.”

Michael remained standing as the usual platitudes continued, spying an interesting desert across the room. Triple layer truffle with a white chocolate glaze. Hmm. If he ate that, he could run off it for at least another ten hours. Imagine all the work he could get done. Sighing, Michael put that thought away since it was a scheduled dinner night at the parents’.

“Michael?”

“Pardon me?”

“Richard asked about th