by Tom Secret
The door opened, and two suits strolled in. The one with the quality cloth settled into the chair a few feet away while the polyester man guarded the entrance.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting so long, Mr. Fairweather. My name is Lieutenant Donatello, and you met Sergeant Carlson at your house. I hope you don’t mind me saying, that aside from the damage to your face, you look exhausted. Have you not been sleeping?”
“Is that why you sent an armada of cars to pull me in for questioning, Lieutenant… to inquire into my sleeping habits?”
Donatello smiled. “You know, Mr. Fairweather, my father was a cop, and I’ve been a cop my entire working life—more than half of that time on homicide. You know what convicted murderers say is the sentence for taking another’s life?”
Oh, crap! Brad’s mind raced. What does he know? How could he know? Need to say something. “I guess… maybe ten years?”
“Sleep, Mr. Fairweather. They say the price they pay is sleep. Apparently, it eludes them after they’ve taken a life. Their guilt eats them alive.”
“So why bother locking them up?”
“Good question. Social convention, I suppose. Society gets what society wants.”
Brad bobbed his head in mock agreement. Should he change the subject, or would that make him more suspicious? Crap, Father never taught him this part. “How do they cope with it?”
The cop’s face sagged as if in sadness. “Many don’t. Some commit suicide; others lose themselves in drugs; some turn to God…”
“God?”
“You sound surprised, Mr. Fairweather. Quite a number seek salvation in the good book.”
“The Bible?”
Donatello shook his head. “Several lifers I’ve retired swear by a book called The Infinite Way. They say it saved their souls.”
“Did they say how?”
“Something about it changing their understanding of what we are, and how guilt is the tool our ego uses to keep us from knowing our divine origin.”
This was the chitchat, then. “How does that help?”
“I suppose because once they learn to see that the guilt eating them up doesn’t come from God but from themselves, they’re able to move beyond it.”
“That’s deep for a cop.”
“Just repeating what I’ve heard. Mind if I ask what happened to your face, Mr. Fairweather?”
“I fell off a roof. Am I under arrest, Lieutenant?”
“Did anyone witness your fall?”
“I didn’t have time to send out the invites. Am I being charged with something?”
Donatello seemed to bristle. “We’ll get to that, Mr. Fairweather. Are you comfortable? Would you like a glass of water? Painkiller, perhaps?”
“Painkillers and water would be good. Is this about my parking violations, Lieutenant, because I already paid the fines?”
“This is a great deal more serious, as explained when you were Mirandized. You are here regarding the deaths of Messrs. Black and Walton.”
“Well, if it’s not about my parking tickets, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, so, I guess I should invoke my right to silence and to have a lawyer present.”
The lieutenant glanced at polyester man, who was barring the door like a bouncer in a back-alley nightclub. “All in good time, Mr. Fairweather. Let’s have a chat first.”
“I have nothing to say. I want my lawyer.”
“So, you admit that you know the two deceased?”
Brad looked at the mirror panel on the wall. “Is this interview being recorded? Because if it is, you are not following procedure.”
“What procedure is that, Mr. Fairweather?”
“Like your officer explained at my house. I have the right to remain silent and the right to an attorney. I am exercising those rights. Both of them.”
“So how did you know the deceased?”
“We can keep going all night if you like, Lieutenant. But I want my lawyer, now!”
“Our records show that both the deceased joined a lawsuit against you, brought by one Ian Michaels. They contended that your negligence caused the collapse of the company they had invested in, and according to court records, the judge banned you from holding executive office for three years. That must have made you pretty angry, didn’t it?”
Brad breathed a heavy sigh. “I want my lawyer, I want my lawyer, I want my lawyer.”
“Mr. Fairweather, you realize your lack of cooperation is an attestation to your involvement in the murder of those two men?”
“Tell me, Lieutenant, is it true that eighty percent of people brought in for questioning waive their right to an attorney and their right to remain silent?”
“I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Fairweather. Where did you learn to perform surgery?”
“I take that as a yes, Lieutenant. So, given that police routinely lie about evidence they hold on a suspect, to say nothing of their proclivity to plant it, why do you think four out of five people would be so unutterably stupid as to waive those rights? Could it be, that just as you are doing now, you ignore their requests for legal representation but write on the reports they waived their rights, to perpetuate the myth that people don’t ask for an attorney if they have nothing to hide?”
Donatello rose from his seat and paced the tiny room. Brad was getting to him.
“Mr. Fairweather, has anyone approached or threatened you or your children? And this time, answer the damn question!”
Brad smiled to himself, score one, though the game was going to his opponent, once he got hold of Lola, Lilly, and Jack.
“I’m waiting, Mr. Fairweather.”
Brad cleared his throat. “Me, too, Lieutenant. Why would most people treat you as honest and upstanding when you barrage and berate them with lies and falsehoods and treat them as guilty?”
“Answer the Lieutenant’s question!” Polyester Man snarled,
“Isn’t the good cloth, bad cloth routine a little old? Don’t you just turn off the cameras and beat people these days? Or, are you worried that because my face is such a mess, the press will have a field day with police brutality reaching new lows?”
“Have you been the subject of any tax investigations, Mr. Fairweather?”
“Lieutenant, what are the implications of your continuing to refuse me my constitutional rights?”
The two cops glared at Brad, and for a moment he thought he was in for that violent encounter, but the good cloth got up and strode to the door. Turning back as he reached it, he said, “Not all cops are unscrupulous, Mr. Fairweather; unfortunately, those that are, receive all the press coverage. I’ll send forensics in to take a cheek swab. Then you’ll get your call.”
69. TELL ME AGAIN
Monday, 8:00 p.m.
Donatello trudged through the sleeting rain, trying to dodge the puddles and car spray while praying Ronnie’s would be quiet so they could talk. He didn’t plan to go in heavy, but he did have questions. In fact, that was about the only thing he had right now. Take that Fairweather, for instance; the smashed-in face made it impossible to get a baseline read and must have been killing him, but the guy didn’t give an inch. Then again, did that make him guilty, or just defiant in his innocence? Impossible to tell, and in the end they’d had to cut him loose. Truth be told, nothing about these cases felt right. Walton and Black were vendetta killings, that much was clear. But the warehouse; the children; dead and missing IRS agents, all in the space of ten days? No, there was a hell of a lot more to this, but he still had questions for Ronnie.
He pushed the brass door open and strode over to the bar. Two smartly dressed middle-aged women sat in the far corner, holding hands and giggling. Donatello sighed and clambered on his regular bar stool as Ronnie looked up from the figures on his tablet and flashed a welcoming smile
“Hey, Don. How’s it hanging?”
“Evening, Ronnie. Cooking the books, are we?”
Ronnie smiled again.
This will be awkward, Donatello thought. �
��Get me a large bourbon, will you, and have one yourself.”
Ronnie had a strange look as he grabbed the glasses. “Something on your mind, big guy?”
Donatello watched his favorite poison fill the glasses.
“Slainte.” Ronnie hoisted his glass.
“Cheers.” Donatello slugged it back and tapped the edge for a refill.
Ronnie kept one eye on Donatello as he poured.
“Don’t spill it, Ronnie.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Something you said the other day’s been bothering me.”
“Which was?” Ronnie frowned.
“Your views on pedophile justice.” Donatello downed the second shot without tasting it and tapped the edge of the glass again.
Ronnie put both hands on the bar and leaned toward him. “Where’s this going, Don?”
“You said, and correct me if I’m wrong, that the only way to deal with pedophiles is to cut them up and feed them to the rats.”
“So what? They was just words.”
“I realized that, but then you added more words. Something about taking a knife and hunting them down.”
Ronnie glared. “You better not be gettin’ at what I think you’re gettin’ at.”
Donatello studied his face, then tapped the edge of his still-empty glass. “And what would that be, Ronnie?”
“That I had something to do with those killings. Are you! Is that what you’re fockin’ sayin’, ’cause I swear I’ll…”
Donatello raised his eyebrows but didn’t move. “You’ll what? Cut off my earlobe, maybe, or cut out my liver with your hunting knife? Where were you last Thursday afternoon between two thirty and three thirty, and last Friday night between eight and eleven?”
“I was fockin’ here, where I always am! And as I recall, some of those times, your ugly mug was sitting where it is now, but where were you the rest of them?”
“I’m not the one being questioned.”
“So that’s what this is, is it? An interrogation?”
“Calm down, Ronnie. All I want is to rule you out as a suspect.”
“A suspect! You fockin’ cops are all the same! Just thugs and bully boys pretending to be good guys! And you wonder why everyone hates you! Get outta my fockin’ bar!”
Donatello rose from his seat as the couple in the corner stopped talking and stared at them. “There’s no need to get defensive. They’re just questions.”
“Bollocks! You focks treat everyone like they’re guilty until proven innocent—that’s when you’re not murdering them in custody! The fockin’ gun lobby’s right: it’s you we need protecting from! Get out of my bar and don't show your face again!”
Donatello hesitated. He wanted to argue, get things off his chest, but he was out of line, and he knew Ronnie was right. He laid a twenty on the bar and left.
70. DARK NIGHT
Monday, 8:13 p.m.
Brad’s old fleece had kept the sleeting rain out for the first five minutes; his boots, for another ten. After that came an hour of telling himself he didn’t have far to go, as the feeling left his fingers, then his toes. Now, as he approached the home stretch and willed his house to come into view, the realization dawned that without Lola, Jack, and Lilly, it wasn’t a home at all.
He’d slid through the eye of a needle with the police, but he wouldn’t manage it a second time. They were playing for keeps and kept his pickup to prove it. It didn’t help that he’d upset the lieutenant as well, but what could he do? Eventually, they would put him at the Black and Walton murder scenes even though he’d cleaned everything the way Father taught him. Heaven only knew what they would do when they found Michaels. Having already linked Brad to the Black and Michaels lawsuit, they would lock him up and throw away the key. Then again, what would they do if someone snatched and abused their children? Or sold them into sexual slavery? Passing judgment was so much easier when the victims were not the ones you love.
He looked at the flash drive in his hand, recovered en route from Michaels’s home collection. Jack was on there, along with other innocents, scarred forever by depraved monsters. What was a fitting punishment for their actions? Somehow, Michaels’s unraveling at the end didn’t begin to cover it. And as for Judge Seymour, and Michaels’ promise that other gangs would come for Jack and Lilly, presumably to avenge him, where would it end?
His house appeared through the curtain of freezing rain; the pitch-black windows and dark shadows sent a shudder through his already frozen frame. Fishing for the keys in his pocket, his icy fingers refused to convey any shape or texture, so, he held them toward the streetlight to illuminate the bunch.
As he slid the key in the lock, his eyes fell on the small envelope taped to the side window, with the word WARRANT stamped in red. He tore it off, stepped into the hallway, and hit the light switch. Darkness reigned. Above his head the bare cable dangled from the ceiling to drive home the point; it was all gone.
He shuffled across the hall to his old study and clutched at the doorknob, swinging it open as his legs tried to buckle. Only his tattered old desk chair remained, along with the screwed-up papers, strewn on the floor when they took the wastebasket.
As he wandered from empty room to empty room, his breath becoming shallower and more ragged with each step, the past he had been running from, crashed down.
He entered Lilly’s room and stopped, remembering all the nights he’d tucked her into bed, lit by the angel shade lamps as he pulled the duvet over her shoulders and watched her drift off to sleep. Now, all that remained was the bare floor and a broken angel in its crumpled shade.
Brad sagged against the bedroom wall and slid down to the floor as sobs racked his body.
71. BREAKING NEWS
Tuesday, 7:15 a.m.
The news anchor appeared on Donatello’s TV. “IRS Special Investigator Oswald Castro has been found murdered at his home in Georgia Heights. Responding to a disturbance call made by neighbors at midnight, police found Castro dead in his bed, where they believe the attack occurred. The motive is as yet unknown; however, he is the second special investigator murdered in less than a week. Police are investigating this slaying along with two other homicides, believed to be linked to the discovery of an international child-trafficking ring. Parents of one of the forty-plus children released on Saturday, from what was apparently a child-trafficking hub, have said the police ignored their pleas for assistance. Instead, the heroic acts of a single male vigilante led to their release. The police have declined to comment, but sources say…”
Donatello jumped at the thundering on his apartment door. He switched the TV off, picked up the empty bottle of bourbon from the floor and dug the tumbler from where it lay wedged against the seat cushion. He tried to focus on the clock above the breakfast bar as the thundering came again, but his eyes refused to comply.
“Wait a minute!” He stowed the bottle and glass out of sight behind the breakfast bar, padded over to the door, and swung it open in time to see Sergeant Carlson’s knuckles in midair, about to bang again. “What are you doing here, Carlson! Do you know what time it is?”
Carlson and the uniform with him stepped back into the corridor — no doubt repelled by the stench of booze.
“You need to come with us, Lieutenant.”
“I’ll be at the precinct in an hour.”
“Captain has instructed us to bring you in for questioning.” Carlson stepped forward. “You have the right to remain silent; you—”
“Shut up, Carlson! I know my rights. What I want to know is why you’re Mirandizing me at this ungodly hour.”
Carlson adjusted his stance as though preparing for battle. “You are wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of IRS special investigator Oswald Castro. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law; you have the right to an attorney…”
72. THE HORSE’S MOUTH
Tuesday, 7:35 a.m.
Brad stared
at the cell phone humming its way across the arm of his chair. The caller ID read “Dad,” but it might as well be a dead line. He looked through the frosted panes onto the wintry scene as two sparrows tumbled past, locked in an aerial dogfight. A robin redbreast landed on a bare branch of the apple tree and stared at him, a blush of color in a gray world.
The phone hummed again. He should just turn it off, but what was the point in that? The humming was soothing, and it beat the tomblike silence drowning the house. An impulse shot through him. He snatched the phone. “Where the hell have you been?”
Marcus' voice came over the line. “Did you find Jack and Lilly?”
“I did, no thanks to you! They’re with their mother.”
The line was silent.
“Dad? Hello?”
“Are they… okay?”
Brad breathed a sigh. “Lilly is shaken up, but Jack is… I don’t know… what do you want, Dad?”
“I’m sorry, Son, but I need you to do something.”
“Sorry, Dad, but I’m about to be busy for the next few decades.”
“No. You need to get yourself down to the old sawmill and bring Lola.”
“I don’t need to do anything, especially anything you tell me. Where the hell have you been, anyway?”
“I’ll explain everything when you get here. I can’t stay on the phone.”
“Well, I can’t get there even if I wanted to. The police impounded my car, and my bank accounts are frozen.”
“What about Lola’s car?”
“She left me.”
“Where is she? Let me speak to her.”
Brad hesitated. Something about his father’s tone was different. “She’s still at yours, I think.”
“Get yourself ready, I’ll call her and make her pick you up. Be ready!”
Brad let out a heavy sigh. “Dad, it’s already over. The police had me in for questioning last night. It’s only a matter of time before they come back, so there’s no point in doing anything. Don’t call me again, ever.”