Текст книги "Heartless"

Автор книги: Patrick T. Phelps

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CHAPTER TEN

The man who answered the doorbell ring seemed disappointed. He had the look that only someone expecting someone else can display.

“Doctor Rinaldo?”

“Yes,” the aging man answered.

“My name is Derek Cole. I’m a freelance detective and have been hired by the O’Connells ...”

“Come in,” the doctor said as he dropped hold of the door handle, turned and shuffled back into his home. “I didn’t expect someone like you, but I’m not surprised, either.” His speech was slurred just enough that Derek could both fully understand his words and know that happy hour was growing long.

As Derek followed his host into the home, he could see that recent half-assed attempts had been made to clean the house. A single four-inch, arching, dust free path was clearly visible on the table that stood just inside of the double-door entry way. A discarded paper towel lay wadded up on the ground beneath the mirror that greeted visitors on the eastern wall of the entry. In the room to his right, a room Derek assumed to be a study, a Dyson vacuum cleaner was carelessly left, still plugged in and leaning against the far wall. On the study’s solid birch and mahogany desk, adorned with a MacKenzie Childs desk lamp, sat piles of paper that were spilled across the desk but still spoke of the days when they were never out of alignment.

Derek followed him through an entry way clearly designed to impress visitors and into the living room off to the left of the entry. Mark Rinaldo gestured with an indifferent hand towards a brown leather sofa as he dragged himself towards a Bristol leather accent chair that sat across from the sofa.

Doctor Mark Rinaldo sat down in his spacious, very well appointed living room, holding on loosely to a tumbler filled of some brown liquor. His home was in a cul-de-sac full of million dollar homes, and while the home of Doctor Mark Rinaldo had among the best curb appeal, it was obvious to Derek that outside appearances do not always equate to inside beauty.

“Sit, if you want. Stand if you prefer.”

Derek sat, removed his moleskin, and let his eyes wander until the doctor sat with a heavy and exaggerated sigh.

“My wife decorated every square inch of his place. Spared no expense,” he said. “No expense was spared. Not even when it came to the type of paint the contractors used in the closets. Top shelf, head to toe.”

After refusing an offered drink, Derek asked, “And your wife? Will she be joining us today?”

“Thirty-nine months ago, I announced that I was going to hang up my stethoscope. Retire early. Fifty-five years old. Gerti was happy as hell. Oh, sure, she loved being married to a doctor, especially to a chief of medicine, but she knew that the job was hard on me. She was as happy that day I told her that I was going to retire as she was the day we brought our son home from the hospital after he was born.

“The next day after I told her, I met with the board of directors at Saint Stevens, and I let them know my decision. No one was surprised. They knew I was getting tired of dealing with the job, the other doctors, and the damn insurance companies. They knew that once the government started shoving their noses into healthcare that they would have plenty of their more tenured doctors decide to call it a career.

“When I got home that night, Gerti was lying face down on the kitchen floor. She was alive, but something was wrong, obviously.” Mark Rinaldo paused, pulled long and hard at his drink, emptying it in a flash. He reached over to the end table next to him where he had conveniently placed a bottle of Johnny Walker blue. He poured a heavy drink before continuing.

“Brain tumor. That’s what it turned out to be. Damn ironic, isn’t it? That the day I announce my retirement and the day we should have spent making love and planning how we were going to spend all our money, was the same day we find out she won’t be around long enough to spend a dime of it.

“She died two months and eleven days after I announced my retirement. Horrible disease, that brain cancer. Ripped away her memories and turned her into someone I didn’t even recognize. And she was the wife of the chief of medicine at one of the best cancer hospitals in the mid-west. Died just like anyone else. So, no Mr. Cole, my wife won’t be joining us today.”

“I am sorry for your loss, Doctor,” Derek said. He knew that the doctor was at least two scotches into his day. “Doctor, I need to ask you some questions about an Alexander O’Connell.”

“His name is Black. Alexander Black. And I know that he escaped and that he killed a few doctors and that he is coming for me. I got a call from some chief of police in New York. I also got an email from Alexander Black.”

“An email?” Derek asked.

“An email. Must have been sent right after he killed Adams and the other doctor. What was his name? Curtis? Jacob Curtis I think.”

“I am not sure of the exact names, but Curtis and Adams are the ones who were killed. According to my employer, they were both killed in a lodge owned by a Doctor William Straus over in Piseco Lake, New York,” Derek confirmed. “The email, Doctor Rinaldo, what did the email say?”

“Oh, it was very polite. Short and right to the point. It said ‘Doctor Rinaldo, can you tell me, please, who is buried in Alexander O’Connells grave? No need to send a reply. I’ll stop over to collect your answer.’ He signed it just ‘AB.’ I actually figured it was him knocking on my door when you showed up.”

“Aren’t you going to take precautions in case he does show up?”

“Precautions about what? About saving my life? Hell, no. I will get what I deserve.”

Derek had seen unexpected reactions from hundreds of people. Some were his clients, and some were the targets of his client’s displeasure. As he sat across from Doctor Rinaldo, Derek genuinely felt that Rinaldo truly had no interest in taking any precautionary steps to keep himself safe from whomever had killed the three in Piseco Lake and all but said “you’re next.” Derek understood that he was having a conversation with someone who had already given up.

“Can you confirm that the story I’ve been told about Alexander is true?” Derek asked as Mark Rinaldo finished and poured another tall glass of scotch.

“Not sure what you heard. But if you’re asking if Alexander Black was born without a heart and that we screwed up and sent him to that asshole William  Straus out in Long Island to cover our asses; if you’re asking if that is true, then yes. It’s all true.”

Derek sat in silence at the confirmation. He wanted to believe the story that Thomas had given him but found it nearly impossible to do so. As he sat across from Mark Rinaldo, the man who started the entire series of events in motion with his decision twenty-two years ago, he began to see how that decision had worn on the doctor.

“Not a day has passed that I didn’t regret what I did. What I regret most is that I included other people in my decision.” Mark stopped, slurped in the final drops of scotch left in his glass, then sat the glass down on the table next to the near empty bottle of blue. “And now, my decision has killed three people. Three people, dead because I panicked and chose the route of a coward.

“I hope that Alexander Black or O’Connell, whatever he wants to call himself, does come and pay me a visit. I’ll tell him that everything was my fault. Everyone was doing what I told them to do.”

“If his recent actions are any indications, you know that he will try to kill you?”

“I hope he does.”

“I can get you somewhere safe.”

“You believe in heaven, Mr. Cole?”

The question took Derek by surprise.  “I suppose. I hope so, anyway.”

“Well, I do. And I also believe that unless I pay for my sins, for what I did to Alexander, to his family and every doctor I got involved in this mess, that I won’t be headed to heaven. My wife is there. I know that to be true, and I’d like to see her again.”

“Doctor Rinaldo,” Derek said, “back twenty two years ago, when Mrs. O’Connell gave birth, you are certain that one of the babies, Alexander, had no heart and only half of a lung?” Derek needed to be certain that he was very clear about the bizarre birth.

“Three doctors, myself included, all determined that the baby did not have a heart and was not breathing. Skin went blue then turned a horrible shade of gray. No color at all, that gray. Death gray.”

“But the baby was still alive?”

“Depends on how you define being alive. Damn thing was moving around, eyes opened, kicking its legs. Kept gasping for air like a damn fish thrown onto the beach.” Mark Rinaldo reached for the bottle of blue. He paused, looked at Derek, then returned his empty hand to his lap. “We had no idea what was keeping that child alive. No idea. And I had no idea what to do in a situation like that. How could I have any idea? There wasn’t a policy in place about how to deal with a heartless baby that was still alive. I made the only choice I could think of.

“Now, I didn’t know what the hell was keeping it alive and really had no idea what to do. But I’ll tell you something, Mr. Cole,” Mark said as he leaned closer to Derek, his scotch soaked breath heavy in the air, “I know now what kept it alive.”

“And that would be?”

“Evil, Mr. Cole. Evil and sin kept that baby alive that day and every day since. My sins, your sins, the sins of the whole damn world. Nothing short of evil could do that, Mr. Cole. Nothing short of evil.”

The room’s air was cut with a chill of uneasiness. Of fear. Of doubt. Of imagined terrors

“Once Peter Adams,” Mark paused at the sound of that name, “and Stan Mix took that baby out of my hospital and brought it to Straus and his band of misfits, I tried to forget the whole damn thing. Tried to pretend it never happened.

“I even went to the funeral for Alexander O’Connell and found myself actually forgetting that the body buried in that grave was that of a stillborn baby that was about to be destroyed. Destroyed like garbage, Mr. Cole. That’s what hospitals do with dead babies that parents don’t want to bury. We destroy them and make it as if they were never even born. They’re nothing. Just a mass of tissue. Dead, useless, unloved tissue, Mr. Cole.

“I never went back to that grave, and if it weren’t for Peter Adams, I never would have even thought of the real Alexander O’Connell ever again. Peter insisted that he keep communications with Straus. That we kept updated with his progress. That asshole Straus was convinced that he’d be the one to figure out what was keeping Alexander alive and that he would become rich and famous. Bastard thought that he’d discover some cure for every disease known to man.

“Did you hear anything about William Straus, Mr. Cole? The cop who called me didn’t mention his name except to ask if I knew his whereabouts.”

“Nothing, and I assume you don’t have any idea where he might be?”

“No idea. But I almost hope he is hiding in some god-awful place. I almost hope that Alexander finds him before he finds me. That’s how I feel about Doctor William Straus. He’s just another sin in this world. Another reason for Alexander Black.”

Derek knew that trying to convince Mark Rinaldo to protect himself was futile. He knew that Mark wanted, or felt that he needed Alexander to kill him. To purge him from his sins and from his guilt.  To reunite him with his wife.

“Doctor, I don’t agree with your thoughts about not doing anything to protect yourself in case he comes looking for you, but I respect your decision.”

“Please don’t patronize me with respect. I don’t deserve any of that,” he said as he quickly reached for and emptied the bottle of blue into his glass.

“Understood. But please understand that I have been hired to protect the O’Connells and that I take my job very seriously. Is there anything you can think of that will help me do my job?”

“Find Doctor William Straus. He knows everything you need to know.”

“How about Doctor Stanley Mix and his wife?”

“Leave them the hell alone!” Mark screamed. “They were the lucky ones. They found each other because of this mess. They have a life. A good life. Don’t involve them, you hear me?”

“They are already involved, Doctor. I’m sure they’ve been notified about what happened in Piseco Lake. I learned that someone, probably Alexander, had a list of names. Your name and Stanley’s name was on that list.”

“And Michelle? Was her name on the list?”

“No. It wasn’t on the list, as far as I know.”

“Then keep it off,” Mark said.

“That’s really not up to me,” Derek said as he stood, knowing the conversation had given him all the information it was going to provide.

“If they know what happened, they are smart enough to take precautions. The police will certainly want to investigate their involvement. But I’ve already told Stanley to deny absolutely everything. Michelle is involved only because she worked for that asshole Straus. Leave them alone! If the police find out that you were looking for them, they’d figure out that Stanley was involved from the beginning.”

Knowing that arguing with Mark would serve no purpose, Derek agreed not to contact Stanley or his wife, Michelle. He knew that the police would discover what happened and would find out the names of every player in this drama. Derek knew that anyone whose name was on that list would have to pay. He was determined to protect his clients first, and then do whatever he could to make sure that the people on that list paid their obligations to the law and not to Alexander Black.

As he left Mark’s home, Derek again suggested that Mark at least think of getting out of town. When his suggestion was returned only with a slamming door, he headed back to his car. Once in his car, he called the US Airways reservation number and booked the next flight out of Chicago to Albany, New York. He then tried to contact Henry Zudak, but his calls, three of them, went straight to voicemail.

“I hope you are somewhere safe, Doctor Zudak,” Derek said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The earliest flight Derek could book was scheduled to depart Chicago’s O’Hare airport at 9:58 p.m. that same day. As he glanced at the digital clock in his Buick Lacrosse, Derek realized he had time to kill. Time to think. To plan out his next steps. To figure out what he would do if he came face to face with Alexander Black and what story he would give to the police if and when they asked him for details.

In the three years that Derek had been a “freelance detective,” he had made several friends on police forces across the country. While none of these friends would ever invite Derek in on one of their investigations, he knew that if he ever got into a situation, they would have his back.

He also knew that he had made plenty of enemies during his three years of freelance work. To many, what Derek did was “real police work” and, as such, should be left to the professionals. He was seen as a danger, an outsider, a nuisance to many police departments. Though Derek never intentionally broke any laws, his freelance status allowed him to cut corners that police detectives couldn’t.

“We have protocols to follow, Cole!” he was often told. “You go running into situations, doing whatever you think you should do and next thing we know, our whole case is blown because you didn’t follow protocol.”

While Derek had made some mistakes when he first started freelancing, those mistakes were never repeated as he gained more experience. He learned better how to do his job while assisting and not interfering with the “real police detectives’ work.”

Over the last few years, Derek had helped police departments that were often understaffed and overworked to solve crimes that would have otherwise gone unsolved. Though he had only been involved in less than thirty cases since going freelance, his skills were sharp and his reputation was, for the most part, stellar.

Still, the average detective in an average police department wanted nothing to do with any “freelancer.”

At least not publicly.

Many of the cases that Derek was hired to solve or resolve were also cases that a local police or sheriff’s department was involved in. Though few would ever welcome Derek’s involvement in front of others, many would quickly learn to appreciate what Derek could do and how he could help their cases.

“I don’t need any credit once we solve this case,” he would tell anyone on any police force that would listen. “My credit comes from my client paying me. I can be as invisible as you need or want me to be.”

Derek’s ability to avoid complying with protocol and “police procedures” gave him a unique, and often times, envied advantage over a police department’s officers. When a house couldn’t have access gained without a search warrant in hand first, Derek was able to get in without having to wait for some judge to “weigh the rights of the person against the expected and possible evidence that may or may not be found.” When a suspect needed to be spoken to and who was “less than agreeable,” Derek didn’t have to honor a request for a lawyer to be present and didn’t have to worry about what was being seen on the other side of a two-way mirror.

He was no vigilante, and he tried very hard to follow what police procedures that were needed to be followed. But when push came to shove, as it often does in the world of “good guys versus bad guys,” Derek took care of business.

It was his clients, after all, to whom Derek was responsible. If they needed something resolved, and the desired resolution was legal, Derek would get it done. One way or another, Derek always delivered the desired resolution.

As he drove to the airport, Derek made a few more calls. The first was to the Hertz reservation line, where he rented a mid-sized car to be picked up at the Albany airport.

“And how long will you be needing this vehicle, Mr. Cole?”

“Can we leave that open for now?”

“I’m sorry, sir. We do need a time frame.”

“Four days, and if I need to extend or shorten the rental?

“Just call us back, and we’ll take care of you, Mr. Cole.”

The next call he made was to Verizon’s 411.

“Name and listing for a Doctor Stanley Mix. I believe they live near or in Rochester New York,” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” the computerized voice responded, “that number is unlisted.”

“Damn,” he said.

He dialed the next number and waited for his call to be answered.

“Hello?”

“Thomas, it’s Derek.”

“How did your meeting with Rinaldo go? Did he deny everything?”

“He confirmed everything. Listen, you did some research, and I need a little help from you.”

“What do you need?”

“Do you have the phone number for Stanley Mix?”

“Yes, but why do you want to call him?”

“His name is on that list you told me about, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I didn’t hire you to protect anyone but me and my parents.”

“Understood, but if I can make a call and let him know that he should take precautions, I don’t think that would take any time away from my primary responsibility.”

Derek hated when his clients went “freelance” themselves or grew impatient with whatever time it was taking Derek to provide a resolution. This client had already done too much research. Derek knew that people who do research end up acting on whatever information their research produces.

“Understood. You just find my brother and keep me and my parents safe.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Derek loved flying. Something about being so distant from the ground. Unreachable with an assumed and accepted reason for being so. He loved passing through the clouds and the feeling of being invisible, if only for a moment. He loved the way the other passengers would tense during takeoffs then feel their stress dissipate as the plane blasted through the clouds.

It was the clouds he enjoyed the most. He wished that planes stayed in the clouds longer. Not just for a brief visit but for the entire flight.

As he sat in his preferred seat (exit row, window), Derek let his thoughts drift as the plane ascended into the clouds. As he looked through the window and saw the clouds both distant and near, he imagined her face. Hoping to see some formation that would let him know that she was still with him. Watching over him. He remembered as a child, his mother, lying next to him in their backyard, telling him to look up into the clouds and tell her what he could see.

“Do you see that horse over there?” his mother would say, pointing straight up to a cloud formation. “Give it time, and use your imagination. You’ll see it.”

“I can see it! And I see a bird” Derek would exclaim. “And other there is see a whale.”

“I see it, too. Can you see any people up there?”

“I don’t see any people. Do you?” he asked.

“I see Gramma and Grandpa sitting on a long bench, way over there,” his mother said pointing off to the west. “And other here, I see your Aunt Stella.”

But Derek, try as he might, could never convince himself to see any people in the clouds. No matter how strong his imagination may have been, he couldn’t put heads on top of shoulders and legs beneath a torso.

Derek’s parents were as middle-class as one could imagine. His father worked on the Ohio State Campus in the print shop for over thirty years, and his mother worked part-time at the college bookstore. Derek always felt that his parents would always be there for him. Supporting his decision when he told them he was going to join the army, his decision to re-enlist after his four-year hitch, his falling in love with and marriage to Lucy, and his decision to join the Columbus City Police Department.

His parents were with him each step he took, during each phase of his life. When Lucy was killed, it was his parents who tried to console him, to comfort him and to make sure that he didn’t allow his grief to drive him so far away from them that they couldn’t reach him.

When Derek told his parents that he had quit the police force, his parents only offered support.

“I didn’t like you doing that work anyways,” his mom said.

“I don’t blame you at all, son,” he father offered. “There are plenty of opportunities for a young man like yourself that don’t involve risking your life every time you go to work. Plenty of opportunities.”

But Derek wasn’t interested in spending his days in a safe, practical job. He wanted to do what he could to make sure that someone else’s wife wasn’t murdered because a police force had to follow protocols.

“I’m going to start my own detective agency,” he told his parents.

“Like a private investigator?” his mother asked.

“Sort of. But more like a private detective.”

“Oh Derek, I’m not sure about that. There are too many bad people out there. Too many for even the police to handle.”

He thought of Lucy and the “bad person” who the police couldn’t handle. He thought of her face, her pleading eyes, staring at him through the bank’s front window.

“That’s exactly why I want to do this,” he said.

It was the way he said it that told his parents that his decision was already committed to and nothing they could say would convince him to take a more practical and safe job.

Starting a “freelance detective” agency wasn’t easy at first. Derek had no idea of how to get his name out in the public. He started with Google Ad Words, a dedicated Facebook page and a website that he had custom designed.

Nothing.

For the first six months, the only public interest shown to Derek’s agency was expressed by police agencies and private investigators.

“It’s vigilantes like you who make it even harder for the ‘real’ police to do their jobs.”

“Don’t try to be cute with your title, Mr. Cole. A catchy title won’t make up for the fact that you have very little actual police experience.”

Derek also received a few emails from prospective clients. All of those turned out to be people looking for some “less than legal” work to be done.

It wasn’t until his seventh month in business – when his savings were all but dried up – when he signed his first paying client. Derek was hired to locate an accountant who absconded with over $500,000 from the firm where he was a partner. Following the leads his client gave him and his uncanny ability to read people, Derek located the accountant six days after his services were retained.

“That was some impressive work,” his client told him. “The police had no chance of finding him. Their trail went cold two days after the money was stolen.”

Derek received fifteen percent of the recovered money. More importantly, he earned a very satisfied client who promised to “spread the word.”

Clients then began streaming to Derek. One after another, Derek accepted cases that, for whatever reason, the local, state, or federal authorities couldn’t solve. His reputation was building, and Derek was sure that his parents would now be proud of their son and his bold decision to start his own detective agency.

But now he was sitting in a plane, desperately trying to see something in the clouds that he had never been able to see before. He wondered why so many people – other people – told stories of being visited or of receiving a sign. And why he, as hard as he tried to see and to hear, never received any sign that she was still with him.

As the plane rose through and then above the clouds, Derek turned his gaze to the horizon. In the distance, he could see nothing but a blanket of clouds falling ever further from him and a dark sky above.  He craned his neck, hoping to see something in the stars that were visible. Somewhere, off in the distance, he knew that the sky and clouds would meet. Maybe there, he thought, is where he would find a sign. A token of hope that she was waiting for him to notice.

She had been gone for over three years and for three years Derek had struggled to remember her face. Not the face he could easily remember by looking at pictures, but her face when her smile was not for a camera, but for him.

The only memory he could easily recall of her face was a poison to him. That final vision of her face, pressed against the glass, the consuming blackness of the pistol held against her temple and, behind her terrified face, his face. The face of the man whom Derek had never seen before and whose face he could recall in greater detail than the face of his own wife.

As he sat thinking about Lucy, he found his fingers tracing the scar on his left cheek, recalling the pain, the depression, the anger that caused the scar. He remembered the look on his mother’s face when she arrived at the hospital. How his father looked at him as he leaned against the far wall of Derek’s hospital room, seemingly wishing the room was five times the size but still glad he could be there for his son. He remembered the embarrassment he felt when he explained what had happened and how he knew the doctors didn’t believe his story.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” a flight attendant asked. She was leaning in close to Derek, closer than she did to any other passenger. She was attractive, no doubt, and she seemed to Derek to be the type of woman who understood the effects her appearance had on men.

“Scotch, on the rocks, please,” he answered, shaking the memories from his mind.

“We only have Dewar’s. Is that okay?”

“Fine. Dewar’s is fine.”

“Fourteen dollars, and we only take cash.”

“Make it a black coffee and a glass of water. No ice.”

Derek retrieved his moleskin notebook from his backpack and began reviewing his notes. It had only been a few hours since his first meeting with Thomas O’Connell and after accepting the case, yet he had heard and seen so much. He felt, as he studied his notes, that he was missing something. Something that he needed not to miss. Something that shouldn’t be missed.

Whether it was the fact that he was charged with the protection of a family from their own child, born without a heart, or the succumbing nature that Mark Rinaldo adopted as his punishment for his actions over twenty years ago, something was not adding up.

And why was Thomas not concerned about meeting him in a place as public as a park? Sure, the reason he gave was valid, but still someone truly in fear for his or her life would at least seem nervous or uncomfortable sitting out in the open.

“The killer could be anywhere,” he thought, trying to dispel his suspicions. “The fact is that someone killed three or four people exactly where Thomas said three people were killed. Fact. And the doctor who started this whole mess and who received a message from the assumed killer confirmed his story about his brother. Fact. And since the police are obviously looking for the killer, it wouldn’t make sense for the killer to walk around, looking for his next victim in a public park. Opinion.”

The flight attendant returned with two bottles of Dewar’s White Label in one hand and a plastic cup filled halfway with ice in the other.

“I don’t think anyone will miss two little bottles,” she smiled. “These are on me.”

“And if the pilot doesn’t get us out of these turbulence, they may be on me, soon. Thank you.”

She laughed a forced laugh and held eye contact with Derek a bit longer than what the joke deserved. “If you need anything else, you know where I’ll be.”

“Thanks again,” Derek said.

After the flight attendant moved on, Derek scribbled some notes in his book.

Find William Straus. Knows more than anyone else.

Contact O’Connells. Why did they leave and not demand that Thomas join them?

Check in on Rinaldo

He closed the moleskin, pushed off the overhead light, leaned back as far as he could, and closed his eyes. He was thankful that his wife’s memorized face was not there to greet him as he closed his eyes.

“Where are you, Alexander Black, and what is your next move?”

The flight from Chicago to Albany, New York took just over one and a half hours. By the time Derek had sucked any remaining scotch from the melting ice cubes, it was time to return his seatback to its upright position. He didn’t have enough time to plan out his next move but knew that he would have time as he made the estimated two-hour drive from Albany to Piseco Lake.

As the plane descended back through the clouds, he looked out of the window and again searched in vain for her face. The clouds were soon above him.

Where they belonged.