by Robin Lamont
Verna seemed far away and Jude was trying to think of a way to bring her back when someone knocked on the front door. It was a uniformed officer. He had on the gray shirt and navy tie of the County Sheriff’s office and carried a leather satchel. His neatly-combed hair and mustache were mostly white, and he wore the practiced expression of a man who was used to delivering bad news.
“May I come in, Mrs. Marino?” he asked respectfully, although he was already stepping inside.
“It’s not Sophie, is it?” breathed Verna fearfully. Her daughter was supposed to be in school.
“No, it’s not. I’m sure she’s fine.”
“What is it, Sheriff?”
He cast a questioning glance at Jude from the corner of his eye, and Verna quickly caught it.
“Sheriff Ward, this is Jude…”
“Brannock,” Jude finished for her.
“Maybe we should talk in private,” suggested Ward to Verna.
But his unannounced presence at her doorstep augured more grief and fearful of bearing it alone, she said staunchly, “You can speak in front of her.”
Ward capitulated. “First, let me say how sorry I am about Frank. He was a fine man, Mrs. Marino.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m afraid that with any unnatural death, we have to investigate. And … uh … we found something in his car.”
Frank’s body had been discovered on Friday night, his car parked off a dirt road by an old country store, long abandoned and boarded up. The deputy who found him had been making routine rounds at three in the morning, spotted the car, and thinking it was kids doing things kids oughtn’t to be doing checked it out. The car was locked, Frank slumped over the wheel. The deputy banged on the window and when he got no response, took a crowbar to the door. The initial findings from the County Medical Examiner were respiratory failure due to “mixed alcohol and oxycodone toxicity.”
“Was Frank getting his painkillers from his doctor?” asked Ward, shifting gears.
“Yes. Dr. Shepard.”
“And do you know if he was getting the prescription filled locally?”
“I suppose, why.”
“Would you happen to have his medication here?”
Verna was beginning to bristle with impatience. “What are you getting at?”
“Well, we found an empty pill bottle in his car. It wasn’t from Dr. Shepard and it wasn’t from a pharmacy around here. It was from a place called PharmaRX. You ever heard of it?”
“No, but what does that have to with his death?”
“The bottle we found listed the dose at 30 milligram strength and we know that Dr. Shepard was prescribing the 15 milligram ones. Frank might have been taking extra pills. We also found this in the car,” he said, bringing out a laptop computer from his satchel.
“That’s Frank’s,” exclaimed Verna, wide-eyed.
Ward said, “I think I need to show you something.”
They went into the kitchen, where Ward sat at the table, adjusting his leather gun belt to fit the back of the chair. “It looks like he did make a purchase from PharmaRX a couple of weeks ago,” he said, pointing to the screen. Then he clicked on a box at the top of the screen and pulled up a history of sites visited by the user. “These are all websites and chat rooms that he visited recently,” he said. There was a list of a dozen links, and as Ward scrolled through, they described sites that discussed oxycodone overdosing. Ward landed on the last – an interactive page where people could post questions and get answers from others out in cyberspace. At the top of the page was the written inquiry: What is a lethal dose of oxycodone in opiate tolerant people?
The normally rich color drained completely from Verna’s face. Her mouth moved silently almost in prayer before she finally was able to manage, “Are you telling me that my husband committed suicide?”
Ward didn’t respond directly. Frank’s intent seemed clear.
Chapter 6
The corporate headquarters of Marshfield Industries had the feel of a well-endowed southern college. Every mahogany arch and cream-colored cornice was meticulously designed, the oriental rugs on the richly varnished floors hand picked. But for all the old-school charm, modernity was not lacking. When Ned Bannerman, back from his regional tour of Marshfield’s meat packing plants, rang the buzzer of an unmarked door on the second floor, his image was captured from several angles by hidden, state-of-the-art security cameras. He had to wait until he was cleared before the door clicked open.
A guard at the desk directed him around the corner to another closed door. This one was marked with a gold plaque: Richard Hillman, Director, OSM. When Bannerman entered, Hillman was sitting at his desk. He was in his fifties and looked like an army man who had let himself go. His suit jacket hung open to reveal a sizeable paunch and the broken blood vessels across his nose and cheeks marked him as a man who liked his whiskey. But his eyes were sharp, as were his knife-edged planning skills. One of the few people who reported directly to Seldon Marshfield, his was the Office of Systems Management – a nebulous title for Marshfield’s corporate damage control.
“Have a seat,” said Hillman, waving to a burgundy leather chair opposite the desk.
“How’s your short game these days?” asked Bannerman. The regional VP usually carried himself with the confidence that would be expected of a thirty-nine-year-old MBA who had been instrumental in putting the company back into the black after the economic slump. But in Hillman’s unaccommodating presence he wasn’t quite as sure of himself. Trying to break the ice, he chuckled, “A funny story … I was on the ninth hole over at Brier Creek–”
“Save it for the board, Ned,” interrupted Hillman brusquely. “Let’s talk about this D&M video fiasco. Go over for me again how it all started.”
Bannerman was under no illusion that the OSM Director wasn’t already fully aware of the circumstances and would further choreograph whatever moves were necessary, but he knew that Hillman liked to make people – even his own people – repeat their stories so he could look for inconsistencies.
Clearing his throat, Bannerman began, “Well, one of the employees reported seeing a co-worker around the pens when he wasn’t supposed to be there and it looked suspicious. That same worker had a history of sending out complaints, so the plant manager Bob Warshauer was worried he might have brought in a camera. He instituted bag searches, but nothing turned up. Somehow, Bob figured out that this guy had made a video inside.”
“You’re aware, Ned, that this guy, Frank Marino, recorded the conversation between you and Warshauer. We got it off Marino’s computer and I’ve listened to it. What the hell were you thinking?”
Flushing deeply, Bannerman said, “I don’t understand how it could have happened. We were behind closed doors, no one could hear us.”
“Marino was in the crawl space below the building.”
“What was he doing down there?”
“He was putting out rat poison, and apparently air ducts from the office carried your message from Seldon loud and clear right onto his camcorder.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Bannerman ran a hand over his face. “I had no idea, I swear. I … I was there on Seldon’s behalf–”
Hillman waved off any further explanation and continued, “Moreover, we learned that Marino planned to turn over the recording to a woman from an animal rights organization who, as I understand it, is on her way to Bragg Falls, or possibly already there.”
A sheen of sweat broke out on Bannerman’s forehead and upper lip. The situation was getting worse by the minute. “How … how did you find out about the recording?”
“Bob Warshauer called me directly and I had Marino’s phone calls monitored.”
As if that was the most reasonable thing to do, Bannerman nodded and asked, “What’s going to happen?” He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice, but it was damn difficult, knowing that Hillman enjoyed
taking him down a notch.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you?” asked Hillman innocently. “Marino turned over the video, and his camera, too.”
“Before the animal rights people got it?”
“Yes, Ned, we believe so. And just so you know, her name is Jude Brannock. I haven’t had any dealings with her, although I know her boss Gordon Silverman. He’s tenacious as hell, and these activists are a nagging problem right now. Still, their resources are minimal, so if Brannock doesn’t get any cooperation or information, she’ll have to pack up and go home. It’s imperative that no one at the plant talk to her. I’ll deal with Bob Warshauer on that.”
The sense of reprieve that washed over Bannerman almost made him lightheaded, but he did manage to ask, “What about Frank Marino?”
“Ah, yes,” Hillman heaved a dispirited sigh. “My heart goes out to his family. Apparently there was a suicide. Such a tough, tough thing to deal with. You never know what’s in a man’s mind. Not really.”
Bannerman’s relief was cut short. Suicide? Shifting in his seat, he felt his trousers stick to leather. He didn’t know what to make of this information, but there was no way he was going to inquire. He was dangling off a ledge and Hillman would decide whether he’d get pulled up or pushed off.
Abruptly, Hillman ended the meeting. “You hear anything, keep me posted.”
A moment after Bannerman left, a man stepped into the office through a side door. There was an almost boyish look about him. He had a taut, muscled body and sandy brown hair parted on the side so that a lock almost always fell disarmingly over his brow. Today he was dressed in a pair of four-hundred-dollar Cucinelli chinos, tasseled loafers costing double that, and a black t-shirt from The GAP.
“I suppose he’ll figure it out,” remarked Hillman.
Bloom shrugged.
“You’re right, it doesn’t matter,” said Hillman. “Bannerman’s greedy. He plans to move up from regional to sit at Seldon’s right hand. I’m still concerned about the recording, though. Do you believe Marino, that he didn’t make a copy?”
“After I made a single copy for you, I did everything we discussed. Relevant files were deleted from his computer, and others were added. PharmaRX records will show the order put on Marino’s credit card. There won’t be any problems. Did Marino make himself a duplicate? I didn’t know the man, but he seemed ready to put everything behind him for the sake of his family.”
Hillman relied on Bloom’s uncanny ability to read weakness, which is why he went with the hired gun’s assurance that in a stressful situation Frank Marino would do almost anything to have a drink. In this instance, a drink that had been doctored while Frank was in the Lazy Cat. Nevertheless, Hillman rubbed a nervous hand across his desk, as though he were wiping away a film of dust. “If there is a copy down there we cannot let Brannock or anyone else get their hands on it. Even without Marino, if it got turned over to the media … I don’t even want to think about it. Because we’re not going to let that happen. Stick around Bragg Falls for now,” he instructed. “Keep tabs on the situation, but low profile, yes?”
Bloom didn’t answer, busy removing a speck of lint from his trousers. His fastidiousness came off as preening, but Hillman was unfazed by the overt narcissism; it was part of what made him as good as he was. Besides, he had only to glance at the missing chunk of Bloom’s left pinky finger to remind them both that mistakes could be made.
Chapter 7
Jude watched as Finn galloped unevenly along the path, his right hind paw barely grazing the ground. His limp was a lifelong condition, but it had not touched his spirit. She had rescued him as a puppy when he couldn’t have been more than four or five weeks old. That winter in Vermont was cold and the puppy mill owner, a French Canadian, had been keeping at least two dozen females in wire cages outside in unheated sheds. Many were sick and malnourished, the worst of them the mixed breeds whose pups wouldn’t be worth much. Boiling with fury, Jude roared down the country roads to track down the local sheriff and drag him back out to arrest the owner while she made arrangements with a local shelter to take the dogs. During the heated argument between the owner and the sheriff, Jude found the pup behind the sheds in a rusty, metal cage with a broken sign on it that read “Fin” – the French word for finished. Ended. Indeed, from the feed scale next to the crate, she suspected the owner was selling dead dogs by the pound, probably to a rendering plant nearby. Her dog wasn’t finished, however. His hind leg was mangled, but he was still struggling to escape the cage from under the weight of a pile of dead puppies. She picked him up, warmed him underneath her coat, and called him Finn. He would do anything for her.
The early afternoon light filtered through the honey-colored and russet leaves above their heads. They both needed some exercise and there were no signs at the state park telling her that dogs had to be leashed. So Jude unclipped his leash at the head of a trail marked by splotches of yellow paint on the trees. Finn bounded in and out of the woods, staying well ahead of her, and she followed as the trail began to climb. The higher they went, the rockier and more uneven the path became, but it was well-marked and Jude was not worried about getting back.
She breathed in the autumn air, feeling the muscles in her legs work and thinking about Frank Marino. Why was he despondent? It was disturbing to imagine that it had something to do with contacting The Kinship. But how could she have known that he was suicidal? The man worked at a slaughterhouse for God’s sake, she thought, it wouldn’t be the first time the job drove someone out of his mind.
At one point, Jude found herself trudging along the side of a ridge that sloped steeply off to her right until finally the ground flattened and opened up to a scenic overlook. The view was breathtaking – rolling hills covered with deciduous trees displaying their fall colors that became muted in a haze of distant blue. Jude bent over and put her hands on her knees to catch her breath, staring with wonder at the vista. She almost didn’t notice the girl sitting with her back against a tree and reaching out her hand to scratch Finn under the chin.
The girl jumped up. “Oh, sorry,” she said, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong. “Is it okay to pet your dog?” She looked to be in her mid-teens and an unlikely combination of punk rocker and athlete. Her nose was pierced with a silver stud, her right ear adorned with a row of hooped earrings, and her hair cropped in an I-don’t-care-what-I-look-like mane with ragged bangs that now lay plastered in wet strips against her brow. Noting her worn Nikes and an empty water bottle, Jude guessed she’d been doing some serious running.
“It looks like you two have already gotten to know each other,” said Jude.
The girl knelt down and stroked the fur along Finn’s back. “He’s got beautiful eyes,” she said.
“Doesn’t he?”
“What’s his name?”
“Finn.”
“Finn,” she repeated reverently. “What kind of dog is he?”
“I don’t really know, he’s a mix. I’m guessing he was supposed to be a Rottweiler, but his mom had other plans or maybe the breeder didn’t know a Rottie from a Sheepdog, which is why he didn’t end up in a pet store.”
“I wanted to have a dog, but my folks wouldn’t let me. Both my parents work and they said no one would be home to take care of it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Caroline.”
“Hi, I’m Jude.” She recognized Caroline as one of the two girls that caught her attention at the gravesite. “You must be Sophie’s friend. I’m sorry about her father.”
“How do you know that?”
“I was at the cemetery.”
“I didn’t see you there.”
“I kept my distance. Frank and I were just acquaintances. You knew him pretty well?”
“Yeah, I mean Sophie and I have been best friends since … I don’t know … second grade? He was a really good dad.”
&nb
sp; “Tough thing to lose your father at such a young age.”
“She was at my house when she found out. Her mom came and got her. It was pretty bad.”
Jude let the girl sift through the memory of that moment before asking gently, “Where is Sophie now?”
“Oh, she’s at school.”
“And you’re not?” A questioning smile played on Jude’s lips.
Caroline responded with a disinterested shrug, although she couldn’t entirely hide the color that came into her cheeks. “School is a waste of time,” she complained, waving in the general direction behind her.
“I used to feel like that,” said Jude, who wisely held back a lecture about how wrong she was. “Are you a runner?”
Walking over to the protective wooden railing at the cliff’s edge, Caroline threw over her shoulder, “Why all the questions?”
“You don’t have to answer, but I just figured any friend of Finn is a friend of mine,” said Jude, coming up to join her.
“I used to be on the track team,” Caroline offered, “but it was so pointless I quit. I like to run, though.”
“Don’t tell me you ran all the way up here.”
“Most of the way. Some of it I have to walk.”
“You must be in great shape. How come you quit the team?”
“You have to follow their incredibly stupid training methods or they go ballistic,” Caroline bemoaned. “Story of my life. School, home, every time I turn around, I’m breaking some rule or other.”
“I know a little about that,” confessed Jude.
“My dad is a jerk and he’s getting worse all the time. Just about everything I do sets him off. He hates the way I look, he hates my boyfriend. He just wants me to be this happy, dimwitted cheerleader – his little cookie-cutter girl. He was best friends with Frank, did you know that?”