The Piper (CASMIRC Book 2)

by Ben Miller

  Are other FBI wives this nuts? she thought. Even the ones who haven’t been kidnapped?

  When she had spoken to Jack before bed he had mentioned meeting Jeff Pine’s wife Sabrina that evening; Vicki would like her, Jack had concluded. Maybe part of her recovery could include making friends with other women married to Bureau agents. She decided to see if she could find Sabrina Pine of Boston in Facebook.

  It didn’t take long to find her profile. Sabrina’s page featured a cover photo of her gorgeous children, a healthy trio of cherubic faces. Vicki contemplated sending a “friend request” with a message about their commonalities. She decided first to scroll through some of Sabrina’s recent posts. The first had a photo of an amazing-looking lasagna with a recipe attached. Vicki guessed this is what Sabrina had served to the crew for dinner tonight, and this thought already made her feel better—both more human and closer to Jack.

  The second post was a link to an article on a religious website, citing the atrocities of abortion. Vicki tended to abstain from politics—despite her husband’s former passions about them—but she always put herself firmly on the pro-choice side of the debate. As such she found both the biased angle of the article as well as Sabrina’s closed-minded comments off-putting. When she moved on to Sabrina’s next few posts and discovered similarly themed articles and staunchly conservative comments, she concluded she would not send that friend request. She briefly wondered if her husband Jeff also held such strong beliefs, and if so, how well this would rest with Jack. Now mostly dejected, she turned off her phone and returned it to her nightstand.

  Not for the first time tonight, she thought about the Xanax Dr. Inkler had prescribed her. Sedation was a likely side effect, the psychiatrist had told her. She knew people used it—or abused it, to put it more correctly—as a sleep aid. She had hesitated to take it yet, mostly because she did not want to use any more pharmaceuticals than she needed to in order to dig herself out of this hole. It had felt more like an abyss, but she finally felt like she had gained some ground toward recovery. She had gotten purchase on the image of her life before the kidnapping, and she didn’t want to let go. She feared taking that Xanax might loosen her grip just enough to slip backwards.

  But she also desperately needed to get some sleep.

  She had never considered herself a vengeful person. Yet she wished in this moment, like she had in many previous moments, that Randall Franklin would die. Ian Dewey had assured her more than once that he would effect a conviction for the death penalty. With their strong gubernatorial support, Randall Franklin would be dead by lethal injection within two years, he had promised.

  But what if he’s not? she considered. What if, by some freak happenstance—a misplaced document, a sympathetic yet influential juror, some cog of the bureaucratic machine twisting askew—Randall Franklin got free?

  She had no prayer of overcoming her agoraphobia if he were to walk free. She knew this as certainly as her own name, as surely as her love for her husband and son. What kind of a mother could she be if she couldn’t even take her son to school? Could never attend a swimming meet, or whatever sporting event he chose to pursue?

  Randall had to get convicted. And he had to get the death penalty. He had to.

  If not, she didn’t know what she would do. But Randall had to die. Life as she knew it before could not go on with him in this world, and her having to adjust to a new life just wasn’t fair.

  Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on your beliefs, she thought—she knew she could not kill Randall herself. She didn’t have the fortitude. Murder was simply not in her genetic make-up.

  She searched her memory for someone she might know. Someone who would be willing and capable of righting this potential wrong, of levying the penalty of death if the state of Virginia failed to. In her days as a stewardess, she had met several dozen Air Marshals. Most of them had a military background, trained to kill in some fashion. She had no way of getting in touch with any of them at this point, but perhaps she could search some files at work. Of course, sifting through said files would entail coming off extended medical leave and actually going to her executive job at the airline.

  How would I approach him? How on earth do you go up to a virtual stranger and ask him to kill someone?

  Dr. Inkler would call this line of thinking “perseverating.” She would not be proud, especially after Vicki had been making such good progress in recent days. She would tell Vicki to take a Xanax and get some sleep.

  Vicki decided that using a sedative held far more esteem in her perception than staying up all night thinking about murder. She got out of bed and went to take a Xanax. Or maybe two, just to be sure.

  34

  “What the hell is he doing here?!”

  Jack looked back over his shoulder. A hospital police officer escorted Aiden Dolan and Wendy Jenkins along the corridor, eventually extending a hand toward the hospital room several yards behind him. Wendy rose up on her toes and practically danced into the private room. Aiden did not look in their direction as he followed her in. Either he hadn’t recognized them there, or he chose to ignore them.

  Jack turned back to face Keith Billingsley, Fiona Evans’ stepfather. Jeff Pine stood between Jack and Billingsley. Jeff opened his palms and subtly tilted his head as he addressed the angry man’s question. “It’s the boy’s father. We have an obligation to tell him that his son is OK.”

  “Well, I don’t want them in there with Glenda,” Billingsley said as he jutted his shoulder forward to walk past Jeff.

  Jeff placed a hand around Billingsley’s forearm, gently holding him back. “Mr. Billingsley…”

  Billingsley took a breath and met Jeff’s eyes. “I’m fine,” he said calmly. “I just want to make sure my wife is OK. OK?”

  Jeff nodded as he released his grasp. Billingsley walked past them and into the room.

  Within minutes of Tyler’s discovery outside the emergency department at Boston Medical Center last night, the hospital social worker had placed a call to the Boston Police Family Justice Division. The on-call officer had not associated this with the Fiona Evans murder the morning before. However, when Rita Ferroni had arrived in the office early that morning and she heard of the appearance of an infant boy at BMC, she quickly made the connection.

  Camilla and Heath went about their previously assigned duties, which entailed tracing the perpetrator’s tracks as he fled from the murder site yesterday and following-up on any witness interviews. Amanda Lundquist currently sat in the hospital security office studying surveillance video from last night, trying to identify who had dropped off baby Tyler at the bus stop.

  Rita Ferroni walked out of the hospital room into the corridor and approached Jack and Jeff. “What a touching scene,” she said with palpable sarcasm. “That Jenkins chick ran in there looking like a kid at Christmas. Picked that little boy up like scooping up a baby doll from under the tree.”

  “Creepy,” Jeff said.

  “Fuckin’ right, creepy. You shoulda seen the look on his grandma’s face. She had half a mind to puke.”

  “What was Dolan doing?” Jack asked.

  Rita thought for a second. Clearly Dolan’s behavior had not left quite the same impression as his girlfriend’s. “Nothin’, really. He just walked in after her and jammed his hands into his pockets.”

  “Where will Tyler go?” Jeff asked.

  Rita shrugged. “Doc said he’s perfectly healthy, so he wouldn’t necessarily need to stay in the hospital.”

  “Any chance we can keep Tyler here a while, until we get more information?”

  “Sure,” she replied nonchalantly. “We can tell them they can’t discharge him until we’ve finalized the safety plan.”

  “How long will that buy us?” Jack queried.

  “As long as we want. After a few days they might get a little impatient, but we really call the shots here as far as where and when he goes.”

  Jack looked pointedly at Jeff. “We’ve got to turn the hea
t up here. Can we bring Dolan in for questioning? Sweat him down a little?”

  Jeff bowed his head pensively, and then he lifted it to the ceiling. Rita rubbed her first two fingers back and forth across her lips as she focused on Jeff, awaiting his answer. Finally, he said, “When we bring him in, I want to set up a scenario where we can get him talking in circles and walk him into a confession. And I think we need something more first. A positive ID. Something.”

  Jeff was right, but it didn’t keep Jack from growing more impatient. Jack sighed, trying to keep his impetuosity in check, and nodded. He looked down at his phone to double check he hadn’t received any texts from Camilla or Heath. He hadn’t.

  “I know you need to get back home tonight, Jack,” Jeff reassured. “And I appreciate all of your help, and I want to finish this investigation as soon as possible, preferably with your involvement. We’ll do what we can, and we’ll do it right.”

  Jack nodded again. He hadn’t recognized why he felt so restless, but Jeff had nailed it. Having heard it verbalized actually eased Jack’s edginess.

  “I’m going to watch them for a minute,” Jeff said, tilting his head toward Tyler’s hospital room. “Why don’t you go check on Amanda?”

  Jeff walked into the room along with Rita. Jack stayed for a moment, his eyes wandering the hallway. Leaving later tonight certainly placed added pressure on the investigation from his standpoint, however he didn’t think his impending departure encompassed all of his disquietude about this case. Something wasn’t coming together; all the pieces didn’t fit. Or, better put, they didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet.

  His gaze had unconsciously fallen upon the flat screen mounted on the hallway wall nearby. It flashed through a series of informational screens. It currently showed a picture of an infant swaddled in an ivory blanket, a halo of light emanating around it. “Boston Medical Center is a Safe Haven for Babies,” it read, followed in small print by, “Anyone can drop off a healthy infant child at any time. No questions asked.” Another TV was mounted farther down the hall, opposite a small, uninhabited seating area. It showed CNN, currently entertaining only itself. Two identical flat screens, situated only several feet away, displaying completely different programming. Jack felt the visage begging him to notice something. Two different pictures. Two different puzzles.

  Someone bumped into Jack from behind. He turned to find Wendy Jenkins.

  “Sorry, dude,” she said. She looked up at him as she walked by and a spark of recognition flashed on her face. “Hey!”

  “Jackson Byrne,” he supplied her.

  “Sure,” she replied. “Going out for a smoke,” she explained as she pointed her thumb over her shoulder.

  “OK,” Jack said as he turned and walked the other direction, toward the security office to find Amanda.

  “Wendy! What choo doin’ here, girl?!”

  Jack stopped and slowly pivoted back around. A round-faced woman wearing a pale blue uniform and wheeling a janitor’s cart behind her had stopped Wendy in the hallway. Wendy mumbled something in return that Jack didn’t quite catch.

  “No! Yo’ baby OK?!”

  Wendy nodded and seemed to smile, mumbling something else. She continued walking toward the exit sign down the hall.

  “When you back on?” the woman called after her.

  Wendy turned back around. “Don’t know. I’ll have to check the schedule.” She spun back around and continued around the corner to have her cigarette outside.

  Jack glanced at the flat screen TV again before turning and heading toward the security office. When he entered Amanda looked up from the closed-circuit screen in front of her.

  “Hey, Jack. That bus stop is not covered by the cameras, so I’ve just been scanning through anything else that’s close. I haven’t seen anyone coming or going with that car seat yet.”

  Jack closed the door behind him and sat down, keeping his posture upright and leaning forward tensely. “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to find anything,” he declared. “Wendy Jenkins works here. She knows where all the surveillance cameras are.”

  35

  Heath Reilly held the door open for Camilla and signaled for her to enter first. They encountered a line about eight people deep waiting to check in for a table with the hostess.

  Reilly wasn’t much of a breakfast meat connoisseur, but he recognized the distinct scent of Denny’s breakfast sausage on the griddle. Though the interior of the restaurant looked like every other Denny’s Reilly had even been to (which didn’t add up to many), it was the smell that triggered retrieval of a distant memory. He had played in a soccer league as a kid during his time at the Dellahunt home. After his morning games on the weekends, Richard Dellahunt would bring him to Denny’s for a big breakfast and they would talk about the game. Richard didn’t know much about soccer, but he wanted to be supportive. Reilly loved choosing between the many options of the Breakfast Slam, but Richard always stuck with the same dish: Moons over My Hammy. And he had to stifle a laugh every time he ordered it. At the time Reilly didn’t get the pun, but now, walking into this Denny’s twenty-five years later, he chuckled to himself.

  In response to Reilly’s laughter, Camilla turned to face him as she reached the hostess stand, having walked around the line of people. Reilly gave a dismissive shake of his head, advising Camilla to ignore his little laugh. She knew Reilly well enough to follow his suggestion. Instead, after excusing herself to the patrons for jumping the line, she asked the hostess to see the manager while she flashed her badge. The murder across the street yesterday had generated enough buzz that the hostess must have known the reason for the inquiry, because she immediately left to go into the kitchen. Within several seconds she returned, followed by a portly but pleasant woman in her early forties, dressed in a neat blouse and baggy gray slacks. She flashed a wide-mouthed smile and approached Reilly with an outstretched hand. She recognized him from yesterday, though neither remembered the other’s name, making for a mildly awkward greeting. Camilla introduced herself.

  “We were hoping to talk to Missy Esposito again today. I spoke with her yesterday,” Reilly explained.

  “We were told that she worked today,” Camilla added.

  “Yes,” the manager said as she looked at her watch. “Her shift starts in about ten minutes, but she’ll be here any minute now. She’s always early. In fact, I’m surprised she’s not here yet. I’ll go check in the staff room for you.” She flapped a nervous wave of her hand as she walked away.

  Reilly and Camilla had arrived early on purpose, hoping to spend several minutes talking to the customers. Reilly had been informed yesterday that many of the weekend diners at Denny’s were regulars, and perhaps one or more of them had been present yesterday and could offer another witness account. The first few people sitting at the counter said they had not eaten there the day before around 9:00. Their fourth interviewee affirmed that he had. Camilla asked if he saw anything unusual, especially outside the restaurant, which the man denied.

  “I sure did,” a white-haired man announced from around the corner of the counter. Reilly was surprised the man could even hear their conversation given the din of silverware and plates shuffling around. The man must have been paying close attention to them since they arrived.

  Reilly and Camilla approached him, taking a second to show their badges and introduce themselves. The man introduced himself simply as “Whitey,” which Reilly found charmingly appropriate.

  “What did you see, sir?” Camilla asked.

  “I was just coming into the place. I almost got run over getting out of my car.” Whitey had a strong Boston accent, but Reilly nearly didn’t notice, as he couldn’t help focusing on the tiny white whiskers on the loose skin hanging under the man’s chin. Most of his face appeared smooth, but apparently it must have taken too much effort for Whitey to stretch that skin taut enough to shave it properly.

  As she often did when working with Reilly, Camilla took the lead on the questioning. “Wh
at kind of car was it?”

  “An old beater, that’s for sure,” Whitey answered. “American—a Buick or Olds, something like that. Silver.”

  Camilla nodded knowingly as she pulled a small stack of photos out of her pocket. She spread them out on the counter in front of Whitey. “Do you think you could recognize the driver?”

  Whitey looked at the photos quickly and waved a finger over the pictures disapprovingly. “A chick was driving. She wore an old-school Red Sox hat, I remember that.”

  “Was there anyone else in the car?” Camilla fired, a pit bull on a juicy bone.

  “Yeah there was,” Whitey shot back, matching Camilla’s excitement. “Weird as shit, too, pardon my French. This guy sat in the front seat with a goddamned car seat in his lap. He was crammed in there like a sardine. Who does that? That’s not even legal, I don’t think. Douche bag.”

  He instinctively looked back at the photos, pointing at the third one in. “This guy,” he said as he fingered the image of Aiden Dolan. “That's the douche bag right there.”

  36

  Jack walked into Tyler Evans’ hospital room evenly, a tortoise compared to his typical hare-like ambulating standards. The soft rubber soles of his black dress shoes squeaked faintly on the polished tile floor with each measured step. He moved past the cramped bathroom on his right and stood against the near wall, his hands clasped behind his back at the waist. Silence filled the sterile room, and he did not get the sense that the room’s inhabitants had stopped talking just for him. He felt all eyes on him without needing to survey their faces. He focused only on Aiden Dolan, who paused a beat before looking away casually.

  Keith Billingsley opened his mouth to say something, but then he closed it, evidently reconsidering. Instead he shifted in his seat and put his arm around his wife, who still looked bewildered. The shock of losing her daughter and grandson yesterday, later to have the baby show up unaccompanied at the hospital, adhered to every square inch of her. Jack doubted it would ever peel off completely.