All the Hidden Sins

by Marian Lanouette

  The sound of the intercom interrupted his personal melee. “Yes, Katrina?”

  “Detective Stack asked me to relay a message to you.”

  What the hell is his game? He has my cell phone number. “What is it?”

  “He’s following a lead on the Church case. He’ll call you later with an update.”

  Stupid son of a bitch, taking off on his own.

  “Did he leave his location?”

  “No.”

  “Son of a monkey.” Jake swore under his breath. It would be his fault if Stack got killed. He’d pushed him too hard—forced his hand.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing, Katrina. Thanks.”

  Jake hung up, wondering what and where his lead had sent him. He’d welcome any lead at this point, because he’d hit a wall on the case. Church had pulled a Jimmy Hoffa, leaving not one damn clue as to his whereabouts. Or to who had done him.

  Edgy, he got up from his desk, left his office, and landed by the community coffeepot in the bullpen. In mid pour, Louie snuck up behind him. It took all his control not to yelp.

  “Something wrong with the machine Sophia and I gave you?”

  “No.”

  “You look perplexed.”

  “I am.”

  Stack was a personnel issue. He shouldn’t discus Carl with Louie, though he’d be an asset with his puzzle-solving mind. He decided to break the rules yet again. Procedures, like rules, stood as guidelines, not absolutes.

  “Want to do lunch today?” He put the pot down, emptied the untouched contents of his cup into the sink attached to the counter.

  “You still working that Missing Persons’ case?” Louie asked.

  “Yep, why?”

  “I was wondering. Where do you want to eat?”

  “Anywhere private’s good.”

  “Come and get me when you’re ready.”

  Jake’s gaze tracked around the bullpen before landing on Louie’s back as his partner walked to his desk. Ten desks, all clustered in the middle of the room. Around the perimeter of the room were four hard, wooden benches. Family members of prisoners, victims, attorneys, and the general public used them. Two of the benches were occupied. One with a crying, elderly lady—Jake figured she was here for a kid or a grandkid. The other held a pair of teenagers trying to look tough, but not succeeding. Out of the ten desks in the bullpen, there were detectives sitting at four of them, the others must have been out on calls. Two were on the phone and two sat with suspects or witnesses answering questions. Not to pat himself on the back, but his department ran well. Homicide investigations were logical. You followed hard evidence, most of the time.

  He smacked himself on the head. A Missing Persons case should run the same way as a homicide—with one exception—the body was missing. He’d been out of sync on this case all along as he tried to follow someone else’s investigation techniques. He ran to his office, grabbed the file, opened it, rearranged it. Either way he looked at it, Church’s disappearance was an organized effort. He was sure of it. Gambling made for strange bedfellows.

  * * * *

  Stack drove through Middletown on his way to meet Phil. The streets were busy this time of day. Middletown more affluent than Wilkesbury, offering a mix of restaurants and shops to suit many tastes and budgets. Phil calling out of the blue had him worried. It had seemed like Phil had forgiven him for his indiscretion. Was it new business or a ploy to lure him into a trap? Something he should think about, but he needed the money. He drove over the Portland Bridge at a mere ten miles per hour. The damn construction was going to last another year. He checked the GPS to see how much longer before he’d be able to turn onto Route 16. The little bar Phil picked was halfway for both of them. Good choice, Phil. Liquid courage, and I sure need it.

  Damn, if that bastard in front of him didn’t hurry up, he’d be late. Another screwup and he’d be dead. He wanted a little extra time to check out the place before he met with Phil. Pulling into a mini-mart, he checked his weapons. The Glock in his ankle holster was loaded, the safety off for a quick grab and shoot. An old-fashioned kind of guy, he liked his .38 Special, which was in his shoulder holster, loaded and at the ready.

  He didn’t trust Phil. Stack had learned early on in his career to listen to his instincts. They’d kept him alive for many years. He drove out of the parking lot heading east, and found the bar five miles down the road.

  Stack pulled up to the front of the plaza and parked close to the road. He surveyed the entrance and all the cars, trying to pick out Phil’s ride. Nothing came close to his usual mode of transportation. After assessing the front lot, he drove around to the back. The back wall of the restaurant sported two small windows. One screened wooden door stood wide open leading into the kitchen. A silver four-door BMW 330SI sat close to the back entrance. It was one he’d seen Phil use before. Carl wrote down the license plate. He drove around to the front and parked as close to the building as possible.

  Inside, blinded by the darkness he had to squint to see. Not good. Why aren’t the lights on full? Was he in Angelo’s sights right this minute? A shiver ran up his spine. Did his greed have him walking into a setup? When he called Katrina he should’ve left his location for Carrington. Hindsight was great, but leaving wasn’t a choice. He reached into his pocket, touched the knife for comfort.

  His vision cleared as his eyes became accustomed to the low light. He took in the whole room, noting exits. A bartender the size of Texas stood behind the bar, washing a glass. A mirrored wall with shelves housed the liquor. It also gave the bartender a view of the room with his back turned. A glossy wooden bar had ten stools lined up to it. On the right side were booths, and in the last one he spotted Phil. Stack’s internal antenna went up—where was Angelo? Phil never traveled alone. In slow, careful steps he approached Phil, his eyes scanning the room but he made sure to keep Phil in his sights. He reached Phil’s booth and took a seat opposite him. It bothered him that his back was to the front door.

  “Where’s Angelo?”

  “I have him doing other things today, why?”

  “I’ve never seen you without him.”

  Stack placed his folded hands on the table. Phil grabbed them and applied an incredible amount of pressure. Stack tried not to squirm. In a second, he’d lose.

  “Who I travel with, Carl, is my business. Is that clear?”

  “Extremely.” Arrogant little prick.

  Phil released his grip. Carl refrained from rubbing his hand. He’d be damned, he wasn’t going to give Phil the satisfaction.

  “Good, now let’s get down to business.” The man’s a psycho.

  Phil talked for what seemed like an hour, detailing what evidence he needed Stack to pull for him. It was standard stuff Phil normally requested over the phone. Stack wasn’t a nervous kind of guy, but Phil set off his alarms today. When the meeting came to an end, he decided to forego a drink and head right back to Wilkesbury. He slid across the seat and started to stand. Phil signaled for the bartender. Carl’s breath whooshed out. His hand automatically reached for his ankle holster.

  “Tony, bring us a couple of beers,” Phil said to the bartender, turning back to Stack with a smile. “Nervous, Carl? You’re sweating.”

  “No, it’s warm in here. I have to pass on the drink. I’m expected back at the station. I’m still on duty.”

  He straightened, releasing his hold on the gun.

  “One beer won’t hurt you.”

  What choice did he have? “I guess it won’t hurt.” Screw Carrington.

  The bartender delivered the beers to Phil. He didn’t like it when Phil twisted off the caps and handed him one. He hesitated before bringing it to his mouth.

  “Something wrong, Carl?”

  “No.” He sniffed the drink. He wasn’t taking any chances. No odor. He took a large gulp. The beer cooled his parc
hed throat as it slid past his lips and tongue. There’s nothing like that first sip. After a few seconds bitterness attacked his taste buds. He should’ve left last month for his tropical island.

  “Something’s wrong with this beer.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and eyed the bottle.

  “Why?”

  “It’s bitter as hell.”

  Phil sniffed his bottle. “Mine isn’t,” Phil replied, and took another sip. “You want to switch?”

  “No.”

  With keen eyes, Stack studied the bottle, rolling it between his hands. He decided he’d had enough. Carl pushed the bottle toward the center of the table. Phil reached for his, knocking it over. It spilled all over him. Stack jumped up. Stupid son of a bitch. I’m sure he did that on purpose.

  “I’m sorry.” Phil motioned the bartender over.

  Sorry my ass. Stack grabbed the cloth from the guy and wiped the excess drink off his pants. He threw the wet towel on to the table and turned toward Phil.

  “I should get on the road.” Using the spill as an excuse he left the bar.

  Out in the car, he racked his brain. Why had Phil summoned him? Most times he received his orders from Phil on the phone. Why meet for this? Christ, now I smell like a brewery. All I need to complete my day is for some hick cop to pull me over. Once in his car, he started to drive back down Route 16.

  Dozens of daggers jabbed at his stomach. The convulsions forced him to bend at the waist. His face along with his neck stiffened. Incredible sharp pain shot through his body. Next, spasms hit his arms and legs, pinning his foot to the accelerator as his body arched backward. He had no control of the car. His back arched farther back, his head digging into the headrest. The ceiling his only view, he prayed he didn’t kill anyone. Sweat dripped off his forehead, burned his eyes. That bastard poisoned me. The pain! What the hell did Phil give me? He made sure I’d suffer. Oh, God. May the bastard rot in hell. What did I do…to deserve this? Praying for death. Fighting for life, he fought each spasm of pain as it racked his entire body. The car shot across the road, hit the guardrail before it crashed through it and bounced off trees and bushes before landing in the middle of the swamp. The excruciating pain didn’t let up as fear magnified each of his five senses when the cold water seeped in and washed over his body. He tried to scream for help, but no sound came out of his paralyzed mouth. The water engulfed him.

  Chapter 30

  Grateful for Louie’s silence, Jake never let up on the gas pedal as they sped through Middletown. After Stack left the message with Katrina, one question stuck out with Jake—who had Stack met today? Whoever set up the meeting must think we’re getting too close to the truth on the Church case.

  “Tell me again what the state trooper said?” Louie asked.

  “Stack smelled of beer, but he knew for a fact that wasn’t what killed him.”

  “How can he be sure?”

  “He said, and I quote, ‘The cause of death was written on his face.’ He emphasized that we’d need to see it to understand.”

  “Oh good. I love a mystery.”

  “It’s not funny, Louie,” Jake snarled.

  “I didn’t say it was. Calm down. I don’t understand why the state trooper didn’t give you all the information. What’s the big freaking secret?” Louie tilted his head and stared.

  “We’ll see.”

  The turn came up fast. When he spotted cop cars, fire trucks, emergency response vehicles and the meat wagon, Jake figured he was in the right place. He pulled to the side of the road behind a hook-and-ladder truck. He understood all the manpower. They’d responded to an officer in trouble. He climbed out of his car as did Louie and together they walked down the embankment. Jake went on alert as he sensed the mood of the responders. The conversation was respectful, quiet, the attitudes somber. None of the usual dark humor—cop humor—you heard at a scene that relieved tension. It might’ve been any one of them. They were here to help, and also to reaffirm that they were alive for another day.

  A trooper with stripes on his arm greeted them. The man matched Jake in height and Louie in coloring.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Lieutenant Carrington?” He held out his hand at Jake’s nod. “I’m Sergeant McDermott. You must have broken the speed barrier.”

  “We ran hot. This is Sergeant Romanelli.” McDermott shook Louie’s hand.

  McDermott pointed farther down the embankment. “It’s not pretty.” He started to walk down toward the stretcher.

  The body was covered by the standard white sheet. Jake walked behind McDermott, Louie behind him. His mind was firing questions all over the place, his footing careful. Jake wondered how the trooper wore that hat all day long. Weird what popped into your head before you viewed a body.

  The last conversation he had with Stack cycled in his head. It hadn’t been kind. Accusations—he’d accused Carl of throwing a case, suspected him of taking bribes to look the other way. He’d have to live with it though the facts hadn’t changed because Stack died. Carl’s death confirmed his suspicions. This was a stupid move on the part of the killer. It drew more attention to him. The killing of a cop brought down more heat than the devil supplied in hell for an entire year.

  Louie cursed behind him. Jake turned around and contained his laughter at Louie’s scowl. Louie had stepped in something, ruining Mr. Fastidious’s shoes. Jake turned back without comment. His gaze traveled to Stack’s car, which sat on the embankment. It had already been pulled from the lake in order to retrieve the body.

  Over his shoulder, he asked Louie, “Are you ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  Trooper Sergeant McDermott pulled the sheet back as Jake and Louie surrounded the stretcher. Jake sucked in a breath. Louie gagged. Even experienced as they both were, nothing prepared them for this. Stack looked like a corpse from a horror movie, with his twisted features and stiff body. Rigor mortis had already set in. That baffled Jake. He walked over to the coroner.

  After introducing himself, Jake asked, “Isn’t it too soon for rigor mortis?”

  “Certain poisons will bring it on sooner. If my guess is right, someone liked to read,” the coroner replied.

  “Why is that?”

  “The set features, the early rigor mortis tells me, and it’s only a guess, you understand—they had to have used strychnine or something like it to poison him. That shit’s only used in books…mostly. You want someone to suffer, strychnine would be your substance of choice.”

  “How fast does it react?” Jake asked, while the sergeant and Louie listened in.

  “Ten to twenty minutes, depending on the contents of the stomach. If alcohol was involved—and I don’t know for sure it was, but his breath smells of beer— I’ll know more once he’s on my table,” Doctor Tim McCoy from the state’s medical examiner’s office said.

  “So we look for a bar within ten to twenty minutes from here. Thanks, Doc.” Jake turned to Louie and the trooper.

  “Lieutenant, I understand if you go looking for answers and do your own investigation. I would if it was one of my men. But I want to caution you, this is our case and we don’t want it tainted. You need to take one of my guys, or one of the locals, with you. You’ll get your answers faster that way around here and it’ll keep the chain of evidence intact.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant. I don’t mean to step on anyone’s toes. This case ties into one of my Missing Persons’ cases.”

  “Name’s Cal, Lieutenant. Aren’t you Homicide?”

  “I’m Jake, this is Louie.” Jake nodded toward Louie. “I—we are, but for now I’m also running the Missing Persons’ Department. Stack was attached to that unit. And off the record, Sergeant, I think both cases tie into the mob.”

  The sergeant let out a low whistle. “Whatever I can do to help, I will. I’ll keep you in the loop. It doesn’t make sense for us to duplicate our efforts.” />
  A veiled warning, he’d need to heed.

  He needed a quiet space to scribble down his first impressions and place this piece into the puzzle. He had to analyze and process the crime scene and the why of it. Stack’s family would need to have a closed coffin. It’d take a miracle for the undertaker to rid the face of the last painful minutes of Carl’s life. He didn’t like him personally or professionally, but nevertheless, nobody deserved to suffer like that. Looking around, he observed the woods and water. The drop off the road was a good fifty feet, if not more. According to the sergeant, Stack had sailed through the guardrail before landing in the swampy lake. Jake made a note to ask about Stack’s speed when he flew off the road. Louie walked over while he was writing.

  “Christ, I’m going to see his face in my dreams for a long time.”

  Jake continued writing.

  “And look at my shoes,” Louie said in disgust.

  “You can look at that body with all the pain and suffering that was inflicted on Carl and still comment on your shoes? You’ve become hardened, Louie.” Jake quirked a brow at him.

  “I guess, but I paid a hundred twenty-five bucks for these shoes. They were comfortable, now they’re trash,” he said, aggravated.

  Not caring about Louie’s shoes, Jake walked back to the body. “McDermott, how many bars are in this area?”

  “From the direction he came from, I’d say two.”

  “Do you have the names?”

  “I plan on visiting them after we finish up here. You’re welcome to accompany me.”

  I’ve been put in my place. “That sounds good.”

  What choice did he have? If he didn’t like the answers he received with the state trooper present, he’d come back at another time. It wasn’t his case, but damn it, Stack was one of his men. No way was Jake going to let the trooper relegate him to the back of the investigation.

  * * * *

  After Stack left, Phil and Angelo enjoyed a leisurely lunch at the bar. “You ready to go, Phil?”

  “Not yet, Ang, I want coffee and dessert. I expect when we head down Route 16 there’ll be quite a scene where Stack landed.” Phil’s grin spread from ear to ear as he anticipated the scene.