Justin Healey was thirty-three years of age, 6'2”, and as disciplined and hard-nosed as they come. His jet-black hair and chiseled features made him look like a model when he had civilian clothes on. He was also the bodyguard of Lindsey Wilkerson before and during the bloodbath of the attempt on her life a year and a half earlier. He too missed her, but respected the parents' wishes to keep her life away from what was extremely traumatic for her. Many times his thoughts would be of her, and he never forgot how she wouldn't leave his side when he suffered severe wounds from a shotgun blast. He was smiling thinking about her, and it wasn't noticed by his partner, George Lynagh, because his thoughts were on the current case. At 5'10” Lynagh was built more like a tank with husky shoulders and short, cropped blond hair. At thirty-four years of age he looked more like a marine than a cop who had been in numerous situations that could have resulted in serious injury or death, but he had never even had a scratch. Sometimes he wondered if and when his luck would run out. Though Lynagh was a family man with two kids, while Healey was single, both of them were married to the job. They were loyal to Cronin as well as Powers and Johnson, and sometimes bending the rules was a necessity to keep people alive.
“Gina,” Cronin said as he pushed the intercom button. “please get William Lance on the phone, and after I speak with him please get Nada from LI Pulse on the line.” It was only a few minutes before the call came in from William Lance. The detective didn't mention that ADA Ashley was still in his office during the call. “Hello, William,” the detective spoke. They had been on a first-name basis for over a year now.
“Hi, Kevin,” Lance spoke. “It's been a while.”
“Yes,” Cronin replied, “it sure has. Listen, we don't think it's anything to be concerned about at this point in time, but I wanted you to know that we put a protective detail on Deborah for a few days. We have a case that has a slight chance of a connection, and Bud doesn't want to take any chances.”
“Well,” William replied, “thanks for telling me, but are you going to tell her?”
“No,” the detective replied, “not unless we know there is a connection for sure. I don't want to unnecessarily alarm her.” “OK,” Lance answered.
Detective Cronin spoke again. “One more thing. Does Deborah go to dance clubs?”
“Yes, on occasion,” the father answered. “I don't follow her every move at twenty-nine years old, but I know she will go with a group of friends on occasion.”
“OK,” Cronin replied, “give me a call the next time she goes.”
“I will,” Lance replied, “but she doesn't always let me know her business.” They hung up, and within two minutes it was Nada from the LI Pulse. Cronin explained to her that he would like one of her reporters to go on a private tour of the Riverhead facility with one of his officers to do a reconnaissance mission for him. There could be an exclusive story for the magazine in it for them. The magazine had always done fairly well, but it was the case of Deborah's kidnapping and the vigilante killings that brought the magazine to an even higher level of prominence. Nada, Bud, and Cronin had been in touch with each other on a biweekly basis since the Face of Fear case ended. Yet as fate would have it, Bud and Nada had never met in person.
Lynagh and Healey were parked outside the Coffee Shop when they saw Detective Bud Johnson drive up, park his car, and walk into the restaurant.
“What the fuck is he doing?” Lynagh said as he looked at Bud through binoculars. Deborah and Rachelle had finished their breakfast and just had coffee mugs in front of them when Bud walked to the back booth and greeted Rachelle with a kiss and hugged Deborah, who was surprised but happy to see him.
“Hi,” Deborah said with excitement. “It's been a while. How have you been?”
Rachelle was caught off guard by the “been a while” comment.
“Yes,” Bud answered. The truth was that during the past six months they had gone out together only a couple times. “I know, too long. If you're not busy next Saturday, you can help me move into the Henry Hallock house on South Street with Paul, Rachelle, Lynagh, and Healey. It will be fun, plus I will take you to dinner any day of the week that is convenient for you before the move-in. Any place you want to go.”
“Hmm,” Deborah answered with a giggle. “Are you trying to bribe me?”
“No,” Bud answered nervously, “but I would like to spend more time with you if it's OK.”
Deborah smiled and replied, “Maybe we should talk. Is everything OK?”
“It is fine,” Bud answered. “I would just like to see you more if you are up to it.”
The young woman replied, “That's very sweet. Maybe we can get together Friday, and yes I will be happy to help Saturday.”
“Great,” Bud replied as he hugged Brittany. “How are you, sunshine?” he asked his favorite server, who just patted him on the shoulder as she hustled back to her tables.
“Well,” Rachelle said, as she thought the exchange she witnessed was awkward. “I have to get to work. I will call you later, Deborah.” She got up and kissed both of them good-bye.
As Deborah and Bud walked out of the Coffee House, Lynagh said again, “What the fuck?” He called Cronin's office, and the detective lieutenant promptly called Detective Powers to his office. He said, “I told you we were keeping the Music Club Murders separate from the detail of Deborah Lance for now.” Already the case had its file name.
“Yes,” Powers replied.
Cronin started yelling, “Don't ‘yes' me! Then what the hell is Bud doing with the Lance girl right now!”
“He cares for her, Boss, he's worried, and I'll talk to him.”
Cronin stood up and started for the door. “Paul, this is your case. Let's not let this get out of hand.” With that he walked out of his own office, went out to the parking lot, and jumped in the car with ADA John Ashley behind the wheel, and they drove off.
Cronin looked at Ashley as he exited the parking lot and said, “I assume your office is going to get the paperwork ready for Detective Baker to be thrown in jail.”
“Working on it now,” the ADA replied. “Chief Samuels of the facility will be notified by DA Steinberg himself tomorrow.”
Bud kissed Deborah good-bye, and within fifteen minutes of leaving her, he sent her a text: Please keep in touch XXX.
She replied, It goes both ways, Detective Johnson. She added a yellow smile to the text. As Deborah drove up to Belle Terre, the exclusive village above the Village of Port Jefferson, her phone buzzed again with another text: I meant it when I said you were still beautiful. She smiled, but because she was driving she didn't notice it came from a different number. Just like the first time she had received the message. She also didn't notice Lynagh and Healey were sixty yards behind her as she drove into the gates to the famous Pink Mansion on Cliff Road.
Jason “Jack” O'Connor was playing solitaire in his cell when the correctional officer came to the door and unlocked it. “You have visitors, let's go.” The former FBI agent who was sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole rarely had visitors, especially unannounced visitors. He was led to a small room with a one-way mirror. He couldn't wait to see who was there to see him. He was in the chair for only five minutes when ADA Ashley and Detective Lieutenant Cronin walked in and sat across from him.
“Hmm,” he said as he smiled, “you must need me for something, to drive all this way. I'm sure it's not because you missed me.”
“No,” Cronin replied, “but Bud Johnson said to send you his regards and to tell you he misses your ass.” The smirk disappeared from O'Connor's face. He didn't appreciate the remark made by Cronin. ADA Ashley did think it was funny.
O'Connor spoke firmly.
“What do you want?” It was a metamorphism of his attitude. One comment that got the best of him and he had a hard time dealing with it. The comment by Cronin was in reference to Detective Bud Johnson shooting O
'Connor in the ass the night of his capture. It was Cronin who figured out the investigative puzzle, and it was Johnson who made him pay by shooting him in the backside. Both Cronin and Ashley were there to find out if O'Connor had anything to do with the notes to the man who put him behind bars, and that man was now sitting across the desk from him. Ashley looked at Cronin, then back at O'Connor.
“Enjoying the food? You put on some weight since you've been here,” the ADA said.
O'Connor nodded as he said, “So you've become a comedian since the last time I saw you.”
Ashley didn't miss a beat, saying, “Many true things are said in jest.”
Cronin threw the notes on the table for O'Connor. He picked them up and read them. As he finished the second one he couldn't help but bring back the smirk on his face. Ashley watched him carefully as he read the notes. It was true that the former FBI agent known as the Voice had put on weight, but he had also aged ten years in the last two. The lines in his forehead were more prevalent, and even though he was forty, the grey was just starting to show on his sideburns. He puckered his lips, as he continued to glance at the poems once he had laid them on the table.
“Interesting,” he said, “two definitions of the word promise. Very nice.”
Detective Cronin reached for the papers and asked, “Why is that?”
O'Connor leaned in toward the detective and said, “Anybody that can put stress on your life is a friend of mine.”
“In your life,” Ashley said, “you mean in your life.”
“Oh,” O'Connor answered, “now you're an English teacher.” Cronin put the three images of the girls who were killed on the table and asked,
“Do they remind you of anyone?”
“Hmm,” O'Connor said in a voice carefully disguised as sarcastic. “Gee, let me think, gosh, ahh, no, I can't think of anyone.”
Ashley spoke up. “Do you know anything about these girls?”
The prisoner laughed and said, “Gentlemen, I'm in prison. How in the world would I know anything about this?” He spoke with such a superior, sarcastic tone in his voice that Detective Lieutenant Cronin asked Ashley to leave the room. The ADA complied but reminded Cronin he would be in the next room watching.
Cronin and O'Connor were sitting in silence staring at each other by the time Ashley reached the next room to view from behind the one-way mirror. He put his hands up to his chin as his thoughts ran wild as the two continued to stare at each other. Finally, Cronin moved his hands as O'Connor jumped from nervousness but tried to cover himself. Cronin stood up and walked over to the other side of the table. ADA Ashley was sweating bullets, hoping he would not have to run into the room.
He whispered to himself, “It's on tape, Kevin.”
Cronin bent down to O'Connor's ear and spoke in a tone that was a little bit louder than a whisper.
“You don't want me to find out that you're involved in all this, and I will tell you why. I'm smarter than you for one, and two, I have many people I know who are prisoners here that don't like inmates that beat up the elderly. You see, if you beat the elderly, then you wouldn't think twice about beating up their own mothers. Do you understand me?”
O'Connor looked up at the detective and replied, “I didn't beat up the elderly.”
As Cronin walked around to his side of the table again, he replied, “They will believe me over you, and besides, even a twelve-year-old girl got the best of you.” He was referring to Lindsey Wilkerson's photographic memory. O'Connor stood up angrily as Ashley opened the door to the room again.
“OK, I think playtime is over.”
“Listen, O'Connor, if you have anything to say, now is the time,” Cronin prodded.
“Go to hell,” the inmate replied.
“No,” Ashley replied as he pushed Cronin toward the door, “you ruined your life as well as others'.”
As the officer escorted Cronin and Ashley toward the front, Ashley requested the list of all the visitors that had signed in during the eighteen months O'Connor had been at Bedford Hills Men's Prison. The facility was only three years old and only a mile away from the famous Bedford Hills Women's Prison.
“Sir,” the officer answered, “Detective Lieutenant Cronin asked for this yesterday, and it was faxed to him.” Ashley looked over at him as he walked out the front door. They had much to talk about on the drive back to Long Island.
Only ninety minutes had passed when the guard came back to O'Connor's prison cell to tell him the police were back. They led O'Connor back to the interrogation room and he sat alone looking around the room.
Finally he spoke to the mirror facing him. “I told you guys that I don't know anything.” His voice got louder. “Screw you! I'm not going to talk anymore!” The figure behind the mirror moved toward the door and walked into the room and sat down across from the startled former agent. It was Bud Johnson.
“Hello dickhead, or maybe I should say asshole.” Another reference to O'Connor being shot in the ass continued to be humorous to the detective.
“What do you want?” O'Connor yelled.
“Shut up!” Bud answered. “I drove two and a half hours just to see you today, just to say some words to your face, so listen up.” Bud turned around at the mirror, which was a sign to the officer to turn off the video as a favor. “I don't know if you have anything to do with the Music Club Murders or not, but I will tell you . . . look at me!” he yelled as O'Connor moved his eyes.
Bud stood up and got in O'Connor's face as the officer behind the mirror grew nervous. Bud forced O'Connor to look directly at him. “If I find out you have anything to do with this or if Deborah Lance is harmed in any way, I will hurt you bad,” he said as he moved his lips toward the prisoner's ears. “And then you will suffer. Death would be painless, so I will make sure you suffer. Do you understand me?” There was silence from O'Connor as the detective looked for acknowledgement on the prisoner's face.
“Speak up,” Bud said. “I want you to tell me you understand me.” The man once feared as the Voice simply said, “Yes, I understand.”
“OK,” Bud said. “I have to go catch more bad guys, so you have a great day, and maybe I can come back and visit you again and maybe even sing a song for you, but if I do come back it will be very important for you that Deborah Lance is alive and healthy.” The detective walked out of the room as O'Connor just sat there not believing what had just happened. Bud collected his belongings, including his firearm, from the locker and signed out on the log sheet to make the two-and-a-half-hour drive back to Long Island.
During his ride back, he confirmed the videos from the three clubs on the night of the murders were waiting for him at the precinct. Confirmation was also given that phone records from all three girls were also waiting for him. He pulled over after about an hour and did something he hadn't done for over eight months. He sent Deborah a text message with a trivia question: What is the most successful sequel franchise in history? He was still sitting in his car when she answered, You are silly, but it’s James Bond. He laughed out loud, as he knew many people thought the James Bond franchise was the most successful due to the longevity, but by box-office standards he knew it was the Harry Potter movies that had the most success.
He pulled back onto the road as he started speaking aloud, and looked up at the sky. “It’s me again. I have kept my word about keeping the lines of communication open. I have done my best, and now there is still work to do on my language. You must admit it's been better. Life is full of challenges, with both good times and bad, and I'm asking for you again to give me the strength. Dear Lord, protect Deborah. I don't know if this is about her, but my gut tells me it might be. My heart wants me to be sure. I've kept my promise to you. Please help me again. Your presence gives me peace, and I am thankful for you. Strengthen me according to your word.” It was one of his favorite psalms, Psalm 119:28, that Lindsey brought to his life.
His concentration broke as his phone rang. It was Paul, who demanded,
“Just where in the hell are you?”
Bud replied, “I will be in the office in one hour, Paul.”
Paul fired back, “Where have you been?”
“Visiting some fat ass,” Bud said as he hung up.
Paul just stared into the phone as he shook his head and continued to read O'Malley's reports on the case, to which Paul assigned the name the Music Club Murders.
Deborah Lance was upstairs going over grading papers for her class when her father walked in to give her a hug. “Everything OK, sweetheart?”
Deborah gave her father a kiss and answered, “Gee, all of a sudden I'm starting to get all this attention from some of my favorite men.”
“Who else?” her father asked.
“Well, Bud, as you know. We have become more about being friends this past year, but he actually asked me out to dinner tomorrow night. He wants me, with his other friends, to help him move in and has been sending me texts like he used to when we were a couple.”
“Well,” her dad replied, “maybe he has missed you, love.” “Maybe,” she replied.
As her father walked out of her office, he knew why Bud was in contact with her. He was happy about it, but he worried about his daughter's emotions about Bud.
Deborah continued to grade her students' papers with written notes. She found out early in her career that her students responded better when they received more than just a grade. She dropped her pen and started thinking about what had happened today with Bud. He always made her laugh, which is what she had always liked best about him. She picked up her phone and sent him a text: I heard the Henry Hallock house may be haunted. She laughed out loud when she heard back from him, thanking her and Paul for all the wonderful information they had given him.
As Bud pulled up to headquarters he was remembering what attracted him to her in the first place.
Cronin and Ashley had been back for over an hour when Detective Bud Johnson was called into Cronin's office. As he stepped in, both Ashley and Cronin stopped their discussion and looked at him. Bud's head was moving sideways as he was alternating looking at them when the boss spoke up, asking, “Anything you would like to tell us, Detective?”
No Mercy Page 7