by A W Hartoin
“Aren’t you worried that he’ll show up again?” asked Fats, ignoring Grandad’s and Uncle Morty’s denials.
“There’s nothing to be done about it. If he does, he does. I’m not as concerned about that as I am about how they knew the exact time Mom would be going in for her MRI and that I would be there,” I said.
Fats frowned, but Uncle Morty snorted. “Any thirteen-year-old hacker could get into this hospital’s lousy system. It’s total crap.”
I set my ice pack on the arm on my chair and gave him the stink eye. “And when was Mom scheduled?”
He typed for a second and then looked up. “She wasn’t, but there were some blocks open.”
I crossed my arms.
Grandad started pacing again. “How did they know she was getting an MRI then?”
“There was a request for Carolina to be transported to Radiology,” said Uncle Morty.
“Okay. Maybe. That works for Mom, but how did they know I was rushing back for it? They wrote a note and were ready for me.”
“Well, their plan sucked,” said Fats. “One’s dead and you got away.”
“I don’t think that was their plan. Tiny noticed something suspicious about the one that dropped the note. He confronted him. I don’t think they expected that and when Fats left, the other one took a shot.”
“They must’ve had a plan to get me away from you,” said Fats.
Grandad and Uncle Morty said nothing, only looking at her.
“You don’t think…I would never have left Mercy, if it wasn’t life or death.”
“We don’t know that,” said Uncle Morty.
“I do,” I said. “I told her to go. There was no way they could move Tiny without her.”
“Perhaps we need another bodyguard,” said Grandad.
“We do, but not for me. Mom has nobody and I doubt Calpurnia has anyone else clean enough to get past the cops.”
They stayed silent.
“I’m telling you. Fats didn’t do anything. Hell, she could’ve killed me at any time in the last two days. She could’ve taken me out during what happened today. It was a cluster down there. Instead, she saved Tiny.”
Grandad came over to me. “How do you feel about it?”
“I feel good. I would know,” I said.
Uncle Morty pushed aside his laptop. “You can’t listen to Mercy. She gets lost here in her own hometown. She didn’t feel that Cheryl Morris was the murderer in Sturgis until the woman tried to kill someone under her freaking nose. I’m sorry, but Fats is out.”
“No, she isn’t,” I said. “It’s my life and she’s in.”
“Hell, no.”
“Nobody’s asking you.”
Chuck came in with Sydney. “How about asking me?”
I groaned. “We’re full up on opinions.”
“How about facts?”
“I’m good.”
Chuck eyed Fats. “You want to tell them or should I?”
Fats stayed silent, but she wasn’t remotely worried. I knew her well enough to see that.
“Tell us what?” asked Grandad. He wasn’t worried either, but my boyfriend didn’t pick up on the mood of the room.
“She works for Calpurnia Fibonacci, the mob boss,” he said triumphantly.
Uncle Morty put his laptop back on his lap and started typing leisurely. I yawned and Grandad barely suppressed a smile. Fats kicked her heels up on the coffee table and said, “Took you long enough.”
Chuck blanched. “You knew? Mercy, your bodyguard is a known felon.”
“She’s not a felon. Her record’s cleaner than mine.”
“Only because she’s got the Fibonacci luck,” he said. “Ace. How could you bring this woman in to watch your granddaughter? We could’ve hired from an agency.”
“You don’t bring a knife to a gun fight,” said Grandad.
“You don’t bring a Fibonacci to protect Tommy Watts’ daughter.”
Grandad came over and patted my steaming boyfriend on the back. “You do if you want the best. She’s the best.”
“The best who might’ve sold Mercy out,” said Chuck.
“Mercy says no. I believe her and Calpurnia.”
“Calpurnia? Calpurnia? You sound like you know her.”
“I do. Now let’s think about more practical matters like how they knew where Mercy would be.”
“They were following us,” said Fats. “And listening in. We spoke about the MRI in Mercy’s apartment. She doesn’t even have double-paned windows. A parabolic listening device would do it.”
“That could be useful, assuming they don’t know that we know,” I said.
“No,” said Chuck. “It’s not happening.”
“Nobody asked for your opinion.”
“I’m in charge of this investigation and you are not going to lure anyone anywhere.”
Uncle Morty chuckled. “No, you’re not.”
“Huh?”
Chuck had been put on desk duty, along with Sydney and Weiss. An officer-involved shooting had to be investigated, even one that was so obviously clean. Chuck fumed and I didn’t rub it in. No need. I didn’t work for him and I was as bad at following orders as I was at following directions.
“I still say no. I’m thinking of your safety.”
We argued about it until my phone rang. It was Pete saying Tiny was going into recovery. He would be awake soon. I told Fats and she practically ran out of the room, dragging me behind her. Chuck chased us to the elevator and pulled me off, holding the door.
“I’m not going to let you put yourself in danger, so just forget it,” he said, giving me a kiss next to the bruise on my forehead. “Do you hear me?”
I nodded, but I didn’t forget it. A plan was forming in my head and once a plan starts, you’ve got to follow through. That’s just the way plans work.
I stepped on the elevator, giving him a smile and a wave. He watched me as the doors closed with his jaw twitching.
We only saw Tiny for a few minutes before we were ushered out of the ICU, but it was enough to both soothe Fats and fire her up.
“Whatever you’re planning, I’m on board,” she said.
“I’m sure we can use the listening thing to our advantage.”
“The question is how to use it.”
“It would help to know who we’d be using it on. I wouldn’t like to go in blind,” I said.
She nodded. “I’d like to know how much fire power to have on hand.”
“We’re not going to kill him or them. Apprehend is the goal.”
She said nothing and I took that as a bad sign. It was also a bad sign that Chuck hadn’t left the hospital. He was in Mom’s room along with everyone else. Aaron and Nikki had shown up with dinner, a fabulous Moroccan tagine with preserved lemon and lamb with almond cake for dessert. Mom was able to eat it pretty well if she concentrated on her swallowing.
Chuck got a call during dessert and he was all smiles. “You really don’t need to do anything, Mercy. We’re almost there.”
“Meaning?” asked Grandad.
“We have the identity of our dead suspect. Alfonso Cruz. It’s just a matter of time before we get who hired him.”
There was something in the way Chuck said it that made me think this wasn’t exactly the news he was hoping for, although he sold it well.
“Oh, yeah? Who’s Alfonso Cruz?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Whenever a man says ‘Don’t worry about it.’ You definitely should worry. A lot.
“Hey, Uncle Morty,” I said. “Can you—”
Uncle Morty choked down an enormous bite of cake and said, “On it.”
“Dammit, Mercy,” said Chuck. “Can’t you take my word for it?”
“Let me think,” I said. “Nope.”
Uncle Morty started laughing and Grandad joined in.
“He was a dry cleaner with no criminal record. Paid his taxes and was literally a Boy Scout. You got nothing,” said Uncle Morty.
&nb
sp; “Not nothing. He dropped that note on Carolina for a reason. We’ll find it.”
“It ain’t gonna be soon.”
Chuck gritted his teeth and watched me like I might make a break for it right then. He needn’t have bothered. I wasn’t leaving Mom until Dad got there, especially with Tiny out of the picture.
When we finished eating, the phone call Mom had been praying for came. Dad had been released and was about to get on a plane, private, no less. I gave Mom the phone and her emotions overcame her. I doubt Dad could understand much of what she said. I couldn’t and I was in the same room.
While they were on the phone, Hatchet Nose showed up and waved me into the hallway.
“I don’t know what you’ve got, but they were falling all over themselves to get your father on that plane,” he said.
“I figured.”
Chuck came out and put a protective arm around me. “What else did they discuss?”
“Everything was on the table, including arresting Mercy as a material witness, but I convinced them that you aren’t the only one in the know and it would just make them look worse.”
“Thanks for that,” I said.
He smiled, his sharp eyes boring into mine. “And…”
“And there’s an Unsub posing as an orderly at Hunt Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He’s trying to get access to Blankenship, most likely to kill him. He used the name Jones on the phone once, but there’s no Jones employed there.”
The agent’s mouth fell open and I enjoyed giving him what I had, including the recently arrived handwriting analysis. The notes were written by two different right-handed individuals, most likely male, and they had completely different personalities. Mr. Greenburg said he was disturbed by the handwriting from the Hunt note because it held almost no hint of a personality. It wasn’t copperplate, but it had been perfected to the extent that the author of the note didn’t have to think about how to form the letters and they were written with no hesitation. The handwriting had no graphic signs of a schizoid personality. None. Mr. Greenburg felt that the author had in-depth knowledge of handwriting analysis and probably had several perfected styles at his command. He would use one for his real life and the others when needed for criminal purposes. If we were to get handwriting samples from all the employees at Hunt, none would match.
The second sample was totally different. The person was upset when writing it. The ink was light on the page and there was considerable hesitation when forming the letters. There were several signs of a schizoid personality, but this was not definitive. Mr. Greenburg felt the author had written the words under duress and that if he had to guess, the author was not a career criminal.
“That fits with Alfonso Cruz,” said Chuck.
“It doesn’t give me anything for Hunt,” said the agent.
“Recent employees are a place to start.”
“What did your people come up with?”
Chuck shook his head. “Not much. Dozens of prints in the doctor’s office. Nazir’s discreetly interviewing staff about anyone enquiring about Blankenship.”
The agent looked at me. “I’m going to have to go out there.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” I said. “I’ve had enough of Hunt for a while.”
“You want to keep Blankenship alive, don’t you?” he asked.
“Not that much.”
Hatchet Nose took a deep breath. “What else can you give me? What about this catatonic patient?”
“Greta can’t give you anything else. If she knew something else, she would’ve given it to me.”
“How about this mysterious Unsub evidence you’ve got? When can I get a look at that?”
“When my dad is standing at my mother’s bedside and not a minute before,” I said. “I learned my lesson with you dirtbags.”
“Hey, not the dirtbag here,” he said.
“We’ll see.”
The agent took off and we went back inside. Mom’s eyes were barely open, but she held out her hand to me. “He’s on the plane. You’re a good daughter.”
I suspected the painkiller they gave Mom for her latest headache had something to do with Mom’s unexpected assessment of me, but I didn’t care. It was nice to be good. Mom drifted off to sleep and Grandad shooed everyone out of the room. Everyone but me, Fats, and Aaron. My partner had gotten a blanket and was reading a pile of comic books, clearly in for the night.
Pete showed up with the painkillers for me and insisted I take one. He and Fats ganged up on me and I gave in. I took one with a mug of hot chocolate that tasted like Peruvian to me.
I curled up on the foldout bed, ready to sleep, when Fats put Dr. Bloom’s file in my lap.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked.
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“About what?”
“I’m going to help you. I owe the family,” she said.
I pulled the sheath of paper out of its envelope. The top sheet was a cover letter, saying generally what was contained in the papers, a timeline, etc. I briefly glanced at the timeline. It started in 1938 with Stella Bled meeting Nicolas Lawrence in New York city. 1938. The year that set in motion my great-grandparents’ murders a half century later and changed two families forever.
I looked at Fats, who’d decided that ten o’clock at night was the perfect time to do squat thrusts. Freak.
“What family?” I asked. “The Fibonaccis?”
“No, stupid. Your family.”
“Oh. I think tomorrow you’ll be paying us back plenty.”
She did an extra-low squat. “Tomorrow, eh? You have a suspect.”
“Not exactly. The timeline’s bothering me and the missing file. I think the Brain Trust’s last case is key.”
“What about the lawyer, Parks?”
“He’s a link, but not our guy. I’m missing something. Something obvious.”
Fats leapt up, touching the ceiling easily. “So what happens tomorrow?”
“My dad takes over,” I said. “You’ll get to see how it’s really done.”
She went into another squat. “I think I’ve already seen that.”
“No, this is driving me crazy. All these dates and people. Cassidy Huff. She’s important. Why? Brian Shill’s on house arrest. He didn’t do it, but he’s friends with his prosecutor. None of it makes sense.” I rubbed my eyes. “I’m losing it.”
“You’re fine.” She pointed at the papers in my lap. “Think about the past for awhile. It’s not trying to kill you.”
“For the moment,” I said, settling in for a good read.
I read through Dr. Bloom’s file in less than an hour. It shouldn’t have taken that long, but I could barely keep my eyes open. Aaron’s hot chocolate and Pete’s painkiller hit me hard. Only Fats’ nutty exercise routine kept me from passing out completely. I wished Dr. Bloom had just done bullet statements. Bullet statements would’ve been so fast, but the historian was a gifted writer in love with his subject. I had to read the prose and I had to admit I was starting to see thin spiderweb-like threads between the people that I hadn’t seen before.
He started with Constanza Warnock, Big Steve’s mother. I hadn’t thought about her at all since he told me that Alekei Bled had gone to Europe after the war to save her from certain death after she was released from a concentration camp. Dr. Bloom’s colleague, Dr. Fritz Broszat, specialized in the Nazi art thefts across Europe and he knew who Constanza was through the art world. That woke me up a little. Big Steve wasn’t an art person that I knew of. Then again, I didn’t know how he was connected to the Bleds until Dr. Bloom told me, so anything was possible.
I turned the page and Wallace gassed, snuffling deeper into the covers. Mom rolled over, sighing softly. In that moment, she was who she used to be. Her face was so relaxed that it matched and there wasn’t any drooling. Her breathing was a bit labored, but her oxygen level was good. Mom would recover as much as anyone could recover from an acute stroke. She was lucky. But the word lucky didn’t sit well in
my mind. How could you be lucky having suffered what she’d suffered? Did Big Steve think his mother was lucky to have survived the death camp only to die of wounds that would not heal later? What did Mom know about Constanza and the Bleds? What did Big Steve know? And why the hell did it have to be hidden? I’d been to Big Steve’s house half a million times. I’d never seen a picture of his mother. Constanza had survived something that was pretty much unsurvivable. I wanted a picture of her on my wall. I wanted to look at her face and see what strength looked like.
I leaned over and tucked the covers in around my own survivor mother, gave Wallace a scratch, and went back to the file. These new puzzle pieces took me away from Mom’s injuries and the immediate threat to our family as Fats said they would and I was grateful for the distraction.
Dr. Broszat said that nineteen-year-old Constanza Stern went with Florence Bled to New York in 1947. She sold a collection of jewelry and two small Aubusson 17th century tapestries at Christie’s. Dr. Bloom, being super thorough, included a photo of the sale catalog. The jewelry ranged from a tiny tiara to earrings, all dating from the Belle Époque era in France. The jewelry sold for $37,000 and the tapestries together, $7,000. That was almost a half million in today’s money. Quite a haul for a young woman fresh from the horrors of the Nazis. Dr. Broszat theorized that Stella had smuggled those pieces out of the country for Constanza’s family. Since the Bleds were extremely tight-lipped about the pieces they held for survivors, no one knew for sure. But the historian’s theory went beyond that. He thought Constanza was in the Resistance and, therefore, her particular fate was known to Stella, who dispatched her family to save the young woman. I thought that was a reach, but he had some compelling reasons. Dr. Broszat had been following The Girls’ search for survivors since they took over that duty from their mother, Florence. He was even aware of my going on those trips to Europe, where I did puzzles on the floors of libraries and records offices. In the set of photos was one of me in a graveyard in Prague, sitting on a blanket and eating a pastry. Millicent was behind me, doing a rubbing of a Jewish headstone. The photo was taken with a telephoto lens and I couldn’t tell whose gravestone it was and I didn’t remember it at all. I looked about six in the photo.