Stone Eater (Will Finch Mystery Thriller Series Book 2)

by D. F. Bailey

  Half an hour later Finch arrived at the eXpress. He felt a brief triumph as he ascended the staircase to the third floor and watched the elevator open and disgorge a dozen passengers, most of them toting Starbucks cups in one hand, a satchel or purse in the other. One of them, Wally Gimbel, blinked his eyes in surprise.

  “Will! You’re back!” He slung an arm up to Finch’s shoulder, a bit of a stretch since Wally stood only five-foot-five. The brief embrace made Finch wonder how Wally generated so much loyalty from the staff. Had to be his mix of talent, bluff and sheer intensity. Another Napoleon.

  “Yeah. Finally.” Will set a hand on his boss’s shoulder and then pulled away.

  “Good. My office, ten minutes?” Wally pointed a gun finger at Finch’s chest and pulled the trigger.

  “Okay.”

  “All right. Bring Fiona if you can find her.”

  Fifteen minutes later they gathered in the managing editor’s office where Wally served up a pot of coffee and a platter of Danish pastries. As Finch relayed the events of the past few days, the long story of his night in the parkade and at the Whitelaw estate, then his journey to the Hall of Justice with Lou Levine, and the past day and night at Eve’s bedside in Mount Zion — through it all, Fiona and Wally listened in enthralled silence, barely able to speak.

  “She’s all right?” Fiona asked when he concluded.

  Finch shrugged. “She can’t wake up.” His voice hinted at disaster.

  “Jesus Murphy,” Wally mumbled and shifted in his chair.

  A new silence enveloped them as they considered all that had happened since the firing-squad execution of the sheriff in Oregon, Donnel Smeardon’s drowning, the murder of Gianna. Now they had to absorb Dean Whitelaw’s point-blank shooting by a kid who’d driven off in a sports car, and the crushing injury to Toby Squire who now clung to life in the intensive care unit exactly one floor above Eve. And finally the raw brutality inflicted on Eve, herself.

  Wally shifted his weight, leaned forward and set both hands on his desk. “This is crazy. All of it. I mean, no one has stepped up to explain to me what’s behind all this death and destruction. It’s our what-the-fuck question — and someone better answer it soon.”

  He shook his head, unable to suggest an answer of his own. When Finch and Fiona shrugged, he continued.

  “All right. We are going to bust these bastards wide open. First Toby Squire and then, if the story leads to him, Senator Franklin Whitelaw. We are going to do it carefully. Methodically. Relentlessly.” He spat out each word one at a time. “And we are going to do it until the cops and the courts are driven by public outcry to arrest and try someone for this on-going disaster. Now what I want is evidence, damnit.” He seized Finch with his eyes. “What do we actually have?”

  “We can start with these,” Finch said. His hand dipped into his courier bag and extracted the two DVDs. In the middle of the previous night — when all hope of sleep eluded him — he’d watched both videos on his computer as he sat at Eve’s bedside. Contemplating Toby Squire’s strange behavior in the limousine and then his rambling confession had sent Finch into a bleak funk. Squire’s crisp Cockney accent, his charming facility with words seemed almost convincing. But from beneath his rationalizations emerged a diabolical stupidity. Finch couldn’t decide which he despised more: Toby Squire’s ignorance or his self-delusion.

  “What are they?” Fiona leaned forward and brushed a strand of blue hair from her eyes.

  “One is a seven-minute recording of Toby Squire doing something — hard to say what exactly — to Gianna Whitelaw in the back of Dean Whitelaw’s Mercedes-Benz. Then we see him locking her in the trunk of the car and driving away. On the night of her murder.” He pronounced this last word with certainty now, knowing that no one doubted him. “There’s a narrative voice-over, basically a blackmail threat. The blackmailer is likely the man who shot and killed Dean Whitelaw. Until the police find him nobody can verify that, but I’ll lay thousand-to-one odds the blackmailer and Whitelaw’s killer are the same man.” He looked from Fiona to Wally and continued.

  “The second video is about twenty minutes long. Featuring Toby Squire confessing exactly how, when, and where he raped and drowned Gianna — and then mutilated her corpse. I’m no lawyer, but I think it’s legally air-tight. Virtually signed, sealed and delivered.”

  Finch walked over to the media player and inserted the first disc into the DVD slot. As he prepared to watch the videos again, he wondered if he could tolerate another minute observing the face of such criminal madness. But maybe that’s your job, he whispered to himself as the video began. This is what you do.

  ※

  The second video concluded with Toby Squire’s image frozen on the screen. The quiet hum of the DVD player seemed to roar above the silence sinking through the news team. After a moment, when he’d recovered from the shock of what he’d seen, Wally raised a hand in the air.

  “Turn that off, would you.”

  Finch clicked the power button and Toby Squire’s face vanished from the screen.

  “Has anyone else seen these videos?”

  “I imagine the SFPD. The detective who interviewed me, Damian Witowsky, said they recovered two cameras not far from where Squire fell. My guess is they hold the originals.”

  “We’ll find out when we post these on our website.” Wally turned his eyes to the ceiling as if he were calculating the odds of winning a horse race. “If they are the same as the recordings on the cameras, the SFPD will be hopping mad. If they’re different we’ll be handed a court order to turn them over to the DA.”

  “And smacked with another law suit,” Fiona said.

  Wally smiled as if he welcomed the publicity. “And where exactly did you get these DVDs?”

  Will’s lips pursed together in a moment of reflection. “I found them on the Whitelaw property.”

  “You found them?”

  He shrugged off the question. “Look, does it matter? They are what they are: one, a recording of Gianna Whitelaw’s rape and kidnapping, and two, Toby Squire’s confession.”

  Wally looked from Fiona to Finch and then back to the empty video screen. “Okay. Time to bring in the legal guns. This thing is going ballistic. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Wally turned to the desk phone and tapped two numbers on the keypad. A moment later they could hear Dixie Lindstrom’s lilting drawl over the speaker.

  “Yes, Mr. Gimbel?”

  “Dixie, find out where Lou Levine is hiding. Then tell him to get over here ASAP. Tell him his house is on fire and I’m holding his garden hose.” He smiled as if he’d let out the punchline to an inside joke.

  “Right away, sir.”

  “And ask an intern to stay a few hours extra tonight. Tell him we need a word-for-word transcription of two DVDs. I’ll explain the details later.”

  He stood up and clasped his hands behind his back and walked over to the interior window that looked onto the bog.

  “All right. This is how we start. Will, I want you to write the overview. One paragraph to recap the story in Oregon. A few sentences to remind the reader of Raymond Toeplitz. Then Gianna. Then bring in Dean Whitelaw and finally this monster, Toby Squire. Paint the big picture. Don’t worry about quotes and background details, not yet. That business will come out with the transcript.”

  He paused.

  “Now Fiona. I want you to interview our man here.” He pointed to Finch and held up his hand to block any objections from Finch. “Same as last time. The moment you become part of the news, Will, is the moment you stop reporting it. But don’t worry, you’ll get the first-person, front-page feature stories and all due credit after we’ve published your overview and Fiona’s published the blow-by-blow.”

  He waited for Will to agree. When he nodded, Wally continued.

  “Once you’ve got the overview done, then both of you can figure out what in hell this is all about.” Then another question struck him. “What’s happened with the flash drive, by the way?
Any answers there?”

  “As of this morning, nothing.” Finch wiped a hand over his face. His suspicion that Sochi had stolen the drive simmered in the back of his mind. “I tried to talk to Sochi two hours ago, but couldn’t reach him.”

  “All right, keep trying. And Fiona, any breakthrough with the Whitelaw twins? My guess is that following Dean Whitelaw’s demise one of them will take over the corporate empire, right?”

  “Who knows. But I’m trying to arrange a rendez-vous privé with one of them. Justin.”

  “Excuse my French,” Wally’s voice dropped a half-tone, “but what’s a rendez-vous privé?”

  “It’s where you bump into someone on purpose. Alone. At a place you know he hangs out.”

  “Yeah? In the 1980s we called that ambush journalism.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind. Where’re you going to meet him?”

  “Café Claude. In the French Quarter. I’ve seen Justin Whitelaw there twice. A different girl each night. I just have to corner him on my own. Then we’ll see what he says.”

  Wally shook his head. “Just be careful with that. I don’t like that kind of approach.”

  “What else can she do, Wally?” Finch rose from the table and shuffled over to the door and glanced back to Fiona.

  “Let me know when you’re ready to interview me. If I’m not here, I’ll be in the hospital. Apart from all the post-surgical moaning from the patients, it’s surprisingly quiet on the ward. Not a bad place to write.”

  ※

  Twenty minutes later Fiona appeared at Finch’s cubicle in the bog. She plunked down in his guest chair and set her notebook on the side of Finch’s desk. “So … about those videos.”

  “Depressing, huh?” Finch scrolled through his email, deleting most of it without opening the messages.

  “Lou Levine is talking Wally through the legalities. Looks like we’ve got a green light to publish everything you brought in.” Her eyes looked up to the ceiling. “I’ve got to say, this is hitting me pretty hard. It’s so crazy. Like the Whitelaw family has some kind of sociopathic DNA. Have you ever considered that?”

  Finch swiveled around in his chair to face her. The glare cast from the fluorescent lights exposed the pallor in her face. “Maybe,” he offered. “That could explain some of it. Except that Dean and Franklin are step-brothers.”

  She shrugged off the explanation. “What about Gianna? Everyone knows she liked to do the whole team.”

  Finch winced and turned back to his computer. “Slut-shaming’s beneath you, Fiona,” he said over his shoulder and pretended to cull the spam from his email in-box.

  “Yeah? Isn’t that what you suggested I do to get Justin Whitelaw on record? Lure him into my bed?”

  Finch whirled around. “No. Don’t do that. I can’t believe you’d suggest that I’d encourage anyone to trade sex — even the hint of sex — for a story.”

  “You’ve never done that?”

  Her eyes fixed on his and for a moment Finch wondered what she knew about him and Gianna. Or Eve. He rolled his shoulders. “That question isn’t worthy of an answer.”

  “So, that’s your answer then.”

  “Yeah. That’s my answer.” He glowered at her, unable to fathom how they’d descended to this level of disrespect. Maybe because she’s right, he thought, and shook his head in exasperation.

  She lifted her notebook from the desk and shuffled as though she was about to move on. Then she lingered a moment, hinting that she’d sooner continue the conversation than let it end in an argument.

  “Look. When do you want to interview me?” He tried to force some civility into his voice and smiled.

  “How about tomorrow morning? Tonight I’m going to try to nail down something with Justin Whitelaw at Café Claude. I’ll get my sister to babysit Alexander this evening, I guess.”

  “So how are you going to approach it?”

  She set the notebook on his desk again and pulled a tube of Lypsyl from her pocket. “Depends.” She swept the lip balm across her lips and tucked it away. “If I want quotes from him that I can publish, then I have to disclose that I’m a reporter, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “But if all I want is facts that I can verify from another source, I don’t need to tell him anything about what I do for a living.”

  Finch nodded. A borderline approach, deep inside a legal gray-zone. But that’s exactly what he did when he first met Gianna in the kitchen of the Whitelaw lodge in Cannon Beach.

  “And since we still can’t answer Wally’s WTF question, then what I need is facts first, not quotes. Right?”

  Finch smiled. “Your logic is unassailable, Sherlock.”

  “All right. Option two it is. Tonight I’m going incognito — if my sister can babysit Alexander,” she repeated. “I think he’s coming down with something.” She took her notebook in hand and stood up.

  “Kids,” he said. “I remember with Buddy. It’s like living in a bacterial zoo.” The surprise cocked his head to one side; this was the first time since the car crash that he’d mentioned Buddy to anyone at work.

  A look of sympathy crossed Fiona’s face. After a moment she continued, “So if Alexander’s all right, I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the interview, okay?”

  “Can you call me first? I feel so out-of-it that I could use a reminder. And just in case I’m still at the hospital.” He didn’t say, in the hospital looking after Eve, but he knew Fiona would assume that. The girl had a two-hundred-point emotional IQ.

  “Sure.” She started towards her pod, her head bobbing above Finch’s cubical partition.

  “Hey Fiona.”

  “Yeah?”

  She turned back a step and raised her head above the top of the panel. He could see her blue-and-green hair, her eyes and nose.

  “I just want to tell you that I like working with you.”

  She stuck her head back around the wall and smiled. “Yeah?”

  “More than that,” he said.

  He watched her expression shift as she decoded various meanings to this declaration before settling on the obvious.

  “I like you, too, Finch.”

  “So we’re good.”

  “Always were.” She smiled again and pointed two fingers at him. “Tomorrow.”

  He turned back to his computer and began to worry about his emotional life. Two personal disclosures within five minutes. Were his inner containment mechanisms faltering? Maybe. He decided to seal up the cracks, bury his personal miseries another foot deeper, and shovel a fresh layer of amnesia on top.

  ※ — NINETEEN — ※

  WILL SAT IN the chair beside Eve’s bed and adjusted the laptop on his knees. Despite the dull ache gnawing at his lower back, he pushed himself to type one more paragraph and then another. As he hunched over the keyboard his pace clipped along and he entered the transcendent zone where the words streamed through his mind and instantly appeared on the screen. It felt exhilarating, magical, hallucinatory. The account of Gianna, her uncle Dean, and Toby Squire poured out of him and after the first hour he knew it would roll into a four- or five-part story that the eXpress could issue as a series over the next week.

  After four hours of non-stop writing he tapped two paragraph returns under his last sentence and entered “30” — the traditional code to alert newspaper typesetters that a story was complete. A bit old-school, but he clung to the convention. After another quick scan he emailed the article to Jeanine Fix and asked her to clean up any typos and faulty grammar.

  Then he set the computer on the collapsible bed cot and stood, stretched his arms over his head and leaned over Eve’s comatose body. He kissed her forehead and then studied her face, his eyes sweeping over her features until he realized that she might be gone forever. She looked half-departed already, her body extended before him, unmoving. He felt as if her being had discarded the beautiful woman who’d made love to him only a few days ago. That person had simply disappeared. Where had she gone?

>   He shook his head to dislodge these crazy, infirm ideas. Then he tried to will her back to life with his mind alone. God — someone — anyone, he prayed, please bring her back to me.

  Nothing.

  When the silence became intolerable, he stretched out on the cot and slipped into a broken, rudderless sleep. Sometime later he heard his name echoing along a vacant cavern tunneling down into a void.

  “Will.”

  He fell backwards, his arms and legs flailing above him as he fell into the abyss. What is it? he cried. What? Despite his screams he plummeted deeper into the chasm. With each passing moment he sipped another breath, panicked that he’d need a full lungful of air to survive the plunge into the sea.

  “Will, it’s me.”

  His eyes blinked open. His head snapped forward with a deep crunch from somewhere in his neck. He yanked himself upright on the cot and gazed at Eve. A light flashed on the monitor over the bed. The purple bruise on her forehead had faded into a pale mauve. It seemed to have receded a little, retreated a half-inch from her cheek.

  “Eve, are you all right?”

  “Where are we?”

  He stood up and leaned over the bed. He tilted his head to one side to release the tension in his neck.

  “Mount Zion. In the head-trauma unit.” He kissed her forehead and drew her hand into his fingers.

  “What?” Her eyes dilated, flickered open and shut. Open.

  Connie swung into the room, strode over to the monitor and clicked off the flashing light. When she saw Eve’s flickering eye movements she brushed in front of Will and set her hand on Eve’s forehead.

  “Hello, honey.” She smiled. “I’m Connie Baptista. You’re in a hospital.” She waited for this idea to sink in. “You had a nasty hit to the head and decided to go to sleep for a while just to forget about it.” She continued to smile and her hand moved to Eve’s wrist and squeezed tenderly. “Now, I’ve got some questions for you. Can you tell me your name?”