The Iron Ring

by Matty Dalrymple

  He was still standing at the window a few minutes later, his hands in his pockets, his mind fumbling through a string of uncomfortable speculation and unappealing options, when another car pulled into the space vacated by the Impala. A red Tesla. The door opened and a woman stepped out—slender, blond-haired, and fair-skinned, wearing a blue suit and white blouse. Much to his surprise, she strode up the walk to his front door and knocked smartly on it. After a moment of indecision, he stepped to the door and opened it.

  “Mitchell Pieda,” she said, pronouncing it correctly, “my name is Rey Viklund.” She put out her hand. “I’m a friend here to help.” She had a slight Scandinavian accent.

  He scanned her thoughts. He couldn’t get any details, just a general impression of a woman on a mission. A very pretty woman.

  He took her outstretched hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “May I come in?”

  He glanced up and down the street, quiet in the late morning of a weekday. “My aunt’s asleep—she’s in bed with a cold. Let’s talk outside.” He stepped onto the stoop and closed the door behind him.

  “The police were asking you about Philip Castillo, yes?” she asked.

  He hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

  “They believe he was involved in the Pocopson fire and the death of George Millard.”

  Philip scanned her thoughts but didn’t sense anything beyond what she had said, as if she had been given a script but not the story behind it.

  “That’s what they said.”

  “And because he was carrying a document with your name on it, they suspect you have some connection to the fire.”

  “They didn’t say that.”

  “Perhaps not, but I can assure you that is the case.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I do not know myself, but my uncle knows.”

  “Who’s your uncle?”

  “A powerful man who wants to help you. Like he helped Philip Castillo.”

  “Your uncle is the person who got Castillo out of the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  Mitchell ran his fingers through his hair. “Why would your uncle help Philip Castillo and me? We’re not exactly playing on the same team.”

  “Because he has become powerful by forming alliances with other powerful men.”

  “Castillo?” asked Pieda, disbelievingly.

  “My uncle believes he has potential that has not yet been tapped.”

  After a moment, Mitchell asked, “And your uncle wants to form an alliance with me?”

  “My uncle says that your powers have already been tapped, but in no way tapped out.” She hesitated. “Does that make sense to you?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” He regarded her. “He didn’t share what my powers are with you?”

  “No. He said he had reason not to.”

  He sensed some slight irritation at the fact that information was being withheld from her, but no deception on her part.

  “And how did your uncle visualize this alliance working?” he asked.

  “It is best if he explains it to you himself, and to do so he invites you to his home.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Just a few hours away.”

  Mitchell thrust his hands in his pockets and looked abstractedly out at the Tesla.

  “When the police can’t find Castillo,” she said, “they’ll come back for you. And eventually they will find out something about you that you wouldn’t want them to find out. You can stay here,” her gesture took in the modest house, the unkempt lawn, the tacky lawn ornaments, “or you can come to somewhere that I believe will be much more to your liking.”

  Mitchell considered Rey’s offer. It was obviously not without risk, but if the police continued to dig into the Pocopson arson and murder, it was all too easy to imagine the progression of events from there: the police questioning him, linking him to the fire, investigating his ties to Louise Mortensen and Vivantem, identifying him as the person who had been at the scene when Attorney General Russell Brashear collapsed and then died of a massive stroke. In the best case scenario, he would land in prison, and he had seen enough of Philip Castillo’s memories of his incarceration that he didn’t want that to happen to him. In the worst case scenario, he would land in some secret government research facility, the subject of God only knew what experiments.

  He nodded once. “Okay.”

  “Does your aunt know about the police’s visits?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good. You can tell her that you’re taking an impromptu road trip with some friends.”

  “How long until I can come home?”

  “I don’t know, but you should plan to be away for some time.”

  “I’ll need to pack some things.”

  “No need. It’s better if we leave before your aunt wakes up. We can provide you with whatever you need.”

  “All right. I’ll leave her a note.”

  He stepped back into the house and didn’t try to stop Rey when she stepped in after him. He went to the kitchen, jotted the message that Rey had suggested on a notepad decorated with a chorus line of hippos, and put it under the salt shaker. Then he shrugged on his coat and started for the door.

  “Just one minute,” he said, and turned down the short hall leading to his aunt’s bedroom. When he got to the closed door, he could hear her rattling snore. He sensed Rey at the other end of the hallway, sensed her displeasure at this deviation from her script.

  He cracked the door open and looked in. His aunt lay on her back, mouth open, a litter of wadded-up tissues scattered over the bedspread, a spine-sprung copy of Danielle Steel open beside her. He looked in at her for a moment, then eased the door shut.

  He was humiliated to feel his throat tighten with impending tears. What had Louise Mortensen and Elizabeth Ballard gotten him into?

  18

  Andy headed into Mercy Hospital for another check on Castillo. He himself was feeling better than he had in a couple of days. In the aftermath of Owen’s heart attack, and of Lizzy and Castillo’s escapades in Pocopson, he had been doing a near-continuous circuit: Owen’s hospital room to Castillo’s hospital room to Lizzy’s hotel room. When he had a free hour, he ran over to his parents’ house to check on his parents, who had not taken the news of Owen’s heart attack well.

  Andy had gone almost two days without any sleep after the shit hit the fan. It had been an unpleasant flashback to his first rotation in the ER as a medical student, but the previous night he had gotten four uninterrupted hours and he was feeling pretty chipper.

  “Hey, Pete,” he called as he passed an orderly in the corridor. “How’s the new baby?”

  Pete grinned. “Almost as pretty as her mother,” he called back.

  Andy was actually humming when he stepped into Castillo’s room and sensed that his day was about to take a turn for the worse.

  Two men, looking like cops out of central casting, turned from the nurse to the new arrival.

  “Dr. McNally,” the nurse blurted out, “your friend disappeared.”

  After an hour in the Lenape Township police station interview room, the cops were running out of new ways to ask him the same questions.

  The older cop was taking the lead, while the younger one sat in a chair behind Andy. Maybe he was supposed to be a threatening presence, but it would have been more effective if he hadn’t looked like a grown-up Fred Savage.

  “So, the man who Mr. Castillo left the hospital with,” said Denninger. “You have no idea who he was?”

  “Nope.”

  “Or who sent him?”

  “Nope. I didn’t realize he ran with a limo-driving crowd.”

  “And you say you met Mr. Castillo in Sedona.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What were you doing in Sedona?”

  “Vacationing.”

  “And in what circumstances did you make the acquaintance of Mr. Castillo?”

  “I went to his business for
a reading.”

  “And now he’s visiting you in Pennsylvania?” asked Denninger, with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yup.”

  “Could you describe your relationship with Mr. Castillo?”

  “Nope.”

  “No, you couldn’t describe it?”

  “As I have already said—more than once—I don’t see any reason I should share the details of a long-ago vacation with you.”

  Denninger sat back, annoyed. “Dr. McNally, we have reason to believe that Mr. Castillo may have been involved in an arson in Pocopson.”

  “Doesn’t seem like his style, but who knows what he got up to when I was at work.”

  “And a murder.”

  Andy frowned. “That certainly doesn’t seem like his style. What in the world makes you think that?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t share the details of an active investigation.”

  “Then I’m afraid I can’t speculate on what felonies my friend may or may not have been committing when I wasn’t keeping an eye on him.”

  “Maybe he was working with someone.”

  “Maybe.”

  Denninger pulled up the top sheet of the notepad in front of him, glanced at the second page, then let the first page fall back into place.

  “Do you know someone named Mitchell Pieda?” He pronounced it PIE-da.

  “PIE-da?” asked Andy. “Nope.”

  “Elizabeth Ballard?”

  “This is getting tiresome, gentlemen.”

  “Dr. McNally—”

  There was a knock on the door and a uniformed officer stuck his head in. “Detective Plott, message for you.”

  The younger detective sighed, stood up, and headed for the door. “I’ll be right back, Den.”

  Denninger massaged the back of his neck with a large hand. “I’m going to grab some coffee. Any for you, Dr. McNally?”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “Milk or sugar?”

  “Black.”

  Denninger stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Andy pulled his phone out of his pocket. The cops might be monitoring what happened in the room, but without a warrant of some kind, he guessed they couldn’t find out who he had called. And with a warrant, he had enough calls to Owen from his phone that one more couldn’t make a difference.

  “Hey, what’s up?” answered Owen.

  “I’m having a little chat with the men in blue of the Lenape Township Police Department.”

  “What?” exclaimed Owen. “Why?”

  “Because they are interested in my relationship with a bunch of different people. Philip Castillo. Mitchell PIE-da. Elizabeth Ballard.”

  “Holy crap! What are you telling them?”

  “I’m telling them I don’t know anything.”

  “Do you need a lawyer?”

  “I’m thinking it might not be a bad idea.”

  “Should I call one for you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Are they listening to you?”

  “I don’t know. The guy who was questioning me just got called out of the room.”

  “Where are you?”

  Andy gave Owen the location of the police station.

  “Okay, I’m going to find a lawyer and send him over there.”

  “Thanks.”

  Andy ended the call and tried to keep from fidgeting.

  Ten minutes passed, then the cops returned, Plott in the lead and looking alarmingly enthused. Denninger followed, his hands coffee-free.

  Plott sat down in the seat Denninger had vacated. “So, Dr. McNally,” he began with a grin.

  Andy raised his eyebrows.

  “You’ve never heard of Elizabeth Ballard?”

  “I didn’t say I had never heard of her. I said the conversation was getting tiresome.”

  “Ah, that’s an important distinction, because if you had said you had never heard of her, it would be a little hard to believe.”

  “Oh? And why’s that?”

  “Because it appears she’s your brother’s ward.”

  Andy hoped his expression hadn’t changed.

  “Owen McNally is your brother, correct?”

  Andy sat back in his chair. “Gentlemen, this has been fascinating, but I’m done with this conversation.”

  Plott flipped open a notepad. “According to the county records, Elizabeth Ballard was the daughter of Charlotte Ballard, who died when Elizabeth was seven, and Patrick Ballard, who died in December during a mugging in Philadelphia. Owen McNally was designated as Miss Ballard’s guardian, although there’s no record of Mr. McNally having filed the appropriate paperwork after Mr. Ballard’s death.” He glanced up at Andy. “Seems unlikely that there would be two unrelated McNallys whose names have been connected with crimes in Kennett Square.”

  Andy stood. “We’re done here—”

  Denninger and Plott also stood, and Andy was wondering how long it would take Owen to get a lawyer to the police station when there was a knock on the door. This time the person who stepped into the interview room wasn’t the uniformed cop, but a middle-aged man wearing a loosened tie. Andy could see the uniform standing in the hall behind him.

  “Detectives, can I speak with you for a moment?” asked the new arrival.

  Denninger and Plott exchanged looks.

  “Sure, Lieutenant,” said Denninger. He turned to Andy. “Just have a seat for one minute, Dr. McNally.”

  Before Andy could respond, the three men stepped out of the room. Through a small glass window, Andy could see the uniform positioned directly outside the door. He sighed and sat down.

  Five minutes passed, then Andy could see Denninger talking to the uniform. A moment later, Denninger stepped into the room, his face red and his mouth tight.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience of bringing you down to the station, Dr. McNally,” he said stiffly. “You’re free to go.”

  Andy stood. “Not that I’m complaining, but what changed?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about. Officer Preston will drive you back to the hospital.”

  “Okay.”

  Denninger stood aside to let Andy step into the hall. Somewhere in the back of the station, Andy could hear voices raised. One sounded like Plott, one sounded like the lieutenant.

  “Sounds like young Plott isn’t too happy about the change of plan,” said Andy.

  Denninger smiled humorlessly. “Kids.”

  “They grow up so fast—one day you’ll look back fondly on this.”

  “Officer,” said Denninger, “please drive Dr. McNally back to Mercy.”

  The cop headed for the entrance, and Andy followed him out. They climbed into a police cruiser and a short time later pulled up at the hospital entrance, the cop never having uttered a word.

  Andy looked over at him. “Well, it’s certainly been jolly.”

  The cop glared at him.

  Andy climbed out of the car, which pulled away almost before he had swung the door shut. He ran his fingers through his hair, then started toward his car in the parking lot, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he walked.

  When the nurse arrived in Owen’s room, she found him typing feverishly on his phone.

  “Dr. McNally,” she said, “you can’t get yourself all worked up—it’s going to slow your recovery. Do you need me to take your phone away?”

  “No, I’ll be more worked up if I don’t have it,” he said, not looking up.

  She reached out a hand and he snatched the phone back. She rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to take your phone—not yet, anyway. I just want to take your blood pressure.”

  He surrendered his arm to the blood pressure cuff, typing awkwardly with the thumb of his other hand.

  She tutted at the reading. “Dr. McNally, you really need to—”

  Owen’s phone rang.

  “I need to take this.” He reclaimed his arm and stabbed Accept.

  She put her fists on her hips. “Dr. McNally, I really must insist—”

/>   “Just this once,” he said to her, then spoke into the phone. “I’m trying to figure out what kind of lawyer to call—”

  “Looks like I don’t need a lawyer,” said Andy as the nurse glowered, then stalked out of the room. “They let me go.”

  “What? What’s happening?”

  “Evidently, shortly before I got to Mercy, Castillo walked to the hospital entrance, got in a limo, and was driven away. How he got that far under his own steam is a mystery to me. When I got to his room, unaware that he had decided to check himself out, the police were there, and they took me to the station and were asking a bunch of questions about Philip and how I knew him and where the limo had come from. They obviously had the medical summaries for Lizzy and Pieda that Castillo got from Mortensen’s house. Then they got called away and when they came back they started asking me really specific stuff about Lizzy. They knew her mom and dad were dead, and they knew her guardian was named Owen McNally. But they must not have had a chance to do much research beyond that, because they called you Mr., not Dr. Then their lieutenant called them out, and a couple of minutes later they’re apologizing for the inconvenience and driving me back to Mercy.”

  “Why did they let you go?”

  “I haven’t any idea.” Andy had reached his car. He chirped it open and dropped into the driver’s seat. “Do you think Mortensen has that kind of pull, to get a police investigation called off? She wouldn’t want the police questioning me anymore than we want it.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so, but who knows,” said Owen. “I can’t imagine that Philip would have just walked out of the hospital and climbed into a car sent by Louise Mortensen.”

  “But if he got in the car of his own accord, don’t you think he would have gotten in touch with one of us?”

  “Yes, I would think so.”

  They were both silent for a few moments, then Owen said, “Maybe it’s not that they’re dropping the investigation. Maybe they had some other reason for letting you go. Maybe,” he said, his voice rising, “they want you to lead them to Lizzy.”

  “Yeah, it’s a possibility. But whether the cops are hoping I’ll lead them to Lizzy, or whether Louise Mortensen is spiriting people away in limos, we need to circle the wagons.” After a moment, he said, “Or send the wagons off in different directions.”