by M. P. Cooley
I was surprised when Dave met me at the front of the store rather than in the alley. He kept his voice low, monitoring for anyone who might be trying to listen. “They picked up Marty Jelickson. At the Canadian border. Or rather, near the Canadian border.”
“Canada?” The pharmacy’s security cameras tracked us. I doubted they had audio, but I dropped my voice further, just in case. “To do business?”
“He headed right up the Northway, and was trying to find a way into Canada where he wouldn’t need a passport. Some state troopers are driving him down now, and he should be here in another two or three hours.” Dave hopped twice, I think from glee. “We can charge him for stealing the plates and spend as much time as we want with him.”
Jeff Polito walked slowly past the accident, trudging up the walk toward us.
“I should get back to the crime scene,” Dave said. “Annie has things well in hand, but she probably misses me.”
Back inside, I called to Denise. “I think you have a customer.”
Denise peered down the aisle. When she saw Jeff she waved a one minute finger and raced to the back.
When she returned, she had on her pharmacist’s smock. It flowed behind her as she raced to the door, unlocked it, and shoved a paper bag into Jeff’s hands. She whispered, “You can owe me,” and slammed the door shut on him. I followed Denise to the back, where she reperched on her stool.
“So the tan boots and hat in the bin,” I said. “Are they yours?”
“Oh, no. They’re a bit masculine for me.”
“How about Jason? Look like something he owns?”
“No.” I stayed silent, and Denise crossed her long legs, and then crossed them again—she could find no comfortable position. Finally she said, “He might have a pair of those boots. But I’m sure his are a different size.”
Something was not right here. “And the key to the bin?”
“Jason and I shared one, but it’s missing. We had it the day before you stopped by, and the next day, it was gone.”
“Gone?” I thought of the sandwiches Jason had dropped off at Marty’s. “Was there anyplace it could have been lost?”
“No. I went straight home. Although . . .” She seemed to be searching for words or for a memory, rubbing her forehead. The years of handling chemicals and medications had left her hands dotted with scars and discoloration. “My son did drop off some sandwiches for the Jelickson brothers. I told him the coffee cake was enough, but he decided he wanted to be nice.”
“And he had the one key with him.”
“Yes. Before, we had a second key, but it disappeared.”
“When was that, Denise? Two weeks ago? Two years?”
“A few months. Right when Danielle got fired. The hauling company is sending two more keys. That’s two hundred dollars down the drain, right there. Thanks to that idiot I have to buy a whole new box.”
“Could I have their number?” I asked. Denise pulled the Rolodex out from a shelf underneath the register.
“Jason knew the schedule for pickup, I assume.” I waited until Denise nodded, her attention still on the business cards. “And when was that?”
“Two days ago. Although they didn’t come . . . the storm.”
“I’m going to need to talk to him again. He had a key—”
“The key was gone.” Denise continued to flip through the cards.
“And he stopped by Marty Jelickson’s the night of Ray’s murder.”
“My son had no reason to kill those people.”
It took me a minute to pick up the card she extended, trying to puzzle out Denise’s logic. “What makes you say that, Denise?”
“Lots of reasons.” Denise ticked off the points on her fingers. “First, I raised my son right. But also, the key was missing, remember, and Marty Jelickson very well might’ve stolen it. Did you see his parents at the funeral?” she asked, and I nodded. “He’s not a decent person; his whole family is bad news.”
“And Danielle? Did she come from bad people?”
“No . . . but you know that.” Denise stomped around the counter. She rearranged the vitamins, slotting vitamin K after iron, and putting ginseng on another shelf altogether. She glanced quickly around the store, like someone might have overheard. When she next spoke, her voice was gentle. “My son’s a good man, generous to a fault. He wouldn’t cross that line.”
“Well, we’ll find out when we question him.”
“It won’t be today,” Denise said with authority. “Celia called in sick, and he’s the primary caregiver today. I won’t allow it.”
“Allow or not allow isn’t in question,” I said. “He’s not a minor. And we have to find Danielle and Ray’s killer.”
“I understand. I do. It’s just, he works so hard here, and with his dad . . . I want to give him a break. His first girlfriend got killed, and I want him to not have to . . . to go through this.” She slumped against the counter, staring at the floor. She seemed overwhelmed by everything: the store, her sick husband, her son’s possible involvement in two deaths, and me.
“We’ll work with him,” I said. “Make it as easy as we can. We’ll visit him at home.”
I meant it. When Kevin was sick, I wasn’t able to manage everything I needed to do, let alone wanted to do. I wanted to give Jason a break. I wanted to give Denise a break.
“That’s good, that’s good,” Denise said. “This whole thing has been so awful. You know, you work to give your kids a better life, or at least the life they want, and there’s nothing Jason wants more than to take over this stupid old pharmacy.” Her chin trembled. “And my husband, he doesn’t have long now, and for his family’s business to fail, well, I can’t let that happen.” She drew herself up, craning her neck to peer through the front window. “Are we done? A customer’s waiting.”
“You’re done.” I followed her up front, where Dave’s smiling face peered through the window.
“Officer Batko,” she said. “What now?”
CHAPTER 20
THE SUN WAS SHINING. Not peeking out, not radiating from behind a wall of snow, not hidden behind a bank of clouds, but shining. While it wasn’t warm, I could imagine heat for the first time in months. The shops that remained as going concerns were opening, including the bank, a check-cashing place, the Wishing Well Coin Laundry, a second check-cashing place, and the Knickerbocker Diner, the only business that could be described as “busy.” They deserved to be—their home fries were life changing.
“Let’s get some breakfast before we go back to the station,” I said. In the window of the diner I saw the owner, Salina Jacobs, raise her coffeepot at me. I think she’d set up a pancake-powered homing beacon inside the diner and knew we couldn’t resist. “We can discuss police business and it will be like we never stopped working.”
Dave didn’t answer, sliding sideways between two cars and jaywalking toward the diner. I was in the middle of the street when the doors of the bank crashed open. Out came a beast with three backs: Phil Brouillette and Zeke Jelickson clenched together, a third person I couldn’t make out, big as the two of them put together, forcing them to the ground.
The three dropped behind a car, out of my view. Jelickson gained his footing first, pulling himself out of the brawl far enough that he could draw his arm back and take a swing at Phil Brouillette. Brouillette ducked and cut Jelickson off at the knees before punching him squarely in the jaw. Brouillette had the build and attitude of a street fighter. I banged my shins on a bumper when I cut the turn close, but as I got nearer I was able to identify the third person: Chuck DeGroot. He was winding up to kick Jelickson—hard.
Dave grabbed Chuck before he could follow through, using Chuck’s momentum to force him up against the window. I pinned Phil against a lamppost, putting my hand on the back of his neck and pulling his arm around and against his shoulder blades. He fought, and I shoved my knee in behind his own, forcing him off balance and closer against the pole. He stopped struggling.
Jelickso
n moved to his knees, but Dave let go of Chuck to push Jelickson back against the concrete. He pointed to Chuck.
“Don’t move,” he said.
A crowd of faces pressed against the doors of the bank, with an elderly bank guard holding them inside. They watched Dave handcuff Jelickson as I patted down Brouillette. I froze.
He had a gun. I kept my voice calm, not wanting to send either of the other men into fight-or-flight, or alarm the crowd forming in front of the diner across the street.
“Sorry, man,” Dave said as he cuffed DeGroot.
I nodded Dave over and pulled a Smith & Wesson out of Brouillette’s back holster.
“Very nice,” Dave said. “You better have a concealed carry permit, Mr. Brouillette, or you’re going to be in more trouble than anyone.”
“I have a permit,” Brouillette mumbled against the metal post. “It’s a registered gun.”
“He’s carrying, and you’re going to jack me up?” Jelickson demanded.
“We let you off last time, Zeke, but not now,” I said. “Both of you are going in for disorderly conduct, and that’s just for starters.”
With Pete documenting some last details at the snowplow scene and Bill out on Route 9 investigating a barking dog, we were on our own. We could call in someone off duty, or the troopers, who were honestly not so bad to work with, even if they did consider themselves a bunch of badasses. After much discussion between Dave and me (“Is this legal?” “I missed breakfast. I don’t care.”) we made a parade of it.
Jelickson protested. “Do we have to do a perp walk in front of the whole town?”
“Well, you could continue to kneel on the cold ground on the main street until we can free someone to pick us up,” I said.
“You could let us go. Or at least the two of us,” Brouillette said, nodding at Chuck.
In the end we deputized the guard. Forty years on the job, the guard had sharp eyes but a slow gait, and the two-minute walk ended up taking closer to fifteen. Jelickson went first, his hands cuffed behind his back, chin up, daring anyone to say anything. I saw a boy aim a camera phone at the group, but before I could order him to put it away, Jelickson growled, and the boy ran back to a giggling group of kids.
I followed Jelickson. Then came Chuck DeGroot, the guard, Phil Brouillette, and finally Dave, “the clown car in this parade,” as he put it.
Phil Brouillette called to Chuck—“I’ll get you some representation”—but when Dave asked him if he was waiving his rights, he quieted right down. Once we arrived at the station we booked and separated the three of them, immediately moving Jelickson and Brouillette into cells, for their own safety. We sat Chuck in the chief’s office, handcuffed to a chair, while we took the bank guard’s statement.
According to the guard, Chuck DeGroot and Jelickson were in line, a few people between them. Chuck always came in on Thursday mornings to deposit his paycheck, so nothing weird there. They were either ignoring each other or didn’t know each other. Brouillette arrived and lined up behind Chuck, and the two started talking, “but Brouillette was watching Jelickson the whole time.” Jelickson dropped back to talk to them, at which point the guard could hear Brouillette say, “Stay the hell away from me. I’m not talking to someone like you.” Brouillette and Jelickson started to tussle, and DeGroot wedged himself between them. It seemed to break up. The guard moved into position—“although who knows what I’d do with three fighting men at my age”—whereupon he heard Jelickson say, “You should be on my side, we’re practically family,” followed by something that was lost as Chuck let go of Brouillette and took a swing at Jelickson. Jelickson ducked, but Brouillette hit him in the side, seemingly in coordination with Chuck.
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help with everything,” the guard, Charlie, said. “With the bank closing, they don’t want to go to the trouble of hiring someone new. I should have been able to defuse it, used to be able to, but I’m a little too old for even that, I guess. I mean, pulling the out-of-towner aside would have solved everyone’s problems.”
Dave and I let the guard go back to the bank and decided to work on Chuck next. Since arriving, he had made one call—to his job—and sat quietly. When we walked into the room he was reading the paper, running the finger of his free hand across the basketball stats.
Dave uncuffed Chuck and straddled the seat opposite him. “So?”
“Man, I don’t know what happened back there. I mean, I know. Brouillette’s crazy with grief, which, if something happened to Jackie . . . well. And there’s Jelickson, but even he just lost his son.”
“So you got pulled in when you were breaking up a fight?” I asked.
“Sure.”
Chuck agreed a little too readily for my taste.
“But you threw a punch. Why?”
“Phil needed help. You know how that goes.”
“And Jelickson didn’t say something to you, make you mad?” Dave asked.
“I’d advise you not to speak,” said a voice from the doorway. I found myself facing R. Michael Fitzgerald. He had a minion at his side, and both men were suited up and ready for a fight.
“Did you even read him his rights?” asked Fitzgerald, coming to stand next to Chuck and resting his hand on his shoulder.
“They did,” Chuck said.
“Then as your lawyer I would advise you to make the most of yours and remain silent.”
“Huh?” Chuck said. “I didn’t hire you. I can’t afford you.”
Rather than speaking to Chuck, Fitzgerald addressed Dave and me. “Phil Brouillette said you were an innocent bystander, Chuck, as was he. As you both were caught up in Jelickson’s lawlessness, the Brouillettes felt that you should be represented alongside Phil. My associate is going to speak with Mr. Brouillette, to make sure he wasn’t mishandled, but as you seem to be under the most duress right now, I’m going to work with you to see this situation doesn’t escalate.”
Fitzgerald talked as if he ran the whole shebang, a quality that made him a good defense lawyer. In the two cases in which I had given evidence against one of his clients, Fitzgerald had managed to get one guy off and the second convicted of lesser charges. His trick was to convince juries that he believed absolutely in his clients’ innocence, and the juries, in turn, should trust him. He always had a minion who would jump up and object to everything and anything, but Fitzgerald seemed without fear that his client might face conviction. Fitzgerald floated into court on a cloud of righteousness, and floated out without letting judge or jury see that he’d stuck the prosecution with a shiv.
“We were going to take his statement and release him,” Dave said.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure that’s what you were planning. Mr. DeGroot, don’t believe that for a minute.”
“If that’s the case,” Dave said, “I’m going to see if we can move Chuck into a cell while we wait.” Dave stormed out with Fitzgerald following, leaving Chuck and me alone.
“That your lawyer?”
“Guess so. Although I’m not sure if I’m allowed to speak to you.” He shrugged. “I wish I didn’t have to be put in the cells. I haven’t been in there in twenty years. Got picked up on a drunk driving charge before the laws got tough. They still cold and damp?”
“Well, it is jail,” I said with a smile. “We don’t want to make it too enjoyable.”
“Urgh. I was hoping to have this all done before tonight so I didn’t miss another day of work, and maybe get out of here in time to cook dinner for Jacqueline if . . . after . . . she comes home.”
From the squad room, I could hear the sharp tones of Mrs. Jelickson along with another voice asking how long his client would be held. The other side’s cavalry had arrived.
I continued our friendly conversation. “Do you cook dinner every night?”
“Mostly. Jacqueline’s always telling me she ate before, but I think she’s not eating, not wanting to get fat. The doctor says she’s healthy. . . .” He trailed off, lost in his own thoughts.
“Gi
rls at that age don’t realize how beautiful they are,” I said.
“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” He frowned suddenly, as Jackie’s voice rose above the din in the next room.
“Let me see my father,” she demanded.
I stepped into the hallway. Jackie was with Mrs. Jelickson and a lawyer. The guy didn’t have a pin-striped suit on, but the casual loafers with jeans ensemble gave away his lawyerliness.
“What do you mean, DeGroot already has representation?” the lawyer was saying, the flatness of his a’s more Connecticut Yankee than upstate New York. “Some public defender?”
I recognized Charles Van Schoon from the society pages. I didn’t read them, but they were right next to the obituaries, which my dad read religiously. The guy was some big-shot New York City corporate lawyer who had a “weekend place” in Columbia County. He and his wife would go to all the social events when the Saratoga track was open, avoiding the lawn-chaired masses to sit next to the Whitneys in their box.
“No, me,” Fitzgerald said, coming from Chief Donnelly’s office.
“Oh, Mike,” the man said. “Didn’t realize . . .”
I caught Jackie’s eye and waved her over. I stood in the doorway, trying to slow her down, but she barreled past and ran to her father. I did stop Mrs. Jelickson.
“Family only.” I shut the door in Linda Jelickson’s face.
Chuck held Jackie at arm’s length; her fingers caught in his sleeve. He turned his back on her, and tears welled in Jackie’s eyes. It was not the happy reunion I was expecting.
“It wasn’t like that, but with the baby . . .”
A baby, I thought. That explained so much.
“And I told you I’d help,” Chuck said. “It’s my grandkid.”
“The Jelicksons’ grandkid, too.” Jackie’s voice was high and frantic as she blurted her reasons. “They’re pretty rich. And they’re in California.”
“And I’m your father. You didn’t come home last night—”
“I was talking with the Jelicksons. They’re like family. They understand what it’s like to miss Ray. Miss Ray so much I want to die, to be with him.” She looked down, tears rolling down her face, her jewel-studded hoops glinting softly. Were those Danielle’s earrings? No, they were pastel stones and didn’t glint quite as brightly. “You don’t even want me to have this baby,” she said.