Forgotten Place (33 page)

Johnny slid two pain pills across the
table.  "Are you hanging in there?"

"Sure."  I rolled my left shoulder
upward.  "It's feeling better every day."

Silence descended, heavy and wet like
Darkwater's weather.  I reached for the last wonton, bumped
against Johnny's fingers as he did the same.

"Take it," he chuckled.

"I'll split it with you."

He stared at the table, fidgeted with his
half of the wonton and readjusted in the seat.  "Doc, are we
gonna talk about what happened tonight?  If you're mad at me,
I completely understand, but I could not sit there and watch him
tear apart what little –"

"I'm not angry.  I was probably more
surprised by what you said than David was.  I had no idea how
adept you are at... creatively interpreting history."

He frowned.  "Is that what we're
calling it?"

"You skipped the part where Wendell gave you
advice on how to permanently divert suspicion away from me."

"I never said –"

"I know my father, Johnny.  What
happened, the events that revealed a weapon that appeared to have
been tampered with to conceal the ballistics, the link to Marcos'
business, it screamed my father's sticky fingers of
influence.  David is right about you.  You're a good guy
without the fortitude for criminal thought."

"I'm too weak to save you on my own. 
Thanks, Helen."

"You're too good to connive and plot and
hatch out an evil plan like that without someone who knows how to
play the game putting ideas in your head.  I'm not angry with
you.  In the long run, you're a hero who performed a greater
good that will never be attributed to you.  If Sully was using
that waste processing plant for terrorism, not even I can fault you
for bending the law and exposing something far worse than the
murder of a very bad man."

"Except it wasn't murder, right Doc?"

I dragged my index finger through the plum
sauce and sucked the digit clean.  "Rick killed himself long
before that bullet entered his head.  The second he decided to
throw in with Danny's plan to woo a student on the FBI's radar, he
killed himself."

"Take your pain pills.  You look
tired.  We've got some business first thing in the morning
before we have to part ways and get ready for the gala tomorrow
night."

"I hope they have Riley Storm in custody by
the time we get home.  I want to have a chat with him in the
worst possible way."

"I know.  Be patient, Helen. 
We're getting close to figuring it all out.  Learning the
truth about Southerby was another nail in Danny's coffin.  I
was thinking about what Levine said tonight.  If this thing
with Homeland Security has Marcos so wrapped up in his own trouble,
it could be the inciting incident that prompted Datello to start
looking for whatever David was investigating.  He had to be
nervous when Lowe was arrested, if not for some connection between
the two of them, simply knowing that you're here and we know that
Salvatore Masconi probably met with an untimely demise."

"Let's just hope he didn't end up on Riley's
autopsy table too," I said.  "Nothing would surprise me right
now.  It seems like everything is connected to everything
else.  Wouldn't you love a case that has nothing to do with
Danny Datello or ancient history?"

"I'd work traffic stops with you," he
said.  Johnny jerked his head to the long bench.  "Get
some rest.  It's your turn to crash."

"Horrible choice of words on a flight,
Johnny."  I winked once and slid out of my seat.  Before
I could find a comfortable position, Johnny appeared with blankets
out of one of the storage bins.  He draped two of them over
me.

"Warm enough?"

"Thanks," I gripped his hand before he
drifted away.  "Thanks for everything, Johnny."

It felt like I no sooner closed my eyes and
the co-pilot was waking both Johnny and me for landing back in
Darkwater Bay. 

The house was dark inside; outdoors, the
front courtyard was bright, and Johnny's plainclothesmen kept
careful watch over the property.

"Are you as exhausted as I am?"  Johnny
parked the Expedition in the garage and engaged the remote
control.  "When this is over, I swear to God I'm gonna sleep
for a solid week."

"We should call the gang and see if they're
still at Ireland's house.  If they are, they could probably
use extra eyes and hands."

"Nonsense.  If they need help, I'll
go.  You need to sleep."

"I slept five hours."

"Four," he grinned.  "You ate nonstop
for the first hour we were in the air."

"If you go over there, I'm going with
you.  We had a deal, Orion.  You're rubber, I'm
glue.  Remember?  So if you want me home tucked into bed
for the night, you're gonna have to be there too."

"Then I guess we're going to bed."

My stomach twisted into a pleasant knot.

"I mean..."

"I know what you meant, Johnny."

"The guys probably worked their way through
that house hours ago.  It's like Levine said.  If Datello
really believed the place held some secret cache of evidence, it
would've been torched long ago."

"Then why try to kill Journey right after
she decides not to sell the house?"

Johnny stared off into space.  "I don't
know.  Maybe Danny was afraid she's remember something if she
decided to keep the place."

"We're getting way too speculative."  I
climbed out of the front seat of the Expedition and loped slowly to
the door.  "You coming?"

Johnny's voice floated over my shoulder from
directly behind me.  "What do you mean too speculative?"

"We don't know that the house is part of
this at all.  David's right.  If Datello was convinced
something was there, it would've been gone ages ago.  If he
wasn't sure that Isabella didn't know a thing about her husband's
work, she too would be dead.  We have to consider that Journey
would've met the same fate as her father if I hadn't
interrupted.  Waiting for an anniversary of Ireland's murder
was probably for our benefit, to leave us scratching our heads and
chasing our tails."

He walked me to the door of my
bedroom.  "Don't give up.  Let sleep clear your head and
digest what we learned tonight.  Even if this isn't the case
that gives us Datello, we learned something important tonight,
Doc.  He's more vulnerable now that Marcos is being held
without bail than he ever has before."

"More vulnerable makes him more dangerous
unfortunately.  He's not going to go down without a fight,
Johnny."

He cupped my chin and stroked my lower lip
with his thumb.  "Why do you think I'm so determined to keep
an eye on you, huh?  I know he hates you for being disloyal to
Rick.  That's why I was so upset that you goaded him at Don's
press conference Wednesday.  He might be going down, but the
way a guy like Datello looks at it, he's not going down
alone.  Promise me that you'll stay close, Doc."

"Promise
me
that
you'll
stay close," I
whispered.  "He might hate me, Johnny, but I think if such a
thing is possible, he hates you even more.  Sister Agnes and
all that."

His head tilted, slowly dipped close to
mine.  I felt the warm puff of air caress my lips –

"Oh you're back!  I thought I heard
–"

Johnny jumped in the opposite direction I
moved.

"Crevan," he growled, "you scared us half to
death."

"Sorry," he grinned.  "We're upstairs
watching videos.  Wanna come up?  We'll fill you in on
the search of the Ireland house."

"Videos?"

Crevan shrunk away from my irritated
word.  "It's not like we're taking a break, Helen. 
They're videos we found at the house.  And it's more like
we're fast forwarding through them rather than watching.  Ned
thought there might be more than birthdays and first communions and
such mixed in the bunch."

I thought about Isabella's last words before
her disease took away her capacity for speech.  Disk. 
David's disk.  Could that have been the wrong word?  Had
she meant his cassette or video?  I opened my mouth to ask,
but Johnny gripped my arm firmly.  "Go to bed, Helen. 
All of this will be here in the morning.  You need to
sleep."

"What about you?"

"I need it too.  You can sleep in
tomorrow.  Amy says she doesn't see you on weekends."

While I undressed and donned my soft, worn
sweats for bed, I wondered if Johnny was upstairs filling in the
blanks for Ned, Devlin and Crevan – and vice versa. 

Johnny.  Now there was a dream worthy
thought.  Johnny who broke the law to offer me peace of
mind.  Johnny who lied to the FBI to protect me.  Johnny
who stormed past my defenses and threatened to force feed me if I
didn't start taking care of myself.

Johnny – who was about two milliseconds away
from kissing me outside my bedroom door. 

For a smoker, Johnny never smelled like one,
with fetid, stale breath that reeked of dirty ashtray.  The
scent of spices clung to him instead, even his breath. 
Sweet.  Tempting.  Alluring. 

I crawled under the covers and curled into a
tight ball.  What would've happened if Crevan hadn't
interrupted?  Would Johnny be in here with me now?  I
wondered if I had the strength to say no, to remind him of his new
love interest.

Guilt seeped in where warm
feelings wrapped around
what if
and pillowed me with warm fantasies. 
Guilt.  My old enemy.  I drifted to sleep thankful for
Crevan's inopportune interruption.  The last thing I needed
was to meet the mystery woman at this police gala with the
knowledge that I led her man astray a few hours earlier.

I understood why my thoughts produced a less
than chipper mood in the morning.  Johnny was quiet and
irritable, even though he never said a word to express the
mood.  Crevan tiptoed around everyone.  Ned focused on
the bizarre number-pages I unearthed in Ireland's files.  That
was enough to make anyone cranky.

Dev had a shadow all morning – waif-like
Journey, who seemed far less secure with her female police guard
than she had the strapping man who did all but smack her nose with
the morning paper to get her to heel.

The conversation about the case was a terse
recitation of facts.  Nothing of consequence was found in the
house.  Southerby had been a person the FBI knew well to be
part of Marcos' organization.  One step forward, two steps
back.  Our net gain had been less than the loss overall. 
Frustration bubbled over. 

Johnny planned to leave after lunch,
allegedly to get ready for this stupid party Saturday night. 
Crevan was leaving too.  Ned and Devlin planned to follow up
on a couple more leads on the whereabouts of Riley Storm, still
missing in action.  After Johnny and Crevan left, Johnny
absconding with my Expedition, to add insult to injury, I pulled my
two detective brethren aside. 

"There's one more thing I need to do before
we abandon ship for this stupid party tonight."

"Does Johnny know about it?"

"Ned, were you blind?  He was in a
rotten mood this morning.  Every time I tried to talk to him,
he had to go outside to smoke or take a phone call or update the
governor or Chris.  I don't know what the hell happened when
you guys watched the Ireland home video collection, but it
certainly put Johnny in a mood."

Devlin frowned.  "Johnny didn't come
upstairs last night, Helen."

"Regardless, I'd like to make a quick visit
to Isabella Ireland's convalescent home this afternoon."

"Why?" Ned said.  "She can't talk to
you, Helen."

"Maybe not, but I'd like to talk to the
staff of the facility anyway," I said.  "I keep coming back to
her paranoia that she and Journey were being stalked by
someone."

"You think it wasn't paranoia?" Devlin
asked.

"Somebody knew Journey's schedule well
enough to know when they would catch her alone in that parking
garage.  How do we learn someone's schedule?"

"Stalking," Ned said.  "All right, you
made your point.  Let's get over to the old folks home
now.  I have a feeling if we're late for this soiree tonight,
it's only gonna make somebody's mood worse."

The Sisters of Mercy
Convalescent Home was pretty much what I expected to find. 
The old brick structure was a sprawling single story nursing home,
probably built sometime in the 1960s.  Gardens and foliage
outside the facility lent a certain charm that used to be
synonymous with the phrase
rest
home
.  Religious iconography in the
form of marble statues and crucifixes abounded outside the
building. 

Inside wasn't much different.  In a
way, it reminded me of the interior of Dunhaven, dated beyond
belief, but painted at least with soothing cream tones instead of
institutional green. 

That was where all similarity stopped. It
was far less tidy than Dunhaven had been.

So much for the theory of cleanliness being
next to godliness.  The Sisters needed to discover the mercies
of a good bottle of bleach.  My nose revolted at the pungent
odor of old urine.  My eyes burned and teared up the deeper we
moved into the bowels of the facility.

Finally, we reached an ancient looking
nursing station, Formica countertop-style desk and old burgundy
carpeting buffering the outside high wall of the station.  I
brought my badge with me this time, and tapped it on the desk,
interrupting the coffee break of two nurses dressed in dingy white
and wearing caps – a nursing phenomenon I hadn't witnessed in all
my career brushing shoulders with healthcare workers.

"Can I help you?" one mumbled from behind
her coffee cup.

"Detectives Eriksson, Williams and
Mackenzie, Darkwater Bay police.  I need to see Isabella
Ireland."

"Izzy can't talk to you," the rotund nurse
next to low talker behind the coffee cup said.  Her pastry
hung midway to her mouth.  "She's demented and hasn't said a
word in years."