“Come on, spill,” Mitchell said.
“Ever since I took this case, I’ve had this…feeling,” Berlin said. “Like someone was watching me. At first I thought it might have been my imagination, but they’re starting to become more frequent.” He cycled through some of the instances in his head before he tried to explain it. Then he held out his hand, Mitchell giving him a curious look. He pulled one finger up from his left hand with each passing mention. “The restaurant. Lexi’s. When we saw Exodus Clay in Old Town. And now I’m not so sure about the SUV.”
“What?”
It was a lot of information to take in at once. He knew that. But he had to make Mitchell believe. With Lexi Scott possibly dead as well, perishing in the fire, there was no better time than now to own up to what he knew. “I thought it might have been Clay’s men. It made sense at the time. But now—”
“Why now?”
“This fire. Lexi Scott.”
Both men looked at the scene. Mitchell was shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”
“I know. It doesn’t make sense. But I’m only telling you what I know.” He let that sink in for a second before he continued. “Someone’s after me, Mitch. It may not even be about the case, but I can feel it. Lexi told me that there were masked individuals, terrorizing her yesterday. People wearing white masks. I chased the same people. Today. Here.” He watched Mitchell as he tried to work it out for himself.
“This is crazy,” was all he managed to say.
Berlin dragged himself up off the back of the ambulance and stretched his sore legs, his knees cracking. “Have they found her? Have you heard?”
Mitchell shook his head. “Nope. They’re takin’ statements, talking with everyone. Someone’s bound to have seen somethin’, man. It’s also starting to look like arson, so you might be right about the three amigos.”
Arson.
Berlin hoped that she wasn’t in there. He willed himself to head over to the charred home. His heart sank farther into his chest, his stomach churning, his whole body overcome with misery. It was no longer a house. It barely stood on its own legs, lopsided, ready to fall at any moment. The driveway was littered with pieces of the roof and eavestrough. Larger beams hid underneath the piles, forming its own new sickly-shaped patio. Although the lone green shrub still stood. Vibrant and unhurt.
“Detective?” It was a female voice.
“Yeah?” Berlin asked her, still facing the charred remains.
“We’ve got someone here who wants to talk to you.”
Berlin arced a brow. “Who?”
She stepped to the side just as Berlin was turning around to face her.
“Detective,” the man said, extending his hand out in front of him, a small duffel bag hanging off his shoulder. “I’m Jack Howell with the Garden Chronicle. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”
“Howell.” Berlin tried a smile. Judging by Howell’s face, he didn’t sell it well enough.
“That’s right,” he said. “Jack.”
Berlin eyed him from head to toe. He was a big man, probably pushing close to 250 pounds. His sense of girth nearly detracted from his height. He was dressed casually, wearing brown slacks and a short-sleeved button up shirt. A pale cream color. They shook hands, Berlin losing his hand in Howell’s large sweaty paw. Howell tried to pull him away from the house, nudging him to walk with him.
“You don’t look so hot, Detective. Sure you don’t need a bottle of water or something?”
“I’m fine.” They stopped together on the sidewalk across the street. “What’s this about, Howell?”
“Well, your patrolwoman over there was taking statements and I uh…I was here when the fire started, Detective.”
“You what?”
“I saw it all.”
***
The crime reporter told Berlin and Mitchell that he was at the front door, ringing the doorbell, when the smoke started to seep out from under the door. Before he knew it, windows were breaking and the fire lit up inside.
“I tried the door. No such luck,” Jack said. “So, I yelled and screamed like a madman to see if she was in there. Then I tried to go around back, to see if there was another way in—a safer way.”
Berlin pictured Lexi Scott in her home, struggling to breathe, struggling to escape, with the fire burning all around her.
“What were you doing here, Howell?” Berlin asked.
“I wanted to get a statement. You know, for the story.”
“What story?”
Jack frowned. “You know…I called you yesterday about it. The Scott case.”
Berlin glared at him.
Howell smiled, his face curling up on one side only. “You know that you can’t keep anything from the media forever, Detective. It always comes out. Whether you like it, or not.”
“What are you getting at, Howell? Do you think this is a game? She could be dead in there.”
Jack held his hands up in protest. “No, no. Look, I got bills to pay just like you and your partner here. Times are tough. I’d like to keep a roof over my head, you know?”
“Get to the point, man, before my partner pops a vein,” Mitchell said.
Howell wiped at his forehead with a sleeve. “I just wanted to have a chat with Mrs. Scott is all. No cheap parlor tricks, no ulterior motives, just the facts.”
Just the facts, he says. Sorry Jack, but you’re no Joe Friday.
“Are you for real, man?” Mitchell straightened his back and edged close to Howell, turning on the intimidation.
Berlin placed a reassuring hand at his partner’s chest. “It’s all right, Mitch. He’s got a job to do just like us, right?”
Howell puffed out his own chest, but, in actuality, his large stomach still stood out farther. “That’s right. Anyway, I ran across the street here to get to a phone. An old lady helped me out.”
“What old lady?”
“Just an old lady. She lives in uh…which one was it again?” he said, searching. “That one there, I think.” Howell pointed at a two-story house with white siding and an unkempt lawn.
“We’re going to have to talk with her,” Berlin said, looking at the house.
“Oh, sure, sure. Whatever you need to do.”
Mitchell kept at him. “You don’t have a cell phone? How are you a reporter without a cell phone?”
Jack looked at his feet. “I did, yeah. Not anymore, though. It got too expensive. Couldn’t keep up with the bills. Them damn phone companies. Bunch of crooks.”
Berlin put up a hand. “Save it. I’m not interested in what you think about the phone companies, Howell. I’m only interested in this fire. Did you see Mrs. Scott?”
“I didn’t see her, no. Sorry. I didn’t really see anyone, actually. So I’m not sure how useful I can be.”
Mitchell grumbled silently and turned away from them. Berlin could see that he was starting to lose his patience with the reporter.
Berlin went after him now, getting tired of being given the runaround. “I’m not sure why you wanted to speak with us then, Howell?”
“Well, if I’m honest, it’s not about the fire per se. Did you ever check out Clay? Like I said?”
“Jesus H,” Mitchell cried in a hushed voice, somewhere in the background.
Berlin leaned over and jabbed him with two fingers in the chest. “Buddy, you got a lot of nerve, you know that? Look around you. Does this seem like the time and place to be asking that sort of thing?”
Jack smiled and laughed nervously, pouting a tad. “Just askin’ is all.”
“Detectives?” One of the firefighters was trying to get their attention.
“Excuse us,” Mitchell said, pulling at Berlin to come along for the ride.
The two detectives and the firefighter crossed the street and once they got to the driveway the firefighter spoke up, “We got a body inside, Detectives. They’re bringin’ it on out now.”
Berlin pinched and pulled with his fingertips at the skin on his forehead. F
irst, that reporter and now this. “Damn. Thanks.”
“You got it,” the firefighter said, walking away.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” Mitchell said. “We didn’t know, man. You didn’t know.”
Berlin wanted to believe him, he really did. But as soon as he saw the crime scene techs bring the body out in that familiar black bag, he felt like he would throw up right there on the street.
CHAPTER 32
Jack Howell paced back and forth on the sidewalk, waiting for the two detectives to return. That is, if they would even bother to come back. Were they right? Should he have just kept his mouth shut?
Stories don’t write themselves. With Ray already shutting down the Port condo story, he couldn’t help but to feel a bit rejected.
Kicked in the balls while he was already down.
Maeve was leaving. And you’re out here, chasing a story.
What was he doing?
Typical Jack. Always two steps behind and always thinking of himself.
She could be dead in there.
Show some respect.
Respect? When was the last time someone showed me some respect? Huh?
“Ah, whatever,” Jack grumbled, kicking a beer bottle cap skittering across the sidewalk and onto a neighbor’s lawn.
“Howell,” a harsh voice said.
Jack turned to look, brushing the strap of the duffel bag back up over his shoulder. It was them! Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. “Detectives? Forget something?”
“Thanks for sticking around,” the one called Berlin said.
“No problem,” Jack replied.
Jack watched him carefully, studying his movements, as he took a few steps closer. Berlin looked like he carried the weight of the world on those shoulders of his. Jack wondered what kind of things he must see in an average day as a Homicide Detective. All the blood and anger prevalent in every scene. He certainly didn’t envy what he did for a living. Jack would have put one in his head long ago if it were him.
His partner, the dark-skinned detective, and the one he heard Berlin call Mitch, held back. Jack recognized the hesitant rookie for what he was, unsure of himself. But there was something there, a fire, lurking inside. Something told Jack that he wouldn’t want to be in a locked room with either one of them.
“They found a body, Howell,” Berlin said. “Looks like it might be Alexandra Scott. They’re taking it to the lab now to process.”
Oh. Damn.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Detective.” There was the weight, Jack thought. That’s what Berlin was carrying with him as he wandered over to me. “Do they have any idea how it got started?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s arson,” Berlin said. “Ignition sources scattered mostly at the front of the house.”
Jack shook his head. “That’s…awful.”
“Anyway, you were talking about Clay earlier,” Berlin said.
“I was,” Jack said.
“Let’s go have a chat.”
***
“You see, Detective, its all right here, plain as day.”
Berlin squinted down at Jack’s notes. “And why hasn’t the story gotten out?”
Jack rolled his eyes, sitting back in his chair, and said, “Hell if I know. My editor won’t run it.”
“Why?”
“No idea. I tried to ask him one time, but he won’t budge. Wants to avoid the attention.”
“There’s gotta be something more. Some other reason.”
“Someone on City Council?” Mitchell offered.
Berlin and Jack both looked at him. “Could be,” Berlin said, before Jack had a chance.
They had grabbed a table at a little breakfast spot at Jack’s suggestion, on the corner of Geneva and Carlton, opting for a late breakfast while discussing Jack’s condo story and Exodus Clay.
Berlin ordered the Classic Breakfast: three eggs sunny side up, Texas Toast, Fresh Cut Home Fries, and a couple of strips of bacon. Mitchell opted for the Montreal Smoked Hash and Eggs: chopped Montreal smoked meat, caramelized onions and diced potatoes with three eggs over easy. Howell, on the other hand, went all out and ordered the Big Breakfast: four eggs sunny side up, two sausage links, two strips of bacon, two slices of ham, and two buttermilk pancakes. They each ordered a round of coffee.
Jack knew that he should be watching his cholesterol, but today was different. It wasn’t every day that you got to sit down and share breakfast with two of the city’s Homicide Detectives. Today was special. This wasn’t like Dominguez or the others.
Jack cut into one of his sausage links, smiling, and looked over the shoulder of Mitchell at the LCD TV. Golf was on the tube, but it couldn’t hold his interest. Jack never got into the sport.
Berlin poked at his home fries, spearing three of them together on his fork. He held it out in front of him and began to gesture with it as he talked, “So, Clay sees an opportunity to make a name for himself and he either moves into Port, or he’s there already, and then what? How’d this guy get so big and tough? I don’t get it.”
Jack was already mid-bite and talked with his mouth full. “Does it matter?” He swallowed the toast down. “I never got that far. I haven’t had a chance to dig into his background. But I mean—”
“Okay,” Berlin said. “So you’re saying that this condo development project is what really got things moving.”
“That’s right. The developer, he upped and vanished. So he’s either hiding out on the Council, playing hide-and-go-seek, or he’s gone. Like, you know.”
“How come nobody’s raised any red flags concerning this developer?”
Jack smiled. “Well, they have—just not the right people, if you know what I mean. Look,” Jack said, holding his hands out in front of him, “you find a story on our website…something to do with the project and people aren’t happy, at least people down in Port. Businesses are suffering. Tourists are showing up goin’, what the hell happened? The whole thing is one big eyesore.”
Berlin nodded. “I still can’t wrap my head around it. Ripping down all those historic buildings, for what? Who’s gonna buy those units? People aren’t gonna come in from the big city.”
Jack started to get animated. “Exactly! All that charm and history. We all lost somethin’ when they tore down those businesses. Little Suzie gettin’ an ice cream from the shop on the corner, the kids havin’ a blast on a Saturday night at the bar.” He shook his head.
Mitchell tried to steer the conversation back on topic, apparently tired of their reminiscing over Port. “So…what? Clay took this guy out? Why?”
Jack went quiet.
Berlin pushed aside his near empty plate. “Say he does take the developer out, makes him disappear. Think Scott found out?”
Mitchell leaned in close to Berlin. “Scott was workin’ down in Port. I’d say that’s a distinct possibility. You saw the notes.”
Jack’s eyes grew wide. “Notes? What notes?” He watched as Berlin and Mitchell shared a look and Jack realized that the other one had just messed up. Like he let something slip that he shouldn’t have said. “Come on, guys. I gave you what I had, the least you could do is to tell me what you have. This could be big.”
Berlin frowned and adjusted in his seat. “We found some notes at Scott’s residence. Private notes. It looks like he was tracking the activity of all the drug dealers and their bosses in the area. Right from up top all the way down to the lowlifes on the street. Pictures, charts, notes. You name it.”
“Holy—”
“We’re talking very detailed notes here. Thorough. If you ask me, he was playing with fire and was bound to get caught by someone. I just hope that we can put it to some good use.”
Jack rested his chin on a propped up arm. “So what do we do?”
“We?” Mitchell asked Jack.
“Mitch is right. I don’t think it’s safe for you to get involved, Howell. You obviously know a lot already and I don’t even wanna know how you got this information, or w
hy you haven’t taken it to the police already—”
Jack leaned back in his chair. “Well…”
Why had he told them? They weren’t going to let him do anything. He shoulda known. Of course they weren’t gonna play it straight with him.
Stupid, Jack. Silly, stupid, Jack.
Berlin wasn’t finished. “Once this is over and done with, we’ll see about giving you what you want. But for now, you need to let us do our jobs.”
Jack felt helpless as he watched Berlin get up from the table. Mitchell joined him a second later.
“You got copies of all this?” Berlin picked up Jack’s notes from the table.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Good. So you won’t mind if we take these?”
“Can’t help but notice you already are, Detective.”
“Yeah, it does looks that way, don’t it?” Berlin folded the paperwork over and stuffed it inside his coat pocket. He gestured back at the table. “Mitch, you mind? I’m a little short.”
“Yeah, I got it.” Mitchell took out a few bills and threw them on the table. “This’ll take care of it, Howell.”
Jack glanced at the money on the table. “Gee, thanks.”
“Remember what I said,” Berlin told him. “Let us handle it. I don’t need another dead body on my conscience.”
Then they were gone and Jack was, once again, all alone.
CHAPTER 33
Berlin looked down at the charred remains of Alexandra Scott and couldn’t shake the familiar twinge of guilt that was building inside him. She lay there on the table, now a blackened shell. His mind played tricks on him as he waited for her, too, to start talking to him. A vein in his neck throbbed quickly, pulsating up and down, and he absentmindedly rubbed at it.
Then Mitchell slinked up beside him. He was quiet, probably unsure of what to say. He cleared his throat and took a look around for Dr. Truby. Finally he said, “Should we be worried about the reporter?”
“Not if he knows what’s good for him,” Berlin said.
Eyes of the Dead: A Crime and Suspense Thriller (The Gardens Book 1) Page 17