Maggie’s stomach had turned each time the image had invaded her thoughts. And each time, she’d scolded herself for letting Corrigan do her job for her.
“I’m calling about a bunch of twenty-year-old autopsy reports,” she told Elkin.
“You called the right person.”
Maggie explained about her attempt the day before to access the Grigoryan family’s autopsy reports online, and failing.
“That was a long time ago,” he said.
“And before your time, I know.”
“Makes no difference. If they’re not in the database, they’ll be in deep freeze. All our paper files went into cold storage during the switchover from the old facility. Did you submit a report request?”
“I got kind of sidetracked, to be honest.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll check right now.”
“Thanks, Maury.”
“No problem. Always happy to serve the greater good.”
She heard the sound of keystrokes, a mouse clicking, then Elkin saying, “This is strange. We don’t seem to have any records relating to the Grigoryan family.”
“Maybe it was before computers.”
“Was there such a time?”
“I believe so, in the dark and dismal past. I remember hearing scary stories about it as a child.”
She heard him laugh. It raised her spirits a little.
“That’s all well and good,” he said, tapping more keys, “except for the fact that everything in cold storage is cataloged in the database. We’re talking records going back before you and I were twinkles in our fathers’ eyes. All serial numbered and cross-referenced.”
Maggie sat up in the beach chair. “You’re saying the files are missing?”
“No, Maggie. I’m saying they don’t exist.”
“But . . .”
“Even if they were inexplicably missing, the catalog entries would still be in the system. And there’s nothing.”
“The reports were never filed.” Maggie’s thoughts began to spin.
“Not so fast,” Elkin said. “My guess is, the reports were never done. And I’ll tell you for why. Preston Dobbs was the chief examiner back then. Dobbs was the epitome of fastidious. You should read his notes sometime. They make quantum physics papers seem like easy bedtime reads. If those bodies came through District Nine, trust me, Maggie, there would be extremely detailed reports to prove it. Since we don’t . . .”
“They were sent someplace else.”
“Which then begs the question of why?”
“The obvious answer,” Maggie said, “is to hide foul play. But that’s not the half of it, Maury. There were a dozen firefighters at the scene that night, as well as paramedics and police. Neighbors. Eyewitnesses who saw those body bags being wheeled out on gurneys. According to reports, five partly cremated corpses were removed from the ashes that night. And now you’re telling me that none of them made it to the coroner’s office.”
“Sounds like something out of a good horror chiller, doesn’t it? However, there is one other possibility.”
“Fake corpses.” Maggie was already there, her heart rate quickening. There were no reports because there were no real bodies. “You can’t do an autopsy on a mannequin,” she said. “It’s the DoJ.”
Spartacus lifted his head, one eyebrow raised at her.
“Sounds like you’ve reached the middle of your maze, Maggie,” Elkin said. “I’ll leave you to find your own way out, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I know you’re busy, and I appreciate the brainstorming session. Thanks, Maury.”
“Anytime.”
Next, and with the adrenaline beginning to surge, Maggie called Nick Stavanger, her neighbor, on his desk phone at the Orlando Chronicle.
Nick sounded busy, and grumpy. Then again, grumpy seemed to be his default setting of late. She could hear the chatter of people and the clatter of keyboards in the background.
“You left me standing at the altar,” he said as he answered. “Forced me to drink more scotch than is good for me or anyone else for that matter.”
“Nick,” she said, cutting right to the chase. “I need to pick your brain.”
“What’s this? No polite persuasion first? No easing me in and warming me up with a seductive fib about how much you value our friendship?”
“You know we’re besties. Now and forever. It goes without saying.”
“All right. Better. But you owe me an evening with a movie, and soon.”
“How do you figure that one out?”
“Because it’s long overdue. We’re beginning to lose touch. Drift. I’m lonely.”
“So get a pet.”
“With my allergies? And besides, I’ll only forget to feed the little critters. And then they’ll go the same way as the indoor plants I forget to water. Compost all the way down.”
Maggie found herself smiling.
The last time she’d agreed to a movie night in with Nick at his place, he’d made her sit through the whole of Titanic as well as the supplemental documentary. Worse still, he’d provided a running commentary all the way through, with spoilers.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll do a movie. But on the condition I get to choose which one this time.”
“Deal. So long as it contains an element of dancing and a handsome leading man, I can live with that. Okay, let’s hustle. What do you need my help with?”
“Do you still speak with Casey?”
“You know I don’t still speak with Casey. That ship has long since sailed and floundered on the rocks.”
“I was hoping things might have changed.”
“Does the sun shine at night? Casey and I haven’t spoken in . . .” Maggie heard his words trail away, sensing that he was beginning to grasp the true nature of her question. “Okay, Detective. What do you need Casey for?”
“I was wondering, does he still work at the US Marshals Service?”
“As far as I know.”
“I need you to call him for me,” she said, braced to cringe if Nick’s response came back acerbic.
“What part of we don’t talk anymore don’t you get?” he said, his tone only slightly strained. “I’m not sure he’ll even take my call.”
“Try, for me?”
She heard him sigh heavily. “If this was anyone else other than you . . .”
“I know, I know. It’s expecting a lot. I get it. Honestly, I do. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I’m sorry, Nick, for putting you in a position. It’s just that . . .”
“What else are friends for, right? Okay. What is it you need from him?”
“Confirmation.”
“About . . . ?”
Keeping it simple, and insisting that she was speaking off the record, Maggie told Nick about Dana Cullen’s murder and the victim’s previous life as Rita Grigoryan, as well as Maggie’s brand-new emerging theory that the house fire on Oak Street twenty years ago was staged.
“Why?” he interrupted before she was done.
“As part of a bigger cover-up.”
“You know I despise conspiracy theories.”
“I know you like a good mystery.”
“Fair point. Continue.”
She told him about the lack of autopsy reports, and hearing Rita’s dad, Big Bob, on the answering machine, and how it confirmed to her his true identity. She refrained from going into too much case detail; she didn’t want Nick mapping out column inches in his head just yet. She knew he’d ask for an exclusive later. And he’d get it, of course, no questions asked. He always did. But he’d have to wait.
“Aside from magic and miracles,” Nick said when she was finished, “what are we thinking here?”
“WITSEC.”
“Witness protection? Interesting.”
“It’s just occurred to me, after speaking with the ME. The Grigoryan family are in the Witness Security Program. It neatly explains why their deaths were faked in the house fire, the family’s relocation,
and the name change.”
“And you need Casey to confirm it, one way or the other.”
“If possible, yes. Without landing himself in hot water, that is.”
“What’s wrong with submitting an official information request? I’m sure the DoJ will play ball with OCSO on matters of this nature.”
“Because it could take weeks, that’s why. Plus, this way, two birds are killed with one stone. I get the information I need faster . . .”
“And I’m forced to speak with my ex. You’re terrible at matchmaking, Detective.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
She heard him pause.
“Nick?”
“No, you’re right,” he said. “Thinking about it, WITSEC makes perfect sense.”
“Why do I feel there’s a but coming?”
“There isn’t. I was just flashing back to being twenty-five again and writing stories from the mail room. The Grigoryan fire was hot news back then—forgive the pun. Big Bob was a huge character in this town. People were stunned by the tragedy. I remember my editor mentioning Big Bob and the Moreno family in the same breath more than once.”
“The crime syndicate?”
“One and the same. What do you know about the Moreno clan?”
“To be honest, not a lot. They were before my time. I do know they ran organized crime from Miami to Jacksonville. A drug empire built on slashing prices and the throats of anyone who got in their way.”
“The very definition of a cutthroat reputation. Correct. It was never made public, but a few people at the paper suspected Big Bob was their accountant.”
Maggie scooted to the edge of her seat. “I never knew.”
“It was just an in-house rumor, and hardly anyone took it seriously. But now that you’ve brought it up, in this context, I’m inclined to believe it.”
Maggie’s thoughts shifted up a gear. “Big Bob turned state’s evidence. It’s the only way his family would be offered witness protection.”
“Which makes sense when you know that the Moreno kingpins were sent to Supermax less than six months after the house fire.”
“They were? How did nobody make the connection?”
“I guess because the house fire was old news by then. Look, Maggie, this is excellent stuff. When can I print it?”
“You can’t!”
“And that particular word combo isn’t in my vocabulary.”
“I mean it, Nick. Do not print this. Wait for my all clear.”
“But this is twelve inches of pure pleasure above the fold.”
“Nick, I said hang fire.” Her phone vibrated in her hand. “Looks like my sergeant is trying to get through. I have to go.” She disconnected the call, then drew a big breath before answering. “Hey, Sarge. What’s up?”
“I’m at the courthouse,” he said in her ear. He sounded in a bad mood, flustered. “Before you butt in like you usually do,” he said, “just listen. This is important. Pay attention. I just got off the phone with the Feds. They got a hit on the gun report you submitted.”
Maggie pressed the phone tight to her ear. “That’s great.”
“Not so fast, Detective. The serial number comes back to a gun that was reported stolen over twenty years ago. A gun registered to Ronald Novak of Wineberry Court.”
Maggie’s heart blazed, and she almost dropped the phone.
“Do you have an explanation,” Smits continued, “for why your father’s revolver was used in a homicide that you just happen to be investigating?”
Chapter Twenty-One
GIVE AND TAKE
Maggie was still staring disbelievingly at her phone when she sensed Steve coming toward her.
“That look on your face,” he said as he stabbed his board into the sand. “Should I be worried?”
“Smits just pulled me off the case.”
He picked up a towel, rubbing it over his hair. “What? Why would he do that?”
“Conflict of interest.” She stuffed her phone in her pocket. “I need to go.”
Steve put out a hand. “Hey, Maggie, wait a sec. Go where? Back to Orlando? But we just got here.”
“It’s my dad . . .”
“Your dad?” He dropped the towel and came to her. “Is he okay?” His hands were cool against her bare arms.
“No. Yes. I mean, he’s probably fine. At least, he is right now. I’m not sure how long it’s going to last, though. Not when he hears what I have to say. Have you seen my purse?”
He pointed to the back of her beach chair. She went to grab it, but he held on to her, preventing her from going very far. “Maggie, listen to me. You’re not making much sense. Has something happened to your dad?”
She looked up at him, mind whirling. “Remember I told you about the murder weapon we found in the kettle grill—the gun that killed Dana Cullen?”
“Yes.”
“It’s his.”
“Your dad’s? But that’s . . .”
“Crazy impossible, I know.” She shook her head, as though the action would anchor her runaway thoughts.
“Wait a minute. He didn’t . . .”
“No!” It was laughable, the idea that her father had anything to do with Dana’s murder. But Maggie wasn’t laughing. “I really need to go,” she said, slipping free from his grasp.
“Did you try calling him?”
“You know what he’s like. He never answers his phone.”
“Do you want me to come with?”
“No,” she said more forcefully than she meant. “I’ve messed up your day enough as it is.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I do.”
She knew it was too much to ask of him to abandon his day of surfing. Not when he was already here. She’d vowed to treat Steve’s feelings with equal respect. It would be unfair to expect him to keep sacrificing while she kept taking. Sooner or later, that kind of setup broke apart.
“Then take the car.” He said it without hesitation.
She paused gathering up her things. “What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll catch a ride home with one of the guys.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.” He retrieved the car keys from the cooler and handed them to her. “It’s a full moon tonight. And the guys are talking about a midnight surf. Go, see to your dad. Keep me posted. I’ll pick up the car in the morning. Just do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Take Spart with you?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
BACKSEAT DRIVER
Maggie spent most of the drive back to Orlando trying and failing to reach her father by phone. Knots in her stomach and questions stacking up in her thoughts. For the life of her she couldn’t figure out how her father’s revolver had ended up being used to kill Dana.
But it had.
Robbie Zeedeman’s ballistics test had matched the bullet that Elkin had retrieved from Dana’s corpse to the gun found in Cullen’s backyard. And the FBI had matched its serial number to her father’s revolver, stolen from the family home when Maggie was just seventeen.
Maggie kept asking herself, What are the chances?
One in a million? More?
How many guns were there in the state of Florida alone? And how many of those had been used to commit murder? What was the likelihood of her father’s revolver being used to kill the grown-up version of her childhood friend?
“Miniscule,” she told Spartacus, who was snoozing on the back seat.
He raised an ear and an eyebrow simultaneously, then settled back down when he realized no treats were in the offing.
More than twenty years between the gun’s disappearance and the Halloween Homicide. Two decades in which the gun had stayed under the radar, as good as lost, forgotten.
Where has it been all this time?
Not in Cullen’s outdoor grill, that’s for sure.
At speed, Maggie took the on-ramp to I-95, setting the Tahoe’s cruise control at eighty.
What did she remember about the theft of the gun?
Maggie had a hazy recollection of the gun going missing, but nothing significant about the actual details of the theft itself—probably because she hadn’t been privy to it at the time.
Like many teenagers, Maggie had been wrapped up in herself, engaged in a life of self-service, happy to move within her own sphere of influence, taking the mechanisms of her family home for granted. It wasn’t her fault. At seventeen, she lacked the brain connections to properly think like an adult. She came and went as she pleased, mostly oblivious to anything that didn’t concern her directly. Even something way out of the ordinary, like the theft of her father’s gun, hadn’t broken through the minutiae of regular life. As a result, she had no memory of the house being broken into, or of the police coming to visit afterward. She did remember her parents arguing about the gun being stolen, it seemed for weeks after, chiefly because her mother had been particularly critical of her father’s blasé gun security, and it had put her in a prolonged bad mood that had affected Maggie.
For years, Maggie’s father had kept the revolver in an antique lockbox on a shelf in his closet. A small wooden case with swirling patterns in the walnut veneer and shiny brass corner braces. Throughout their childhood, the box had been off-limits to the children.
Touch at your own peril and suffer the consequences.
Maggie remembered her father fetching the box every now and then, setting it carefully on the coffee table in the living room, where he would spend what seemed like all afternoon polishing the steel and lubricating the cylinder, all the while giving them a lecture about the physics of propellants and the ballistics of projectiles.
She remembered Bryan sitting cross-legged on the carpet, his tongue licking fervently at his lips, his eyes as big as goose eggs as he watched their father at work, fingers itching to get ahold of the gun. By default, boys were fascinated with firearms, and Bryan’s excitement was palpable whenever he was allowed to spin the empty cylinder and snap it back in place. In those days, Bryan had worn a toy pistol around the house, stuffed in a Billy the Kid holster, always ready to defend the homestead from marauding Indians. To Bryan, their father’s revolver might as well have been Jesse James’s original Smith & Wesson. Something to be idolized. Used.
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