Michael straightened up. “I’m not saying any more. I’m going to call my attorney. And I want––”
One of his servants came in, the shadow of a man behind her.
It was Collin––again.
“Look, Michael,” he said, “I am not happy with our arrangement. I’d like you to––” He stopped short as soon as Tony stepped forward.
“Don’t say anything, Collin,” Michael snapped. He turned to Tony. “As for you, detective, your time’s up. You don’t get anything from us.”
“We’ll see.” Tony scratched the back of his head. “You’ll be hearing from Chief Bruner and the DA real soon.” He let that sit there, then added, “By the way, don’t leave town.”
Collin’s face went ashen while Michael’s eyes narrowed. Quickly, Michael pressed a button under his desk and a tough, body builder type appeared to escort Tony out.
* *
Junebug was relentless. Even after Larry jiggled Henry’s locked cabinet, the cat wouldn’t give up. “Does Henry have food kept in this cabinet, girl?”
No purrs. Just one more attempt at the small, black metal locker, that also served as a support under Henry’s generic flat desk. Larry decided to ask Henry himself. Not only was he curious about whether anything important was in that locked cabinet, maybe his questions might jog Henry’s memory. A two-fer.
In the living room, Brooke was still tossing out single words. “How’s it going, Larry?” she paused to ask.
“Not great. His computer password doesn’t work. By the way, do you have Henry’s key to his filing cabinet?”
She shrugged. “Let’s ask him, why don’t we?” She did, which only produced some kind of befuddled expression across Henry’s face.
Looking at the patient, Larry rephrased the question. “Henry, in your room, under your desk is a filing cabinet. June is desperate to get into it. Do you have the key, so we can help her?”
Henry spoke as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “The key is in my top drawer.”
Larry sighed. “I checked that. It isn’t there in your desk at all.
Slowly, Henry shook his head. “Clothes drawer.”
Brooke and Larry glanced at each other. “Thanks, Henry,” Brooke said softly. Then out of the corner of her mouth she murmured to Larry. “Hop to it. The key to the whole case might be in there.”
Back in Henry’s room and inside his top dresser drawer there it was: an envelope with a lone key in it. Great. Then, after Larry unlocked the filing cabinet, he pulled open the top bin. A bag of potato chips was lodged up at the front. Since when do cats love chips?
He removed the bag and crumpling up a couple of chips, he lay the pieces onto the floor. As she ate, June’s purrs resonated like a miniature motorboat. Next, Larry withdrew each file folder and examined their pages. After reading twenty files of old murder cases and law articles, he could feel the heaviness all around him. This is getting me nowhere. He glanced down at the cat. At least she’s happy.
Next, he opted for the lower drawer––sans food. A fast plop down onto the floor and his search continued. It was the same thing. Well-marked folders crammed full of similar kinds of articles. But nothing that indicated their current murder case.
In the living room, Brooke decided to ignore her app’s suggested words and venture forth on her own.
“Library,” she said.
“Brooke,” he answered. Staring at her expression, he corrected himself. “Books.”
“Good catch.” She leaned toward him. “Computer at the library.”
For several seconds there was nothing. Then, “Saw her there.”
“Who, Henry? Who?”
His eyebrows were pinched together––tight.
“Okay, Henry, don’t worry. Let’s move on. Shovel.” She scratched out a quick, badly drawn picture.
He cocked his head for a moment. Then, “Collin.”
“What?” she nearly shouted.
“Collin has a shovel,” he continued.
Wow. Should I call Larry? She decided to continue on her own, her voice trembling. She caught a quick breath. “Wynnie and Cathy,” she said.
“Sisters. Killed.”
Boy oh boy. She started to call out for Larry but stopped. Henry had picked up the pencil and was beginning to draw something…or someone.
CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE
At the same time the police invaded the Whitman house to bring Michael in for questioning, Collin was also picked up and brought to the station, swearing up a storm. Within half an hour, their two lawyers were loudly protesting to Chief Bruner, declaring a complete travesty of justice, and if their clients weren’t released immediately, the entire department would be sued forthwith.
Tony watched the commotion from his desk. Yeah, yeah, tell me something new. Once again, he’d tried to get a hold of Larry and Brooke but neither one of them were responding. He even texted Abby to see if she could go over there, see what was happening, then report back to him. But she wasn’t answering her phone, either.
What’s going on with everyone?
He was motioned over by the captain, and when given a choice of which suspect interrogation he wished to witness, he picked Michael Whitman. Although Collin’s shovel was still missing and according to Brooke, the man was a “piece of work,” there was something about Michael that got under his skin. Probably the man’s noblesse oblige attitude, he figured, as he stood inside the interrogation room at the door, eagle-eyeing their potential perp––the heir apparent.
Oddly enough, Michael’s lawyer was not Peter Novak today. From the look and cut of the man’s suit alone, he was definitely a high-priced, dig-in-your-heels-no-matter-what kind of attorney. Word was the guy was straight out of a Madison Avenue law firm in Manhattan. An extremely successful one.
There were lots of go-arounds, each time with the lawyer muttering to Michael, “You don’t have to answer that,” which soon made the interrogating detective turn to other tactics. He got crafty.
“Ah, Mr. Whitman, I want you to know I do believe you did love your sisters and would never hurt them.”
“You got that right,” Michael said.
A long pause came after that, leaving Michael looking triumphant. On the other hand, his lawyer’s pinched face definitely looked on edge.
The detective cleared his throat. “However, Mr. Whitman, I’m assuming you are aware of your father’s––shall we say––indiscretions, when your mother was still alive.”
Bull’s-eye! Tony watched Michael go sheet white.
“I–I don’t know what you–you mean.” The Whitman heir’s sudden stutter spoke volumes.
His lawyer placed his hand on his client’s arm and warned, “Don’t, Michael.”
But it was no use. Obviously, a major chord had been struck.
His next words spat out at ninety miles per hour. “My mother was physically ill for years before she died, and my father had his needs. He––”
That’s enough. Tony didn’t need to hear more. He slipped out of the room and headed over to Collin’s interrogation. He already knew what this probable blackmail reunion between Michael and Collin had been all about, and obviously, murder was just the tip of the iceberg.
* *
Two miles away, another couple of photos had just been taped onto the room’s crowded “Shrine Wall.” One of them was of Hillside’s library, with Roberta at her desk talking to someone with a large nametag that said, M. Steward. Another was of the Hillside Police Department, taken from across the street. While the other pictures showed signs of aging––yellowed corners and fading images––these new snapshots stood out sharp and clear.
“Are these what you wanted?” the man asked.
As soon as he saw his partner nod, he smiled, gave a thumbs-up, and left the premises. Outside in his car, he continued to think about it all. He was happy to help. It was a no brainer. After all, he owed so much to the person inside who had helped him get rid of the woman who had made his life a nigh
tmare, and for that, he’d be willing to do whatever he was instructed to do.
* *
While Junebug scarfed down the potato chip pieces, Larry carefully scoured each file folder from Henry’s filing cabinet’s bottom drawer. “Doesn’t the man have a folder on our murder case?” he muttered, his sinking feeling growing by the second.
After the feline princess wandered off, Larry thought of going back into the living room to see how Henry was doing, but obviously if there had been a major breakthrough, Brooke would have shouted, wouldn’t she? For some reason, he suddenly remembered a time years before, when they had played in his family’s backyard, searching for “buried treasure.” He was ten, Brooke, nine, and they both were relentless. Kind of like now.
They each had combed through the yard separately, but every few minutes Brooke made sure to check in on him in case he had something concrete, and she didn’t. He chuckled. Even back then, she was so competitive. In fact, he started to call her Brooksy, named after Hillside’s local department store, Brooksy, that went belly up after two years. It should have dissolved after eight months, but its owner, Bill Brooksy, refused to face facts.
“Why are you calling me that?” Brooke had asked, stomping her foot.
“Because you won’t stop until you get what you want, no matter what––just like that store.”
At the time, she had scoffed and thrown a clump of dirt at him. But the nickname stuck, and as the years went by, she not only grew used to the moniker, she admitted she even liked it. It was their special code.
Back to work. Larry half-heartedly continued to search the drawer and was heading toward giving up entirely, when he saw it.
Crammed behind a couple of overstuffed manila folders, he caught sight of a slim file with a printed in-all-caps label. Sweet! He quickly pulled it out and stared at the words: “Library Research: Murder Case.” Inside the folder flap, Henry had scribbled P/W in big letters, a password that was completely different from what Larry had tried before. That was it. Nothing more.
Sitting at the computer, Larry typed in the password and instantly got in.
“Brooke!” he called out.
No response.
“Brooksy,” he bellowed.
When she didn’t come, he got up and went down the hall and into the kitchen.
Enough with the frustration. “Why didn’t you answer?”
She and Henry both stared up at him. Moving in closer to them and looking down, Larry observed the picture in front of them. Childlike, simple lines, it showed an old-time ship, off to one side. Not far from that were two stick men killing someone with a knife. The victim had a bag over his head.
“Brooke, Henry, just a head’s up. This is nothing new. Abby already told us the whole story.”
Brooke pointed her finger at a detail in the picture. “See?”
Over the head of one of the people in tiny block letters, it read “Lansbury.” The other name over the other killer said “Leighton.”
Larry fanned his arms and hands out in a wide shrug. “We know that already. So, this means what?”
She tapped her finger much harder onto the stick victim, and Larry leaned over. There was another question mark written over the figure. Have they both gone crazy? What am I missing here?
Finally, Henry spoke. “See my ‘Library’ computer file.”
Give me a break. “All right,” Larry said. “Why don’t you tell me what I’m supposed to see there?” He handed the empty manila folder with just the password inside over to Henry.
“An article.”
“Yes, I know that. But what does the article say?” Suddenly, he felt bad. It was obvious Henry was still struggling to talk properly. Give the guy a break. Still, with Chief Bruner’s warnings rumbling around in his brain, that was hard to do.
“Immigrants come over.” Henry drew a deep breath. “And change their names.”
That was true. Maybe those murderers’ names got changed. “Okay, Henry, let’s look at it together, all right? You told me you got new microfiche material on your computer now, correct?”
Henry’s nod was enthusiastic.
“Henry and I will check it out. What’s you next step?” Larry asked as June flopped down on the area rug nearby and gave them all that Pay Attention To Me look.
“Bored, are we, Junie?” Brooke laughed. “All right, let’s get to work. I’m going to go back into the Fun & Fit emails and see what else I can come up with while you two fellas roam the ancestry world.”
She looked down at her cat again. “And Junebug, say a little prayer that we can all find something warrant-worthy.”
Larry smiled and turned back to help Henry into his bedroom.
* *
Roberta felt bad. Had she known telling that persistent man with the intense eyes and pointed questions that Henry usually hung out there during the day, maybe he wouldn’t have had that accident. She mostly thought it was just a coincidence, of course. After all, nothing sinister ever happens in a library. Well, except in Ghostbusters.
But returning to her desk duties, she couldn’t shake another possible scenario. Was Henry a target? And if so, why?
She glanced down at her to-do pile. Top of the list was to contact Brooke Anderson regarding her next research assignment: the propensity for giraffes getting hit by lightning in Florida zoos, and what can be done to protect them? She shook her head. She could just picture Brooke’s face as she answered the call. She’d get that scrunched up, Are you out of your mind? look. But hey, it wasn’t Roberta’s idea. She was only a good little employee who did what she was told. Like a slave. No, it was always on the directive of her boss, Margaret Steward. Bottom line? If Steward wanted something, she got it.
But Roberta admitted there was an upside to having to call Brooke. On the rare occasion, Henry would pick up the phone. She could feel herself blushing. It was ridiculous, really, but something about that man got to her, from his erudite speech and full shock of luscious salt and pepper hair, to his sad story about having lost his entire family in one fell swoop.
She fingered the giraffe zoo info order sheet and shook her head. She’d get to it when she was good and ready. It was about time she stood up for herself. Then she sighed. Who am I kidding?
* *
Brooke glanced down at her notes. Until now, she had never realized how overwhelming and distracting it was to help Henry nonstop. Now her investigative mindset was completely out of whack. Even reading her scribbles, it took her several minutes to make sense of them. But by her third run through––even repeating her words out loud––things began to click. Okay. She’d looked up Collin’s angry emails, but what about Ruth Novak’? Talk about an angry person!
With the full weight of a warrant Larry had managed to obtain, she again logged into the Fun & Fit gym’s email system. After going down the list again, she settled on Ruth Novak. There were the usual back-and-forth memos from Ruth to her co-workers and to the administrative board. Most of them seemed to fit Ruth’s acerbic personality perfectly. What a jewel.
When June leapt up onto her lap, Brooke absently pet her for a couple of minutes with her left hand while scrolling through more of Ruth’s emails with her right. But there was one email whose subject line stuck out like a sore thumb. It read: Note to Myself. IMPORTANT. It was dated seven months before. Hello.
After putting down an annoyed, wiggly June, she went back to it. At the top of the email, Ruth had typed in all caps: MY LUNCH WITH HELEN LAWSON – WARN THE ADMINISTRATION!
Jeez. Brooke started to read on.
When her cell abruptly rang, she jumped. “Hello?” she said, still unnerved by the email’s first line. Roberta from the library? “What’s up, Roberta?”
Brooke listened for a couple of minutes. “Can’t it wait? I’m in the middle of something here. Why does Margaret Steward want to meet with me now? What’s her problem?” She sighed. “Okay. Just give me her address…Yes, I’m coming now. Bye.”
Without returni
ng to the email, she quickly saved it, got out of the gym’s site, and shut down the computer.
“I’m out of here,” she called out before she left.
* *
Oblivious to her announcement, both men continued to concentrate on the full ancestry article on the computer screen in Henry’s room.
“This is it, this is it,” Henry kept repeating.
Patting his shoulder, Larry nodded. “Good, Henry. Let’s read on, okay?”
The article not only talked about immigrants’ names changing once they arrived on America’s shores, they had a full alphabetical list of family surnames. And their descendants.
“Is this what Brooke said you had looked up before?”
Henry nodded.
Going through every relative descended from Simon Leighton and Wallace Lansbury would probably take a while, but it was more than they had before, so Larry went full steam ahead.
“Wonder what Brooke’s doing right now?” Henry asked out of the blue.
Touched by Henry’s neediness, Larry said nothing. He just focused on his task harder.
“Should we see if Brooke’s all right?” Henry’s lips trembled slightly.
Larry got up and trudged down the hall. When he saw the living room empty and her purse gone, he went back to make his report.
“Where’s Brooke?” Henry repeated, his forehead a pinched mask of worry.
Sighing heavily, Larry placed a hand on his shoulder. “Look, Henry, Brooke’s a big girl. She’ll be back soon, I’m sure.” He smiled. “Probably getting you your favorite ice cream. Meanwhile, let’s try and get something done, okay?”
Henry’s hurt expression was depressing. Oh, man, it’s like dealing with a child.
“Trust me, Brooke will be back soon, I’m sure.” He sat down and went back to the screen, directly fingering some text on the screen about Wallace Lansbury.
“Let’s see. Wallace Lansbury officially registered here in Boston around the time of the Boston Tea Party. So, he obviously stayed after he had abandoned the ship in Boston Harbor––and killed that Brendan guy.”
Both Henry and Larry leaned forward toward the screen. They read about Simon Leighton’s relatives having already come over and mostly keeping the same surname, but one branch decided to break off and change theirs.
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