I ordered a beer and wondered where Harley was; a call to her cell went to voice mail. Fifteen more minutes went by and another call went to her voice mail. I paid for my beer and began the trip back into the city to see where the heck she was, worrying the whole way that she’d had a flat tire, a fender bender, had run out of gas, or been mugged and left stranded or hurt in a bad part of the city where anything could happen; I stepped on the gas as my spin cycle whispered to me.
Her car was in the driveway, which should have relieved me, but did not, and I pulled in next to it. The door was ajar and I pushed it open. “Harley?” Filing cabinet drawers stood open and papers were all over the floor; a soft cry brought me in. Harley was lying on the floor in the far corner of the office. “What happened?” I asked, as I helped her up and walked her over to her chair.
“This guy appeared out of nowhere when I was locking up,” she cried. “He had a gun and forced me to come back inside.”
“Did you recognize him?”
She shook her head. “He had one of those knit hats with eye holes pulled over his face.” She hugged herself and sat rigidly on the edge of the seat.
“You mean a ski mask?” I took a deep breath, remembering the one that had been dropped at my feet a decade ago.
“Yes – one of those,” she said, as she rubbed her arm.
I got her a glass of water. “Did he hurt you?”
“He grabbed me and I hit my back and my head when he pushed me down,” she winced.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, as I reached for the phone on her desk. Wondering what anyone could possibly want from this office, I dialed 9-1-1, and within a few minutes two patrol cars and an ambulance were in the driveway. Officer Morey was first through the door.
“We meet again,” he said.
“This is my office,” I said. He waited with me as the EMTs checked Harley.
“And the young lady works for you?”
“She does.”
“How long?”
“About two years.”
“First two of your clients and now your assistant,” he said. “Someone unhappy with you?”
“With me? No,” I said, a little put out, “of course not.” The EMTs loaded Harley into the ambulance. “I’d like to ride with her.”
“I need you to stay here and check the place,” he said, as he glanced around at the mess. “Obviously this person was looking for something. Can you tell if anything’s missing?”
I attempted to take stock, but it was impossible to concentrate. The equipment was all here and we didn’t keep anything of value on the premises. There was no art collection to steal or even award statues that could be sold for scrap. We had won many of those over the years, but we always gave the statues to our clients. It was our way of reminding them that Silent Partner was a small firm, but a good one.
I opened my top desk drawer and withdrew the $500 I had in there. “This was in my desk,” I said, holding up the money, “and the drawer wasn’t locked, so they weren’t looking for cash.” I folded the bills and put them in my pocket. “It’s going to take me a while to sort through this stuff, get it back into the right folders, and then look through it all to see if anything is missing.”
I led Officer Morey through the rooms of the 100-year-old house that I had turned into the agency’s office building. There was a storeroom for supplies, a small conference room, a bathroom, a little kitchenette, and the front office where Harley and I worked. The second story was closed off to conserve heat or AC, depending on the season, but we climbed the stairs and entered the first bedroom, which contained two cots; each piled with blankets, sheets, and pillows, all packed in plastic bags. “Why the beds if you don’t use this floor?”
“For winter,” I said, “in case the weather turns ugly and we don’t want to tackle the roads.”
I followed him as he walked through the rest of the upstairs. “I wouldn’t have put carpet up here,” he said, “I would have refinished all of the floors.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to live here,” I said, “I just wanted to update it little by little. I got a deal when I had this part done, as I pointed to the room with the cots; do one room and get a second room free, if I used the same carpet. So I did this one bedroom and instead of a second bedroom, I had them do the stairs.”
“Huh,” he said, as we headed back down.
I really had no interest in following him down to the basement, but he insisted that I look around with him. The lighting was dim because I’d put in low-watt bulbs to save energy. “What’s all this?” he asked, referring to a number of boxes and crates that were haphazardly stacked against one wall.
“I don’t really know. Stuff from a former tenant, maybe, or the owner’s. I don’t come down here.”
We trudged back up the stairs where the air smelled better. Officer Morey moved toward the door. “This place is now a crime scene, so you’ll have to stay away for a day or so. An evidence technician is coming to dust for prints. When your assistant is able, we’ll talk to her about a description of the guy.”
“She said he had on a ski mask, so I don’t think she’ll be much help.” He nodded and made notes in his little book. “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’d like to head to the hospital. Where did they take her?”
“St. Joe’s; I’m headed there now myself.” He dug in his breast pocket. “Here’s my card. Call me if you find anything’s missing.” I took the card, grabbed Harley’s tote and my purse, and walked out, leaving my office to the mercy of the Syracuse PD. “And,” he called after me, “you should have an alarm system installed. Like yesterday.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, scolding myself for not having done it already, and made a mental note to call a security company first thing in the morning. As I drove out of the driveway, the evidence technician arrived in his truck. “This day just sucks,” I informed myself.
When I arrived at the hospital, Harley had been sedated and was sleeping soundly, so I decided to check on Tony. But the nurse at the desk shook her head. “He’s just out of surgery and won’t be allowed non-family visitors until his doctors say so.”
With nowhere to go and nothing to do, I headed home, wanting nothing more than some comfort food and my bed. I sat at the bar and ordered a cup of tomato soup and a grilled cheese.
“You okay, Aud?” asked Dick, my landlord and owner of Krabby Kirk’s.
“Sucky day.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Talking about it would only mean reliving it,” I sighed. “I’ll just take my order and go upstairs.”
I kept the food warm in the oven while I did my best to wash the day away in the shower and changed into my PJs. I needed even more calming than the steamy shower could provide, so I lit a stick of Frankincense and spent a few minutes practicing slow breathing before I carried my dinner to the couch.
Hoping for an update on Tony, I turned on the TV, and was immediately assaulted by a pharmaceutical commercial; I reached for the remote before the inevitable disclaimers (vomiting, blurry eyesight, constipation, boils, hair loss, stroke, and death) made me lose my appetite. I changed to a cable channel with 24/7 news and found amateur video from two different angles, showing Tony’s plane falling into the lake; both were horrific to watch. The aircraft had come in low, with its wings waggling from side to side, before it nose-dived into the water. I put my dinner aside.
The news anchor began a second story. Rochester police were reopening the case of a decade-old unsolved armed robbery, during which a customer was shot and killed. On what they claimed to be an anonymous tip, they named one Danny Stearns as a person of interest. “In New York State,” said the reporter, “there is no statute of limitations if someone dies during the robbery. Three million dollars was taken at gunpoint from the National Bank of…”
My cell phone rang and I clicked off the TV. The face of another client, Carrie Ashton, smiled at me from the screen. Now what?
Chapter 3
&nb
sp; “Hi Carrie,” I said, trying not to let the exhaustion I felt creep into my voice.
“So sorry to call you after hours, Audrey, but our website has been hacked or something. It’s crashed – frozen – I don’t know what happened, but we can’t get into it. Our password doesn’t work. We need Harley up here first thing tomorrow to look at it.”
Rather than go into the whole story, I told her Harley was out sick, but promised to do my best to locate a techie for her. It was the best I could do at the moment. If I’d been perfectly honest, I would have told her to call a local high school and get a guidance counselor to recommend a student. A lot of kids today can do as much as formerly trained IT pros, albeit self-taught.
“Good,” she said, “because you know we sell 90% of our products on-line. We’re losing money every minute the site is down.”
So here was client #3 who was having a problem – certainly not as big a problem as Tony, or Ferdy, but still, an event had occurred that was significant enough to bring her business to a halt, at least temporarily. No business, meant no advertising. No advertising, meant no income for me.
After a restless night’s sleep, I met Ferdy’s brother, Sean, at the airport and drove him to the Crowne Hotel. The stress was visible on his face – Ferdy was his only living relative. There was no other family member to share in the torment he was experiencing; no one to talk to about it. I knew how that felt. I gave him my cell phone number and told him to call me when he needed to go to the police station, or anywhere else, for the next few days. He hadn’t been in Syracuse for several years, but he’d soon get the lay of the land and rent a car, and then I’d leave him to his own devices. “My heart goes out to you,” I said, “and I’m terrified for Ferdy.” I left him at the hotel, and with no office to go to, headed back home, first stopping at a drive-thru to pick up a large cup of decaf.
I sank onto my couch, and in a little notebook, wrote down the names of those associated with me who had met with an adversity of some kind over the last two days. Ferdy, Tony, Carrie, and Harley. I stared at the names, but didn’t see any other connection – just me, as Officer Morey had suggested.
Maybe Harley would come back to work and maybe she wouldn’t; I couldn’t blame her if she decided not to. But I needed her now more than ever, with all of the damage control I would have to do, plus there were deadlines looming for the clients who hadn’t run into trouble (yet), and I still had to find a stand-in pilot for Tony. My head hurt. I put the list on the coffee table, curled up on the sofa, and snapped on the TV, which was still tuned to the news channel I’d been watching last night. I began to doze off as it droned on in the background, but when I heard the anchor continue the story from last night’s broadcast about the bank robbery, I came awake.
A police officer, flanked by two men in FBI jackets, was announcing a $200,000.00 reward to anyone who could supply information leading to the capture of Mr. Danny Stearns, who was no longer a person of interest, but a suspect, in the brazen armed robbery of the National Bank of Rochester a decade ago. In one day? I thought. He went from being a person of interest to a suspect in one day? What had happened?
One of the other officers held up a photo of Mr. Stearns, and warned that he should be considered armed and dangerous. The camera zoomed in and my eyes locked onto the picture; I sat up straight. He looked older now, but I knew those eyes. They belonged to the man who’d run into me ten years ago; the one who’d dropped the ski mask.
Oh, God, it was him. Breathe. One…two…three…four… Oh, God! He’d robbed a bank and killed someone right before he’d run into me! Had he still been carrying his gun? How close had I come to being killed, too? My arms and legs prickled as though they’d been asleep. The all-too familiar feeling of trouble coming washed over me, and I knew I needed to talk to someone. Now.
I went to my bedroom and opened the top drawer of my dresser, where I’d kept the business card for the psychologist that Dr. Collins had suggested I contact; something I hadn’t felt the need to do since I’d left Rochester. Black flecks clouded my vision as I tried to read the number. I hadn’t paid that much attention to the card before, but now, as I tried to focus, I noticed that Dr. Karol Steele was a psychiatrist, not a psychologist, as Dr. Collins had been. Well, whatever she was, I needed to talk to her, and I dialed the number.
Chapter 4
Dr. Steele managed to talk me down in less than half an hour, which she said was a good sign, and made an appointment to see me the following afternoon. If anxiety was going to raise its ugly head, this might be the time, and I knew from past experience that I would need an arsenal to fight it. Unable to sleep, I spent the night pacing my apartment and wishing I had someone to keep me company.
In a stupor the next morning, I called my office to check messages and found one from a man named Miller Crawford, who wanted to speak with me about taking him on as a client. I jotted down his name and number on the same paper as I had written my current list of non-functioning clients. It occurred to me that if I called him back and ended up taking him on, I might be putting him in jeopardy of losing his livelihood too, at least temporarily. Well, I told myself, I could make the phone call – that wouldn’t necessarily mean he’d be a good fit for the agency. But who was I kidding? If a credit check turned him up as a good pay, he’d be a perfect fit. I made the call, and after explaining that my office was unavailable, arranged to meet him downstairs for lunch. Then I showered, dressed, and drove to the office parking lot, where I left my Jeep, Nelly, and drove Harley’s car to the hospital and parked it in the garage. When I checked in on her, she was in good spirits.
“They’re letting me go home tomorrow,” she said. “An officer was here earlier to see if I could give him my impression of the guy – you know, height and weight, like that, but I was too frightened at the time to notice anything.”
“Did they check you for a concussion?”
“I have a slight one,” she said, “but other than that, just bruises.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, and I caught a glimpse of a bruise on her arm that had been covered by the sleeve of her gown; it looked a little on the green side, instead of purple, as it should have been so soon after the attack. “Promise me you’ll take it easy for a few days?”
She nodded. “I’ll be back in next week.”
“Do you need me to check on your grandmother?”
“No, I spoke to her a few minutes ago. A neighbor is looking in on her, but thanks.”
“Okay.” I dug her keys and the parking stub out of my pocket. “Your car is here in the garage.” I held up her tote. “Do you want me to hang onto this or leave it with you?”
“It’ll be okay for one night – leave it.”
I handed it over and gave her a hug. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
Next was a stop to check on Tony. When the elevator doors opened, I saw a police officer speaking with a woman who I knew at once had to be Rose Bravada, Tony’s sister. She had the same big brown eyes and salt and pepper hair as her brother. When they were done talking, I walked over and introduced myself, and asked, “How is he?”
“Terrible at the moment,” she said, with tears in her eyes, “but the doctor assured me he’ll be close to 100% eventually. He’ll be in rehab for a long time.” She wiped her nose with a cloth hankie – no tissues for this lady. I could almost see her standing at her ironing board; press, fold, press, fold again.
“Can I see him?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, but he’s in no shape for visitors; he’s in and out of consciousness. Both of his arms and one leg are broken, and they still have to determine the extent of head injuries. I promise to let you know as soon as he’s able to have company.” She took my hand, “Thank you so much for calling me. The rest of the family will be here tomorrow.”
“Where will you stay?” I asked.
“I have a key to my brother’s house. We’ll be there.”
Outside, I hailed a cab and returned to my off
ice parking lot to retrieve Nelly. A remote check of my phone messages showed that Officer Morey had left one. He answered on the first ring. “When was the last time you spoke with Mr. Bravada?” he asked.
“The morning of the accident. Monday. We meet almost every Monday morning before he flies. Why?”
He ignored my question and followed with another of his own. “Where?”
“Same place every week – at Mike’s Diner. It’s close to the airport.”
“Did he seem different that day? Was he feeling okay?”
“He seemed perfectly fine.”
“Okay,” he said, “we’ll have a longer conversation about that later. I’ll get back to you.”
“No problem,” I said, and I hung up, wondering what that was all about, and thinking he had a nice voice.
I decided to go through my files as soon as I could get back into the building, and look for anything that might be of interest to an outsider. I had records of advertising expenditures, copies of campaign schedules, and creative material for each client. I had their contact information, names of the banks they used, and in Ferdy’s case, copies of applications he had made to the U.S. Patent Office over the last few years. I just didn’t think anyone would want that stuff.
I drove to Krabby Kirk’s, looking for my new prospective client, who was sitting in a back booth. “Miller?” I asked. He nodded, and looked surprised that I had picked him out of the crowd. “People who aren’t regulars are easy to spot,” I said. We ordered and got down to it.
“I’m in the security business,” he explained, “alarms, cameras, that kind of thing.”
“No kidding,” I said, “I’m having an alarm put in my office in a couple of days. I told you that’s why we’re meeting here. There was an incident.”
“Nothing serious I hope?”
“No, no damage,” I said, omitting Harley’s injuries, “and so far nothing seems to be missing.” Wanting to change the subject, I asked, “So how many locations do you have?”
Brainstorm Page 2