Steel Breeze (17 page)

“Yeah.
Cop put his boot through it. You'd think maybe he coulda cut a clean square for
me, but no.”

“Do
the police know that you're patching that?” Pasco asked.

“Yeah.
I called and asked. They said no problem. If Desmond gets put away, I'll have
to rent this out again by the end of the month.”

“You
mind if we take a look around?” Drelick asked.

“Why
not? Cops have already poked through all his shit anyway.”

Drelick
approached the wall. She could see the outline of the hole modified into a
rectangle by Bob Haggerty, taped and partly patched already. The room at the
end of the hall where the mirror was balanced in the doorframe had to be the
boy's bedroom—cluttered with toys, and children’s books. The bedclothes were
tangled in a hasty heap, half on the floor.

“It's
a shame about Lucas,” Haggerty said. “No matter how all this plays out, that
poor kid’s guaranteed fucked for life.”

“Do
you think Desmond Carmichael is guilty?” Drelick asked, searching Haggerty's ruddy
face for a reaction.

“I
don't know the man. He paid on time and seemed nice enough. You look around
here, you get the impression he cared for his son.”

“Would
it
surprise
you if he was convicted of murder?”

“Yeah.
But life's full of surprises.”

“Did
he ever go away on any trips that you were aware of?” she asked.

“Might
have been gone for a week to visit his parents' around Christmas. I think he
said Virginia.”

“Did
he ever mention California?” Pasco asked.

“Ah,
I can't say I remember for sure. Maybe a sci-fi conference or something.”

“Do
you recall when that might have been, the conference?” Drelick flipped a pad
open.

“I'm
not sure about it. He might have said he was invited but couldn't afford to go.”

Drelick
stepped around the mirror and into Lucas’s room. It was messy but also the
nicest in the apartment. The rest of the little house had off-white walls,
unadorned with photos or artwork, but Lucas's room was painted tangerine and
dressed up with a variety of lively framed images that looked like they
belonged in the room of a younger child, one not yet awakened to the comic book
heroes on the bed sheets. Drelick thought the zoo animals and toddler decor had
probably come from the child’s previous bedroom in the house they had shared
with his mother, transplanted here even as he outgrew them, intended to provide
a sense of continuity, the security of familiarity.

“Did
you paint this bedroom?” Drelick asked.

“No,
Desmond did that himself. I do a fresh coat before a new tenant if it needs it,
but if you want a fancy color, you have to buy it and apply it.“

Drelick
wondered if even the color had come from a can left over from the family home
or if Desmond had tried to match it. “So this mirror,” she said, stepping
around it again, “It was on the wall you're repairing?”

“Yup.”

“So
it covered Desmond's own patch job after he put the sword in the wall.”

“That's
right.”

Drelick
walked through Desmond Carmichael's bedroom, but found it was as sparse as a
monk's cell, and the police had obviously ransacked what little furniture and
clothing he did own. She gave the usual hiding places that a non-agent might
not think to check a cursory look, but found no secret cubbyholes or seams.

Pasco
looked bored. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Haggerty,” she said placing a
business card on the lid of his joint compound bucket while he worked. “Give us
a call if you remember anything more about that conference in California.”

Walking
to the car, Pasco gave her the look; the question he never needed to ask aloud:
whatcha got?

“Why
hide a murder weapon behind a mirror unless you identify with it?”

* * *

The
best sushi in Port Mavis wasn't bad, but it wasn't L.A. either. Talking to the
chef and the maître d’ turned up nothing. Still, Drelick was glad she’d eaten
before visiting the station because the briefing she received from Inspector
Fournier over
his
lunch would have robbed her of any appetite. She knew
her parents' generation had sometimes called cops “pigs,“ but to watch Charles
Fournier take down a bag of McDonald's was to see the slur vividly illustrated.

At
first Fournier seemed interested in the possibility that Carmichael might be
guilty of an even higher body count, but when they found no clear points of
entry into the bicoastal serial killer theory, he backed away from it. “Tell
you the truth,” he said, and paused to thumb a stray pickle chip back into the
corner of his mouth, “I don't need to prove he flew out to Cali and whacked a
complete stranger to pin these family murders on him.”

“What
are you saying?”

“I'm
saying you're probably just gonna muddy the waters. If you can show he had a plane
ticket, then I'm all ears, but without it...too many questions. Like where'd he
get a sword out there? Sure didn't take one on a plane without setting off
alarms. And I don't need a jury getting hung up on red herrings when I have him
hiding the weapon on the same day as a kill that he had a clear motive for.“

“Detective,
you should understand that my investigation could uncover evidence that
absolves him. It’s even possible that my west coast killer came here.”

“Twice?”

She
shrugged. “I spoke to Carmichael on the phone yesterday a little over an hour
before Phil Parsons was murdered.”

Fournier
froze with his mouth open, the remaining quarter of his double quarter-pounder
with cheese halfway to its final destination. A slice of tomato slipped out of
the bun onto his desk blotter trailing a couple of gelatin coated seeds down
his hairy wrist and gold watch band on the way. He let out a shallow,
incredulous laugh as he wiped his wrist with a paper napkin. “You didn't open
with that?”

“My
case led me to Sandy Carmichael, and I wanted to check a detail about the sword
with the guy who owned it. The two murders have some traditional elements in
common.”

“Traditional
elements.”

“Samurai
methods, old-fashioned sword oil. It wouldn’t surprise me if you found strands of
silk traceable to Japanese clothing manufacturers at one of your crime scenes.”

“Well,
we didn’t. Listen to me: Desmond is a writer, okay? A fantasy writer. You're
from L.A., so you're probably familiar with what a fantasy convention looks like?
I've seen clips on
E.T
. The people who read and write that crap are
obsessives. They’re all about props and costumes. Role-play. And a big brain
with a lot of time on his hands, like Des? He’d do the research and get those
kinds of details right.”

“Or
a fan of his might. But I can't find any overt Japanese references in his
books. You called him Des. Did you know him before his wife was murdered?”

“It's
a small town. We all went to school together.”

“So
you knew Sandy Carmichael as well?”

“I
said we went to school together. I knew her dad, too, him being a cop who
coached football. Phil had an influence on me going into police work.”

“So
these cases are deeply personal for you.”

“I
wouldn't use the word
deeply
. It’s a small town.”

“Detective,
I make a habit playing devil's advocate. Carmichael probably did kill Phil
Parsons, but I am going to dot every
i
and cross every
t
. The
first of those is the phone call I had with him. Did it prompt him to rush in
and kill Parsons or does it give him an alibi? That's what I'm looking at.”

“Whoa,
wait a minute. How could your call give him an alibi?”

“I
left a message on his phone while, unbeknownst to me, he was visiting Harwood. When
he called me back, there was torrential rain in the background that made it
hard for me to hear him. He said he was in his car. Now, I've checked the
weather history, and the storm you had on Sunday moved south over Boston to the
Cape. It cleared up over this area well before it did in Walpole. So even if
Carmichael was driving while talking with me, the time and duration of the call
might help us pin down a time range when he was south of the precipitation
line.”

“That
sounds pretty weak. I wouldn't dream of hanging my hat on something that
flimsy.”

“It's
just one dot to connect. A better one is—did he have an EZ pass in the car? That
would give you an exact time for him going through the Tobin Bridge toll on
Route 1.”

“No,
he didn't have one. Used to, but let it lapse when he lost his job.”           

“There
still might be video of his car at the toll.”

“You
really think he didn't have enough time to get to the golf course?”

“It's
tight. He'd have to drive like a demon.”

“It's
enough.”

“I
also wonder how he knew exactly where to find Phil Parsons and kill him with
opportunity. Does Parsons golf every Sunday at that time? Was it a pattern that
Carmichael would have been aware of?”

“
That
sounds feasible, likely even.”

“But
you don’t know. You haven't looked into it with his wife, the club, or his golf
partner who witnessed the murder?”

“It's
Monday, Agent Drelick. We're just getting started building a case.”

“I'd
like to see Mr. Carmichael now.”

“What
for?”

“What
do you mean, what for? I want to interview him.”

“As
I understand it, you're not taking over the case at this time. Isn't that what
you said?”

“Yes,
but I came here to investigate connections. I can't do that without questioning
the suspect.”

“So
with you not having jurisdiction, this falls under the category of a favor? I'm
doing you a favor?”

“It
falls under cooperating with the FBI. I'm sure your boss wouldn't expect
anything less.”

Chuck
Fournier sucked a sesame seed out of the gap between his canine and molar, and
said, “I'll set it up.”

“When?”

“We're
transferring him to county later today, so soon. Sit tight.”

“You
have enough to transfer him to county? No chance of having to let him go when
lab results come in?”

“We
have everything we need, Agent. We have him with the murder weapon.”

Chapter 17

 “You have a
visitor,” Fournier said through the bars.

Desmond
was sitting on the cell floor, craving a writing implement. It was a hellish
joke to have nothing but time and nothing to write with. He had been scouring
his memory, trying to recall every detail he could of the old man at the
playground, when Fournier snapped him out of his fugue by jingling the keys. For
a second Desmond looked at him uncomprehendingly; then the words took on
meaning. “Who is it?”

“The
FBI agent you talked to on the phone yesterday—thanks for mentioning that, by
the way. She came from California to see you.”

“Why?”

Fournier
flashed a tight, condescending grin. “That's her hand, and she'll decide how
much she wants to tip it.”

“She
thinks I might be innocent,” Desmond said, getting to his feet. “She thinks it
might be an interstate killer.”

“Don't
get your hopes up. Best-case scenario, from my point of view, they tie you to
somebody else's sword crimes because you're already in custody with blood on
your hands, and I get to watch you die by lethal injection in California, which
sadly, we don't have here.“

“Tell
me where Lucas is.” Desmond said. He wasn't going to let Fournier bait him into
a fight. That would be a waste of precious time, a waste of another rare chance
to get an answer out of someone who knew.

“Lucas
is somewhere safe…now that you're in here.”

“Is
he with Karen?”

Fournier
paused, puckered his mouth, and said, “No.”

“Then
where? He's my
son
, you have no right to keep me in the dark about who’s
watching him. He's my son, and until a judge—“

“You
sure about that, Des? He's your son? You sure?”

The
question didn't make any sense, not until Desmond read the suggestion on
Fournier's face. “The fuck are you implying, Chuck?”

“Just
that he doesn't look a whole lot like you. And I doubt that you can say for
sure that Sandy never had a fling. You know, four years ago, that was the first
time you got a little too cozy with alcohol. Maybe she sought solace in a
friend.”

Desmond
tasted iron and noticed he had bitten the inside of his cheek.

“I
know she never did that.”

“But
it's not like you can ask her now, can you?”

“I
knew her better than you ever did.” Desmond could hear the acid in his voice. He
was taking the bait, couldn't help it.

“When
having a kid snapped you out of your drunken stupor, you might have got to know
her again, but I
always
knew her.”

The
sound of a truck engine amplified by the narrow corridor of buildings behind
the police station thrummed through the bricks at street level, a low
unsettling drone.

“Who
is Lucas with? Why isn't he with Karen?”

“Karen
is in shock. She's in no shape to be parenting, and she agreed that Lucas should
be shielded from the loss of his grandfather for as long as possible, while
everything else is unstable.“

“What…is
he in a foster home? I swear to God, Chuck if you had anything to do with
placing him in foster care—“

“He's
at my house.”

“No.
No, no, no.”

“Don't
worry, Des. My wife is good with kids. We always wanted kids of our own, but you
know, we weren't blessed.”

“You
have no
right!”

“Hey,
calm down. I can't just bring home a kid like a confiscated bag of weed that
didn't end up in the log. This is all going to go through the proper channels. For
right now, I'm just doing a favor for a friend's widow. Pitching in to help a
fallen vet by taking care of his grandson. That said…when the smoke clears, I
may want to get a paternity test. Just so
I'll
know the truth.”

“Fuck
you, Fournier. I swear to God, when I get out of here….”

“What?
You'll kill me like everybody else? Go on, say it, say it loud.”

Hydraulic
brakes hissed in the alley.

Desmond
pressed his face to the bars and whispered, “You would be my first, but if I
lost him because of you, I would find it in me, you fat fuck."

In
a voice so low it was barely audible, Fournier said, “Tell you what, Des. My
task right now is to open your cell and escort you upstairs to one of the
interrogation rooms you've come to know so well. When we get to the top of the
stairs, we’ll be in a hallway. At the back end of that hallway, our water-delivery
guy will be propping open a door that is usually locked. A door to the back-alley
access road.”

Fournier’s
eyes darted toward the ceiling. There was a sound of clattering metal. Desmond
took a step back from the bars.

“If
you were to try anything when we get to that point, I would have to shoot you. Understood?”

Desmond's
mind was reeling. Did Fournier want him to make a break for it so he could gun
him down in cold blood? Of course he would like that. Why was he telling him
this? “It would be suicide,” Desmond said, his mouth curling in horror.

“And
it would really shame me if you got away. But if you knocked over a handcart
stacked with five-gallon bottles, it's possible that a serial killer like you
could actually slip out of our grasp.“

“What
do you want? You want me to make myself look guiltier with every move? I won't
do it. I’m not playing your game.”

“You
know where to find Lucas, but no one knows you know. If you got out of here,
most people would expect you to run
from
the law, not
to
it. And
if you showed up at my house with a blade, you can bet I’d be ready to take you
on like a man. Otherwise, it's nothing but lawyers from here to the end. That
what
you
want?”

“No.”

“Me
neither. I'm gonna unlock your cell now.”

Fournier
slid the bars open and stepped aside, giving Desmond room to exit and walk in
front of him. He didn't cuff Desmond, but his gun was easy to see on his hip. Desmond
took a few uncertain steps, then glanced back over his shoulder at Fournier. Fournier
tipped his chin toward the stairs, “Go on. Chop, chop.”

Climbing
the stairs, Desmond’s legs felt like they were connected to his body by frayed
strands of corroded wire, incapable of receiving the full strength of the
impulses from his brain. Each step felt like an insurmountable obstacle as his
body tried to shut down into whatever survival mode was the opposite of an adrenaline-charged
burst. At the top of the stairs, a wedge of sunlight glided across the dirty, black-skid-marked
wall of the corridor. Was that light from the back door? He heard a sloshing
thud
and imagined the water-delivery guy setting a bottle down against the metal
door to hold it open. The heavy, hollow, metallic respiration of the truck
idling in the alley reached his ears now with a crisp clarity that the brick
walls had previously masked, and he felt himself shifting out of shut-down mode
into fight-or-flight. It was true, what Fournier had told him. This move was
designed to give him the opportunity to run. But it was engineered against him.
Fournier, armed and trained, would be ready to gun him down, whether here or at
the house where Lucas was. And maybe Lucas was safer in that house, where
Fournier's wife might also be prepared to pick up a gun if she needed to.

If
Lucas is even there…if the whole thing isn’t a lie.

But
there wouldn't be another opportunity to slip out of the snare that was closing
around him. If he had a shot, however desperate, to take Lucas on the run and
protect him from a threat no one else believed in, didn't he have to take it?

He
did. But then Sandy's voice spoke up:
Lucas doesn't need two dead parents.

When
Desmond reached the top of the stairs, he could see a uniformed officer and a
shirtsleeves detective at the end of the corridor where it opened into an
office. They were staring at something he couldn't see, near the ceiling. He
knew that posture from waiting in line in coffee shops and banks with wall-mounted
televisions tuned to the news. They were watching TV with rapt attention, their
coffee cups momentarily forgotten. And Desmond knew that this was
his
moment.

The
water-delivery guy rolled past him, obstructing his view of the cops down the
hall. He saw himself raising his leg, bent at the knee, and kicking out at
Fournier behind him. A good kick would send him flying backward down the
stairs, robbing him of the chance to draw and shoot. He saw himself rounding
the corner while the delivery guy and the heavy, bottle-laden cart stood
between the distracted cops and the back-alley exit.

But
something about the demeanor of those cops he had glimpsed made him hesitate. He
wanted to know what they were watching. Something in their body language. People
had watched TV like that on 9/11.
Who cares?
Even if it's a terrorist
attack, it's not in
this
town. Use the distraction, whatever it is, to
get Lucas.

The
moment passed. The water guy rounded the corner, and now a new body was
striding down the hall toward Desmond and Fournier. He'd missed his chance. The
loss spread through him, a sickening visceral mixture of relief and regret.

He
recognized Jay Twomey, the Chief of Police coming up to him, slowing, and
gazing past him at Fournier, who had now reached the top of the stairs.

“Fournier,”
he said, shaking out a sheet of paper in his hand like a wet dishrag, “This
transfer to county is bullshit. Since when do you not run them by me?”

“I
was about to, boss. I'm bringing him to talk to the agents first.”

“No
you're not. They're gone. Ran outta here like their asses were on fire when the
news broke.”

“What
news?”

“There's
been a massacre in Ohio. A
sword
massacre. Might have happened last
night. Bodies were found this morning. We barely had enough to hold you in the
first place,” he said to Desmond. “At least now, I won’t have to lose sleep
over letting you go.”

“Wait…
what?
How can you be sure?” Fournier’s voice sounded weak.

“Take
a look at the TV and ask me again. Whoever is out there chopping heads off is
doing it across state lines, which means it's no longer our problem.”

Chief
Twomey made a sweeping gesture with the paper in his hand, and Desmond followed
him into the lobby with Fournier still at his heels like a dog that doesn’t
trust his owner’s judgment about a visitor, still sniffing warily and ready to
bite. Desmond couldn’t hear much of the TV audio over the chatter of the cops
commenting on it, but the camera lingered on a shot of a yellow strip of police
tape stretched between tree trunks. Beyond it, cops could be seen milling
around near a small turquoise house in the woods. Sunlight on water sparkled in
the distance. A tarp was draped over what had to be a body lying on the pine-needle-strewn
ground.

A
cell phone rang, and Desmond cocked his head as Fournier answered brusquely,
“If you’re calling about what’s on the tube, I’m lookin’ at it…. Calm down, I can’t
understand a word….
No….
How? Jesus, Ginny, weren’t you watching him?” Fournier
was turning a deep, purplish-red. The hand holding the phone dropped from his
ear, and Desmond could hear a thin, distant, wailing plea coming from the
little speaker. Fournier stared at Desmond’s chest, moving his jaw like it was
dislocated and he was trying to reset it, trying to make his mouth work so he
could talk, but Desmond already knew what he was going to say, and when he
heard it he wouldn’t be able to help himself; Chuck Fournier’s jaw would indeed
be dislocated very soon.

“Lucas
is missing,” Fournier managed to spit the words out, quick and dry.

Then
Desmond was on top of him, choking him with both hands and crashing into a
metal desk in a torrent of profanity, cops swarming and pulling at his
shoulders and legs until the juice of a Taser lit him up and burned the fight
out of his sinews.