Dark Waters (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries)

by Bartlett, L. L.

  “If I believed that, I’d drive us there in a heartbeat.” Brenda frowned and shook her head. “I don’t want to move from this spot. I could happily stay here for the rest of the day, but if I don’t come to lunch when called, there’ll be consequences.”

  “This visit isn’t turning out the way you thought it would.”

  Brenda looked down at the reader in her hand. “No.”

  He reached over to take her other hand. Her fingers clasped his, but then abruptly she disentangled them and sat up straighter. “The insurance company called while you were out.”

  “Oh?” he asked, wary.

  “When were you going to tell me about the boat?”

  “Tell you what?”

  She leveled an angry gaze at him.

  “You mean … the little problem down at the marina?”

  “Vandalism isn’t a little problem.”

  “They weren’t supposed to call the landline. I asked them to call my cell phone.”

  “Well, they didn’t.”

  “How pissed off are you?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  “Pretty pissed off,” she admitted, but then she sighed, the anger draining from her face. “How bad is it?”

  “Mostly cosmetic,” he said. “I’d already thought about updating the carpets and upholstery, and now you can choose what you’d like.”

  “I’m not setting foot on that boat.”

  “Ever?”

  She shrugged. “I never said that. But — ” she looked down at herself. “Not today. And not this week. And since you’ve already arranged to have it put into storage….” She let the sentence trail off, but then her expression hardened once again and, for a split second, she reminded him of her unforgiving older sister. “You did arrange to have it put into storage, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I assume you took Jeffy with you this morning?”

  “He may have been there with me.”

  “You didn’t have to go in separate cars; or did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

  “He had somewhere else to go afterward.”

  “He seems to have found a lot to do the past couple of days. Are we ever going to see him again?”

  “You know he had to work a double shift yesterday.”

  “So what’s he doing today?”

  Richard shrugged. “I don’t know. Something with that reporter friend of his, I guess.”

  “No good can come of that,” Brenda muttered.

  Richard made no comment. Since Jeff was on the top of Brenda’s shit list, he decided to change the subject. “Da-Marr wants to borrow your car.”

  “What for?”

  “Evelyn wants him to cut the grass, but first he’s attempting to fix that old lawnmower in the garage.”

  “The one we were going to throw out?”

  He nodded.

  Brenda shrugged. “I don’t care. My keys are hanging up on the rack in the kitchen. He’s welcome to them.” She looked over at him and scowled. “You don’t want him to drive my car?”

  “Hey, it’s your car,” he said.

  “Yes, it is,” she reaffirmed. “Why are you worried about it?”

  “He doesn’t know the area. How’s he going to find a place that sells spark plugs?”

  “Oh, I don’t know — the yellow pages perhaps?”

  “Brenda!” It was unmistakably Evelyn. She pounded on the door. “It’s almost time for lunch.”

  “I’ll be down in a few minutes,” Brenda called, and then sighed. “Maybe for dinner we could do take-out from Ramon’s.”

  “And what if Evelyn doesn’t like hot spicy food?” Richard asked, and helped her to stand.

  “I’ll broach the subject at lunch. Go on ahead, I’ll be right down,” she said, heading for the bathroom.

  There hadn’t been a sign that lunch was in the offing when Richard had passed through the kitchen not ten minutes before, but when he returned the table was set and Evelyn had set out an assortment of cold cuts, bread, and condiments buffet style on the counter.

  As Brenda had suggested, Da-Marr had his nose in the yellow pages. “Is Brenda gonna loan me her car?” he asked idly.

  “Yeah. The keys are up on the rack.” He pointed.

  Da-Marr looked up, and a sly, kind of creepy smile settled on his lips. “Does it got GPS?”

  Richard nodded.

  “Good.” He slammed the phone book shut and turned to grab a plate.

  “No you don’t,” Evelyn chided. “Not until you wash those greasy hands. Do it now.”

  “Yes, Aunt Evelyn,” Da-Marr muttered, and turned to the sink.

  She turned her gaze on Richard. “You’re next.”

  “Yes, Evelyn,” he said meekly, and waited his turn.

  He would ask Ramón to use habanero or nagas chilies to spice up their dinner.

  Betsy Ruth — get here fast and save us all!

  After I left the marina, I had no intention of going back to Richard’s house where I might be forced to suffer through another meal with his houseguests. I had my own agenda to follow and drove right past LeBrun Road.

  I’d never been inside this particular church some four blocks from Richard’s house, although I’d stood outside it for a time during Matt Sumner’s funeral some eighteen months before. This time there was no guard at the door, and I climbed the steps and walked right through the front entrance.

  I gazed at the darkened, unfamiliar place, trying to get my bearings. Despite the empty pews, the space vibrated with a sense of sorrow. A funeral must have taken place earlier in the day.

  Two confessional booths stood at the rear of the cavernous space. Not ornate, just brown boxes that reminded me of old telephone booths in seedy old hotels.

  I pulled open the door, sat down on the slip of a bench. I didn’t see a silhouette on the other side of the screen.

  I sat there for a long time, waiting, thinking — about the dreams, about the white light that wanted to suck me into the afterlife … something I didn’t even believe in. I thought about what I might say — how I’d phrase it — trying out different scenarios. At last, someone knocked on the door of my confessional.

  “Do you need help, sir?”

  I opened the door a crack wider and saw the dog collar of an elderly, white-haired priest. “Yeah, I came for confession.”

  He laughed. “Son, you’re a decade or so too late for that.”

  “How so?”

  “We don’t do that anymore. Now we have what’s called the rite of reconciliation.”

  “Isn’t that just my luck?” I asked. He stood there, expectantly, while I thought about it for a minute. “Father, could we pretend the church hasn’t moved on? I could use a little spiritual guidance.”

  “It’s highly unusual — ” he started.

  “Please, sir?”

  The man frowned, the wrinkles on his face almost doubling. At last, he sighed. “Very well.” He closed the door of my cubicle and I heard him open the one next to me, sit down, and close the door.

  The panel went up. It was show time.

  “Bless me, father, for I have sinned.” My voice sounded rusty from lack of use. My mind scrambled for the words that were supposed to come next, but I drew a blank.

  “How long has it been since your last confession?” prompted the disembodied voice from behind the screen.

  I let out a breath. “Twenty-three years.”

  Silence.

  What the hell was I doing here? How could this priest help me? A man who’d lived a sheltered life away from the world’s temptations.

  “Go on,” the voice said at last.

  “I’m not sure why I came here. I’m not sure I believe. That I ever believed.”

  “Perhaps you came to find your faith. In these troubled times, faith is tested on a daily basis.”

  “I consider myself a good person, but bad things have happened to me.”

  “Do you feel you’re being punished by God?”

/>   “No.” Yes.

  “Something prompted you to come here. What was it?”

  I closed my eyes, a swell of sorrow, fear, and revulsion that I’d been trying to keep at bay for days suddenly threatened to swamp me. “I nearly died a couple of days ago. The thought haunts me — scaring the — ” I’d been about to say shit. “Heck out of me.”

  “I see,” the priest said in understanding. How often had he heard a tale like mine? “Something must weigh heavy on your soul.”

  “I was mugged eighteen months ago. I almost died then, too. I don’t know who hurt me — I never will — but I can’t forgive, and I certainly will never forget what happened.”

  “But forgiveness will lift the burden from your heart. Turn the other cheek, my son.”

  “I can’t,” I said as the uncomfortable mix of emotions seemed to swell within my chest, “and I guess that’s the sin that weighs heavy on my soul.”

  Suddenly there wasn’t enough air. The wooden panels seemed to be closing in on me.

  “Thanks, Father,” I said, and opened the door of the confessional. I had to get the hell out of there.

  “But we haven’t finished — ” he called after me.

  Head bowed in shame, I stalked out of the church without taking in my surroundings, hurried down the concrete steps and down the walk before I turned the corner for the side street and got back in my car. I stuffed the key into the ignition, but didn’t start it. Instead, I stared at the dash.

  It had been stupid to think a few Hail Marys could lift the burden from my soul.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  My cell phone rang. I yanked it out of my pocket and looked at the number on the small screen. Sam.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sorry to hear about Richard’s boat. I don’t have anything on the registration number yet, but I have set up an interview an hour from now. Are you available?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yeah.” I’d already told Richard I’d be meeting Sam; now that statement was no longer a lie.

  “Good.”

  “Are you okay? You sound funny.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Great. I’ll give you the address and you can meet me there. Bring your camera along. That way it’ll look like you’re a valued member of the team.”

  “Are we a team?”

  “We are for this.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Jack Morrow’s former residence. It’s on the foreclosure block, but I managed to sweet talk a lady at the bank into arranging a visit for me, and believe me, it wasn’t easy.”

  “Will there be anything left for me to touch?”

  “We’ll find out when we get there.”

  He gave me the address. I knew the area, so I didn’t bother to write it down. “See you there in an hour,” I said and ended the call. I was glad Sam had contacted me. About then, I needed a major distraction. I didn’t want to dwell on how I’d made a fool of myself in the church. And I was still no closer to figuring out what it was I needed to get past the feeling of impending doom.

  I sat, hands on the steering wheel, staring at nothing, thinking. What I should have done the night before was done a Google search on Jack Morrow, but by the time I’d gotten home from the bar, I’d been too wiped to do much more than check the fridge, find nothing of interest, and fall into bed.

  I glanced at my watch. I still didn’t want to go home to my computer, but the library nearby did have computers for use by the public. It would only take me twenty minutes to get to Morrow’s house, which meant I had nearly forty minutes to do my research.

  I plunked down at one of the computer carrels and logged into Google. Sure enough, most of the articles from the Buffalo News were retrievable at the click of a mouse. Even if Sam wasn’t interested in the murder, I was.

  John Francis Morrow had been found shot to death in a leased late-model Lexus. The reporter, Alison Kiefer, had made of point of saying that his Jaguar had been repossessed and he was forced to drive a low-end luxury car to court. I was more surprised that his team of attorneys had let him loose without a leash.

  The motive for the murder was up for grabs. Revenge, retaliation, perhaps he’d also stolen candy from a baby — but I wondered if the person responsible had had the same idea as Sam — finding those millions in hidden assets.

  Morrow’s car had been found parked in Delaware Park at two in the morning. The jury had been scheduled to receive their instructions for deliberation some eight hours later. And, of course, they never did.

  The autopsy conclusively established murder. After all, it would’ve been rather difficult for Morrow to shoot himself in the back of the head — especially as there was no gunshot residue on either of his hands. The police figured the shooter had been sitting in car’s backseat.

  Several other articles looked interesting, and I copied the URLs into an email and sent them to myself for later reading.

  I was headed for my car when I remembered that Sam had asked me to bring my camera. Damn. I’d have to stop at home anyway.

  As I pulled out of the library’s lot I thought about what I’d seen when I’d handled Sam’s mystery envelope the evening before. I hadn’t flashed onto Morrow’s face, but Da-Marr’s.

  I needed to analyze that memory a bit further. The kid I’d met was full of swagger, but his expression during that flash of insight had been one of fear and indecision. Unfortunately, it was only his face I’d seen. Nothing in the background, not even the clothes he was wearing.

  Part of me didn’t give a shit. I didn’t like the kid and I never would. And yet, from what I’d seen, I couldn’t imagine him ever being scared.

  And here I was — deathly afraid of him.

  Chapter 7

  I stopped at the house to grab my camera and managed not to run into Richard or anyone else. Brenda’s car was gone. Maybe she’d taken her guests and gone shopping. That suited me fine.

  Despite my unexpected stop, I still made it to the address Sam gave me before he did. But then, I didn’t have a day job to attend to.

  The gates were open — not surprising, as someone was expecting us — and I drove through, but parked near the end of the drive to wait for Sam. I gave the big house a thorough once over. What a palace. No wonder this guy had been about to go to stir for stealing mega millions. I guessed the house was worth a couple of million. In another part of the country, it would be worth five or ten times that, and not surprisingly it wasn’t far from Millionaire’s Row, where robber barons from the previous century had gathered along Delaware Avenue.

  Maggie would’ve killed to get a look inside the two-and-a-half story Tudor revival made of limestone. Its bay windows, parapets, dormers, arched balustrades, and carved rosettes made Richard’s house look like positively cheap in comparison.

  Sam’s SUV pulled up next to my rattletrap and he got out. His work clothes didn’t look all that different from what he’d worn at the bar the night before, except for his tie. It didn’t depict dancing girls, but it wasn’t exactly mainstream, either. Pineapples?

  We walked up the drive.

  “Have you had any new flashes of insight?” Sam asked, hopefully.

  “No. But I did do a little research on Morrow.”

  Sam stopped dead and glared at me. “Don’t do that. I want your perceptions to be free of bias.”

  “Can’t I just be curious?”

  “You can be curious after all this is over.”

  “All what?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Our investigation.”

  So, he did think of me as a team player. Funny, I didn’t hold that distinction at my last day-job.

  We stopped before a massive oak door tucked under a carved archway. Sam grasped hold of the heavy iron knocker and gave it a good bang, then we waited in self-conscious silence. He knocked again.

  Eventually the door opened and an old, gray-haired woman dressed in a long brown skirt, ratty maroon sweater, with sensible shoes and heavy supp
ort hose, stood before us.

  “Mrs. Walburg? I’m Sam Nielsen. We spoke on the phone this morning.” Sam brandished his Buffalo News ID.

  She scrutinized it before opening the door wider to take a good look at me.

  “This is my colleague, Ernie Pyle,” Sam said with a smirk.

  She scowled. “You’re joking, right?”

  “It’s a nickname,” I offered. Mrs. Walburg was obviously better informed than the last person Sam had used that line on. And had he just put the old lady off? “I’m Jeff. Nice to meet you.” I didn’t offer her my hand. She nodded.

  “Did you work for the Morrow family for long?” Sam asked.

  “I worked for Mr. Morrow for over thirty-five years. Longer than he was married to either of his wives.”

  Did she consider herself to be a walking font of information on the dead man, or was she just angry that she had only been an employee and not something more?

  “So this is where Jack Morrow used to hang his hat,” Sam said, looking past her.

  “When he was in Buffalo. He had a house on Grand Cayman, and apartments in San Francisco, Chicago, and New York.”

  “Did you ever see them?” Sam asked.

  She shook her head. “I was their employee — not one of their pampered Pomeranians,” she added bitterly.

  Okay. There was major animosity going on there. Had she wished to be more than just an employee, or had the whole bankruptcy thing ruined some kind of financial arrangement she thought she might get as a long-time employee? We weren’t likely to ever know.

  “And now you’re a caretaker?” I guessed.

  She nodded. “Until it’s sold.”

  “And what’s taking so long?” Sam asked, huddling further into his jacket. Wasn’t she ever going to invite us in?

  “The price. Do you know anyone with five million bucks?”

  Sam shook his head.

  I’d guessed wrong on the home’s worth; either that, or the bank wanted to squeeze every penny they could from Jack Morrow’s assets.

  “Come in if you’re coming,” she said at last, and ushered us inside where the ambient temperature wasn’t much higher than outside. It was probably set low to keep down maintenance costs.