Deadly Ride

by Nic Saint

  “Yeah, she’s all alone in bed without Dad,” said Marisa.

  “She’s not in her own bed,” I said.

  They both looked at me. “So where is she?” Maya asked.

  “She’s upstairs.”

  “With Charlene?” Maya gasped.

  I grinned. “I went to get a glass of milk just now and I met Charlene in the kitchen. She was preparing sandwiches for herself and Mom. Said nobody should be alone at a time like this and invited us up.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I respectfully declined. I love Charlene, but I prefer to sleep in my own bed.”

  “Remember how we used to play upstairs?” asked Marisa.

  “It would drive her mad,” Maya giggled.

  “She’d tell us not to touch anything and we’d touch everything.”

  “I don’t think Charlene is one of those people that are meant to have kids,” I said. “I mean, she’s glad she’s got Mom and us now, but she can’t handle babies.”

  “I wonder what she’s going to do once you and Hot Cop start a family,” Maya said.

  “Me and Blane are never going to start a family, because there’s no such thing as me and Blane.”

  “She’s calling him Blane,” Maya said.

  “Yeah, I noticed that,” said Marisa. “And I also noticed how he kept holding her hand when we were sitting at Dad’s side at the hospital.”

  “And how she kept squeezing his hand all the time.”

  “Hey! I’m right here!”

  “I give it a year, tops, before Mia Junior or Blane Junior will be born,” said Marisa.

  “Or maybe it’ll be Mia Jr and Blane Jr,” said Maya.

  “Twins? Ooh, that would be great!”

  “Yeah. Like George Clooney and Amal.”

  “Blane does look like a young George Clooney.”

  “And Mia has the grace and poise of Amal.”

  “Mia Jamison,” said Marisa, rolling the words around her tongue.

  “I like it,” said Maya.

  “Shut up,” I grumbled. “Just… shut up. Blane is just a colleague.”

  “A very hot colleague,” Marisa reminded me.

  “And a very kind and attentive colleague,” Maya added.

  “Ugh. I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Stay on your side of the bed, I’m warning you,” said Maya. “No being sick on me.”

  “Once Mia’s babies are born they’ll be sick all the time,” Marisa told her. “Especially on their Auntie Maya and their Auntie Marisa.”

  “And on their great-grandmother Charlene,” said Maya with a gleeful chuckle.

  “Especially on their great-grandmother Charlene,” Marisa agreed.

  We all laughed at the thought of Charlene becoming a great-grandmother.

  “She’ll hate it,” I said.

  “Oh, so you’re admitting you’re going to have babies next year,” Maya said.

  “No, I’m not! I meant theoretically, when one of us has babies, Charlene will be a great-grandmother.”

  “I’m not having babies,” said Marisa. “Nuh-uh. I’m too young.”

  “Me too,” said Maya. “First I need to make a career. Then babies.”

  “Well, I’m too young, too,” I said adamantly. “And I think I’ve heard all about babies I ever want to hear. So let’s give it a rest already.”

  “When is Dad coming home?” asked Maya.

  “Next week, if all goes well,” Marisa said.

  “I miss him already,” said Maya.

  “Me too,” I said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Marisa admitted. “We were lucky,” she added.

  “Very lucky,” I agreed.

  I thought for a moment about life without Dad. Impossible. So I banished the thought from my mind. My sisters must have thought the same thing, because they huddled closer to me. And that’s how we drifted off to sleep. For once, Maya and Marisa weren’t at each other’s throats. A rare scene of sisterly peace.

  Just before I fell asleep, Maya muttered, “If it’s a girl, call her Maya, after me. And if it’s a boy, Clive, after Dad.”

  “No, if it’s a girl, call her Marisa,” Marisa said.

  “I’m not having kids!”

  “Or you can call her Charlene,” Maya suggested.

  “And if it’s a boy, Charles,” Marisa said with a chuckle.

  “I like it. Charles and Charlene Jamison. Nice.”

  “Right. I’m going to slap you,” I said. “Both of you.”

  “Not if I slap you first,” Maya said.

  “Or me,” Marisa butted in.

  “That’s it,” I said. “Out of my bed. Both of you. Out! Now!”

  For the next five minutes, we were engaged in a shoving match that ended with the three of us finally falling asleep, crisscross across the bed, the comforter twisted around us. And wouldn’t you know it? I dreamed of Blane Jamison.

  Chapter 29

  The next morning, while we were sitting down for breakfast, Blane came sauntering into the kitchen.

  “Dale! Sit down!” Charlene called out when she caught sight of the cop.

  “It’s Blane, Charlene,” I told my grandmother.

  “Whatever. I like you,” she said apropos of nothing.

  “That’s… very gratifying, ma’am,” he said, giving me a questioning look.

  “Charlene. I told you. Nobody calls me ma’am. I like that you fixed this Phoenix business and told her where she could stick it.”

  “I didn’t tell her anything,” said Blane.

  “Well, you caught the killer, didn’t you? That will show her.”

  “We didn’t catch the killer, Charlene,” I said.

  “No, he’s still on the loose,” Maya added helpfully.

  “You didn’t? But then why do the papers say you did?”

  “Because we thought we had the killer. And then we didn’t,” said Blane.

  A scowl appeared on Charlene’s face. “I don’t know if I like you, Dale.”

  “Blane, ma’am.”

  “What good is a cop in the family when he can’t even catch killers?”

  Blane arched his eyebrows at me. “Cop in the family?”

  “For some reason my entire family thinks we should date,” I told him.

  “The whole family, huh?” he asked.

  “I think you should date,” Maya said.

  “Me too,” Marisa seconded her.

  My mom just rolled her eyes.

  “Well, I think that’s a great idea,” Blane said, perking up.

  “And I think it’s a lousy idea,” Charlene grated, taking out a pack of cigarettes and then putting them away again when Mom gave her the evil eye. “You want a cop that catches killers, honey, not some broken machine. It’s the same thing with dogs. You want the ones that’ll catch the prowlers, not the ones that go scampering off with their tails between their legs. They’re no good to you.”

  “Did you just compare Blane with a dog, Charlene?” Marisa asked.

  “Or cats. Just look at cats. You want the ones that catch the mice. Not the lazy complacent ones that can’t be bothered, see what I’m saying?”

  Blane was shaking his head. Well, it’s not every day that you’re being compared to cats and dogs. “I’m confident that we’ll catch Doctor Reckitt’s killer, Charlene,” he said finally. “And when we do you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Frankly, I don’t think you will,” she said. “You would have caught him by now. Which just goes to show my first instincts were right.”

  “What were your first instincts, Charlene?” Maya asked.

  “That a man who’s afraid of dogs isn’t much of a man! I mean, who’s afraid of two little Corgis?!”

  “I’m not afraid of your dogs, Charlene,” Blane said, his jaw working. “I just don’t like dogs in general, that’s all. And they don’t seem to like me.”

  “Same thing,” she said, waving her hand. “So if you want my blessing for this union I’m afraid
I won’t be able to give it, honey,” she told me.

  “Nobody asked you,” I said in measured tones.

  “I think I know when I’m not wanted,” Blane grunted, and abruptly turned on his heel and strode out.

  “Blane, wait,” I called out, but he was gone.

  Charlene watched him leave, her face a mask of astonishment. “Is he mad? Did I just anger the Hot Cop?”

  “I think you did,” I said. “And given our current situation I don’t think that was a wise move, Charlene.”

  “What current situation?”

  “The lawsuit that’s hanging over your head? Remember?”

  “Oh.” Her face fell, but then she rallied. “Phoenix will settle. She always does.”

  “Not this time, she won’t,” Marisa said, reading on her iPad. “She gave an interview to the Sapsucker Times, saying she’ll have her day in court this time.”

  “Nonsense,” said Charlene. “That woman is full of crap.”

  “And so are you,” I said, a little more vehemently than I’d wished. I got up from the table and headed out.

  “She really likes the cop, doesn’t she?” I heard Charlene say as I left the kitchen.

  “Yes, she does,” Mom replied. “So you better watch your mouth, Mom.”

  “I always watch my mouth. It’s people misinterpreting my words is what’s the problem.”

  I hurried after Blane, and caught up with him as he left the house.

  “Don’t listen to Charlene,” I said. “She’s crazy.”

  “I wouldn’t say she’s crazy. Just a little eccentric.”

  “Which is just another way of saying she’s crazy.”

  He grinned. “I guess so.”

  “So why did you come?”

  “I wanted to be here when our suspects check out,” he said with a shrug.

  “To rub your own nose in our failure?”

  “Something like that.”

  We walked in the direction of the hotel. “I still think we’ll get our guy—or woman,” I said. “It’ll just take a little more time.”

  “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I went through all of their files again.” He shook his head, his face grim. “Nothing. No connection between them and the murdered woman. It’s almost as if the killer just picked a random person for the heck of it.”

  “Which is entirely possible.”

  “But very unlikely.”

  We’d arrived at the hotel, and I saw that Sophronia Hucklebridge and Sebastiane Magg were out in front, loading their suitcases into a taxi. They were going to share a cab. How nice.

  “And there go my two favorite suspects,” I said.

  We watched both women get into the cab and drive off.

  “In a strange sense your grandmother was right, you know? I mean, a cop who can’t do his job? That’s not much of a cop.”

  “You do your job just fine, Detective Jamison,” I said. “In fact I think you’re a great cop. Don’t let Charlene get to you. She always does this. She intentionally needles people, hoping they’ll retaliate. It’s how she gets her kicks.”

  “Well, she definitely got to me,” he said.

  We took a seat on a bench across from the hotel, on the other side of the circular driveway. In the center of the small rotunda a fountain had been erected topped with a statue of a woman with the exact same wasplike waistline as Charlene. Out of her mouth, water gurgled and streamed down two ample breasts, barely concealed by her shirt. Not many people noticed the statue, as they were more focused on entering the hotel when they arrived, or leaving it when they checked out. Actually I’d never taken a lot of notice of it myself. But now that we were sitting there, I thought it looked a touch too provocative for a family park. Then again, her bosom and big hair were Charlene’s trademark.

  “Is that Charlene?” Blane asked, pointing at the fountain.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “At least with all that water coming out of her mouth she can’t talk.”

  I laughed. “Welcome to the Charlene fan club.”

  “I was a member of the Charlene fan club until I met Charlene. Nah,” he added. “Forget I said that. She’s a true diva, and I admire that about her.”

  “Even though she just called you a lousy dog and a lazy cat?”

  He spread his arms. “The woman has no filter! She had a diva moment, and if I can’t appreciate that about her, what kind of a guy would I be?”

  I smiled as I studied his profile. He was right. Just let Charlene be Charlene. What else were you going to do? She was never going to change.

  “Hey, look. My favorite suspect is coming out.”

  Morrison Burlet and his girlfriend Clorinda stepped out, both wearing sunglasses. They looked pretty tired. That makeup sex had worn them out. They got into a taxi and drove off. As they passed by the bench, I could see they were fighting again. Maybe he’d been giving compliments to the receptionist this time.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I never liked him as a suspect.”

  “So who do you think did it?” he asked, turning to me. “I mean, just follow your gut this time. Give me the first name that pops into your head.”

  “A client,” I said.

  “A client?”

  “Imagine a singer going to Doctor Reckitt for help. His vocal cords are shot. His career is on the line. She’s his last resort. If she can’t help him, his life is over. So she performs her magic. She checks his throat. Finds a nodule or whatever they’re called. She does the operation and… messes up. It’s a rare thing but it happens. No surgeon has a perfect score. They all mess up from time to time. So she messes up with this guy. Before, he still had hope, now he doesn’t. He’ll never sing again. When he opens his mouth, instead of a pure, beautiful sound that entrances millions, only a hoarse bleat comes out. It’s a complete disaster. It’s the end of his life.”

  He was following me with rapt attention. “And?”

  “And now imagine we’re years later. He visits Charleneland and gets on a ride. And who would he see but Doctor Reckitt. The physician who ruined his life. Who wrecked his career. He feels anger bubbling up. Rage. He’s followed her career from afar. Has read how she saved hundreds of voices. How she treated all the big stars and got accolades from them all. Why didn’t she save him? It’s just not fair. So he gets on that ride and an idea suddenly occurs to him. He’s taken this ride before. He knows all about the emergency button underneath the seat. He knows about the Pit of Doom. Why not kill her? Why not just unhook her harness and watch her plummet to her death? Like she made his life spiral out of control by botching the operation? And so he does. He kills her. And finally he’s free.”

  “Wow,” he said. “That’s an amazing story.”

  “Well, it’s a theory that occurred to me last night as I was sitting with my father. Being surrounded by all that medical equipment brought home to me the fact that the one distinctive trait about Anny Reckitt was that she was a voice doctor. That was what she was famous for. Her career was her life. She never married, never had kids, because her patients were her kids. So…”

  “So?”

  “So I just figured her death might be related to her profession.”

  He sat back, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But we went over all of the suspects. None of them ever came into contact with Doctor Reckitt.”

  “Unless they changed their name,” I told him. “Which would stand to reason if they were famous once and lost all of that after a botched operation.”

  “Did you find any information on that?”

  “None. And even then, Colleen would have recognized them, right? She was her sister’s assistant all these years.”

  “Yeah, and when we showed her the pictures she said she’d never seen any of them before.”

  “Which just tells me it’s another dead end.”

  “Maybe not. We’ll just have to talk to Colleen again. Ask her if she remembers if her sister ever had a patient who lost their voice like that.”

&
nbsp; At that moment, Colleen Reckitt walked out of the hotel, looked left and right, and then stood waiting, presumably for a cab ride to the airport. Moments later, she was joined by Dom Mathie, shuffling out of the entrance. They exchanged a few words, and then lapsed into silence. Finally, Johann Warrilow stepped out, glanced over at Colleen and Dom, and gave them a nod. He lit up a cigarette and stood there, smoking, putting some distance between himself and the others.

  “I didn’t know he smoked,” I said.

  “Lots of people smoke. Your grandmother smokes.”

  “You caught that?”

  “Yeah. She has nicotine fingers.”

  “You know, from the moment I saw him, Johann Warrilow reminded me of someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Remember that story about the Wonder Years actor who supposedly had gone on to become Marilyn Manson? Only he didn’t?”

  “Yeah, he’s a lawyer now, right? The guy who played Kevin Arnold’s best friend?”

  I nodded, and suddenly noticed something remarkable. Colleen Reckitt was watching Warrilow intently. Suddenly she walked over to him and said something. He smiled and shook his head. But she insisted. The noise from the fountain was too loud to overhear them, but I could see Colleen was getting upset, and the smile disappeared from the attorney’s face as she kept repeating something over and over again. I focused on her lips, and then I caught it.

  “Leonardo Brooch!” I suddenly bellowed. “He’s… Leonardo Brooch!”

  “Who’s Leonardo Brooch?”

  When you’re the granddaughter of a famous singer, there isn’t a lot about the music business you don’t know. I remembered the story of Leonardo being told as a cautionary tale each time singers came to visit Charlene and stayed for dinner. And now I could see the resemblance.

  “About thirty years ago there was a child singer. I think he was ten or eleven. He was just amazing. Had a voice like an angel. He was suddenly everywhere. There are still videos on YouTube. Charlene used to show them to us. All the girls were crazy about little Leonardo Brooch. And then suddenly his voice broke, and he disappeared. His career faltered and he just… poof… went off the grid. One day he was number one on the Billboard Top 100 and the next he was gone. Nobody ever heard from him again, and a lot of artists over the years wondered what happened to him. It’s the typical tale of a boy with a voice like an angel whose voice suddenly breaks when he hits puberty and so does his career.”