Judgement Day

by Andrew Neiderman

  She looked at Scholefield.

  “That’s not necessary. Mrs. Kotter will stay out of your way. She is obviously in a state of shock at the moment. I have her doctor coming up to see her and give her a sedative. I suggest you have your team search the master bedroom while we wait in here so she can retire to it when they’re finished.”

  “I’d rather nobody wait in here,” Blake said. “We don’t want to disturb the scene.”

  “Too late for that, don’t you think?” Scholefield said. “From what Mrs. Kotter has told me, at least four uniformed patrolmen were in this room with two paramedics.”

  “Nevertheless . . .”

  “All right. She’ll wait in the guest bedroom.”

  “Nothing can be touched or moved anywhere in this apartment right now,” Blake warned, “even in the guest room.”

  “You or your partner can witness her lying down,” Scholefield said. “She might peel back a blanket.”

  “Did you and your husband have a fight recently concerning this other woman you mentioned to the police and just made reference to, Mrs. Kotter?” Blake asked, ignoring Scholefield.

  “We discussed her, yes,” she said.

  “Amiably?”

  “I might have raised my voice,” she said.

  “You were angry at him, weren’t you?”

  “I wasn’t happy with his behavior, no, but I didn’t poison him. She poisoned him in more ways than one.” Her face finally began to crumple, her lips trembling, her arms shaking.

  Scholefield put his arm around her shoulders. “I’m afraid that’s all she can do at this point, Lieutenant. You’ll have to work around her,” he concluded, and turned her to walk her back to the guest bedroom.

  Blake nodded at Fish, who followed them. He returned a moment later.

  “Her lawyer put her to bed and is sitting at the bedside like a relative. He’s still holding her hand.”

  The door buzzer sounded.

  “That’s probably forensics,” Blake said.

  Fish went to the door, and the team entered.

  While Fish was explaining the situation to them, Blake felt his cell phone vibrate. He stepped away to answer it when he saw who was calling. “Matthew Blake,” he said.

  “One moment for Ms. Armstrong, please,” Sofia Walters practically sang.

  It was nearly thirty seconds later when she came on. He was tempted to hang up.

  “Matthew. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner, but they handed me my new case practically in the lobby of the building this morning on my way in. It’s a rape case. My first, actually. A man named Jerome Rand raped his sister-in-law, Carol Kyle, an unmarried cocktail waitress who was staying in an apartment close by that he supposedly found for her. She was looking for new work in New York. I feel like I’m about to try Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. Like everything else, it got a little complicated. The wife backs her husband and accuses her sister of sick sibling rivalry. I was hoping for a teenager robbing a grocery store. You know a Detective Fern Littletree? She’s been on the case and gave me her file. I believe she’s the only female Native American in the NYPD,” she said, rattling it all off like someone high on cocaine.

  “I know of her. She just started.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “Didn’t sleep that well. I called you, but you didn’t answer my calls.”

  He waited for her response, but she was silent.

  “I had a message from your aunt waiting for me very early this morning,” he continued. “She was concerned about you when she realized you hadn’t come home last night,” he said, rather than come right out immediately to ask her about John Milton.

  “Yes, well, you know my aunt, how she can be.”

  “You went to dinner with John Milton?” he finally asked, unable to wait for her to confess it.

  “Yes, to an interesting restaurant, Angel’s Lair. Ever hear of it?”

  “No. How could you go to dinner with him? How could you spend any time with him at all outside that courtroom?”

  “I wanted to know more about him. Besides, I don’t think you should be questioning me in that tone of voice, Matthew. We’re not exactly engaged,” she added. Her voice became dramatically different, testy.

  “I didn’t say we were, but I thought you found him obnoxious, to say the least.”

  “Everyone is different in court from how they are outside. Everyone,” she stressed, the implication clear.

  “I see. Okay. I’m on a new case now, too.”

  “More work for me?”

  “I hope it will be more tightly wrapped before the DA gets it. I’ll call you, if you’d like.”

  “Why not? Call when you can, and I’ll pick up when I can. Good luck on the investigation,” she said. She didn’t say good-bye. He heard the line go dead and hung up himself.

  It felt as if his face was on fire.

  “Lieutenant?” Fish said, standing in front of him. “I told them to start in the guest bedroom. I thought you’d appreciate that.”

  “Whatever. Just don’t give that attorney any reason to file any complaints and complicate things, John. There’s something unusual about him. Despite that crap about protecting people involved in an unattended death, I think he knew Dylan Kotter was poisoned before we arrived.” Blake looked at his watch. “It’s not two and a half hours since I got the call. How did he know so quickly?”

  Fish shrugged. “Spy in the lab? Everyone’s got someone earning extra bucks.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What else could it be?”

  Blake just looked at him as if he had asked a very dumb question. Fish actually felt a bit uncomfortable and was happy to see Blake get another call and put his attention on something else. While Blake talked on his cell phone, Fish returned to the bedroom to watch forensics work around Mrs. Kotter. Her attorney stood off to the side, his arms folded over his chest, glaring at them.

  “You could have started somewhere else in this apartment and let her get some rest until her doctor arrives,” Scholefield said.

  Melody Kotter kept her eyes closed.

  “Does Mrs. Kotter have a job besides taking care of her sister’s cats?” he asked Scholefield.

  “She’s on a leave of absence from a secretarial position at a parochial school,” he replied.

  “I just wondered why she was wearing so much fresh makeup,” he said.

  Mrs. Kotter opened her eyes.

  “Why did you take a shower this morning, or did you?” Scholefield countered.

  The two forensics men stopped searching through drawers and turned to them.

  “I never saw an attorney so attached to his client, but I forgot that you guys get paid by the hour,” Fish said.

  Scholefield smiled. “Everyone gets paid by the hour.”

  “We don’t.”

  “Sure you do. You just get less when you divide your pay by the hours you put in. But you don’t work for the money. You work for justice, right?”

  “Justice. There’s a word you should look up. Maybe for the first time,” Fish replied, proud of his comeback.

  Scholefield lost his smile when Blake came up behind Fish.

  Blake pulled Fish aside. “I got the call I was telling you I might get, John. You’re in charge here until I return. When you’re finished here, pay the mistress a visit. Maybe she won’t be as lawyered up.”

  “Where are you going, Lieutenant? In case I’m asked.”

  “To our favorite funeral parlor,” he replied, and hurried out.

  Fish stared after him, not moving until he realized his mouth was wide open in astonishment.

  On his way out, Blake’s phone vibrated again. He paused in the building lobby.

  “I got the text you just sent, Lieutenant,” Kaye Billups said. “You were right on with your inquiry, so I thought I should call you rather than text back.”

  “Oh? Thank you. What do you have for me?”

  “Mr. Milton has arranged for Mr. S
cholefield to have an interview day after tomorrow with him and Mr. Simon.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Kaye.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” she said, with such feeling that it was clear to Blake that she was truly happy to cooperate.

  “I know,” he replied.

  It was a good day to make discoveries, Blake thought as he continued out of the apartment building to his vehicle. The sky was washed of all the gray clouds he had seen scattered when the sun had come up in the morning. The sunlight was dazzling, unwrapping shadows and exposing the homeless who had been entrenched in every nook and cranny the city offered to protect them from the elements. There was a crispness in the air that infected the traffic and the pedestrians. No one could hide from the activity around them. They all rushed around as if all their imperfections were exposed and they needed to get where they were going, inside, comfortably disguised in their jobs and professional identities. Even the inanimate parts of this urban world seemed to reveal their cracks and faded surfaces.

  There was timing to everything, he thought, and his task was to recognize when the moment had come, the opportunity had raised its head, and the voices had sounded like trumpets. He was going to make a difference today. He was going to seriously wound the beast that scratched on cathedral walls and carried Cain on its back as it trampled over the souls of the innocent and faithful. He went forth like the knight in shining armor he envisioned himself to be.

  A little less than two hours later, he was parked across from the Foster Funeral Home in Ferndale. He fixed his suspicious eyes on the building and the parking lot and waited patiently to confirm what he knew anyone else would think was far-fetched enough to be insane. However, what prophet, what inventor, what theory or great idea wasn’t first thought to be crazy? What about electricity? The average person didn’t fully understand electrons and protons yet believed that if he or she flipped a switch, a light bulb would glow, a machine would start, and a TV or radio would turn on and continue what people two hundred years ago would believe was magic, maybe evil magic.

  Perhaps two hundred years from now, this would be just as accepted, just as believable. He was just a different sort of Columbus finding a different world. He was without doubt, confident, not fearful of any ridicule.

  While he waited, he thought about Michele Armstrong. All of this had become quite personal now. He could motivate himself with lofty goals, but there was also this very particular objective. He had to rescue her from any danger. He had to protect her, not as one of many but as someone for whom he deeply cared. Dared he say loved?

  He pictured her. He relived their kisses and caresses. He felt the warmth and the hope their lovemaking had given him. Admittedly, it had taken him off course, but it was a detour he needed in order to sustain himself. Love in any form nourished the soul. It was impossible to survive without it, not in the sense of survival he believed in. Maybe he was fighting for himself as much as for her.

  The arrival of a familiar vehicle snapped him out of his musing. Tom Beardsly parked his car and got out. He stretched, spat out whatever he was chewing, and headed for the funeral-parlor entrance. Blake shifted in his seat so he wouldn’t be visible if Beardsly turned his way, but the man never did. He entered the place quickly. A little more than fifteen minutes later, he stepped out, carefully carrying what was clearly an urn. With just as much care, he put it on the floor by the passenger’s seat in his car. Then he paused, looked around, and got into his vehicle. He drove out slowly and turned right.

  Blake followed him. He remained far enough behind not to be obvious, but they were soon taking roads with little or no traffic. Houses became few and far between, and many of those he saw looked abandoned. The grounds were overgrown, and like most areas of America where degeneration had taken hold, there were also abandoned cars and trucks. When he did see a house that looked still lived in, he didn’t see anyone outside. He felt almost as if he was entering a netherworld. Even the vegetation began to look odd, trees leaning, bushes invading one another, and, most curious, no signs of wildlife. Where were the rabbits and deer? Eventually, he didn’t even see birds.

  Ahead he saw Beardsly make a turn down an unpaved road. Beardsly’s vehicle swayed from side to side as the wheels navigated holes and short ditches, and then it disappeared around another turn. Blake brought his vehicle to a stop and considered. His intention was to remain undiscovered, but if he started down this road, the dust cloud would reveal him. Instead, he pulled his vehicle off the paved road and followed flat, solid-looking ground to move behind some large oak trees with bark that looked like warts.

  He got out and started down the dirt road, walking at least three-quarters of a mile before the farmhouse appeared ahead. He saw no crops in the fields or any livestock. The afternoon sun weakened behind birch and maple trees to the west, casting long shadows over the scene before him. Beardsly’s car was in front of the farmhouse, but Beardsly wasn’t in it. Blake hesitated and then cut to his left and ran through the woods so he could look around the west corner of the farmhouse. When he moved farther left, he saw the rear end of John Milton’s black limousine.

  Beardsly emerged from the farmhouse and got into his vehicle. He backed up and then turned around and headed away from the farmhouse, down the dirt road. Moments later, Blake heard what sounded like women wailing in rhythm, the volume rising and falling. He moved closer to the farmhouse and kept moving left so he could get a better view of the rear. A half dozen women wearing black shawls and the hollowed-out heads of black crows on their own heads were gathered around a pile of dried branches. They continued their chanting. It was Latin, the Lord’s Prayer, but something was very different about it, Blake thought. He soon realized it was being sung backward.

  The branches burst into flames, and the fire was building. Milton and his driver stepped out of the rear of the farmhouse. His driver was carrying the urn. The women parted, breaking the circle, and Milton took the urn from his driver and stepped close to the fire. One of the women let out a shrill scream, and they all stopped singing.

  Milton opened the urn and stepped closer to the fire. For a long moment, there was silence, and then he tipped the urn and, while muttering something Blake couldn’t hear, dumped the ashes into the fire. A cloud of black smoke rose and drifted to the right. The women stepped back, and the smoked gradually began to take the shape of a man. Finally, the man stood naked in front of Milton.

  Milton raised his arms and held them out to embrace the man. The women began to chant again. Milton led the resurrected man back into the farmhouse, and the women gradually lowered their voices and stopped singing. The fire died down as they turned and also entered the building. Milton’s driver shoveled dirt over the remaining embers before joining the others in the farmhouse.

  For a moment, Blake thought his feet were frozen to the earth. He willed himself to turn and start away, but he didn’t move. Then he struggled again, and his feet rose and fell as he ran, as fast as he could, back through the woods, all the way to his car.

  It was as if a childhood nightmare had just materialized in front of his eyes. He was chilled and couldn’t get warm for a good ten minutes before he felt confident that his fingers would work, that the rest of his body would obey his mind’s commands.

  Then he started the engine and slowly pulled back onto the road. He didn’t drive fast until he realized he had returned to the world he knew.

  All he could think of was Michele, telling her what he had seen, warning her about how close she was to becoming one of the women in the black shawls.

  24

  Michele suddenly felt exhausted. It washed over her like a cold breeze. She didn’t know how she had garnered all the energy she had begun with today, anyway. A good part of the evening before was a blur. She couldn’t swear to getting any sleep at all. Maybe it was because of her fatigue, or maybe it was something else working its way inside like a tapeworm, but some paranoia had begun to seep in around the edges. It was always like her to be s
ensibly skeptical, but this flow of negative energy and suspicion was something different.

  Had Eleanor Rozwell really handed her what everyone thought was going to be a fairly easy prosecution with the Heckett case, or had she expected a dramatic failure? She knew from talking with Sofia Walters, who was one of those people who made it her business to dip into everyone else’s business, that Eleanor believed she was not involved enough in Michele’s hiring. In fact, when she did meet Eleanor that first time, she thought the interview had gone poorly. The woman had ice in her voice and gave off negative vibes. She recalled her making the point that the New York District Attorney’s office was a much more complex and sophisticated agency than anything in the other New York counties. She’d actually asked her if she thought she was ready for this and made her feel that every syllable in her response was being judged.

  Meeting with Mike Barrett was night-and-day different. It wasn’t hard to see why a man with his personality would rise so quickly to be the top prosecutor in the city. He was very bright and as knowledgeable as any U.S. Supreme Court justice, but he also had the warmth to telegraph sincerity and concern. Maybe it was because he had three daughters—two in their twenties and one nineteen—that he was so comfortable with a woman her age. She felt his nurturing abilities and really wanted to work for him.

  However, she knew, even more so now, that he trusted and depended on Eleanor Rozwell a great deal. Perhaps she wasn’t his cup of tea socially or personally, but he respected her and believed she was the spine in the DA’s office. Michele imagined he had gone out on a limb to offer her the job. Eleanor accepted his decision but kept a cloud of probation hovering over it. Michele didn’t need anyone to actually voice it, but she could hear it whispered through the walls. You can lose once in a while. Everyone does, but you’ve got to start racking up successes pretty quickly, especially when you’re being evaluated by Eleanor Rozwell.