by Dana Donovan
I smiled awkwardly, blinking back my surprise. “What?”
“We all have demons,” he replied. “Some are all around us, others only in our heads….” He leaned his ear down again and came up smiling. “Oh, yeah, and some are in our dreams. But they don’t define who you are, so let them go. Don’t let them eat at you.”
“All right,” I said, half-smiling. “Thanks, and…ah, take care.”
I turned away, and as soon as I thought it was safe to do so, I looked back over my shoulder. I saw him walking towards his room, his arm by his side, though reaching slightly as if holding a little kid’s hand. I understood then, he was right. We all have demons. The difference is in how we deal with them.
I slept better that night, except for that one damn dream. Doctor Lowell had me tied to the tree again, but this time Lilith was tied up with me, too. She kept calling for that damn witch’s ladder, but I wouldn’t give it to her.
“I can free us!” she hollered. Doctor Lowell moved in closer, his butcher knife raised and gleaming in the full moonlight. “Let me have it, Detective, now!”
I reached into my pocket. The ropes fell away like paper ribbons. Next thing I knew, the witch’s ladder appeared in my hand. I shook it violently and the beads spilled to the ground. Lilith’s ropes were still bound tightly, but she knew that mine were loose. She pleaded for me to scoop the beads up and give them to her. “We’ll die!” she cried. “We’ll die together!”
I held the bare string dangling at my chest. Lilith’s sobs echoed in my ears. Then it occurred to me, I didn’t want freedom. I wanted Lilith. Better still, I wanted to meet my demise with the witch who had outsmarted me. I closed my eyes and….
I awoke in a sweat, my heart pounding, my hands trembling. I wanted badly a grapefruit and guava, but in New Castle I realized that was probably against the law. I thought of getting up and going out for coffee. Instead, I closed my eyes and sleep arrested me. I didn’t awake again for seven hours.
Six
What a difference a day makes. I’ve heard that saying before and thought what a crock. But it’s true. After a real dinner and a relatively sleep-filled night, I was feeling on top of the world. I phoned Carlos, who met me at the Minute Man restaurant for toast and coffee. He told me that Spinelli had some big news waiting for us at the box (his words, not mine).
“Any idea what kind of news?” I asked him.
He shoveled a forkful of French toast into his mouth just as I asked. He does that often, I’ve noticed. Once food is on its way to his mouth, there is no stopping it. If Carlos was on an airplane spiraling down to Earth, and a microwave burrito touched his lips, he would have to go for it. I sipped my coffee and waited patiently for him to stop chewing. The answer came at the bottom of my cup.
“Something about Piakowski,” he said, “and the video.”
“He’s got a video of Piakowski?”
Another payload of French toast left his plate, but this time I was ready. I stretched my hand across the table and intercepted his fork mid-flight. It left him dazed, his jaw unhinged and maple syrup oozing from his toast like a bloody stump. He closed his mouth and swallowed, then looked at me blankly. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. I’m sorry it’s come to this. But tell me, does he or doesn’t he have a video of Piakowski?”
“Who?”
“Spinelli!”
“No! He has information about Piakowski. The video news has got something to do with the one we watched last night: the one with Bridget Dean.”
I let go of his hand and the French toast landed squarely in his mouth. Mission accomplished. Carlos’ breakfast afforded me time for three cups of coffee and a brisk review of the New Castle Times. I saw an article there that mentioned Karen Webber's’ upcoming funeral. My mind flashed back to the day nearly a year ago when Karen stood in the rain at the funeral of her brother, Travis. It saddened and softened my heart to think they were together again.
Carlos finished his breakfast, and on a promise that he wouldn’t go for desert, I paid the tab. We were climbing into the car when I heard my name called. I looked back at the restaurant and saw Mike Riley heading in.
“Who’s that?” Carlos asked.
“Never mind,” I said, “just drive. Drive!”
We tore out of there as if our asses were on fire. I waved to Riley and then pointed at my watch. “Gotta go,” I mouthed through the closed window. “Gotta go, you poor sick bastard.”
We got to the box (yeah, I know. He got me saying that, too), about ten minutes later. Four minutes after that we had cleared all fifteen hundred layers of security and were standing with Spinelli in the audio video room. Spinelli couldn’t wait to get started.
“Where were you?” he asked Carlos, hopping about like he had to pee. “I thought you were just going to the hotel to pick up Detective Marcella?”
I saw Carlos discreetly wipe a syrup spot from his mouth with his cuff, as though to scratch an itch. “I know. We were going to come straight here, but we had to, ahm….”
“My razor broke,” I said. “We had to go buy a new one, and then drive back to my room so I could shave. Sorry for making you wait so long.”
“Oh no problem, Detective. You could keep me waiting all day. I wouldn’t mind at all.”
I think Carlos was about to say something, offended and all as he was, but I pointed tactfully to the spot on his mouth that he had just wiped clean. He faded back and turned away to wipe it again.
“So tell me, Spinelli, what’s the big news you have for us?”
“A couple of things. First of all I did some more digging on Courtney Lusk and found that she was married, briefly.”
“Oh?”
“Right out of high school she hooked up with a loser named Christopher Lusk, a guy nearly fifteen years her senior.”
“That might explain her attraction to Rivera,” Carlos said. “She digs older men.”
I laughed, adding, “I’m sure his money doesn’t hurt, either.”
Spinelli continued. “Like I said, this guy was a real loser, in and out of prison his entire adult life. But that’s not the interesting part.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Carlos. “This guy, Lusk, he’s really Piakowski.”
“Close,” said Spinelli, smiling at the near-hit. “Christopher Lusk isn’t Piakowski, but he was Piakowski’s cellmate at one-time and Piakowski liked him so much he introduced Lusk to his younger sister.”
“Courtney?”
“Yes! Courtney Lusk’s maiden name was Piakowski. She and Gregory are brother and sister. How bizarre is that?”
“Too,” I said. “Nice work, Spinelli. Go to the head of the class.”
“Looks like you were wrong,” said Carlos, giving me the how does it feel look.
I shot back a look of my own. “What do you mean?”
“This validates Dominic’s theory about Courtney involving herself in Anna Davalos’ murder.”
“How so?”
“Come on! You asked why Rivera wouldn’t sooner kill Courtney if she were trying to blackmail him. Now you know.”
“Because of her brother?”
“Of course!”
He had a point. I could see that. However, I still wasn’t convinced that killing Anna Davalos was Courtney’s idea. I dismissed Carlos, rather rudely I’m afraid, and turned to Spinelli. “What else you got?”
“Only this.” He waved us to the monitor and turned on the audio video machine. “You told me to go back to the tape of Bridget Dean and see what else what I could find. I spent hours last night combing through it, only to find the most interesting thing right under my nose.”
He queued up the segment of video that we had seen together the night before. He let it roll, and once again we stood there watching Bridget Dean working at her desk. We saw her set her pen down on the blotter and call out silently.
“All right, I’m going to slow it down now,” Spinelli said. “Watch closely here.” He pointed to
the window behind Dean’s desk. “It’s night time. Dean’s office overlooks the duck pond out back, so there’s nothing but black outside.” He moved his finger vertically over the window. “Watch this area closely. You see a reflection in the glass. It’s the light coming from the doorway in Dean’s office.”
The video continued rolling. Carlos and I huddled closer to the screen. We saw Bridget Dean reach for her gun, stand and start for the door. Spinelli slowed the image down further.
“Okay, here,” he said. He froze the image. “Look closely at the reflection of the doorway. You see that?”
“Yes,” I said. “It looks like a figure: someone standing in the doorway.”
“Maybe it’s Dean’s reflection,” Carlos suggested.
Spinelli shook his head. “No. Watch this.” He started the video again, frame-by-frame. “Look here. Just as Dean walks out of the camera’s view and into the doorway, we see her reflection: a distinct, separate figure.”
“But better defined than the other,” Carlos noted.
“Maybe it’s a bend in the glass,” I said, “distorting Dean’s image and creating a double exposure.”
Again, Spinelli shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve watched this a hundred times last night. I’m going to back it up a bit and roll it a little faster. This time watch how Bridget’s reflection crosses the glass, but the movement of the second figure doesn’t mirror hers. Instead it moves independently.”
He rewound the tape and played it back at one-third speed. Although not as distinctly defined as Dean’s image, the second figure in the reflection clearly moved out of sync and independently of hers.
“That’s it. I’ve seen enough,” I said. “Spinelli, great work. Carlos, let’s roll.”
“Where to?”
“Back to Hartman, Pierce and Petruzelli. I want another chat with Rivera, and I want to see Bridget Dean’s office for myself.”
Carlos grabbed his coat and followed me out. “He’s pretty ambitious, isn’t he?” He said, as we got into his car.
“Spinelli? Yes, he is. I think he’ll make a fine detective.”
“He makes.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s a fine detective already.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, Tony, it’s not. Why are you so averse to recognizing his credentials?”
“I recognize him. Didn’t you hear me compliment him on his good work?”
“Complimenting one’s work is not the same as acknowledging his equality.”
“So what might you have me do, Carlos, raise a banner proclaiming him the world’s best detective?”
“No, but you could start by inviting him out with you on these little jaunts. He looks up to you, and he’s earned it. By the way, would it kill you to call him by his first name once in awhile?”
“That’s not me, Carlos. I’m not like you. I can’t get all buddy-buddy with someone so easily. I didn’t start calling you by your first name for five years.”
“Six,” he said. “And you only started calling me Carlos then because Raul Rodriquez promoted in from traffic.”
I grunted under my breath. He was right about that. Two Rodriquezs complicated things almost as much as four O’Briens and three O’Connors. “Look, Carlos, I like Spinelli. I think he’s a good detective. He certainly has the talent and tenacity to do great things. But I’m just not a huggie-feely kind of guy. It takes me a while to warm up to people.”
“A while? Ha! You still have Monroe down in evidence thinking you hate him because he wouldn’t give you those confiscated lobsters that time.”
“They were going to spoil! There’s no refrigeration down there.”
“It was evidence!”
“Yeah, and what happened to them?” He buttoned up. I saw his hands twisting on the steering wheel. “Carlos?”
“All right. They spoiled.”
“Yes, a hundred and sixty pounds of lobsters and he had to throw them away. The guys who caught them got off Scott free.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know. The point is that we could have had one hell of a lobster bake.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“All right. I’ll tell you what. The next time we go out, we’ll take your little friend along.”
“Tony.”
“Okay. We will take Detective Spin…. I mean, Dominic along. Happy?”
“How about just Dominic? Just the two of you? Make him feel like part of the team. Okay?”
“Fine,” I said, and I found myself folding my arms to my chest. “He’s probably a better conversationalist anyway.”
We arrived at the HP&P building around ten. Rivera’s secretary advised us that her boss wasn’t in, but if we wished to make an appointment, we could. We declined. I asked if we could see Bridget Dean’s office. The woman told us Ms. Dean’s office was being carpeted, and almost as a side thought added, “You understand.” Carlos and I nodded and smiled thinly.
On the way down in the elevator, we decided to revisit Miss Courtney Lusk. Our newly acquired information regarding her relationship with Piakowski reshaped our opinions enough to question her more aggressively. If nothing more, we hoped to ascertain clues as to the whereabouts of her brother. We exited the elevator on the second floor and proceeded to the coffee shop. Again, we arrived between crowds and found the place all but empty. A quick look around fed our suspicions that we had missed Courtney. We asked a young fellow pushing a broom there if he knew her schedule.
“C…Courtney quit yesterday,” he said, his words, besides the stuttering, slow and deliberate.
“Quit? Did she give a reason?”
“I’m not sup…p-posed to talk to strangers. You should ask C…Courtney.”
Carlos looked at me, his brow fixed in that, are you thinking what I’m thinking? sort of arch. I dropped a nod and said, “We’re not strangers. I’m Tony, and this is Carlos. We’re friends of your brother, Ricardo.”
“Y…you know Ricky?”
“Sure. You’re Benjamin, right?”
“B…Benjamin, yeah. But my f..fr…riends call me B…Benny.”
“Benny. That’s nice. May we call you that, too?”
He folded his lips and contorted his mouth, the entire time raking the floor with his eyes as he thought the question through. After deep consideration, he looked up at us and smiled. “Yeah. Y…you can call me Benny, t…too.”
“Are you the janitor here, Benny?”
“Y…yeah. I make it better f…for the w…women.”
“Nice. Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
He shook his head no.
“Do you know Courtney’s brother, Gregory?”
“G…Greg is a bad m..m.man.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Greg makes f…fun of Benny.”
“He teases you?”
A nod yes.
“Does he make fun of the way you talk?”
Another nod.
“Has he ever hit you?”
Head shake no. “He won’t h…hit me. I know ju…judo,” He set the broom handle against his chest and struck a Kung-Fu pose with his hands slanted sharply at opposing angles.
“I guess you do!” I said. “That’s very impressive.”
He relaxed and smiled proudly. “He can make f…fun of me a…all he wants. “S..s.sticks and s..st.stones may break my b…bones…”
“Yes, but names will never hurt you.”
“Yeah. That’s what R…Ricky s..s…says.”
“Well, your brother is a smart man, Benny.”
“Y…yeah, h..he’s a l…lawyer, you know.”
“I know that. Don’t we know that, Carlos?”
“That’s right, a damn smart lawyer.”
Benny laughed. “Yeah, d…damn sssm…mart. He tells Gr…Grege not to make f…fun of m..me all the t…time.”
“Yeah, but like you say: sticks-n-stones. You don’t let that bother you.”
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Yeah, she’s like m..me.”
“She likes you?”
“No. She’s l…like me.”
“Who, Mallory?”
“Noooo!” He blushed, and then giggled some. “M..m.mallory is not my g..girlfriend.”
“She’s not?” Carlos and I exchanged curious glances. “Then, who?”
“L…Leona.”
“Leona!” I said, and I think I heard Carlos say it with me. “Leona Diaz?”
He blushed some more. “Y…yeah, but sh..she don’t know it y…yet.” He put his finger to his lips and shushed us. “M..mums the w..word.”
I smiled. Carlos smiled, and Benny smiled as if the world was a cup full of love and his alone to drink.
“Don’t you worry, Benny,” I said. “Your secret’s safe with us.” I turned to Carlos. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” he said, but I could see that he really wasn’t. “Benny’s probably got work to do. We should let him get on with it.”
We talked very little on the ride back to the box. Carlos seemed content tapping to the tunes on the radio, while I struggled to understand something Benjamin Rivera said to us moments earlier. I let it slip by almost unnoticed, and even after he repeated himself, I failed to challenge it. We were just pulling into the parking lot of the box when I asked Carlos, “What do you suppose Benny meant when he said of Leona, ‘She’s like me’?”