The Betrayed

by David Hosp

  He was just bringing the large cup of coffee to his lips when he saw the Crown Victoria pull up and double-park in front of her apartment. The flashers came on and Sydney stepped out of the backseat. For a moment, he assumed that she was simply being dropped off, and that he might have his chance to finish his job and be done with this nightmare of a client. But then he saw the enormous black man emerge from the driver’s seat. Clearly a cop, Salvage surmised. His movements were those of a cop, slow and deliberate, and he squinted and looked around almost unconsciously as he got out of the car. A second later another man emerged from the front passenger side; younger, white, better dressed. Still a cop, though, he concluded—just a newer, flashier model.

  Salvage sipped his coffee as he watched all three of them enter the building. He was considering his next move. He wouldn’t take her out while she was with the police unless it was absolutely necessary. He’d be able to do it, but it would most likely involve killing the police officers as well, and the cops never liked it when you killed one of theirs. It would stir up a hornet’s nest, and that would be good for no one. He put his coffee down and pretended to look over the paper on the counter in front of him. He had to be patient; his time would come.

  z

  Sydney sat on a futon couch in front of the wooden coffee table in her walk-down one-bedroom apartment. The apartment was exactly what you might expect for your average twenty-seven-year-old law student. The place was dark and cramped, and the stink of coffee mixed with the odor of mildew that was a fixture in most sub-street-level flats in D.C. The moisture was unavoidable in this city built on swampland.

  “Nice place,” Jack commented as Sydney booted up the laptop.

  “Suits my needs, and it’s affordable,” she replied.

  “The whole independence thing, huh?”

  She looked at him and he saw a flash of spirit. “That’s right. Problem?”

  “Not at all,” he said, adopting a defensive posture.

  The buzzing of the computer coming to life interrupted them, and they both turned their attention to the screen. After a moment the calendar function popped up and asked them if they would like to confirm Sydney’s dead sister’s schedule for the day. “That’s how I learned that Liz had met with Professor Barneton the day she died.”

  “Skip over the Outlook program for now,” Train directed her. He was seated on the couch to her right, his bulk making the wooden frame groan in agony as he leaned forward. “Go to the main screen and see if we can find any of her work files.”

  Sydney clicked on the skip schedule icon and the laptop buzzed and whirred until the home screen appeared. Various files were lined up on its left-hand side.

  “Go to ‘My Documents,’” Train ordered. Sydney clicked away and a list of folders appeared. “Anything on Venable?”

  Sydney scrolled down. “Nothing obvious.”

  “How about the Institute?” Cassian asked.

  “Nope. Nothing.”

  “Let me take a look.” Jack slid in front of the computer. There were between twenty and thirty files in Elizabeth Creay’s “My Documents” folder. None of them seemed particularly relevant from their titles. Most looked as if they were from long before her murder, and others were clearly outlines or notes from articles on unrelated topics. One file grabbed Cassian’s attention, though. “Consolidated Pharmaceuticals,” he said out loud, reading off the name of the file. He’d only looked briefly through the papers from Willie Murphy’s lawsuit, but the name of the company rang a bell. “Does that sound familiar to anyone?” He turned to Sydney. “Did you bring the printouts from the lawsuit with you?” She reached into her bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers, handing them over to him.

  Cassian scanned the case caption on the first page. “I thought so. Consolidated Pharmaceuticals is one of the companies that’s named in the lawsuit,” he pointed out. He turned back to the computer and clicked on the document bearing the company’s name. It flashed on the screen and Cassian read through it.

  “Well?” Train asked, unable to read the document from where he sat.

  “This is what we’re looking for, all right,” Cassian said, hesitation in his voice.

  “What does it say?” Sydney asked.

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “I’m not going to like what?” she asked.

  “It looks like your sister started her investigation looking into the eugenics program that was active at the Institute into the 1960s. As it turns out, Consolidated Pharmaceuticals is one of the companies that was involved back then. According to the notes here, though, the focus of her investigation changed when she realized that Consolidated was somehow connected with all this.”

  “Why?” Sydney asked.

  Cassian took a deep breath and turned to look at her. “Because, according to this, Consolidated is a subsidiary of Chapin Industries.”

  Sydney gasped.

  Cassian nodded. “That’s not all. From the looks of what your sister has written here, she was starting to suspect that a new set of experiments was started up again a few years ago. That’s what she was really looking into. And according to your sister’s notes, three years ago Leighton Creay was once the senior vice president in charge of medical sales at Consolidated.”

  Chapter Fifty-four

  “IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE.” Sydney sounded numb as she sat in the back of Train’s car headed out to Old Colony. “What could Leighton possibly have hoped to gain?”

  “It’s not clear from your sister’s notes,” Jack said as he flipped through the sheets he’d printed out from Elizabeth Creay’s computer. “It looks like your sister stumbled onto something. She thought Consolidated was involved in new experiments taking place up at the Institute. If that’s true, we’ve got a whole new cast of suspects, including Dr. Mayer, who runs the place. Any way you slice it, we’re going to have to have a long conversation with your sister’s ex. New suspects or not, he just became our primary focus. The fact that your family’s company is connected to the Institute raises all sorts of questions.”

  “I didn’t know,” Sydney protested. “My family’s company owns so many different corporations, how could I?”

  “Nobody’s blaming you,” Jack replied reassuringly.

  “All those people who were tortured, experimented on, and my family’s somehow responsible?” Her voice cracked. “How can I live with that?”

  “There’s plenty of blame to go around here,” Train said as he leaned on the accelerator.

  Cassian slammed his fist on the dashboard. “I knew we should have leaned harder on this asshole. I swear to God, if he pulls any of his smart-ass bullshit, I’m shoving his Weejuns so far down his throat, he’ll be shitting Lilly Pulitzer for a month.”

  “Easy, Jack,” Train cautioned. “We still don’t know what exactly’s going on here, and I don’t want this guy to lawyer up too fast, or have what we do get out of him tossed out of court. If we want this to lead anywhere, we’re gonna have to play this very cool.”

  “I’m cool,” Cassian replied, assaulting the dashboard with his fist again.

  “Right,” Train agreed. “And I’m Caucasian.”

  “Just step on it.”

  Train shook his head. “This should be fun.”

  z

  Salvage kept his car a discreet distance behind the unmarked police sedan, allowing other vehicles to thread in and out between them. The ascendancy of the SUV had made tailing people more of a challenge as the giant chunks of towering steel cut off his line of sight again and again, but he managed to follow the car carrying the Chapin girl. It didn’t make it any easier that he stole swigs from his flask periodically.

  He cursed his stupidity and carelessness as he followed them out in the direction of Old Colony. He had a feeling he knew where they were headed, and it occurred to him that if he had simply taken the girl out on the highway in Virginia, none of this would be happening. Now it was clear that she and her escorts were getting close to t
he truth, and the closer they got, the more likely it was that Salvage’s client would make good on the threat to kill him. He recognized now that his own life was on the line, and he increased his own speed as the car he was following picked up its pace.

  He wouldn’t miss another opportunity.

  z

  Cassian was out of the car even before Train brought it to a full stop in the driveway of the house in Old Colony. He looked up at the porch that swept around the front of the structure, searching the windows for any movement. Although the place looked exactly as it had days before, Jack felt that something about it had changed. The overhanging windows looked down at them with sinister intent, and an anger seemed to inhabit every eave, post, and beam, seeping out through the clapboard siding.

  “I want you to stay here,” he said to Sydney, still looking up at the house as he drew his gun from under his sport coat.

  “Not a chance,” Sydney replied.

  Cassian looked over at Train for support. “You have to, Sydney,” the older man said.

  “No way. I’m coming in with you.”

  Train’s tone was understanding, but his voice firm. “This is police business, Sydney. We can’t have you in there with us. We’ll let you know what happens, and we’ll be out as soon as it’s safe. Until then, you have to stay in the car.”

  Sydney started to protest again, but caught her words as Train held up his hand, making clear that his word was final. “Fine,” she spat. “But you tell that bastard that he’s going to have to face me eventually.” She opened the door to the car and got in, slamming it with all her might behind her.

  Train and Cassian stood next to each other. “I think if I was Leighton Creay, I’d rather face us than her right now,” Train

  said.

  “No doubt.”

  “I like her.”

  “Good. Me too.”

  Train nodded. “You ready to do this?”

  Cassian checked his gun and chambered a round. “As I’ll ever be.”

  z

  “Mr. Creay! It’s Detectives Train and Cassian. We need to talk to you!” Train leaned in close to the door as he yelled through it, his voice clear and loud. “Open up, Mr. Creay!” His gun was in his hand, but his fingers were relaxed and his arm was at his side. He looked over at his partner and saw that he was already in a two-fisted stance, his arms directing the muzzle of his gun down toward the base of the entryway. Train lowered his voice. “You wanna do a walkaround? See what you can see?” They didn’t have a warrant, and it would be difficult to argue that they had reason to believe a crime was in progress, so there was a real question in Train’s mind whether they could legally enter the house without Creay present.

  Cassian nodded and headed back around the side of the house. Train went in the other direction, so they could meet up in back. It was a quiet day in the neighborhood—the kind of a quiet day that was only found in the suburbs, Train thought. He was a city kid. While at college, he’d had trouble sleeping at night without the constant affirmation of life and death going on around him at all times. Car horns, sirens, angry voices— these were the sounds that somehow comforted Train. Birds just didn’t cut it for him, and as he walked around the house, the quiet made him uneasy.

  Near the back of the house, he passed a darkened window, the heavy shades pulled together inside, leaving only a crack through which to see. As he moved by, though, Train thought he saw some movement, a flicker of light and shadow he caught only out of the corner of his eye. He moved back to the window and put his face up to the glass, straining to see into the room.

  The blinds afforded him only a limited view, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw the flicker again—a blue-white flash of light— and realized it was from a television off to the side of the room, out of sight from his vantage. He moved his head to get a different angle through the narrow opening, and from his new position he could see the side of a heavy wingbacked chair. A bottle was resting half empty on the floor next to a pair of feet flat on the ground, the legs running up into the chair. Train could only see the legs, though, as the rest of the person’s body and head were hidden from view by the drapes.

  Train knocked on the window with the muzzle of his gun. “Mr. Creay?” No movement. “Mr. Creay, it’s the police! We really need to talk to you!” Still nothing.

  Cassian came around the side of the house from the back, his gun still raised. Train beckoned him over. “He’s in there,” Train said. “From the look of the booze on the ground, he may be passed out. Either that or he’s ignoring us. I’m going in through the front door, you make sure I know it if he moves out of the chair. I don’t want to be surprised in there.”

  Cassian nodded. “Be careful. There’s no guarantee he’s alone.”

  Train moved back to the front of the house. “Mr. Creay, we know you’re in there! If you don’t open up, we’re coming in!” He waited three beats and then tried the doorknob. To his surprise, it turned easily, and the door swung open. He hiked his gun up and stepped into the house.

  The room where Creay was sitting was toward the back of the apartment, and Train made his way there carefully, down a long hallway and into the back den. He paused at each corner, swinging his gun around every blind turn, checking every corner to make sure there’d be no one sneaking up behind him.

  When he got to the den, he took the same precautions, following his weapon through the door. He could see Creay sitting in the chair in front of the television. He was facing away from Train, and all Train could see was the top of his head over the chair from behind. With the curtains drawn, the room was dark, even as the hour approached noon. “Mr. Creay, we need to talk to you,” Train said. “Put your hands where I can see them, please.” Train’s gun was aimed right at the back of Creay’s head as he moved around to the side. He lowered it as soon as he saw the man’s face.

  The left side of his head was blown off, and it lay in splatters on the inside wing of the chair. He was still sitting up, supported by the curved contours of the seat, his head cradled in the wing, an expression approximating surprise on the side of his face left intact. Lying in his lap, near where his hand had fallen, was a revolver.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  “SUICIDE?”

  Deter lifted his shoulders noncommittally in response to Cassian’s question. Train and Cassian had notified the local Virginia authorities, and although the Virginia cops were technically in charge, given the connection to the Elizabeth Creay murder, they had given permission for Deter and his team to consult on the crime scene; it had taken them less than a half hour to appear at the apartment. “Looks that way right now. Why? Something not fit to you?”

  “He just didn’t seem the type. Too wrapped up in himself.”

  “Sometimes those are the people who do this—the selfish ones. He has powder on the side of his head, and the wound is certainly consistent with self-inflicted. We won’t know for sure for a while, but I don’t see any signs of a struggle or anything else that might point us to anything other than suicide at this point.”

  “All right,” Jack said. “That’s probably just as well. Saves us the cost of putting him away. I have to go out and talk to his sister-in-law, tell her what’s going on.”

  “The girl out by Train’s car?”

  “Yeah.”

  Deter gave a low grunt. “Nice piece of ass there, huh?” Cassian just stared at him, and after a moment Deter squirmed. “What? She’s attractive, that’s all I’m sayin’.” Jack maintained his stare for a moment longer. Then he left the room without a word.

  Outside, Sydney leaned on Train’s car, trying to ignore the leers thrown her way by the cops milling about as they tried to look busy in their boredom. She’d asked repeatedly to be allowed inside to see what had happened, but had been refused. Now she was clearly fuming.

  “What’s going on, Jack?” she demanded.

  “They’re just finishing up in there.”

  “I want to see him. I want to see what the bast
ard looks like.”

  Jack shook his head. “Not a good idea.”

  “I don’t really care what you think is a good idea or not! He killed my sister!”

  “We don’t know that for sure, Sydney. There are still a lot of unanswered questions here.” She shot him a dangerous look, and he put his hands in his pockets and lowered his head as he considered his options. “Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll take you up. But don’t expect it to make you feel any better.”

  The two of them walked to the house, up the stairs, and through the door. They passed Train in the living room, and he opened his mouth as if to speak, but Cassian shook his head, and Train remained silent.

  When they got to the den, Jack stopped. “You sure you want to do this? It won’t change anything.”

  “I have to. For Liz.”

  Jack extended his arm in a reluctant invitation for her to enter. The crime scene team was just finishing up the last of their photos, and most of the evidence from the room had been tagged and bagged. The only task remaining was to remove the gun and the corpse, and the coroner’s team was waiting outside of the room impatiently. “Give us a minute, okay, guys?” Jack asked. They looked at each other, and one of them looked at his watch. Cassian ignored him.

  Sydney walked into the room slowly, her footsteps shaky as she approached her former brother-in-law from behind. When she pulled even with him, so that she could see what was left of his face, she gasped, her hands flying to her eyes.

  After a moment, she let her hands fall to her side again and took a good look at the body. Watching her, Cassian could see the hatred in her stare; the empty satisfaction at the violent end of the man who in all likelihood had killed her sister.

  Then she looked down into Leighton Creay’s lap and saw the gun, and her expression changed. She gasped, the tears gathering in her eyes, her fists clenched and angry. After a moment, she looked back up at Cassian.

  “Jack?” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “We need to talk.”