“Come on, don’t be coy,” Widmark said. “I was there. I heard what you said. I know you have the files from Scott’s residence. I want to see them.”
Berlin reached into the cupboard, removing a tall glass. “Why?”
“I think they could prove useful.”
Berlin opened the top freezer, pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam and filled the glass. He never bothered to offer Widmark a glass. “I don’t have them with me. They’re still at the office.”
“Bull.”
Berlin drank. After a few gulps he set his drink down, wiped his lips, and said, “None of this is obviously legit, yeah? If it were, you would have asked Ecker to have access to my files. Instead, you broke into my house. That doesn’t sound like something on the up and up, you know?”
Widmark stood with his arms placed on his hips. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? What do you have that I could possibly want?”
Widmark looked down at the glass on the counter that was now half empty and crept close to Berlin. He came so close that it was starting to make Berlin feel uncomfortable. “What if I told you that the guy you think murdered your wife wasn’t really the killer that you thought he was?”
Berlin shifted his feet, his stomach sinking, the heaviness overtaking his insides. “What the hell is this?” His voice was wavering. “What are you getting at, Widmark?”
“Did I stutter? Was I not clear?” Widmark brought a hand up to his face, outlining his forehead with thumb and index finger. Stretching the skin as if he had a headache. Then he looked at his watch. “Look, this game of Ring Around the Rosie has gone on long enough. What if I told you that it was Ivan Sokolov that was actually responsible for the murder of your wife at Morningstar?”
What?
“Th—that’s impossible,” Berlin stammered.
“Is it?”
Berlin’s mouth ran dry. Finding it hard to get the words out, his lips smacked at nothingness. “Of course it is. There’s no way—”
“Tell me that you haven’t been searching for the truth, Detective, and I’ll leave right now.”
“I don’t—”
“Look, I know you’ve had it rough. Once I heard the news from Ecker, I looked into it myself. Compared some notes on our end. You can’t tell me that you’re not conflicted. I can see it, plain as day, in the way you live. Hell, I bet you have difficulty sleeping. Upset stomach? Like to avoid making tough decisions? Does any of this sound familiar?”
“Who are you?”
Widmark smiled again, that stupid grin. “Grief, Detective, she’s a bitch. Demanding, you could say. She wants answers. She’ll pull at you until there’s nothing left. But this time, this time, Detective, I have an answer for you.” Widmark paused for effect. “If you’re ready for it, that is.”
Berlin gazed into his eyes, past the lines of age, searching for the truth. He was typically skilled at reading people, but he was long out of practice. Would it be wishful thinking on his part to believe him? Was he bluffing?
Widmark waited no further as he turned his back on Berlin and began to head for the front door. “You can have your salvation, Detective. Just give me the files. I left my card on the table. Call me when you’re ready to talk.”
Berlin stood at the door, thinking of yin and yang. He wouldn’t be able to tell you why, but he had always envisioned it as sunlight that played over a mountain and a valley. Day and night.
Others would see it as heaven and earth, water and fire, or male and female. With Berlin, he was reminded of how he saw the world. Everything was stark black and white with very little gray in between. Good and evil. That’s all it ever was.
In his yin and yang, the sun moves across the sky and the two sides gradually trade places with each other. One revealing what was obscured, and the other obscuring what was revealed.
But in this case, was Widmark the mountain or the sun?
CHAPTER 13
Jack sat at the dining table alone in the dimly lit room. He let his head slide down between his fingertips, massaging the back of his head. The headache had come on quick. First a dull roar, then it increased with greater intensity as he approached home. By the time he pulled into the empty driveway, he had a migraine.
Jack’s eyes cast down at the piece of paper laid out in front of him next to his dinner plate.
He knew that this day would come. He had been counting on it.
It was from Maeve. She was leaving him. It said that she had taken their daughter, Allison, to her mother’s place in Rose City. She was insistent that it would only be for a few weeks, but Jack knew better. This was it. There would be no discussing it or mulling it over. She had done plenty of that already. He couldn’t guess at what the final straw must have been.
He picked up the note, his dinner plate, and headed into the kitchen. He scraped the leftovers into the trashcan and took one last look at the note before he threw it, too, into the trashcan. Closing the lid, he couldn’t help but to feel like he just lost a part of himself.
His phone buzzed from the other room.
“This is Jack,” he said, as he picked up the call.
“Howlin’ Jack!”
“Merritt?”
“Howlin’ Jack, Howlin’ Jack…”
“You drinkin’ again, Merritt?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve had a couple,” Merritt said as he laughed loudly, which turned into a coughing fit.
Jack pulled the phone away. His ears thanked him.
Detective William Merritt and Jack had known each other for years, Jack using him as an inside source within the police department. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. I’ll scratch your back and you scratch mine sort of deal.
These last few years, though, had taken their toll on Merritt. Jack noticed that his weight was ballooning and his boozing was running strong. Jack was beginning to question how much fight the big man had left in him before he’d have to take early retirement or bow out gracefully. If a man like Merritt could even be graceful at anything.
“Merritt, what’s shaking?” Jack asked him.
“Same shit, different day, man. Hammer and I just caught four dead stiffs. You believe that? Four!”
Jack’s eyes grew wide. “Four? Wow, what happened?”
“Oh, hell if I know. It was a bloodbath, though. I think we’re gonna be stuck on it for a while.”
Jack shook his head. Just what this city needed, a pair of cops like Hammer and Anvil catching a big case like that. “Tough break. Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah. Whatcha gonna do, right? I knew things were runnin’ too smoothly these past few weeks. I kept tellin’ Hammer, ‘just you wait, we’re gonna get it soon.’ You still…sorry, hang on. Just a second, sweetheart. Can’t ya see I’m busy here?”
Jack rolled his eyes. Booze and women. Typical.
“Sorry, Jack, as I was sayin’. You still…you know, payin’?”
Did it matter anymore?
Maeve was gone.
He’d already blown it.
“That depends. What you got for me, big guy?”
“I got somethin’ good. Oh yeah, somethin’ good.”
Jack waited him out.
“You…have you heard of a dick named Berlin?” Merritt said.
“Is this about the murder by the canal?”
Silence on the other end. “Wait. You know about that already?”
“Well…”
“Well, what?”
“I heard that he got called in special.”
“Ah. All right. I thought I had somethin’ for ya, but I guess you’re a step ahead of me for once.”
“Well, not quite. What’d they find out there, Merritt?”
Merritt gave another hearty laugh. “Ah, so you don’t know everything after all. Let’s see. It’s gonna cost ya, Jack.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred, at least.”
Jack frowned then rubbed his foreh
ead. “Four hundred is kinda steep, Merritt. I don’t know if I can swing that. You owe somebody again?”
“Nah, nah, nothing like that, Jack. But, them’s the breaks. Take it or leave it.”
Could he do it?
Maeve’s gone, Jack. Take it. You know you want to.
“Fine,” Jack muttered unenthusiastically.
“Didn’t quite catch that. Did you say something?”
“I said, that’s fine. Usual spot?”
“Sure.”
Jack reached for paper and pen and readied himself for the intel. “So what do ya got for me, Merritt? And this better be good.”
“It’s good, Jack. Berlin and that rook of his? They caught themselves a dead cop.”
CHAPTER 14
Berlin stood with his back up against the front door. Special Agent Widmark had turned at the corner and proceeded out of view. Berlin realized that he must have parked quite a ways down the street in order to avoid detection or arise any suspicion.
Ivan Sokolov. How was the Russian connected to Kate’s murder? It didn’t make any sense.
Was Widmark right? Had he been searching for answers to Kate’s murder?
Berlin shut the door and headed back into the kitchen. He found himself studying the room once he reached it. Widmark was right. His house was a disaster. This was no way for a man to live, burdened by dirty dishes in the sink, crumbs on the floor, remnants of takeout scattered across every flat surface.
You’ve really let things go around here, pal.
He had to get it together. Grabbing a black garbage bag, he began to fill it with the takeout boxes and containers and then used a clear bag for all of the empty bottles that were lying around. The food and sauces mixed together had formed a pungent cocktail of acidic foulness that turned his stomach. Before long, he had to start a second bag for the empties. He focused on filling the sink with dish soap and hot water next while he thought more on Widmark’s visit.
What was so important about those files?
Berlin cast it aside for now and checked his messages on his answering machine. The blinking red light showed two outstanding messages. He hoped that it wasn’t them again. He clicked the Play button and waited.
“Hello, Detective Berlin,” a female voice sounded. “I’m calling to inquire about your missed appointment today.”
Crap.
It was the Police Psychologist, Dr. Coe. She was right, of course. He had missed it. She continued with, “I can only assume that this is because you are engaged in something much more important, and not because you chose not to see me out of antipathy. I would appreciate it if you would return my phone call at your earliest convenience, so that we can reschedule your appointment. Thank you.”
Berlin made a mental note to call her. The sessions weren’t nearly as bad as he made them out to be in his head. Whether they were useful or not, though, was an entirely different story.
He clicked Play on the second message.
“Uh…Hello, Detective,” another female voice sounded. This one had a bit of raspy-ness to it. “I don’t…I don’t know if…God, I feel so silly for doing this. I uh…I wanted to know if you wanted to have a drink some time. Is that…are you allowed to do that? I’m not sure…God, what am I doing?”
The call abruptly ended there. A smile spread across his lips. It had been a long time since a girl had acted that way around him. Full of nerves and butterflies in the stomach.
He realized then how much he had missed it.
But should he do anything about it?
No, you shouldn’t. It would only complicate things. Make things worse.
He drummed his fingers on the counter, mulling it over, then cracked open a beer and headed for the couch. The day had taken its toll on him. His whole body ached, and reminded him just how out of shape he was. Collapsing into the couch, he reached for the TV remote and turned it on.
Minutes would turn into hours and as the sun set, Berlin closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep where the dead would once again join the living.
***
The thick milky fog blanketed the entire city in green and Berlin found himself standing alone in the street. At least he was pretty sure it was a street, the familiar feeling of tarmac underneath his feet. The white division line that parted the two sides were barely visible, but distinct nonetheless. Not more than twelve feet away from him sat a trunk in the middle of the road.
He advanced slowly, agonizing over every step and every movement. It took all of his strength to put one foot in front of the other. He looked to his left, and then to his right, but he did not recognize his surroundings. The fog was too thick. There were no buildings, no people, just the blankness. The air felt damp and sticky, like something was touching his skin that he could not wipe away.
He reached the trunk and stood, staring down at it. His head tilted to one side, as if it would allow him to inspect it further. Placing one hand on its top, he jumped back jarringly. The trunk was frighteningly cold to the touch. His fingers burned.
A horn blared in the distance.
What was that?
Not a car.
No.
A boat?
A beam of light streaked across the horizon, slicing through the mist.
Where was he?
It was then that he caught something out of the corner of his eye.
Had that always been there?
No, of course not.
Berlin took a step back to get a better look and there, to his right, stood a welcome sign. It was made of wood; its colors faded and washed out. On its face was an orange red sunset, with the sun blazing off-center and blue, calm waters below. White letters stood at the top in the shape of a curve. They read: PORT PIER and underneath that: MARINA.
He was in Port. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought. How did he get here?
The light streaked by once again, this time somehow touching his body, illuminating him in its path.
The lighthouse?
No, that was impossible. It was decommissioned back in the late ‘80s.
Wasn’t it?
He searched for the lighthouse. It shouldn’t be far if this was, in fact, Port.
The light from the lighthouse was like a painter's paintbrush on canvas, guiding his vision, revealing itself.
The lighthouse stood 16 meters tall, its octagonal shape giving it strength thereby allowing it to reach high into the sky. It stood like a beacon, alone and purposeful, calling to the heavens. A solid white base with an ornate turquoise cornice sat at the top with a small lookout. Squinting his eyes, it looked to him like it was empty.
A sound came from behind, startling him.
Rustling.
Metal scraping on metal.
Berlin slowly turned around. The beat of his heart drowned everything out. It beat faster with each breath he took, yet, he found no sign of the source.
Where was it coming from?
Wait.
The trunk.
It was opening. How was it facing him? It was turned the other way earlier.
Wasn’t it?
It moved slowly, creeping upwards, inch by inch, until Berlin saw the whites of human eyes. A figure began to emerge from inside the trunk, the lid resting on its head. The figure's shoulders began to square and it continued its ascent. A pair of hands gripped the edges, pushing the lid higher and higher.
Berlin’s mouth hung open as he watched a naked woman stand inside the trunk and the lid struck the other side.
She stared at him, silent, like a statue. Her skin was as pale as fresh winter snow, her hair wet and straggly. Her face was still a blur from this distance, like an unseen force was preventing him from seeing it.
Berlin’s pulse was racing, the pounding in his chest unbearable.
What is this? Who is she?
“We stood…transfixed…in blank devotion,” a voice whispered.
The voice sounded, but the woman’s lips had not moved. He was sure of it.
>
Where was it coming from?
“Our leader…spoke to us…”
He listened intently, hanging on every word, peering at the woman. She suddenly took a step out of the trunk.
Oh God. No, don’t come near me.
Her movements were slow and deliberate.
What does she want? Is she trying to tell me something? Is that it?
She crept closer. The mist receded, falling back to the outer edges, and her face became visible.
Wait. I know you.
How do I know you?
It came to him then.
The brunette. The woman from the morgue.
The horn blared again.
“Looking down on our…muted faces with a…”
She was the woman with the mark behind the ear.
“What do you want?” Berlin asked her.
She said nothing in return.
The light disappeared, which caused him to look back behind him at the lighthouse. The lantern had stopped, but the alarm continued to sound. He covered his ears to muffle the sound.
It grew louder, intensifying, becoming more rapid with each succession.
“Great, raging, and…” the woman said, her lips beginning to move.
“What? I can’t hear—” Berlin shouted.
Berlin closed his eyes, nearly bucking over in pain from the blasts and thunder of the horn. He began to shout and curse. Why wouldn’t it stop?
Suddenly it did that very thing. The alarm stopped and everything went dead quiet. Berlin opened his eyes, blinking, unsure of whether to trust that it would remain quiet. By the time he brought his eyes up, the woman was gone.
“Unseeing eye!” the voice wailed.
Berlin jumped, stumbled, and fell to the ground in horror. She had been right beside him the entire time. He crawled, fumbling on the ground like a scared little boy with only one thought running through his head. He had to get away.
He didn’t dare look, but he couldn’t help it. He stole a glance over his shoulder only to find her moving away from him, creeping closer to the shore. Where was she going?
Eyes of the Dead: A Crime and Suspense Thriller (The Gardens Book 1) Page 7