Dark Side: The Haunting

by J. M. Barlog

  “How 'bout we give it up?” Dugan said, refusing to leave the side of the squad car now holding him up. He blew repeatedly into his hands, hoping to stimulate circulation back into his aching fingers.

  “I think we're dead right on this one, and I'm not giving up until we find what we came here for,” Rick persisted.

  “And if it doesn't exist?”

  “It does. You're the one who convinced me it does, remember?”

  “How did I do that?” Dugan said with a genuinely puzzled face.

  “Your demonstration.”

  “Say what?”

  “What happened when you struck the top of the bolt with the hammer?”

  “It popped off?”

  “Where did it go?”

  “Flying into Rawlings. I think I pissed him off with that. You don't think I could have planned that, do you?”

  “You pissed him off all right. But until last night, I failed to realize that you were giving me a clue. The most important fact was that the head of the bolt flew off. So before going into the restaurant that night, Warren went to Jenny's car, lifted the hood and popped the bolt with a hammer. Hell, it was his car, so even if someone questioned him, it would appear innocent enough....”

  “It would have went flying.”

  “Exact-o-mundo, Duggie. Warren had two choices at the time. One: search for it and remove any evidence of tampering...or two: let it go, figuring no one would ever think to go back to the scene to find it.”

  “Man, Walker, you're beginning to sound like a desperate man.”

  “Hey, it fits. Somewhere around here he had to put the final piece together for his murder plan to work. And if he did, maybe he forgot to take the most important piece of evidence with him.”

  “All right. One more pass. But you're buying me dinner, steak and lobster, whether we find it or not.”

  “Can't tonight, Duggie, got a date.”

  “Get out of here! I heard you were doing push-ups over some model. But I didn’t believe it.”

  “How 'bout we find what we came here for, and I'll buy you dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Ten-four, it's your case, and you're the boss on this one. Hey, you two, pan out over there,” Dugan yelled when the officers began to cluster and chit-chat.

  Duggie abandoned his leaning post and trudged his aching feet down toward the south edge of the spacious lot of the restaurant. On any weekend night, this place was usually full and remained full until after ten.

  “You think we even stand a ch...” Dugan started.

  “Bingo!” A uniform yelled from the corner closest to the building itself. Without thinking, he bent down and retrieved the object that had kept them out there for so long.

  “I think I found what you're looking for.”

  The uniform’s only mistake—he was a second-year patrolman who didn’t know better—was that he picked it up. Rick would have preferred it be left in its position, especially if the location bore some relevance to the case. But at least they had it. A physical link to the crime—if it matched up.

  “Thank-you, God,” Rick whispered.

  Dugan examined it and crowed his approval.

  “Bag it and let's go home,” Rick said.

  They had located the sheared-off head of the stabilizer strut mounting bolt that came from Jenny's car. Now, if it matched exactly with the shaft already in evidence control, they had a case.

  “I'll go to work on it first thing in the morning,” Dugan said, already tasting the steak he was going to order.

  ****

  Rick appeared at Bridget's door promptly at seven, all clean and perky after a long, tedious day in the rain. Even though he was dog-tired, the thought of being with Bridget gave him an invigoration that erased all he had gone through earlier.

  Bridget's warm smile and wet kiss removed the chill lingering from the weather. She was ready and waiting for him. With a gentle amorous squeeze, she put her arm in his as they left the building and never once hid the excitement in her eyes.

  Rick felt like he was strolling on top of the world. He wanted to introduce the gorgeous girl on his arm to everyone they passed.

  The restaurant, though crowded, was quiet and the light subdued. Rick and Bridget took a corner booth and ordered a bottle of California wine. Bridget giggled giddily when she drank, and Rick loved to listen to her. It was the kind of laughter two lovers share in the dark in their bed. Between bouts of giggling, Bridget droned on and on about her latest modeling assignment: a boring fashion shoot for a mail-order women's fashion house. It was small potatoes as assignments went, but it paid the rent.

  “You're not listening to me,” she said seductively, when she noticed Rick's attention wandering off into another time zone.

  “Am I getting boring?”

  “No. Sorry, I'm wrapped up in other things. Go ahead, I'm all ears,” he apologized and reached out to take her hand.

  She surrendered it, reaching over to kiss him. But even after that, his mind still seemed elsewhere.

  “I'm not wearing underwear,” Bridget whispered.

  “I'm sorry, what?” Rick asked, embarrassed that he allowed his mind to think about anything other than her. The worst way to insult a woman is to communicate to her that she is failing to hold your interest.

  “We can go, if you want,” Bridget offered.

  “No. It's okay. Sometimes work gets a stranglehold on me.”

  “You still investigating Jenny's accident?”

  “Yes.”

  Wafting cigarette smoke forced Bridget to cough as it drifted lazily over the back of their booth. The restaurant appeased their limited smoking clientele by providing a smoking section in one corner. The grayish streamers lingered like an ominous fog over their heads, rising as it neared the updraft of the burning candle on their table.

  Bridget's eyes crossed, her mouth tightened into a thin angry line, and her hand moved, flagging down the waiter and dispersing the noxious fumes at the same time.

  “Excuse me,” she started, rising out of the booth to get her head above the silk ferns behind her. “Would you mind putting that vile, disgusting thing out?”

  The barrel-shaped Sicilian gentleman put the cigarette back to his lips with a sinister smile and puffed in open defiance. His eyes held Bridget’s in a way that let her know he had no intention of even considering her request.

  “You talking to me?” he asked with a New Yorker's caustic bite.

  “Yes. You, the fatass blowing the smoke.”

  “This is a smoking area, and if you don't like it, you can suck squat, Toothpick Lady with the pointed head!”

  “Yes, Madame?” the waiter asked with his thick French accent and genuine concern as he stepped between Bridget and the Sicilian. The waiter's eyes went immediately to the smoke rolling in over the booth.

  “We said non-smoking. What the hell is going on?” Bridget said angrily. The fire in her eyes outshone the glowing end of the cigarette.

  “I'm sorry, this was all that was available. It is non-smoking. But you are on the border, so to speak.”

  “Yeah, so there, you peanut brain,” the smoker said with unfettered sarcasm.

  Rick rose out of his seat to level his badge over the booth.

  “Up yours, you shit,” Bridget mumbled more to herself than for the Sicilian’s benefit.

  “Can you move us?” she said finally to the waiter.

  The smoker receded to the corner of his booth and heeding the gravity of Rick’s badge, pressed his cigarette out in the ashtray.

  Rick reached a hand across the table to bring Bridget back into the booth and next to him. He said he didn't mind, but Bridget pulled away, leveling a glare at the waiter.

  In a nervous frenzy, the waiter tapped his pen upon his order pad while feigning an intense search across the breadth of the restaurant.

  “I am so sorry, but we are full in non-smoking. I do have a table open in the opposing corner, but it is not only in smoking, it is also next to the
kitchen doors.”

  Rick waved him off.

  As the waiter retreated, Bridget leaned to Rick, “He can kiss his tip good-bye,” she whispered.

  When the dust settled, it was that detective's never-resting instinct rising up out of the depths that interrupted Rick. Something about that smoking incident alerted Rick’s well-honed instincts. Bridget's intolerance had struck an uneasy chord. Now Rick sat there staring, trying to determine why.

  “What? You'd rather give him a tip?”

  “No...nothing,” he said, realizing his stare was unnerving.

  “I loathe cigarette smoke...almost as much as I loathe rude and condescending people,” Bridget offered in response to his look.

  Rick, for another long moment, remained silent.

  “But...Warren smokes. That doesn't bother you?”

  “Not usually. He's great about refraining when I’m with them.”

  “But you’re friends with Kate and she smokes. Did she smoke at college?”

  “Yes. Actually Warren’s the one who got her going on cigarettes, if I remember correctly.”

  Rick sat back. Why did that bother him so?

  “I think our friend will refrain until after we've eaten,” Rick said finally, forcing thoughts of the case out of his mind and commanding himself to pay more attention to Bridget.

  “Hel-lo. This is New York. You really think he'll refrain?”

  Bridget wrinkled her nose.

  Rick pushed and pulled on Bridget's statement, massaging it in hopes of making it reveal its hidden meaning. What was it about Bridget that now raised a red flag at her comment?

  “You said Warren started Kate smoking. When was that?”

  “When we were in school. We were all college 'coolies,' you know, try anything and everything at least once. Kate was dating Warren when...”

  Rick leaned forward with rising interest, moving closer to Bridget. But for a reason other than what entered Bridget’s mind.

  “You didn't know?” she asked.

  “Kate never mentioned that she knew Warren other than through association with Jenny.”

  “Oh no, Warren dated Kate at Cornell. That's how Jenny and Warren got together. I mean...that's not what I mean. Jenny and I met Warren through Kate.”

  “How long did they go together?”

  “I...ah...sophomore year. Most of sophomore year. Then they broke it off.”

  “Did Warren begin dating Jenny right after breaking up with Kate?”

  “Rick, you’re sounding like a detective now.”

  “Sorry, it's my job.”

  “Oh, then this is official or unofficial?”

  “I'm afraid it just became official.”

  Bridget pouted, delaying her answer to Rick's question. Even pouting, she was irresistible.

  “They started dating a few months after Warren broke it off with Kate.”

  “You said Warren broke it off with Kate.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I haven't really thought about that. It's been, what, six years now. Why?”

  “Just routine. Kate never mentioned any romantic associations with Warren, that's all.”

  “Oh, we're talking about romantic associations now. Is that what we're having? A romantic association?”

  “No, I didn't mean that.”

  “Good. Because I'd call what we're having more like great sex than a romantic association.”

  Rick blushed; the waiter was standing silently beside Bridget with two steaming plates of steak and lobster.

  24

  Deliciously hot splashing water invigorated Rick, and made him forget that he had just pulled himself out of bed after only two hours sleep. It also softened what awaited him at the precinct. He was way too old for something like this.

  There were just too many unknowns in the Garrett investigation to make a solid case, he thought. If he just had one strong piece of physical evidence or one witness who could point him in the right direction, he could make some progress. But like so many other cases that had been handed to him, he was working on the dark side of ignorance. Now his day of reckoning loomed just over the horizon.

  “Eggs and toast okay for you?” Bridget asked, popping her head into the bathroom. She waited, taking in all of Rick's lean body through the clear stall door.

  She fought down the urge to drop her robe and slip in there with him. She knew, however, neither could handle more sex. Bridget was pleasantly surprised that men of Rick's age could still perform the way he did last night.

  “Great,” he called out.

  The steam accumulating in the glass caused Bridget to remain unaware of the broad smile painting his face. Something that had long been absent from his life. Nor could she see the churning inside his head.

  Rick dressed quickly and took a minute to clean his mess in the bathroom. Before leaving, he even made sure he lowered the toilet seat. Then he changed his mind, concluding that he might be trying too hard. He raised the seat back up and tossed a wet towel ball under the sink. Now that looked like the normal male aftermath of a shower.

  He toweled his hair dry while strolling into the living room, his mind still ruminating over his next step in the Garrett case. They had locked down the method with the sheared bolt. If only he could connect Warren to it, he could bring him in. It would all be circumstantial anyway, but sweating Warren under the threat of a long prison term could yield a confession.

  Bridget hummed in Disneyesque fashion as she fluttered about the galley kitchen wearing nothing more than Spandex. As she leaned over the stove, Rick watched her body sway with gentle seduction. The urge to touch her proved too much to resist. Rick slid his hands around her waist and gently eased her back into him, softly kissing the nape of her neck.

  Bridget ceased all movement, lavishing in the thrills his lips shot into her head.

  “If you don’t stop, I can’t be held responsible for what I might do,” she cooed. “And you don’t want to be late for work, do you?”

  “I’m already late.”

  Rick released her, albeit reluctantly.

  “I hope you like scrambled, that's all I know how to make. And I don't have any juice.”

  “Scrambled's fine. Coffee's perfect. Juice is for pansies anyway.”

  Rick settled in at the glass-top table, poured himself a steaming cup of coffee from a carafe sitting before him, and watched Bridget glide back and forth in the kitchen, transferring her creation from the frying pan to a china plate. She garnished the eggs with a slice of tomato and thin slivers of green pepper.

  Was this a dream? Or was it real? And more importantly, how did he go about making this permanent?

  “I noticed your shower's got a leaking hot water valve.”

  “I know. I've been meaning to fix that.”

  “Can't you get building maintenance up to take care of it? That's wasting water and energy.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Ecology. This is a condo. I either fix it myself, or I give a plumber my arm and leg.”

  “I’ll fix it for you...if you let me choose the body part for payment.”

  “Then I'd owe you.”

  Her smile was engaging, yet mysterious.

  “Oh...”

  “I'll fix it tomorrow. I'm free for the rest of the week.”

  “You're going to fix it yourself?” Rick asked incredulously.

  “Does that sound incredible to you?”

  “I just never thought...”

  “Oh, you figured with these gorgeous looks and luscious body, there's no way I can have a functioning brain?”

  “That's not what I meant.”

  Bridget turned stern, which put Rick on the defensive—and she loved it.

  “Believe it or not, Mister Macho Police Detective, I know about plumbing, electricity, and a little bit about cars.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Swear to God. On our farm, my father believed in total self-reliance. You never pay someone else to do something that you should be able to do
yourself. And my father, I think, viewed me as a boy without a penis. I learned how to fix a leak, replace a light switch, and tune up a car.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. My oldest brother and I owned a stock car for a while. He raced at a local clay track.”

  “You drove a race car?”

  “Never said that. I paid half the bills and watched him drive. But he taught me a few things about cars in the process. Mainly to justify the checks I kept writing for new engines and transmissions.”

  “He ever win?”

  “Got a third once. Then he totaled the car and I pulled out. Seemed like the only one having fun was him.”

  Bridget set her slightly runny egg creation before Rick and watched for his response. She detected the stoic tolerance of a lover in his eyes. She should have gone with something out of the freezer instead.

  Rick smiled appropriately, but his eyes were the true harbingers of his feelings.

  “They taste better than they look,” she offered in defense.

  “I guess I'll just have to trust you.”

  “Oh, I like that.”

  Rick devoured his eggs, using the toast as a means of absorbing some of the yoke, but his eyes were always on Bridget as she sat across from him, picking at her breakfast.

  “I don’t like owing people, especially a man.”

  “And that's important to you?”

  “You live alone, you become self-reliant. I'm glad now my father forced me to be so involved.”

  “So I guess that means you want to wear the pants in the family?”

  “Not at all. I'd be happy to let my husband take care of things. But until then, I handle my life myself.”

  That didn't surprise Rick.

  “Now, can you get away for lunch tomorrow? We can eat in the park.”

  ****

  Rick stood at the proverbial fork in the road. Decision time. Either Kate was, or was not, a suspect in the attempted murder of Jenny Garrett. And Rick knew there would be only one way to find out for sure—sweat it out of her.

  It was late afternoon. A brisk wind scattered papers and trash along the sidewalk outside, while inside the police station Kate had been placed in a soundproof room with a silent female officer standing at the door.

  Rick had asked Kate to come in for some follow-up questions without revealing to her any inkling of his real intent.