Stepping inside the office, Louie wrinkled her nose. "Harry!" she bellowed.
Around the corner and sitting behind his big desk, Harry leaned back in his chair all wide-eyed and innocent. "What's doing, Louie?"
Putting thumb and forefinger to her nose, she made a face. "You promised not to smoke those things in the office anymore."
"Come on, beautiful." He brought his right hand up from beneath the desk, a big, brown, smoldering cigar held tight between two fingers. "They don't smell that bad. In fact, they smell incredible."
"It'll take a month of Sundays to get that awful stink out of here. You're not the only one who has to work here, you know."
He was smiling and his good humor reached all the way to his dark eyes. He held the cigar out in her direction. "You wanna puff?" He wagged his eyebrows.
She rolled her eyes and turned away. "Put it out."
In her office, she shut the door hoping that the smell could be held at bay. Not likely since the place already smelled like a cigar lounge. She walked to the window and opened it. The fresh air helped.
As she stood breathing in the clean air, another disturbing thought flitted through her already troubled mind. The cigar. That five-inch roll of tobacco sent chills up her arms, and not because the stench made her stomach roll. Since being diagnosed with diabetes two years earlier, Harry had been forced to give up the cancer-causing indulgence that also had a tendency to exacerbate his diabetes symptoms. But she knew he hadn't walked away from his vice one-hundred percent. No, he still smoked an occasional cigar, whenever he wanted to celebrate.
So what exactly was Harry celebrating today?
Before she delved into that quandary any further, she remembered the call from Amy Johnson and dug the note with Amy's number on it out of her pocket. She really was off her game. She should have taken five minutes and stopped by Amy's desk after she'd finished with Chucky. Okay, she'd call now and see what Amy needed. Louie couldn't imagine what it would be. Homicide hadn't been her area of expertise when she'd been on the job and she rarely dealt with death now. The last few days had been grimly exceptional.
She picked up the phone and punched in the number, still standing by the open window.
"Johnson."
"Amy, it's Louie."
"Hey girl, how are you? Been a long time. You never come by just to say hello."
"Life's good, and I promise next time I'm in your neighborhood, I'll stop by. So
what's up with the cryptic message?"
"Caught a DB this morning, and I'm wondering if you know her," Amy said, her voice shifting to all business.
"Me?"
"Yeah. The address in her wallet has her living in your office building."
A black thought raced across Louie's mind and her stomach sank anew. "Oh, dear God. Please tell me it's not Meg."
"If by Meg you mean Margaret Johnson…"
Louie didn't understand. Was there someone else living in the apartments with a similar name? "My friend's name is Meg English, not Margaret Johnson."
"I think we're talking about the same woman, Margaret English Johnson."
"How?" Louie couldn't finish the question. She simply couldn't say the word "die."
"It's still preliminary, but we're treating it as a homicide."
"Oh, sweet Jesus…" Her knees buckled and she sank to the chair.
* * * *
Paul left right after the funeral. He'd been hugged, patted and consoled about all he could take. Besides, he'd promised the folks he'd stop by Jamie's apartment and pack things up. They'd take care of getting the belongings moved if he'd get things packed up and ready to go. Paul figured it was the least he could do.
Jamie had lived in a part of the city that made Paul wonder if his car would be safe for the few hours it'd take him to pack the place. The building itself was tired, the brick gray with grit and age. Sad shrubs in planters flanked the main door, its glass smudged and filthy. Protective bars were installed on all the windows as well as the glass door. That was comforting.
It took three trips from the car to carry all the boxes to the second story cube Jamie called home. Once all of the boxes were out of the car and stacked up in the middle of what passed for a living room, Paul looked around the small apartment.
It was typical Jamie. A kind of ordered chaos that made perfect sense to Jamie and no one else. It'd drive Paul crazy to live like this. Not Jamie. For as long as Paul could remember Jamie owned a whirlwind of clutter that moved with him anywhere he went. No one ever had to wonder if Jamie'd been around. He always left a trail.
For the first hour, Paul tried to make sense out of the clutter so that the packed boxes could be sorted easily when his parents got around to dealing with them. Unlike Jamie, Paul wanted a plan. He needed the structure.
At least ten different pairs of sneakers were scattered around along with dozens of magazines tossed aside in random disarray. The mess brought back memories of their childhood. The sneakers made him smile. They were so Jamie. He'd show up for Christmas dinner in nice slacks and a shirt he'd actually taken the time to press, and as likely as not, a bright red pair of sneakers.
Paul couldn't recall the last time he'd seen Jamie in dress shoes. Maybe Easter Sunday when Jamie was about six? His little brother loved a riot of color and style, which was why Paul had been less than surprised when he'd looked in his own closet to find Jamie's handiwork with the shoes. Jamie had hated Paul's compulsive tidiness. They might have had the same parents and been raised in the same household, but that didn't make them alike. They'd been different as night and day.
He'd just begun to pack up the living room when his cell phone rang. He didn't feel like talking to anyone. Not today. His hand went to his pocket anyway.
"Hello."
"Paul." Louie's gentle voice greeted him.
"Hi." He couldn't work up enthusiasm even for her though he was glad to hear her voice.
"I just wanted to see if you're okay."
He heard it then, a note, a sound in her voice that was off. His problems really didn't matter. "What's wrong, Louie?"
"Nothing."
"I don't believe you. What's happened? Is it your brother?" Wouldn't that be the mother of all ironies?
"No." He heard the catch in her voice.
"I'm here for you. Tell me what's wrong."
"It's my friend Meg. She's gone."
He had to think quickly and then remembered the spry little old lady who'd stopped Louie in the parking lot. What could have happened? The woman had looked okay to him. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know her, but I'm sure she was a sweet woman."
"She was a jewel. I've never met anyone quite like her."
"Tell me what else is wrong," he said. Something in her voice made him believe there was more.
Louie let out a long sigh. "She didn't just die. She was murdered."
"What's going on?" he barked. All around them people were being killed and it didn't make sense. One day I'm coaching young men hockey and the next I'm picking up one body after another. This crazy shit has to stop.
"I don't know. I don't know." Her voice trailed off with a choked sob.
"Look, I'll be done here in a couple of hours and then I'm on my way back to Spokane. I'll come by as soon as I get to town."
"That'd be nice. I'm heading over to the morgue now." Her voice was a touch shaky.
"If you need me, I'm only a call away."
"Thank you."
He flipped the phone shut and began to tackle the packing with new vigor. By the end of the second hour, he'd made pretty good progress in the combined living/kitchen area. Jamie had been a man of simple needs, so there wasn't much to pack. All that remained now was the bedroom and presumably the bathroom beyond. He walked through the door that separated the bedroom from the main living area, flipped the light switch, and stopped to stare at a picture on the wall of Jamie's bedroom.
After a moment tears began to blur his vision. "Damn it," he muttered, wiping at his fa
ce with the palms of his hands. "That isn't fair."
The bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, was spare although not nearly as cluttered. A double bed, a single dresser, and only one picture that decorated the otherwise bare walls.
Matted, framed, and hung in a place where everyone who walked to the bathroom would be certain to see it, the picture was of Paul racing across the ice with his stick pulled back in the moment just before he made his Stanley Cup winning goal. That picture represented the best moment of his career, that one moment in time when he reached as high as he could. He knew who'd created the amazing charcoal version of the photograph that had been on the front page of every paper in Canada. Jamie's talent was unmistakable.
Seeing that demonstration of his young brother's pride and loyalty humbled Paul. It also brought him to a new low. Paul stared at the picture, at the man he used to be, and it hit him exactly how far he'd fallen. He'd turned his back on his only brother, but Jamie had never turned his back on him.
* * * *
Louie's vision blurred as she stared down at her friend's body lying on the cold steel table, covered with a sterile white sheet. She looked so small and frail, her dark skin ashen in death. Louie didn't care that Meg had lived a long, full life. It still wasn't fair. Her life was stolen from her and it hadn't been Meg's time to die.
Yet, the truth of her brutal death couldn't be denied. The distinct marks on her neck showed that. Large and purple, the imprint of fingers around Meg's neck would be forever etched into Louie's memory. She'd find out who'd done this.
Louie touched Meg's hair and whispered, "Sleep well, my sweet friend."
Amy gently led Louie out of the morgue and down the hall to the elevators. Neither of them spoke until they were seated across from each other in Amy's office several floors above.
"Any ideas on who or why?" Amy asked.
Louie shook her head. "I don't understand any of it. Who'd want kill Meg? She was a delightful person who was quiet and gentle. I don't know of anyone who disliked her."
Amy's brow wrinkled. "Do you know who she was?'
"What do you mean?" Louie looked over at Amy and wrinkled her brow. Of course she knew who Meg was. She'd seen her almost every day for the last five years.
"Do you know who Margaret Johnson was?"
Okay, maybe there were some things about Meg she didn't know. Those were just details. She knew Meg's heart and that was the most important thing. "I didn't even know that was her name," she finally said. "She went by Meg English."
"English was her maiden name."
Louie studied Amy's face and then shrugged. "I hate to be dense but I'm still not following you."
Amy pushed a folder across the desk to Louie. "Margaret Johnson won the Nobel Peace prize forty years ago for her work with the civil rights movement. That tiny little woman downstairs in our morgue helped to change the world."
Louie stared at the information in the file, unable to reconcile the woman in the photographs and newspaper articles with her spunky yet private friend Meg. As she read, civics lessons from her youth came back to her and she remembered bits and pieces about a woman who stood up when no one else had the courage to do it.
Finally, she lowered one article to the file folder. "I'm seeing but I'm not believing."
"Believe it, Lou. Meg English was Margaret Johnson, and anyone who's done what she did was bound to have enemies."
"Yeah, but in all the time she's lived upstairs, I don't recall seeing many visitors. A family member now and again, and that's about it. She was the gentlest person I think I've ever met."
"But you didn't really know her."
Louie shook her head. "I thought I did. I seem to be finding out lately I've been wrong about a lot of things."
"If you think of anything that might help, call me."
"What about her arrangements?"
"We've been able to contact a niece."
Louie slid the folder back across the desk to Amy. "I'll keep in touch."
As she walked back to her car, Louie wondered how things could have gotten so screwed up in such a short amount of time. A week ago her life was rolling along and now, nothing seemed to make any sense anymore. It seemed as though there was a murder every time she turned around, she was keeping secrets from her best friend, and then there was Paul McDonald…she didn't even want to get started on that quandary. What next?
Chapter Sixteen
Awareness began to creep in, slow and muted, something akin to a fine Monet painting. It was all muddled and out of focus for Chris, and yet it seemed like if he could stand back a foot or two, everything would finally come into focus. Somewhere far in the distance, music played, a soft and haunting melody. He concentrated, the effort almost painful, and began after a time to recognize a familiar pattern to the tune. It was a classic, a Beethoven classic, if his recollection served him right.
Remember … remember, he told himself. It was hard, it made his head hurt, and at the same time it seemed very important to be able to recall the name of the piece. It was weird and disconcerting. It made him want to pound his fists against his forehead—if he could get his hands to move, that is. Nothing on his body wanted to move. Odd.
The music was just as strange. The last thing he remembered, he was on the job hunkered down behind a pine tree, waiting for the Medicine Man to make his appearance at the warehouse. So why now did he hear Beethoven? Somehow, it seemed more important to remember the name of the song than to move his hands.
Then it came to him and relief flowed through his body like the rush of a good stiff shot of whiskey. Fur Elise by Ludwig van Beethoven. Ha! Again and again both he and Louie had practiced that piece at the insistence of their mother. He'd found the obligatory piano lessons a drudgery he tolerated because, much to his surprise, his ability to play the piano impressed the girls. Louie'd hated the piano with a vengeance and took every chance she could to dodge both practice and lessons. She played beautifully despite her aversion to the instrument, and he wondered if it was Louie who played the haunting Beethoven now.
Mom had hoped her two children would be refined and gracious. She'd gone to great pains to coax them in that direction very early on. By the time they'd both hit their teens, Mom had given up. Chris had set his sights on the Army Rangers from the age of thirteen, when he'd watched a documentary on the elite special force. His vision had never wavered, and piano lessons had no part in his ultimate goal. Mom's only choice had been to capitulate.
Louie, oh, his beautiful little sister Louise, was a bundle of energy and determination that neither Mom nor Dad ever figured out. Mom had hoped for a ballerina or a teacher. For years, she'd dragged Louie to all the requisite dance and music lessons, to no avail. From the time she could talk, Louie had been determined to follow in Dad's footsteps and become a police officer. As always, headstrong Louie won, much to Dad's immense pride and Mom's dismay. No one would ever have guessed, given the huge smile on Mom's face the day Louie earned her shield, that she'd had any other wish for her daughter. Mom was proud of both her children even if the piano lessons were a bust.
Now, he relaxed and let the familiar sound of Fur Elise lull him. It was nice. All the sounds around him were familiar and comforting though he couldn't say why. Figuring out why, not important. At the moment he was content that it was enough. Later, when he felt a bit stronger, perhaps he'd open his eyes and figure out exactly where he was. He only knew for certain he wasn't on that hillside any longer. For now, he'd rest.
A nurse came into the room. "So what's up with you today, Chris?"
Her patient's eyes were closed, his body as still as a statue. The question was entirely rhetorical. It had been five long years of silence for the attractive man who'd intrigued all of them. She'd been here the day he'd arrived and no doubt she'd be here on the day he left. Though none of the staff ever made mention of it aloud, the pattern rarely changed.
She took a cool damp rag and blotted his forehead where tiny beads of sweat had p
opped out. The monitors that buzzed and whirred next to his bed jumped with activity that was a little out of the norm. She checked them to make certain they were all working as they should. Whatever made them jump could have been nothing more than a random blip of energy. It happened, not often, but it happened.
It could also signal that Chris might be nearing the end. She'd it seen time and time again—that bit of movement, a flash of activity that could give families an unfair and false sense of hope. She was glad his sister wasn't here to see the movement of the monitors.
Chris' younger sister, Louise, or Louie as she asked everyone to call her, came often to sit with her brother. All of the staff was aware of how she held on to the hope that he'd one day wake up. It was a shame because the odds were about a million to one he'd emerge from the coma. It just didn't happen.
It was really too bad he was still so far away from them. Chris Russell was a man who, before the gunshot, possessed all the potential in the world. Even emaciated from years of silence and inactivity, she could see what a handsome man he was. Such a loss that he'd never come back to this world where family and friends held on to hope. It was bound to break their hearts all over again, especially for his sister.
Shrugging, the nurse straightened his blanket, blotted his forehead one more time, and patted his cool hand. Change was in the air; she could feel it. "You rest easy, Chris. We'll be here when you need us. We won't let you go alone."
Looking at the CD player Chris' sister brought in years ago, she noticed that it had ejected the disc. She pushed the CD back in, and once more the classical strains of music began to play softly. She didn't know if he heard the music or if it even helped, but it was pretty and, at least in her opinion, brought some beauty into a world that was otherwise locked in silence.
With one last glance at the monitors that had settled into a familiar, constant pattern, she left the room.
* * * *
Louie had to wait until dark. Kendall Stewart's house still had yellow police tape across the front and back doors, which meant Louie'd have to sneak in. Couldn't do that in broad daylight, so she waited, hoping no one would notice. She had a way of blending into the background, and she was relying on that now. She seemed to pull the shadows around her like Dracula's cape.
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