by John McMahon
“You’re gonna do great,” I said. “Might even get an award.”
I turned to head out then.
“What’s your name again?” she asked.
“Does it matter?” I said.
“No, I guess not.”
I moved down the steps and out to my truck.
44
Six hours later I pulled my Silverado into valet and handed my keys to a college kid parking cars for the event.
All around me were cops in their formal blues, holding the hands of wives and girlfriends in expensive evening gowns. I wore my blues too, and you could tell a citizen from an officer at a hundred feet.
I tipped the kid who took my car keys and moved into the lobby. On a table outside the large ballroom were two pieces of foam core—each with a photograph on them. The one on the left was of yours truly, a photo from five years ago when I was younger and more photogenic. The other was of a kid from the fire department who’d saved two lives when a bus crashed off 902.
In my head I recounted the number of students in the art room at Falls Magnet. Plus Kelly Borland. I had the firefighter beat by two live citizens. Not that anyone was counting or being competitive. Plus, a fireman? At a police benefit? I hated political correctness.
A photographer caught me with a blast of white, and I moved inside the room.
The ballroom was set up with about thirty circular tables, each with eight or ten chairs around them. Flower centerpieces sat in the middle of the tables like at a wedding, and music was being played by the Bagpipers of Falls West. Which sounded more like noise than music to me.
Around the perimeter of the room were three bars, crowded with people. On a raised stage at the front, a podium was draped in the seal of the city of Mason Falls.
A pair of eyes caught mine. Or maybe it was the curvy and petite body attached to them. Kelly Borland.
“I wondered if you were going to show,” she said, walking closer.
Kelly was in a purple dress. Simple and beautiful.
“You didn’t see the picture outside the room?” I smiled, leaning in and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “I’m kind of a big deal tonight.”
“Yet last night you dodged me,” she said. “Working hard on a case. Not the school shooting again, I hope?”
“A different matter,” I said.
She glanced over my shoulder, and I followed her eyes.
“And here’s another distinguished gentleman I recognize,” Kelly said.
Merle Berry leaned in and gave Kelly a hug. He and Remy had stayed on-site the day of the shooting and interviewed her. Merle was her lead contact.
“You both look so handsome in your formal uniforms.”
“Thank you,” Merle said, beaming.
From across the room, I saw Lauten Hartley, by the bar.
“How are you doing?” Merle asked Kelly.
“Much better than the last time we talked, Detective,” she said.
I excused myself and let them chat, moving slowly across the room as a dozen bagpipers filed off the stage with their instruments and threaded through the crowd.
Straining to get past them, I found myself ten feet from Lauten Hartley, who turned, a drink in hand.
He smiled, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Chief Senza, watching us.
“Detective Marsh,” Hartley said. He wore a dark blue suit and a red tie. Politician power colors. “If I had known you were coming over, I would’ve grabbed you a drink from the bar.”
“Oh, I gave up the stuff,” I said. “I just wanted to take a moment to see if you’re fitting in okay. Continue to bury the hatchet. Bygones be bygones and all.”
Hartley’s head cocked about ten degrees. “Well, I don’t believe you for a second, Detective.” He paused. “About the drinking, I mean. I swore I’ve seen you in a liquor store recently. Maybe in the numbered streets?”
Inside, my heart stopped for a beat, but I kept calm on the surface. People crowded close to us, and Hartley moved away from the bar and closer to me.
“I’m sure you’re wrong,” I said.
Senza walked up then, probably coming to make sure I wasn’t creating conflict.
“Wrong about what?” he asked.
“Crime rates being up,” I said. “Mr. Hartley has a passion about crime in the numbered streets. But not just that. He’s got tentacles out into other areas of the community. Like north of town. He’s a better asset for our department than I originally thought.”
“I agree a hundred percent,” Senza said. “And crime is down in the numbereds, Mr. Hartley. Last four months straight.”
But Hartley was stuck on my comment about “north of town.” I could see the curiosity on his face.
“Well, I’ve got to mingle,” I said, patting the two men on the shoulders.
As I walked off, my heart pounded, and I wondered if Hartley had me on camera breaking into the Golden Oaks. His comment about the liquor store. I was okay falling on the sword, but I didn’t want it to stick into Remy.
And no sooner had I thought her name than I saw my partner. Being wheeled out to the balcony by Darren Gattling, who spoke to her for a second and then left.
I moved across the room, and out into the night. Onto a large terrace that overlooked 5th Street. There were two buildings from the 1930s that were getting a facelift, and metal scaffolding rose four stories into the air beside us.
“I thought doctor’s orders were to stay at home,” I said. “Watch Netflix.”
“And waste this dress?” Remy motioned. She was wearing a black-and-white striped number that cut off at the thigh. In a wheelchair it looked even shorter. “You know how many chances I’m gonna get to come to one of these things and not have to wear my blues?”
I gave her a hug. As I did, I whispered in her ear. “Hartley knows we were inside that liquor store.”
“So what?” Remy said.
I stood up and stared at my partner. She was becoming more fearless by the minute.
“What’s he gonna do, P.T.? Report us? You know how guilty he’d look? He demo’d the damn building the next day.”
This was a good point.
“Tell me what you’ve found,” she said. “I’m jonesing to hear about the case.”
“Well, I went looking for Christian Pelo, that clerk who got robbed,” I said. “I got lucky.”
“You found him?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I said. “I found his tibia. And then his skull.”
“Holy shit,” she said.
A bell dinged, and an announcement was made. For everyone to take their seats for the banquet. I gave Remy more of the details. Of digging under the apartment complex.
“The manager should’ve called it in a half hour ago, Rem. Direct to Sarah. But I haven’t told you the best part.”
“Spill it,” Remy said.
“Hartley owns that property,” I said. “So I think he might be conflicted running the police board.”
Remy smiled. “You mean with us investigating how an employee of one of his businesses wound up shot and buried under another one of his businesses?”
“’Xactly,” I said. Our new shorthand. Wolf style.
“So what’s your next move?” she asked.
“I dunno,” I said. “I was thinking about a leak.”
Remy motioned with her head at someone behind us.
I turned, just in time to see Deb Newberry, from the local Fox affiliate. She was dressed in black slacks and her go-to Clemson-orange blazer. Below it was a blouse with a plunging neckline.
“The stars are out tonight,” Deb said. “But they’re all hiding on the balcony.”
“Deb,” I said tentatively. “How are ya?”
“If I was any better, I’d be twins.”
“Two of you would be a lot t
o handle,” Remy said.
Deb ignored the jab and moved in. I smelled coffee on her breath.
“I was just talking to Chief Senza about an exposé on you two,” she said. “You know—different ways of thinking. Old school versus new school.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. We’d been burned by Deb so many times that it was tough to believe a thing she said.
“You mean Black versus white?” Remy asked.
“Maybe it’s old versus young,” I said to Remy, playing like I had a cane.
Deb gave us a look. “This would be a serious piece.”
Remy glanced at me, a glint in her eyes. “You want a lead on a story, Deb?” she said. “I’m off of work, but P.T.’s got a big one.”
Deb turned her focus on me. “And you’re just gonna hand it to me, Marsh?”
“I could give it to Raymond Kirios at the Register.”
“He is a good writer,” Remy pointed out.
“Nobody reads anymore,” Deb said.
I looked to Remy, who shrugged. “A body was dug up,” my partner said.
“A skeleton of a murder victim,” I added. “I could give you the address, but you can’t say where you got it from.”
Deb looked unenthusiastic. “Is it in the numbered streets?” she said with a whine. “Some drug nobody? ’Cause I think I hit my annual quota on bodies in that zip code back in May.”
I looked to Remy. “She’s not the right person for it.”
Deb looked insulted. “All right,” she said. “Hand it over.”
“I’m not sure you’re tough enough,” I said.
“Moi?” Deb looked shocked.
“This one could get political,” Remy said. “I mean—let’s say the person you have to investigate is in this room. A bigwig. Tight with the police. You sure you got the salt for that, Deb?”
“And the pepper, Detective Morgan,” she said confidently.
I took a pen out and asked for her hand. Wrote the address on Penescue on the crook above her thumb.
“Two years ago,” I said. “That’s when the story starts. Find out who lived in number one. But the real story is who owns the building.”
“Who owns it?”
“You gotta work a little here,” I said.
“The question is,” Remy jumped in, “could the owner have known there’s a body under his building? Is he connected to the man who died? And, Deb,” Remy said. “Word is that the skull’s got a bullet hole through it.”
Deb’s eyes were full moons, and she stared at the address written above the crook of her thumb.
“This is in North Heights,” she said. “Not the numbered streets.”
“You probably got an hour or two lead on the others.” I pointed around. “If you’re quick, you could research the story and be back here for an interview with the right person by dessert.”
Deb turned and scampered off.
Gattling came back then and wheeled Remy into the ballroom. Found us a table off to one side with a few empty chairs, which I pushed out of the way for my partner.
The lights came down then, and the place went quiet. The mayor walked up onto the stage and took a sip of water.
“Tonight is one of my favorite nights,” Mayor Stems said, standing at the podium in a black tux. “Because I get to honor the real heroes who live and work in our community every day.”
I looked to Remy, knowing it would be a long night. She held up her wineglass, toasting my water. “You picked the wrong year to quit drinking, partner.”
We sat there, Remy and me and Gattling, enjoying a meal without having to say a word. The chief awarded Rookie of the Year to a kid who grew up in the numbered streets but made it out without falling to gangs or drugs. Then there was the award for the fireman. Good guy, it turned out. You could tell from his speech.
Then a series of rich men went up onto the stage and urged other rich men to take out their checkbooks. Literally. Like take them out, write checks to charity, and pass them to your nearest waiter. Which they actually did.
Finally, it came time for me to go up and receive what they were calling the First Annual Community Hero Award. I took the plaque and looked out at the crowd, a big spotlight on me.
“My partner, Detective Morgan, is in the audience.” I held my hand to the light so I could find her. “She’s temporarily in a wheelchair from taking down someone as bad as the guy I took out. In the same week too.” I looked around. The room was silent. Waiting on me. “I don’t do big speeches; so, I’m glad no kids were hurt at Falls Magnet. And I’m sorry I had to take a man’s life to make the school safe that day.” I held up the plaque. “Thanks for the recognition.”
The cops in the audience started clapping first, and then the whole place got to their feet. I didn’t think the speech was much, but maybe that was the point.
I hung out a little after, and Kelly Borland strolled over. She’d been sitting at the chief’s table as his guest.
“Keeping it simple up there, huh?”
“Short and sweet,” I said.
While we were talking, a number of cops came by. Each of them slapping me on the shoulder and checking out Kelly.
Men. Men that were cops. Sometimes we were more predictable than criminals.
From across the room, I saw Deb Newberry reenter the ballroom in that bright orange jacket. Her eyes scanned the place, stopping on Lauten Hartley. She met him halfway across the room.
Hartley smiled at her, and Deb turned on the charm. I was guessing she was asking him what he thought of the event. Or of his new position on the police board.
This was classic Deb. To throw a setup punch first. A compliment.
Then his face fell after a follow-up question. A question that must’ve been about a body found. About his property. Hartley glanced around. Was he looking for me?
Darren wheeled Remy over. “You taking responsibility for this one?” he said, motioning at Remy.
I looked to my partner, and Darren explained that he was headed to work. The night shift now. His first day back since the shootout at Tandy’s.
“Absolutely,” I said. “Ms. Borland.” I turned to Kelly. “I’ve got to take my partner home.”
“Of course,” Kelly said.
“You see it?” Remy asked about Hartley, once we were a few feet away.
I nodded. “I forgot to tell you. I called Christian Pelo’s mom on the way here. Told her to show up at the station with something with Christian’s DNA on it. A hairbrush. A toothbrush. I told her to ask for Sarah Raines. Then demand to wait until Chief Senza arrived.”
Sarah, being the local M.E., would do a bang-up job on that skeleton. And she’d do it without worrying about who Hartley was.
“And people say you don’t know politics.” Remy snickered.
As I wheeled my partner out of the ballroom, a man stood by the door, his eyes on Deb Newberry. He was a reporter for the Mason Falls Register. A guy named Raymond Kirios, the writer we threatened to give the story to.
“Don’t you two know not to feed wild animals?” he said.
Remy and I blinked.
“You gave something to Deb,” Kirios said.
“No idea what you’re talking about, Kirios,” Remy said.
“Print journalism, Marsh and Morgan. It’s still alive and available for a good story. Usually, it’s the best way to tell it.”
I wanted to remind the reporter how Abe had asked Kirios’s editor for information on Jed Harrington the day of the shooting. How we’d been directed instead to read the paper the next day. But I kept my mouth shut for a change.
The reporter followed us out the door.
“Whatever it is, we got no comment,” Remy said to him.
But Kirios held out a business card. “I’m actually here to give you two something,” he said. “I o
wed a favor to a Fed named Quarles,” Kirios said. “Apparently, he owed a favor to you. So via three-way, we’re all clean.”
I stared at what was written on the back of Kirios’s business card.
It read:
Alistair Zalinsky is in our custody.
—Quarles
“Who the hell is Alistair Zalinsky?”
The reporter nodded, as if expecting the question.
“Quarles said to tell you he found a single print on the inside of the trigger assembly, left over from some exploded rifle,” Kirios said. “Does that make sense?”
I stared at Kirios.
“He said to let you two know,” the reporter continued. “Your cop’s gonna get some measure of justice for what happened to his son.”
Zalinsky was the old assassin.
The one who’d shot the two drug couriers in the Chevy Caprice and killed Carilla out in the forest. More important, who’d killed Officer Timothy O’Neal’s son, Jacob, inside of Tandy’s. The Feds had him. Which meant they got him on other charges and were taking first crack at the guy.
I thought about what the waitress at the Cracker Barrel had told us about the man she called “Grandpa.”
When the old guy went inside the restroom to inspect the replacement gun parts, he must’ve inadvertently left a print on an unpainted piece of the 3D-printed M24.
“Thanks, Kirios,” I said. “I appreciate the message.”
45
By ten p.m., I had dropped Remy off and was back at my house. I walked the dogs down to the pond and felt tired. The full moon had faded in the last week, and the last quarter moon would be in the sky tomorrow.
I thought about Christian Pelo’s mom and hoped that she’d followed my instructions. That things were under way that would complicate Hartley’s connection to the police department. That would make it difficult for him to be on the board while owning a property where the skeleton of a cold case was found.
As I got back home, I saw Kelly Borland’s Honda CR-V, parked outside of my house.
Kelly was sitting on the steps.
I was still in my blues, but she’d dressed down.