by J. D. Webb
The crash outside Trish’s room accompanied an anguished cry. Trish rushed to the kitchen. Bev stood holding the sides of the birdcage. A bag of groceries lay on the floor, a pool of milk puddling around her feet. A very nervous bird flitted around inside the cage.
Bev looked over her shoulder. “Where is my Dee? She’s gone. I know I left the cage door closed.”
Trish hurried to Bev’s side, ignoring the white liquid seeping into her sandals, and hugged her close. “Bev, I’m sorry. I found Dee in my closet. A madman has been here! He’s given me a bizarre message; I’m afraid Dee became the victim.”
Bev looked up at Trish, her eyes brimming with tears. “Someone killed her? Who would be so cruel?”
“Some crazed, inhuman madman. I’m so sorry I’ve brought this into your home. I’d better find someplace else to live.”
Bev pushed out of Trish’s arms and ran a hand over her cheeks. “Nonsense. You’ll do nothing of the kind. I’d like to meet up with this pervert and yank a knot in his drawers. No need for you to leave. You say he was here in the house?” Bev punched herself in the forehead. “Oh, of course, if he did away with Dee he had to be in here. And what’s this about some guy leaving you a message?”
Trish sat with Bev and related the whole story. Bev listened with growing horror. She shook her head in disbelief as Trish finished.
“Who’d have thought in little Millvale someone so evil, could be a neighbor? What happened to Dee?”
“The FBI man took her for evidence. They said they’d take good care of her.”
“You must think I’m a nut case, feeling so, for a little bird.”
Trish waved her hand. “Our pets are a vital part of our family. We grieve for them as we would anyone else. I know. It’s frightening but I hope this will be resolved soon.” Trish looked at her watch. “Nuts! I only have four minutes to get to the bus station. Bev, you’ve got to be careful. The FBI is here. If you need them, call.”
“Huh. Where were they when my baby was being mutilated? You don’t mind me. I’m getting Harold’s gun and making sure it’s in good working condition.”
Trish shrugged and left. She stopped in her room to grab her purse, checked to make sure the DVD was still there, and hurried out to the sidewalk. The same FBI man stood talking on his cell phone. “Got it, sir. No problem.” He acknowledged Trish and pointed to his car. “Get in. We need to get to the bus terminal.”
Trish didn’t argue. The plain gray sedan’s tires screeched before she could get her seatbelt fastened.
The downtown bus station certainly was not her choice of places to visit. Vagrants, the homeless, and crack heads used the building as a gathering place and in some cases, a refuge. The FBI man stayed out in front of the building and dialed his cell phone as Trish entered the terminal. By her watch, she had less than a minute to find locker 52.
Ignoring the vacant stares and pleas for money for a meal, she hurried to a bank of lockers, found Number 52 and stood in front of it, trying to look natural. But her knees shook and her palms were sweating. What am I doing here? Why can’t I just turn around and run out of this place? Where are the feds?
No one in the vicinity looked like a policeman. A bearded man, who continually sniffed like he had a cold, kept peeking at her. He was rail-thin and appeared sickly. A black man dressed in baggy jeans and smeared sweatshirt leaned on a post about 20 feet away. Three other people, seeming to pay her no attention, either sat or wandered in the main waiting area off to Trish’s left.
An announcement of the arrival of the bus for Evansville droned over the intercom. Exactly 10 minutes had passed since her phone call. Nothing happened. Two more minutes and her cell chirped.
“Hello?”
“Good, you’re there. This’ll all be over in a couple of minutes. I know the cops are with you. Don’t try to deny it. Here’s what I want you to do. Taped to the top of Number fifty-two is a key. Get it and open the locker.”
Trish felt the top of the locker and found the key. The locker opened. “Okay, I did that.”
“Do you see a laptop in there?”
“Yes.”
“It should be open. Press the start key.”
“Done.”
“When it boots up, put in the DVD you have and push it in.”
“Okay, it’s ready.”
“Push the F11 key. You should see a phone number. The area code will be in letters.”
“I see it.”
“Read it to me.”
“FOW five five five, six one nine oh.”
“Fine, now hit F twelve.”
She did, and the screen melted away. A panel appeared that read, “File deleted.” “Okay, done. Hello? Hello?”
“Hey! What…” Trish staggered and was pushed to the side as the black man she’d seen earlier rushed to the computer and began typing furiously on the keyboard.
They were joined by the thin man and Cheever, who appeared from the coffee shop. Cheever tapped the black man on the shoulder. “Did you get it?”
The man turned and shrugged. “Nope. He had the F buttons programmed to destroy the data on the hard drive and on the DVD. Everything’s gone.”
“Crap!” Cheever punched numbers on his phone and yelled at it. “Did you get a trace on the cell phone? …What do you mean he had some weird routing thing set up? Never mind. Damn it. Is nothing going to go right on this case?”
Trish leaned against the side of the lockers and tried to follow what was happening. She was so very tired of the subterfuge, and the emotional rollercoaster.
“Agent Cheever, are you through with me? I want to go home and try to forget this ever happened.”
Cheever waved his hand. “Sure, go on. Nothing else to do here. Taylor, take her back home. Uh, thanks for your assistance. Oh, there is one more thing. Can you repeat the number he gave you?”
“I think it was FOW five five five six oh one nine. No, it was six one nine oh. Yes, six one nine oh, I’m sure of it.”
* * * *
The short trip back to her room was silent. Trish walked up to her porch and turned to see the government car slowly pulling away from the curb, probably returning to the bus station.
I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to go back and face Cheever either. God, please let this be finally over.
She trudged up the stairs and unlocked her door. Might as well go see if I can help Bev clean up her kitchen. She went into the hall and stopped dead when she came to the open doorway.
The floor was clean. In fact the whole kitchen was spotless. Bev sat on a kitchen chair, calmly cleaning a rifle.
TWENTY-THREE
Trish stepped into the kitchen. “Oh, Bev. There’s no need for guns now. It’s all over.” She patted the woman on the arm. “I’m really sorry to put you through this. I feel terrible about Tweedle Dee.”
Bev waved an oily cloth at her. “Not necessary to apologize. Just wish that no-account had tried something when I was here. He’d be pullin’ buckshot out of his rump for years.”
“Well, I’ll say one thing. I’d hate to try putting something over on you. I came down to help clean up the kitchen but I see you’ve taken care of it already.”
Bev smiled grimly. “Kept thinking about spilled milk as I was toweling it up. Gave me a chuckle. Why don’t you go get some rest? Take a nap and relax. You’ve been through a lot. I have some very nice salmon steaks I’m going to fix Cajun style for dinner tonight. Come down and help me get rid of them. Won’t take no for an answer.”
Trish held up her hand. “Oh, for goodness sake. I can’t do that. You’ve done so much for me as it is.”
“Nonsense. I’m enjoying having someone to talk to and I love to cook. Now don’t spoil my fun.”
Trish grinned. “If you put it that way, how can I refuse?”
“You can’t. Now git. Be back here at 6 sharp.”
Actually her mouth was watering just listening to Bev talk about dinner. She’d missed lunch and was suddenly starving.
* * * *
Trish was wakened by the ringing of her cell phone. It took a couple of seconds to orient herself. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Morgan? This is Doctor Phillips. I’d like you to come in for a consultation. I have your complete test results and wondered if you could come at four-thirty.”
“Uh, sure. I suppose I could.” She glanced at her watch. 4:07. She’d have enough time if she hurried. “I’m on my way.”
Great! Just what I wanted to do. What else could go wrong?
* * * *
Dr. Phillips, clearly uncomfortable, sat with his arms on his desk and his hands steepled. “It’s definitely breast cancer. I believe we’ve caught it in time. We’ve talked about your mom’s bout before, and I know this bothers you. But please remember, tremendous strides have been made in treatment since your mother’s cancer. We can do this without a mastectomy and invasive surgery. All other tests for liver, kidney, and lungs have proven negative. I know the word cancer is frightening, but we can beat this. I’ve called a specialist who agrees with me. I want you to meet him. Get with my receptionist so she can make an appointment. I’ll let you decide if you want me to be there or if you’d rather see him alone. It’s up to you.”
Trish’s mouth was so dry she could hardly speak. Icy numbness lodged in her chest. “Thank you, Dr. Phillips. I’d like you to be there.” Why did I thank him? That was silly. He didn’t do anything but make a diagnosis. Come on, Trish. The man was nice and wasn’t condescending. He seemed truly concerned.
Trish barely acknowledged the receptionist when she made the appointment. She returned to her apartment in a semi-conscious state. Merely going through the motions. She sat on the bed, feet hanging, not quite touching the floor. Going through her purse, she pulled out her wallet and fished out the picture of her mother. Trish’s exact likeness smiled at her from years ago. Tears welled up; she fought to keep them inside. I’ve got to be strong. I only have me to rely on.
She kept reliving the session with Dr. Phillips. Yes, it was true, new treatments were being developed. Yes, we caught it early. But, damn it, I have cancer. My worst fear since Mom got it was that I’d get hit also. Now, on top of everything else—this. Oh, Mom, I wish you were here. Tears leaked from her eyes.
Trish tried to lie back and nap but she failed to shut her mind down. Worst-case scenarios revolved in her head like some TV drama. Her phone rang, barely audible inside her purse. She sat up. What now?
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Morgan, it’s Gordon Cheever. Do you have a minute?”
Crap, doesn’t he ever give up? “What do you want now, Cheever? I thought we were through.”
“Uh, not quite. I was wondering if you’ve had a chance to look for those papers?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me! When would I have had a chance to do that—even if I had the inclination?”
“I’m sorry. I realize you’ve been under a strain, but we have only one hope to finish the case and that’s to get inside and gather evidence. I thought I’d give you one more opportunity before we execute our search warrant. It’s up to you.”
Trish sighed. The only fun she’d had in the last three years was to redecorate the entire downstairs of their house. The thought of the Feds ruining her efforts was too much to bear. “All right. I’m not going to be able to take a nap anyway. I’ll go now. I don’t need any help. Jim will be at work, and there aren’t that many places to hide anything. I’ll call if, and I do mean if, I find anything.”
“Thank you. I truly appreciate it. I’ll wait for your call.” He hung up.
Trish glanced at the cuckoo clock. 5:35. She gathered her purse and went to tell Bev she’d have to take a rain check on dinner.
TWENTY-FOUR
It seemed like months since Trish had been home. Home. How odd that sounds now.
The Tudor’s driveway curved around the house leading to the garage. Trish pulled in front of the open double door and turned off the engine. That’s funny, Jim’s car is here. Oh, well, we have to talk sometime. Might as well get it over with. The search can wait for a while.
She squared her shoulders and marched up to the rear entrance. On the tiny back porch she clawed through her purse, looking for the house key. Then she noticed the broken corner windowpane in the door. Uh oh. Looks like Jim’s temper did a number on the door again. I hope he’s calmed down by now.
Trish pushed gently on the door and it opened. She tiptoed through glass shards and stepped across the threshold. “Jim? Jim, are you home?”
Eerie quiet was the only response. Trish moved through the kitchen into the hallway. She stopped at the second door on the right. Jim’s office. She knocked. Goosebumps raced up her arms as she pushed open the door.
The normally spotless room was trashed. Paper littered the floor. Leather chairs with cushions gutted bore no resemblance to those purchased during her redecoration. Books pulled from shelves lay in heaps beside the mahogany cabinets. Jim lay facedown across his desk.
Oh, God no! Trish knew even without the dark brown stain near his head, that Jim was dead. Suddenly the bile no longer could be contained; she bent over and threw up. No, this cannot be happening. She swallowed hard to try to keep from vomiting again.
Be calm. Don’t panic. Hah, too late for that! Christ, what if the killer is still here? Her brain yelled at her. Get out! She backed from the office and raced down the hall. She slammed the back door. Where are my car keys? There, still hanging in the keyhole. She grabbed them and sprinted to her car.
Her hand shook so badly she couldn’t insert her key into the ignition. She pounded the steering wheel. Come on! Thank God the car finally started; she stomped on the gas.
Dumping the contents of her purse on the passenger seat, Trish wrestled to control the swerving car and dig out her cell from the pile. “Nine one one?” Of course, you idiot, that’s what I dialed. “My husband has been murdered. Please send help.” Lord, who would have thought I’d ever be saying that?
“Please remain calm, Miss. Where are you?”
“I’m in my car. I ran out of the house and started driving.”
“I mean, where did this take place?”
Trish gave the 911 operator her name and address, and told her what she’d seen. When Trish finished her report she was told to stay on the line. Holding the phone in front of her, Trish peered through the windshield in disbelief. A stop sign, bent at an awkward angle, rested on the hood of her car. The car sat on the boulevard of her neighbor Harlan Fitzgerald, fully a half block from her home. Mrs. Fitzgerald, hands on hips, stood on her front porch spewing words Trish wouldn’t wish to repeat about some prize flowers being ruined. Why does my head hurt?
Approaching sirens drowned out Mrs. Fitzgerald. Trish slumped in the driver’s seat unwilling and unable to move. This can’t be real. It’s some horrible nightmare. Her hand pressed against the side of her head to help ease the pain.
A Millvale police car, lights flashing and siren screaming, slid to a halt inches from her bumper. Bob Jenkins jumped out. “Trish, are you okay? I heard the report. What happened?”
Trish opened the car door and swung her legs out. She wobbled and steadied herself by leaning on the fender. “Jim’s dead. In his office. I found him and ran to get away in case the murderer was still there. I guess I had an accident while phoning nine one one.”
“Sit here on the curb. You’ve got a nasty bump on the side of your head.” Bob looked around. “Was someone chasing you?”
“No. I went home to…well…to talk. I found him sprawled across his desk. The place had been ransacked. I got the heck out of there as fast as I could.”
An ambulance pulled up and the paramedics surrounded Trish. After a quick examination they advised her to go to the hospital for tests. They concluded she might have a concussion.
She was moved to a gurney and loaded into the ambulance. The blaring siren did nothing to stop her pounding headache. Questions flooded her mind. Who would want to kil
l Jim? What are they looking for? Was it the same thing Cheever wanted? And most important, was she still in danger?
TWENTY-FIVE
“So, when are you getting out of here?” Heather picked up the TV remote and changed the channel. “You watch Fox News? What’s the matter with you? Bunch of right-wing hypocrites.”
“They say I can leave tomorrow. I’m only under observation.” Trish grabbed the control and switched channels again.
“Heck, I’d like to be under observation by that cute doctor who was in here a few minutes ago. He sure gave you the once over.”
“I’m not looking for a date. I’ve got other things to take care of.”
“Oh, yeah. Trish, I’m real sorry about Jim. Even though he was a jerk, you never want anyone to be killed. Have they got any idea who did it yet?”
Trish sighed. “No. There were no fingerprints, no shell casings, and no evidence at all. Cheever comes in and asks questions I can’t answer. I have to set up the funeral. To top it off, Jim’s parents blame me for his death.”
Heather arched a thinly plucked brow. “Why blame you?”
“Who knows? It may be they’re distraught and no one else is convenient.”
“You don’t suppose the killer will come after you, do you?”
“It sure has crossed my mind. I guess it depends on whether he found what he was looking for. I wish I knew what it was. I’d gladly give it up and be done with it.”
“You don’t have any idea at all?” Heather was whispering.
“None. Nada. The FBI said Jim was working in a firm with mob connections. That’s about all I can get them to say. Cheever wants me to search for evidence. Crap!” She chewed on a fingernail. “It would have to be in an envelope with ‘evidence’ stamped on the front for me to find anything.”
“Listen, I’ll be glad to help look. I am, after all, on my very last assignment for my PI certificate. I can give you pointers.”
Trish looked up at Heather and suppressed a smile. This was perhaps the only friend she had in the world. It might help to have someone at her side. To top it off, she really didn’t want to be alone in that house just yet. “Sure, why not?”