“Queenston. Anyway, I’ve probably said too much. Just thought I’d pass it along in case you wanted to look into it.”
“No, for sure. Thanks, I appreciate it, Dom.”
Jack reached into his back pocket to get out his wallet.
“Jack, Jack, come on. Don’t worry about it,” Dominguez protested. “This one’s on the house. You look like you could use a little good fortune right about now.”
Ain’t that the truth. “Yeah? You’re all right, Dom.”
“I try. Take care, buddy. Be seeing you.”
Dom was right. Jack was tired of playing his editor’s games. Tired of fighting with Maeve. Tired of waiting for things to get better.
It was time to go after what he wanted.
CHAPTER 6
Berlin parked the dark blue Ford Crown Vic at the side of the curb and checked the address one last time. Satisfied that it was the right house, he got out and headed to 72 Rolls Avenue, the house of Tim and Alexandra Scott.
Berlin stopped abruptly outside of the house, not expecting such a sullen looking home. It could have passed as a dentist’s office, all business, not the warmth of a family home. The roof formed a point over its right side with an expansive set of windows featured below. The entire house was draped in chestnut siding and trim, with burnt colored brickwork that dominated the endpoints of the house. A single car garage sat on its left side, next to a set of stairs that led to an inset front door. It was sparsely populated with greenery. A lone shrub sat in front of the bay of windows. No flowers, no color, it showed a lack of love and care. It looked and felt cold and clinical.
Berlin reached the door. He went to knock, but felt tingling on the back of his neck. A shiver running down his spine. He turned around, facing the street, and looked for whatever it was that called to him. He was sure that he felt eyes on him.
Watching.
Yet, he found nothing.
The street was peaceful and quiet. The neighborhood, like most in the city, was a favorite of both the baby boomers and the retirees who lived there. He checked his watch, noting that it was still early. It was just past ten thirty in the morning on a Sunday. He wondered if she’d be at church. People around here always seemed to be at church.
The door creaked from behind him.
“Yes, Detective?”
Berlin turned. A young woman with sandy blonde hair, wearing a blue dress with flowers on it, stood poised in front of him. The dress was playful, unlike the front yard. He stole a look down at himself and wondered how she made him so quickly.
Noticing, the woman said, “If you must know, it was the car, Detective. And you can’t park there.”
Berlin tried a smile. “I won’t be long. Plus I’m a cop, like you said.”
Alexandra Scott smirked. “You guys, you think you’re so much smarter than everyone else, but we know.” She wagged a finger at him. Not sternly, but in jest. “We can tell.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” he said.
His mind disappeared for a fraction of a second as he descended into the darkness inside himself. Prone to these moments, ever since losing his wife, they came unprovoked from nowhere.
He was on a beach. One he didn’t recognize.
In the sand, amidst the gritty fine particles, sat a trunk. It was old and worn, a hinge dangling from its top by one screw, marred by time and use. Its foreboding shape called to him.
“Open it,” a voice said to him.
I can’t. I won’t.
“But you must, Joseph,” the voice continued. “Know the truth.”
“Detective?” Alexandra Scott asked quizzically.
Then the trunk faded to nothingness, as if it had never been there. The beach receded into the background and something pulled at him. It was quick, forceful, an earth-shattering smash back into the here and now.
He was shaking his head from side to side when she said, “This is about Tim, isn’t it, Detective?”
Berlin focused and looked into her eyes, not saying a word.
“I know he’s dead,” she said plainly. “You didn’t have to come.”
He saw no tears. He saw hardly any emotion at all. Odd. He had notified the next of kin plenty of times before, an officer’s wife included, and there was always a reaction. A sense of loss and agony. Crippling heartache. Uncontrollable body spasms. Where was that now?
Was there a reason?
“Is there somewhere else we—” he gestured toward inside the house.
“Of course.” She opened the door and headed inside while Berlin followed closely behind her.
Berlin noticed the aroma of freshly made coffee, as well as a hint of peaches, instantly. It was quite pleasant. He guessed that the peach smell was possibly her perfume. Although he hadn’t noticed it outside. It had been a good long while since he had been around a woman who had cared enough to apply perfume to her skin. Berlin couldn’t tell if that spoke more of women in general or simply the women he hung around. Not that he was surrounded by the female gender as of late.
They crossed the threshold of a wide doorway and entered a large room that looked like a den or living room. She turned and faced him, gesturing at the furniture. “Why don’t you have a seat? Would you like some coffee, Detective?”
“That would be great, Mrs. Scott.”
“Lexi, please.”
“Okay. Lexi.”
Berlin went to sit down in a black leather lounge chair that sat in front of the fireplace. He moved the gold embroidered pillow from the chair and placed it behind him. While he waited, his eyes immediately went to the fireplace. It stood in the middle of the room at the far end. One could tell that it was meant to be the focal point of the large room. The two leather lounge chairs sat on either side of it as decorative elements. They were probably only used during the winter months, but Berlin was drawn to the fireplace and couldn’t resist sitting next to it.
The fireplace was faced with that faux brick look, their ridges and indents protruding in and out in a scattering formation of color. Light grays, dull purples, an odd rust color, and some harsher dark grays dominated its front. A thick cut of dark wood served as the mantel, its surface gleaning with cleanliness.
“I hope two sugars is okay…” She held two white cups with saucers in the entryway. He swiveled in his seat and saw her, searching for him.
“Over here, Lexi,” he said.
“Oh.”
She must have thought that he’d sit on the wide sofa in the middle of the room. It was away from the fireplace, in its own area with a couple of other chairs. A Persian rug was laid out neatly underneath the furniture. He guessed that that was where most guests probably sat in this room, but Berlin wasn’t your average guest. He always made the most improbable of choices.
She brought the cup over and met his hand. “Here you are. I… I just expected you on the sofa.”
Berlin took the cup from her. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
As she sat down opposite him, her eyes glanced down at the fireplace. Berlin caught it and watched her a little more closely. Was that a memory, creeping into her thoughts?
She came back to him and said, “We hardly ever use these chairs. As you know, it’s warm enough in the Gardens that we don’t use the fireplace much. Maybe, oh, I dunno, from Christmas to February? Something like that.” She brought the porcelain cup up to her mouth and sipped at the coffee.
Berlin did the same and then placed his cup down on a small table. “Outside you said that you knew that your husband was dead,” he said. “I’d like to hear more about that.”
“I didn’t…I’m not sure why I said it…that way, Detective.”
“When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs. Scott?”
She raised a finger to her mouth, touching her bottom lip absentmindedly, her eyes moving down, while she thought on the matter. “I…it was a few months at least. I wish I could remember exactly, but I want to say last March.”
Last March? That was a little mo
re than a year ago.
“Was it normal for him to be out of touch for so long? I find it hard to believe that you two didn’t at least talk on the phone.”
“Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, Tim was working deep undercover. He told me that sacrifices would have to be made.” Again, her eyes drifted elsewhere. She then said, “I guess that included me.”
Berlin nodded. What was he supposed to say to that? He couldn’t think of a real answer so he opted for, “I see.”
“I’m not sure you do, Detective,” she said abruptly. “Tim wanted this assignment. He asked for it. All the years of hard work, the training, and the learning—it was non-stop—it was all he thought about. His father was a cop, you know. The two of them, they would get into these rants about taking back our streets. Like two men could really make such a difference here. Honestly…”
“Is this father still around?”
She shook her head. “He’s in long-term care now, the Adams Regional Center. He has dementia.”
“Sorry to hear that.” He waited her out. He knew that even if he didn’t prompt her for more information, she would still volunteer it.
“Tim lost a brother to drugs, you know. Deep down, that was the root of it all, I think. It started there. Twisting and turning him inside out.”
“How long ago was that, the brother?”
She touched her ear lobe, turning it to the side ever so slightly. “Three years, I’d say.” She took another sip of her coffee. “He was younger than Tim, more susceptible, had a tendency to run with the wrong crowds. One thing eventually led to another.
“When we first moved here to the Gardens, it was a beautiful city,” she continued. “Now look at it. Hit and runs, murders, robberies, drug busts, gang killings, it’s only getting worse as time goes on. Do you remember that poor man who disappeared last year?”
Berlin nodded. He hadn’t worked the case, but news of it had spread like wildfire. They finally found the victim four months later in a field near Old Town, his body charred and burned beyond recognition. It was a case that struck a chord with the city and the larger region itself.
He now thought of the man’s wife and her pleas in the media.
It also made him think of Kate.
“Appalling,” she said with disgust.
Berlin let her chew on those thoughts for a moment while he surveyed the room, noticing quickly a lack of personal artifacts. There were no wedding photos, or any other photos of the couple, no real personal touches to the room. Just as he felt that the house was clinical from the outside, the interior reflected nearly the same. Something didn’t sit well here.
Should he ask about a possible divorce? No, another time. He could always come back and ask that another time.
“Did your husband ever talk about work with you?”
“No, of course not. The way I understood it, he wasn’t able to talk about it. When he went under, that was it.”
“So you probably wouldn’t be able to tell me if he had any enemies then, correct?”
“Enemies? Uh, I don’t think so, no. But like you said, I don’t know if I’m the right person to ask.”
“Do you have children, Mrs. Scott?”
“No, I…I can’t have children.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She tried a smile, but it left a lot to be desired. “It’s fine, Detective. We got over that hump a long time ago now. We’ve moved on. I’ve moved on.” She looked down at her coffee and suddenly got up. “Do you need your coffee warmed up?”
His coffee had sat untouched.
“Oh, I guess not,” she said, sitting back down.
“Sorry, I’m not much a coffee drinker these days. I’m also easily distracted.”
She smiled. “Is that where the stain came from?”
Berlin blushed. “Stain?”
“On your cuff.”
“Oh. I hadn’t noticed that,” he lied.
She smiled, her lips curling at either end. She then smoothed her dress with both hands.
She sat in the perfect position. Her full body on display for him to admire. He watched her hands work on her dress, then his eyes sailed straight to her exposed knees, working his way down her legs. She was in great shape. Not a thing out of place.
By the time that he brought his focus back to her, she was watching him, catching him red-handed. “Is there anything else, Detective?”
Berlin coughed, and then said, “What was your relationship like with your husband, Mrs. Scott?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Like every other couple, I suppose. We had our ups and downs. After a while…” She paused, then, “He was hard to be around sometimes. Have you ever worked undercover, Detective?”
“No, ma’am. Not my style.”
“I see. Do you have a wife of your own, Detective?”
“No,” he said. “She’s gone now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. You must get lonely sometimes.”
Berlin stood and adjusted his pant leg, without answering. “Before I go, did your husband have an office in the house? Most cops take their work home. I didn’t know if—”
“Of course.” She got up. “Lemme show you.”
CHAPTER 7
Paul Mitchell shuffled his feet then looked at his watch. Two hours, he reminded himself. He had been waiting here nearly two freaking hours.
Where were they?
Just then, he heard the sound of approaching voices, then laughter. It grew louder, becoming a dull roar. Mitchell turned his head to the door just as it swung open and a group of men sauntered into the room, filing in one after the other.
Mitchell still sat quietly at the table. He was partially hidden, just off to their right, so they hadn’t spotted him yet.
They certainly don’t look like they’re grieving, Mitchell thought.
“So I says to him—” One of them began.
“Who the hell are you?” A different one asked Mitchell, finally noticing him sitting at the table.
The others turned to see what was up. There were four men in total. Two of them came over right away, pulling out a chair and taking a seat in front of Mitchell. Another remained in the back, away from the table. And the last man, a stocky black gentleman, continued to rummage through a small bar fridge. He pulled out a bottle of Dasani and then made his way over to the group.
“What’s all this?” The man with the bottle asked. He wore a tight black t-shirt, so tight that his biceps were barely contained inside. He looked cleaner than the rest of the group. There was a confidence to him.
“I asked him already, and he ain’t say shit,” the first man said. His skin was pale, his hair red and messy like fire. “Look at him. Just sittin’ there. You got a name, guy?”
Mitchell fidgeted with his feet under the table. “My name is Detective Paul Mitchell. I uh…I’m here to talk about Tim Scott.”
The man with the water bottle nodded and took a seat with the rest of the group. “I was wondering when someone from Homicide was gonna come by. Can’t say that I know you, though. You must be new. I know everybody’s face ‘round these parts.”
“I am,” Mitchell said, tapping his pen on the stack of papers in front of him. “I came over from Vice.”
The stocky man drank his water. “Have you been to see Lexi yet?”
Mitchell nodded. “My partner, Detective Berlin, is meeting with her now.” He paused and looked at his watch. It read 12:10. “Or, probably has already. To be honest, I’m not sure anymore, since I’ve been waiting here a long time.”
“Berlin? I didn’t realize he was back on the job.”
“I heard stories about him,” the redhead said, leaning in at Mitchell. “You sure that’s a good idea? Being partnered with a guy like that?”
“Easy, Shea,” the guy with the bottle said to the redhead. He downed the rest of the water and threw it in a nearby trashcan. He then came around the table to meet Mitchell and stuck out his meaty hand. “Don’t worry about him.”
>
They shook and the man smiled, saying, “We try not to bite. Hard, that is.”
“Terry Richardson, I presume,” Mitchell said, while he wondered if the big man could tell that he had clammy hands.
Richardson smiled. “That’s right. You know my crew, too?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure.”
Richardson waved his arm across the table, introducing each member for him. There was the angry redhead, Shea Drugan. Beside him, in the glasses, Mark O’Connell. The one in the back of the room was Jet Ikeda. According to Richardson, he didn’t speak much. But his bite was the deadliest. He had unique skills, but Richardson didn’t allude to what those skills might be.
Around the station, Mitchell knew them only as The Pack. But this was the first time that he was seeing them up close and personal. They looked like a bunch of misfits. Bullies. Boys who never grew up.
They made Mitchell nervous. He was outnumbered, and feeling vulnerable.
Out in the open.
Prone to an attack.
“You’re uh…short a body,” he finally managed to say. He looked down at the paperwork in front of him and shuffled through the papers. “Uh…Simmons. Will he be joining us?”
Richardson took a seat, leaned over and rested his elbows on the table. Scratching at the stubble on the side of his face, he said, “He comes and goes.”
“That boy ain’t nothin’ but an errand boy lately,” the redhead, Drugan, barked at Mitchell. “Why don’t you just ask your questions, huh? Some of us gotta eat.”
“We’re on the same side, you and I,” Mitchell quipped back.
Mitchell wished Berlin were here with him. He didn’t want to have to do this alone. His nerves were beginning to unravel, his palms were sweating, and his mouth was running dry.
Focus.
Mitchell licked his lips then said, “Why don’t we start with…when was the last time everyone saw Scott?”
Richardson adjusted in his seat and spoke first. “He checked in with home base the day before last. Said he had somethin’ for me. What that somethin’ was, who’s to say? He never showed.”
Eyes of the Dead: A Crime and Suspense Thriller (The Gardens Book 1) Page 4