They’d abandoned him. And it was when he forced himself to sit in silence at the big, empty kitchen table that he missed them the most.
He reached for his bottle of Jim Beam, which seldom left his side these days. When he was at home, he carried it around with him, the bottle dangling morosely from listless fingers. At work, it was often stashed in his briefcase or his desk, or sometimes in a small flask in his pocket.
He and Jim were old friends. In fact, he’d say Jimmy-boy was the most faithful friend he had. They’d met during Eddie’s college years and had been practically inseparable since, even though others had tried to tear them apart. They’d gone through good times and bad together—the bad coming mostly when Eddie tried to kick Jim out of his life. Usually at his wife’s insistence.
But he’d never left his friend behind for long, always crawling back to the bottle when things got tough. Jim had taken the sting off the disappointment he’d felt over the years when his job had gone nowhere, when the bills had piled up, when his wife had been a cunt and his daughters little bitches and his son a long-haired punk. Jim had always been there.
Now that he and Jim were the only ones at the table, though, he couldn’t help thinking back to those days before Allie had walked out on him, claiming she couldn’t be with a man too weak to give up something that was killing him. Ha. That had been the excuse, but he didn’t believe it. She’d hooked up with that rich asshole she was now married too pretty damn fast. She’d probably been cheating on him all along.
Before that, though, when his son was a toddler and the girls were still in pigtails, sitting around the dinner table with his family had been the best part of each and every day. The girls would giggle and pretend to eat their peas. Eddie would beg his dad to take him out and push him on the swing after dinner. Allie would smile at him from across the table, silently affirming with him that life was so very good.
And it had been.
Right up until that bitch had walked out and taken their kids with her, leaving him this chair, this table, and his old buddy Jim.
“Screw her, right my friend?” he mumbled, lifting the bottle to his mouth and taking a deep swig. He was thirsty, having just arrived home from work, dealing with the stress of being a government accountant. A desk jockey, a numbers cruncher, he would never go any higher than he was right now, and the weight of that bitter disappointment sometimes crushed him when he added it to all the other woes of his life.
He stared down at the plate in front of them. It contained a slice of pizza—hard after being reheated in the microwave—and some canned peas. He couldn’t say why the two belonged together, but he’d eat them all the same. He just always had a pantry full of canned peas, stocking up whenever he went to the grocery store, and he always reached for those cans when making himself something to eat.
‘Cause Daddy eats the peas.
He’d always let the girls pretend to sneak their own onto his plate, as if he and Allie didn’t see them do it every time. Once little Eddie had gotten big enough, they’d thought they could get him to help out, too, as if the boys in the family would automatically do the nasty stuff like eating peas. Their little brother had disabused them of that notion, and had quickly become adept at shuffling-off his own unwanted vegetables until the pile on Eddie’s plate looked like it would reach as high as his chin.
He would make a big production about how he couldn’t understand how that pile just seemed to keep getting bigger, and how lucky it was that he liked peas. The girls would argue that they weren’t really peas, they were cranberries, or small cherries, giggling as always over the fact that he was color-blind. He’d shovel them on down, pretend to be outraged that he’d been fed peas instead of berries, and they would howl with laughter.
“Daddy always eats the peas,” he muttered, scooping up a forkful of the things and shoving them into his mouth.
They tasted lousy—tinny, smooshy. They were also a little salty, though whether that was from processing or because he’d been crying onto his plate again, he honestly couldn’t say.
All his food tasted salty lately. Salty and bitter.
He dropped his fork onto the table, wincing at the clatter. His head hurt. It always hurt these days, the silence in the once laughter-filled air making his temples throb. Reaching for the bottle, he brought it to his mouth and gulped greedily, needing something familiar, something loved.
Warmth in the mouth, heat in the throat, fire in the gut. Every sensation welcomed and familiar.
Unlike this stupid table.
Tempted to grab his fork and smash the tines into the smooth wood, which Allie used to so lovingly polish every week, he hesitated when he felt a rush of warmth against his back. Richmond had been in the grip of a heat wave since late June, like the rest of the mid-Atlantic region, so the air conditioning was always running. He always kept it set on a nearly frigid temperature, figuring if she wasn’t here to bitch about the electric bills, he might as well enjoy himself.
So where had that warmth come from?
He wondered if somehow the French doors that led from the dining room out onto the patio had drifted open. That seemed impossible, of course. He rarely went into the back yard anymore, not able to stand seeing the old swingset with its now creaky, rusty chains. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d opened the heavy privacy blinds that hung over that door, much less unlocked it.
Pushing back from the table so he could go check, he hesitated when he heard the familiar squeak of a floorboard in the hallway.
“Allie?” he called, the word leaving his lips before his brain had even formulated it. “Little Eddie?”
He spun around toward the hallway, excitement building in him, even as the Jim Beam swooshed with the peas and pizza in his stomach, threatening to come back up.
That was okay. If he got sick, Allie would help him. One of the girls would get a cold cloth for his head. Another would run for the mop.
“Girls?”
The interior of the house was shadowy; the only things moving other than himself were the dust motes swimming in the stale air. Though it was barely seven p.m., the interior was quite dark. He usually kept the curtains closed, wanting his privacy, just in case anybody should come by. He had a lot of privacy anyway, of course, since the house was in the country in a sparsely populated area. The kids had loved that when they were little and had enjoyed running around in the woods, but had complained incessantly about it as teenagers. Occasionally, delivery people would come by, or a hiker from the nearby state park would tromp through the yard, taking a shortcut between the campground and a nearby lake.
Now, though, there was no-one here. He was entirely alone, and had been, every single day for a very long time.
“Except for you, friend,” he said, lifting the bottle again.
He tilted his head back, and the bottle up, and began to swallow, and gulp, and drain every drop. The liquor hit his system hard, making the ceiling above him look like it was spinning. He wondered if it would spin for the Dr. Frankensteins at the lab who looked at the images from the crazy camera in his head. Or would they just see the ceiling, white, with the crown molding Allie had insisted on, all normal. Normal—and pulling away.
He was falling. Flat onto his back. He hit the wooden floor with a thud, knocking the wind out of himself and banging his head but good. He’d leaned back so far his feet had slipped out from under him and like some kind of old, useless drunk, he’d fallen on his ass.
Eddie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Then he saw something that gave him a third option.
A black-cloaked figure stood above him, shapeless, mysterious, blending in with the shadows in the hall. In each hand, he held sharp objects, wicked and gleaming, meant for something deadly and violent.
Eddie tried to scream.
Tried. But failed.
Chapter 15
Although Philip Tate made it very clear he wanted to take her back to his home to cook for her hi
mself, Ronnie made it equally clear that a steak restaurant would do her just fine. Then he tried to choose the place. Still in uniform, with had no intention of going home to change into something more suitable for the kind of swanky joints he probably frequented, she insisted on a chain restaurant near her home. He literally winced when he saw the big, brightly-lit, mooing cow on the sign out front.
“Believe me, this wasn’t what I had in mind when I extended the invitation,” he said as they followed a waitress, winding around a sea of crowded tables.
“Don’t let the ambiance—or lack thereof—fool you. The food’s great.”
They reached the table and he held out a chair for her. “I think the company is more important than the menu,” he said, that charming, flirtatious tone saying he fully expected her to simper or blush or some girly bullshit like that.
Ronnie didn’t simper. She didn’t blush. And she was never girly.
So as soon as the man took his seat opposite her, she cut to the chase and brought up the subject he’d obviously been avoiding since the moment they’d parted ways with Sykes back in the parking lot of the research facility.
“Why did you really seek me out tonight, Mr. Tate? Do you have some information to share with me?”
He flinched, obviously not used to the direct approach. “Philip, please.”
“Okay, Philip. Why are we here?”
“Because you dragged me to this place.”
“I meant, why did you ask me out.”
“Can’t I just have been interested in getting to know you better?”
“Come on, we both know I’m not your type.”
His expression grew wary. “How do you know my type?”
“I met your type, remember? Your golfing buddy?”
If he’d had a drink in his hand, he probably would have spilled it all over himself. She couldn’t help thinking that if he was that far in the closet, the man had more serious problems than being spoiled.
“I…how…”
“Seriously? You talk a good game, but it’s pretty obvious.”
He appeared stunned. “You’re incredibly observant,” he muttered. “I mean, almost nobody knows.”
“Let me guess, your father wouldn’t approve?”
“He’s very…sheltered. And old-fashioned.”
Considering gay marriage was pretty commonplace everywhere in the country nowadays, she had to imagine Phineas Tate’s sensibilities leaned toward the Victorian. Still, he seemed like a loving parent. She wondered if his son was doing him a disservice by assuming he knew how his father would react.
“It’s just easier this way, to, you know, play the role.”
“Of slimy playboy?”
Philip shrugged, looking both sheepish and a little apologetic. When he wasn’t being flirtatious and smarmy, she found him a bit more likable. Too bad Philip played his role well enough to prevent people from getting to know the real him. She suspected he might be a halfway decent guy beneath the shell.
“So, tell me why you wanted to talk to me.”
He began to speak, then paused as a waitress came to take their order. When he looked at a loss to interpret the menu, Ronnie ordered for both of them. “Two Big Bertha Specials. Show mine the front of the grill to make it break out in a sweat, then slap it on a plate. His…”
“Uh, rare also?” he said, looking as though he didn’t know whether to laugh or sneak out.
“Gotcha hon,” the waitress said, snapping her gum before sauntering away.
“Now,” she said the moment they were alone again. “Tell me. Is this about the deaths I asked you about? Of the program participants?”
Tate reached for his water glass, eyed it as if to make sure it wasn’t contaminated, then sipped from it. Swallowing, he mumbled, “You were right.”
“I know. There have been six deaths, haven’t there?”
“Yes. Six. From all over the country.” He clenched his hands on the table top, lacing his fingers together. “I had no idea, truly.”
“How did they die?”
“I don’t know. The notations on their files say ‘of natural causes’ but when I try to go deeper into their records, I can’t find anything. I guess when they died they were just eliminated from the program and their files locked up.”
“Mr. Tate—Philip—is there any way you can look into this for me, try to find out what you can about how they died? It just doesn’t make sense that six healthy, young adults who are all connected to this program would die so soon after implantation. It’s possible our suspect had something to do with those deaths, that he made them look like something other than murder.”
Philip nodded slowly. “I’ll try, but only on one condition.”
She tensed. “What’s that?”
“Please don’t say anything to my father about this.”
“Surely he already knows these men have died.”
“I mean, about your suspicions that they might have died because of their involvement with the program.” Tate’s shoulders slumped, he suddenly looked weary and a little sad. “He’s a noble man, Detective Sloan. He had dreams of saving people’s memories, preserving their dignity.”
Dreams that had been yanked away because his son had pushed him to go for the fast buck. Not that she was about to say that. She suspected the younger Tate’s guilt already ate at him.
“It’s bothering him terribly to think Ms. Carr and Mr. Underwood were targeted because they’d agreed to test the implants. If he finds out there may have been several more victims, it could crush him.”
Funny, that didn’t sound like a man concerned about his business or his bottom line. He sounded genuinely concerned about his elderly father.
Her estimation of Philip Tate going up another notch, she nodded her agreement. “I’ll do what I…”
The rest of her words were cut off by the loud jangle of her phone. She usually turned it off when dining out, but considering she was working a case, hadn’t done so tonight.
“I’m sorry,” she told him, glancing at the screen. “It’s Special Agent Sykes.”
“Boyfriend’s checking up on you, is he?” Tate said, teasing her like they were old friends.
She frowned. “He’s not…look, let me go take this in the vestibule. I hate people who talk on phones in restaurants.”
He nodded and said, “I’ll try not to eat your Big Bertha while you’re gone.”
Walking away from the tables, she connected the call and lifted the phone to her ear. “Jeez, Sykes, I haven’t even had my salad yet.”
“Ronnie, I need you.”
Her heart flipped. “What is it?”
“There’s been another murder.”
Oh, hell.
“I just got a call from one of Dr. Tate’s people. Richmond Police contacted them to tell them a Virginia man was found dead in his home.”
“Was he a…”
“Yes. His data chip i.d.’d him as an O.E.P. participant.” Sykes paused, then added, “He’d been decapitated.”
God. Another one. That made the third murder this week; there had been one every other day. This killer was ruthless and relentless, like nothing she’d ever experienced in her career. From D.C. to Philadelphia to Richmond. He had a nice little killing field going on, with plenty of potential victims. After all, those three cities had a lot of high-level government workers and contractors with top secret clearances that would have made them ripe for the program. She didn’t know how many of the five-thousand test subjects lived in this geographical region, but she’d suspect it was a large percentage.
D.C. was a perfect location, an easy ninety minute drive south to Richmond. An hour in the opposite direction to Baltimore, another hour to Wilmington. Forty-five minutes further to Philadelphia. Then straight up to New York City. The I-95 corridor was like a death route for anybody targeting victims in the biggest metropolitan centers on the eastern seaboard.
“Sloan? I assume you want to come down to Richmond with me?”<
br />
“Absolutely,” she told him. Remembering how he often traveled, though, she added, “But I really don’t like helicopters. It’s not far—can we drive it?”
“That’s fine. I’ll pick you up at your place in a half-hour.”
-#-
During the drive down from D.C., Ronnie learned all she could about the new murder from Sykes. He, meanwhile, pressed her for information about her abbreviated dinner with Philip Tate. She kept telling herself it was just because he wanted to know what she’d learned about the case. But something about his stiff jaw, highlighted by the low lighting of the dashboard and the passing headlights of oncoming cars, made her question that.
So, after she’d told him what Tate had revealed about the six deaths, she added one more thing. “He’s in the closet, by the way. But keep that under wraps.”
Sykes took his eyes off the road to gape at her. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“But, he was practically all over you,” he snapped, acting like he didn’t believe it.
“Guess he was on the prowl for a new beard. Seriously, he’s so used to hiding who he really is, I’m not sure even he knows what he wants. But it’s definitely not anything with a vagina.”
A horn blared and Sykes jerked the wheel to straighten out the slightly-drifting car.
“Would you please pay attention to the road now and drop this gotta-protect-Ronnie’s-virtue act? Because, believe me, I can look out for myself.”
A laugh burst from his mouth, but he kept his eyes front. “Protecting your virtue? That’s what you thought I was doing?”
“Something like that.”
“Bullshit. It wasn’t your virtue I was worried about, it was my own sanity.”
Not understanding, she merely tilted her head in confusion.
“The dude’s rich, good-looking and a player.”
He might be those things, but he couldn’t hold a candle to the man sitting next to her. Not that she was about tell him that.
“I was jealous as hell.”
Don't Look Away (Veronica Sloan) Page 24