Farewell to Dreams: A Novel of Fatal Insomnia
Page 17
Surely this was about more than a little shove?
“Detective Ryder, is this true?” the deputy chief demanded.
Ryder wasn’t about to lie, not even to save his job. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to explain his actions to these assholes. “Yes, sir.”
“Perhaps it would be best for all concerned if Detective Ryder confined his investigation to a less active role, such as interviewing witnesses? After all, we wouldn’t want the city to have to deal with any liability issues,” Daniel Kingston said after giving his son a look Ryder wished he could interpret. Part disgust, part suspicion, and part… fear? Was it Daniel Kingston who didn’t want Ryder back in those tunnels or his son?
Every instinct that had kept him alive during three tours in Afghanistan was now screaming at high alert. Ozzie, standing beside him, made a low sound, his fur rippling, corrugated by an unseen wind. Ryder said nothing, instead focused on the non-verbal interplay going on around him.
The deputy chief, as usual, was clueless to anything except saving his own ass. “Detective Ryder, you’ll start your new assignment with the Advocacy Center effective immediately. Which means that you no longer have any business on this crime scene.” He gestured to Petrosky, who stood nearby. “Please escort Detective Ryder and his dog,” he gave Ozzie a dirty look that the dog returned by baring his teeth, “beyond the barricades.”
Ryder gave them a nod, turned smartly on his heel, and left, Ozzie at his side. He trusted the dog to guard his back more than anyone else there.
“The Tower is your primary beat?” Ryder asked Petrosky as they worked their way through the throng to his car.
“Yep. Community policing and all that. Why?”
“Any strange activity lately? Kids gone missing?”
“Missing? No. We had a few runaways right after school started, but none since. Too cold at night. Brings them to their senses, and they head back home.”
So not only were the seven kids not reported as missing, there was no unusual talk about them. Ryder glanced up at the Tower. His gait wobbled the slightest bit, as if instead of being safely home in Pennsylvania, he had one foot still back in Paktika.
“What’s the deal with Leo Kingston and Tyree Willard? Why would the son of the most powerful man in the city give a shit about a low-rent pimp and drug dealer?”
Petrosky shrugged, but her posture tensed and her pace picked up. Like she didn’t want to be answering questions. Or maybe she just didn’t want to be associated with a detective whose career was taking a sudden meteoric fall from grace. “Leo has a few possession busts, meth and cocaine, scores from Tyree. And Tyree and the old man have always been tight.”
“What do you mean?”
“Other than the gangbangers, most of the residents in the Tower are single moms and their kids. Back in the day, we’re talking twenty, thirty years ago, Daniel Kingston liked to make sure they knew their place so that nobody gave him any trouble.”
Ryder stopped, not sure he understood. Waited.
Petrosky didn’t turn back, but she did slow down. “Kingston used to come visit—anyone who gave him grief, didn’t pay the extra ‘rent’ he charged for protection, tried to organize folks into protesting the conditions—anyone he thought was a troublemaker, he’d visit their family. Personally. Especially liked to spend time with the women. Would pick one, make a special example of her to keep the rest in line.”
“What’s that got to do with Tyree?”
“Story goes, Kingston handpicked Tyree to lead the Royales. It’s been over twenty years since the old man has been back, but he still keeps a tight grip on things over there. Sentimental reasons, I guess.”
“I thought Tyree ran the Tower.”
She shrugged. “Tyree might run the place, but it’s Kingston who owns it. In every sense of the word.”
Maybe it was Tyree who’d gotten the search shut down and persuaded the Kingstons to get Ryder kicked off his own crime scene. Tyree had damn good reason to keep Ryder out of those tunnels—at least until he had time to finish covering his tracks and moving his drug operations. Did that mean he knew where Esme was and was hiding her until he could deal with her mother’s killer?
Petrosky left Ryder at his car. He turned back, staring up at the Tower, lights scattered across its gloomy countenance—most of them on the top floor and roof, Tyree Willard’s domain. Ryder squinted through the dark as a curtain of fog flowed across the Tower’s lights, obscuring them, burying their secrets in its haze.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A hand touched my shoulder, and I opened my eyes, half-expecting to see Ryder or Father Vance. But it was Devon Price. He stood with his back to the altar, the crucifix hanging directly over his left shoulder, aimed at his heart.
“You okay?” he asked. “Having another one of your spells?”
I cringed. He was much more comfortable with my problem than I was. “No.” I could tell he saw through my lie but was kind enough to allow me the dignity of denial. “Any word on Esme?”
“No.” He sank into the pew beside me. “Figured it was best to start at the beginning. Was on my way back to the Tower when I saw you come in here and had an idea.”
“What?” I asked, wondering at his vagueness. The Devon I’d come to know was nothing if not direct. Part of why I liked him. “Will it help find Esme?”
“I hope so.” He slid from the pew, and I followed. Funny how we both bobbed and caught ourselves halfway through the sign of the cross as we left the pew—two sinners, fallen from grace.
Devon noticed as well. “How long has it been for you?”
“Twenty-two years. How about you?”
“Almost eleven.” He stopped, looking up at the stained-glass windows depicting St. Timothy’s martyrdom. Devon barely glanced at the one of St. Tim smiling down on us benevolently, preferring the more ferocious images of the stoning. “This place was like home. When things got too bad. Jess and I…” Sorrow shuttered his face.
“Did you go to school here as well?”
He nodded. “Had a scholarship. Most from the Tower never come here. Think the Church is thumbing its nose at them, all gold and silk when they’re fighting for food and running water and heat in the winter. Nice to know Kingston finally cleaned up his act.”
“What do you mean?”
“Inside the Tower. Outside, it looks as bad as ever. But inside, it seems like things are a little better. Folks taking pride in where they live instead of using it like a urinal. Tyree made it sound like he forced Kingston to fix things up, but that doesn’t sound like Tyree. My money’s on the women. After all, it’s them that take care of this place.” He nodded to the immaculate altar with its embroidered silk drapes and shiny gold candlesticks. “Mrs. Anders, she used to drag me here at least twice a week on top of the Mass we attended every morning as part of school. Said I had the devil in me, needed an extra dose of Jesus.”
I nodded, remembering that daily parade from the school on the other side of St. Tim’s into the church. God help you if you straggled or whispered or stepped out of line. “I went to St. Tim’s, too. Would have been a few years ahead of you.”
His gaze was still lost among the stained glass above us. In the darkness, the saints glowered down on us, ignoring poor St. Tim as he was stoned to death. “Always swore I’d never be him. That I’d fight back.”
“That’s what I told myself as well.”
Devon gave himself a shake and dredged up a tired smile for me. “Guess we both got the devil in us.”
He had no idea. But I smiled back at him. Felt a little less tired and uncertain, even though nothing had changed.
We made it to the front vestibule. “You know how you said you could read that girl’s mind? Could you do that again?”
“That’s your idea?” I stopped, afraid to look at him—afraid of how I looked to him. “I don’t read minds. I’m not sure what happened, just somehow we were…together.”
“Whatever. Could you do it again?�
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Damn, he was stubborn.
“No. I don’t know.” Embarrassment flushed my cheeks. Last thing I wanted was to explore my newfound craziness. “Maybe. But only certain minds.”
“What kind of minds?”
“People in comas.” Before I could lose my nerve, I quickly told him about Patrice and Mrs. Kowacz. And about my other spells, the ones that seemed to be triggered by extreme emotions and adrenaline. To my relief, he listened without judgment. Instead, he accepted what I could do—more so than I did myself. I didn’t feel anything like acceptance. What I felt was terror. Pure, kick-in-the-gut terror.
“That’s how you knew where to find Esme? And those kids? Can you make it happen again? Use it to find her now?”
“That’s the problem. According to medical science, this is impossible.”
“But you knew where Esme was when we were down in the tunnels. You were right about that. And that old lady’s wedding ring.” He paced across the marble floor of the vestibule, head swinging as he considered all the angles. He reminded me of Ryder right then, a warrior preparing for battle. “Maybe when you get frozen—”
“Fugues. I decided to call them fugues.” It was a small, gentle word. Shades of Bach and chords of organ music rather than nerve-jangling panic.
“Fugues, whatever. Maybe somehow your brainwaves match the coma patient’s? Like you’re on their wavelength so you can hear what they’re thinking?”
“Maybe the moon is made of green cheese and magnets cure cancer. I’m a doctor—this is all impossible.” Leaning against the thick wall, I closed my eyes, trying to wish him, the world away. No such luck. “Maybe I’m the one in a coma, and you all are just a hallucination.”
“Damn strange hallucination.” A smile edged across his lips. “But if so, this hallucination is very grateful you found Esme. Even if we lost her again.” He hesitated, and I knew what he was going to ask.
“You want me to try again with Jane Doe.” The girl currently in the ICU, fighting for her life.
“Maybe once the drugs are out of her system, she can tell us what happened. Then we might know who took Esme.”
He made it sound so logical. Easy. But I remembered the pain, the terror that had overwhelmed me when I’d touched Jane Doe the first time. Wasn’t sure I could face that again.
Devon didn’t give me a chance to voice my misgivings. He held the door open and together we left the church. A large man was jogging up the steps, his gaze on Devon.
“Harold,” Devon said. “What’s the news?”
“Esme’s not in the Tower. The cops are withdrawing from the tunnels. We’ll look there next.”
“Wait,” I said. “The cops finished searching the tunnels already?”
The man looked from me to Devon, a question in his eyes.
“She’s okay,” Devon vouched for me. “Harold, this is Dr. Rossi. She’s helping.”
Harold favored me with an appraising gaze followed by a nod. “Pleasure. The cops didn’t finish their search. Kingston sent them away until they can get more manpower and equipment. Best I can tell, we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
“Don’t count on it,” Devon grumbled. “Tyree will have men back down there guarding his stash. Kingston is obviously using the tunnels for something as well, given the supplies we saw. He’s involved in all this, but I’m not sure how. There might be some other unfriendlies, so tell the men to be careful.”
“Where are you going to be?” A hint of concern entered Harold’s voice.
“Good Samaritan. There’s someone there we need to talk to,” Devon said.
I hadn’t agreed to try to communicate with Jane Doe, but I followed him down the steps and headed toward the hospital. It was either that or walk to my uncle’s place alone and face my family.
I wasn’t sure which would be more painful.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ryder drove around the block, parked across the street from St. Timothy’s school, and studied the maps of the tunnels he’d added to his cell phone, courtesy of Gator Guy and the Fire Department. The .jpegs were a bit blurred around the edges where the flash washed out, but he’d added enough overlap that he had a pretty clear idea of the layout.
Ozzie sat in the passenger seat, nose pressed against the window, giving out the occasional sigh. Impatient with his new human, no doubt. Ryder scratched him between the shoulder blades. “I know you miss her. We’re going to find her.”
The dog turned his head, meeting Ryder’s gaze and nodding his head solemnly, as if accepting Ryder’s promise and etching it into his memory.
Ryder put the car back in gear and pulled away from the curb. Christ, now he was talking to a dog. Not to mention sneaking back onto the crime scene he’d just been ejected from. The entrance below Good Sam’s ER still looked like his best bet. He parked near the Good Sam ambulance bay and got the dog out.
This wasn’t a good idea, wasn’t even good enough to be a bad idea, but it was the only one he had.
“You ready?”
The dog wagged his tail and started for the door. Ryder followed.
<<<>>>
“Why did you think Daniel Kingston might be involved in all this?” I asked as Devon and I walked toward Good Sam. “You said he was hiding something in the tunnels.”
Devon’s jaw began working like a dog gnawing the meat off a bone. “Everything bad that’s happened around here, he’s responsible for. Daniel Kingston destroyed my mother.”
That brought me up short. “What happened?”
“She and some of the other women were protesting the conditions in the Tower. My mother organized the women. They even marched over to Kingston’s office, delivered a petition. Kingston decided to make an example of her.”
His fists bunched, elbows drawn back, ready to hit something. But he forced his hands open, making a flinging motion as if he was throwing something away. “He left her half-dead the first time. The other women nursed her back to health. But Kingston wouldn’t leave her alone. He was obsessed with her, I think because she never gave up fighting. Day or night, you never knew, he’d just show up, take her away. And when she came back…”
“Why didn’t she go to the police?” I asked. The Advocacy Center had been created to help victims like Devon’s mother, but it was only seven years old. The abuse he was reporting would have happened over twenty-five years ago. “If she’d spoken up—”
“She would have been branded a snitch and killed,” he said. “Not like anyone would have taken her word over Daniel Kingston’s anyway. He may not have been as rich back then, but the Kingston family name was just as powerful as it is now.”
He paused, drawing in a breath that had more sharp edges than the broken glass lining the gutter beside us. “It went on for years. He’d leave her be for months at a time, but then, he always came back. My earliest memories are her hushing me, putting me in the hall closet with my crayons and books, telling me to stay there until she came to get me. But I could hear. The screaming and hitting. I’d smell the blood. The things he’d do to her, make her do. But she always fought back. She never surrendered to him.
“The other women took care of her, pretty much raised me. Said she was their hero, would tell stories about her standing up to Kingston, but really, they were protecting themselves. As long as Kingston came after her, he was leaving them and theirs in peace. I didn’t figure that out until I was a lot older, and she was already gone.”
The lights of Good Sam were visible. But Devon didn’t seem to notice, lost in his memories. I had the feeling I was the first person he’d told the story to. And that he needed someone to share it with.
“What happened?”
“I wish I had a picture of her to show you. What she was like before he broke her. It was as if she had this glow about her, more than just being pretty or beautiful—”
He kicked a stray rock into the gutter. “By the time I was eight, she was dead inside. Didn’t recognize me anymore. But still w
hen he showed up, the light would come to her eyes—only time she was alive was when she was fighting him. The rest of the time, she was a zombie. Could barely feed herself. And then,” he shrugged, heaving the weight of memory aside, “she was gone. Good as dead—in a coma after a hot shot of heroin. All because of Kingston.”
“You think Patrice and Jess were doing something Kingston didn’t like and he targeted them like he did your mom?” Surely a rich man with connections like Kingston’s could find a more effective way to deal with people who got in his way.
“Or he got Tyree to do his dirty work for him. Who knows?” Devon’s tone was bitter, making him sound young. Then he straightened, eyes wide. “Maybe Kingston knew Jess called me. Maybe he knew I was coming back for her and Esme.”
“Why would that make Kingston want to kill them?”
“Because he hates me. He’d gladly destroy me and everyone I love.”
“Why?”
He shook his head as if remembering the punch line to an old joke. A smile played across his lips, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was a smile filled with contempt and dark promises. “Kingston hates me because I’m his son.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Devon didn’t wait for Angela’s response. Instead, he forced a laugh. “Yep. Someday, all this,” he swung his hand around to indicate the ravaged blocks between them and the Tower, “could be mine. Well, part mine. Leo was born a few years before me, so he’s entitled to half.”
Despite his joking tone, inside he steeled himself for battle. Retreating behind locked doors, barricading his secrets. He’d told Angela only part of the story, but what if he was right and Jess had died because she’d asked him to come home?
When would he learn? All he brought to anyone he loved was pain. First, his mother, just by his existence, a constant reminder of what Daniel Kingston had taken from her. Then Jess, lovely Jess, her beauty destroyed by Devon’s love. And now Esme at risk.