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Farewell to Dreams: A Novel of Fatal Insomnia

Page 21

by CJ Lyons


  Ryder turned to stare at me. “No shit. So we have a tie to our actor’s stalking ground, the tunnels where the victims might have been held, and now to a drug company complete with access to the chemicals needed to manufacture PXA?”

  “Wouldn’t go that far. The company’s based in Ireland, hasn’t moved here yet, so it’s not like Daniel Kingston actually has easy access. Plus, any good high school chemistry lab would have the chemicals needed to make PXA. It’s all circumstantial, not enough for trial or even a search warrant,” I reminded him. Living with Jacob and working with him on so many cases, I’d become pretty well versed in the rules of evidence. Which is why I hadn’t brought up Narcis Pharmaceuticals earlier. Jacob would have read us chapter and verse on proper procedure. I had a feeling Ryder might not be as worried about playing by the rules.

  “Warrant, smwarrant,” he scoffed, affirming my instincts. “Right now, I don’t have enough to go on to even think about a warrant. I need a direction to take the investigation. Sounds like Kingston might fit the bill.”

  “Or maybe you just don’t like the man.”

  “Maybe I don’t like the man because I have damned good instincts.”

  “Better watch it or those instincts are going to get you fired for real.”

  We approached the sidewalk leading to the Tower’s main entrance. A gaggle of boys and young men lounged around the front steps, blocking the path. Ryder stopped at the edge of the walk and gestured to the nearest, a scrawny kid underdressed for the predawn chill in a windbreaker and Nike T-shirt. He jumped up and ran over to us as if he was a doorman greeting a limo.

  Ozzie barked at him once, a friendly warning. He gave the dog a mock salute, and I noticed a zigzag-shaped scar on the back of his right hand—the mark of the Royales. Tyree didn’t believe in tattoos for his loyal subjects, too easy to remove or fake. Once you were a member of the Royales, you were branded for life.

  It made me think about the brand we’d found on each of the rape victims and Allie. It wasn’t the same shape as the Royales’ crown, though. The brand my victims had was larger, more rounded. I wondered if Tyree’s prostitutes also got branded. The thought made me shudder, the idea of him treating girls like cattle. It would explain why Patrice and Jess had been helping them escape.

  Would Tyree kill his own sister? He’d seemed genuinely worried about Esme down in the tunnels, but maybe he was mainly concerned that she’d tell the police he had murdered Jess and Patrice.

  Maybe their murders had nothing to do with the sexual assaults? And where did our other victims, the seven kids we’d found with Allie, fit in to things? Any answers were hidden in a thick fog I was too exhausted to fight through.

  Ryder said something, the boy took off at a saunter and returned a few minutes later with an older boy in his late teens. Same crown-inspired brand on his hand, more attitude and gold around his neck. “Y’all want to see the Syha family?” he drawled, talking around a toothpick in his mouth. “Not without Tyree’s say-so. We’re in lockdown.”

  “You can’t do that,” I blurted out, much to his amusement. He looked down his nose at me then slid his glance to Ryder, implying that Ryder wasn’t much of a man if he couldn’t keep his woman in check. Ozzie took a step forward, poised to rush inside with me. “I’m going to see that family, and you can’t stop me.”

  It was Ryder, not the kid, who grabbed my arm, his grip strong enough to hold me in place before I could try to bolt past the Royales.

  “You know Doc Rossi from Good Sam,” he said, his tone matching the kid’s exactly. Not threatening, no edge, just a couple of dudes talking. “You probably want to stay on her good side. Never know when you might be needing her services. Why don’t you call up to Tyree and tell him if he doesn’t open those doors in two minutes, none of his people will be welcome at Good Sam again.”

  The kid clamped down on his toothpick, considering, then rolled back on his heels and shrugged. “Aw ’ight. But he ain’t gonna like it.”

  He turned away and pulled out a cell phone.

  “You know we’d never refuse to treat anyone,” I whispered to Ryder. “Why not threaten him with your men?”

  “Tyree deals with threats from cops five times before breakfast. You’re a wild card. He doesn’t know if you’d follow through on the threat or not. And with you, he can give in and make it seem like a joke, so he won’t lose face.”

  “Oh, so I get patronized by a drug-dealing gang leader pimp, and we’re worried about him saving face?”

  “Yep. Hey, you’re the one wanted to come along.”

  That shut me up.

  The kid returned, grinning. “You’re in. Tyree’s granting you an audience.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  We were escorted inside the Tower. Devon had been right. The inside was clean, in decent repair, except for the fact that only one elevator seemed to work. The Royale accompanying us was joined by another member, this one carrying a gun prominently displayed at his belt. Together, we traveled up to the roof. The men kept looking me up and down then smirking at Ryder.

  Ryder smirked right back. I ignored them all.

  Not because I can’t take a joke—although juvenile misogyny isn’t my idea of humor—but now that we were inside and I saw how many Royales were between us and the exit, I was too busy analyzing the possibilities of us not making it back out again. Ozzie felt it as well, crowding his body against my leg, the leash as taut as it would go in the tiny area, ready to lunge into action.

  I flicked my gaze to Ryder, who stood to my right and behind me, and saw that despite his smirk, he’d elbowed his coat back, resting his hand on the butt of his gun. Not that a gun would do us much good in the elevator.

  The elevator lurched to a stop, and the doors slid open. One of the Royales sprang forward, bracing his back against the door, gesturing for me to exit as if he were a palace guard. “Ladies first.”

  It would have been more charming without the gold cap etched with a reclining playboy silhouette and the “beg for it, bitch” tattoo on his arm.

  I crossed the threshold, not surprised when he turned to block Ryder’s path. “Tyree wants a private audience with the doc.”

  Trying to look casual, like I did this every day, I turned around. “That works for me.”

  Ryder’s smirk barely wavered as he met my gaze and gave me the slightest nod. “No problem.” He slammed his palm against the control panel. “As long as the door stays open.”

  The younger one frowned and opened his mouth to protest, his elbow drawing back, clearing his way to his gun. The older one shook his head. “Chill.”

  He inclined his chin to Ryder, cementing the pact, and turned to escort me and Ozzie to meet Tyree. As I crossed the open space lined with red velvet, curiosity trumped my fear. I’d treated so many patients who lived here in the Tower, who kowtowed to Tyree and his gang every day, but I’d never been inside before. Much less had access to Tyree’s private rooftop sanctuary.

  The man had spent the last twenty years running a criminal enterprise, staying ahead of the police and his competition, so I knew better than to underestimate him, but his tastes definitely skewed more porn-obsessed juvenile delinquent than what I imagined for a underworld kingpin. Of course, this is Cambria—not too many kingpin role models for a young gangster to emulate.

  The two scantily clad girls kneeling on either side of Tyree’s “throne,” facing him, looking eager to anticipate his every wish, didn’t raise my opinion. He was talking to someone on the phone as I approached. With the slightest flick of his finger or gaze, people from the sidelines hurried to his side, conferring in whispers or pulling up information on the sleek laptop that graced his otherwise empty desk. Donald Trump would have been proud.

  He hung up as Ozzie and I arrived at the large mahogany desk. I ignored the jealous stares of the two women kneeling beside him.

  Unsure if he wanted his people to know about his earlier forays into the tunnels, I decided to play it safe. “
It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Willard.”

  He pushed his chair back and stood, taking my hand and shaking it like an equal. “Welcome, Dr. Rossi.”

  Two men arrived and whisked the girls away, along with everyone else who stood near, leaving me and Tyree alone. Except for Ozzie, of course. The dog obviously knew Tyree, but he didn’t relax. I glanced over my shoulder. At the far end of the makeshift room, Ryder slumped casually against the wall of the elevator, but his hand was near his gun, and his gaze targeted Tyree.

  Once we were alone, Tyree turned his back on Ryder and his guards to look out the windows at the rooftops jumbled beyond. From here we could see all the way to the river, the view framed by Good Sam rising up from the darkness on the right and the angular lines of a Victorian-inspired rooftop greenhouse on the other wing of the Tower to our left.

  The greenhouse was totally out of place on top of this concrete slab that had become a prison to so many. Lit by a strange red glow, it reminded me of St. Tim’s, the way the candlelight inside the church transformed stained glass into devil’s eyes.

  “Heaters,” Tyree said, noting my stare. “For the plants. They don’t like the cold.” He turned to face the greenhouse as well. “You know, when Kingston first designed this place, he won awards. One of the first green roofs used in urban development. The community garden was meant to feed hundreds, just as the rooftop playground was meant to give the kids who lived here a safe and secure environment, far away from street gangs below. It was his pride and joy back then, put Kingston Enterprises back on the map.” His chuckle was a throaty rumble.

  “What happened?”

  “Usual. Funding dried up, leaving everything half-done. We’re standing on the playground.” He gestured to the space surrounding us that had become his royal court. “Only part of Kingston’s vision that actually became real was his greenhouse. Lovingly designed and built, modeled after the Victorian conservatory on the roof of his family mansion. Transplanted up here to the middle of Cambria City’s wasteland.” He winked at me. “Guess I don’t have to tell you what cash crop I grow in there nowadays.”

  “How much more time will you need?” I asked. Another gamble, but one that paid off when he turned and arched an eyebrow in my direction. “To finish prepping the Syha family, tell them what not to say to us.”

  He angled himself so that no one would see his grin except me. “Knew you’d be trouble. Any word on Esme?”

  “No. Sorry. While we’re waiting, maybe you could get me the list of the families of the other children. I’m sure they’re all from here.”

  “Our jobs are a lot alike. We both have to prioritize, do what we can with what little we have. Whatever it takes to protect our people.”

  “Finding Alamea Syha’s killer and whoever took those children isn’t a priority?”

  “Finding Esme is my priority. She’s the one at most risk. Isn’t that what you doctors call triage?”

  “You don’t think Allie’s death has anything to do with whoever took Esme?”

  His expression darkened. It took him a full exhalation and inhalation before his jaw unclenched enough to answer. “If it does, I’ll handle it. Once Esme’s safe.”

  “You know who killed Allie.” I had a feeling. “Did the same person take the other children?”

  He gave a little shake of his head, even though he didn’t answer my question. “Things aren’t what they seem, Doctor. Those children weren’t taken.”

  “What do you call being locked away in the dark?”

  “They were being protected.”

  “What about Allie? Was she being protected?”

  He pivoted on one foot, turning into my space so fast I almost took a step back. But I forced myself to hold my ground. Ozzie didn’t feel such constraints. He bared his teeth and growled at Tyree’s sudden movement. “It’s my job to protect my people—all my people—the best I can,” Tyree continued, ignoring the dog. “Sometimes compromises must be made. You may not understand why I do what I do, but don’t you dare come into my house and ever question my loyalty to my people.”

  It took effort, but I met his gaze. Nodded. “My job is to reunite those children with their families and make sure they’re safe. Are you going to help me with that?”

  A long moment passed. Neither of us blinked, but he settled his weight back, giving me room to breathe.

  “Will they be safe with their families?” I persisted.

  “I know you don’t believe me, but those children would have been better left where you found them. You put them in the foster care system and they’re good as dead.” He stretched his fingers out, as if resisting pulling them into a fist. “Bring them back here where they belong, and I can guarantee their safety. That good enough for you?”

  No. And it wouldn’t be good enough for Children’s Services, either. But I humored him. “For now. What about the Syhas? Are you going to help me and Ryder find Allie’s killer?” I was certain he knew who it was.

  Wasn’t surprised when he shrugged. “They’re free to tell you anything they can. As long as you let me know if you find anything that tells you where Esme is.”

  A bargain with the devil. I’d made worse. “Deal.”

  “Your boyfriend won’t like it.”

  “Ryder? He’s not—”

  He was shaking his head. “Not the cop. Devon. You were down there in the tunnels with him. What did he tell you?”

  Suddenly, I realized what all this playacting was about. More than stalling us from talking to Allie’s family, he wanted to know about Devon Price. Did he know Devon was Esme’s father?

  I played dumb. “Showed me where to find your booby traps. How to not get lost in the tunnels.”

  “He didn’t tell you anything about my sister, Jess? How it was his fault she went blind?”

  “No.”

  He twisted his lips together as if deciding whether to unlock a secret. “What did he say about me? About what his plans are?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Anger reddened his neck and climbed up his face. The veins crawling across his murderous thick biceps bulged. Not used to anyone challenging him, much less a woman, I guessed. The air behind us buzzed as his crew sensed his anger, a nest of hornets protecting their leader. Ozzie growled again, which didn’t help matters.

  “You treat a lot of people there in your ER,” he said.

  “Most of them from here.” Not the smartest answer, but somehow the more he tried to threaten me, the more relaxed I felt. As if the events of the night had depleted my adrenaline stores to the point where I felt no fear.

  Maybe not the best survival instinct.

  “You think I don’t know that?” he thundered. There was a collective gasp behind us, and someone must have rushed forward, but he waved them back with one finger. “We’re at war here, Doctor. You are standing on the front line. I protect my people the best I can, but the enemy is all around us.”

  “You think Devon is an enemy?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out.”

  “He’s only interested in saving Esme.”

  Tyree stared down at me again, his chin bobbing in time with the pulse jumping in his neck. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  “If I’m not?” Stupid question, but I couldn’t resist.

  “Then your ER had better stock up on body bags. And it will be all your fault.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Devon didn’t find Marcus Vance at the rectory. Instead, he found the priest inside the church, on his knees, praying at the altar rail, a rosary twisted around his joined hands. Shoulders bent and broken, forehead bowed. Nothing like the tough street fighter Devon remembered from his youth.

  “How’d you get this gig, anyway?” Devon sat in the pew behind Marcus. “They let just anyone be a priest?”

  Marcus finished his prayer, rosary beads clicking between his fingers. Finally, he looked up to the crucifix, crossed himself, and joined Devon. “Some say sinners ma
ke the best priests. Like St. Paul.”

  Devon rolled his eyes. St. Paul’s conversion was a favorite story of the nuns and the older women like Mrs. Anders and Jess’s mom. As if Devon would someday find himself on a road to Damascus.

  “Did the cops show you the room those kids were kept in?”

  Marcus flinched. Nothing obvious, but a flicker of emotion that was like shouting to Devon. Funny, Marcus used to have the best poker face around. Guess being a priest had softened him up a bit.

  “So, you knew about the kids.” Devon didn’t wait for confirmation. “Reminded me of what Mrs. Anders used to do when I was a kid. All that crap about demons and devils possessing children.” No child had been immune, but somehow it was always Devon that Mrs. Anders had focused her special attention on. Because of his mom and the way the devil himself, Daniel Kingston, just couldn’t stay away from her.

  The old lady had used his mom—and Devon—to manipulate Kingston. To curry favor with the church? Buy protection for the other women of Kingston Tower?

  He stood, knocking a knee against the pew as he spun away from Marcus. “Do you have any idea what they did to me, to my mom?” He was tempted to pull his shirt up, show Marcus his scars. They weren’t all from the burns he’d received trying to save Jess from the fire in the tunnels. There were plenty left over from Mrs. Anders, trying to beat the devil out of him.

  Funny, Devon had blocked out most of that. Old memories resurrected. Price of coming home.

  Long-buried anger flared. He restrained himself—it took every ounce of energy he had—and shoved a scarred palm into Marcus’s sight instead of smashing it into his face. “That’s what they did to a little boy, Marcus. You were old enough then, did you know? About what they did to my mom, all in the name of Jesus? They tortured her as much as Kingston did, and then they’d deliver her right back into his hands.”

 

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