by J. D. Webb
“Please, let the police handle it.”
“Long as they do it on someone else’s property.”
The doorbell rang. Bev jumped out of her chair. “Damn, that scared me.” She put her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry for the cursing, Trish. Wonder who it could be.”
A man’s silhouette was framed through the lacy white curtain that covered the front door. While Bev hurried to answer the ring, Trish got up and moved to the kitchen doorway.
Bev lifted the curtain and then opened the door. Henry Davis, his mail sack over his shoulder stood holding a package in his hands. “Pardon, Mrs. Williams. I didn’t want this package to get wet. They’re predicting rain this afternoon.” He peeked past Bev and held up his right hand, twiddling his fingers at Trish. “Hello, Mrs. Morgan. You visiting Mrs. Williams?”
She returned his wave. “Actually, Henry, I’m living here for a while. Would you be able to have my mail forwarded to this address?”
“Sure, no problemo. Be happy to. I’ll bring a form to fill out. You ladies take care. Some bad stuff happening in Millvale these days.” He handed the package to Bev and hustled down the front porch steps, whistling.
Bev closed the door and read the label on the box. “Oh, good. It’s my new wig.”
“You wear a wig?”
“Course I do. My hair’s so fine you can see my scalp. So I wear a wig.” She winked at Trish. “Was goin’ to get one with long auburn hair and shake up George Washburn, the druggist. He’s been after me for at least three years since Harold passed. But then I figured he’d get a heart attack and I’d be liable to his kin for his death.” She slapped her thigh. “Sure would have liked to do it though.”
Trish giggled. She really liked this woman.
The two retreated to the kitchen where Bev opened the box. She was examining the wig when her doorbell clanged again. Trish heard voices at the front door, and then Bev appeared, followed by the man who had been sitting in the parked FBI surveillance car. He towered over Bev looking uncomfortable standing next to the kitchen table.
“Sorry, Mrs. Morgan. Agent Cheever asked for you return to the station for a bit.”
“Why?”
The big man shifted his weight and shrugged. “Don’t know, Ma’am. Just told me to fetch you.”
“Fetch? Like a dog? Is he a complete idiot?”
“Not my field of expertise, ma’am.” Trish thought she saw a hint of a smile.
“Oh, stop calling me ma’am. Sounds like I’m an old schoolmarm or something. My name is Trish.”
“Whatever you say, Trish. We need to go right now or I will hear about it.”
“Let me get my purse and my keys. I’m going in my car.” She grabbed her bag off the dresser in her room and rejoined the agent.
“I’ll be back soon, Bev.”
Bev nodded and went to wash the dishes piled in the sink.
At least, I hope I’m back soon.
TWENTY
“How much do you know about your husband’s business, Trish?”
Agent Cheever’s question hung in the air and she grappled with her answer. “I really don’t know much about it. He works in Chicago for a brokerage firm. Why do you ask?”
“Are you familiar with any of his clients or business associates?” Cheever’s brow was furrowed as he paced beside Trish’s chair in Chief Landers’ office. Bob Jenkins and Chief Landers stood at the back of the room.
“He often invites clients or associates over for dinner to discuss business.” Trish felt her neck getting hot.
“Are you included in his business discussions?”
“Of course not. They are privileged conversations.”
“Do you know a man named Sal Marciano?”
“I don’t know him but there was a Mr. Marciano at our house for dinner a few days ago. Heavy set man with slicked back hair, nicely dressed. Is that the one?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“What is all this about? Why all the questions?”
Cheever turned to face her. “Mr. Marciano is a brother of the man who was murdered on the DVD you found.”
Trish caught her breath. “You suspect my husband had something to do with this mess?”
Cheever made no move and was silent.
“I don’t believe Jim is the kind of person who goes around shooting people. I really must question your insinuation.”
“Now, Mrs. Morgan. We’re not accusing your husband of anything. We’re trying to catch a murderer. We had information that Marciano, the victim’s brother, was at your home and we wanted to verify it.”
“Where did you get that information?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Why all the questions about my husband’s business?”
“I’m merely following leads.”
Trish shot out of her chair and got right in Cheever’s face. “I thought we had an agreement to work together on this. Here you grill me about Jim and ask questions leading me to believe you think he’s involved in something. I want to know what brought this about. And don’t tell me it’s just the fact that we had someone for dinner.”
Cheever held up the palms of his hands and backed away. “Hold on. As I said, we’re following leads. One thing we are interested in is finding out if there is a connection between your husband’s firm and Marciano.”
Bob Jenkins stepped forward and eased Trish into her chair. “Trish, calm down. This whole thing is exploding into a major crime ring investigation. Your husband’s company has been under investigation for a while.”
Cheever cleared his throat and shook his head at Bob.
Jenkins twirled around and pointed his finger at the FBI man. “Look, Agent Cheever, Trish is putting herself on the line here. She’s willing to help and we should be giving her the benefit of the doubt.”
Bob sat next to Trish. “There have been allegations that Mantra Securities, Jim’s company, launders money for the mob. There is no evidence at all Jim is involved, other than he works there. As far as we know, he’s only dealing with a client.”
“Oh, my God.” Trish knew her eyes were twice their normal size.
Bob continued, “Sal Marciano has taken over his brother’s…shall we say, dealings.”
Trish slumped in her chair. “He was in my house. He seemed nice enough and very polite, though.”
Bob chuckled. “These guys usually don’t advertise their bad side to the general public.”
She gave a vague wave of her hand. “I know. But it seems so bizarre. Too many coincidences to cope with.”
Cheever leaned on the chief’s desk. “Well, as long as we’re spilling the beans here, we have another problem we’d like your help with. Your law firm is under retainer to handle Mantra Securities legal activities.” He picked up a paper from the desk. “A Mr. John Walters is their attorney of record.”
“He’s one of the partners.”
“Do you have access to his files?” Cheever didn’t even blink when he dropped this bomb.
Trish narrowed her eyes. “If you think I’m sneaking around and copying confidential files for you, you’ve got another think coming.”
Cheever wasn’t done yet. “It may be the only way to clear your husband.”
“Let me tell you something. If my husband is guilty of something, he should go to jail. I’m not going to help put him there. I have enough to worry about with a failing marriage, keeping my job, and getting out from under the thumb of a killer.”
“I can’t make you do it, but you’d be doing a great service to—”
Trish held up her hands. “Don’t say it. Don’t say I’d be doing a great service to my country. I’m as patriotic as the next person, but I’m not further jeopardizing my future. I’m sorry, I don’t feel I have an obligation to do any more.”
Cheever walked away. “Okay. All I ask is that you think it over.”
“You people are something. First you tell me you don’t want a civilian involved and now you want me to b
e an undercover informant.” She shook her head.
“You would have our complete protection. Our people would be around you at all times.”
“Like the guy who didn’t see me leave my house the other day? That sure relieves my concern.”
Bob laughed. “She’s got you there, Cheever.”
Cheever looked as if he wanted to pull out his service weapon and blow Bob away.
Chief Landers sat behind his desk and crossed his arms across his chest. “Let’s see where we go from here. This won’t get resolved if we continue to argue.”
There were murmurs of agreement.
“Okay, we expect our guy to contact Trish tomorrow and set up a meeting to get the DVD. Has that been covered?
“We have a GPS tracker on Trish’s car and a tap on her cell phone. We have four chase cars, and people ready to go when the call comes in. Everything is set.” Cheever still had a stern look directed at Bob.
“Anything else we need to do?”
Cheever shook his head. “Not for tomorrow.” He turned to Trish. “I’d like to, one more time, impress upon you the value you could add to this investigation. We’re close to taking down one of the biggest crime families in Chicago. You have access to files that could wrap up three years worth of work.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but I have to consider my own welfare. I need this job and the benefits. I’m separating from my husband and have no other choice but to protect my career.”
“You’re leaving Mr. Morgan?”
“Correction, have left. I moved out yesterday.”
“Well, there goes my next possibility. We wanted to get a look at some of Mr. Morgan’s files. I understand he has an office at home.”
Trish clenched her fists. “Mr. Cheever, do you actually think I would spy on my husband? He may not be the perfect partner, but I would never breach a trust I pledged to him. What kind of person do you take me for?”
“We need additional information. I didn’t believe you would agree, but I had to ask—to cover all bases. Now we’ll have to get a warrant and probably mess up the house a little.”
“Mess up the house?”
“Yes, our searches are quite thorough. We even dig up the yards if there is cause. We look inside cushions and we look for hidden safes or storage areas under the floors. Things like that.”
Trish remembered how much fun it was to be given free rein to decorate the house. It was the only time in their entire marriage she was allowed complete control. That was when she was living what she thought was the perfect life. She had a quick image of Jim standing in the middle of his spotless office watching the Feds rip it apart. It would serve him right after what he had put her through. But the idea of someone trashing the rest of her home pained her. Even though Jim could be a complete ass, she wasn’t convinced he was a criminal. Maybe she could help find some evidence to clear him.
Trish sighed and said, “What kind of papers are you looking for?”
Cheever smiled and began compiling a list of who and what would interest the FBI.
* * * *
An hour later Bob escorted Trish to her car. “I know how hard it is for you to give in to Cheever. I admire your loyalty.”
She stopped at her red Escort and unlocked the door. She looked up at Bob. “I think it was finally a way to get him off my back. In the back of my mind I wondered, what if Jim is really innocent? I may be divorcing him, and frankly he’s an ass, but I don’t want to see him go to jail for something he didn’t do.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Right now, I’m going to Beverly’s for dinner. I’ve worked up a huge appetite.” She sat behind the wheel and aimed the key at the ignition.
Bob closed her door and leaned in the window. “See you there.”
Trish was so startled she dropped the keyless entry remote on the floorboard. “What do you mean?”
“Bev invited me for dinner.”
“She what?”
“Didn’t you know? She’s my aunt. See ya.” He hurried to his squad car and pulled up behind Trish’s car, waiting for her to leave.
Trish sat momentarily paralyzed by this news. The conversation with Bev last night had included a short inquiry about Bob and Trish’s former relationship. Trish had made it clear that was long ago past and forgotten. At least she thought she’d made it clear. Now Bob was suddenly invited to dinner.
Might be time to have a little heart-to-heart talk with Bev.
TWENTY-ONE
Trish pulled into her parking spot at the Valley View Bed & Breakfast and shut off the Escort’s engine. She was looking forward to a short nap to try to relieve a nasty tension headache. She closed the car door with her shoulder and trudged toward her apartment entrance. What a day.
The tap on her shoulder sent electric shock waves throughout her body and her purse dropped to the ground.
“Hello, Mrs. Morgan.” Henry Davis stood right behind her, with finger still poised above her shoulder.
“Shit, Henry. You almost scared the…well, never mind. Don’t ever do that again.”
Henry’s face abruptly changed to one approaching tears. “Gee, I didn’t mean ta scare ya. I brought this form for you to fill out for the Post Office.” He shoved a large yellow postcard at Trish. “It’s the official US Post Office Change of Address Form. It needs to be filled out so I can get your mail delivery changed.”
Trish inhaled deeply and accepted the form. “That was very nice of you. I’m sorry I jumped at you. It took me by surprise that someone was here.”
“That’s okay. I’m very quiet. When you get the form filled out, just leave it with Bev’s outgoing and I’ll take care of it. Oh,” he winked. “Don’t need no stamp. Save ya forty-four cents.”
“I will. Thanks again.”
Henry sauntered down the driveway, whistling “America the Beautiful.”
Trish shook her head and went inside. The old fashioned cuckoo clock on the wall chirped twice as she dropped her purse on the dresser. Kicking off her shoes, Trish sat on the bed’s down comforter and rubbed the back of her calves. That settles it. I’m getting some flats to wear at work. I don’t care what anyone says.
She flopped down in the middle of the rose pattern on the comforter and stared at the ceiling. White fan blades moved in a slow rotation and she closed her eyes anticipating a short nap. Her cell phone rang.
“It figures.” Trish swung her feet off the bed and wrestled the phone out of her purse. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Morgan, this is Hazel at Doctor Smallwood’s office. The doctor asked me to set up an appointment with you for a consultation. Would next Wednesday at three be all right?”
Drat. I completely forgot about the doctor and tests. “I work during the day. I don’t get off until five. Could we do it some other time?” Her throat was suddenly dry and she was so warm she thought the heat had been turned up.
“Please hold.” Muffled voices, then, “How would five-fifteen be?”
“Yes, I can make that. Is the doctor there? May I talk to him?”
“I’m sorry.” Hazel paused. “He’s with a patient. I’ll leave a note saying you want him to call. Have a nice day.”
“Thanks.” Trish closed the cell phone case and the click echoed loudly in her brain. She stuffed the phone back into her purse and pitched it onto the bed. That didn’t sound promising. Why me, God? I don’t need anything else to go wrong in my life. Am I being punished? Please don’t be angry with me. She plopped onto the bed, dug a Kleenex out of her bag and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. Okay, get a hold of yourself, girl. This may be telling me the diagnosis was wrong and there’s nothing to worry about.
Trish stared at the ceiling, watched the fan blades twirl and tried to rid herself of negative thoughts. She folded her arms across her stomach and closed her eyes. She imagined an ocean scene with waves lapping, sea gulls soaring and a summer breeze gently ruffling palm fronds as she walked by. Then the damn phone rang again.
>
She yanked it out of her purse and threw open the case.
“What is it now?”
“Did you find my present?”
Trish bolted upright. It was him. That voice, causing her to shiver.
“What present? Look, I’m getting tired of your games. What do we do next?”
“Look in your closet. A green shoebox.”
“Why?”
He yelled, “Do it!”
Trish slowly crawled off the bed and approached the closet her breath coming in short spurts. A green box lay on the floor. Her hands shook as she reached for the lid. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was one of Bev’s beloved finches, its neck obviously broken.
The phone tumbled to the floor as Trish ran to the bathroom and flung open the toilet lid. She didn’t remember how long she sat next to the bowl with a cold washrag pressed to her head. Finally able to keep the bile down, she retrieved her phone and put it to her ear. No sound. He’d hung up.
Someone banged on her outside door. “Mrs. Morgan? Are you all right? It’s the FBI. Please let me in.”
“I’m okay. Just a minute.” Trish wiped her face on the washcloth and tossed it in the bathroom sink.
The tall man at the door waved his badge and looked past her into the room. “Agent Peterson, ma’am. You sure you’re okay? We heard the conversation. What was the present?”
Trish wiggled her finger toward the closet. “Shoebox.”
He went into the bathroom and brought out a towel. Then, kneeling down, he carefully wrapped the box containing the carcass. Holding the evidence in front of him, he stood and walked out the door. “We’ll take care of this for you. Don’t worry about it.”
She closed the door after him and leaned back against the frame. When the phone rang again she gritted her teeth. What does the dufus want now?
She screamed into the phone. “What kind of a freak are you?”
“I see I got my point across. I mean business, Mrs. Morgan. I want you at the bus station in ten minutes. In front of locker number fifty-two. Bring the DVD. I’ll call.” The phone went dead.
TWENTY-TWO