Heart Break: An Isabel Swift Novel (The Isabel Swift Detective Series Book 1)

by MF Moskwik

  “Don’t know myself, really.” Izzy shrugs. “Didn’t have much of a family growing up. Mom went crazy, Dad left, and my sister ran away, so till you guys?” Izzy nods at him. “You? Carter? The guys in the station? You guys were the only family I had,” agrees Izzy. “The only real family that I have.”

  Rodriguez nods and picks up his coffee mugs. “To the brothers who hold the thin blue line.”

  Izzy smiles and picks up her paper cup full of pop. “And sisters.”

  Behind her, a throat clears, and Izzy turns to find Jameson looking enquiringly at her. “Jameson?” Izzy looks at the clock—1 p.m. “Ooh, sorry. I’ve got lunch.”

  “Actually, Officer Swift. I believe I have uncovered data relevant to the case, if you’d care to examine it?”

  Izzy glances at Rodriguez. “You mind?”

  Rodriguez shakes his head. “Not at all. In fact, if you don’t mind, I want to see the bells and whistles,” he admits with a glance at Jameson. “Rodriguez,” he says as he offers his hand.

  “Mark Jameson. Please.” He gestures Izzy and Rodriguez over to his desk.

  Jameson sits at his desk, and Izzy and Rodriguez peer at his laptop over his shoulder. “The video analysis software has finished its search of the images obtained from the surveillance video, and several photos were obtained from the footage. I thought I would open the files and show them to you.”

  “That was over eighty hours of footage.” Izzy looks at her watch. “It’s only been three and a half hours, Jameson.”

  Rodriguez whistles his appreciation. “I think that software would come in pretty handy around here, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I happily shall provide a copy to you once this case is over. At any rate, here are the photos obtained from the search.”

  As Jameson opens pictures in filmstrip view, the three of them peer at the grainy black and white footage from the cameras. After a few moments, Izzy whistles. “That’s an awful lot of stray cats.”

  “And raccoons. And a guy. Wait, what is he doing?” asks Rodriguez. They watch as a man stumbles up to the side of the building and relieves himself on the front entrance.

  “A . . . political protest, perhaps?” offers Jameson. His sarcastic remark is offset by the wry smile on his face.

  “More like a drunk from the bars two blocks down,” states Izzy. “Wait. What’s that? Go back.”

  Jameson taps a few keys on the keyboard, and the picture of a man entering the building fills the computer’s frame. “He’s entering the building.”

  “Open the video from the elevator. See if there’s anyone using the elevator at . . . try . . . 11:47 p.m.?” requests Izzy at she peers at the time stamp on the image.

  Jameson pulls up the files from the elevator bank on each floor and finds nothing.

  “There’s a staircase, isn’t there? There’s always a staircase in case of fire,” offers Rodriguez.

  A few more taps of the keyboard, and a picture of a man entering the staircase on the first floor appears at 11:49 p.m. The same camera shows the man exiting the same staircase at 12:30 p.m.

  “And the staircase on the second floor? Where the lab is?” asks Izzy.

  Jameson pulls up the files, and they look at each other excitedly as they see someone emerge from the second floor staircase at 11:52 p.m.

  “Bingo!” exclaims Rodriguez.

  “Can you enhance the image any? See the identity of the person coming into the lab?” asks Izzy.

  Jameson opens the image in his image-processing program and adjusts the zoom, brightness, contrast, and look-up table, but none of the modifications allows the face or identity of the man to emerge.

  “Damn. Thought you had something there for a minute, Detective,” Rodriguez says.

  “But at least we have a timeline, now, and the beginnings of a description. Caucasian male. Thin. Average height. Fast forward a little, so we can catch him coming out of the lab and going back down the stairs.”

  Jameson goes back to the video program and opens the file. They watch as the man emerges from the staircase and heads in the direction of the lab. Five minutes later, there is a bright flash, and the man runs in and out of the frame and back down the stairs.

  “Whoa! What the hell?” exclaims Izzy.

  “Was that an explosion?” asks Rodriguez.

  Jameson rewinds and plays the tape in slow motion. Just before the criminal reappears in the picture, a bright, expanding light comes into frame from the direction of the lab. And just as quickly, the light recedes.

  “Again,” says Rodriguez. After they watch the video again in slow motion, Rodriguez slams the desk with his fist.

  Both Izzy and Jameson startle. “What, Rodriguez?” asks Izzy.

  “Guy blew up the lab. Blew up the whole lab, destroyed everything. Who in their right mind would do that?”

  “Someone who wanted to destroy evidence, perhaps?” offers Jameson. “More importantly, how did our criminal do that? To achieve an explosion with that precise amount of control, to destroy a single room but leave the rest of the building unharmed, and not to mention, to not set off the fire alarm, takes a very fine control of the explosive.”

  Something in the back of Izzy’s memory tickles her conscious mind. “Rodriguez? What was the residue on the busted door at your theft from the university?” asks Izzy as a hunch forms in her mind.

  “Mercury fulminate,” says Rodriguez from memory. “Guy at the lab ran a, what do you call it, a GC-mass spec. Said mercury fulminate is solid, white, and—”

  “Explosive on impact?” asks Izzy.

  “Given a precise amount of mercury fulminate, one may predict the exothermic extent of the reaction upon impact,” finishes Jameson.

  “A controlled explosion,” agrees Izzy.

  “The man on the camera—it’s the same person who stole the tech from NYMC. It’s gotta be,” exclaims Rodriguez.

  “He must have scientific knowledge to be able to recognize the compound and know how to use it for their purpose,” reasons Jameson.

  “Which should narrow down our suspect list,” concludes Izzy.

  “But we still don’t know who our guy is,” continues Rodriguez.

  “Or how he got into the building,” finishes Jameson. “That he gained access so easily means that either he had keys or was let in.”

  Izzy nods. “Which means that we should start with whoever had keys or access to the building last night. She pulls out the list of names and contact information that she had assembled earlier. With a glance at the list, Izzy hands the paper to Jameson and fishes her car keys out of her jacket pocket. “Sorry about lunch, Jameson, but I think we should find Larry and see if he knows anything.”

  Chapter Six

  “Larry Davis. 500 Town Green Drive, Elmsford, NY,” recites Izzy from memory as they pull up to the apartment complex map. “Which unit?”

  Jameson looks at the contact list in his lap. “Number 121.” Jameson folds the sheet back into his pocket. “Officer Swift, may I ask what our plan is?”

  “According to the schedule, Larry’s the night janitor on Monday nights at County Labs. He has keys for the building and is there from 9 p.m. to 6 a.m.” Izzy finds the right building on the complex map and puts the car back into gear. “We go in, question Larry about the break-in last night. If he runs, we take him into custody for questioning.” Izzy pilots her cruiser around the apartment complex until they arrive at the correct building.

  “But he is one of your own, as you say, is he not? Mr. Davis works for the county?” asks Jameson.

  “He does, which is why we’re going to be sure that we do this right. Give him every chance to talk. We bring him in if, and only if, he resists.”

  “Do you expect much resistance, Officer Swift? Do you know Mr. Davis personally?” Jameson stows his laptop under his seat and dons his coat and scarf.

  “No and no. But we should be ready.” Izzy looks over at Jameson. “Um, you have a vest? A gun? Handcuffs?” She looks him ove
r carefully. “Anything?”

  “I’m afraid not, Officer Swift.” Jameson looks out of the window of the car, and his fingers drum on the windowsill with some nervousness. “I’m afraid most of my forensic data analysis takes place within in the relative safety of the walls of the Yard.”

  Izzy nods. “Good to know. Stay behind me and do what I say. I’ll keep you safe.”

  Both Izzy and Jameson exit the vehicle. They walk up the short sidewalk, past the shrubbery and other apartments, and arrive at number 121.

  Izzy knocks twice. “Larry Davis? Westchester County Sheriff’s Department. We’re here to ask you a few questions about the break-in last night.”

  Silence. “Mr. Davis? Mr. Davis?” Izzy knocks a bit harder on the door, and to their surprise, the door swings open on its hinge.

  Izzy draws her gun. “You hear that, Jameson?”

  Jameson looks at her blankly. “Hear what, Officer?”

  Izzy gesticulates toward the inside of the house. “I think I hear someone calling for help.” Izzy mutters ‘Help!’ under her breath in an altered tone of voice. “I think we got cause to go in and check it out.”

  Jameson is confused, but remembers Captain Williams’ admonition to follow her lead. “Indeed, I believe our aid has been requested.”

  Izzy nods and opens the door slowly. “Mr. Davis? Sheriff’s Department. Officer Isabel Swift. I’m armed, but we just want to talk.” She sweeps left to scan the area behind the door and right to scan the room. The area is clear. “Coming in!” she yells toward the inside of the house. Over her shoulder, she calls to her partner, “Come on in, Jameson.”

  Jameson steps through the door carefully. “Mr. Davis? State Police. We wish to speak to you.”

  Carefully, Isabel and Jameson creep through the house, announcing their presence and clearing each room of danger.

  “Odd, Jameson. Everything looks normal. Larry should be here, but if he is . . . I’m not seein’ him.”

  “Nor am I, Officer Swift.” Jameson extends his hand toward a congregation of beer bottles on the TV tray next to the couch.

  “Evidence, Jameson. Use a glove,” warns Izzy.

  With Izzy in the lead, they move through the living room, kitchen, and hallway until they come to the bedroom. “Mr. Davis? Mr. Davis?” Izzy pokes her head into the bathroom and turns on the light.

  Jameson moves further down the hallway to the partially open bedroom door. “Isabel!” he cries.

  “Jameson!” Izzy runs out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

  The pale, bluish-purple body of an unmoving man is sprawled on the bed.

  “Larry! Oh no, oh my God!” Izzy pushes past Jameson to reach Larry and feels his pulse. “No pulse.” She bends down to his mouth and listens for breathing. “No breath.”

  Izzy fishes her cell phone out of her pocket and throws it to Jameson. “I’m going to start CPR. Call 911.” She begins chest compressions, her hair swinging in rhythm to her compressions on Larry’s chest. She looks over at Jameson to check on him. “What are you doing? Call 911. NOW!” she yells.

  Startled from his stupor, Jameson calls 911, gives them the address, and describes the situation.

  “Help is on the way, Mr. Jameson. Stay on the phone—the ambulance is five minutes out,” explains the operator.

  “Shit,” Izzy swears under her breath. “Come on, Larry. Hang on for five minutes—docs are coming real soon to fix you up.”

  Holding onto the phone, Jameson turns and begins to examine the body.

  Upset at his interference, Izzy slaps his hand. “What are you doing? Stay off—I need to do this.”

  “I’m sorry, Officer, I have to see something,” Jameson apologizes as he begins to examine the body.

  “Jameson. Jameson!” Izzy continues to press furiously on Larry’s chest. “JAMESON! STOP!”

  “Ah!” Jameson yells. Jameson pulls open Larry’s shirt and reveals a medical pump. “Officer Swift, Mr. Davis has an infusion pump. AN INFUSION PUMP!”

  “Shut up, Jameson, and let me save him,” Izzy shouts as she shoves Jameson aside.

  “It’s all related, Officer Swift. Don’t you see? We have proof. It’s here! It’s right here!”

  “Shut it, Jameson!” yells Izzy as she continues to pound Larry’s chest.

  A sudden, wheezing sound comes from the mouth of Larry Davis, and Izzy collapses onto his chest. “Oh my God, Larry. Thank you, God.”

  “Did you see him? Do you know who did this to you?” cries Jameson. He kneels down and grabs Larry Davis by the shoulders.

  The only sound that comes from Larry’s mouth is a quiet, choking, gurgling sound. Suddenly, his body heaves, and sick comes out of his mouth.

  Izzy turns him on his side. “It’s okay, Larry, we got you. We got you.”

  The sound of sirens is finally audible, and Izzy sighs with relief. “The cavalry are here, Larry. Hang in there, we got you.”

  Into the room bursts a trio of EMTs dressed in trim blue and grey uniforms and carrying a dizzying array of equipment. As they swarm over Larry’s body, Izzy and Jameson step back.

  After a few minutes, the patient is loaded onto a stretcher and carried to the ambulance. An EMT comes up to Izzy and Jameson.

  “Officer. You want to ride along to the hospital?”

  “He going to be okay?” asks Izzy.

  “Will he be able to speak?” asks Jameson.

  EMT shakes his head. “Hard to tell. Looks like it was an opioid overdose. The infusion pump is a delivery device, and it was completely empty.” The technician shakes his head. “You can come and see if he talks, but depending on how bad it is, he might or might not.”

  Izzy looks at Jameson, who nods his head. “We’ll drive there in my cruiser. Thanks.”

  “No problem, Officer,” replies the EMT as he finishes clearing the scene.

  Izzy and Jameson head back out to her car. With a flip of a switch, Izzy turns on the emergency lights she keeps on the dashboard of her vehicle.

  “Don’t ever do that again, Jameson,” Izzy hisses as she backs out of her parking space and drives through the parking lot. “We almost lost Larry. I needed to do CPR.”

  “I know that, Officer Swift. But his infusion pump—it fits the profile the state has been putting together. These cases—the break-in at the county, the deaths that I have been researching—they are related to Mr. Davis’s overdose and, more importantly, to the stolen device that I must recover.”

  Deaths? thinks Izzy. “It was someone’s life, Jameson. Larry Davis could have died,” protests Izzy as she gets onto the highway.

  “But he didn’t, because you saved him,” points out Jameson. “A fact of which I am very glad.”

  “Damn you, Jameson. You are missing the forest for the trees. Not everything revolves around you, your approval, or your investigation!” she yells.

  Jameson gasps and then falls silent.

  After a minute, Izzy takes her eyes off the road and looks at her new partner. His jaw is clenched, and his blue eyes are frozen in a far-away pained look.

  “Sorry. I know you’re just trying to do your job. But a man’s life was at stake, a life that I am sworn to protect.” Izzy shakes her head. ”When the case is over, you‘ll leave and go back to the state or London or wherever it is you will go. But my job is to be here to serve and protect this community. My community. And that might not matter to you, but it matters to me. A lot.” She sighs. “It’s ten minutes to the hospital. If he’s conscious and can talk, we’ll get the answers you need. Don’t worry.”

  For the rest of the ride to Phelps Memorial Hospital, Jameson’s silence is her only answer.

  ***

  Though Izzy and Jameson arrive a few minutes after the ambulance, they are able to rendezvous with Larry Davis’s stretcher as he is brought into the ER.

  Izzy flashes her badge and makes her presence known to the ER staff. Non-plussed, the ER nurse sends them both to wait in the reception area.

  Banished to
the maze of fluffy, pleather chairs and a station with lukewarm coffee, Izzy and Jameson wait for news from the doctor.

  Izzy looks over at Jameson, and he is still holding himself stiffly, a grim, determined look of endurance affixed to his face like a sign.

  She sighs.

  “Jameson?”

  “Please, Officer Swift. Spare me.”

  Anger flares once more in Izzy. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  “You are going to tell me that you . . . regret your remonstrance of me in your vehicle earlier. You are going to tell me that should have been more patient or more understanding or more . . . any one of a myriad of things that one says that one should be when one is apologizing for heated words said in anger.”

  Izzy tamps down her annoyance. “You’re not wrong about that, Jameson. I am trying to apologize.”

  “Your apology is unnecessary, Officer Swift.” Jameson sighs and turns to her. “Izzy.”

  She looks at him with surprise and waits.

  “You’re right. I . . . become too involved in the data and forget the reason I am working, namely the safety and protection of the public, which I serve. Your reminder to me just now was much needed.” He pauses. “And much appreciated. I thank you.”

  Izzy nods. “Normally, I would be right there with you, Jameson, looking for answers. But I . . . I lost someone, and I’m still hurting. I thought I could put on the uniform today and put it past me but . . .” Izzy shakes her head. “I know I’ve been at you all day, more than I should have been. So I apologize.”

  Jameson digests this information in silence. After a while, he speaks. “It gets better, you know. The grief,” shares Jameson.

  Izzy gives him a curious glance, but stays silent.

  “At first there is pain, then anger, then regret, and then, supposedly, a gentling of grief until only the missing of the person remains.”

  “Supposedly?” she asks.

  “Supposedly.” Jameson smiles, but the expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

  Izzy squints at Jameson. Who did you lose?