Perfectly Evil
By DocPaul
*********************************************
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
“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
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
“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.”
Chapter
Eleven
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.
“Charles Barrows?”
“Murdered.”
Michael sat next to her, loose-limbed, holding his
own beer in his hand between his legs, too numb to move.
“Do you think the killer found what Charles was
sending to Dad?”
“I honestly don’t know.” Maria closed her
eyes, shaking away the need to cry. “I’m so damn exhausted.”
“Wanna tell me about it?”
“Can’t normally, but since I know you’re not
involved in it, I’ll give you the gruesome highlights.”
“Thanks.”
“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 did you find?”
“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 bumper, what was wrong with it?”
“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.”
“His bumper was damaged.”
“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.”
“Traction control?”
“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.”
“So the other driver had to exert enough power to
overcome the PCM system.”
“Correct. It was more than a 5 mph torque
collision, so the rear bumper was damaged when it shouldn’t have been.”
“And Charles?”
“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.”
Maria saw the look Michael was giving her.
“What?”
“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.
“I told you. I would never lie about science.”
Michael noted the distinction. She wouldn’t lie
about science, but other things were questionable. “Nick, does he know
this?”
“That I’m a science geek?”
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.”
“What will they do first?”
“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?”
“Maria…”
“Nick went to talk to your Dad, but I can’t
stand this.”
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.
Maria yawned. “I’m missing something as obvious
as my own nose.”
“No you’re not. You’re missing sleep, decent
food, and a serious shower.”
“Do I stink?”
“Seriously—yes. What is that smell?”
“Death,” she whispered before closing her eyes.
*
* *
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.
“You’re sleeping in my bed.”
“How?”
“I put you there when you fell asleep on my sofa
and me.”
Maria reached for the bedside light. “Where were
you sleeping?” she asked suspiciously.
“The sofa. My dad raised a gentleman.”
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.”
“Was that your beeper?”
“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?”
“What is it?”
“I’ve got a new case.”
*
* *
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Maria told
the two detectives as she joined them.
“Did you get any sleep?”
“About two hours, I think.”
“I called your house but there was no answer.”
“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.
“The two of you seem to have resolved your
differences.”
“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.”
“Is she married?”
“Her husband is in
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 can’t feel my feet any longer. Maybe I never
could.
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.
What is wrong with me?
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,
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…
I'm going to leave it at that.
Maria closed her laptop.
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
He went to war, and she was the one to come home in
a body bag.
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 rubbed her eyes tiredly, looking up at the
sound at her door.
“Hey.”
“You look too tired to go on.”
Maria made a face, but her eyes lacked their usual
smile as all humor had long since fled. “Watcha doing here, Dad?”
“Gussie called.”
“Traitor.”
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.
“Dad?” she begged.
Brian passed her the half dozen Krispy Kreme donuts
and coffee. “Hazelnut, six sugars, two creams.”
“Bless you!”
“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…”
“Crazy, even for me?”
“I didn’t say you were crazy.”
“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
“Wow, Dad, just bleed all the fun out of it.”
“Michael told me that you fell asleep at his place
yesterday.”
“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?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Maria passed the bag.
“Your mom is all Atkins’ diet crazy. How a man
is supposed to think without carbo-loading first is beyond me.”
“She touches my carbs, I might have to get
testy.”
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.
“Do you need some help, Maria? Maybe a pair of
fresh eyes?”
“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.”
Brian glanced at the laptop. “You still seeing
Adam?”
“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.”
“Don’t. Give it time, Maria.”
“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.”
“Am I interrupting?” Nick asked from the door.
“No,” Maria lied, happy to see him. “Dad
brought me sugary sustenance.”
“Good, you’re going to need it.”
Maria sat up, her spine finding its bones again.
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
“
“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