by Mark Stone
“For the prices they charge, I can’t blame ‘em,” I answered as one of the detectives who had called Boomer to the scene came walking toward us.
“Chief,” he said to Boomer before looking over at me cautiously.
“This is Detective Dillon Storm. He’ll be working with us on this case,” Boomer answered in a voice that was official enough that it almost made me chuckle. He was a good cop, and a better police chief if what my grandfather told me was true. Still, there was something about watching a guy I’ve seen take a leak out of the side of a moving truck giving orders and having people actually abide by them that was more than a little strange.
“Storm?” the younger detective asked, looking over at me. “Like the—”
“Show me what you’ve got,” Boomer barked, cutting the guy off before he could mention the connection to my estranged father and his family.
“Yes sir,” the detective answered, reading the cues Boomer was giving off and dropping the subject. “The victim is in room 1019. He died from what looks to be blunt force trauma to the head. There was a bloody candelabra found near his body, but the coroner is up there, just to be safe about it.
“What kind of hotel room has a candelabra?” I muttered.
“The Surfside Suite,” the detective answered immediately. Now he was looking at me like I was the most important person in the room, like my association to Boomer meant I instantly outranked him. The kid swallowed hard. He was maybe twenty-nine and obviously still wet behind the ears. Add that to the fact that this was the kind of city where violent crime was so rare that the chief of police was called to look at a homicide, and I couldn’t blame him for being a little on edge and looking for direction. “It’s the most expensive room in the place,” he added.
“Good to know,” I answered as Boomer nodded for us to make our way toward the elevator. I did, with the nervous young detective keeping pace with us. “What do we know about the room?” I asked, jumping right into investigative mode. This wasn’t my jurisdiction, and I hadn’t actually agreed to help with this case (regardless of what Boomer said), but this guy didn’t come from my current stomping grounds and, since I was here, it only made sense for me to make myself useful. “Who’s it registered to?”
“A man named Lionel Sheets,” the detective answered. “The hotel manager said he’d been here for two weeks and his reservation was open ended.”
We stepped into the elevator and the detective produced a key from his pocket, handing it to Boomer. “You have to insert this. It’s the only way to get to the Surfside room, Chief.”
That was interesting.
“I need you to find out how many of these keys there are and who would have access to them,” Boomer told the detective, who nodded affirmingly. “Now,” he added when the detective didn’t move.
“Oh right,” he said and darted out of the elevator before the doors closed.
“Being a little hard on the kid. Don’t you think?” I asked as Boomer inserted the key and elevator moved smoothly upward.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “But only because he’s bright. You gotta push ‘em, Dillon. If you’d calm the hell down and have a kid or two, you’d learn that.”
“That would require me finding a woman who could stand to be in the same place as me for two days in a row,” I answered, grinning just a little.
He looked over at me. “We both know that’s never been your problem. You practically had them throwing themselves at you back in school and, if I remember, there was one in particular who spent a lot more than two days in a row with you.”
I bristled. Even alluding to her was more than I could handle
“What can I tell you? School was a long time ago,” I answered.
“Fair enough,” he said, surmising I didn’t want to take that particular conversation any further. “Who do you think this guy is?”
“Lawyer,” I answered firmly, nodded slightly.
“That’s a specific guess,” he said, looking over at me.
“Not really,” I answered. “Sheets, Marco, and Devine is one of the biggest law firms in Chicago. I go for drinks with the ADA sometimes, and she’s always telling me how crooked they are.”
“She?” Boomer asked, bypassing the actual meat of what I’d just said to settle on the potentially racier part. “Something tells me it’s more than just drinks.”
“Something tells me you’ve got bigger things to worry about,” I answered. “If Lionel Sheets is the Sheets in question, then it would make sense. A firm that big would have clients all over the country, if not the world. Maybe he’s down here on business.”
“Open ended business?” Boomer asked, narrowing his eyes at me. “Can’t imagine why a lawyer would need to stay down here for two weeks and still not have a departure date.”
“Maybe it has something to do with the client?” I asked as the elevator doors opened right up into the Seaside Suite.
The place was impressive. An entire floor big with a full plate glass window where the far wall should be, the suite was decked out in the same faux beach décor that covered the lobby. There was even a chandelier in the main room.
The foyer was empty, covered in white carpet with matching upholstery. The sound of footsteps near the back told me Lionel Sheets very likely died in his bedroom.
“Client should be easy enough to find out,” Boomer said. “Once this place is checked and dusted, we can go through his computer and various other belongings. Assuming this is the guy you think it is.”
We marched through the foyer and into the bedroom. A thin woman was crouched over the body of a half naked man. He was older, laying on his back, covered with a pair of floral print boxers and not much else, and a pool of fresh blood encircled his head.
My stomach churned as I took the guy in. I had seen more than my share of this back in Chicago, but it never got easier. Something about the callous indifference needed to take a human life was hard to swallow no matter how many times you were fed it.
The coroner stood and I saw, with a start, I recognized her.
“Emma?” I said, a somewhat out of place smile starting at the corners of my mouth.
“Dillon Storm,” she answered, nodding and smiling at me herself. “It’s been a long time.”
“That’s right, she used to babysit your troublesome ass, didn’t she?” Boomer said looking from Emma to me before moving on to the body. “Unless I’m mistaken, you had a hell of a crush on her.”
I shook my head.
Dammit, Boomer.
Emma looked good. She was about five years older than me, but you couldn’t tell it. Her hair was blond and pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail. Her face was free of both tan and any of the lines that come with sun exposure. She had never been much of a beach girl, deciding instead to throw herself into books and study. It was good to see she made good use of it.
“Well, he was always my favorite kid,” she answered, patting me on the shoulder. I noticed the ring on her left hand as she pulled away from me. “Even if he was more trouble than he was worth sometimes.” The smile fell from her face. “Here to help with the case?”
“Among other things,” I answered, the face of a father I never knew flashing through my mind.
“Right,” she said, her eyes flickering down to the floor. “Sorry to hear about your father.”
It seemed out of place. I might have come back for the funeral, but that didn’t mean I was close enough to my father to be impacted by his death. At least, not in the way a son should be. Still, I nodded back at her. “I appreciate that, Emma. What can you tell us about Mr. Sheets here?”
“Pretty straight forward,” she answered. “Someone bashed his head in, probably with that thing, but I’ll know more once I get the body back to the lab,” she said, pointing to a golden candelabra on the floor. It was stained with blood. “He was hit from behind, which either means someone was waiting in this room and got him when he undressed for bed—”
“Or he wasn�
��t alone,” I finished, looking to Boomer. “A place like this should have security cameras.”
“I agree,” Boomer said, kneeling over the body. “How long has he been dead, Ems?”
“Housekeeping found him about a half an hour ago now and, like I said, I’m not in the lab, but my best guess is he was killed sometime between ten and two last night. I’m going to send some people in to wrap him up, unless you need something else.”
“So long as this place gets dusted and checked out, I think we should be good,” Boomer said, standing.
Emma squeezed my arm as she looked up at me. “We should get dinner sometime, Dillon. It’d be good to catch up.” I swallowed hard. This woman had starred in more of my teenaged dreams than I would have ever admitted to her. Besides, she was married now, no matter how well she’d aged. That had changed, of course. She was still beautiful, but I wasn’t a desperate kid anymore.
I heard the elevator door open behind me and assumed it was the nervous detective, coming up with more information about the elevator keys, and obviously having one in his possession.
“That’d be nice,” I answered, and gave Emma another smile as she made her way out of the bedroom.
“I swear, I think this whole city is going to hell in a handbag, Dil,” Boomer said, shaking his head.
“You’re being dramatic, Boom,” I answered, looking over at him. “I’ve seen worse.”
“I’m sure you have,” he answered quickly. “That’s not what bothers me. You’ve been up in Chicago, and bullets fly around there like snowflakes. The thing that irks me, the thing that keeps me up at night worried about my kids, is that I’ve seen worse.” He let out an audible sigh. “When we were kids, this place used to be paradise. It used to be safe.”
“It still is paradise, Boom. Just look around.” I shrugged. “I don’t know if it was even safe though. I mean, is anywhere? Maybe we were just too young and stupid to think any of it could ever touch us.”
“Maybe,” Boomer responded. “Been touched a couple times since then though.”
“You and me both,” I answered.
His eyes met mine, something dark weighing them down. “You should see the drugs, Dil. They come in from down in Mexico, come in from up in Georgia even. They say it’s a pandemic, and they’re right.”
I nodded. Boomer was right about that. Aside from pot (which neither of us ever partook in) I didn’t even know anyone who had dealt in drugs when we were young. If that was changing, then it really did signal bad times for this place.
“We need to check his computer and cell phone,” I said, changing the subject and turning back to Boomer. Then we should see if there’s a briefcase here. If he is the Sheets from the law firm, then information about his clients should be in one of those things.”
“He’d better be the Sheets from the law firm,” a voice, familiar and edged enough that it cut a hole right into my stomach, echoed from behind me. “Otherwise, I’ve been paying the wrong person.”
Turning around, I took the man in. He looked older than the last time I’d seen him. With hair a shade lighter than mine and eyes that echoed the same sky blue it wasn’t hard for me to recognize him. Peter Storm, the only legitimate son of my father and a man I would have to think twice about saving if he was drowning, stood in front of me. His arms were crossed and his gaze tore into me as if I was the one responsible for what had happened here today.
“Hello, Dillon,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “It’s been a long time.”
3
When I was a kid, growing up in the shadow of a family who didn’t acknowledge, let alone accept me, I did my best to keep my distance from the man standing in front of me today. I didn’t keep my head down, per se. I was too stubborn and had too much of my mother in me for that. And I certainly wasn’t the type to turn tail and run away if anything would have come up.
There were definite lanes in Naples though, lanes you were born into, lanes you stayed in. That made staying away from the legitimate Storm relatively easy.
Peter and I didn’t run in the same circles. We might have had the same father and the same last name — even the same eyes if I was being honest with myself — but our lives couldn’t have been more different.
I always imagined he grew up in board rooms, going to cocktail parties and learning to run an empire from the moment he could talk. I worked nights and weekends at my grandfather’s garage and picked my mother up after the poor woman pulled double shifts at the Shrimp Shack. He wouldn’t have looked at me twice back then, and he certainly wouldn’t have deigned to actually speak to me. I’d say the badge made a difference. Usually, people tended to straighten up and plaster on a fake smile once they knew you had the law on your side. That wasn’t the case with Peter though. He was the kind of rich that made him think he was above the law and the people who enforced it. Besides, he had always seen me as a parasite, a walking, talking reminder our father was a flawed human being and that he wasn’t the only heir to the kingdom. Given what happened the last time we spoke, I had no doubt he’d have taken a prison sentence before talking to me again.
No. If he was making conversation now, it was because he had to, and I needed to find out why.
“This is an active crime scene, rich boy,” Boomer said, shaking his head at my half brother. “I suggest you explain yourself unless you’re itching to find out what handcuffs feel like.”
Peter’s eyes moved over to Boomer, stopped for an instant, and then traveled to me wordlessly. “Mr. Sheets was here for me, working on a case for the family. I couldn’t get him to answer the phone this morning, which was strange and honestly a bit infuriating given how much he was being paid to be on call when I needed him. So I came over.”
“Fine,” Boomer barked. “Go stand by the elevator until I’m done here. I can’t have your five-hundred-dollar shoes contaminating the scene. I’ll have some questions for you soon.”
“I’d rather answer them now,” he said, his eyes still focused on me. “Assuming you can spare your partner here.”
“This isn’t Detective Storm’s beat and, in any event, this isn’t a concert. We don’t take requests. I’ll get to you when I get to you,” he said quickly.
“It’s okay, Chief,” I said, my eyes shooting daggers into Peter. “I can take this one.”
Boomer shot me a look.. “You sure about that?” he asked, careful to keep his tone as flat and business like as possible. I didn’t need to study his face to know he didn’t like the idea of this. Peter had always been the enemy, the Storm with the money, the Storm with the father. Boomer used to say he had “everything but a soul”. I knew my best friend well enough to know he didn’t want me tangling myself up in any of this while I was here, but I couldn’t help it. After thirty years, my father’s son wanted to talk with me. I just had to know why.
“I am,” I answered, nodding firmly. “You’ve got enough to keep you busy here. The least I can do is take some routine questioning off your hands.”
“If you say so,” Boomer answered wearily. “Just head out to front room. Don’t go any further.”
“I’ve got it, Chief,” I said, deciding against calling him “Boomer” or “Boom” or “Jackass”; any of the names I’d have used in a regular situation. We weren’t fishing, after all. This was a murder investigation, and I wanted to make damned sure Peter knew who was in charge of it.
I motioned to the front room and watched as Peter walked out into it, turning around and settling near the plate glass window of a wall. He was dressed impeccably in a navy blue tailored suit and matching tie. His hair was slicked back with product that probably came shipped from France or something. Still, other than the fact that I had only ever dressed like that for weddings and funerals, we didn’t look that much different.
We had the same basic facial structure, same strong jaw, same narrow, pointed nose. His hair was even starting to go gray at the sides like my own. I shook my head slightly and looked away. I saw no ne
ed to lose myself in genetic similarities. There was a body in the next room. The only thing that mattered was getting justice for him.
“I appreciate you talking to me,” Peter said, his words clipped off at the end.
“Don’t appreciate it too much. You just walked into an active crime scene. I’d have to talk to Moby Dick if he did that. So don’t go thinking it’s something it’s not,” I answered, folding arms over my chest, not unlike the way Peter had when I’d turned to meet him in the next room.
“Your friend put me under the impression this wasn’t your concern.” His eyes narrowed. “‘Not your beat’ is the way he phrased it.”
“Jurisdiction doesn’t matter when the acting chief of police asks for my help,” I answered. “And what is or is not my concern is definitely none of yours.” I blinked hard at the man, remembering what Boomer had said about gossip and my father supposedly changing his will. “Why was Mr. Sheets here? What was he working on for you?”
“That’s a family matter,” Peter said, his mouth tightening until it was nothing but a firm line across his face.
Pushing aside the obvious irony of him saying that to me, I moved closer. “I don’t care whose matter it is. A man you brought here was beaten to death. If you’re not going to answer my questions, then I suggest you call a lawyer, because you’re going to need one.”
Peter let out an audible sigh, his hand dragging through his greasy, made up hair. “He was drawing up a statement.”
“A statement for what?” I asked, pulling a pad from my back pocket and jotting down notes.
“To change power of attorney, if you must know,” Peter said, his voice dipping back into a guarded, dismissive, and much more familiar tone.
“Power of attorney for—”
“For my father,” he cut me off, turning away as he continued to speak, looking out onto the beach and the frolicking tourists that filled it. “He had begun acting irrationally lately. The business was becoming too much for him to handle. He was old. It was time.”