Darkness & Shadows

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  “To be honest, I hadn’t gotten that far in my thinking.”

  Pike didn’t respond to that one—not verbally anyway, but the twitch of annoyance playing across his lips told Patrick he wasn’t pleased. He said, “So how do you explain the window that was broken? From the inside. On the upper level.”

  Patrick shrugged. “Had no idea there was one.”

  Pike honed deeper on Patrick’s eyes, as if measuring his words. “Neighbors said they heard glass breaking around the same time you were caught.”

  “I don’t know how that could be. The houses are acres apart. I doubt anyone would hear something like that, let alone know where it was coming from.”

  “So you’re telling me you know nothing about that window. Do I understand you right? And you have no idea at all how it got broken?”

  Patrick felt like he was in the middle of a Law & Order episode. The questioning and re-questioning were transparent. He played along anyway and said, “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “So how do you suppose it got broken?”

  “With respect, Detective, it’s not my job to determine that, but if you want me to make an educated guess, it sounds like vandalism to me.”

  Pike looked down as he spoke, swiping at more pages, his tone getting edgier. “Anybody with you on this little stroll?”

  The olive branch had wilted. Patrick said, “No.”

  Pike leaned back in his chair. The folksy expression had gone south, annoyance taking the wheel and driving head-on into Just Plain Pissed. He said, “Want to know what I don’t get?”

  Patrick shook his head.

  “You say you were investigating your story”—he made quotation marks in the air with his fingers—“but I did a little checking with National Monthly, and they say you’re no longer employed there.”

  “And?”

  “So there goes the doing your job explanation.”

  “It’s called freelancing, Detective.”

  Pike nodded, but it wasn’t a nod of understanding, seemed more like an I’ll-get-your-ass affirmation. His face wasn’t showing much love either. He said, “So I guess we’re not playing nice after all. Is that my understanding?”

  “I’ve answered all your questions.”

  “And I’m not buying any of it.”

  “I can’t help that.”

  “You think you’re pretty smart.”

  “My intelligence has nothing to do with this.”

  “Well, let me give you some news you can use: I’ve been playing this game a long time with people a lot smoother than you, and my bullshit meter is bending at the needle right about now. My people are going through that house with a fine-toothed comb as we speak, and trust me when I say that forensics don’t lie.”

  “They’ll find nothing.”

  “I’m thinking they’ll find plenty, and you know what else I’m thinking? As soon as I get evidence that you’re lying to me, I’ll be all over your ass. I’ll have you on trespassing, breaking and entering, burglary, and anything else I can find. Are you getting me?”

  “Yeah,” Patrick said, his patience wearing thin, “actually, I think I totally get you. I get that you’re trying to build a case based on animosity rather than logic. That you’re wasting a lot of valuable time fueling your personal vendetta against the press instead of trying to solve a crime that desperately needs solving.”

  “I’m doing my job, Bannister, and if it means putting a hack like you away, then all the better.”

  There was that word again. Patrick was finished being nice. He looked Pike square in the eye and said, “You know what, Detective? I’ve been doing my job for a long time too, and I’m very aware of how the law works. Trespassing? Yeah, you’ve got me there. Breaking and entering? You have nothing to prove I went inside the house, and therefore you’ve got nothing to prove any intent to commit a crime, so there goes the burglary charge. With scant evidence and my lack of prior criminal history, the DA will gladly take the trespassing charge and be done with it. Maybe a fine. Certainly no jail time.”

  “I’m starting to wonder why you’ve got such a hard-on for this case, and also if you had more to do with Helene’s death than it first appeared.”

  “You’re wasting your breath there too, and if you keep up with that line of questioning, Detective, I’ll lawyer up so fast, you won’t know what snapped—and I’ve got an awesome one who eats power-hungry cops for breakfast. So charge me or let me go. I’m done here.”

  “Damn straight you are,” Pike said, his expression hard and hostile. “And that, my friend, is a promise.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Patrick was able to make bail around five a.m. Just a trespassing charge, but he knew more trouble could be on the way, especially if Pike had anything to do with it.

  For now, he needed to get as far away from the man as he could; he just needed to figure out his mode of transportation. Wanting to keep Tristan safe and off the radar, Patrick bypassed her as an option. He thought about a cab, then remembered Erika; she’d be back from LA by now, and more than likely had seen the less-than-flattering news coverage of him from the night before. She was probably worried.

  He was right. As he clicked on his cell screen, he found he’d already missed four calls from her.

  “Yes, I saw the video on TV,” she said as he slid into the car, “and, yes, I was horrified. I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  He gave her the details of the break-in fiasco, except for Tristan’s involvement and Wes’s appearance. After he finished, Erika remained quiet, but Patrick could see that she was literally biting her lip to keep the words back.

  “Go on,” he said. “Give it to me. I’m waiting.”

  “Well, here’s the thing.” She stopped, seemed to be thinking on something.

  Patrick practiced patience.

  “You know I have the utmost respect for you, right? Nothing but good thoughts. You taught me everything I know about this business, and I seriously don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as sweet as you—”

  “Cut to the chase, Erika,” he said, gazing into his side-view mirror.

  “What exactly the hell were you thinking?”

  “It’s entirely possible that I wasn’t,” he said, eyeing the beige Town Car behind them.

  “Breaking into the Clark compound, Patrick? Really?”

  He shrugged. “Desperation drives us to do some whacky stuff.”

  She gave him a dour stare, returned her attention to the road.

  “I know,” he said. “It was stupid.”

  “It kind of was, Patrick. I mean, I’m trying to help get your job back, and this does not help me plead your case. This is a problem.”

  He was still watching the mirror. Couldn’t see the car anymore.

  “Patrick?”

  “Yeah,” he said, snapping his attention to her again. “I know. You’re right.”

  “Why do I have the odd sensation I’m talking to a wall?”

  “You’re not. I heard every word. I’m sorry. It’s just… I just have a lot on my mind right now.”

  “Understatement of the year.”

  If she only knew. Actually, she needed to know. He just wasn’t sure which news to share next—or how much of it. He thought about his tangle with Clark. Telling her could be a risk, both for Patrick and her, but they were a team now, and facts were facts. He said, “I have to tell you something.”

  She looked at him, pushing the hair from her eyes.

  “But you can’t share this with anyone,” he continued. “Not a soul. Do you understand? I’m a confidential source to you right now, and this information is privileged.”

  “Okay.” She bit her bottom lip, not in a nervous way; it looked like repressed excitement.

  He said, “Wesley Clark is alive.”

  The car swerved briefly before Erika regained control.

  “Still with me?” he said.

  “Yeah. I’m just trying to keep my jaw from falling onto the floo
rboard. How do you know this?”

  “I saw him.”

  “Where?”

  “Inside the Clark compound when I was there. We had a confrontation. He tried to kill me.”

  “My God, Patrick.”

  “Tried to shoot me, actually.”

  “Ohgoodlord. Are you okay?”

  “Emotionally battered, but physically, yes, I’m fine. He got away.”

  Erika said nothing. Her eyes were narrowed on the road, but he knew she was putting the pieces together a mile a minute.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Patrick said.

  “This is huge.”

  “I know.”

  “Wesley is definitely not a murder victim.”

  “Clearly.”

  “And with Fairchild’s arrest, it’s a good bet they killed Charlene together.”

  “Just as we’ve suspected all along, but confirmation is good.”

  “Did he say anything at all about it?”

  “We never got that far.”

  “Well, what was he doing there in the first place? Hiding out?”

  Patrick sighed. “It’s doubtful. Too risky with the possibility of investigators coming and going.”

  “Then what?”

  Patrick let out another sigh, a much longer one. “I think he followed me there.”

  “Followed you? Why?”

  “I haven’t told you everything, Erika.” He raised his hand, palm toward her. “But not because I wanted to keep info from you—it’s because I didn’t want to put you at risk.”

  “Patrick. At risk of what?”

  “Of danger.”

  “Okay, now you’re really scaring me. What the hell are we talking about here?”

  He glanced in his side-view mirror once more and said, “I think Wesley’s been following me for a while.”

  She took her eyes off the road and stared at him a little too long, her mouth hanging open a little too wide. Patrick pointed two fingers at his eyes, then aimed them out the windshield.

  She refocused on her driving and said, “Following you… but… why?”

  Patrick trusted Erika, but he wasn’t willing to let her in on the Charlene-Marybeth connection—not just yet, anyway. Telling her now would be like opening a new can of worms. He said, “I haven’t figured that out yet. Maybe he feels I’m close to finding something he doesn’t want me to. I think that’s why he followed me to the compound. He wanted to stop me. And kill me.”

  “But why risk coming to the compound and getting caught?”

  “It actually makes sense when you think about it. Can you think of any other place he’d feel more comfortable? This is his turf. The only other one who knew it as well was Charlene, and she’s dead now. He knows every exit, every escape route, and if the place has any secret rooms, he knows about those, too. Besides, the man’s like a vapor—he’s already demonstrated that—and he’s very skilled at coming and going without detection.”

  “So where do you think he’s been hiding out all this time?”

  Patrick shook his head. “There’s no telling.”

  “Did you tell Pike about all this?”

  “No, and I don’t want him to know.”

  “But he could help you.”

  Patrick shook his head. “He can’t, and he won’t. The guy wants my ass on a platter just as badly as Wesley does. I don’t trust him, and the police can’t know about any of this.”

  It was her turn to sigh.

  When they pulled up to his house, Erika took one look at it and slammed on the brakes. She didn’t say a word; she didn’t have to—it was written plainly on her face, the first time Patrick could ever remember seeing her this rattled.

  She said, “Jesus, Patrick. Your garage! Your Jeep! What in the…?”

  “Things went a bit wonky after you left. Someone tried to burn my house down… and left a corpse in my driveway.”

  She swung her entire body around toward him. Her mouth was headed for lockjaw. The eyes weren’t looking so well, either.

  He told her the story about Helene, how her murder had been an act of retribution, as well as a message for him, orchestrated by Wesley Clark.

  After he finished, it took her several moments to form words, and then, “I leave you alone for a minute and this is what happens…”

  He shrugged. “It’s been a rough few days.”

  “Patrick, this is way too dangerous. You’re in over your head.”

  “I’ve got no choice,” he said, looking at what was once his garage. “I’m in it now, whether I like it or not.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Patrick reached for the door handle. “I honestly have no idea. I need to process everything, figure it all out. Right now, I just want to get some sleep.”

  Erika fell back in her seat and gazed at him with what he could tell was genuine worry. “What can I do in the meantime?”

  “Keep everything under wraps, okay? I’ll let you know when I have more.”

  “Please, Patrick,” she said, “just be careful.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  He entered the house thinking about what Erika had said. Just be careful. He was way beyond that point. Right now he was all about staying alive. Patrick turned to close the front door.

  “Welcome home.”

  He spun around and froze.

  Tristan relaxed on the recliner, Bullet facing her with rapt attention. She threw the dog some popcorn; he snatched it midair.

  “Jeez,” Patrick said, “I need to tie a damned bell around your neck just to keep track of you.”

  “You’ll forgive me for breaking and entering this once, I hope, considering the circumstances.”

  He sat on the couch with a weary sigh.

  “Saw you on the news last night,” she said and smiled. “Sure are getting a lot of coverage lately. You’re almost like a celeb.”

  He gave her a glare. Her face flashed serious. She looked at her feet, scratched her head. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” He loosened up some, took in a cleansing breath. “Just glad you were able to get away. I can handle this. For you it would have been a completely different story.”

  She watched him for a moment, her smile curving toward what looked like appreciation. Then she said, “So what happened?”

  He gave her the whole story and when he was done said, “Pike’s seriously got it in for me.”

  “Pike’s full of hot air,” she said, waving it off with a hand. “Typical cop intimidation bullshit. He’s got nothing on you.”

  “He’s working like hell to find something. His people are combing the compound for evidence.”

  “They won’t find anything.”

  “How about the window that got shot out? He seemed very interested in that.”

  “They don’t know how it got shot. And they won’t.”

  “Can’t the ballistics guys figure it out?”

  “I shot at Wesley with a revolver. No shell casings in the house, and even if they find a bullet outside, they can’t prove you were there, or that you had anything to do with it—so all they have is a broken window.”

  “What about gun residue? They can test for that, right?”

  “They can, but trust me, they won’t. That window was shattered all to pieces. They don’t have time to go through every shard, and even if they did, there’s still nothing to connect you. The place has been empty for weeks, and the jackasses forgot to activate the alarm. Anyone could have gone in there and broken that window. I’d love to see Pike try to pin that on you.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  She fell back into the chair, rolled her eyes, aimed the remote at the TV.

  “He’ll be watching me now.”

  She was flipping through channels. “He already is.”

  “What?”

  She regarded the window. “Rob’s Electrical Service van. Parked across the street, about four houses down.”

  Patrick frowned.

  “Rob a
nd his electrical service don’t exist. It’s the bucket squad. Pike and his goons are officially round-the-clock-on-your-ass.”

  Patrick’s cheeks flushed warm.

  “True story,” she said with a shrug, still watching the TV.

  “What the…? Are they bugging the place, too?”

  “Not anymore.” Without taking her eyes off the screen, she lifted a hand and opened it, revealing two very smashed and flattened microphones.

  Patrick stared at them. His cheeks were no longer warm; they were burning. He moved his gaze up to her and said, “And you’re sitting here relaxed and watching TV?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Invite them in for a refreshing beverage? Settle down. I’ve got this.”

  Patrick hurtled off the couch and began pacing, hands locked behind his head. “This is really bad.” He stopped to look at her. “Did they see you come in?”

  “Honestly, Patrick. Really?”

  “What the hell do we do now?”

  “Tell ’em to bring it on. Just more stupid cops, as far as I’m concerned. Besides, we’ve got a bigger problem.”

  “What now?”

  “Wesley Clark is coming for us… if he’s not already here.”

  That made Patrick’s stomach turn cold. “What makes you so sure? Wouldn’t that be too risky for him?”

  “Not as risky as having two people floating around who know he’s still alive. Guaranteed, he wants to finish up what he couldn’t do at the compound.”

  “You sure?”

  “Patrick, he’s a criminal. I’m a criminal. I know how their minds work, and that one’s about as crazy-assed as they come. Make no mistake: Wesley Clark is fixing to climb all up in our shit.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We need to get out of here, and we need to do it fast.”

  “We can’t run for the rest of our lives.”

  “You’re right. We can’t. We need a plan, and I’ve got one.”

  He gave her an expectant stare.

  She said, “The key to all this is your Charlene.”

  “Marybeth.”

  “Whatever. The point is, you’ve been thinking like a reporter.”

  “Because I am one.”

  “If you want to win this game, you need to start thinking like a criminal.”