“Sam, I’m not going to just sit back and—”
“I don’t care what you do, Derek,” she lied. “But the girl isn’t at the hospital and I’ve given you fair warning. You’re a good cop. I suggest you focus on keeping your job, okay?” She hung up without waiting for an answer. Her heart pounded and she took a breath. All she could see in her mind was Derek walking right into a sentry at that hospital. If he really had injured one, they could already be on their way here to deal with him.
“Is everything okay?” asked Claire.
Sam turned and faked a smile, getting ready to lie, but then she saw Claire’s already skeptical eyes. “No. Everything is really confusing right now.” She opened the door to her apartment and led the way in.
Claire stopped a few feet past the door and craned her neck to take in the entire place. “This is more like what I imagined for a trust fund baby.”
Sam glanced around. It wasn’t the nicest building, but she’d tried to make up for it in the furnishings. And even though she didn’t like accepting help from her mother, Abigail did like to bring over presents. Even ones she wouldn’t use, like the latté machine.
“The spare room is this way.” Past the living room, there was the one bathroom and the two rooms. The spare also functioned as an office-like space where she kept a desk and laptop, but the daybed was big enough for Claire, who looked as though she was barely over a hundred pounds. “Let me grab you a change of clothes.”
It wasn’t hard. She had two tote bags she kept out for the clothes she planned to drop off at the donation station the next time she went that direction. Which, of course, she always managed to forget when she did go that way. She found a shirt in decent condition and pulled out a pair of jeans and sweatpants.
When she got back to the room, Claire was sitting on the bed.
“Are you feeling okay?” asked Sam. She’d taken the girl out of a hospital. Even now she was convinced that was the right move. No one back there could keep Claire from the sentries.
Now she just had to hope that Claire wasn’t sick enough that she still needed medical attention.
“I’m just tired. I’ve been drugged up for the past week and you’d think that would give me a bunch of energy, but....”
“You’re beat. Take a nap. Relax. I’m going to run out for a few, but I’ll be back in an hour or two. No longer than that.”
Claire sat up straighter. “You’re leaving?”
“I need to talk to a few people.” People who’d know a hell of a lot more than she did about what was going on.
“What if you don’t come back?”
“Then I suggest you rob the hell out of my apartment and get out of town. Oh, that reminds me, please don’t snoop.”
Claire averted her gaze down. “I wasn’t going to—”
“I would. I always snooped when I was a kid. But to save you any trouble, my nightstand is filled with vibrators and I have pot hidden in various places. That’s all the fun stuff. Promise.”
Claire paled a bit.
Maybe she hadn’t been on the streets that long if talk of masturbating and drugs had that effect.
“I’ll be back soon. Whatever you do, don’t answer the door for anyone. Especially not for Derek. If you hear knocking, don’t move to see who’s there. Just lie down and continue with your nap. Those guys won’t find you here, but if Derek takes you back to the police station, I don’t know who else is watching. They’ll kill him, Claire. I’m not going to let that happen because of us.”
“I got it. I’ll stay put.”
Sam nodded. That was all she could do for now. She wanted to take Claire with her but didn’t want to overstress the girl. She’d been through enough.
“I’ll be back soon.” Sam left the room. As soon as she was out of sight, she went to the living room and opened the drawer in the coffee table, where her gun was stashed. She placed the holster inside her jeans and made sure the gun was loaded before she stuck it in the holster. Her shirt was tight enough that the butt would show, but as long as she kept her jacket on, it would be taken care of.
At this point, no one had tried to attack her, but she was firmly in a “better safe than sorry” mode.
As she left, she turned all of her locks and for good measure gave a shot of heat to the deadbolt. It wouldn’t melt completely, but the gears would be messed up enough that no one would be able to pick it. Sam had no idea how determined Derek would be to see whether Claire was stashed at her place.
Claire wouldn’t be able to use the front door if she did decide to bolt, but she could use the fire escape if shit hit the fan.
Was she being paranoid? Maybe. But if things were as messed up as she suspected, a little paranoia wasn’t a bad thing.
Derek banged on Sam’s door one last time but he’d already mentally conceded. If she was home, she wasn’t answering any time soon. Until Voss said he could come back to work, there was nothing to do but go back to his place and wait this out.
Claire was gone. No nurses or doctors or anyone else at the hospital had any memory of seeing her leave. It was as if she was there one second and gone the next.
He could kind of see one small petite blonde getting out unnoticed, but those two guys who’d barged in were a different story. People like that didn’t make it in and out unnoticed.
One more case of selective memory. That combined with Voss’s complete one-eighty on the Collins case sent all of Derek’s senses on alert.
The one thing at the center of this was Sam. The second her mother came to the station, the entire investigation fell apart. She’d definitely tried to get Derek to drop the investigation.
So he went out on a limb and entertained the possibility that the charm from Sam really did give him some sort of protection. If that was the case, he was the only one who should be looking into any of this.
Derek kicked at Sam’s door before he gave up and went upstairs to his apartment. But he wasn’t about to relax. Instead, he pulled out his personal laptop, an ancient thing that barely worked since he used his work computer for almost everything. But it opened the Internet, which was good enough currently.
He put in Sam’s name but came up with nothing. Samantha Harris was too common, and after a few pages, he didn’t see anything specific to the woman in the apartment below him.
He switched gears and instead looked up Abigail Harris. She was a prominent attorney, so she had a bigger online presence.
There were a few puff piece profiles that gave the basics. Abigail had been married through the seventies and eighties, but her husband, Sam’s father, had died in ninety-five in a car crash. Abigail had just passed the bar exam when her husband died and from there, she skyrocketed up the ranks and social circles of New York. But it wasn’t a rags-to-riches story. From the sounds of it, everyone in the Harris family was well off.
And Harris was Abigail’s maiden name. Her husband, David, had a longer name. It looked Polish. Maybe Abigail wanted her name to be memorable and simple? Except Sam’s last name was Harris too. So it probably signified some sort of connection to her family that she didn’t want to let go of.
Sam had mentioned something about that... the families. Obviously the families had some sort of importance here.
Derek ran a hand over his eyes in frustration. Sam could answer all these questions in a heartbeat if she wanted to. What the hell had changed?
Tommy Collins. He never should’ve left her alone with that son of a bitch. Something had happened in that room after he left. Something that turned her against him in some way.
There was only so far he could get with a basic Internet search. He picked up the phone and called the precinct.
“Parker here,” said the deep, feminine voice.
Angela Parker was a narcotics detective who had graduated from the academy one year after Derek. She worked like hell to prove herself as one of the guys, which worked great. Unfortunately, she’d taken the lead on the last big drug bust her unit had t
aken on and ended up with a bullet in her gut. She was making a full recovery but was stuck behind a desk for the next few months.
And a bored, ballsy detective was exactly the kind of person he needed on his side. “Hey, it’s Pierce. How’s life behind the desk?”
“Better than life on the couch. I heard you got benched.”
“It’s a misunderstanding. I’m sure Voss will change his mind after a day or two to think about it.”
Parker let out a snort, clearly showing which side she agreed with. “I’m not talking to your boss for you, Derek.”
“That’s not what I’m calling about,” he assured.
“But you do want something, don’t you?”
He needed to remember to say hi more to people so they didn’t just assume he wanted something when he called out of the blue. “Something easy. Can you run a quick check on Abigail Harris?”
“You’re kidding, right? If she finds out I ran—”
“She won’t find out. I’m not going after her for anything.” If she had the abilities he was thinking, there would be no use trying to press charges. But it would be nice to have a better idea about what he was up against. “Just run a check. Have there been any complaints about her? Anyone accusing her of fixing a trial?”
“You think she’s dirty.”
“She’s a defense attorney. I’m sure she’s not clean. I’m just trying to cross a few t’s so I can at least sleep at night during my suspension.” There was a pause on the other end of the line and Derek went in for the kill. “Hey, if you’re too worried about getting caught, I understand.”
“I’ll run a basic check. She’s defended some of my busts too, so I have plenty of reason to do a search without people thinking I’m helping you.” Derek heard her moving her fingers over the keyboard, even over the phone. “And don’t think I didn’t see what you did there. I minored in psychology, jackass.”
“Well, I’ll officially owe you one after this.”
“You already owe me one.”
“I thought I made that up after the Hotchins bust?”
“Don’t care. You’re still going to be my bitch the next time I come a callin’.”
“Ah, Parker. You know I’m your bitch no matter what.”
She laughed. “That’s why I love you.... Okay, here we go. There’s almost nothing on her. No accident history or even a speeding ticket.”
If she could do some strange sort of mind control, it would make sense that she’d have no record of anything. Mind control. Pain beat at his head. Was he going crazy for even considering this?
“Nothing strange, though?” he asked.
“Ummmm.... Here’s something. A few years ago, she was assaulted outside the courthouse. Some guy claimed that she killed his sister years ago. But the report says he was drunk. It looks like he was arrested and retracted all his statements once he sobered up. No charges were ever pressed.”
“Can you get me that guy’s name? And his address?”
“You know I can’t.”
He let out a sigh, but Parker continued. “But it looks like I’m pulling a double shift and my plants really need to be watered. Can you stop by? It’s my apartment in Connecticut.”
Derek straightened and pulled open the nearest junk drawer, moving all the crap around inside until he found a pen that worked. “I’ll water your plants any time, Parker. What’s the address?”
She gave him the address for what sounded like a home in the suburbs “And if you see my neighbor, Josh Parish, tell him I say hello.”
“I will make sure to say hi. I owe you a lot more than one.”
“And I will be sure to collect. Be careful, Pierce. I don’t know what happened between you and Voss, but you’re already in trouble.”
“I’m always careful. Thanks again, Parker.” Derek hung up and looked up directions to the address. Funny thing about being careful. He was already in trouble for doing nothing but the right thing. So maybe it was time to start a little trouble.
Derek hit the buzzer for Josh Parish’s apartment and waited to see whether he was going to respond. Half of his working hours were spent waiting for people to show up at their apartments. Except this wasn’t working hours. This was his “personal” time. Fuck.
He hit the buzzer again, this time harder than necessary. Like hell if he was going to sit at his apartment, just waiting for work to call him back in. He buzzed again and the intercom finally clicked on. “Who is it?”
“Detective Pierce with the NYPD. I have a few questions.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“I don’t need a warrant to ask questions.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“It’s about Abigail Harris.”
There was a long silence before the lock clicked, signaling that Parish was letting him in. Even though this was an apartment, the complex was nothing like places in the city. For one, it was only two stories tall and there were real, legit lawns for kids to play on. Not the rooftop gardens of the city. The joys of Connecticut.
He took the stairs two at a time until he got to Parish’s apartment. It was easy to determine which one was his considering the door was open and the guy was leaning out. Josh Parish didn’t look like the conspiracy theorist Derek expected. He had thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses and wore brown slacks and a tan, pressed, button-down shirt.
The dirty fact about police work was that stereotyping went on all the time. When you were told you were tracking down someone who assaulted a prestigious lawyer right outside a courthouse, you tended to expect wild hair, stained, old clothes, and a tin foil hat. Not your garden-variety nerd.
He didn’t like it when people didn’t fit into the square boxes he expected. Mainly because it made his life harder.
Sam was the perfect example. A gothic drug addict. She should’ve been a one-note write-off; instead, she ended up being.... He still had no idea what she was.
Parish didn’t move out of the doorway. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
Well, at least he sounded the part. “I have a badge.” Parish still looked skeptical. “Do you want to call into the precinct and verify my badge number?” That could end up bad for him considering he wasn’t supposed to be working, but people only took the option to call into the precinct ten percent of the time.
Here’s hoping Parish was part of the ninety percent.
“Come on in.” Parish stepped aside. “And this isn’t permission to search my place or anything.”
Derek rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying to search your place. I just need to know what you think Abigail Harris did to your sister.”
Parish was silent as his eyes darted around the room. “You’re not going to believe me. No one ever believes me.”
“If I don’t believe you, then I’ll walk out of here not believing you. It’s not like you’re under suspicion of anything.”
He shifted his weight as though he was ready to bolt at any minute. “Why are you looking into Abigail? Is she under investigation?”
Derek debated how much he could say. He didn’t even know what he could tell the guy if he wanted to. Putting his theories to word just made them seem crazier than they did in his head. “I think Abigail walked into the police station last night and by the time she left, the case I’d been working on for weeks was shut down immediately.” Even though there were still a thousand unanswered questions, piles of paperwork that needed to be done, and a possible second murderer out there.
“You mean the mind control?”
Derek winced. He really hated that word. “Yeah. Mind control.”
Parish nodded repeatedly. “That’s it, man. They have the power of mind control and they use it to get whatever they want. Money. Power. There’s no way to stop them.”
Derek held up a hand. “Whoa. Go back to the beginning. How did you meet Abigail Harris?”
“I never met her. Not until after....”
“After what?”
> “The fire.”
Derek repressed the need to rub his head. He needed to get this guy to give him a coherent story. “Start again. When did you first hear about Abigail?”
“My sister worked for her. She was supposed to be something. CPA, scientist, something. Instead, she got pregnant at fifteen and dropped out of school. She worked a bunch of odd jobs but thought she had it made when she got a job with Abigail Harris. They have a massive estate that has a staff of twenty people just to maintain. It had good pay, benefits. Gwen was ecstatic that she’d found a place so great to work. But then the fire happened.”
Derek didn’t ask for more information, instead giving Parish time to fill in the blanks himself.
“I wanted answers. How a place so big could go up without the fire department getting there in time or Gwen getting out in time. She had to know that place better than anyone, but she burned....” The slightest hint of tears showed behind Parish’s eyes.
“Did the fire investigators determine the cause of the fire?”
Parish smiled bitterly. “There was no investigation.”
“If there was a fire that resulted in death, there would have to be—”
“Five.”
“What?”
“Five people died in that fire. Gwen was just one of them.”
“So there has to be something that shows—”
“There was never any investigation! Abigail Harris and her people got everything swept under the rug. They sent our mom some big check to make up for it, but no news station would air the story and no agency I talked to would cover it. It was like it never happened. Like she never died!” Parish turned and walked into the living room area of the apartment, kneeling in front of the entertainment center and digging through the shelves until he pulled out a VHS tape. “Here.” He pushed the tape into his VHS player.
Derek frowned at the VHS player. It had been ages since he’d seen one in action. It didn’t take long before he realized what the grainy footage was. “This is the day you attacked Abigail Harris?”
“I didn’t attack her,” he snapped. “I was trying to get answers.”
On the screen, a courthouse security guard tackled Parish as Abigail stumbled back and stared at Parish as he was restrained. “I already knew this happened. Why show me?”
The Bewitching Hour Page 12