Daughters and Sons

by Tom Fowler

  Kormos stirred on the floor but didn’t try to sit or stand. I peered down at him. Blood covered his mouth. His cheekbones looked like he had run into a wall until the wall grew tired of him. I saw several of his teeth scattered on the linoleum. It would do. I crouched near him, close enough for him to see and hear me, but far enough away so he couldn’t grab me. He raised his head. “Who are you?” Kormos whispered as blood sputtered on his lips.

  “Someone who likes the whore and the fat fuck.”

  “What do . . . you want?”

  “To teach you a lesson. Have you learned it yet?” Kormos nodded. “Good. Next, I’ll have to teach your buddy Jackson a lesson, too.” I unsnapped the Sig and showed it to him up close. His eyes went wide and followed the muzzle as I made a show of moving it around. “If I ever have cause to visit you again. . . .”

  “You won’t.”

  “I’d better not.”

  I put the .45 away, picked up the dented and bloodied can of Coke Zero, and gave Kormos one more shot for good measure. Then I left.

  Chapter 26

  After leaving Kormos’ house, I went home. This had been a tiring night and morning. I took a quick shower and managed to get back into bed before eleven. I spent a few minutes reliving the encounter with Anthony Tyler. As I anticipated our meeting in my head, I expected him to fight back more. I looked forward to inflicting serious injury before I shot him. In the end, I did neither. I could live with it.

  I harbored no particular objection to shooting people if the situation called for it. When I first arranged this job with my parents, I expected to do most of my work at a keyboard. I did some from my chair, but most of my cases required my boots to hit the streets of Baltimore and for me to interact with other people. Many of them proved unsavory. Some attempted to hurt me. A few tried to kill me. Shooting someone who’s threatening your life is an easy decision. It took me a while to accept it, but I knew it was true. Shooting Tyler in cold blood, no matter what he did thirteen years ago, would have been different. My conscience—such as it was—couldn’t carry the burden. It took thoughts of my sister for me to realize this fact.

  I lay awake a while longer. Several days went by since I’d talked to my parents. Even then, I only spoke to to my father. Yes, they’d lied to me. Yes, I thought their rationale was flimsy. Ultimately, they’d suffered more than I did. Rich had no doubt updated them by now. I would need to speak to them again at some point. They shouldn’t hear their daughter’s murderer was at long last arrested from Rich, even if he slapped the cuffs on Tyler.

  Sometime soon, I would call them. I thought about that conversation as sleep finally came for me.

  * * *

  I woke up close to one in the afternoon. I couldn’t remember the last time I rose so late without the influence of alcohol, a woman, or both the prior night. I strolled downstairs to find Gloria stretched out and reading on the couch. She smiled at me as I walked into the kitchen. “No kiss for your girlfriend?” she said.

  “I never kiss before coffee,” I said.

  “You’ve done a lot more than kiss before coffee.”

  “Not after the night I put in.”

  Her smile faded, replaced with a frown of concern. “What happened?”

  I told her about what transpired after I came back from the alleys and Anthony Tyler. “Jesus,” she said. “Sounds like a trying night.”

  “I hope I never have one like it again.” I brewed a half-pot of coffee. The smell of the percolating beverage washed over me. I waited for the sweet release of caffeine.

  “What are you going to do today?” said Gloria.

  “Eat some breakfast. Or lunch, at this point. Visit Joey and Melinda again. And I want to find Jackson McMurray and stop all this.”

  “What if he won’t listen?”

  “I’ll take Rollins with me,” I said. “Between the two of us, I’m sure we can get him to see reason.”

  “I like your odds,” Gloria said.

  I fumbled around in the fridge, looking for something to make for brunch. Options were not in abundance. I’d burned through most of my groceries. I ended up whipping an omelet together and ate it with coffee and toast. When I finished, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number. “C.T. Ferguson?” a stern voice said.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Captain Dobbs with the Maryland State Police.”

  “What can I do for you, Captain?”

  “There’s going to be a hearing for your PI license.” He sounded very matter-of-fact, almost like he were reading off of a cue card.

  “When?” I said.

  “Tomorrow morning, Baltimore Police Headquarters, oh-nine-hundred. Do you need to reschedule?”

  “No, I’ll be there. Do I need a lawyer?”

  Dobbs paused. “Up to you.”

  “Do people normally bring lawyers in these situations?”

  “We don’t have these situations often,” he said.

  I could tell Dobbs wasn’t going to be any help. Oh, well. I decided against a lawyer right then and there. I didn’t know how much value James Snyder would add. I would take my chances. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

  “Have a good day,” Dobbs said and hung up.

  “You, too, you cheery bastard,” I said to the empty line.

  “What’s going on?” Gloria asked from the kitchen doorway. I told her about the hearing and my decision on counsel. “You sure you don’t want to take James with you?”

  I shrugged. “I did what Tyler is accusing me of. If it costs me my license, so be it.”

  Gloria sashayed over and kissed me. “I’ll go with you. At least you’ll have a cheering section.”

  “Can you dress up like a cheerleader?”

  “We’ll save that for after the hearing,” Gloria said with a sly grin.

  * * *

  I dropped in to see Joey. He was half sitting up in bed, still looking like he’d gone ten rounds with a jackhammer. A tray of food sat on the table over his bed. Joey picked at it. I’d never seen him attack food so slowly. It could have been the nature of hospital fare, or it could have been the effects of his beating the night before.

  “If you ate like this when I took you out, my food budget would be cut in half,” I said as I walked into the room.

  Joey smiled weakly. He could open one of his eyes wide enough to see, at least. The other remained mostly shut inside the mass of swelling and discoloration surrounding it. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he said. “When they let me out of here, I’m going to eat like a prince.”

  “On my dime.”

  “I think my regal status just got upgraded.”

  “How are you?” I said.

  “Feeling a little better. Still foggy, but they tell me it’ll clear. I avoided permanent injury, at least.”

  “I found the guy who did this to you and Melinda.”

  “Yeah?” he said, his tone perking up.

  “He’s going to need some facial surgery and dental work.”

  “Good. Fuck him and the horse he rode over me with.”

  I stayed for the rest of Joey’s meal. As far as I could tell, he ate a beef-like substance covered in something approximating brown gravy. The carrots and corn looked mildly appetizing but—being vegetables—went largely ignored by Joey. We chatted for a little while, and then I went down the hall to see Melinda.

  Like Joey, she picked at her meal. Melinda flashed a small smile when she saw me. I doubted she could manage more. Bruises still dotted her face. I wondered how long it would be before she looked like the very pretty woman she was before Kormos battered her.

  “How are you?” she said in a small voice.

  “Interested in how you’re doing,” I said.

  “I’ll survive. I hope to be out of here in a few days.”

  “Glad to hear it. I found the bastard who did this to you.”

  “And?”

  “He’s going to be eating through a straw for a while.”

 
“Good,” Melinda said, fire flashing in her eyes.

  “He’s one of Jackson’s friends,” I said. “He’s the same guy who beat up Joanie in the alley.”

  She sighed and sagged back onto the bed. “So Jackson sent him after me.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Have a chat with your former step-brother.”

  “I know him, C.T. He can be obsessive. I’m not sure he’s going to back down easily.”

  I shrugged. “I think I’ll be able to persuade him.”

  “Please be careful.”

  “I will. I’m going to look for him when I leave. If he’s not at his house, do you know where he would be?”

  Melinda shook her head. “We haven’t been close in years. I wouldn’t know anymore.”

  I nodded. “I’m going to find him. I want to follow him and see where he goes. Rollins and I will talk to him soon.”

  “Remember your promise.”

  “I will,” I said.

  Melinda exhaled a mirthless laugh. “How messed up is it that I don’t want him dead?”

  “Families are interesting things,” I said.

  * * *

  GPS trackers are wonderful inventions. With the device I put on Jackson McMurray’s car, I could find him down to about two meters. My map showed him in Fallston, though several blocks from his own residence. The house was nestled in a hoity-toity community called Todd Lakes. The homes were even more pretentious than the name. Each sat on a generous plot of land and featured more rooms than a European palace. Brick covered most exteriors, and columns running up the façades were a common feature. Just for a Roman gladiatorial touch, I supposed. These homes went for five times what I paid for mine and could swallow it whole a dozen times over, but I would still take my place over some sprawling monstrosity in a development called Todd Lakes. I remembered what George Carlin said about guys named Todd. The same rules applied to prissy communities.

  I followed the road and saw Jackson’s silver Benz parked at the top of a winding driveway. Perhaps his mere Mercedes did not meet the price-tag requirements to enter the four-car garage. Bentleys or above. I pulled to the curb and looked at the house. Two stories, brick front, overlook balcony, ridiculous square footage. It was the kind requiring at least two servants, one of whom would be polishing the marble of the first floor on a continuous loop. A mailbox at the end of the driveway displayed a name in large block letters.

  Davenport.

  I closed my eyes and sighed. Why would Vincent Davenport be in league with the man who did such terrible things to his daughter? Families were interesting things indeed. I moved to the other side of the street and down a bit from the Davenport estate. I could see the residence and the garage. There didn’t look to be a lot going on, and I wasn’t equipped for a stakeout. I didn’t want to leave and run the risk of something happening, so I called Rollins. He agreed to meet me and to bring the necessary supplies.

  He joined me about forty minutes later with a bag of drinks and snacks. Rollins parked his truck a ways down the street and joined me in the Audi. “So he’s staying with the girl’s father?” said Rollins.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Some weird shit.”

  “Their family dynamics just keep getting stranger.”

  I drank some Gatorade and munched on honey roasted peanuts from a large bag. A few minutes later, neighborhood security cruised to a stop alongside us in a four-door sedan no one in Todd Lakes would let their dogs be seen in. Two fairly imposing men in the front seat scrutinized Rollins and me. The driver was Hispanic. The guy doing the heavier scrutinizing was white and portly. “Can we help you fellas?” he said. Normally, I would hold up my PI badge, make a pithy remark, and all would be well. Without the badge, my remarks would be less pithy.

  Beside me, Rollins pulled out a badge and held it up. “Just doing our jobs.”

  The security guy squinted at the badge and nodded, apparently satisfied. They drove off without further comment.

  “Real badge?” I said.

  “Sure,” Rollins replied.

  “How did you get it?”

  “Military Police. No one ever looks closely enough to tell.”

  “You were an MP?”

  “For a while, toward the end of my time.”

  “Shouldn’t you have turned it in?” I said.

  “Oops.”

  We watched the house for a while. Afternoon rolled into evening, and dusk descended. Rollins fidgeted in the passenger’s seat. “I want to check out their place and the terrain,” he said. “I get the feeling we’ll be coming back here to finish this mess.”

  He got out of the car, padded across the street, and made his way across Vincent Davenport’s grounds. For such a large house, the lack of a fence surprised me. Then again, with Todd Lakes’ crack security patrol, who really needed a fence? Rollins kept low and ran past the side, then disappeared up a hill behind it. About a half-hour later, he came back, appearing alongside the home as if he’d been there all along. He ran back down to the Audi and got in, barely breathing hard.

  “Good terrain,” he said. “The back of the house is a lot of windows. The hill goes on for a while. Good vantage point down to them, anywhere from 500 to about 1000 meters.”

  “So you want to take a sniper rifle up the hill?” I said.

  “You’re better dealing with the family than I am.”

  “Sounds like we need to make a plan, then,” I said.

  So we did.

  Chapter 27

  Before Rollins and I could go back the next night, my hearing beckoned. I woke up early, showered, had breakfast, and pondered my suit options. I own quite a few. Despite the space they consume in my closet, I rarely wear them. Each added to a nice collection, and I like having choices. Gloria stirred on the bed behind me. I considered asking her, but her soft snoring changed my mind. My goal is always to cut a sharp image in a suit, but I didn’t want to look too good. I wanted to go for “well dressed but not too opulent or self-important.” I opted for basic Brooks Brothers navy.

  Gloria remained asleep when I needed to leave, so I let her rest. I made it to BPD Headquarters without hitting a lot of traffic, parked, and walked inside. My hearing was in a meeting room on the floor below where bigwigs like Captain Leon Sharpe maintained offices. I got off the elevator and lingered in the area. A secretary found me after a few minutes and encouraged me to wait in a nearby leather chair. I accepted.

  The chamber door swung open a few minutes later. My panel already sat in there. I couldn’t take it as a good sign. A state police official I’d never seen before told me they’d be ready for me in five minutes. Six minutes later, he came back and invited me inside. The room could only hold a smallish meeting, or with some conversion, a hearing like this one. Three tables pushed together at the front formed a bench for my panel. I occupied one table as did the person playing the role of the prosecution, who happened to be the trooper who summoned me inside.

  My panel comprised three people: an unknown man and a woman, both clad in state police dress uniforms, and Leon Sharpe. At least I would get one vote in my favor. Maybe the state folks put Leon on the panel so it wouldn’t be a shutout. I walked to my table, trying to ooze the right amount of confidence with every step, and sat in a low-backed leather chair.

  The woman, sitting in the center of the panel, called the meeting to order by banging a gavel. It was an actual gavel, too, not a crab mallet, which is a popular stand-in for non-official proceedings and fantasy football leagues. These folks were making this as formal as possible. I never really considered the possibility I would lose my license. I knew I would be OK with it if it happened—finding Samantha’s killer was worth the price—but for the first time, I saw it as likely rather than a distant possibility.

  “I’m Major Tompkins,” she said, looking at me. “This is Captain Hardy, and you know Captain Leon Sharpe of the Baltimore Police.” I nodded. “The man present
ing the case against you is First Sergeant Brooks. Do you have any questions before we begin?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said.

  “I will remind you, Mr. Ferguson, that this hearing is to determine whether you should continue to hold a private investigator’s license in the state of Maryland. This is not a trial. I am not a judge, and you are not under oath. However, we expect you to be honest with us. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Let’s begin, then. Sergeant?”

  Brooks stood up, smoothed his shirt, and cleared his throat. “Major, Captains, I’m here today to present evidence C.T. Ferguson should lose the privilege of his private investigator license.” I disagreed having the license constituted a privilege but figured an objection would be tacky. Brooks wrung his hands, shoved them into his pockets, and continued. “Mr. Ferguson flouted the law and violated Anthony Tyler’s civil rights when he detained, threatened, assaulted, and nearly killed him in an alley. Mr. Ferguson planned these actions in advance.” Sharpe peered directly at me. I gave a small shrug with one shoulder.

  “I will now move on to questions. Mr. Ferguson, did you lure Anthony Tyler into a Baltimore alley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Under what pretense?”

  “I told him to meet me, or I would tell the police what he did thirteen years ago.”

  “And what did he do thirteen years ago.”

  “He killed my sister.” I watched the panel for reactions and got none. Not encouraging. “And maybe other people, as well.”

  “And you can prove he killed your sister?”

  “Enough to make him come to Baltimore.”

  “Why not go to the police?” said Brooks

  “Because you did such a bang-up job catching him thirteen years ago.” Major Tompkins cleared her throat. “She was my sister. I wanted to take care of it.”