Daddy's Little Killer

by LS Sygnet

  Google maps dashed my hopes. Portico was fifty miles south of Darkwater Bay along a historic state highway. I Googled the address of the local police department and spoke to a desk sergeant. After explaining who I was and the case at hand, I requested copies of the files that detailed the sexual assault complaints.

  "I remember those two," the sergeant snorted softly. "Carrie was a sweet kid, utterly devastated by what happened to her. That other one, she was bad news from day one. You ask me, she could've been behind the whole thing."

  "Excuse me?" Images of the partners in crime that Maya and I discussed this morning flitted on the backs of my eyelids.

  "There's something wrong with that girl, Dr. Eriksson. I know it doesn't sound very kosher for a cop to say that about someone claiming to be a victim of a violent crime like those assaults were, but Candy Blevins was a fast girl before her thirteenth birthday."

  I physically recoiled from the insinuation. "So because she was sexually active at a very young age, somehow that justifies sexual assault?"

  "Not what I meant. You read the files and draw your own conclusions. Better yet, track Candy down up there."

  "I have her last known address in Portico, sergeant."

  "Uh-huh, because she ran away when she was sixteen and hasn't had a legal residence since then. That address you've got? It's her folks place down here. Believe me, if Candy was back in town, we'd know about it."

  I gave him Orion's fax number, retouched my makeup for lunch with Lowe and left the penthouse.

  Chapter 24

  Jerry Lowe's neighborhood was a dead end street nestled into the Nightingale suburb of Darkwater Bay. The quiet nook within an already stately community was so picturesque, I found it breathtaking. Huge oak trees with branches spreading so far and wide they resembled a canopy lined the street. It was impossible to tell where one tree stopped and the next began unless I looked for the massive tree trunks.

  The sidewalks weren't the typical slabs of concrete either. Natural stone had been laid carefully to form the cobblestone walkways. Every lawn was perfectly shorn to equal lengths, mowed in a diagonal pattern, and the greens were vibrant and unvaried. I thought if a moment of history could be frozen in time, it would surely be Lowe's neighborhood, and undoubtedly would be a Rockwell painting hanging in a gallery somewhere.

  Finding the specific house wasn't difficult, even though trees obscured clear views of the homes. Black and white paint decorated the curb in front of each residence, identifying the assigned house numbers.

  Gwen Foster's neighborhood was impressive with its sprawling homes and affluent trappings. Jerry's street was charming without being pretentious. It struck me as an odd incongruity to the man everyone said was the real Jerry Lowe. "I'll make my own assessment," my stubbornness forced the opinion out into the universe. Sure, I could listen to everyone around me, but Weber and Hardy's black cloud gave me pause to wonder if there weren't others suffering in silence at the hand of someone who knew too much and wasn't afraid to play his ace.

  Danny Datello popped to mind immediately. This was exactly the sort of behavior I had witnessed first hand from dear old Uncle Sully. Apples don't fall far from the tree.

  I picked my way along the lovely cobblestone path to Lowe's porch. The house didn't appear to be more than a decade old, but was built in the Victorian style, two stories, wrap around front porch, a charming turret spiring at the left corner of the house.

  A swing on the front porch hung from chains secured to the ceiling with heavy hooks. White lath style ceiling didn't have a speck of dirt visible to the naked eye. The house was a soft heather gray, a little heavy on blue tones. The swing was painted charcoal in a high gloss. It swung gently in the late spring breeze.

  Facing outward at the front door was a door mat. WELCOME was emblazoned in white and surrounded by lilac sprays. I hadn't noticed a ring on Lowe's left hand, but the house screamed of a woman's influence.

  Or perhaps that was Jerry's big secret that someone might wield over him to solicit complete obedience. "Do you have a flair for home decorating, Jerry?"

  The front door swung open, and the man I didn't expect to see at Jerry Lowe's home appeared. I bristled before he had the chance to speak.

  "I was about to ring."

  "I saw you drive up," Flynn Myre said blandly. "I was here discussing another case with the chief. Won't be long, or interrupt your … lunch." His eyes roved from head to toe in an unsettling squint.

  Lowe appeared a moment later, kitchen towel in one hand, corkscrew in the other. He shoved both toward Myre and jerked his head toward the kitchen. "Helen," the smile was warm and genuine this time, not the plastic one he forced after he learned who I was, why I arrived in Darkwater Bay. "I'm so glad you're here. I trust you didn't have any difficulty finding the place."

  I wondered at the reversal in his original reaction to meeting me. Perhaps I would find the right moment to slip an innocent inquiry into our conversation. "Sorry it took me so long to get to the door. I couldn't help but admire this cozy little neighborhood, Jerry. Nightingale is beautiful from what I've seen of it, but this ... this is simply breathtaking."

  Myre disappeared behind a wall in the rear of the house. I struggled to focus on Lowe and ignore his unexpected guest.

  "I know what you mean. While I'd love to take credit for its curb appeal, I'm afraid I haven't the time, patience or green thumb for it. We have a home owner's association. The dues seemed ridiculous at first, but when I realized that the money was indeed being put to good use, I was more than happy to let them do their thing."

  My eyes took in the living room in Jerry's house. Intricately carved wood spindles marked the airy separation between foyer and living room. Jerry Lowe apparently had an appreciation for books. An entire wall was lined with built-in shelves, adorned with volumes, some appearing very old.

  "I've been collecting them for years." He followed my eyes. "Are you an aficionado of the classics, Helen? I've got an impressive Shakespeare collection, but my pride and joy is a pristine first edition of Origin of Species."

  "That must've cost a fortune. Do you mind if I peruse the titles?"

  "Be my guest. I've got a bottle of chardonnay chilling. I think I'll pour us a glass while you stroll."

  "Is that wise? I mean, we're both working today."

  "You are," he smiled warmly. "I took the afternoon off. I hadn't planned to return from my vacation until next week, but after the frantic messages I received Tuesday night, I thought it best to postpone the rest of my trip until this matter involving my neighbor is resolved."

  "Her home is only a few blocks from here, isn't it?" I hadn't noticed when I drove over this afternoon.

  "One if you cut through back yards. I must say, my neighbors are quite shaken up over what happened. In general, the people in close proximity to my house have been lulled into a sense of false security, I suppose, having the chief of detectives living nearby. It's a difficult lesson that the violence in this city isn't limited to the less affluent areas in Darkwater proper." He gestured toward the books. "Help yourself. I'll be right back."

  The collection was eclectic, Shakespeare and Darwin not withstanding, Jerry also had rare editions of Tolstoy, commentaries on Voltaire, John Donne and other revered philosophers from the period of enlightenment.

  A glass of wine appeared between the books and my nose. "Do you like wine?"

  "Love it, although I usually drink red."

  "I took a trip to Napa last fall and brought home several cases of reds. There was a delicious merlot that you might appreciate. Would you prefer that instead of the chardonnay?"

  "I'm not sure I should have this. Can't have me showing up to question people with alcohol on my breath, can we?"

  "I wasn't aware that you had suspects to interview yet. Then again, George and Donald aren't sharing much with me about this case."

  "I'm sorry for that, Jerry. I won't pretend to understand the dynamics in the police department, but I have noticed
that Darkwater Bay seems to be a universe unto itself at times. From what little I've seen so far at least."

  "Do you, or did you, feel that their decision reflected directly on the job I've done as chief of detectives?"

  "No," I hastily assured him. "In fact, you weren't mentioned at all when the unusual agreement we made was reached. It was my firm belief at the time that Commissioner Hardy and Chief Weber merely wanted to try something different, to shake up the status quo as it were. In a sense, it was a stroke of unbelievable circumstance that the very first case I encountered seems to be linked to such a deep wound in the city."

  "Some of us don't believe in coincidences."

  "I'm a steadfast member of that club," I admitted, "but without any evidence to the contrary, I have no reason to believe that this is more an unfortunate coincidence."

  I sipped the glass of wine he served. "Mmm. Delicious. Is this domestic?"

  "Hard to believe, isn't it? I find that most domestic chardonnays run a little too dry, and a little too woody. Unless of course, you have the fortune of sampling at the vineyard rather than relying on the stock at the local wine and liquor store."

  "You have excellent taste. Not just the wine. The books are exquisite, Jerry. I can't tell you how refreshing it is to see a personal library in the home of a fellow law enforcement professional and not be inundated with titles that belong at the office."

  "We seem to have a lot in common," his smile reached the steel gray eyes and made them twinkle.

  "I was afraid that you were so offended that George and Donald hired me, that we might never have the opportunity to develop a rapport," I tested the waters with the tip of a toe into the conversation I itched to begin. "You know, it was never my intention to to step on any toes or alienate anyone at Central Division." Lie. It was no secret what I thought of Flynn Myre, and no amount of schooled features could hide my disgust.

  "Anyone?"

  I smiled. "You know what I mean." I wondered if Myre was still lurking about somewhere. Was Lowe chastising me gently for my poor reaction to the rumpled detective?

  "I'd like to be very direct with you, Helen. At first, I was very offended that George and Don went behind my back and brought in an outsider. It stung, like they were setting me up to be the scapegoat for the failures at Central Division specifically. I know our detective squad needs a great deal more oversight than my other divisions require. It isn't for lack of effort on my part that the standard hasn't improved over the years."

  "I'm not implying that it is, Jerry. Although, if you have any insight into why this unusual situation exists, I'd love to hear it. Confidentially of course."

  "Why are you interested?"

  "I've seen and worked in just about every major police force in this country, coast to coast, top to bottom. It's been my observation over the years that the precincts, or divisions if you prefer, that are farther from the leader are the ones that have a propensity for problems. It's sort of like that old saying about cats and mice."

  "Are those departments entrenched in non-standard police unions?"

  "I'm not sure what that means. Non-standard."

  "The benevolent brotherhoods and so forth. Yes, they advocate for safety and working conditions of police officers, but they don't tie administrative hands from discipline when its warranted."

  "And George and Donald are aware of this with the police union in Darkwater Bay?"

  He shook his head, lips curled in disgust. "Of course they're aware. Unfortunately, the men and women of the police department have a guaranteed right to choose the union that will represent them. This is their choice. And why wouldn't they choose it? Unless some gross and obvious act of malfeasance is committed, there's very little I'm allowed to do."

  "Interesting."

  "Frustrating is more apt. And I'm truly sorry, Helen. I didn't want this to be an unpleasant get-to-know-you lunch."

  "No need to apologize. I'd be lying if I said I'm not curious about this union, but I respect that you'd rather discuss more pleasant topics, so I'll leave it alone." For now. Briscoe on the other hand would be fair game. He loved history so much, I'd let him illuminate the situation for me.

  "I can only imagine how devastated the FBI must be that you've left them to come here," Jerry said. "After that meeting this morning, and seeing the way you handled Danny Datello, any reservations I had were gone. Who knows what would've happened had I been around when Don and George started to discuss serious pursuit, Helen? They may have asked for my opinion."

  "You were on vacation when the decision was made."

  "Technically. I was in the office on Friday and left for the mountains Saturday morning. George said they decided to act quickly on Monday, something about news that you might be interested in relocation."

  "Right," I nodded and sipped some more wine. The lack of real food, excessive consumption of caffeine and sleep deprivation made the wine hit harder than I anticipated. Even though I'd only had half a glass, the room felt a little fuzzy. "Would it be all right if we had lunch soon?"

  "Yes, of course. It's ready. I hope you don't mind. I thought we could dine in the kitchen."

  I wouldn't admit that fine dining in my experience was a box of egg fried rice at the desk while reviewing crime scene photos and victim statements. A real meal at a kitchen table would be a rare treat.

  He served zucchini frittata, homemade French bread slathered with garlic butter and a fruit plate. And copious apologies for not making anything more spectacular. I focused on the fare, rather than the dismay that Flynn Myre was in fact waiting for us to join him in the kitchen.

  "This is spectacular, Jerry. If you had any idea what I usually eat, you'd stop apologizing. I can't remember the last meal I had that was nutritious, not eaten over case files or interrupted before I could enjoy an appetizer."

  "You've got to take better care of yourself."

  The words echoed in my head, fuzzy and distant. The fruit plate blurred.

  "Helen?" a shout through a long tunnel. "Helen, are you all right?"

  "I feel ... faint."

  Four Jerry Lowes jumped out of the chair and jerked in an odd slow motion toward me. Or maybe it was two Flynn Myres and two Jerry Lowes. The sudden movement had a jarring effect on my brain. I felt an arm curl around my shoulders, another slither beneath my knees. Waves of nausea enveloped me. I felt like I was flying, diving from ten thousand feet without a parachute.

  "No," I rasped. "Not so fast."

  "I can't understand you."

  I could see the words form on his lips, so close to my face now. The sound waves were almost visible. My vision swam and another bout of dizziness crashed around me. Everything turned sideways, back, the other direction. My eyes fluttered shut. The sensation intensified.

  "Help me."

  It was the last thing I remembered before the world faded to black.

  Chapter 25

  Bile burned in the back of my throat. That was the nicest sensation pumping through my body. It was the axe buried in the front of my skull that was the real killer. I struggled to move, to sit up if I was lying down or lie down if sitting.

  The world must've been revolting, because my muscles don't disobey when a command is ordered. Maybe it was the thousand pound crushing weight on top of me.

  Where the hell am I? What was I doing? Have I been in a car accident? Maybe that's what's going on. I'm on my way home from Rick's funeral and flip the car. I'm being slowly crushed to death. How's that for irony?

  A finger twitched. Pain shot up my arm. No problem. No pain, no gain. Right? A minuscule movement was progress at least. I kept moving the left index finger. This is good. I'm left hand dominant. The searing pain in my head isn't a stroke that's going to leave me paralyzed on my good side.

  Finally, my hand found its mobility. I stepped my fingers gently over the surface of whatever supported my body.

  Not the car. That would be leather, smooth and cool, tiny lines like palm prints to tickle the ridges o
f my fingertips. This was rougher. Er, being the operative identifier. Not wool, but in the wool family, perhaps. Llama? Alpaca? Some exotic Peruvian blend.

  Wait a minute. Why would I be in Peru, crushed in a car with a wool blend upholstery? I was at Rick's funeral. That was only a few minutes ago, wasn't it?

  Yes. Yes, I'm positive. David staring me down, stern. Hurt. Disappointed. Well screw him. Who cares what he thinks of me? The emotions flooded my consciousness, just as they had when I felt them only a short time ago.

  I'm pulling out my badge, his eyes begging me not to do anything hasty. I slam it into his open palm, without a care that it might hurt him. I hurt. Why shouldn't he share the pain? What makes him so goddamned ...

  Wait. Am I wearing my wool coat? It's raining. I forgot my umbrella. How's that for irony? The angels are crying, and I'm unprepared. I can hear Mother clicking her tongue against her teeth.

  You mustn't forget the little things, Helen. You'll catch your death.

  Mmm. Death. I hurt so much. Surely death is lurking at the horizon of my miserable existence. Death. Old friend. Come for me. Take this burden off my chest and release me to the great nothingness.

  My wrist bones grind together. No, that's not right. I'm not old and arthritic yet, am I? Is this old age? Dementia? Am I trapped in an eternal torturous loop of the worst week of my life? Justice is not without a vicious sense of humor perhaps.

  "Helen?"

  "Dad?"

  My tongue is a hybrid of sandpaper and drying Jell-O. I can hear the pathetic attempt to form words. If only I could open my eyes, he could see me talking to him. Oh Daddy, I miss you so very much. Why did you have to go away? You'd know what to do right now. You'd save me from my mistakes. You are the only one who can fix everything, wipe the slate of my mistaken existence clean and tell me the words I ache to hear.

  Everything will work out, Sprout. Daddy will fix it. Don't cry.

  The pain is so severe, I must be crying. Yes. Either it's warm blood trickling over my temple or ... no, it's not thick like blood. Is blood thick? Have I ever bled before?