by K. T. Tomb
“Well, yes, but that’s assuming she’s still around.”
Storm shook his head. “I know it’s not the sort of proof-based investigating the FBI is expected to do, but I trust Frankie on this. If she says it’s a sibling, then I know she’s right.”
“Not forgetting Quinn Lang?”
Storm considered that for a moment. “Well, where is he? Wasn’t he supposed to show up at his parole officer’s today?”
“Yup,” Albert gave a wry smile. “But he didn’t show. In fact, he hasn’t been seen since he was released.”
“Huh,” Storm took another sip of his drink. “Have you been looking for him?”
“We sent some people down to his apartment earlier. They will probably report in within an hour or so.”
Storm nodded. “You need to go home, or do you have time for coffee?”
Albert looked at his phone and then shrugged. “Duty, so I can have some coffee with you.”
“I’ll make you some coffee back at the office.”
“You’re being a cheapskate now? Great Recession hurting your business too?”
“Nah, I just have better coffee and a brand new, top of the line espresso machine waiting for us there.”
Albert grinned. “Right, I’ll see you back there after I’ve taken care of the tab.”
Storm had already produced two cups of espresso when Albert came back into the office. Only Storm’s secretary, Rachel, was still in the office.
The two men sat down with their coffees in a deep alcove with fitted seats just beside the kitchen.
“You’re right, it is good coffee.”
“Told you.”
“Still think you’re cheap.”
Rachel popped her head round the side of the alcove. “Will you be needing anything further, Mister McCoy?”
“No, Rachel. You can go home.” Storm smiled. “Home to your boyfriend, eh?”
Rachel looked down for a second. “Actually, sir, he’s gone. He moved to LA to work in Hollywood. He wasn’t getting any proper roles here.”
“Sorry to hear that. How are you holding up?” Storm sounded genuinely concerned.
“I’m hanging in there. Getting used to stomping around that apartment alone.” She forced a smile. “But if that’s all, I’ll be going, sir. Good evening, Mister McCoy, Mister Parker.”
Albert waved and Storm said goodbye.
Albert’s phone rang and he walked into the kitchen as he picked it up. Storm could not hear a word he said and just looked out of the window. The office buildings were emptying. The workers were flooding into the streets from the doors and the parking lots. From his bird’s eye view, he couldn’t make out faces. But he thought he recognized his secretary walking her bike from the building’s front entrance, hopping on and cycling off toward Harlem where she lived.
“Right. You’d better come with me,” Albert threw back the coffee and winced as the hot liquid burned his throat. “You might find this interesting.”
They were soon in his car driving toward one of the poorer parts of Brooklyn. Storm did not venture into the ghettos often. He had been there previously, especially during his days in the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but he preferred to stick to the higher parts of society in Manhattan and Brooklyn these days. It was more comfortable and the smell was infinitely better. When he remarked on the latter, Albert immediately opened the windows of the car. Storm punched him in the shoulder.
Albert parked the car outside a rundown apartment block that looked as though it should be demolished. There was already another car with the FBI letters on it at the location. A coroner’s van raced past them and around the corner as they got out of the car. “This is where Quinn’s supposed to be living,” Albert said as he walked to the door. “Let’s see if the parole officer was right.”
Storm followed him and retched almost as soon as he walked into the apartment. There was another one.
“Do we know who it is?” Albert asked. The agent who had been sent to find Quinn Lang was already busy taking fingerprints. “Not yet,” she said. She held up the paper with the fingerprints. “I’ll go down and scan these. Should have an answer for you soon.”
The coroner came into the dingy apartment. He let out a low whistle when he saw the body and then sniffed. “Well, this one was the first to get the treatment.”
Albert and Storm both looked at him with questioning eyes.
The coroner shook his head. “You FBI boys feeling slow today? I had hoped that maybe you would have learned something since you left the FBI, Storm, but it seems not.” He waited for a protest and just as Storm opened his mouth, he continued. “There’s quite a distinct odor here. I’m guessing he’s been lying in this warm apartment for at least a week.”
Albert looked around the apartment. There was not much there. There was a bed and a cupboard. He went to the cupboard, pulled a glove onto his right hand and opened the drawers one by one. There was a wallet with Quinn Lang’s driver license in one of the top drawers; the others contained some clothes and a few books. The top right drawer held a Bible.
“So Quinn Lang found God in jail.” he mumbled. He thumbed through the Bible, but there was nothing to suggest any passage he had been particularly interested in.
Storm stood on the spot, waiting for someone to tell him it was alright to move. He did not want to disturb the scene. He was no longer an agent and he knew from experience how easy it was for a judge to overturn evidence if there was any reason to think the crime scene had been contaminated.
Albert went into the small kitchen and found nothing worthwhile. There were some eggs in the fridge and some used knives and pans. He checked the small bathroom and found a single toothbrush, a travel-size tube of toothpaste and a bar of soap. It was depressing, really. There was nothing here. Nothing to show a person had really lived a life. He found it sad how this is what three years in prison could do to a man’s world.
“I’ve seen enough.” he mumbled as he walked past Storm and out of the door. “Depressing place.”
Storm followed him out and was behind him the moment the agent who had taken the fingerprints confirmed to Albert that the body was Quinn Lang.
Albert turned around and looked at Storm. “And then there was one.”
Chapter Ten
Storm had known about the party a few blocks over at the Morris’ house for weeks. He had not intended to take them up on their invitation, but he felt like having a drink that night. But above all, he did not want to be alone that evening.
The Morris’ family apartment was a couple of streets down. About a half a mile; walking distance Storm determined. He left his cars in the garage and walked down the road. When he arrived at the Morris’ loft, he was glad he had decided to walk. Not only would it allow him to drink, but there was a large queue of luxury cars lining up around the block. He recognized some of the cars on sight, and waved at the few people he could see, but most of the cars, especially the SUV’s and limousines, had blacked-out windows. Despite himself, he knew he was paying extra attention to his posture and his walk.
He reached the entry gate just before a yellow metal-flake Lamborghini Murciélago. He looked down into the cockpit of the car and saw a face and body he recognized. He waved at Frankie Saunders and received a bright smile and enthusiastic wave in return.
He gave his invitation card to the security guard at the door, entered the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor of the building. He walked through the house and took the internal stairs up to the roof garden. The garden smelled of freshly cut grass. Storm reckoned the garden had been immaculately arranged just before the guests began arriving. He knew it would have taken several gardeners several hours to do it.
The Morris’ loft spanned the entire block. From the upper windows at the front of his loft, he had a clear view of the property and their lush roof garden. He never spied on them, but they had a pair of daughters that were hard to ignore when you happened to glance out of the window in summer.
&n
bsp; The Morris family was DUMBO royalty. Jim Morris was a Broadway producer of some of the biggest shows that had been produced in the last ten years and Kelly, his wife, was a scriptwriter on some of the greatest box office successes in the last decade. Their eldest daughter was an aspiring actress and both girls worked for a modeling agency.
The loft and roof garden were filling up nicely. The whole place was a veritable who’s who of New York’s elite. Even the Upper East Siders had ventured off their island to attend. They had invited nearly everyone who was anyone. Storm felt flattered to think he was among the A-listers. He was important enough in a way, but he was not one of the pretty people that appeared on the pages of the socialite pages of Vanity Fair or one of the moguls who made sure the pretty people had real-estate and investments. He hoped he wasn’t invited based on the social connections he was born with, but was here because he had built up a large base of clients that trusted him to deal with their legal affairs. A large number of his neighbors here were people who turned to him for legal advice when they needed it. Yet, he liked that he had both standing and blue blood, knowing they liked him enough to invite him and respected him enough not to shun him.
There was a band outside in the garden playing jazz music; next to it was the bar. He made a beeline straight for it. He bumped into Jim Morris there and made polite small talk with him, but they could both feel it was forced. He had not prepared for the obligation the evening required. He wanted people around, but he could not be bothered with the polite banter.
He quickly consumed several glasses of wine, then excused himself from Jim Morris and walked back down the steps and into the main house.
Inside the house was like an oil painting. Everyone who was anyone was there. A fifteen year old boy would have wet dreams of a room like this. It seemed Jim and Kelly had invited everyone they had ever worked with, or anyone who might help advance the careers of their daughters.
Storm spoke to a producer who worked at the Disney Corporation and then a writer he knew worked exclusively for Time Warner. He liked talking to his clients in the entertainment industry, it was an exciting arm of the law, but it was not the stimulating company he was looking for. He was glad he never stood with an empty glass for long.
About an hour after he came to the party, there was a huge ruckus as a new guest arrived. Even from a distance he recognized the shock of blonde hair, the naked shoulders and the way she spoke. He wanted to make himself scarce when Justine Lavoie showed up at the party, but then he saw who was in her entourage. On her husband’s arm walked Naomh Walsh. She was constantly looking around. She looked like she wanted to appear in love with her husband, but he knew she was there to make sure Justine Lavoie did not get up to her usual antics.
Storm ran out of the door and made his way back to the roof garden bar. He found another drink and sat down on a marble bench in the shadows of a tree on the edge of the terrace. He had no desire to be in there anymore, no desire to be near Justine Lavoie, the deranged teenage pop star. He wondered whether he should perhaps dump Justine Lavoie’s cases in one of his partners’ laps. He leaned back and sighed.
“Trying to hide?” a voice said behind him and a pair of hands ran over his shoulders. “Not a great place to hide though,” the voice said, whispering and simultaneously breathing gently, making the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
“Hi, Frankie,” he replied, tilting his head backwards to look at her.
“Hi!” she chirped and ran round the bench to sit down next to him. “Saw you on television. This Justine Lavoie is a bit of a handful, isn’t she?”
Storm let out a deep sigh.
“But she’s not whom you’re hiding from, is she?”
Storm didn’t answer; he just looked Frankie in the eyes.
“Must be her PR chick. I heard she was involved with someone behind her husband’s back.”
“How can you have heard that?”
“Gossip travels quickly in this town.”
“You mean you dig around to find the gossip before anyone else?”
Frankie grinned. “Something like that.” She leaned in. “Well, she’s married, you can’t have her. If you’re lonely, I might be tempted to give you a freebie.”
Storm smiled and ran a hand over her cheek. “A freebie eh?”
Frankie leaned her head into his hand. “Yes.”
Storm sat up straight and pulled his hand away. “By the way, what are you doing at this party? Weren’t you supposed to be with your fiancé?”
Frankie sighed and dropped back in the seat dramatically. “Boring!”
“Dinner with your fiancé and some of the leading businessmen of the city is boring?”
Frankie nodded fervently. “Yep. Boring as fuck. Besides...” She cast a quick look around and leaned closer again. “The mayor is a bit of a client of mine. Not sure it would have gone well.”
“He’s a very loyal client?”
“Yes. Not my favorite client, though.”
“Oh?” Storm didn’t ask her who the favorite client might be. He reckoned he knew from her behavior what the answer was.
Frankie turned toward the door. Justine Lavoie was just coming out onto the terrace. She was feeling up her bodyguard again, but it seemed Naomh Walsh was keeping her from doing anything more. She pretty much slapped her client back into line now.
Frankie frowned as Justine turned her bare back toward them. “When did she get that eagle drawn on her back? Don’t remember it being there the last time I saw her.”
Storm veered up. “What did you just say?”
“Don’t remember it being there the last time I saw her?”
“Before that.”
“When she got that tattoo?”
Storm shook his head. “You said it differently. You asked when she got that eagle drawn on her back.” He got up and pulled out his phone. He walked into the shadows of the trees and called Albert.
“Fuck sake. I know you know how late it is, Storm,” Albert answered. He sounded out of breath, rather than like someone who was just woken up.
“The wife let you have some ass tonight?”
“What do you want?”
“Frankie just said something interesting.”
“What the fuck do I care what Frankie-fucking-Saunders says? And I thought you were doing this public relations bimbo?”
Storm blinked. “Take it easy...” he admonished his old partner. “She just asked when Justine Lavoie had an eagle drawn on her back.” He heard the rustling of sheets and knew Albert had sat bolt upright. “She’s from Québec as well.”
“Huh...” Albert muttered. “Interesting. I’ll look into it in the morning.”
“Yeah, I thought it was an interesting play of words. And she’s definitely loony.”
“I’ll look into it in the morning. Right now I have more pressing matters to attend to.”
Storm grinned unseen. He recognized where that phrase came from and how it had slipped into Albert’s vocabulary. “I’ll let you get back to crushing your wife under your big belly.”
“Storm...”
“Yes?”
“Fuck you.”
Storm laughed and wished Albert a good night.
Frankie was still on the bench when he came back. He sat down next to her and smiled. In a sudden impulse, he kissed her. “Thank you.”
She was taken aback and left gasping for air. She wanted to lean into him and kiss him back, but just then someone crawled toward Storm.
Justine Lavoie had noticed him and she rambled on about wanting to thank him for his services as she crawled toward him. She sat down on her knees before him and tried to get to his zipper.
“What the fuck?” Storm pulled away and sat up on the back of the bench. Naomh Walsh came to the rescue. She pulled the pop star to her feet and began marching her away. It was as she walked away that Naomh noted that the man Justine had been after was Storm. “Oh, hi,” she greeted him feebly.
“Hi,” Storm replied.
“Thanks for that.”
“Welcome.” She sounded shy. She looked away. Just then her husband came out through the doors. Storm sank back onto the bench. He watched her as she went back to her husband.
A hand touched his knee. “That freebie is still on offer.”
Chapter Eleven
Storm woke up in the middle of the night.
There was a scream in the house. A prolonged scream. He immediately felt around the bed. He sighed when his hand rested on Frankie Saunders’s breast. He reached into the nightstand and pulled out his old Sig Sauer nine millimeter. He checked the magazine and threw back the sheets. He looked around on the floor for a moment, looking for his pants. He put his boxers back on and quietly walked to the door. There was no sound now. He opened the door a crack and looked out. There was no one there.
He went back to the bed and took his phone from the nightstand.
“Again? Fuck off!” Albert’s sleepy voice answered.
“There was a scream. Somewhere in the house.”
“Not Frankie Saunders pretending to be in ecstasy? Or was it that Walsh woman?”
“Serious. Get the fuck over here.”
“Still have your gun?”
“Yeah. We’ll be fine, but I’m not moving away from here.”
“Yeah, stay in the bedroom. I assume that’s where you are.” There was a moment of silence on the line. “Anyone there with you?”
“Frankie.”
“Keep her safe. We’re lucky these murders have escaped the press so far. Frankie Saunders being mutilated by a lunatic serial killer would really make the shit hit the fan. And I doubt your business would benefit from it. I’ll be over in a few.”
The line went dead. Albert must be getting dressed.
Storm sat down on the bed and shook Frankie’s shoulder. She shot awake. “What...?” she asked him sleepily. Storm placed a finger on her lips. “There’s someone in the house. I’ve got help coming.”
She lay back on the bed and looked at him. Her hands ran over the front of his boxers. He shook his head, lifting the gun. “I don’t know what’s going on out there, best keep alert.”