Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland)

by Christine Gael

  Granted, most of his crimes were under seal because he’d been a kid. Sure, he’d always been a little different, but things really took a bad turn after watching his mom dragged from their home, fighting all the way.

  "I'll be back. I promise you that. Mama will be back."

  That was a lie. She never did come back. And he never had a normal home life again. First, it was some weird sort of orphanage place. Then, came the fosters. Who knew how many? Less than twenty. More than ten. All worse than the one before, as the pool of people willing to take a "troubled" case like him grew smaller and smaller.

  The last had sealed the deal.

  The bio kid of his new “family” had tried to nab his favorite shirt. Unfortunately, it happened on the very same day that Andy had decided he'd had enough taken from him in his short life. He beat Will with his own soccer trophy so bad, the boy had wound up eating through a tube for six months.

  As he thought back on it now, Andy didn't feel guilty. In fact, he didn't feel much of anything. And that was the very thing that got him moved out of the foster care system and into St. Thomas Aquinas Children's Mental Health Center. He'd hated it, at first.

  "You need to talk. Keeping it all inside is what makes us feel angry and get tummy aches, remember, Andrew?"

  That’s what Dr. Shapiro told him.

  So he’d tried. The very first day they’d let him mix in with the other kids and play games.

  “Do you have any sevens?”

  "Nope. Go fish," Andy had said with a shake of his head.

  "You can't do that."

  Andy had cocked his head and eyeballed the boy seated across from him. Matt was his name. Andy only remembered that because it was one letter off from “mutt”, and the kid was ugly as hell. But that day, Matt wasn’t just ugly. He was also being a little asshole.

  "Of course I can," Andy explained, trying to push down the feeling rising inside him. The one that made him want to drop the playing cards in his hand, lunge at Matt and shake him until he was dead. "I don't have any sevens. What do you want me to do about it?"

  What had Dr. Shapiro told him?

  Breathe and count.

  Andy breathed, and counted.

  "If you have sevens in your hand, you can't pretend you don't, and I know you do,” Matt whined. “That’s being a liar.”

  "Go. Fish," Andy repeated, his voice as calm as he could make it.

  Matt's chin trembled as his eyes filled with tears. "If you don't give me your sevens, I'm telling."

  Andy didn't have any fucking sevens, and, like always, it happened fast. One second, he was clear-thinking and a-okay. The next, he was across the table, hands around Matt's scrawny neck, squeezing...squeezing.

  It felt good. Like a release. Like he was taking all the rage inside him and letting it flow out from his fingers.

  He never wanted to let go.

  Too soon, an orderly was on him, dragging him away. He felt the prick of the needle in his arm. His vision had blurred, going soft around the edges. His eyes fluttered but he forced them open, trying to watch as Matt wriggled and squealed like a piglet, face beet-red.

  "Seriously, Andy," Rachel said, her voice dragging him back to the present as she shouted loud enough to penetrate the muffling of his headphones. "We’ve got to straighten some stuff out. Maybe we can set aside some time Sunday afternoon and have a roomies meeting. A talk, to kind of air out our grievances?"

  Her tone was one people usually reserved for idiots and old people, and he briefly allowed himself to imagine what it would feel like to carve her arms off like he’d done to Mel.

  "Yeah, sure. Sunday sounds perfect."

  By then, it would be game over anyway. He would have achieved everything he'd set out to, and this city would be in his rearview mirror forever.

  "I'll even make dinner for us,” he continued, getting into the spirit of it. “Do you like crab cakes?"

  Rachel’s pinched features softened a little as she nodded. "Yeah, um, sure I do. That actually sounds great." She wheeled around and made for the door, calling back to him over her shoulder. "Make sure you take the garbage out before you leave today. It's your turn and it smells like tuna in here."

  She left in a flourish, closing the door behind her, and Andy slumped back against the couch with a hiss. The urge to run after her and hurt her was so strong, his muscles trembled with it.

  This wasn’t working. Between all the stress and not taking his meds, he was on the edge of doing something rash.

  Something stupid.

  Something that would wreck all the planning and hard work he’d put in for all these years. He'd expected it to be tough, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the mental and physical exhaustion and stunning highs and lows of finally putting his plan into action. And there was still so much more work to do. If he wanted to get it done right, he needed his head on straight. The only thing that could possibly calm him down and settle his nerves was seeing Ella’s face. Which was a bad idea. The worst.

  He shoved himself off the couch, anticipation thrumming in his veins.

  Just this once.

  Just for a minute…

  16

  Lucky trailed behind Carlos as he headed toward the administration office at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, her legs feeling like lead.

  It wasn’t quite nine AM, but, after another night’s sleep cut way too short, she was already running on fumes.

  It might’ve been her sleep-deprived brain bringing out the pessimist in her, but she was already getting a bad feeling from this one. By the time Bisby had taken their vic and they’d left the crime scene, she had run through loads of scenarios in her mind.

  A transaction with a prostitute that got ugly. Maybe a robbery gone wrong.

  Except the stolen car meant planning ahead. They’d questioned the cashier for over an hour, but he’d mostly kept his head down and, of the dozens of customers that had streamed in and out of the gas station, he’d only taken notice of one, in particular. An attractive female who was dressed for the heat.

  She let out a sigh and scrubbed a hand over her face.

  “Stop,” ‘Los murmured. “It hasn’t even been half a day yet. Once Bisby digs in and the lab finishes processing the car, something will pop. This one’s going to be easy peasy.”

  Lucky shoved aside her doubts as they approached an open door with a name plaque beside it.

  Karen Brennan, Administrator.

  A woman in her fifties stood beside the desk in the center of the room, watering some sort of flowering plant. She looked up as they entered.

  “Ms. Brennan?” ‘Los asked softly.

  She wore a knee-length skirt with pantyhose and a navy cardigan despite the heat.

  "Yes, can I help you?" she asked, her brows raised.

  "Detectives Figueroa and Strickland,” he said by way of introduction. “We were told that you might be able to give us some information regarding Bishop Moncrief’s passing late last night."

  "Oh, yes, of course." She crossed herself and kissed the Jesus medallion around her neck, her soft features growing pinched as she fought tears. "Awful, that. He was a good soul. We're all struggling today, but the Lord will see us through."

  She looked to both Lucky and ‘Los expectantly.

  Like a champ, ‘Los responded with a heartfelt "Amen”, before gesturing to the chairs in front of her desk. "Do you mind if we sit and ask you some questions?"

  Karen Brennan bobbed her head and snatched a box of tissues off the file cabinet beside the desk.

  The two of them took a seat but Karen remained standing. "Coffee? Water?" She swiped a shaking hand on her skirt. “I'm sorry, it's so strange, but I've never spoken to a pair of detectives before and I can’t shake the feeling that I've done something wrong." A tinny laugh burst from her lips but then ceased abruptly. "I don't know why I'm laughing. Nothing is funny about this situation."

  ‘Los shot her an easy smile and gestured for her to sit. "It's okay, ma’am. Tha
t's a common reaction. Please, relax. You’re not in any trouble. We just have a few questions because we were told you scheduled the Bishop's travel. Do you think you can give us some details? Why he was called in, his flight and hotel arrangements and the like."

  She took a seat and nodded. "Yes, of course. Let me pull up my calendar and his itinerary.”

  Seemingly relieved to have a clear-cut task, she began tapping away on her keyboard.

  “Okay, so let's see." She leaned in and touched a finger to her screen. "The Archbishop came down with the stomach flu Saturday morning and knew he wouldn't be well enough to give the commencement speech and blessing to the recent grads. He requested that I contact Bishop Moncrief's office and the Bishop graciously agreed to cover for him. I made flight arrangements for him from Washington National to LaGuardia, and then booked the hotel he requested. I can go ahead and print you a copy of his itinerary...”

  “And what about rides? Did you handle getting him a car?” ‘Los asked.

  “Yes." She paused, scanning the screen. "We usually use Superior Shuttle.” She tipped her head in a clipped nod. “Yup, that was it. Superior.”

  Lucky let her burning eyes drift shut for a second to process that nugget. The car that Moncrief had been found in was from Reliable Livery.

  “Anyway, once I got all my confirmations, I emailed his secretary the info." Karen Brennan’s troubled, dark eyes swept over Lucky and landed on ‘Los's face. "I had intended on inviting him to my house for dinner, but I got so busy." She shrugged and plucked another tissue from the box, patting at her watery eyes. "I'm sorry, this is just such a senseless tragedy."

  "It's all right, perfectly understandable. So you didn’t spend any time with him while he was here?” ‘Los asked.

  She shook her head. “Not much. I saw him, both when he arrived and when he left, for a few moments. I walked him out.”

  “And how did he seem? Concerned or troubled in any way?” Lucky asked.

  “No, not at all. He seemed anxious to get home. I don’t think he’s a fan of our city.”

  “Was he scheduled to go straight to the airport?”

  “Yes.”

  She shot ‘Los a glance, and he subtly inclined his head.

  “Ms. Brennan, did you happen to see the driver when you walked him out?”

  After a long pause, the woman shrugged helplessly. “From a distance, and only for an instant. I couldn’t even tell you what color hair he had, to be honest. Male, not very tall…maybe a beard? White guy. I know that’s not very helpful.”

  “It’s fine, every bit helps,” Carlos said. “While I’m thinking of it, do you think you could email me that itinerary, Ms. Brennan? It will be easier to share with my colleagues that way."

  "Sure, of course." ‘Los gave her his email address and she typed it in.

  "Sent,” she said a moment later. “Is there anything else I can help you with?"

  "Actually," Lucky piped in. "Can you tell us how the Archbishop is feeling now?"

  Karen Brennan seemed taken aback by the non sequitur but recovered quickly. "Better, but not one hundred percent."

  "Did anyone else on his staff catch the stomach bug, to your knowledge?"

  "No, just him, poor man. It was brutal," she said with a sympathetic snick of her tongue. "I brought him soup the night before last, and he looked awful. I even tried to convince him to go to the hospital, but he refused. I was starting to get concerned because getting that sick is nothing to take lightly when you're of a certain age."

  "One last question before we get out of your hair, Ms. Brennan. How does the church determine who to tap as a replacement for an event, in cases like these?"

  "It's at the discretion of the person officiating, typically. The Archbishop frequently calls on Bishop Moncrief for things like this. Sometimes Bishop Anderson, but his schedule is typically more problematic."

  Lucky stood and ‘Los followed suit. "You've been very helpful, ma'am. We'll be in touch if we think of anything else, all right?"

  She rose to her feet. "Of course. Anything I can do. The Archbishop is devastated and has instructed me to do whatever I can to support your efforts."

  Lucky and Carlos let themselves out, the thick city air almost refreshing after the cloying scent of too many burning candles.

  "What are you thinking?" ‘Los asked the second they got to the bottom of the stone steps.

  "I don't know yet, to be honest. It's all still brewing and my brain is full of cobwebs," she said, stepping up to the passenger's side of their sedan, running through the facts in her head again. "Seems awfully convenient for the Archbishop to have contracted a weirdly non-contagious virus that brought Moncrief to town on a trip that ultimately led to his death, doesn't it?"

  "It sure does," ‘Los said with a nod.

  “First order of business is to find the driver. What the hell were they doing at a gas station past 7th Ave. if they were headed to LaGuardia?”

  “That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?”

  ‘Los unlocked the car doors and slid behind the wheel. She climbed in beside him and they both groaned at the heat radiating from the black interior.

  "I swear to God, I'm going to move to Canada one of these days," ‘Los muttered, slipping the key into the ignition.

  "Yeah, sure. Viv hates the cold. She loves you, but six months of winter will make her leave your ass."

  "Truth," he agreed with a wry smile, pulling the car out and heading back toward the station. "Maybe once I can afford to retire, I'll convince her to let me get a summer cabin in Maine or something. Find a huge lake full of bass, maybe some Northern Pike. While away the days fishing and the nights drinking by a campfire in the quiet instead of all the ruckus all the time."

  A horn honked loudly as if to illustrate his point and she nodded.

  "Nice."

  Better than nice. It sounded like a dream come true. Especially the quiet and lake parts.

  Brad had always talked about getting a place by the lake. He'd tried to get her and their dad to chip in, but she'd been too busy with school to even think about all the paperwork involved. It was one of the thousand things she regretted not doing with him. Would he have been there that night, by a campfire enjoying the summer breeze instead of in the rat-infested crack house where they’d found his body?

  She chased the thought away and turned her focus back to the case. "Once we get back to the station, I'm going to try Superior and see who canceled his scheduled ride and when. You want to contact the Marriott to see if Moncrief had any calls or visitors while he was there?"

  "Sounds good. Then, let’s break for a few hours, get some shut eye, and pick it back up this afternoon. Hopefully, we can poke Bisby some by then and see what he has so far.”

  Given the high profile vic, there was no question that the M.E. would be deep into the process by then and have at least a little something for them.

  “I also have a three o’clock appointment with a guy who works on the same block as Mel's place. He left a message on my voicemail early this morning. Says one of his employees might've seen our guy the night of the murder."

  She perked up a little, partly from the news and partly from the air blowing from the vents that had finally cooled to something below sweltering.

  "Man, it would be nice to catch a break like that."

  As they drove through the city streets, she shut off the part of her brain working on the Moncrief case, turning her focus back on Mel Walsh. And she couldn’t shake the persistent, disturbing feeling that they were still missing something.

  Something big.

  17

  For the second time that day, Lucky was awakened by the sound of her phone ringing.

  She groaned and pressed her face into the throw pillow.

  No way had that been three hours…

  She stuck out an arm and patted around the coffee table blindly until she felt her cell phone.

  “Strickland,” she mumbled, still not opening
her eyes.

  “Ella? This is Cherise, from Stonybrook.”

  A dull throb started in the center of her forehead and radiated outward.

  “Sorry to bother you again,” Cherise continued, “but he was up all night, agitated, asking for you. He finally calmed down this morning, but hasn’t said a word or had anything to eat or drink since. If he doesn’t get some liquid in him soon, we’re going to have to give him an IV, but the way his veins collapse so easily…” She paused and let out a sigh. “Anyway, I know how busy you are. I just wanted to fill you in.”

  Lucky tossed the pillow onto the floor and pushed herself up against the couch cushions.

  “Yeah, thank you. Okay, either me or my sister will be there shortly. Wait on the IV if you can.”

  She thanked the other woman once more and disconnected, sparing a glance at the time.

  Only a little after noon. She stared at the phone for a long moment and then dialed Abby. It had already been a long day and she could really use another hour of sleep.

  Her sister answered on the third ring.

  “What’s up?”

  Abby sounded wary.

  “Hey, Dad is having some trouble. He’s okay, but he’s disoriented and had a rough night. Do you think you can swing by at some point?”

  There was a long beat of silence, and Lucky’s stomach tightened.

  “El, you know I’m working a double. I have two hours between shifts and I have errands to run…” She trailed off. “Plus, it’s probably you he wants anyway,” she added, her tone defiant. “The nurses there are great. They’ll make sure he’s okay until you can get there.”

  “I’m in the middle of a shitstorm at work. And the nurses there are great but they’re not magicians. I just need you to see if you can get him to drink some water or juice and let him see a familiar face.”

  Not that your face would be all that familiar anymore.

  But she refrained from saying the words out loud. If Abby didn’t want to do something, she didn’t respond well to passive aggression. Hell, she didn’t respond well to aggressive aggression, either. Once she made up her mind about something, it was game over.