by Terry Odell
A message from Sam Fischer saying Call me had his blood pumping. He grabbed the phone. His heart pounded faster with every ring. Pick up. Pick up.
“IT. Fischer.”
Ed tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Ed Solomon calling about your email. Did you find the code name I needed?”
“Sorry, not yet. It’s not like I can install a key logger on these people’s computers. But I’m still working. Contrary to popular belief, there’s no master archive in the clouds with copies of everyone’s emails waiting to be perused.”
“So, why did you ask me to call?” Ed swallowed his disappointment. The miracles the geeks could perform went only so far.
“The email you forwarded came from a public library computer. If your suspect is smart, and she seems to be, she’s not going to be picking up her email from the same place. What I want to do is beef up things from the other end, make your victim more … enticing.”
“More of a deadbeat in need of killing,” Ed said.
“Your words, not mine. At any rate, anyone digging into your potential victim is going to see your fictitious Dennis Donovan was married three times, had two kids with wife number one, three with wife number two, and a set of twins with number three. He hasn’t paid a cent in two years, and the courts have been after him in three states.”
“Sounds good, in a nasty kind of way.”
“If your theory holds, these people are going to do a bunch of research. He has to be real when they find him. Next, I need to know more about your cover so I can make sure it’s rock solid before Paula, or whoever’s doing this, sees it.”
So far, all Ed had for his part in the charade was his own cover name, Pat Jackson, which could be either Patricia or Patrick, depending on how things played out. Plus, should anyone on Paula’s end be looking, it was a common enough name that they’d need a lot more information—which was probably going to happen after he filled out the questionnaire they’d sent.
Logic would say the most obvious person to want a deadbeat out of the way would be an ex-wife, but nothing forbade a concerned parent, good friend, or relative from wanting to intervene on a woman’s behalf, which opened the process to both genders. And, he told himself, the odds anyone involved in assassinating people would want a face-to-face were slim indeed.
“You think I should be an ex-wife?” Ed asked.
“Easier if you’re a friend,” Sam said. “Less likely for someone checking to stumble over reality.”
They decided Dennis Donovan’s ex-wife would have a new boyfriend, one who wanted to see the ex out of the way, and spent a few minutes developing Pat Jackson’s background history, which Sam said she’d plant in the obvious places.
“I’ll get him into the databases the PIs use, set up a Twitter account. If he’s thinking about breaking the law by hiring an assassin, it wouldn’t be unusual for him to keep a low profile in the other social media venues.”
“How skilled do you think these people are?” Ed asked. “Can they trace emails, phone calls, text messages?” The last thing he wanted was for someone to find him and threaten his family.
“I doubt anyone has access to what it would take to break your cover. They might use a private investigator, but again, if they’re trying to stay under the radar, the fewer people who can connect them to either the victims or the … buyers … the better. Your cover should stand up to standard PI checks. Ideally, rather than relying on hacking, we should find someone on the inside and get them to tell us what we want to know. But that can’t happen fast enough for your deadline.”
“Thanks.” Ed disconnected. He’d already done a search on Paula Brassington, who appeared to be who she said she was. A single woman, born in Cleveland, but moved around as an army brat. Got a degree in engineering from Iowa State, but never worked in the field that Ed could find. There was a gap of eight years where she was off the radar, until Paula’s Places showed up five years ago. No criminal record, no wants, no warrants. No traffic violations, either. Not even a parking ticket. And nothing to indicate she had any motivation to do away with deadbeat dads.
If she was breaking the law with her Deadbeat Dad scheme, odds were she was smart enough not to break any others.
Damn, Ed missed bouncing his ideas off Gordon.
Who would tell you your ideas are off the wall.
True enough. So far, all he had was coincidences and speculation. But Ed’s gut said there was something here, and why not test his theory. Obviously, Colfax thought it was viable enough to authorize time for Sam Fischer. Now, if she could crack the code before his time expired.
Chapter 9
After meeting Paul Lipsky for lunch, Ed felt much more optimistic about a fair, non-alarmist article in the Weekly. Ed had explained his concerns based on the direction Charlotte Strickland had taken the interview.
“Charlotte means well,” Lipsky had said, “but she can push into tabloid territory. I keep an eye on her stories, and she understands I’m the boss.” He wiped his mouth and set his napkin aside. “If you’re concerned, I can run the copy by you before it goes to press.”
Judging from the man’s tone, he was offering something he didn’t want to deliver.
“I read the Weekly,” Ed had responded. “And I trust you.”
Which, based on Lipsky’s slow nod and half-smile, had been the correct response.
He’d brewed a fresh pot of coffee, hoping the caffeine would offset the post-heavy-lunch drowsiness and settled in behind his desk when Laurie buzzed him. “Officer McDermott’s here to see you.”
Ed checked the time. Too early for an end-of-shift report. “Send her in.”
His officer entered, hesitantly, almost apologetically.
“What can I do for you?” he asked. “Coffee? It’s fresh.”
“No thanks, Sir. I’m fine.”
“Oh, and good call on the bear. Definitely our downspout thief.”
That seemed to put her at ease. “Thanks. I hope Animal Control finds it before there’s another incident.”
Ed cringed at the thought of a bear attack. “I’m with you on that one.”
She extended a file folder. “I have some sign-ups for the Halloween Parade, but I had something I wanted to run by you first. On a different topic.”
He took the folder, set it in his inbox. Sat straighter. “I’m listening.”
Vicky studied her hands, her discomfiture grew palpable. “I’m not sure—”
His mind spun, jumping from one possibility to the next, like stepping stones in a stream. “Whatever it is stays in this room, Officer. Just say it.”
A deep inhale, and then her words came out in a rush. “I was patrolling my route, past the high school. There was a group of six or eight kids in the wooded area behind the football field. During class hours. They scattered when I drove by. I figured they were ditching class. Not unusual, and I recognized a few of them as chronic hooky players. But one stayed behind. I got out of my vehicle and approached. He saw me, bolted. When I reached the spot where the group had been, I found a six-pack, plus a dozen more empties.”
“You document this?”
She nodded. “It’ll be in my report, although I didn’t mention any of the kids by name. I couldn’t swear to their identities. I picked up the trash and appropriated the six-pack, although I’m not sure what I should do with it, since it’s not technically evidence. I took pictures.” She handed over her cell phone.
Ed scrolled through the images of beer cans and cigarette butts. The normal kind, not weed. “I can’t say this is the first—or the last—time this’ll happen. What made you bring it to my attention today?”
She ducked her head, then met his eyes. “Sir, I’m almost positive the kid who stayed behind—it was Mitch, Sir. I thought you should know.”
He forced a neutral expression. “You did right to tell me. Thank you. I’ll handle it from here. Oh, and bring me the six pack.” He motioned for her to use his private exit.
“It�
��s cheap beer, Sir.”
He interpreted her comment as a way of reminding him he shouldn’t be taking anything, evidence or not, especially alcohol, for his personal use. “It’s not for me, McDermott. But I do have plans for it.”
She returned a moment later and set a bag containing the beer on his desk, and left. Ed peered inside. Definitely cheap stuff.
At his desk, staring at his inbox, he tried to focus on the job. His job being the best cop he could be, but his heart was tied to family. Could Vicky have been mistaken? Was it Mitch she’d seen? Ed dug deep, searching for signs. True, he’d been putting in extra hours since he’d been thrust into his Chief position, but he’d thought his family was supportive—maybe even a little proud.
He’d missed Mary Ellen’s signals until last night. Had she noticed anything different about Mitch’s behavior? And if so, why hadn’t she mentioned it?
With any luck, what Vicky had seen was a one-off, and if Ed had anything to say about it, it would never happen again.
At four, he gave up. He didn’t even go to Laurie’s desk as he normally did, merely buzzed her and said he was leaving.
He arrived home to a friendly greeting from Buster, a note from Jeremy saying he was at Ramon’s working on their Halloween costumes and had been invited for dinner, and no sign of Mary Ellen.
Mitch’s backpack lay on the kitchen table. Ed put the bag alongside the pack, plucked a bottle of water from the fridge, and went upstairs where he found Mitch flopped on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
“No homework?” Ed asked.
Mitch grunted. “Early dismissal today. Teacher planning.”
“Ah. So you had some free time to hang with friends, then.”
A shrug.
“You know where Mom is?” Ed asked.
“Nope. She was gone when I got home.”
“Well, in that case, come with me.”
Mitch scowled. “What for?”
Did Ed detect any guilt behind Mitch’s narrowed eyes? “Because I’m your father and I said so. Besides, this should be fun.”
“As if,” Mitch muttered.
Ed watched the boy for signs of intoxication, but it had been several hours and Mitch seemed steady on his feet, normal speech patterns. No cigarette odors.
Ed kept his demeanor nonchalant and as cheerful as he could manage as they went downstairs. He paused in the kitchen and picked up the bag “I remember doing this with Gramps. I was a little older than you, but hey, everything moves faster now, right?”
“I guess.”
“And you’ll be in high school next year, have to start at the bottom. You’ll be a freshman, no status.” Ed led Mitch to the picnic table at the edge of the yard and plucked two beers from the bag. “Have a seat.” He popped the tops on the cans and handed one to Mitch, studying the boy’s expression. Definitely guilt, not curiosity. “Go ahead. Drink.” Ed sipped from his can.
Mitch took a tentative sip. Grimaced.
“Chug it. Like this.” Ed demonstrated. “Then you’ll really impress all those upperclassmen.”
Ed had to hand it to the kid. He was working on his third before his stomach rebelled. When his dad had used the same method on him, Ed had barely made it through his second. Without saying anything, he handed a choking, sniffling Mitch the water bottle.
His son drank half the water, then threw it up, too. He lay on the grass, eyes closed. “How did you know?”
“Officer McDermott spotted you. And because she cares, she told me. You want to tell me why you did it?”
“Some kids from the high school dared me. They said I’d be in with the cool kids.” His face flamed. “Meet girls, you know.”
Ed swallowed his fury. Hadn’t he and Mary Ellen tried to instill a better sense of self-worth in their kids? “And you believed them?”
“Dunno. But why did you give me beer?”
“Because getting stinking drunk isn’t cool, isn’t pretty. It doesn’t make people like you. All it does is make you feel the way you do now. Do you like this feeling?”
Mitch shook his head, then grabbed it. “Everything’s spinning.”
“Part of the package.”
“Did Gramps really do this to you?”
“He did. And I still remember every minute of it.”
“But you drink. So does Mom.”
“Yes, but I know what’s reasonable. I’m not trying to scare you away from drinking. I want you to understand that you’re not ready, and what happens when you step outside the boundaries. And, of course, you know it’s illegal at your age.”
“But you’re the Chief of Police. You wouldn’t arrest me.” His gaze flitted to meet Ed’s. “Would you?”
“You don’t get a pass because of my job. Just the opposite. You have to be careful I don’t use you as an example to prove I don’t play favorites.”
Mitch wiped his eyes, took a quick swig of the water, then spit it out. “You gonna tell Mom?”
“Nope.”
“You’re not? Thanks, Dad.”
“You are.”
Mitch groaned. “She’ll kill me. Ground me until I’m out of college.”
“You might want to think about that when someone tells you to be cool and have a drink. For now, think about what you’re going to say to them, practice it, and you’ll be able to walk away with your head high.”
“Like what?” Mitch asked. “What should I say?”
“No thanks always worked for me. Or not now, or some other time. But don’t turn it around so they think you’re putting them down for drinking. Don’t call them stupid. Just no thanks and go about your business.”
Ed helped Mitch to his feet. “Go upstairs, clean up, and figure out how you’re going to tell Mom. If it makes things easier, she’ll probably ground me, too, for doing this. But it’s a Solomon tradition, and you’ve been initiated.”
Mitch stumbled toward the house. Ed thought about Mary Ellen and knew tonight would be nothing like last night.
Chapter 10
Ed braced himself as Mary Ellen’s footfalls carried down the hall. She came into the study, closing the door—none too gently—behind her. She stood, hands on hips, beside the desk.
“I can’t believe you did that. What ever possessed you? He’s fourteen, for God’s sake. And I thought you understood we’re supposed to discuss these things. They’re our kids. We make decisions together. And that doesn’t even begin to address the legality of the issue, or that you could have given him alcohol poisoning.”
Ed sat patiently until Mary Ellen finished her tirade. He’d been prepared for a lot worse. “First, it’s not against the law for a parent to serve alcohol to his child on his own property. Second, I wouldn’t have let him drink enough to hurt himself, and he got most of it out of his system before it hit the bloodstream. Next, I knew you’d want to discuss it with him rationally, make him consider pros and cons, which wouldn’t have worked. This was something he had to learn firsthand. It worked for me, and for my dad before me, although I think then it was smoking more than drinking, and a couple cheap cigars added to the mix made their point. It’s kind of a guy rite of passage thing. And lastly, I’m leaving the rest of his punishment to you.”
Calmer now, Mary Ellen sat in the easy chair. “Did we screw up with him? Should we do something different with Jeremy?”
“Those two are as different as apples and broccoli,” Ed said. “And no, I don’t think we did anything wrong. My fixation with work lately might have triggered it, but these things don’t happen overnight. He’s getting good grades, and his teachers would let us know if he was acting out. Kids are always going to test their limits. It’s part of growing up. Maybe this happening now was a good thing, because there’s still a lot of kid in Mitch. He learned his lesson, but he hasn’t hit that rebellious phase, where everything he does is based on trying to prove us wrong.”
“I’m not looking forward to that,” Mary Ellen said.
“I hear you. Meanwhile, the mayor thre
w this huge report at me, so I’m going to work on it for a while. But I can do it from home.”
Mary Ellen rose and edged toward the desk. “I picked up a new client today, and I want to get started. Jeremy’s at Ramon’s, and Mitch isn’t interested in dinner. Would you be willing to settle for a frittata? I was going to make lasagna, but time got away from me.”
“Sure. A frittata’s a fancy scrambled egg thing, right?”
Mary Ellen punched him in the arm. “Lasagna tomorrow, okay? And as for Mitch’s punishment, I think his misery is a good part of it. Plus, no screen time for a week, and I told him he’d get the rest after I talked to you. At least one of us thinks we’re still a team.”
“Ouch,” Ed said. “What else did you have in mind?”
“I agree it’s not an alcohol issue. He needs help in dealing with peer pressure. But I’m at a loss for how to connect that to his punishment. On the one hand, with his sports, he’s learning how important it is to be a team player, but at the same time, we want him to think for himself and stand up for what he knows is right. Any ideas?”
“I know there are school or church programs where it’s more teen on teen than some adult preaching at them. I can scope some out, and we could find one that should give Mitch ways to cope with the pressure.”
“Sounds reasonable. But it shouldn’t be handed to him as a punishment, or he’ll go in ready to disagree with everything.”
“Right.” Ed extended a hand, and was pleased when Mary Ellen rejected it in favor of a kiss. On the cheek, platonic, but they seemed to have averted a storm.
After making sure both boys were settled in, Ed brought his laptop to the dining room, leaving Mary Ellen to work on the desktop. Although he tried to deal with the report for the mayor, his attention was divided. A contrite Mitch had accepted some broth and toast for dinner, and was pushing fluids. Jeremy had come back from Ramon’s bouncing off the walls about his Halloween costume—which was still top secret, although Ed figured there was a clue in the yellow stains under his son’s fingernails.