by George Jehn
Woody’s face matched Ingrid’s as he pointed a fat finger at Rhodes. “Scamming you? Fuck you, asshole. We just finished dinner together and you offered me a job. Who the hell you think you’re dealing with; some lowlife scumbag?” Calming down, he asked aloud, “What the hell am I going to do?”
“Maybe you can get your job back?”
“No fucking way. Especially after what that bitch, Shepard said.”
“What exactly did she say?”
“That’s not important. All I know is they won’t rehire me.”
“I can’t help you. I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna do?”
“Remember, do not take any of the money,” Woody reiterated. “He probably knows exactly how much and if you do...”
“Shit. I was going to hold back enough to tide me over and pay for my place ‘til I can, hopefully flip it.”
“You know, you make selfishness into an art form. Do not do that! We don’t want the little guinea coming after us! It’s bad enough that without a job I won’t be able to make ends meet. If I know your sister, she’ll probably force me to sell this joint and who knows what comes next?”
“I gotta go,” Rhodes said.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Erik returned to his dump motel a different person, a stick figure with a jumble of blond hair and lots of lost innocence. He grabbed a bite at a fast food joint down the block, but it just floated in his stomach. He watched TV for a while, but sleep wouldn’t come. Fully dressed, with head wedged between two musty pillows he constantly tossed and turned. He had to escape this garbage heap, find a pay phone and call Christina, disguising his voice in case the cops were listening in. He’d meet her at some out of the way place, tomorrow after he had the money.
She was still out sick and the news he had to impart would certainly make her feel better. He’d passed a bank of phones at a gas station, so he drove there after getting quarters from the same slimy desk clerk. Maybe I should boil the coins before using them? He dialed her number and put in three quarters. Would that gorilla David answer? Instead, another male voice identifying himself as Officer Spinelli picked up. Erik thought it was a joke, but when the cop gave his badge number the anticipation turned to foreboding. Was Christina arrested? Were they interrogating her, now? Would he be next? He played dumb. “Sorry. I was trying to reach a friend at this number, Captain Christina Shepard.”
“Are you a member of the immediate family?”
Erik recalled the night the cops questioned him. This was the same tone of voice. “I’m just a flying buddy who called to say hello. Is everything all right?”
“I’m sorry, but Ms. Shepard passed away earlier today.”
All Erik could blurt out was, “This some kind of sick joke?”
“Right now, all indications point to a major seizure-related head injury.”
“What…?”
“I’m sorry. What did you say your name was? Perhaps you can shed some light…”
Erik slammed down the receiver. Christina dead? The news hit him like a blast of red-hot jet exhaust. He felt helpless, but since there was nothing more he could do, he returned to the motel. After saying a silent prayer, he was wide awake and also paranoid that Woody or his partner might attempt some shit. While pondering the faceless concrete wilderness surrounding his room, he continually glanced at the dial of the small clock permanently affixed to the scarred night table, its luminescent numbers seemingly glued in place. He traced the trails the cars’ headlights left on the ceiling over and over, like bright rivers running through the crevices of a mountain range. Occasionally a car would stop. Would the flimsy door come crashing down? Was Christina really dead?
. . .
Per the norm, Juni and Angela Rosario began their routine before sunrise. It was a rough night, as his thoughts kept returning to what he’d heard on Fox News. A well-known woman pilot, Captain Christina Shepard had died from head wounds associated with a fall during an apparent grand mal seizure. As he sat at the kitchen table barely picking at his breakfast, Anita asked, “You okay?”
“I got so much shit on my mind…”
“About the bakery?”
“Lots of stuff.” Although media interest in Christina’s death would quickly abate, Juni knew this was a personal tragedy that would drag him down further. Pondering this he said, “Funds are so low I don’t know how the hell we’re going to make it. Antonio must sense something’s wrong, because he’s considering dropping out of school to work here and I don’t want that.”
“He and I spoke about it,” Angela replied, “and he wants to help.”
“But if he stays in school he can have a better life.” A moment later Juni stood up, went to Angela and put his arms around her. “My family deserves better. If I’d ratted out the prick at the bank none of this would’ve happened. Not a day goes by I don’t regret it.”
“You did what you thought was right.”
Juni softly kissed her, went into the spanking clean bakery, switched on the fluorescent sign and the world knew the Genoa Italian bakery was open for another day.
. . .
Like flying westbound into a strong jet stream, Erik felt the dawn would never reach its final destination. At first light, he breathed a sigh of relief. As daylight took possession of the outside world, the wind ceased blowing through a crack in the window molding and the low-hanging mist vanished, seemingly sucked up into the air. As the longed-for light finally burned through the yellowed curtains, Erik prayed this personal nightmare would end, soon. When he looked into the mirror, even though the eyes staring back were badly swollen, they could pass muster. He stepped outside into the still dank air, cautiously glanced around and saw nothing out of the ordinary. After throwing his belongings into the back seat, he hoped this would be the end of a crazy scheme hatched by Christina Shepard, seemingly a lifetime ago. He started the car and a nearby diner provided temporary solace, even though the rock-hard English muffin along with three cups of acid brew didn’t help his stomach.
He circled Woody’s place twice and nothing appeared amiss. There were no other cars in sight including the Benz, so he pulled up directly in front. With nerves and muscles on full alert, he cautiously approached the front door and almost jumped out of his skin when it abruptly swung open. Woody was standing there, arms folded as if showing he had nothing to hide. Ingrid stood beside him along with four upright, large green duffels.
“There it is,” Woody gruffly said.
“Open them,” Erik demanded, somewhat surprised by the confidence in his voice.
Woody fumbled, but did as told.
“Turn them toward me. How much?”
“Every last dollar, approximately two point three million.”
“It better all be there. Put the clips back on and hand ‘em to me.”
A sniveling Woody added, “You know that ‘cause of you I’m going to lose everything. I already resigned from Shuttle Air and thanks to what fucking Shepard said, they won’t take me back.”
“That’s great. I gain a seniority number. Plus, you’re a lousy pilot anyway, so everyone will be safer.”
The color drained from Woody’s face and Ingrid began to utter something, but Erik’s words shut her up. “It wasn’t your money to start with.”
There were lots of questions in her eyes as an obviously agitated Ingrid finally snarled, “How do we know you won’t tell your cohorts?”
“I’m afraid you don’t and that’s exactly the way I want it because you didn’t only steal, you’re also guilty of murder.”
“Murder? You’re a fucking head case!” Ingrid hollered. “That thug buddy of yours didn’t die. Even you—”
<
br /> “Christina Shepard is dead. Complete silence. “And the way I see it, you’re as guilty as if you shot her.”
“Dead? How? Was she murdered?” an ashen-faced Woody asked?
“Read about it in the newspaper.”
Neither Woody nor Ingrid uttered a word.
Erik took a step back and stared from Woody to Ingrid. “I’m speaking for Christina when I say I hope you go to bed every night for the rest of your lives wondering who might be comin’ for you.” Erik watched his words sink in, hoping they would ultimately percolate down through their gray matter and remain with them as he clumsily picked up the bags. This seemed all too easy? While dragging the bags to his car, he felt like a cowboy in a John Wayne movie, with a rifle sighted on his back. But he fought off the impulse to glance over his shoulder. Once the bags were in the trunk, he looked back at the still-open doorway, as empty as a tomb.
As Erik drove away, Ingrid said, “He’s got the money, but you think he’ll tell his buddy?”
“I hope not.”
“Yeah, but he said...”
“Goddamn it, Ingrid. I heard what he said. But he probably cut his own deal and left that guy out. He’s as guilty as we are.”
“I pray you’re right. We should have removed a few hundred thousand for ourselves.”
“Oh, really? And what happens if I’m wrong, he does split it and his partner doesn’t get his full share? You heard what he said yesterday about Stephanie. Instead, you’d better be thinking about how the hell we’re going to make ends meet. We’re flat broke, on our asses, and—”
“On our asses? Screw you. First, it was the Navy where they wouldn’t let you fly ‘cause of your boozing. It was just a matter of time until the same thing caught up with you at the airline. Now, we’ll add this to your list. I thought I’d married into the big time with you, but the bush leagues would be more appropriate. I called the real estate and they’re putting our house on the market, tomorrow.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Once the victim’s identity became known, Daly and Morganthaler were immediately summoned to the Burger King. As Daly donned his gloves and glasses and gazed at the body, he recalled how incredibly beautiful Christina Shepard was in life. It bothered him to see her body covered with blood from a gaping head wound. The NYPD crime scene forensic technicians were just finishing up with their measuring, scraping and photographing and were ready to remove the body to the morgue. Morganthaler knew one, a nerdy-looking, thin Medical Examiner with a pencil mustache and thick glasses who was dressed in a jacket about five sizes too large. “What’s it look like?” he asked the ME.
“Pending the final autopsy findings, it appears she had a tonic-clonic seizure and struck, then snapped her head back hard on the railing,” he said, pointing to the area where customers stood in line waiting to be served. “Preliminary findings point to a ruptured major external carotid artery to the brain and she bled to death, both internally and externally.”
Daly just sighed, relieved she didn’t lose control of bodily functions as frequently happens. Morganthaler ordered her apartment roped off and the two cops drove there to search in the hope of finding some clues to the robbery. After ducking under the yellow tape, the first thing they noticed was a package in the mailbox. Opening it, they saw it contained a bottle of a prescription medication called Keppra sent by a mail order pharmacy based upon a prescription written by a Doctor Friedman. However, it was addressed to a Miss Megan Bauer in care of Christina Sheppard. Was it sent by mistake? That was doubtful. The only error was in the spelling of Christina’s last name. They were puzzled because they’d been told the only other person who lived here was Bennedeto.
They gloved up and began at the rear of the cheerless house, working their way forward from the kitchen. The place smelled of dirty carpet and had more than a few areas of dust. More than living quarters, it better resembled somewhere to hole up from the real world. The dank bathroom, a nasty-looking place with oozing toothpaste on the counter, a cracked soap dish and strands of creepy-looking black mold throughout, was so small both men couldn’t fit in at the same time. Daly entered and found a free sample bottle of Gigotor with the name of the same Doctor Friedman on it. “Who and what do you suppose this is for?” he asked Morganthaler, holding the bottle up to the light. “And who the hell is Megan Bauer?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea. Why don’t you call the doctor?”
“Let me first check with our lab people.” Daly phoned the FBI’s New York lab, gave the guy who answered his badge number, a brief background and read off the names and prescription numbers. A few moments later the technician said both medications were primarily used as seizure prevention medications for people with epilepsy. Daly then called Doctor Friedman, gave the background, his FBI shield number and explained why he was calling. “Is Christina Shepard a patient of yours?”
Friedman quickly checked his records and relayed that he had no patient by that name.
After Daly gave him a physical description, the neurologist said he had another epilepsy patient who fit that description and who lived with a Miss Sheppard.
“I know you can’t give me the name of this other patient, but did she pay for her visit with health insurance?”
“No. She paid cash. She claimed she had no insurance.”
Daly was now starting to get the full picture, thanked the doctor and hung up. He sat down and phoned O’Brien. After discussing Shepard’s death, asked, “Do you know if she had epilepsy?”
“She’s been out sick for a while with a cold or something, but, epilepsy? No. She couldn’t have. That permanently disqualifies a pilot from flying.”
After thanking O’Brien, he hung up.
Continuing their search, they found a checkbook and bank statements in the kitchen hutch, along with several overdue Con Edison electric bills and letters threatening to shut off the power. Daly noticed a telephone phone bill lying on the kitchen table and scanning the long distance numbers showed several made to area code 612, Minneapolis. That piqued his interest, so he called the number and after identifying himself and giving his badge number had a conversation with Mimi Johansen. After relaying what happened, she informed them Shepard was her adopted daughter’s biological mother. This news came as a surprise and was followed by a lengthy discussion with Laurel, who filled him in on the history and Christina’s epilepsy. She went on to tell him an anguished Christina had told her she feared she could no longer afford to pay her college tuition due to her disease. This was not the sign of a person who had stolen over two million bucks. Daly thanked her and hung up. “I just can’t understand this,” Daly said to Morganthaler. “She needed money, but although the motives are present, there’s zero evidence pointing to any involvement.” Morganthaler just nodded his head.
In the living room, Morganthaler pointed to the empty space on the wall where the large screen TV and stereo were located on their last visit. He mumbled to Daly, “I wonder where those went?”
“I don’t know, but they’re not anywhere in the house. It appears that lowlife Bennedeto also left because there is no male clothing in the drawers, or anywhere.” They checked and discovered he had called in sick for work.
“Let’s pay that dirtbag a visit.” They drove to the Brooklyn address he had previously provided. A dark-haired, scantily clad young girl answered their knock. After flashing their credentials, she reluctantly let them into the small apartment where the stale air smelled like dirty feet and unwashed bodies. They hollered out to Bennedeto and impatiently waited in the tiny hallway where the once beige-colored carpet looked like people had been wiping their mud-caked feet on it for years. Morganthaler took out his pad and asked the girl, “What’s your name?”
“Mary. Mary O’Rourke
, sir” she stammered.
He jotted it down. “How old are you?”
“I’m, uh, eighteen,” she finally managed, not looking at him.
“You don’t look eighteen.”
“I am,” she maintained, staring at her bare feet.
“Give me your address.”
She complied and a moment later David emerged from the bedroom clad in boxers and put his arm around her waist.
“You guys just won’t stop harassing me. Whaddaya want now?”
Daly spoke. “You know anything about what happened to Ms. Shepard?” Morganthaler tapped Daly on the shoulder and pointed to two items off in a corner of the apartment while David had his back turned.
“What happened? I haven’t even spoken with that bitch. What kind of bullshit did she feed you?”
“She’s dead.”
“Dead! What the hell happened?”
“We thought perhaps you could enlighten us?”
David put up both large hands as if to stop them. “Now wait one goddamned minute. We broke up a while back and—”
“Shut up and put your hands down,” Morganthaler ordered, detecting a large chink in Bennedeto’s phony armor. “When did you steal these? Were you lookin’ to make a quick buck?” pointing to the stack of TV and stereo equipment.
“Those are mine,” he shot back in the same tone of voice a man would use if he’d been caught by his wife with a naked hooker.
“Oh really? Perhaps then you can explain how Ms. Shepard had previously showed us credit card receipts in her name for those.”
“I, I don’t know—”
The young girl put her hand to her mouth. As he roughly spun David around and placed handcuffs on him, a sneering Morganthaler took out a small card and brusquely read David his Miranda rights. “At this time you’re being arrested on suspicion of aggravated burglary of one giant screen television and a surround sound stereo system.” Pointing to the young lady he added, “You are also suspected of engaging in sex with a minor. You may remain silent and are entitled to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”