by LS Sygnet
“Stop being reticent. Tell me exactly what this man said to you, Helen.”
“He indicated that I was more valuable pregnant.”
“That son of a… all right, Helen. I understand why you don’t want to leave this alone now.”
“It has nothing to do with how I feel about you, Daddy. You are my father. I never had a mother and I never will. But I can’t ignore a threat to the boys.”
“Boys?”
“Yes,” despite the dire situation, I beamed. “I’m having sons, Dad.”
“Promise me that you won’t go after these people. Tread water. Tell Johnny whatever you must to placate him. I’ll need some time to put a plan in place –”
“Dad, I don’t want you putting yourself at risk over this. You’re free and dead. Nobody’s looking for you. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“It’s not what you think, Helen. Trust me. Please don’t lose faith in your old man now. I need a little more time.”
“But –”
“Promise me, Helen.”
“All right.”
“Who knows about this call?”
I gnawed the inside of my cheek.
“Sprout?”
“Johnny went out to buy a disposable phone.”
“You called me from a number that could be traced?”
“No, I just let him believe that I couldn’t make an international call on the disposable cell that I’ve had for almost a year. I didn’t want him to hear what you wanted to say to me.”
“All right. This is better, actually. When he comes home with the phone, call me again. I’ll have information for you that will buy time. Do you trust me, Sprout? Do you trust me to protect you?”
There wasn’t even a shadow of doubt left in my mind. Especially when there should’ve been.
Chapter 39
The phone was ringing off the hook before I got back downstairs to the kitchen. My iPhone had vibrated to the edge of the kitchen table. I glanced at it first. Restricted caller on the ID. I rushed to the kitchen phone before it could roll over to voice mail.
And really scowled.
J. Collangelo.
“For the love of… you’ve got to be kidding me.” I grabbed the phone and answered with a not-so-friendly snarl, “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Dr. Eriksson, I presume.”
Could I call him Governor Spineless Douchebag to his face now and get away with it? Probably not a prudent moment for a battle of wills with the man who hurt my husband.
“Presume away, so long as you don’t call this number again.”
He sighed impatiently. “I haven’t got time to pretend niceties with you, Dr. Eriksson –”
“It’s Orion now, in case you’d forgotten.”
“Speaking of which, I’m trying to contact Johnny.” A pause stretched out, and with it the smug assurance that only a politician born and bred to the bone can convey. That I-will-not-be-denied sort of bullshit. “I assume he’s home.”
“Assumption is never safe. If you want to talk to him, I suggest you try his office or his cell phone, unless of course, you threw those numbers away when you trashed Johnny’s career.”
Another pause, much less packed with hubris. “I suppose I deserve that, Helen.”
“And I never gave you permission –”
“Forgive me in advance for whatever I said or did to earn your latest bout of ire. I haven’t the time or the patience for this. I tried Johnny’s cell phone. He’s not answering.”
“A message in itself, perhaps.”
“Then he is there? With you, I mean.” Collangelo’s relief hitched in his throat, or perhaps it was an agonizing grasp at hope I heard.
“No, he isn’t home.”
“Call him,” Collangelo said. “Call him immediately.”
“I don’t know where you get off –”
“Doctor, we don’t have time for this!”
Something in his tone gave me pause, made my heart seize just a little bit. Yet he didn’t need to know that. “Give me a moment,” I grumbled. The phone clattered to the kitchen counter in testament to my disdain. Moments later, I dialed Johnny’s cell from mine.
“Hey.”
“I’m hurrying home as fast as I can – I’ll be in the driveway in about three minutes.”
I listened to the grin across the digital connection and wondered why in the world Joe Collangelo’s urgency should inspire anything from me but contempt. Why should I ruin Johnny’s good mood, his happiness at the sound of my voice?
“Honey?”
“Did you ignore a phone call earlier?”
“Shit. He called the house.”
I really wished I could hear a question in that statement, but there was none. “He’s on the kitchen counter as we speak.”
“Physically?” Concern dialed high in his voice, the fault being that apparently Johnny hasn’t forgotten that he married a murderer, whether the acts were justifiable or not.
“On the telephone. He’s acting like this is a matter of life and death. May I please have your blessing to tell him to fu–”
“You may not,” Johnny chuckled. “But yeah, he called, and I felt that whatever made him stoop to reach out to the likes of me, a man he couldn’t berate hard enough a few weeks ago, wasn’t as important as this call to you-know-who.”
Wendell. For five blessed minutes, I completely forgot about my father. “Well, he acted like… I’m not sure whose life or death situation it was, so I figured I should call you if for no other reason than to make sure you’re all right.”
“I’m pulling up to the garage now. Tell him I’ll call him back, that we’ve got something else to deal with first.”
“Done,” I could hear the rumble of the garage door anyway. Two steps away, Collangelo waited my response. “Mr. Collangelo, I just spoke with Johnny. He’ll call you later. We have a more pressing engagement at the moment, so if you’ll –”
“Terrell Sanderfield was assassinated on Hennessey Island this morning. I need Johnny.”
Our eyes met, his from the kitchen doorway, mine where I surely left indentations of a death grip on the telephone. “Tell me,” I said.
“I’d rather speak to Johnny about this matter.”
“Too fucking bad, Collangelo. You’re not dealing with him anymore. Tell me what happened.”
“Helen?”
“He’s there, I can hear him,” Collangelo said. “Put Johnny on the phone.”
I pressed the cold plastic to my chest and hissed, “He said Sanderfield was assassinated on Hennessey Island this morning. If that were true, don’t you think Briscoe would’ve called us by now?”
Johnny’s eyes widened. “Give me the phone, Helen.”
I twisted away, one finger snaked out in defiance and hit the speaker function on the telephone. “He can hear you. More importantly, we can both hear about this alleged assassination.”
“Johnny, I need to speak with you in private.”
He pinned me to the floor with little more than the stoic stare frozen on his face.
“Johnny?”
“I’m here, Joe, but I can’t imagine why Helen shouldn’t be part of any conversation we have. Especially if it’s about Terrell Sanderfield.”
Joe fell silent. In that particle charged pause, I heard gears in his head grind quickly before halting in an instant. A laugh was shrouded in disbelief. “Oh my God. It’s been about you this whole time, hasn’t it, Dr. Eriksson?”
“Listen, asshole. If I have to tell you one more time –”
“Fine, Dr. Orion.”
I could almost hear him shaking his head, at least picture it.
“You didn’t abandon the cause because of your wife, did you Johnny? She’s been part of the whole thing. She’s why you got the FBI embroiled in my suspicions that Sanderfield was accepting illegal campaign contributions.”
“You sound disappointed,” drollness was not a good approach at this point.
“I’m de
lighted, if you must know, Helen. In fact… my God. Has the whole thing been a ruse, Johnny?”
My eyes impaled my husband. “A ruse?”
Johnny grabbed the receiver and quickly disengaged the speaker function. His turn to hold the implement to his chest. “You should make that call, Helen. I’ll finish with Joe and join you in a minute.”
“Like hell you will!”
“I trust you,” he said. “Please trust me too.”
It was too late. The spark of doubt and dark imagination collided in that instant. Yet Johnny mustn’t know. I averted my eyes quickly under the guise of nodding acquiescence. “Five minutes of his bullshit and no more, and then I expect a full accounting of what this so called ruse was, Johnny.”
I turned away, but Johnny grabbed my wrist and tugged me back. Fervent words whispered against my neck, just below my left ear. “Joe’s a fool, Helen. There is no ruse. I love you. Just because I’ve got more insight than he does, it won’t change the truth. Please trust me.”
The battle between head and heart waged anew. Damn this man!
“Helen?”
I nodded.
“Look at me before you go,” and I could feel his eyes probing, doing that lie detector thing before I yielded to the command.
Must not know. Must not see the truth this time. Must be alone. No co-conspirators this time.
I tilted my jaw upward and gave him a watery smile. “Hormones,” I offered. “Forgive me?”
Relief washed his expression clean of all doubt, all fear. “I love you, Helen.”
And I’m not stupid.
Ruse.
What a horrid little four-letter word. It was all a ruse. I knew what Collangelo meant just the same as Johnny did. What was this? Some kind of massive sting to trap me? To finally deliver me to the FBI for Rick’s murder? What other crimes were they tacking onto my tally? Dad’s liberation from Attica came to mind. And then that would’ve revealed how I helped Ronnie escape the noose when his nephew was mowing down pedestrians left and right in Buffalo. Did they know the truth about Scott Madden, how I coached him into insanity so he didn’t have to sacrifice his life for doing the right thing to Fulk Underwood?
Every transgression, every lie I ever told rippled through memory. It was a literal tsunami of vigilantism, smugness that my way far surpassed what the criminal justice system would ever mete out.
And what of the tiny babies growing in my belly? Had that been an accident? Just an unforeseen consequence perhaps, because I was so damned difficult to convince.
Johnny’s arms slid around the bump, literal and figurative.
“Baby –”
“Don’t,” I warned. “He thinks all of this was to get close to me, to trap me because God knows, my arrival in Darkwater Bay was no accident.”
“He’s reopening OSI.”
I snorted. “Under whose command this time?”
“Mine. Again.”
I twisted free of the fleshy cage. “Then you’ve chosen.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s OSI or me, Johnny. I won’t live with your ruse hanging over my head ‘til death do us part.”
“Do I at least get to explain his misconception before I’m damned?”
“You mean he didn’t assume that you married me to –”
Johnny grabbed my upper arms and shook lightly. “He realized that we were looking at Sanderfield for something far more serious than illegal campaign contributions, Helen, which is exactly what you uncovered when you linked Sherman to the human trafficking ring. You knew that I suspected Sherman of giving money to Sanderfield under the table.”
Remorse is a bitter venom.
Johnny’s held me against his chest before I realized I was crying. “Shh. It’s all right, Helen.”
“How can you say that when I am black as sin and filthy to the core? Hasn’t it occurred to you yet that the reason I don’t trust people is because I know that I cannot be trusted?”
He tilted my chin up with one finger. “So you shot Sanderfield this morning? Oh, wait. No… I distinctly remember that you haven’t been out of my sight for long before the time in question.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it!”
Thumbs brushed the scalding moisture from my cheeks. “Is this because you called Wendell after I left to go pick up a new disposable phone?” At my stunned, caught-red-handed stare, he continued. “I knew you would, Doc. What did he say?”
“He made me promise to stay away from this investigation.”
“Is that all of it?”
I shook my head.
“Helen, do you think your father could’ve done something today?”
“It was a number in Europe, Johnny. He couldn’t possibly have been on the phone with me in Sweden after knocking off Sanderfield this morning.”
“But he knows people.”
“My father knows other killers?” I scoffed. “Only the losers he helped put in prison. He would’ve never had a partner, never done anything that careless –”
“Yet he was caught because of a partnership with Marie. He wasn’t too proud to manipulate me into making sure the FBI got off your tail either.”
“Can we please not lay this sin at his feet without any real evidence? I’m tired of this constant leap to judge him first.”
“Well, he did sort of earn it by reputation, Helen.”
Speaking of earning a reputation, I frowned. “Johnny, why would Collangelo think that OSI would be ideal to investigate the murder of its most vocal opponent?”
Finally, something made him grin. “Because at this point, Joe realizes there are only four people on the face of the earth that hate him as much as Terrell Sanderfield did. And we were all part of OSI.”
Chapter 40
The rest of our quiet Sunday was a whirlwind of insanity. Collangelo called a press conference, I swear, the second he got off the phone with Johnny and announced the murder of Senator Terrell Sanderfield.
My disgust was difficult to suppress.
“While Senator Sanderfield and I were opponents in the political arena, that animosity did not extend to my personal opinion of the man. He was a dedicated public servant, sworn to uphold the honor and the trust of his constituency, and serve the whole of this state by means that he and his party represent. We owe a debt to the citizens of this state, to see that justice is achieved for this great man by the swift resolution of his murder and capture of his assailant. As such, I am officially reestablishing the Office of the Special Investigator under the command of John Orion who is already in contact and working with the Federal Bureau of Investigation –”
“Are you now?” I interrupted the political blather and shot Johnny a pointed stare.
“David is on his way from Montgomery, Helen. For the time being, Crevan and Dev are providing oversight out on Hennessey Island with the Darkwater Bay PD. Don’t mistake Joe’s message. The bureau is running this case. We’re little more than window dressing at this point.”
“And what about afterward?”
Unfortunately, Johnny wasn’t thinking very far in advance. I couldn’t stop it any more than the general insanity swirling around us. It was the eye of a very psychotic hurricane. Somewhere out there, an individual with guts took a long range shot at Senator Terrell Sanderfield and literally blew his head off.
Oh, Johnny didn’t want to give me the details, but I’m persistent that way. Truly, it would’ve only taken a single phone call to Maya, a swift patch-up of our fractured friendship, and she’d have spilled the whole thing to me. I could almost hear the irreverence fall from her lips at the crime scene. Old goat lost his head. And they say there’s no justice in the universe.
No, Maya Winslow would not find empathy for this particular victim, not when she knew I believed he was part of the reason Annalyn Villanueva ended up dead on the shore of the bay. Not after I told her that he was part of the corrupt enterprise that snatched me from a bassinet at Saint Mary’s Hospital almost 39
years ago.
Johnny wanted the assassin. I didn’t doubt it for one millisecond. Hell, I could practically see the desire dripping from his canines. I wondered, as he acquiesced to my insistent demand to accompany him to the crime scene, if he considered for even the briefest flash of a moment that Sanderfield’s death didn’t make this thing over.
I couldn’t forget about Lyle Henderson. I wondered where he was on this bright, sunny Sunday. And was he really the puppet master? Every time we inched closer to figuring something out, one of the players turned up dead.
Alleged conspirators, I should say. Yet something about these deaths screamed logic through the twists and turns of doubt in my mind. Why were they all willing to die? Alfred Preston. Umberto Gutierrez. Andy Gillette. Destiny Gerard. Had Danny Datello been willing to die too?
I looked at his murder in a different light. The man was no fool. He’d constructed an elaborate scheme to get information to the FBI about his uncle Sully Marcos. My ex-husband and the marriage to the ugly duckling being courted by the FBI. He had to know that Preston wasn’t offering a legitimate deal from the bureau. Would he be a lamb willingly led to the slaughter?
It boggled my mind.
What bothered me even more was the tiny filaments that seemed to crisscross and weave around a web, one in which the center could not be completely denied.
Me.
But why? I’m no one. Especially now. I was a cog in the federal wheel, and perhaps cog was generous. Maybe more like a minuscule nubbin. I had no power, little influence. There was no political clout I wielded. Hell, I ripped my page from Dad’s playbook when it came to staying under the recognition radar. At least until I came to Darkwater Bay.
I tried to convince myself that these thoughts were merely grandiose, that I’d wrapped myself up so deeply in lies and intrigue that it warped my ability to look at anything objectively.
Yellow police tape flapped in the afternoon breeze at the crime scene like some sort of obscene party streamer. People, come one, come all! Dance on the grave of the politician. They were out en masse. Bay Division had barricades – two of them in fact. One corralled the press, who for some god awful unknown reason, were allowed too close to the crime scene for my tastes. The other kept the spectators more than a respectable distance from their fallen leader.