by Patti Larsen
My phone rang, making me jump. Again, not Crew, though the person calling was a welcome contact.
“Tell me everything,” Pamela said, gruff and deep.
I did. And, as I did, I heard Fleur, too, whispering a question, that uncomfortable echo of being on speakerphone making me nervous.
“You’re welcome,” Pamela said when I was done. “I’m glad that information helped. Fee, as for the bodies…” she trailed off. “Don’t be so sure you know who that woman might have been.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just keep an open mind.” Pamela hesitated, Fleur whispering again. “We have to go. I’ll drop in to see you this afternoon. I might be able to shed some light on just who the dead woman was and who killed her.”
She hung up before I could stop her. And, that was an unsatisfying call.
The next one came on its heels, another welcome voice.
“Hey, Fee.” Denver sounded tired, crunching something between his teeth as he spoke. Okay, a welcome voice until he decided to eat while he talked to me. “I looked over the footage at the time you mentioned. I only saw one person, but it’s kind of hard to make out who it is. I’m sending you a screenshot. Hope it helps.”
And then he, too, hung up and I almost screamed in frustration at the people around me and their terrible phone manners.
Until the image uploaded and I got a good look at the person in question and realized I knew who the murderer was.
***
Chapter Thirty Three
“Going somewhere?” I didn’t wait for Barry Clement to invite me in, pushing my way into his small apartment the moment he answered the door, taking in the luggage in his tiny living room, his unsettled state. He had to have been unsettled to not check to see who was knocking.
He scowled, backing away, shaking his head. “I don’t have to answer your questions,” he said.
“Perhaps,” Jill said, sauntering in behind me, “but you would be advised to answer mine, Mr. Clement.”
Surprised? You shouldn’t be. Of course I brought Jill with me. No way I was going to give Crew any reason to be angry with me again, especially not over chasing down a murderer alone. I might have been headstrong and a busybody, but I was learning.
Honestly, it was kind of nice to feel safe. She and I had done this before, back in December, arresting Ian Rudge for murder. Thea Isaac’s death had led to Jill being made sheriff, so I’d had an ulterior motive to bring her along. This time, though? All about appeasing my worrywart husband.
Now, if only I could stop worrying about him and his continuing silence, we’d be all set.
Barry’s dark expression turned to sudden fear, his whole body convulsing in a single surge of denial. He stumbled back, tripping against his big suitcase, almost falling and catching himself in the nick by the arm of the sofa. I’d expected him to react badly to our appearance, but the sheer terror on his face, the tears welling in his eyes, the way his hands shook as he held them out in front of him as though to ward us off, all powerful indicators I’d underestimated the hold Blackstone had over him.
“I’m in over my head.” He choked on a sob. “Have been since day one, don’t you see that?” Barry’s hand swept over his mouth, the back of his neck, while Jill closed the distance between them, not so subtly placing herself between me and the shaking coroner’s assistant. Barry didn’t seem to notice or care, sagging into the cushions of his couch, head in his hands, still shaking. “Why did I come to this miserable little town?”
“Why don’t you tell us?” She, at least, was able to muster empathy, though whether manufactured for the moment or genuine I had no idea. Nor did I care. I did, though, give her space to ask her questions, since he looked up in response to her tone, his desperate and consuming fear easing enough he could answer.
And answer he did. “Blackstone,” he said, a near wail. “They were paying my scholarship, told me if I didn’t take the job and a leave from school, they’d…” he swallowed hard. “They’d ruin me.”
More blackmail. “How?” Jill sat next to him, shaking her head at me when I tried to approach. Look at me obeying and listening and everything. I held my ground while Barry spoke to Jill, ignoring me.
“I have a record,” he said. “Blackstone’s lawyers had it expunged. At least, that’s what they told me when they recruited me.”
“Who specifically, Barry?” Jill had her phone out but he laughed a harsh denial.
“I have no idea,” he snapped at her, clearly at his breaking point, one knee bouncing violently, hands clenching at the fabric of his jeans like he was trying to tear off his own skin. “It doesn’t matter. A pair of their lawyers showed up in my dorm one night.” I couldn’t help but wonder if one of them was my cheating snake of an ex, Ryan Richards. “Told me they knew about my drug addiction.” He hesitated, glanced at me. “I lied on my entrance paper to get into medical school. If the college found out, I’d have been expelled.” He returned his attention to Jill, desperate now. For what, understanding? Compassion? Wasn’t getting any from me, but the sheriff was doing a bang-up acting job. That was, if Jill was acting. She had a bigger capacity for kindness than I did. “They said they’d dealt with my record and I owed them. Showed me paperwork that they could use against me if I didn’t do what they wanted.” Beads of sweat joined forces and trickled down his temple, shaking hands wiping it away only to tug at denim again. “I saw no harm in what they asked me for. Working as a coroner’s assistant was a great opportunity.”
“Until they started asking for more than just you filling a position,” Jill said.
Barry jerked like he’d been dealt a blow. “Small things at first,” he whispered, going suddenly still, as though the adrenaline that drove his trembling shut off like a faucet tap. “Mislaying paperwork from the lab. Delaying reporting findings to Dr. Aberstock.” He seemed truly guilty about the latter. “Then, they asked me to find a way to start funneling prescriptions through the hospital.”
“How long, Barry?” Jill’s tone hadn’t changed. Maybe she was feeling sorry for him.
He shrugged, collapsed a little. “Two years.”
Wow. The doc had only caught on nine or so months ago. Barry had been doing a hell of a job. Too bad he didn’t learn to apply that kind of dedication to being a good person.
“And your association with Pitch Conway?” I should have stayed out of it, but I couldn’t help myself.
Barry’s rage was sudden and brilliant and, before Jill could react, he was on his feet and launching himself at me, screaming, “This is all your fault, Fiona Fleming!”
I’d faced down murderers with criminal intent before, and while I’d come out of such interactions in one piece, for the most part, I’d typically taken a solid hit or two prior to either being rescued or managing to fight off my foe. Thing was, I’d never really been prepared for this sort of conflict. I’d only started taking self-defense lessons from Jill in earnest about a year ago, boxing, kettlebells, even some judo. As a result, I was much stronger than I’d ever been, and tied to my every-other-day runs with Crew, I was actually in the best shape of my life.
Barry, on the other hand? Barely had a couple of inches on me, was clearly neglecting his physical health if his lack of strength was any indication and certainly wasn’t a match for the woman I’d become.
I didn’t think because I’d been trained not to. The moment he came within striking distance, my right leg rose, hands fisting loosely in front of me, heel thudding with solid and audible impact into Barry’s gut, just below the ribcage, dead center. I watched him crumple to the ground, howling in agony, stepping back, my own rush of adrenaline reaching my system a few seconds after it was needed.
Jill had him cuffed and back on the sofa a minute later while he panted and sobbed and I did my best not to let the rush of hormonal excitement make me grin too broadly at my success. The sheriff nodded, her own eyes sparkling, and I knew she was proud of me even as she returned her attention to Barry.
All fight had gone out of him, all attempt to hide. He looked like a man defeated long ago and only now admitting it to himself. How long had he borne those dark circles under his eyes, the sallow complexion of one not quite completely healthy, the thinning hair, the sunken cheeks under sharp bones? Even his lips, dry and patchy, added to that impression I had he’d begun to rot from the inside out. Was he ill? Or was it just the darkness he carried inside him getting the best of him?
“Barry,” Jill said, phone recording from its spot on her knee, “why did you kill Geoffrey Jenkins?”
Not even a flicker of denial crossed his face. “He called me to his office,” he said, monotone of a broken man almost—almost!—arousing my pity at last. “Told me I had to up the transfers.” His lower lip trembled. “That was the first time I realized he wasn’t just part of it. He was running it.” Barry slumped once more, that faint effort at feeling sorry for himself clearly draining him. “He said they were almost done with that part of the business and my services would no longer be needed here in Reading. I thought that meant they’d let me go back to school.” Okay, there was a genuine sob. “But no, no. He said they wanted me to set up in a new hospital, a different part of the country.” Now he met Jill’s eyes, panic on his flaccid face. “All I could see was my life winding out in front of me, an endless line of hospitals, of thefts, of being the scapegoat for Blackstone. It could only end two ways.” He finally turned to me, blank stare unnerving. “Either I’d end up in prison, or dead. So, I decided to do something about it.”
“You killed him,” Jill said.
Barry nodded. “I left, went back to the morgue. Filled a syringe with ketamine. Fast-acting, he wouldn’t feel a thing. And I went back to town hall. He didn’t suspect me, was as arrogant as ever. I knew about the balcony, the catwalk, the stairs. He’d made me leave that way twice before when he didn’t want it known I’d been with him.” His hand twitched in his lap as if reliving the deed. “I walked around behind him while he went on and on about how I owed Blackstone for saving me from being expelled.” Barry giggled then, a lifeless sound of exhaustion and a soul that had truly given up. “I stabbed him in the neck, held him the minute or so it took for him to pass out, then held one of the gloves I’d put on over his mouth and nose and waited for him to die.”
Dear. God.
Jill swallowed, looking ill but forging on. “Barry, you said Geoffrey was running the drug operation.”
He jerked a little, refocusing on her, exiting the murder scene in a twitch. “You’re all fools, you know,” he said without emotion. “So much you don’t know. So many things tied together in a ball of string you’ve been chasing and chasing even though the truth is right there.” Barry jabbed a finger at me, the chain of the cuffs rattling. “In front of you.” Again that jab, at Jill this time. “Blackstone doesn’t work for the Pattersons or vice versa. The Pattersons are Blackstone.”
I didn’t respond. He thought he knew more than us, maybe was shocked to discover I wasn’t surprised. “We know,” I said. “We’re already inside, Barry. And we’re taking them down.” Let him chew on that.
He actually looked hopeful a moment, turned to Jill who nodded, grim and determined. But his expression flat lined again quickly as though hope had no place in the heart of a man like Barry Clement.
“They’ll kill me,” he said. “Kill all of us.”
“You said there are more connections we haven’t made.” I prodded for details. But Barry had finally had it, I guess, because he fell silent and refused to say another word.
Aside, that was, from, “I want a lawyer.”
Okay then.
***
Chapter Thirty Four
Home was an empty place without Crew, never mind Petunia’s relocation to the annex so I could pace and think without stepping on her as she followed my every step with her relentless pug logic. If she stayed on my heels, I couldn’t leave her behind.
I’d fired off a series of long texts to my absent husband, filling him in on everything we’d learned, before shooting one to Liz.
I’m worried. He’s not answering.
She messaged me back immediately. Me too. I’m already on it.
Should I have been more relieved that she believed me or terrified she was worried, too?
Where’s Darius? That was from Malcolm, the first I’d heard from him in days.
Excellent question, I sent back.
Silence for a moment while renewed concern for my bodyguard kick started guilt I’d forgotten to worry about him, too.
Meet us at the lake house.
Fifteen minutes later I was hugging Siobhan Doyle, then Malcolm Murray himself, guided into their gorgeous home overlooking Cutter Lake. I couldn’t help but stare out into the water, where only days ago I’d found yet another dead body—well, it found me, but there you go—while my hopes for the Reading hoard were dashed.
“We’ve been in Ireland,” Siobhan said, taking my hand and guiding me to sit. “Closing my affairs so I can relocate to Reading permanently.” She glanced at her husband, face pinched. “Darius would never leave you, dearie. What happened?”
I told them both everything, from the treasure hunt, the murder of Gregg Brown, subsequent death of Geoffrey Jenkins. That all roads seemed to lead to Blackstone and the Pattersons. And hesitated in the last moment, before informing them as gently as I could about the contents of the box we’d discovered on the mountain.
“Butterflies were Fiona’s favorite,” Siobhan said, without emotion. “She said she shared that love with Iris, spoke so kindly and lovingly of your grandmother.” And then she cried, both hands over her face, Malcolm gently cradling her against him.
He should have looked sad. Instead, for some reason, he seemed, well. Rather guilty. And I made a weird connection only my Fleming brain could leap to.
“Malcolm,” I said, “is your crime family connected to Blackstone?”
“Yes,” he said. “Corporate takeover of organized crime.” He barked a laugh, Irish accent thickening as he lost control of his emotions. “Imagine that, lass. Businessmen more corrupt than admitted criminals. Poetic, somehow.”
Yikes. “That means—”
He nodded. “With the information you’ve shared, that means the Pattersons own my family.” Malcolm inhaled slowly, exhaled. “They own me, dear Fee.”
He may have sounded rather calm saying it, but I could see the rage in his eyes, see the way his jaw jumped, his rigid body contained and coiling for action. I’d always been a little scared of Malcolm, at least until I discovered he was my godfather. It was then I knew he’d do anything for me, had likely stepped in when I didn’t know he was protecting me, before openly doing so by assigning me his favorite bodyguard. That fear of him? It was back. Because there was murder in his eyes.
Siobhan had stopped crying, reaching out to pat his cheek. Her touch caught him, held him, her gaze diffusing him somewhat, though when she turned to look at me, her lined skin still damp with her tears, she was somehow even scarier than her true love.
“Tell us what you want us to do.” She didn’t seem like the type to take orders, but Malcolm nodded with her while I exhaled slowly in relief they weren’t going to run off and get themselves killed trying to end the Patterson family. Because, organized crime and Hollywood expectations and all that.
“We’re waiting on Liz to tear open Blackstone,” I said. “In the meantime, I need you to keep business as usual.” They both looked rebellious but finally relented. “I’m so sorry. I wish I had better news.”
“I was so sure my darling girl was alive.” Siobhan trembled but seemed on her way to recovery. I worried since she’d suffered a massive stroke not so long ago, the trauma of finding out Fiona was dead might trigger another. Wait, was that even possible? Whatever, I didn’t want to risk it.
Malcolm seemed suddenly concerned with her health as well, patting her hand, kissing her cheek. “We’ll go see the doc, my love,” he said. “See o
ur wee one and her babe for ourselves.”
Siobhan touched his cheek with shaking fingers and I suddenly knew I was no longer in the room for either of them. “Oh my dear,” she whispered back. “Can we?”
That was my signal to leave. So I did, driving home with my heart in my throat, multi-layered emotions threatening to level me. Tears flowed and I went hunting for a tissue, checking everywhere. When I flipped down the driver’s visor on the off chance, a piece of paper fluttered free and landed in my lap.
I gaped down at it, had to slam on the brakes to keep from hitting the back of the white car in front of me. Pulled over to the side of the road and examined the last piece of the map with shaking fingers as I flipped it over.
And read the small, yellow sticky note attached to the underside.
Doing my best to be honest, Miss F, like you want. But this belongs to you. D.
I gently peeled the note from the map piece and kissed it. Darius. He’d stolen it from Rosebert for me, clearly. Snuck it into my car for me to find. And, in that moment, I realized it wasn’t the butterfly pin Robert had confronted me about.
It was the missing piece of the map.
So when had Darius liberated it from my cousin? Before he vanished, obviously.
Oh my god. Did the Pattersons find out? Was Darius’s the next body I was going to find?
That terror was overwritten by a single word inked into the back of the piece in bold, block letters. Familiar letters, written, if I could prove it or not, with a heavy, black fountain pen that had been destroyed in the fire when Petunia’s burned, the same pen Grandmother Iris cherished for as long as I could remember.