The Stories: Part 4
Chapters 31 through 40
"Well, if
nothing else, maybe today will be the calm after the storm."
I couldn't tell whether she
meant the office or home. Last night had ended in a subdued conversation
and evening of lovemaking that basically served to let off steam on both
our parts. "I hope so." That applied to both cases. It's never nice to
be fighting with the wife. I'll try to keep off the coke today; that's
probably why I was so jumpy last night. Oh well...
"Oh, honey, have you talked to Meg? How's David doing?"
"Not sure yet, and I'm having
trouble motivating myself to give a damn." We both sensed a fight arising,
and shut up for a moment. "Em still asleep?"
"Yeah. What
are we going to do with her? David's 'under the weather' and it's pretty
hard to get a sitter at 7:30 AM on a weekday."
"I'll take her.
I'm going to leave in a few minutes--can you go wake her up and get her
dressed? I'll get a bottle or something."
"Sure, I'll be down in a few."
I finished my coffee and the phone rang. Of all people, it was Albert.
Wanted to make sure I was up and coming into work on time. He knew I'd
been out late. He seemed awful perky, and unfortunately, I knew why. Maybe
bringing in Em isn't such a good idea. Unfortunately, there's not much
recourse. I threw some formula in a bottle just in time for Laura to bring
the little angel down.
"Here she is!
Isn't she cute! Gagaga!"
Laura was one of the few people I knew who could speak babytalk without
looking asinine. "I got her. When will I see you at work?"
"Not much longer. I have a little bit to take care of."
"Okay. I'll probably be in
the lab, doing more analysis of what the hell happened yesterday."
"See you soon, honey." A
light kiss on the cheek and I was off into the wacky world of Federal
Law Enforcement.
In the car, seeing Em sleep
again, I was reminded of last night, most specifically the crumpled check.
"Anders Nil-..." Where do I know that name? I'll ask Meg if she knows
it; she'll probably stop by to inform me of David's condition. And she'll
probably want to "do lunch". Well, all will be dealt with in time. For
now, one step at a time is good enough...
Laura arrives at the lab
to find Dion and Albert engaged in a healthy argument. Rather, Dion seems
to be doing most of the arguing--Albert is surprisingly cool and collected.
"Let me see the body, Albert!"
Dion says.
"I've already
told you: no," Albert replies, and sips his coffee.
Laura approaches the two. "Hey, you guys--fill me in. We have a body?"
"Albert won't tell me anything
about it. It's my case, too. And as far as I'm concerned, you're obstructing
my investigation. I'll call in Gordon," he threatens.
Albert laughs
cynically. "Yeah, sure you will, you little punk. We have no evidence
that this is even related. Dead bodies are not your area of expertise.
I was waiting to tell Laura. My partner," he emphasizes. "Calm
down, for God's sake. Have some coffee." He gestures toward the coffeepot
at the end of the worktable. Dion considers it for a moment, then catches
Laura's pointed look and mutters, "I'm not thirsty." He sits down unhappily,
massaging his temples. A headache, already.
Albert turns to Laura. "Thirty-five-year-old white male. We're waiting
on an ID. Turned up in some agent's office. Scary, eh?" Laura nods, spooked.
"Strange thing is," he continues, "the man's been embalmed. Perfectly
embalmed. A refugee from a funeral parlor." He smiles. "I've done some
basic examinations, but nothing invasive. As I've said, I was waiting
for you. Your husband was just excited that he might actually have some
work to do."
Dion fumes, speechless. Laura,
trying to change the subject, asks, "Honey, where's Emily?"
"As soon as I saw we both had some work to do, I asked Albert
if he knew someone responsible who could watch her until we got
off work. So I took her to this guy Thomas's office before I came here."
Albert adds, "He's not working too hard today--just a little paperwork--and
he said he'd be happy to take care of her."
"Do you know a Thomas?" Dion asks.
"Yeah, he's a pathologist," Laura says. "He's a good guy. I
trust him completely." She smiles, trying to convince her husband.
"Anyway, Laura, let's go
to work. Dion, you can get started on some leads. You wanted to look up
David," Albert points out.
Laura actually agrees. "It
might be worth it, Dion. He has been acting kind of strange, even
before the...'incident'."
"Not before I see that body."
"Oh, fer Chrissakes. Of all
the juvenile, bull-headed...Fine." Albert stomps off into the lab's morgue/exam
room, the Spencers trailing behind him.
Albert pulls the body onto
an examination table. It is in wonderfully good condition--the
embalmer was obviously very talented. Laura marvels at the skill with
which they did their work.
"The bad thing--or
good thing, depending on whose side you're on--about a really good embalming
job is that it's often pretty difficult to see any wounds, especially
any glaringly obvious fatal wounds. If this guy had a hole in his forehead,
we might not notice it too easily. Seriously," Albert says, seeing Dion
roll his eyes. "The embalmer's job is to cover that kind of thing up.
And if whoever pickled him also killed him, it would be really easy to
disguise a fatal gash as a routine incision for drainage of body fluids.
Do you understand?"
Laura nods, intrigued. She indicates the corpse's eyes and mouth. "They're
sewn together. Standard?"
"Yes," Albert
replies, "but under the circumstances, we might as well cut the stitches
and start our more in-depth investigation." He walks over to the head
of the body. "Laura, give me a pair of sharp-sharp scissors."
Laura locates
the sharp-sharp scissors (so named because both blades end in a point)
on the instrument tray and hands them to Albert, who expertly snips the
sutures on the left eyelid without touching the eye itself. "Aha. Laura,
tweezers." Laura obediently hands him the tweezers. She's aware that she's
become the assistant on this body, but somehow she doesn't mind too much.
It's fun to sit back once in a while and watch while someone else does
all the dirty work.
Albert carefully extracts
a tiny strip of thin paper from under the eyelid. He spreads it open on
the specimen tray. Dion leans over to read it. "'See no evil'," he reads
aloud.
Laura frowns. "Open the mouth, Albert."
He cuts the stitches very skillfully, and Dion begins to wonder
whether Albert may be involved in this case. He's just too perfect, too
precise, too good at what he does.
Albert picks
up a pair of forceps and pulls another slip of paper and a gold coin from
the mouth. He deposits them on the specimen tray. "Under the tongue,"
he says, tapping the coin with the forceps. "Ancient Greeks put gold coins
under the tongues of their dead as fare for Charon, boatman on the river
Styx. If the souls couldn't pay the fare, they would haunt the living.
The practice continues today in many cultures." He flattens out the second
paper. "'Speak no evil'," Laura reads.
Albert crouches down to the
level of the body and searches in its left ear. He stands up and circles
to the other side, then crouches again. He carefully inserts the forceps
and pulls out a third piece of paper, rolled up tightly. He unrolls it
and reads, "'Hear no evil'. Well."
He tosses it with the others and puts the forceps back in their place.
"Looks like we have some more work to do before we actually cut into this
guy. We need to analyze the papers thoroughly. Type of paper, brand of
ink. And the coin." He picks it up and squints at it. "It's not any kind
of American coin." Albert puts it back on the specimen tray and shrugs.
"We have a lot of work to do. Excuse me." He abruptly heads for his private
office in the lab and closes the door behind him.
Dion's eyes
follow him. "That was weird."
"Yeah--whoever did this was really good. He had a reason for it. Otherwise,
he wouldn't have put those papers where they are. He has a message for
us. The ID on this body would really help us, I think."
"Oh. Yeah. But I was talking about Albert. How he just kind of ran out
of steam at the end there. I thought he'd be even more interested in the
case, and he shrugged and said, 'We have a lot of work to do'." You don't
think that's weird?"
Laura sighs. "Unfortunately, no. He's in his office injecting
himself with cocaine. He does it less every day; he's either getting stronger
stuff or he's running out." She turns to the specimen tray and begins
putting each piece of evidence into its own bag. "Why don't you get to
work, Dion? ID this guy for us."
"Okay," Dion says slowly, even more suspicious. "See you later."
He kisses her and heads out the door.
Albert closes the door to
his office and settles in at his desk. He indulges himself in his habit
to fine-tune his skills; he leans back in his chair...his mind going through
past events.
He's seen it before...the
bodies, the pithy little messages left for them to find; you think that
at least with all the trouble that this killer went to that he--"Could
you be a little too sure of yourself here, Albert?" he considers this
thought in his mind; "No, no self doubt here..."
It had all the earmarkings of their old friend Windom. But he did have
to admit the embalming was a nice touch. It wasn't in Earle's repertory
of known skills; however, Windom was always given to the bizarre. He could
learn. But could he learn so well what it took others so long to perfect...?
A cynical grin
crept across Albert's face.
If it was Windom, he knew that when they caught Earle the FBI would never
make the mistake of letting him loose again. They'd probably keep him
locked up under security with lots of wires attached to him to find out
what the hell makes him tick. They would dissect his brain while he was
still alive...and as vile as this thought was, Albert felt no remorse
in the pain that would be involved.
Albert just
smiled.
Reaching across
the desk, he picked up the phone receiver and dialed an interdepartmental
extension. "Yes, this is Dr. Albert Rosenfield. I want to initiate a wiretap..."
A few minutes later he was satisfied with the course of action
he had decided upon. Perhaps now it was time for him to get out of the
office.
Carlotta
Albert, having left the
office, is now in his BMW, sunglasses on, heading out into the traffic.
As he negotiates a turn not far away from work he clips the fender of
Meg's Camry as she is driving to the hospital. He doesn't stop.
Meg recognizes Albert, and is furious. No matter how great this guy is--The-Oh-So-Brilliant-Dr.-Albert-Rosenfield--the
time has come for him to face reprisals due to his actions. How can the
authorities continue to overlook his...his problem? He seems more unglued
lately.
The BMW prowls
the city streets of Philadelphia until Albert guides the car into a space
in front of Anders's hotel. He cuts the engine, gets out of the vehicle;
the door of the car closes with the rich, low, soft sound of an expensive
road car.
Albert's timing is perfect. Anders has just arrived at the hotel himself
and has yet to enter. He is not far from his own precious car, the Miata
on which he lavishes more attention than on his sister, Bekkers, or his
girlfriend, Lydia.
Anders feels a hand on his shoulder that roughly spins him around
to bring him face to face with Albert.
"Hey! Watch the stormtrooper tactics--"
"Listen, and listen well, my little fair-haired land-of-the-midnight-sun
lemming: I don't take kindly to your latest demands for payment. Now I
have an ultimatum for you--you will supply me the commodities that I demand
on a prompt schedule. Otherwise the DEA is going to make it very difficult
for you to maintain your style of living. Think of this as a simple business
expense."
"Oh, c'mon..." Anders shakes off Albert's grip angrily. "I'll just be
in and out of the system..."
Albert leans
against Anders's Miata casually. He can see the reaction in Anders's eyes
when he touches the car. This is it...this is the bargaining tool. Albert
pats the finish of the highly polished car.
"Nice machine here...I can
see you wouldn't want anything to happen to it." Albert moves his hand
across the car turning his wrist so that the bezel of his Rolex scratches
the paint off with a small harsh accompanying sound.
"What are you
doing!?!" Anders screams, his face turning red in anger.
"Remember...a business deal.
You keep me supplied and nothing happens--to this fine vehicle." Albert
smiles, turns, and leaves, getting into his own car; he is gone in minutes,
leaving Anders looking at a small, rude scratch on the once perfect little
Miata.
Carlotta
[VANDAL, n. One who willfully or ignorantly destroys or disfigures, especially that which is beautiful or artistic.]
Lydia comes running out of
the hotel. Anders is in shock; he compulsively traces the nasty scrape
in the finish of his beautiful car.
"Anders?" She
puts her arms playfully around his neck. "What was all that about?"
"My car..." he murmurs, taking
no notice of her. His finger follows the scar along its length, almost
caressing it. Lydia peers at the finish, but it doesn't take her long
to notice the gash; she disentangles herself and inhales sharply.
"My God. Who...who
did this?"
Anders doesn't
answer. He stares blankly at the blemish for what seems like ages, then
snaps out of it. "Bastard," he hisses. His hand forms a fist over the
scratch. "Bastard." He whirls around. "Where's your car?"
"In back. Why?"
"Give me the
keys."
"What?"
"I said, give
me the goddam keys! I'm going after that son of a bitch!" He licks
his lips; there is fire in his eyes.
"Take your car."
"I can't. I...I
can't. Just give me the keys, will ya?"
Lydia digs in her pockets for her keys and holds them out to Anders,
who snatches them out of the air and heads for the back. Lydia follows,
angry.
"Who was it? Anders, where
the hell do you think you're going?"
Without a word, Anders slides into the driver's seat of Lydia's sporty,
unharmed coupe, slams the door, and puts the key into the ignition. He
fishes out his handgun, checks it for ammunition, and casually tosses
it onto the passenger seat. He rolls down the window. "Our date will commence
when I return. I shouldn't be too late," he says. "Have a book ready for
me when I get back."
Lydia doesn't
have time to reply as Anders lays on the accelerator and screeches off
in pursuit of his vandal.
Anders tears through the
streets.
"Freakin A! Freakin A!" he yells as he grips the steering wheel. His
mind is working in overtime as he drives; he devises the perfect revenge.
He cuts the wheel sharply and heads the car back to the hotel.
Lydia is still
outside.
"Get in," he
barks to her.
"But I thought
you wanted me to get a book ready for you."
"Get the hell in the car now!"
She hops in the car and barely gets the door shut as Anders
speeds off again.
Albert, being
a bachelor, follows a pattern of habits. He frequents the same few places
in his neighborhood for dining. Anders is aware of where Albert resides;
after all, the guy owes him a massive debt now and he has made it his
business to be able to find him anytime, anywhere, to collect.
Anders cruises Albert's neighborhood until he spots the car at a quiet
bistro. He pulls into the lot.
He turns to
Lydia. "You stay here and wait until I come out. You'll know what to do
then." Lydia slouches down in the seat, crossing her arms over her chest.
Going into the restaurant, he sees Albert, and with all his
power controls the urge to blow Albert's head off right there. He has
a better plan. Anders slides into the seat across the table from Albert.
"Okay, Rosenfield, you have a deal. I have a delivery. Can we do the transfer
out in your car now...I don't want to pass the stuff here. You never know
who's around."
Albert's face
radiates satisfaction. His visit must have worked on Anders.
They adjourn to the parking
lot, which is dimly lit, and get into Albert's BMW. Anders puts the bag
of cocaine on the dashboard of the car. As Albert reaches for it, Anders
pulls out his Beretta 84
semi-automatic [with the warm, polished wood inlaid grip, 13 rounds
in the clip--one in the chamber] and puts the muzzle up against Albert's
temple.
"My turn now, Rosenfield,
I have a deal for you..." He has Albert keep both hands in view on the
dash, while he reaches into Albert's suit coat and relieves him of his
ID and weapon. Albert is forced to get out of the car as Anders informs
him that he is taking possession of the BMW, in replacement for his damaged
Miata...and of course Albert's debt.
Albert is stunned that he has been outmaneuvered by Anders and is left
standing in the parking lot as Anders takes off in the black Beemer. Lydia
sees what's going down and it doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out
she's suppose to get out of here. She follows in the other car.
Anders loves
the feeling of power that the luxurious car offers. He could get used
to this real easy. Heading back to the hotel, he enters an alley that
leads to an old garage behind the building. "Home again," he thinks quite
pleasantly to himself. Lydia pulls in behind him and sees Anders now walking
towards her with a look of fulfilled satisfaction on his face. She sighs
with relief.
Carlotta
"We'll go in my car," Anders
grins from the driver's seat of his new--well, kind of new--BMW. "Get
in."
Lydia hops into
the passenger seat. "Mmm. Pretty cushy." She runs her hands over the dash.
"Hey, let's see what's in
the glovebox." Anders leans over and releases the catch gently. The glovebox
opens smoothly and silently. "Gloves," Anders says, a little disappointed.
"How unimaginative." He smiles wryly. "Perhaps I should return those.
They don't look my size." He looks around. "This car has a lot of little
hiding places, doesn't it? But there'll be time enough for archaeological
digs later. Isn't that right, my sweet?" He laughs, dizzy, the adrenaline
rush almost compensating for the lack of cocaine in his system.
"Sure, Anders."
Lydia rolls her eyes.
"Anyway...we're off!" Anders puts the car into gear and starts it; they
enter the night as quickly and noiselessly as a panther on the prowl.
The phone
rings insistently. Rebekka's eyes flutter open; she reconnoiters her surroundings--the
apartment--and frowns as she identifies the obnoxious sound. She leans
over and picks up the phone.
"Hello?" she
says cautiously, the word pendulous with sleep.
"Rebekka, hi. It's Thomas."
"Oh! Oh, hi yourself." She smiles and stretches.
"I was just calling to check
up on you. After...you know...you were called home."
"No, no, I'm fine."
"He didn't do anything to you, did he?" Thomas asks, suspicious.
Rebekka stands up and pads
around, trying to wake her body up. "He didn't lay a finger on me, Thomas...honest.
I swear."
"Good. So...what are you
doing?"
"Nothing much.
I just woke up from a long winter's nap."
"Do you wanna go out somewhere?"
Rebekka thinks about this. "I don't know," she says finally.
"Anders isn't home right now, so--"
"You don't have
to ask his permission, Rebekka," Thomas reminds her.
"Well...that's a long story."
"Tell me over coffee?" Thomas
counters hopefully.
She thinks fast
and formulates a plan--an excuse, something to get Anders off her case,
should he give her the third degree. "Okay," she says thoughtfully. "Where
shall we meet?"
"No, no--I'll pick you up.
Remember, though, I'm in the rental car. But you'll know it's me."
"Okay. Thanks, Thomas. See
you soon." She hangs up. Better go change, she thinks. I should give back
his shirt.
She heads into the bedroom,
strips off Thomas's shirt, and selects an intricately woven sweater--warm
and fuzzy, her favorite. She pulls it on over her head and peers into
the closet. Finally she sees what she's looking for; she reaches deep
into the pocket of a rarely used wool jacket of hers and pulls out a small
box. She opens it and removes a wad of bills--saved for just such an occasion--which
she shoves deep into her jeans pocket. After carefully replacing the box,
Rebekka closes the closet door, picks up Thomas's shirt, and heads back
out into the living room to wait.
Anders and Lydia arrive
at a rather trendy coffeehouse. After Anders snorts several chubby lines
of cocaine in the BMW, they walk in, go up to the counter, and order.
"A double mocha latte for
me," Lydia says.
Anders scans
the menu. "You don't have Turkish coffee?"
"Um, no," the teenager behind the counter says.
"Well, I'm sure you can make
it for me. Ask your boss for the recipe.
I want it done right."
"Yessir." The
kid passes Lydia's latte request to someone else, and scuttles off in
search of his boss. The two find a small table smack in the middle of
the place. Anders starts complaining almost immediately.
"Lydia, I can't
sit here. It's too...obvious. Everyone'll be looking at me."
"Oh, I think they'd rather
look at me," she smiles, and strikes several model-esque poses.
Anders is not amused. "Let's
just move over there, to the corner," he indicates.
"Fair enough."
They walk over
to the corner booth. Lydia opts to look onto the whole of the room while
Anders faces the wall; everyone's eyes on his back? the better to rile
up his paranoia, my dear. The kid comes by with Lydia's latte and something
resembling coffee pudding for Anders, who tastes it cautiously. "Not bad.
Thank your manager for me. Oh, and keep a tab for us, would ya?"
"Yessir." The
kid heads back to his sanctuary behind the counter.
Lydia sips her latte. "How can you drink that sewer sludge?" she asks.
"Easy. The same way you
can drink that thin milk concoction and call it coffee." He smiles.
Lydia leans in and puts her
hand on Anders's. "It's called 'skim' milk, dear," she whispers.
"I meant to say 'thin',"
he says airily. "Anyway, so how's life?"
"Not bad," Lydia admits. "Looks like it's on the up-and-up for you, eh?
New girl, new car."
"Oh, yeah,"
Anders says enthusiastically. "It's gonna be great." He grins and
takes a good gulp of coffee.
"How's your
sister?" Lydia delicately sips at her oversized latte mug.
Anders concentrates on his coffee cup and runs his fingers around
the handle. "All of a sudden, my place isn't good enough...I'm
not good enough...I don't provide enough for her...or whatever.
She's running away to that pathologist bastard, Thomas something. But
now I know where he lives." He smiles craftily.
Lydia frowns.
"Anders, relax. She's allowed to have friends, you know."
"They're not just friends!"
Anders exclaims, and pounds the table hard enough to make the spoons tink
against each other. "She was wearing his shirt! Damn him! Damn
her!"
Lydia grabs Anders's shirtfront. "Get a grip, Nilsson. You want
people to look at you? You're doing a great job of getting their attention.
Now shut up and eat your coffee."
Anders sits
back, sullen. He chews on a fingernail, then leans across the table. "I'm
so glad I have you, Lyds," he simpers, saccharine-sweet.
Lydia sees right through it. "Knock it off, Anders."
"Oh, come on--let's kiss."
He leans in farther, eyes closed.
Suddenly Lydia
sees something, and she pushes Anders away. "Hey, your new girl's here--and
she's with someone."
"Great, great...getting
started right away, I see." He makes a second attempt at a passionate
kiss.
Lydia pushes
him away yet again. "No, she's with another girl."
"Fine, whatever. Let's kiss, dammit." He reaches across the table
and grabs Lydia's shoulders forcefully.
Lydia pushes him back into his chair, hard. "Nilsson, you ass. Don't
you ever hurt me. Save that for your sister." She stands up. "I'm
going home. Thanks for the date," she says colorlessly.
He looks up
at her in disbelief for a moment, thrown off-balance by the way she so
explicitly hit the OFF switch for the evening, then stands up as well.
"Yeah, I gotta visit someone at the hospital anyway."
"Business or
pleasure?"
"Lucky me--my
businessis my pleasure." He smiles faintly and fishes a bill from
his wallet to throw on the table, covering the check and a light tip.
"Can I drive you somewhere?"
"I'll walk, thank you. And
I think a walk in the cool night air would do you some good too, Nilsson.
Raging hormones and all. Good night." She walks out briskly, casting a
glance toward the new girl and her "date" as she goes. Anders looks blankly
at the door for a split second, then heads out to his car, not paying
heed to anyone on the way.
At a table on the other
side of the coffeehouse, Rebekka is trembling with a combination of relief
and the remnants of fear. "He saw us...he heard us," she whispers, eyes
wide.
Thomas takes her hand reassuringly.
"I'm sure he didn't, Bekka. He seemed preoccupied. He didn't even look
our way."
Rebekka says nothing and
tries to breathe deeply. She closes her eyes and squeezes Thomas's hand
desperately. "What's he gonna do to me?" she whimpers in spite of herself.
"If I have anything to say about it, nothing," Thomas guarantees.
"Come on. Let's go." They leave silently, Rebekka barely holding back
tears.
Once outside in the chill
wind of December, Thomas enfolds Rebekka into his arms and holds her tightly.
"I love you, and I don't want you to be hurt again. Stay with me tonight."
Rebekka embraces Thomas just as firmly, then rests her head
on his shoulder and begins to weep. "I can't. I want to, but...I can't.
Why won't you understand?"
"I can't believe
you would choose to go back to someone who treats you like so much chattel,
to be used and abused..."
Rebekka closes
her eyes tightly. "I can't explain, Thomas...I just--just--" She sighs.
Thomas takes a step back
and looks deeply into her eyes. He gently wipes the tears from her cheek,
then tilts her head up gingerly and kisses her, a sweetly romantic (and
serious) kiss that is a promise of better things to come. A small group
of teenagers traipses by and gawks at the two.
Thomas takes Rebekka's hands.
"Will you come back with me?"
Rebekka is overwhelmed. "What--what time is it?" she asks, a little dazed.
"A little after eleven."
"Yes," she smiles.
Thomas returns the gesture
and walks her to the car.
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