Daughters and Sons

by Tom Fowler

  Two hours into the case, and it had already bottomed out. It gave me an idea: I dealt with someone who saw bottomed-out people and heard horrible stories all the time. Maybe he would strike a spark of an idea and give me a new avenue to pursue. I looked at my watch. I knew he’d be asleep, but I didn’t care.

  I got in the car again.

  * * *

  I banged on Joey Trovato’s door three times before I heard footsteps. Joey pulled open the door as far as the chain lock would allow. He looked at me through bleary, half-closed eyes. “C.T.? What the hell are you doing here?” Joey looked at his wrist, but it held no watch. “It’s . . .”

  “Halfway to oh-dark-thirty, I know,” I said. “Can I come in?”

  Joey undid the chain lock and pulled the door open. His right hand, hidden the whole time, held a 9MM handgun. Normally, I would make a crack about the pizza guy getting aggressive for a tip, but I didn’t have it in me tonight. “What’s going on?” Joey walked into his living room and plopped onto his recliner. The air hissed out of the cushion in protest.

  I sat on the couch and turned a lamp on. Joey squinted in the brightness. “You remember my sister,” I said. Joey and I remained friends since grade school.

  “Sure,” he said. “It’s been a long time, though.”

  “Thirteen years tonight . . . last night, by this time.”

  “Wow. I didn’t realize. My bad.”

  I waved it off. “Joey, my parents lied to me for thirteen years. Last night, my father told me Samantha was murdered.

  “Holy shit.” Joey’s eyes went wide. “Why did they keep it from you all this time?”

  “Some bullshit about protecting me. Even if they thought I needed it at the time, they’ve wasted plenty of opportunities to tell me over the years.”

  “Wow, this is fucked up.”

  I looked at Joey. He was a black Sicilian of good humor—with allowances for being awakened at odd hours—and better appetite. After Joey’s parents died in a car accident—less than a year after Samantha’s death, in fact—my parents always hosted him for holidays and special occasions. They all liked each other. He might feel like he owed them something—something other than an enormous food bill. “You didn’t know, did you?”

  “What?” he said, looking genuinely surprised at my accusation. “No way! I would never keep something so important from you.” Joey looked back at me. “Never.”

  “All right,” I said. I believed him.

  “What can I do?”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything you can do at this point. It’s a thirteen-year-old case. I’m going to look into it as best I can, but it’s possible I won’t be able to uncover anything new.”

  “Let’s say you do. Let’s say you find the son of a bitch who killed her. What are you going to do?”

  “Shoot him. Right in the face. I want to see his expression when it happens.” I pictured the scenario in my mind. “I want to see the knowledge etched in his eyes he’s getting what he deserves.”

  “You’re not a killer, C.T.,” Joey said.

  “We both know I’ve pulled the trigger.”

  “Different situations.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “I can be a killer this time.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You trying to talk me out of it?”

  Joey shrugged. “You do what you think is right. If you do it, let me know when it goes down. I’ll need a little time to prepare an alibi.”

  My smile was real for the first time since hearing the news.”Thanks, Joey.”

  “What are friends for, right? Look, if I’m going to be awake, I’m going to put some coffee on. You want any?”

  “Sure. I think I’ll be awake for a while, too.”

  * * *

  Joey always demonstrated good taste in food, which showed in his waistline. His discernment extended to coffee. He brewed an Italian roast (“never trust the fucking French to make anything,” he said), to which I added some sugar and milk. It’d been a long day and longer night, and I needed the caffeine to take the edge off of everything. The warmth cascaded down my throat. If it did nothing for my alertness, at least it tasted good.

  We sat at Joey’s breakfast nook. He owned a proper dining room table, but the smaller one worked for our impromptu tête-à-tête. Joey, never one to let any situation pass without food, crammed half of a bear claw pastry into his mouth. I long ago lost my surprise at Joey’s capacity to eat. How he maintained the physique he did was a mystery. Joey wouldn’t win any fitness contests, but his girth belied some actual conditioning, like a lineman in football. I wouldn’t wager on Joey to win many races, but I knew a few people in better shape I’d pit him against, especially if a table of hot dogs awaited at the finish line.

  “What are you going to do now?” Joey said when he finished chewing and swallowing his daily allotment of carbs and empty sugars.

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “You working anything else?”

  “I started looking into something for a hooker.”

  “A hooker? A bit outside your usual clientele.”

  “Rollins referred her to me. She says she’s being stalked. He didn’t see it but asked me to look into it.”

  “Did you?”

  “I talked to the girl,” I said. “She seems sincere enough, but who knows? Besides, I have a more pressing case now.”

  “You have a picture of her?” Joey said.

  “Why, you need a party date?”

  “No, I’m wondering if she’s a past client. It’s not like I’ve never helped a hooker before.” Joey worked in the field of identity management in a very specific way: he knew how to create new identities for people and set them on the road to a different life. He worked with people who’d bottomed out and owned little but a bad beat story and the wherewithal to cover the fees.

  “I do, actually. Rollins texted me a picture.” I queued it up on my phone and showed it to Joey.

  “Pretty.” His eyes scanned the picture. “The hair’s a distinctive shade of red. Hard to tell in the shot, but I’ll bet she has nice tits.”

  “She does.”

  “Probably helps in her line of work.” He paused. “What are you going to do if this girl really does have a stalker?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Understandable. I know you want to find out who killed Samantha, but even you said the trail is cold. It’s not like it’s going to be consuming your every waking minute.”

  “Only my every thought.”

  “Not true. Gloria will bend over to pick something up, and I’ll bet your thoughts shift.”

  “They would.”

  “So you can still find the time to help this hooker.”

  “Why do you care if I do?”

  “Kinda like you, I help people when they don’t have much other recourse. I guess I’m a softie.”

  “Certainly around the middle.”

  “You’re hilarious.”

  “OK, I’ll make some time for Ruby. I can’t make her the priority, though. Sam has to come first.”

  “You look at the police report yet?”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. Of course. Even though my parents said otherwise for thirteen years, Samantha in fact was murdered. Someone found her body. The police would have investigated. Even if they found no compelling evidence to point to a suspect, they would still have notes and findings I could review. I knew what I would do when I got home. “No, but thanks for reminding me,” I said. “I didn’t think about it.”

  “You’ve got a lot on your mind.” Joey tore into another bear claw.

  “I have. Thanks, Joey.”

  “What are friends for?” Joey said around a mouthful of pastry.

  Chapter 5

  I got home again, closed the door, and headed to the office. During the first case I worked, my cousin Rich, then a uniformed sergeant with the BPD, left me at his unattended computer long enough for me
to snag its IP information. Since then, the BPD’s network has been my digital playground. Rich knows I access the network, but he never reports it or tries to stop me; huffing about it seems to temper whatever moral obligation he feels.

  I accessed the BPD’s network and prowled for anything I could find on Samantha. Nothing. I couldn’t be surprised. What detective would have a thirteen year-old case file on the corner of his desk, waiting for a day with nothing else to do so he could dig up what no one unearthed before? I double-checked myself but didn’t find anything on the second sweep either.

  Despite the coffee I drank at Joey’s, weariness settled on me. My eyelids felt heavy, and my eyes grew dry if I stared at anything too long. I heard Gloria pad down the hallway. “Still at it?” she said, coming into the office. She wore one of my T-shirts, which fit her like a short nightgown.

  “I have to be,” I said.

  “You need to sleep.”

  “I need to find out who killed my sister!”

  “C.T., it was thirteen years ago. How do you know that whoever killed her isn’t already dead? Or in jail for doing something else?”

  Her point was valid. “I don’t,” I admitted.

  “It’s almost four. You’ve been at this for hours. You’ll be able to do a better job once you’ve had some rest.”

  “I feel like I’m letting her down if I give up and go to sleep.”

  “You’re not giving up. You can try again tomorrow.”

  I looked at my monitor. A whole lot of nothing stared back at me. I’d spent hours tilting at a windmill after I left my parents’ house, and all I discovered were the names of two reporters. Like Samantha’s killer, they could have died in the intervening years. If they still lived, I doubted they’d be receptive to being awakened in the middle of the night by someone asking about articles they probably forgot writing.

  “All right,” I said. “Tomorrow.” I got up and walked to where Gloria stood. She grabbed my hand, squeezed it, and smiled. I let her lead me upstairs, where I fell asleep almost as soon as I lay down.

  * * *

  The next morning, I rolled over to find Gloria gone. The alarm clock showed me it was 10:30. I’d slept about six and a half hours. It would have to do. I used some mouthwash and went downstairs. Gloria sat at the kitchen table drinking orange juice. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said with a smile. I felt a dark cloud stir and blow away as she smiled at me.

  “How long have you been up?”

  “Long enough to get breakfast.” Gloria pointed to the counter near the coffee maker. “I picked up some things from Panera.”

  “I knew I loved you for a reason,” I said as I investigated the bag. I grabbed a wheat bagel and popped it in the toaster. While it browned, I poured a cup of coffee and noshed on a fruit danish. I put butter and jelly on half the bagel and peanut butter on the other.

  “What are you going to do today?” Gloria said as I joined her at the kitchen table.

  I sipped some coffee. “Try to approach this rationally,” I said. “Last night, I went after things half-cocked. If I’m going to find out who killed my sister, I have to be smarter.”

  “That’s good to hear. I didn’t want you to burn out or do something reckless and get hurt.”

  “I’m probably lucky I didn’t.”

  “What are you going to do about the hooker you were working with?”

  “I don’t know. Hope she doesn’t need me much for a while, I guess.”

  “What if she does?” said Gloria.

  “This is more important.”

  “I know it is to you, but she might need you.”

  I nodded. “I know. I guess I’ll talk to Rollins. Maybe he can keep an eye on her for a while.”

  “He needed your help with this, remember.”

  “I figured you’d be happy I wasn’t spending so much time with a hooker.”

  Gloria chuckled. “I’m not worried about that. I only know she’s someone who needs your help.”

  “I get it,” I said. “I’ll make time for her. But Samantha’s case is the priority.”

  “I understand.” Gloria said the phrase a lot recently. Maybe this time, she actually did understand.

  After I finished breakfast, I went upstairs, showered, and got dressed. Shortly after I got back downstairs, someone knocked at the door. I looked through the peephole. Rich stood on my front step. I didn’t want to see him, but I knew he’d persist until I answered. Might as well get it over with. I opened the door. “What do you want?”

  “Can’t I simply be making a social call?” he said.

  “After last night? No.” I moved aside and let Rich in.

  “All right, your parents asked me to come by. They’re upset and—”

  “They’re upset?”

  “I see you are, too,” Rich said.

  I pressed him. “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Sure, but I would still listen to reason.”

  “Maybe if I heard something reasonable, I would.”

  “Your parents are trying to show good judgment.”

  The urge to roll my eyes was too strong to overcome. “They should have told me thirteen years ago or any time since. They’ve had plenty of chances to do the right thing.”

  “They feel really bad about last night, C.T.”

  “So you’re their olive branch,” I said.

  “Something along those lines.”

  “Can I break you and send you back?”

  Rich now rolled his eyes. “I get you’re pissed, but because someone killed Samantha doesn’t change the fact she’s dead or her family should gather to remember her.”

  “She was your cousin, too,” I said. Even though Rich came in, we still stood in the doorway. Maybe he expected me to give him the heave-ho at any moment. “She always said she thought of you as the big brother she never had.”

  “You know I thought of her as my little sister,” he said,

  “I’m surprised you’re not more upset by this sudden revelation.” I glared at Rich. He looked away quickly and then met my gaze. “You knew, didn’t you?”

  “What?” he said, trying to sound innocent.

  “You knew!” I insisted. “All this time.”

  “I’m just trying to look at the big picture here.”

  “Bullshit! You knew, and you didn’t tell me, either.”

  “We wanted to protect you,” Rich said, parroting a line I never wanted to hear again. “You took her death so hard.”

  “You should have told me,” I said. “Even if they didn’t, you should have.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Rich said with a speculative nod.

  “Get out.” I pointed toward the door for emphasis. “Get out of my house.”

  “I came by to help you.”

  “And a fine fucking job you’ve done of it so far.”

  “There’s a cold case file,” Rich said. “It’s not on the network. If you want it, you have to go to Records.”

  “Then I will.”

  “Our best detectives worked Samantha’s case.”

  “Rich, you should know by now I’m better than your best people.”

  “You’re going to need to be,” he said.

  “I will be. Now get out. Go back to the ivory tower and conspire with my parents some more.”

  “Good luck.” Rich moved onto the front step.

  “Thanks.” He was about to say something else, but I closed the door in his face.

  * * *

  I’ve looked at cold case files before. They’re archived in a box (or multiple boxes) in the basement of the BPD, where the sun never shines, and the sergeants never smile. BPD members can check out the files and work on them. PIs like me can look at them there and make notes but can’t leave with the file. I needed to take Samantha’s data with me. Simply strolling out with it didn’t strike me as a feasible plan. I walked into BPD headquarters, went downstairs, and tried to devise a strategy.

  Sergeant Kelly looked at me from behind th
e cage as if seeing me for the first time. It had been a while, but I hoped I’d be more memorable. It would have made snookering him for the file easier. Alas, I played the hand I was dealt. “Good morning, Sergeant Kelly,” I said, giving him a winning smile.

  “Morning,” Kelly answered in his best monotone. I’ve gotten warmer receptions renewing my driver’s license. So much for the smile. I might have to practice it in front of a mirror when this case ended.

  “I’m here to look at a cold case file.” I put my ID on the desk.

  “Name?”

  “Ferguson. Samantha Elizabeth.”

  He wrote the request down, then looked at my ID. “Any relation?”

  “My sister.”

  Kelly nodded and walked back into the archive room. I’d only glimpsed it through the door. Endless metal shelves held file boxes whose names and numbers didn’t correspond to any system I knew. I drummed my fingers on the desk as Kelly searched for the file and emerged a couple minutes later with a box in his hands. He set it on the desk. The thud didn’t make it sound too heavy.

  “Sign here,” Kelly said, pointing to a box on the records form.

  I affixed my signature. “Considering this is my sister’s file, do you think I could leave with it? I’ll bring it back.”

  Kelly flashed me a thin smile. “It doesn’t matter if it’s your mother’s file.” He paused like he was stringing me along for something. “Normally.”

  “Normally?”

  “I’ve been told you can take the file with you.”

  I blinked. “Really?”

  “Hey, I just work here,” he said. “I get the call . . . I do what the man says.”

  “Who’s the man?”

  “Does it matter? Take the box and do your best. We still want it back when you’re finished.”

  “I’ll bring it back,” I said.

  “You’d better.”

  I left with the box. Did Rich set this up? He knew about the cold case file. Did he have enough pull to swing this? Despite him being a fast riser in the department, I doubted he’d amassed quite so much clout. No, I harbored a sneaking suspicion who arranged this, and I would need to thank him. I called Captain Leon Sharpe’s office, and after speaking to his secretary, got connected to the man himself.