by LS Sygnet
This was about more than justice. Wendell was breaking his cardinal rule, one he had pounded into Helen’s head when she was bullied as a child. It can never be personal, Sprout. They’ll get theirs, whether we intervene or not.
The way Wendell saw it, that blind lady who was supposed to balance the scales failed more often than not. Whether he wanted to admit it now didn’t matter. This was personal. Truth be told, it had always been personal, from the bastard that slaughtered his pregnant wife – Wendell’s first kill – to burning Thomas Peterson Senior alive. They were personal. They mattered. They hurt the world one last time, and then they died.
The door on the roof squealed in protest when he pushed it open. The gasp gave him pause. A man stood across the vast space and just enough to the left to remain out of Wendell’s direct line of sight through the slivered opening through the door.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Wendell’s vision was excellent, even without the night vision goggles on. Binoculars fisted in the stranger’s left hand.
He recovered quickly and jerked his head to the large cooling unit in the center of the roof. Wendell hefted his toolbox with his right hand. “Late work order. A.C.’s on the fritz. Don’t tell me you’re with that other guy’s place. Pete told the bastard I’d get over here no matter how long it took.”
The man smiled. Large white teeth gleamed in the pale light cast by surrounding higher buildings. He took two steps closer. “That bastard would be me, sir. I own this building and I’m not aware of any issues with the air conditioning. What was your name again?”
“Doyle. Milt Doyle,” Wendell said. Getting caught was one thing, but by the owner of the building? Unease prickled along his nerve endings, whispered that something didn’t quite add up. The man wore a jogging suit, hardly corporate attire. And the binoculars. Wendell eased his toolbox to the rooftop and knelt down. “Got the work order in here if you don’t believe me.”
“No, no. I trust you, Milt. The building manager usually is fastidious about reporting any problems to me. That he neglected to do so this time…”
Wendell watched the surreptitious movements of his foe. The side-stepping, the nervous glances to the lip on the building. He’d seen those actions before. Hell, he’d made those movements before.
In a flash, Wendell palmed the hand canon in his tool box. A bright flash of light, a soft pop, jogging suit crumpled to the ground. Blood droplets sprayed from open lips and speckled the man’s face, the pristine concrete around his body.
Wendell didn’t wait for the death rattle. He made haste to the body and stepped over it. Under the lip, out of his direct line of sight lay the high-powered rifle. Across the way, Lyle Henderson practiced his sermon in front of his reflection in the windows, oblivious to the danger that simply waited for that perfect shot.
“Damn you,” Wendell cursed.
He stared into the glassy, sightless eyes of jogging suit. Clean shaven. Clean cut. Didn’t look out of place in an upscale office building. Maybe he was the new VP of marketing, coming back to the office to peruse a file or two after a rousing game of racquetball at the country club.
He really should call Johnny. He really should. But it would pose more questions than Wendell could answer. No, the better solution would be to let the real building supervisor discover this crime scene. Let OSI and the feds come do their thing, gather their evidence, draw their own conclusions.
Wendell really didn’t doubt what those would be, either. Clearly, this assassin had come back to do another job, one closely related to the Sanderfield thing several days ago.
Yes, it was better this way. Let law enforcement search for the one who killed the killer.
“They’ll never find me,” Wendell said. “You can’t catch a ghost.”
Just like after every other huge fight Johnny and I had over the time we’d known each other, this one was no different. He’d gone back to work for the afternoon, but came home early. With sterling roses and an enormous box of chocolates. Danny took the hint (more of a glare really) and retreated to parts unseen in the house, and Johnny decided that it was time for us to make amends.
“I don’t like it when we fight. I’m sorry I threatened to leave, Helen.”
“I unpacked your stuff and put it away.”
“Maya called,” he dug into the box of chocolates and found one filled with gooey caramel and popped it into my mouth. His lips brushed mine lightly. “She said that Billy got the mitochondrial results on all three samples. You neglected to tell me you submitted an envelope flap.”
I swallowed the lump of sugar and kept my eyes averted. “We never got around that that little detail. I guess I figured we needed a quick answer about Melissa Sherman’s paternity, and Dad’s mitochondrial DNA won’t be the same as hers. It’s passed from mother to child exclusively, so just like I don’t carry Aidan’s, Melissa wouldn’t carry Dad’s.”
“Maya explained it to me.” He opted for something with peanut butter next. I dutifully chewed. “She said that whatever evidence the envelope came from, it was a definitive match to Melissa Sherman’s. I think we both know what that means.”
I sighed. “She’s Daddy’s real daughter.”
“Well, she’s definitely Marie’s biological child, and we have the link we need to Lyle Eriksson. It explains why so many people were determined to protect her, don’t you think?”
“One would suppose as much. What I don’t understand was why they kept her from Dad, Johnny. Why not let him keep and bond with his real child? Why offer a substitute at all?”
A voice floated through the screened patio doors. “I think I can provide the answer to that, Sprout.”
Johnny leapt off the sofa. “Dammit, Wendell!” he growled. “What the hell are you doing lurking around in our yard?”
He appeared out of the shadows.
I frowned. “What on earth are you wearing? What happened to the priestly garb, Daddy? What have you done?”
“A little reconnaissance. Nothing to worry about, Sprout. I simply wanted to make sure that all was well out at Dunhaven tonight. When you said that Lowe was refusing to see Henderson, I got curious.”
“So you posed as plant maintenance?” Johnny asked.
“More of an exterior groundskeeper,” Dad grinned. “Henderson didn’t show up. I thought about heading over to Hennessey Island, but I figured the place was probably still crawling with investigators after that hit and run business over there last night. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure everything was all right over here. Where’s Danny, by the by?”
“Upstairs. Giving my wife and me a little well-earned privacy.”
“Ah,” Dad nodded. “Well then, I guess I’ll head back to Downey for the night. Unless of course you’d like to hear my answer about why Lyle and Marie might want to keep me away from the one I actually spawned.”
I struggled off the sofa. “I’m interested in hearing that story. Aren’t you, Johnny?”
He scoffed under his breath.
“What was that, old man?” Dad arched his brow.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? If the first plan to control you with Helen didn’t work, they could always dangle the truth in front of you – that she wasn’t really your child, and that they’d had the real one all along.”
“Not a half bad theory, Johnny, but it occurred to me, as I’m sure it would Sprout if she thought about everything she knows. Yet ultimately, you’re probably wrong. Did Helen ever share the story I told her about how I learned Marie was pregnant?”
Johnny’s eyes widened. “She got fat.”
“Yes, not just pregnancy plump like Helen here, but full on morbidly obese. The woman suddenly morphed into a lard ass and expected me to believe that nothing was wrong with her.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “She never wanted you to know she was pregnant, did she?”
“Can you think of a reason why a woman wouldn’t want her husband to know she was pregnant, Sprout?” Dad as
ked.
“Only one,” Johnny said. “She had an affair. The child wasn’t yours.”
“It’s a distinct possibility. After our conversation yesterday wherein you convinced me to submit a DNA sample for comparison to Melissa Sherman, it occurred to me that I literally dragged Marie kicking and screaming to my own personal physician.”
“And he told you Marie was pregnant,” I said.
“That is correct. You know how I reacted.”
“God,” Johnny said. “She never intended to come back to you, did she?”
“I doubt it,” Wendell said. “She’d have had that child and either raised it with her parents or simply turned it over to Lyle and Suzy. But when I learned the truth, she had to know that I’d change my mind.”
“And you did. You wanted your baby.”
“So they purchased you,” Daddy said. “You see, Sprout, while I don’t doubt that Lyle and Melissa are part of this conspiracy, I still doubt that they are the masterminds in all of it. Lyle is protecting what’s his.”
“Melissa Sherman.”
“And how she got involved with a creep like Eugene Sherman is probably another story entirely, but make no mistake. They are in it for the money. Unlike Marie’s ambitious steal-from-the-banks scheme, this one is far more lucrative, and provided a good number of people with what they really wanted. Sexual slaves, cheap labor. You name it. But it made Lyle very rich.”
“It kept Sherman up to his eyeballs in young girls, which we already know was his kink,” Johnny said.
“And Melissa? Who knows what she wanted. Perhaps it was simply greed, like her mother’s. Or perhaps it was the only thing she knew how to do well. Immaterial. What matters is that there was a first sale, and I believe for these people, it was you, Helen. These players gravitated toward one another through necessity. They got filthy rich in the process.”
“The irony is that they could’ve ransomed Helen back to her biological parents for a fortune, probably more than they made selling her to Lyle.”
“No, Johnny. The intent wasn’t to sell Helen. It was to shut me up, give them another layer of leverage, keep me doing Marie’s bidding with the robberies. I don’t doubt that they realized how easy it was, snatching a newborn, placing her far away. No questions were ever asked on our end, and I doubt they would be now either, given the popularity of alternative birthing options women employ these days. It’s harder to snatch babies from hospitals. So alternative sources were sought.”
I saw it click in Johnny’s brain. “Enter Gill Vorre.”
“Who?” Daddy asked.
“That’s Eugene Sherman’s real name. He was a chef for the State Department in Saudi Arabia until he was fired in the early 1970s. He didn’t come back to the US until the mid-nineties. And then it was after he’d stolen the real Eugene Sherman’s identity,” I explained
“Instant political clout,” Johnny said. “Perhaps that was what he offered the operation.”
“No, Sanderfield offered more political power and clout than Sherman. He managed to get OSI closed and was running for the highest office in the state, Johnny,” I reminded him. “Sherman offered sophistication and legitimacy. A former attaché who served in foreign nations on behalf of our government. Who would ever question his impeccable pedigree?”
Dad tapped the tips of his fingers together. “They are all pieces, Helen, but expendable ones nonetheless. None of these fits the profile of the man behind the scenes, the one desperate enough to set the operation up, to keep the ball rolling for all these years, the one with the most to lose if it’s ever exposed.”
“He has a profile now?” Johnny asked.
I followed Dad’s train of thought. “You’re right. He’s the one who needed this thing from the very beginning. There’s always been a sense of desperation I’ve felt. Lyle is charismatic and personable enough to inspire loyalty from men like Gutierrez and Gillette. Sanderfield called him father, even though he was an adult when he married Sanderfield’s mother.”
“Another calculated move,” Johnny’s fist plowed into the palm of his left hand.
“But the mastermind’s desperation dwarfed all other motives. He’d kill to cover up his crimes because he stands to lose more than the rest of them combined. I’d wager that very few people other than Lyle know his identity even. He’s kept himself that well insulated from all of it,” I postulated.
“What is his desire, Sprout?”
“Money,” I said. “It has to be the money. What else could it be? Sex? Power? I don’t get the sense that any of those things matter to him. If they did, he could simply move his base of operations somewhere friendly to this kind of servitude. Somewhere that devalues women out of hand anyway.”
“You’re saying that something keeps this guy right here in Darkwater Bay,” Johnny said.
“Yes. Yes!” I looked at my father. “Dad, what’s your gut on this one? Is he really a big fish in this small pond?”
“It makes more sense than anything else, Sprout. Why scramble to cover things up here if he could simply move his base of operations somewhere else? He’s tied to this place for some reason. If we can figure out why, it might point to who this person is.”
“Maybe he can’t leave.”
“What do you mean, Johnny?” Dad asked.
“I mean, what if he’s already incarcerated in a manner of speaking?”
“No. Absolutely not. It isn’t Jerry Lowe, Johnny,” I argued. “He thinks he knows who it is, and while he might be the ultimate big fish in a small pond, Jerry was too wrapped up in his own sick fantasies to give a damn about bringing in more targets that likely didn’t fit his ideal girl’s image anyway. Remember what I told you about his type? Petite, blonde, blue eyed. Analynn Villanueva was Filipina.”
“But Sofia Datello was not.”
I reached for his hand and threaded our fingers together. “It would be easy if we could point a finger to Lowe and say definitively that yes, he’s the guy. But whoever this person is, he’s still on the outside, still issuing orders to mop up the operation right here. The easy out for him would be to simply leave Darkwater Bay, not cling to whatever position he’s in here that binds him to this city.”
“Lowe has been meeting with Lyle Henderson,” Johnny argued. “What’s to say he hasn’t been giving orders to him all along?”
“Nothing says it,” Dad seemed to agree with Johnny for the moment.
I threw up my hands in frustration. “Unbelievable! The two of you are so dead set against me ever speaking to Lowe again that now you’re willing to believe he’s the mastermind?”
“I never said that either, Sprout. Calm down. We don’t entirely eliminate Jerry Lowe as a suspect in this, even though I tend to lean toward your assessment of this man’s involvement or lack thereof. But Johnny’s right too. We can’t simply dismiss the possibility that he’s the man behind the curtain just because he’s locked up at Dunhaven. What we do next –”
Johnny’s cell phone interrupted. He tore it out of his pocket and snarled, “What is it now, Crevan?”
I watched his expression change, noticed the tightness that leeched into Dad’s posture in response to Johnny’s body language.
“Shit,” he muttered. “I’ll be right there.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Johnny looked at me, then Wendell. “Crevan got a call from Bay View Division. Seems we’ve got a third murder victim in a tight radius that seems to have become the epicenter of all crime in the city this week.”
“Oh?” Dad’s interest piqued.
“Yeah,” Johnny said. “They called us and the FBI right away. This vic was found with a rifle, one that seems to be the same caliber as the one used to kill Terry Sanderfield last week.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said.
“Then hurry up. I need to get over there right away. Crevan said David’s already on his way back from Montgomery.”
Daddy snagged my arm before I could dash off for shoes and a j
acket. “Perhaps you should sit this one out.”
“Are you insane? I’m going down there –”
“Then at least promise me that you’ll be careful.”
I nodded once. “What about you? Where are you going?”
“I’ll stick around here, fill Danny in on what’s going on. Something about this doesn’t sit right, Sprout. Do be careful.”
Chapter 29
Maya was hunched over the body when Johnny and I pushed our way out of the crowded stairwell onto the roof of the building. Forsythe had set up enough lights at the crime scene to transform the immediate area of that single rooftop into the brightness of noon.
“I’m just going to –” I jerked my head toward Maya.
Johnny’s arm snaked around my shoulder before I could slip away. “Helen?”
“No more secrets,” I said. “Whatever I think, you’ll be the first to hear it.”
“Imagine this,” Maya spoke before acknowledging my presence with eye contact. “In the span of a few short days, Hennessey Island has completely had it’s lowest crime rate in the city statistic shot straight to hell. No pun intended.”
I crouched beside her. “What’ve you got?”
Her finger gently probed the hole in the front of the jogging suit. “A friggin’ huge caliber bullet did this, princess. I’m thinking at minimum a fifty caliber shot. When Smith finished his photographs of the crime scene, Billy and I rolled him over. You’ve never seen the likes of an exit wound like this.”
“Are there close contact burns?”
“Nope,” came her crisp yet drawled response. “I’d say the shot came from more than twenty feet away.”
“Neighbors heard gunshots? Is that who called it in? A bunch of wild nine-eleven calls to report shots fired?”
“You’d think wouldn’t you? But no, that’s not what happened. Some anonymous call came in across the street from that swanky looking place. Somebody saw a bright flash of light. Given all the hullabaloo down here these seven days past, folks have been kinda sketchy. Guess somebody thought someone might take to blowing up the buildings next.”