by LS Sygnet
I listened to his low voice, the irritated words as he summoned the director himself from bed in the middle of the night in D.C. "Sir, I apologize for the late hour, but I just received a phone call from the Darkwater Bay police department." Long pause. "Yes, sir, that's the one. It would appear that Agent Seleeby is standing in one of their police precincts right now looking for Helen Eriksson."
Much longer pause. I was certain that my heartbeat sounded like a bongo drum on the other end of the call, hammering out some primitive tribal rhythm.
"Yes, sir, it was Dr. Eriksson who called me. She was informed about Seleeby's status."
"For God's sake, David, tell him that Johnny told me!" I barked into the phone.
"I believe she was made aware of that information through Commander Orion, sir."
Every sound slowed, echoed a little before bouncing around in my head. David's words slurred into slow playback.
"Very good sir. I'll make the call right away." David came back to me. "Helen, lay low. I'll call you back in a few."
He disconnected before I had the chance to question him further. Uncertainty uncurled in my belly, a weedy vine that grew upwards, strangling the air from my lungs and squeezing my heart with painful spasms. What if Seleeby quit his job and decided to harass me without the authority of the FBI behind him? Worse yet, what if he and Datello had reached some sort of lopsided arrangement – one that gave both of them what they wanted but was heavy on the sacrifice spectrum for Seleeby?
I peered at the scene unfolding in the squad room. Seleeby was waving his badge and demanding that Briscoe and Conall let him pass, something about obstructing an official investigation. I uttered silent thanks to the cosmos that they'd witnessed Johnny's promise to get Seleeby off my back. Without that knowledge, they'd surely have cooperated with him.
Then the hulk himself made an appearance in the doorway. I glanced at my watch. Ten fifteen, three hours since we apprehended Denton. Chris Darnell looked as crisp as if he'd just donned his state police uniform, even though he was in civilian clothing tonight. Tony and Crevan relaxed when they saw him. Seleeby didn't know what was about to hit him.
I was tempted to come out of hiding and bear witness with a front row view, but the vine of panic unfurled inside me was still wreaking havoc on purposeful movement. I watched Darnell tap Seleeby on the shoulder.
"Mr. Seleeby," his voice boomed through the squad room, "I just got a phone call from one of your superiors in Washington D.C. You can imagine my surprise at finding you in my state again. I was under the impression that this matter had been resolved."
"Who the fuck are you? I'm a federal agent with the FBI. You don't tell me where I go or what I investigate!"
Darnell flashed his badge. "You're pissin' in the wrong bowl of cornflakes, son. Detective Eriksson is a valued member of our law enforcement community. You've heard of the infamous blue wall, haven't you? I'd think you'd be intimately familiar with it by now, seeing how you're butting your head against it."
"She is a criminal!"
My feet started moving, rather quickly at that, before Seleeby could spew more of his theories to people who were in a position to protect me from him.
"Commander Darnell, it's all right. I think I'm interested in hearing what lies Agent Seleeby is pedaling this time. Or don't I have that right anymore, Mark? To face my accuser."
"You have pulled the wool over these people's eyes," he spat, "and they can send me off to Timbuktu sifting through fertilizer receipts for the rest of my career, but I won't go until these people know who you really are."
Darnell already knew. Johnny knew some of it. Crevan and Tony were mostly in the dark. I sucked in a deep breath and turned to my new colleagues.
"My ex-husband was a man named Rick Hamilton. As you already know, I divorced him."
"Hell, that ain't no crime," Briscoe growled.
"Hush, Tony. You need to hear this. I divorced him after Rick was arrested by Agent Seleeby here for one, because he was laundering money for Sully Marcos. Seleeby was convinced that Rick would turn on his employer and provide the evidence they needed to finally put Sully behind bars for the rest of his natural life."
"Oh my God," Briscoe's jaw dropped.
This much of the tale, Crevan already knew. I sucked in a deep breath and forged ahead. "What you don't know is that little more than a week had passed after Rick was murdered in what to all involved in the investigation other than Agent Seleeby, appeared to be a mob-style execution, that I turned up in Darkwater Bay. But Mr. Seleeby thought I, as his ex-wife, apparently had more motive than the man who he insists Rick would've testified against. The morning of Rick's funeral, he served a search warrant on my home in Georgetown."
That covered everything I was willing to divulge, but what Darnell learned from the file the FBI sent about the process of vetting me for employment surely had revealed more. My eyes fluttered shut. "To top off this lovely tale, you should know that my father is not dead, even though I would much rather think of him that way. He's been a guest in a lovely facility in upstate New York for the last two decades, give or take a year or two. He was convicted of armed robbery and felony murder of the guards driving the armored car he robbed. I understand you can read all about his exploits on the Internet. They called him Jersey Third Eye, and in addition to being a successful thief, dear old Dad also killed two innocent people. That aside, he was still a decorated police detective."
A pin dropping would've made the racket of a sonic boom. Nobody looked more shocked than Darnell, which surprised me I guess. Had he requested a file and not bothered to read it?
"Helen…"
I interrupted Darnell before he could verbalize the multitude of questions written in his somber expression. "I'd say it's obvious why I don't speak of my father much, and when I do, the memories are from far before I learned the truth about him."
"How old were you when he was arrested?" Darnell's face transformed into an unreadable mask. His voice trembled just the slightest bit, and if I thought Seleeby struck the fear of God in my heart, it paled to what simmered under the surface of Darnell's barely controlled anger.
"I was nineteen years old, a college student for two years."
His eyes settled on Seleeby who had grown smugger by the second while I let him believe he forced me to tip the scales in his favor. It was all a matter of record anyway. Nothing I said was incriminating beyond unfortunate circumstance. The really damning stuff would go with me to my grave – or so I thought.
"You sir," Darnell's anger let loose, "are a fool. You're basing this witch hunt on things that happened beyond Detective Eriksson's control. She was a child when her father was on the loose, in the first place, but more importantly, our justice system does not visit the sins of the father on his children. As for her marital errors, my first wife was dishonorably discharged from the military. Should the Corps have put me under a microscope because she was a bad soldier? It is not only possible for spouses to be deceitful creatures, it happens a hell of a lot more than a misanthropic zealot like yourself is obviously aware."
Tony and Crevan edged away from Darnell and Seleeby and closer to me. Possibly from the force of Darnell's anger, I'm not sure.
"Thanks to you, my weekend, my down time with a wife who is loving and faithful not only to me, but the values I hold dear, is completely wrecked."
"I don't give a damn about your –"
"You should," Darnell cut him off, "because the FBI asked if I'd be so kind as to personally escort you back to D.C. I believe they're planning to hold a disciplinary hearing, one for which you had better appear sufficiently whipped into contrition if you value your position at all."
Throwing his federal credentials around was the one thing Seleeby valued more than nailing me for a crime he could not possibly have evidence I committed.
"I'll go with you, Mr. Darnell, but I would like the opportunity to ask Helen one question before I go."
Darnell glanced at me. "Eriksson
?" he barked. "You good with that?"
"Did you come here to flaunt this murder weapon you supposedly have again?" I asked.
Seleeby shook his head, and the gleam in his eye should've started waving red flags all over the place in my brain. Unfortunately, it did not.
"I was wondering if you've ever heard of Eddie Franchetta."
"I believe he has a pizza parlor on the Upper East Side," I deadpanned.
"No, but he does enjoy his Sunday evening jogs in the national parks."
"Good for him," I said. I didn't flinch. Didn't look worried. Didn't let my heart slam through my sternum and flop around on the floor. I got the message loud and clear.
Seleeby believed he had an eyewitness to Rick's murder.
Darnell snorted softly and waved one hand in front of Seleeby. "We have a private flight to catch, Mr. Seleeby, and I think the director said something about the cost of it coming out of your salary."
I started wondering if the mess I left behind me would ever stop haunting me. The preemptive strike against what Seleeby planned to reveal to my newfound brothers in arms had left two witnesses staring at me with something akin to stunned horror.
"Oh stop already. Do you expect me to believe you wouldn't be reluctant to trot a history like that out for mass consumption? Christ, it's no wonder Seleeby thinks I've got to be guilty of more than stupidity."
Briscoe slumped against the edge of his desk. "Damn."
"It's not as bad as it sounds, Tony. C'mon. Don't let this –"
"This ex of yours is lucky Marcos got to him first," Crevan said. "Because I promise you, Helen, if Johnny had known you while this guy was still breathing, and found out all the details, I think Seleeby would be harassing somebody else."
"It's like the fucker is still reaching out from the grave and screwin' with your life," Briscoe said. "Pardon my French, Eriksson."
Unbelievable. They were both fixated on Rick, and not one comment dropped about Wendell.
"Really," Crevan agreed with his partner. "I wouldn't put it past Marcos to have targeted Rick because Helen was in the bureau. Sort of like an insurance policy if anybody ever got too close."
"Hold on there, you two. The last thing I need is more conspiracy theories." Besides, that one danced a little too close to the truth, one that would've ultimately shown both of them exactly how much motive I did have to kill Rick. "Nobody held a gun to Rick's head and made him decide to break the law. Nobody held a gun to his head and made him lead Seleeby to believe he'd testify against Marcos."
"No but somebody sure did to make sure he wouldn't testify against Marcos," Crevan said. "Honey, I'm so sorry for all you've been through. Come here."
I felt like an utter shit for accepting the condolences offered by two good cops who believed in someone they thought was their friend. Accept it I did. I stepped into Crevan's embrace. "I'm fine, Crevan. It's taken awhile, but I'm going to be okay."
Tony patted my shoulder. "Geez, Helen. No wonder you been such a basket case all this time. Why didn't you tell us about this mess in the first place?"
"You didn't know me." Still don't. "Why would I believe you'd care about my problems?"
His finger stabbed the air in a trademark gesture. "'Cause you're one of us, and we look out for our own. You been our kinda people since the night you set foot on our soggy soil. Got it?"
"Thanks," I rasped. For the first time in years, I meant it. At least when it was directed to peers that weren't David. Speaking of which…why hadn't he called me?
"Is our guest out for the night?" Briscoe asked.
I nodded. "Snoring like a Saint Bernard."
"Then I suggest we take a cue from the man of the hour and catch some z's before he wakes up and we get to take a run at him."
"I think I'd rather stick around and make sure he's not alone when the haloperidol wears off." We hadn't had the chance to discuss Denton's paranoia before the drama with Seleeby unfolded again. "He's pretty convinced that someone's going to get to him no matter where we put him."
"Helen, he's safe here. Nobody without a badge can get downstairs to the tombs. You need your rest too. From what I've heard, this has been a pretty exhausting week for you."
My eyes snapped into focus on Conall, narrowed, assessing, suspicious. "You men are worse gossips than any ten women I know."
"He cares about you, that's all."
"Yeah, well Orion still has a big mouth."
"Go home, Eriksson. We'll pick up with Denton bright and early tomorrow morning."
"No way. I'll deal with Denton. I want you two keeping an eye on Dupree Farm. Surely someone has noticed that he didn't return with his workforce tonight. Maybe we should be out there watching the place right now."
Briscoe sighed and grabbed his jacket. "C'mon, Puppy. I can take a hint. Let's head on out there and see what's what."
"On one condition," Crevan said. "You go home and rest."
"Deal."
But something was bothering me, a deep tickle buried deep in my brain. Something someone once said to me mingled with Denton's fear. What was it? I pushed it aside as a symptom of the candle wick burning too fast from both ends. Again.
And I almost fell asleep without wondering where Johnny was and if he missed me as much as I was starting to feel the absence of him.
Chapter 25
Wendell Eriksson had been kept segregated from the general population since his incarceration in Attica Correctional Facility commenced some seventeen years earlier. Prior to the move upstate, Wendell resided on Rikers Island for twenty-one months while he awaited the trial that ultimately brought him to his home for the rest of his natural life.
The segregation was an abomination in the eyes of the inmates and most of the guards. Wendell Eriksson fell into a rare breed of prisoner. He was one of the most reviled criminals and a formerly decorated cop. Either the other inmates wanted to be the one to shank the infamous Jersey Third Eye, or to make the pig bleed.
The irony was that there were still a few guys running around the joint that Wendell helped put there. Mostly, though, he was grateful for the segregation, even though the loneliness provided a little too much time for reflection. The first five or ten years had been more than enough. Everything after that turned into torture and constant questioning: what if.
As in, what if he had let his daughter provide an adequate defense?
That one plagued Wendell almost as much as his curiosity about Helen's life creeping up on twenty years after he'd seen her last. Sure, he had contacts, knew things, but it wasn't the same. It could never be good enough, not like being able to watch over her personally.
Of all the things Wendell Eriksson had seen, of all the so-called crimes against humanity he had committed, he continued to look back on his life without regret. The reason for that had not changed in these many years. Helen was worth everything.
Pragmatic concerns made him speak of her with only bitterness to those who came into contact with him. Everyone must believe he hated and resented her as much as the woman who ended his free rein in society.
With Marie, the hate was no act. Wendell cursed – and frequently – the day he met his late wife. She seemed an acceptable choice at the time, a self-proclaimed infertile woman with moral flexibility that she cleverly cloaked with devout faith and church attendance.
The morality had been no lie, none of it. Marie turned out to be as religious a nut as they came, but it never stopped her from performing what she called, the Robin Hood Routine. Steal from the rich and give to the church, in her case.
Infertility had been the big lie. Wendell wondered now at the outrage he felt when Marie's body started to swell. She swore up and down that she'd just been eating more than usual. When it ballooned by more than fifty pounds in six months, Wendell dragged her to a doctor who gave him the news of the impending blessed event.
"Scrape it out of her now," Wendell had demanded.
Of course late term abortions were unheard of at that time, s
o Wendell had originally planned to place this squalling mistake in the loving arms of parents who wanted it, who could give it a life he had no intention of living.
All that changed the day Helen was born. The nurse placed the spindly limbed child in his arms outside a hospital nursery. She wasn't screaming and protesting the abrupt change in the environment like most babies did. Helen was different. She was born with an awareness that immediately pulled the umbilical cord away from Marie and implanted it irrevocably between Wendell and his daughter.
Even the day she was born, he knew she was unique. Helen's black eyes squinted in the bright light of the hospital, but she looked at Wendell with a thoughtful gaze, and he knew. This child was him in a new incarnation. Marie had been little more than the vessel used to grow his offspring. Helen belonged to him alone.
So he had been the one to choose her name, Helen Irene Eriksson, after his much loved, but long since departed mother, and he was the one who bathed her, fed her, nurtured her, kissed the boo boos and imparted what he hoped had been enough wisdom to put her on a different path in life. God knows he'd done everything under the sun to provide for Helen financially.
In the end, Marie's hatred had ruined everything. "Stupid bitch," he muttered for the millionth time since Marie tried to kill him on the Williamsburg Bridge after their last heist. "All she had to do was ask for a divorce."
"Wendell, Wendell, Wendell," a taunting voice floated into his cell. "After all these years, it looks like I was right."
Mike Lucero was a son of a bitch if ever one existed. His greatest aspiration in his career was to be as obnoxious as possible to the men he guarded in the wing of what he termed, coddled felons.
"Oh yeah, Mike? What were you right about this time?"
"Remember when I told you it was just a matter of time before other jurisdictions started sniffing around your past? It looks like your day in court is coming again. You've got a visitor, this one all the way from the left coast."