Читать книгу When Angels Fail To Fly - John Schlarbaum - Страница 11

The problem with giving your heart to someone is not knowing in what condition they’ll give it back. Maria, followed closely by my ex-wife and now Linda, had all entrusted me with theirs and each had lived to regret it. Sadly for Samantha, she had paid the ultimate price for loving me.

Today I had the unenviable task of warning Maria I may have put her in a risky situation. I also needed to ask if she would help me track down the mysterious Jarvis Larsh and, in the process, Linda as well.

The call went as well as could be expected. Being told your life may be in danger would shock anyone. To then be advised this threat had nothing to do with you personally, aside from your association with someone evil—me—would be even harder to comprehend.

“So, you want me to drop everything and just run off out west with you to search for this Jarvis Larsh person?” There was a long pause. “I don’t know, Steve,” Maria finally said. “I’m still trying to make sense of what’s happened lately.”

I could hear the conflict and doubt in her voice.

“I know I’m asking a lot, Maria,” I started, “but I honestly feel you are in some danger and the best way to protect you is to have you with me.”

“Did you ever think maybe I don’t need your protection? I have plenty of people here in Delta who will watch out for me,” Maria stated, somewhat forcibly. “What if Max threw our names into the mix as motivation to start your investigation?”

“I’d rather be safe than sorry,” I countered. “I don’t like all the coincidences lately. First, Max tries to get hold of you, instead of finding me directly. Then a mysterious person videotapes Linda the night she vanished. Next, someone associated with Max begins stalking me and leaving packages at my back door.” Simply recounting these details gave me the chills. “And finally, Max referenced you and Linda, implying something terrible would happen if I didn’t take his case.”

“But you are taking his case,” Maria said, “so his threat is an empty one.” As I pondered the logic of this, she added, “Do you really think Linda disappeared, Steve? Isn’t it possible she decided you two were through and cut the cord? Is there any evidence she was taken against her will?”

“No, it’s just a feeling I have.”

“When you were a cop, did you ever get a feeling about someone you knew for certain was guilty, only to find out later they had nothing to do with the crime?”

“Yeah, sure, but—”

“Maybe all these interlocking coincidences are just that. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I know what you’re trying to say, Maria. Still—”

“When you came home to find Linda gone, was your first thought that she had been kidnapped? Of course not.”

“That was before all these other incidents occurred,” I interrupted her. “At first glance every crime scene appears to be a random act, until you learn the culprit had a connection to the victim. In my heart I believe Linda left me of her own free will, but until I see her again my mind believes there’s a connection to Max and, by extension, you.”

“I get the whole Max-Linda connection. She was your fiancée. What I don’t understand is how you think Max could get you to do anything because of me. Until six months ago, we hadn’t spoken in years—a fact I seriously doubt Max even knew. What kind of leverage am I? Why not threaten some other girls from school like Shari Taylor or Lauren McCain? It really doesn’t make sense.”

I am losing her, I thought. “I think it’s because of something I told Max the day before I left Delta. The day of my mother’s funeral.”

The silence on the phone line was deafening. Even though we had talked about our feelings for each other during the Barry Jones investigation, I wasn’t sure how she’d respond to my confession to Max, so many years ago.

“Which was?” she asked slowly.

I took a deep breath and began to unburden myself.

“Prior to the start of the service, I had told Max of my plans to leave town. When asked if you knew, I said you didn’t and swore him to secrecy. He told me the idea was dumb and that I shouldn’t do such a thing to you.” I hesitated, hoping Maria would say something. Greeted by sustained silence, I continued. “We looked over at you crying in the front pew and at that moment you gave me one of your angelic smiles of encouragement. Even with this sign, I told Max I believed I was doing the right thing. Then I said if anything ever happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, because I would always love you, no matter where our paths would lead.”

Maria’s response was quick and brutal.

“I’m utterly stunned, Steve,” she said coldly. “First, I think you’re delusional to believe that little speech registered in Max’s mind. And secondly, I’m having a hard time believing you made that statement.”

“You think I’m lying?”

“I think you’re trying to manipulate me into going on this human scavenger hunt.” She let out an angry sigh and added, “My heart is telling me you did say that to Max, because you followed through with your escape plan. Still—”

“I swear it’s true.”

“—my head is screaming, It’s a trick! That you’re toying with my emotions due to our past. It’s all very confusing.”

I didn’t reply immediately. I was guilty of her last charge and we both knew it.

“You asked me why I thought Max would use our relationship against me and I told you,” I said. “But regardless of his motivations, the fact remains he brought up your name in a menacing manner and I think you’re at risk.”

“I can’t do this right now. I have to think about it and talk it over with someone,” Maria replied, her voice agitated.

“With Trudy?” I inquired, knowing Wayne’s insufferable wife would certainly talk her out of coming with me.

“With someone,” came the short retort. “It’s complicated.”

“Okay, I guess.”

“When are you leaving?”

“I was thinking Tuesday.”

“I’ll call you Monday afternoon.”

“Maria,” I implored, “you might be in real—”

“I can take care of myself,” Maria interrupted me. “Max isn’t going to harm me or Linda before your investigation starts. Like most of the events of the last few days, that doesn’t make any sense.” Her tone softened a bit. “I promise I’ll call Monday.”

The line went dead.

I placed the phone in its base and realized I had lost Maria for good. The only thing we really shared was our idyllic few years of high school together. In the decade-and-a-half since, I had ignored her, frustrated her, angered her and confused her. Who was I to think I had any control over her? I knew she would call Monday but figured I should start making solo plans, as there was no way she would be accompanying me anywhere, anytime soon.

***

With only time to kill, I decided I might as well start looking through Max’s box of investigative fun, hoping to uncover some buried clues I could use to shortcut this strange assignment.

I took the various folders out one at a time, carefully removing every piece of paper to make sure there were no hidden bugs, bombs, or surprises attached to them. After inspecting the box’s inner walls, I replaced all the folders, except the one marked POLICE REPORTS, which I set on the kitchen table. Finally, I put the box in a corner, not wanting to be reminded of it—out of sight, out of mind.

The contents of the box formed the prosecution’s case against Max, plus a few items he felt supported his case. I knew from experience the arrival of this cardboard container often meant the end of the line for a defendant. After seeing the evidence collected against them, many criminals swiftly embraced the plea-bargain route. Obviously, this did not happen with Max, who probably fought this charge tooth and nail using his ill-gotten funds to buy his own legal dream team.

I cracked open the POLICE REPORTS file, somewhat fascinated to learn how the jury came to its Guilty verdict. Max was right when he suggested I look at this as a cold case. I was disgraced off the police force before I made Detective, a rank I knew I could have achieved in time. Maybe now I could use my skills from my bad old days as a copper to bring peace to my present convoluted life.

“Good luck with that, pal,” I said to the kitchen appliances.

I began to read Officer David Morse’s handwritten notes from Tuesday, June 23, 1992, at the Upstate Medical Building. After finishing his entries and subsequent formal report, the case against Max seemed solid. At approximately 10:38 p.m., an unidentified male called 911, reporting a woman had been thrown off a 23^rd floor balcony. The caller stated he had witnessed this crime from his 24^th floor office across the street. He further claimed he saw a male in his 30s, with bleached blonde hair and a medium build, arguing with the red-headed female on the balcony. During this fight, the male appeared to be very angry and was screaming at the woman. It was then he hauled off and hit her in the face, causing her to lose her balance and fall over the safety railing to her death. This male was wearing a black turtleneck shirt, black jeans and dark-coloured shoes which had a white stripe on the side.

I stopped reading and returned to the discovery box, where I quickly located a colour photo of Max taken at the police station. Sure enough, his physical appearance matched the 911 caller’s description and he was wearing a black turtleneck.

“Doesn’t look good for you there, buddy,” I commented to Max’s ugly mug.

Unfortunately for my former good friend, it was a very slow crime night in the big city and six cops in three cruisers were at the medical building within two minutes. A minute later, an ambulance arrived to attend to the gravity-assisted victim, now sprawled on the sidewalk. Not enough time to get an elevator from the 23^rd floor to the parking garage or main level, let alone take the stairs, I thought. Officers quickly surrounded the building and then started their ascent of the floors via elevators and stairwells. Once on the 23^rd floor, a search of offices was commenced, at which time, only one was unlocked—Suite 2309—the headquarters of Max Feldberg, Therapist.

The following lines from Officer Morse’s report made me gravely doubt Max had been set up and why he had been sent to jail for the rest of his mortal life:

Upon entering Suite 2309 we found Max Feldberg lying on a couch with his eyes closed. Only after we identified ourselves as police officers did Mr. Feldberg move from his position on the couch and ask, “What is going on?” At this time, it was noted he appeared to be groggy and he was asked if he had taken any medication recently, to which he stated, “No.” He again asked what was going on and stood up. Mr. Feldberg was asked if he had been in the office during the past thirty minute period, to which he replied he had. Mr. Feldberg then became agitated and began yelling, “What the hell is going on here? You can’t barge into an office with your guns drawn, without clueing me in on what’s happening here.”

At this time, we informed Mr. Feldberg we were placing him under arrest for suspicion of murder. Mr. Feldberg was read his rights, handcuffed and taken into custody.

At first glance, this was a slam dunk case for the prosecution. I read the report again and saw only two contentious areas: that Max was unresponsive when the police stormed his office and the unknown identity of the 911 caller. I recalled seeing a MEDICAL INFORMATION file, which I guessed would contain test results showing Max had been drugged or was under the influence of some substance. I made a mental note to confirm this hypothesis at a later time.

I tackled the WITNESS STATEMENTS folder next. It established the identity of the dead woman and what office unit she was planning to visit that fatal night. A cab driver confirmed he’d dropped the victim off around 8:30 p.m. and she appeared to be in good spirits. “It’s not often I get such a beautiful woman in my cab, whose smile makes me forget how crappy my life is,” he’d stated. The next witness was the front desk security guard, who said the woman had signed in and then taken the elevator to the 23^rd floor. The name in the visitor book read “Alexis Penney” and that her destination was Suite 2309.

Finally came the statement of a cleaning lady who was the last person to see Ms. Penney alive—at least outside Max’s office. She said the victim passed her in the hallway and then entered “that shrink’s office.” As it was the end of her shift, the cleaner estimated the time to be 8:35 to 8:40 p.m. There were statements from people on the street below, near the victim’s final sidewalk resting place, but none could shed any new light on the circumstances of her fall. Collectively they put Alexis’ touchdown at around 10:35 p.m., thereby corroborating the 911 information.

So we knew when Ms. Penney arrived, where she was heading and when she left the building (so to speak). All solid timeline information needed at trial. Unfortunately, I did not have the 911 transcript. Had the authorities been able to locate the caller? Was he unco-operative and if so, why? I hoped his information was in the DEFENCE CASE folder.

I replaced both folders and slid the banker’s box into the corner of the kitchen. I didn’t want to overload my brain with too much information all at once—we all know how painful that can be, right? I just wanted to chew over the basics of the case a bit and try to picture the scene from everyone’s point of view: Max’s sleepy perspective; Alexis’ happy-to-terrified standpoint; and the witnesses who had last observed her alive.

That I had not come across the name Jarvis Larsh in any of these documents did not cause me to panic—yet. When initially emptying my magic box of evidence, I’d seen a folder marked JARVIS LARSH and knew it would be the last one I’d read before heading out on Tuesday. Why waste time on a figment of Max’s imagination any longer than I needed? Max was clearly guilty of Alexis Penney’s death. I had no doubt about that. What worried me was why he wanted me to find Mr. Larsh and what he would do to him once I had. Maybe Larsh had nothing to do with the balcony fight but had everything to do with the stolen funds Max had siphoned from his patients.

I convinced myself I had plenty of time to go over the remaining files and the only thing I wanted to do right now was get a drink. The fact Dawn would be serving it would be my reward for working so hard this afternoon.

***

The Sunsetter Pub & Eatery was not crowded and I took my usual booth in the back corner. As I entered, Dawn acknowledged me with a smile and somehow I felt as if I was (metaphorically speaking) home. A notion only a true blue alcoholic would have, I mused to myself. I surveyed the gang of regulars and noted a few of them averted their eyes. I had become something of a celebrity, yet no one wanted to have their picture taken with me, undoubtedly fearful they too would vanish into thin air.

I vacantly perused the menu until Dawn arrived at the table, placing a large frosted mug of beer in front of me.

“Let me guess,” I said with a smile. “Compliments of the hot blue-haired lady at the table near the front door?”

“Close,” Dawn laughed. “It was her husband. He heard you were good at making loved ones disappear. This beer is a retainer for your services.”

“Tell him my fee has gone up since I became infamous. It’s now two beers and a pound of wings.”

“I’ll make sure to give him the message.”

I took a longer look at the couple in their late 70s, and felt equal parts of envy and sadness. “If something happened to her tomorrow, he would die within six months—that’s a fact.”

“A medical fact or a convenient fun bar fact you made up?” Dawn asked skeptically.

“Medical. I think it was written up in Mortician Monthly,” I laughed. “Front page story, I recall.”

“I’m glad to see you’re keeping busy during your time off. Have you considered reading something a bit less morbid though?” Dawn suggested.

“Like what—Tiger Beat?”

“What’s Tiger Beat?”

“You know—it has fluff stories about today’s hottest heartthrobs.” She looked at me with an I know you’re serious but obviously mentally challenged expression on her face.

“When was the last time you actually saw this magazine?” she asked. “Maybe this is a generational thing.”

I recalled my bedroom walls covered in posters of Charlie’s Angels, Marie Osmond, Kristy McNichol and Pamela Sue Martin. “I don’t know, 1976, 1977?” I looked up into Dawn’s face and saw a blank expression. She had no clue who these women were or how their weekly appearance on my tiny 13” black and white TV had helped me reach puberty. I began to laugh aloud. “Just what year were you born?”

“1978.”

“Ah . . . I guess it is a generational thing.”

“Yeah,” Dawn said with a mischievous grin.

“Okay, how did we get on this subject?”

“You started talking about the high mortality rate of very old people.”

“Right. Well scratch that,” I said. “New topic: how’s your shift going so far?”

“Pretty slow.”

The front door opened and we both watched a male in his 30s, with a 70’s porn star-style moustache, walk in and take a seat at a side table.

“Your boyfriend’s here,” I chuckled.

“With a ‘stache like that, he’s more apt to be yours.” Dawn gave me a light, playful punch on the shoulder and said, “Duty calls. Your wings will be ready in about ten minutes.”

As she walked away, I muttered, “Dawn, I’ve got nothing but time today.”

A few moments later, the husband of old blue-hair approached the cash register to pay his bill. As he waited for Dawn, he casually looked in my direction and I raised my beer and gave him a wink. “I’ll take care of your problem,” I said in a low tone.

He clearly had no idea what I was talking about and a look of alarm came over his face. When Dawn appeared, she spoke with the man for a few seconds, which resulted in her glaring daggers at me. After she made a comment to the old man, he shook his head in disgust.

Upon the elderly couple’s departure, Dawn came by with my wings. “What did you say to that nice man? You almost gave him a heart attack.”

“The real question is this: What did you say to him?” I asked.

“Oh, only that you were a drunken degenerate with irreversible psychological problems,” she deadpanned.

“Whew,” I said as I took a sip of my beer. “For a minute there I was worried you said something bad about me. At least you told him the truth,” I laughed. “It’s one of your best qualities, I think.”

“I’m a quality person,” Dawn stated proudly.

“That you are,” I replied. “So, what’s the porn star’s story? Did he try to recruit you?”

“If you must know, the two of you actually have a lot in common.”

“We’ve both appeared on film having sex?”

“Yeah right,” Dawn snorted. “At least in his case he was the payee and not the payer!”

“Are you generally this sharp or just around me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, stud. I’m this quick 365 days a year.”

“Okay, I believe you. Anyway, what do I have in common with Buttons Graham over there?” Another quizzical look came over Dawn’s features. “Buttons was an actual porn star in the 70’s,” I informed her.

“Of course. Silly me for not remembering him,” she said waving her hand dismissively. “Your friend is actually a P.I. Says he’s looking for someone.”

After the initial shock wore off, I asked, “Not for me, I hope.” Before she answered, I slid further into the booth, out of Buttons’ eye line.

“He didn’t say,” Dawn replied.

“Could you find out for me?”

“Hmmm . . . for you . . .” she teased. “Anything—within reason,” she added.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” I said as she wandered away from the table.

“If I had a quarter for every time a loser barfly told me that,” she laughed, “I’d own this place.”

She went into the kitchen and returned with the private dick’s lunch. She hung around his table making small talk for a minute and returned to my table with an anxious expression. She placed my bill on the table and said, “Leave me $20 and then go out the exit by the washrooms.”

“What’s up?”

“He’s looking for Linda,” Dawn said bluntly.

I’m sure the blood drained from my face. “Anything else I should know?” I asked, throwing two tens on the table.

“He drives a black Dodge Caravan, which is parked out front.” She looked at the P.I.’s table. “I’ll call you if I get more information, but you have to go now.”

I grabbed one of the drink coasters sticking out of Dawn’s apron and wrote down my home and cell numbers.

“This is a commemorative coaster,” I smiled as I handed it to her. “Don’t lose it—use it.”

Dawn looked down at the coaster. “Don’t lose it, use it? Are we in Grade 6 again?” she laughed.

As I exited the booth I said, “When I was in Grade 6, Tiger Beat was the king of the magazine racks and you were still a dream in your mother’s mind.” As I stepped around her, I leaned into her and said, “Thanks for the info, Dawn. I owe you one.”

“No problem,” she said as our eyes met. “Now get out of here.”

As I walked stealthily toward the rear exit, I was confident no one had seen me leave. A rush of adrenaline propelled me forward, through the alley and down the side street behind the pub. I didn’t know why I was running, but Dawn’s uneasiness was infectious. If this guy was looking for Linda, he would surely want to speak with me at some time.

I half-walked, half-ran to my place and entered via the back door, in case another P.I. had staked out the front. I went to the living room windows and discreetly peered out. No unknown vehicles were parked on the street. An excellent sign, I thought.

I hadn’t heard from Dawn and decided to grab my gear to do some counter-surveillance of my own. Nearing the pub, I located the only black Caravan on the street and wrote down the licence plate number for future reference. I then set up a position on the opposite side of the road. While putting a new tape in my video camera, I saw my subject come into view. My cell phone immediately began to ring.

“What’s going on, Dawn?” I asked, recognizing the pub’s number on the caller display.

“He’s heading to the library to interview Linda’s co-workers and he’s staying at Holiday Cove,” Dawn replied without hesitation, although she did sound a bit out of breath.

“I’m impressed,” I commented. “Does he have a name?”

“Casey Ellerby. He gave me his card.”

“What agency?”

“F.Y.I. Services out of Kelsey Lake,” Dawn said. “Where’s Kelsey Lake?”

“Near Delta, our hometown,” I said haltingly, trying to digest this news.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“It depends on who hired him, I guess. I gotta go, Dawn, he’s leaving now,” I said as I put my van in gear. “Call me when you’re done work. Or better yet, drop by if you want—but call first!”

“Okay. Be careful.”

“I will.”

Fifteen minutes later, P.I. Ellerby entered the Great West Library to continue his investigation. I established a position in the parking lot of a nearby plumbing supply store. The irony that I was doing surveillance on a fellow P.I. while at a plumber’s place of business was not lost on me. I was fairly certain, however, the day’s events would not end in a hail of police bullets and two deaths. Then again, the P.I. who had followed Samantha and me to the Tecumseh Motel had probably believed the same thing and, man, was he wrong!

Although Ellerby was in the library for about an hour, it seemed like five. As the great Tom Petty famously observed, the waiting really is the hardest part. When Ellerby did return to his van, I couldn’t tell from his expression if things had gone well or not. He had the look of a juror walking into a courtroom to pronounce the verdict on the accused: cool and detached. I was about to follow Ellerby when I noticed Linda’s co-worker, Amanda Masterson, slip out a side entrance and start toward the bus stop. I made a snap decision to let my new friend carry on his journey alone and walked to where Amanda was now standing.

I had only met Amanda briefly a few times, when I had dropped by the library to visit Linda or to pick her up at the end of her shift. Amanda was in her late 20s, with a slim build, naturally golden blonde hair and soulful, hazel-coloured eyes, which I’m sure had made more than a few men’s hearts flutter, sputter and stop in mid-beat.

“Amanda—hi,” I said when I came within a dozen feet of her.

When she turned to face me, I had no clue how she would react. In the split-second before full recognition hit her, she had a smile on her face, probably thinking I was one of her many adoring library patrons. When she figured out who I was, I was glad the smile didn’t completely slip.

“Steve, I didn’t expect to see you today,” she said as she took a few steps toward me and gave me an awkward hug. As we stepped away from each other, we took in our surroundings to confirm our friendly embrace had gone unnoticed. “Have you heard from Linda yet?” she finally asked.

“No,” I admitted. “I don’t deserve a call and don’t expect one. Still, I was hoping she’d made contact with someone at the library.”

“Not yet. We’re getting kind of worried. The administration is dealing with this as if she’s on emergency stress leave, so when she does hopefully return, her job will still be here.”

“How long can they do that?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Amanda said with a sigh. “It’s not a situation that comes up every day. You know, everyone really likes Linda and can’t imagine what she’s going through right now.” Amanda looked me in the eye as she finished her sentence, yet somehow I didn’t feel she was condemning me for my past actions. She was simply being straightforward, which I appreciated immensely. I was the first one to break our connection, as I sheepishly looked at my shoes. “I bet your ears have been burning the last hour,” Amanda said, thankfully changing the subject. “There was a P.I. here asking the same questions as you. Do you know him?”

“No. I just became aware of his presence in our fine city a short time ago. I’m sure we’ll come face to face when he thinks the time is right.”

“For what it’s worth, he seemed like a pretty decent fellow,” Amanda stated.

“Did he tell you who he was working for?”

“We asked but he said he couldn’t tell us because of privacy issues.”

“Which is true,” I said. “So, what did he ask you—if you don’t mind me asking? If you do, I’ll understand. I’m not the most popular person these days and wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble.”

Amanda gave me a little smile and said, “I’m a big girl, Steve. I can handle the condemnation of my spinster colleagues, but there really isn’t much to tell. He asked the date of her last shift and if she had called to take any time off. Then he wondered if we had heard from her since she had gone missing or knew some place she may have gone.”

“All pretty standard stuff,” I interjected.

“And then . . . he asked our opinions about you.”

“I can only imagine what Dolores had to say.”

“Under the circumstances, she was pretty supportive, saying you had your faults—”

“Obviously,” I concurred.

“—but she couldn’t imagine you harming Linda in any way.”

“Was that the general consensus amongst you ladies?”

“Yeah, pretty much. We all knew you two were having a bit of a rough stretch. We’ve all been there at some point in our lives.”

I was tempted to ask Amanda if Linda had ever brought up any concerns I was cheating, but let the idea fall away. Of course she had, I concluded, feeling like a fool all over again.

“Did Mr. Ellerby say where he was going next?”

“Not really. All he said was he had other people to talk to before returning to Kelsey Lake.”

“I’m sure I’m on his wish list,” I said, shaking my head in disgust. “I think I’ve talked to everyone else, except the one person I really want to speak with.” The sentence drifted off as the city bus arrived.

“This is me,” Amanda said, as the bus doors opened and several passengers brushed by us.

A young man in his mid–teens said, “Hi, Mrs. Masterson,” as he walked toward the library.

“I hate when they do that,” Amanda said with a smile.

“It’s a sign of respect,” I countered. “Be thankful they don’t call you ma’am.”

“They do sometimes, that’s the scary part,” she said, stepping up into the bus. “If Linda contacts any of us, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks. I’ll do the same.”

I watched Amanda take her seat near an open window. “If you need to talk, give me a call. My number is listed in the staff directory.”

“I’ll do that,” I lied, knowing Linda’s staff directory was no longer at the house. “Take care,” I said with a wave as the bus pulled away.

“You too, Steve.”