Читать книгу When Angels Fail To Fly - John Schlarbaum - Страница 9

At 3:01 p.m. my phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Steven Cassidy?” a stern male voice asked.

“Yes, this is Steven Cassidy.”

“Please hold.”

After a couple of clicks, an automated female voice came on.

“Attention. This call is being recorded to ensure no criminal laws are broken.” There was another short pause followed by: “This is the Farmington Penitentiary in San Dieppe. A request has been made by inmate Maxwell Feldberg to speak with you. At this time, you have two options: using your touch-tone telephone keypad, to accept this call press 1-1. To decline this call, press 2-2. Please be aware that by declining this call, your name and phone number will be permanently removed from this caller’s contact list. If no response is registered, this call will be classified as declined. You have ten seconds to make your selection.”

Maria hadn’t told me of these options. I guess she assumed I would automatically press 1-1 to speak with Max but during my first few allotted seconds, my initial inclination was to decline the call. My life was screwed up enough and being tracked down by a convict didn’t sound like a party I would want to attend. I was also briefly fascinated that by simply hitting the number “2” twice, Max would never be allowed to contact me again. How I wished this was a regular phone feature I could use for bill collectors or needy ex-girlfriends—Maria and Linda excluded, of course. Nevertheless, maybe Max was calling to tell me where he had stashed all the cash he’d presumably swindled from gullible patients.

As the seconds continued to tick away, from deep within my cranium my two favourite questions tormented me: Why bother? Why not? Why bother? Why not?

I pressed 1-1. What the hell? It’s always good to talk to old friends, I thought.

The automated voice returned.

“You will now be connected to your party.”

I smiled at the word party. Five seconds later, there was another click on the line.

“Hey, Steve—are you there?”

“I’m here, Max,” I replied. “How’s that golf swing of yours coming? Still a 12 handicap?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve got that sucker down to a 5 and was named Golfer of the Year by my peers in Cell Block D a few weeks ago.”

“Well, I guess congratulations are in store. What do you guys play—Sega Genesis or Playstation?”

“Playstation all the way,” Max laughed. “Their Pebble Beach game is so realistic you can almost smell the coconut sunscreen of the virtual babes in the spectator gallery.”

“It’s nice to hear they let you out every once in awhile,” I quipped. “Aside from being the resident golf pro, are you still playing shrink? I’m sure there are a couple of people in there who could use a good doctor.”

“You heard about that, huh?”

“Yeah, a few months ago that prick Francis McKillop gleefully updated me on the old gang’s whereabouts.”

“What’s he doing now?”

“He’s a lawyer.”

“Get out!”

“For a day or so he was actually my lawyer, until I brought up Elaine Wakelin.”

“Was she the girl in Grade 10 who thought she was pregnant?”

“The very one.”

“What about Wayne Dugan? What’s he up to?”

“Same old, same old. He raises livestock on his dad’s farm and is married with three or four kids.”

“Who did he marry?”

“Trudy Babich.”

“Fruity Trudy—that mean old dog? She made homely girls look like Playmate Pets. What was he thinking?”

“Apparently alcohol and a shotgun heavily influenced his decision to get hitched.”

Max began to laugh hard, to the point where he started to snort. Those sounds triggered long-suppressed memories from my youth. Prior to making this call, I wondered how Max might have changed over the years. One feature I knew would be the same—and could picture in my mind’s eye now—was his dopey smile and the way he’d tilt his head to the left as he laughed and snorted. I had witnessed this particular mannerism hundreds of times at school, the arena, the ballpark, the beach—just about anywhere we’d ever gone together during our formative years.

“Max, I’m sure we could play catch-up for hours but I got the impression your handlers keep a pretty stringent schedule when it comes to outside calls.”

Max’s laughter slowly died down. “You’re right, Steve, as usual.”

“What’s so important you tracked both Maria and me down?” I asked. “And by the way, how did you get her unlisted number?”

“I don’t think you want to know,” Max replied hesitantly.

“I understand. I know these calls are recorded.”

“No, it’s not that. I did nothing illegal.”

“Then what? She asked me to ask you.”

“It isn’t something I’m really proud of but—”

“But what?”

“The simple answer is Maria gave me the number years ago and I never forgot it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Where does your pride come into play?”

“Well . . . she gave it to me after we went out on a date,” Max said. “This was like a couple of years after high school. I briefly returned to Delta one summer before heading off to become rich and famous. Or should I say infamous?”

“So? What’s the big deal?” I asked.

“You’re not mad we went out?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“Because she was your girl and you were my best friend.”

I reflected on this for a moment. “You said this was after high school? After I left town?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why would I be mad at you?” I asked.

“I want you to know I didn’t try anything with her,” Max continued to stammer. “The whole time I felt guilty. It was almost like I was cheating on you—you know what I mean. Every time I looked into her face all I could think was, Stevie Boy should be here, not me. And at the end of the date, I didn’t even try to kiss her good night.”

“I’m sure that really boosted her confidence,” I chided him.

“I felt so bad, I never called her again.”

“You really had a way with women,” I laughed. “And look where it got you—a place where you’re surrounded by a group of guys for as far as the eye can see. That’ll teach ya.”

Our conversation was interrupted by an announcement: “This call will be terminated in one minute.”

“Time is of the essence. I’ll stop talking, Max,” I said. “Why did you call?”

“Because I need someone to look into my case.”

“Don’t you have a lawyer?”

“I fired him,” came the startling response.

“Why?”

“Because he doesn’t believe I was framed for manslaughter. I had nothing to do with that woman being killed. I swear.”

“Look, Max, I know very little about your case,” I said, getting a bit annoyed. “All I heard was you were playing a head doctor without a licence and conned some hard cash from your patients. Is that correct?”

“That’s all true, but I was helping them figure out their problems. I’m not lying.”

“Hey, trust me when I say I don’t care,” I stated. “The other part of your sorry tale was that a patient died and you were convicted of her death.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Keep going—time’s running out,” I instructed. “Why should I believe you and not your jury? Are you saying she jumped to her death and that you weren’t in your office when it happened? Did she slip on a banana peel or something? Tick, tick, tick, Max.”

“I . . . ah . . . I . . .”

“Spit it out before it’s too late, Max,” I demanded.

“I was there.”

“And?”

“I can’t say any more over the phone.”

“The word can’t isn’t in my vocabulary.”

“This call will terminate in 30 seconds.”

“You’ve got to help, Steve.”

“Help you what?”

“Find him.”

“Find who?”

“The man who killed her.”

“Now you’re saying this woman was murdered but not by you? Is that what I’m to understand?”

“Yes. You’ve got to find him before he kills again.”

“This guy didn’t have a scraggly beard and one arm, did he? Because Harrison Ford and David Janssen both had a heck of a time tracking him down in The Fugitive.”

“I know it sounds nuts, I do.”

“I guess you’d be qualified to make that judgment, right? What’s that saying—Doctor, heal thyself?”

“Please take a look at my court file. Treat this like a cold case investigation. I swear this guy has got to be stopped.”

At this stage in our conversation, I wished I had pressed 2-2, but I figured in less than a minute my dealings with Max would come to an end.

“Cold case files are for retired coppers or wet-behind-the-ears rookie detectives who’ve played too many games of Clue. That’s not me,” I said, as I followed the second hand on my watch continue to count down the final minute. “Just because you have twenty–four hours a day to go over your trial and conviction doesn’t mean I do.”

“This call will terminate in 15 seconds.”

“Sure you do, Stevie,” Max replied, his voice unexpectedly cold, almost menacing in tone. “With your licence suspended, it’s not like your P.I. business is going anywhere these days.”

“So I have the time, big deal,” I countered. “Give me one good reason I should help, besides for old time’s sake?”

Ten seconds to go, I thought.

10-9-8-7-

His delivery was slow and deliberate. “I’ll give you two: Maria and Linda.”

The line then went dead.

“This call has been terminated.”

***

I had barely taken a breath when there was a rap at the front door. I slammed down the phone and made a beeline to the foyer, screaming at the top of my lungs, “You better start running, you sick bastard. I’ve had enough of this sh—”

I grabbed hold of the handle and almost ripped the door from its hinges. Instead of encountering one of Max’s henchmen on the porch, I was confronted by a terror-stricken Dawn. We stared at each other in stunned disbelief for several moments, before she broke eye contact to glance down at my hands.

“I was going to make a run for it,” she said slowly, “but feared you might be armed with a kitchen knife or something.” She paused, then continued, “And the last image I want my mom to have of me is of being attacked by a madman wielding a meat cleaver.”

“You’re a good daughter,” I replied, trying to ease the tension. “I wasn’t yelling at you, I swear.”

“In the back of my mind I knew that,” she said. “I’ve never been called a sick bastard before but there’s a first for everything, right? I wondered if you had started drinking again and the alcohol mixed with your medication had an adverse effect on your mental state.”

“I’m not on any medication.”

“That could be your problem,” she deadpanned. “Maybe you should be.” Her facial muscles relaxed and a smile formed on her lips. “An anger management class or two wouldn’t hurt either.”

“I am so sorry, Dawn,” I apologized again. “I received some disturbing news on the phone and believed the caller had sent someone over to further illustrate their point.”

“You need some new friends,” Dawn advised. “Forget about those high school losers you used to hang out with. Was the guy on the phone—Mr. Sick Bastard—looking for money?”

“How much does a pound of flesh cost these days?” A quizzical look came over Dawn’s face. I couldn’t tell if she was repulsed or confused. “Forget I said that. It’s not about money—at least not yet.”

With both our blood pressure rates stabilized, I asked Dawn inside.

“You’re sure it’s safe?”

“I promise nothing will happen that will give your mother nightmares.”

I scanned the street before closing the door, expecting to see someone or something out of place, but found nothing amiss.

Too bad, I thought, internally still wanting to cause great physical pain to my unseen tormentor.

“Your watch is on the coffee table,” I told Dawn.

“This place looks bigger in the daylight,” she said as she walked into the living room. “And there’s your precious TV, right where I left it. Safe and sound,” she added as she put on her watch. “Without this, my shift seemed to go on and on and on.”

“I know what you mean,” I agreed, trying to keep the conversation casual. “I’m sorry about all the questions earlier. It’s just that—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Dawn stopped me. “I once dated a guy who went ballistic when one of his prized hockey cards went missing. It turned out he had forgotten he’d lent it to his little brother for Show and Tell.” She turned to face me. “I don’t know why guys get so attached to inanimate objects. I’ve never been a big collector of anything.”

“Except boyfriends,” I interjected, which made Dawn laugh.

“The difference is they aren’t inanimate—at least not in my presence.”

“No doubt.”

“Do you have anything to drink?”

“That depends,” I said. “If you’re looking for an alcoholic drink, the answer is no. If however, you’d like juice or bottled water, then yes.”

“Juice sounds good.”

As I poured her a glass of fruit punch, Dawn took a seat at the kitchen table. I grabbed a bottle of water and sat down across from her.

After taking a sip of her drink, Dawn asked, “Are you aware you have the same exact name as a P.I. they’ve been writing nasty things about in the newspaper?”

I gave her a knowing nod. “Let me guess—this morning your boss brought you up to speed about me?”

“You’re pretty good. Keep going,” she challenged me.

“Let me see . . . how about this: He told you if he’d been working last night, he would never have allowed you to take me home, regardless of how wasted I was.”

“His exact words were, ‘I’d have tossed that slimeball in the trash bin and he could have slept it off in the clean fresh air.’”

“To which you—my reluctant guardian angel—replied?”

“I told him how much you’d spent and what a big tipper you were,” she chuckled at the memory. “And next thing you know, he was planning to keep the rear booth reserved for you 24/7.”

“You may be the best new friend I’ve ever had.”

“And I promise never to ask you for money.”

“That’s always nice to hear,” I said. “Then again, I’m sure my drunken tips should keep you in fine wine and caviar for at least a couple of months.”

“At least,” she agreed with a grin. She took another swig of juice. “So, do you want to talk about your friend from high school?”

I looked into her innocent, honest and far-too-young face. She reminded me of Maria, which is a compliment of the highest order. However, unlike my former love, I did not intend to drag this beauty down to my seedy level.

“I appreciate your concern,” I said. “For the time being though, I’m going to try and find my way through this mess alone. I might not come out unscathed but I will come out of it, I promise.”

“Okay, no problem,” Dawn stated nonchalantly. “If you do want to talk sometime, you’ve still got that souvenir coaster, right?”

“I do somewhere.”

Dawn laughed. “You’ll find it under your bedroom phone. I put it there for safe keeping.”

I was amazed by this pretty stranger who had entered my broken life.

“Who are you and why are you being so nice to me?” I asked in a cheerful, yet serious tone. “You can spend time with any guy in town—why waste your youth with me?”

Dawn got up from the table and carried her empty glass to the sink. When she came back, she stood in front of me.

“To answer your first question, I’m just a girl who likes a boy.”

“Isn’t that a line from a Julia Roberts’ movie?”

“Does it matter?” she replied with a toothy grin.

“Not at all.”

“And as far as wasting my time, haven’t you heard the saying that one person’s trash is another person’s treasure?”

“I don’t think anyone has ever described me as a treasure,” I said sincerely. “Thanks . . . again.”

“You’re welcome.”

I walked her to the front door.

“I’m glad you came into the pub last night,” she said, stepping out onto the porch.

I waited for the “but” which didn’t materialize.

“So am I,” I said.

As she made her way across the front lawn, she said she hoped maybe we could go for a walk down by the beach—once my life had returned to some semblance of normalcy. As I was about to make a smart-alecky remark about the planets aligning, the phone inside rang, rudely interrupting our light-hearted mood. By the time I had decided to let the machine pick up, Dawn had strolled out of my life as easily as she had strolled in.

I entered the house and checked my message. Once again I had to deal with the same heavily modulated voice that had directed me to my garbage can the previous day. This afternoon’s message, however, would turn out to be much worse than the first.

“The box on your rear porch should get you started. If I were you, I would begin right now. Lives are depending on it.”

I ran to the back door, as my heart rate accelerated into the stratosphere. I knew I wouldn’t find anyone in the yard putting away his cell phone, yet the quick steps gave me a sense of flying into action—the first physical moves in this life-sized game of chess with Max.

It sat ominously on the steps: a large banker’s box, with its cover secured tightly by packing tape. I looked briefly in all directions and found nothing of interest. Obviously, I had again been under surveillance. My mystery caller knew when I was in the house. As interested as I was in finding out how this was being accomplished, I set my sights on the box, which I carried into the kitchen and opened using a sharp knife from the butcher block. I then lifted off the cover, never once entertaining the idea it might be booby trapped somehow.

Inside I found dozens of file folders, with labels like Police Reports, Witness Statements and Patient Information. It was the large manila envelope marked STEVE, though, which caught my eye.

I emptied the envelope’s three items onto the table. The first was a very grainy black-and-white photocopy of a clean-shaven male with the name “Jarvis Larsh” written at the bottom of the page. The second item was a newspaper article from the Santana Hills Sentinel from December 1992 with the heading: CON MAN CONVICTED OF MANSLAUGHTER. The third item was a typed letter for me:

Dear Mr. Cassidy,

Please find enclosed all pertinent information regarding People vs. Feldberg. As you are aware, Mr. Feldberg was convicted of manslaughter resulting from the death of a female acquaintance. It is our belief this woman was killed by Jarvis Larsh, a former patient of Mr. Feldberg’s, who stated during numerous therapy sessions he often had dreams of killing red-haired females. He also advised on many occasions, he would awake from these dreams covered in blood.

As you may have guessed, the female who fell to her death from Mr. Feldberg’s office had red hair. This evidence was not allowed at trial due to doctor-patient privilege, as Mr. Larsh had no knowledge Mr. Feldberg was not a licensed psychiatrist.

Mr. Larsh’s present whereabouts is unknown.

We are asking you to review the files provided and use any means at your disposal to locate Mr. Larsh. It is our goal to present new evidence to the court in order to reverse this injustice and to bring Mr. Larsh to trial.

Sincerely,

The Pro-Justice League

P.S. Your own sense of justice is well documented and it is our hope this has not changed, for the sake of the loved ones of all those involved in this case.

A low pulsing sensation began behind my left eye. Not a good sign of things to come. I stared blankly at the letter before me and tried to comprehend what I had read. I immediately dismissed the gobbledy-gook of the main body of the letter, condensing all the words down to Locate - Jarvis - Larsh. What exactly I was to do once this was accomplished was unclear, but I was sure my mystery caller would provide new details in the future.

Another missing person case. Great.

It was the cryptic postscript, however, that caused me the most concern. The part about my well-documented sense of justice could only be referring to my time on the police force, a dark period I’ve been trying to forget for some time. The second half’s reference to the loved ones of all involved, was a direct reminder that somehow Linda and Maria’s safety be kept in my thoughts at all times.

Do what we ask and no one gets hurt.

Of course, it’s hard to trust a convicted con man currently rotting in a federal pen, who hides behind veiled threats and the so-called Pro-Justice League. I will admit this box and letter were clever devices to get me to start my investigation. The letter was unsigned and there was no address information provided. The contents were in the style of a form letter, no different from ones televangelists send out asking for cash to fight the good fight on behalf of Jesus and unborn babies everywhere.

If something did go sideways in the days and weeks ahead, Max could deny any knowledge of this box. He would claim The Pro-Justice League must be a group of concerned citizens who meet once a week in a church basement or a member’s rec room to discuss legal cases where justice had not been fulfilled. Some of these groups deal with death penalty cases, he’d argue, while others look at smaller cases, such as his.