Photo Credit: AP Photo/Royle
Belfast, Ireland (1969)
Belfast, Ireland (1969)
Invisible Injuries
M. K. Eddleman
Brighton Publishing LLC
435 N. Harris Drive
Mesa, AZ 85203
www.BrightonPublishing.com
ISBN 13: 978-1-62183-490-8
ISBN 10: 1-62183-490-5
Copyright © 2018
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other characters or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher or copyright owner.
M. K. Eddleman
Brighton Publishing LLC
435 N. Harris Drive
Mesa, AZ 85203
www.BrightonPublishing.com
ISBN 13: 978-1-62183-490-8
ISBN 10: 1-62183-490-5
Copyright © 2018
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other characters or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher or copyright owner.
Prologue
Belfast—the time of the “Troubles.”
Strong, calloused hands lifted Brendan out of his bed. Confused, the five-year-old groaned in protest.
“Shh,” his father commanded, adjusting his grip to cradle the slender, pajama-clad youngster against his chest so he could navigate down the narrow stairway from the sleeping loft to the kitchen.
Once at the bottom, he handed the boy over to his mother and hurried over to the sink. Lifting the drab, threadbare curtain, he proceeded to remove a large red plastic pail, a forty-eight-ounce container of Malone’s Natural Antibacterial Cleaner, a hand broom and dust pan, a pile of rags reeking of mildew, and a garbage can filled with scraps of food, cellophane wrappers, soiled napkins, and squashed beer cans—all producing a heavy stench of decay.
Turning back to his wife, the father snapped, “Give ’em here. And by the way, don’t ya ever clean under here? Reminds me of me days in Her Majesty’s hell hole.”
“If ya’d help me once ‘n a while instead of whinin’ about yer days in prison—”
“Just give me the babby, and shut your gob. You know notin’ about what I went through,” he said and then thought, I’d rather die than go back to that hellhole. He settled down on one knee, sitting the boy on the other, and whispered, “I’m gun ta put ya under the sink. Some bad men are comin’ here, and I don’t want ya to be hurt by them. Stay where I put ya. Don’t move. Don’t cry. Don’t even whimper. Ya hear me?”
The boy nodded.
“I mean it. No matter what you tink you hear, stay put. And remember, I love ya.” With those words, he shoved the child against the back of the wall behind the pipes and returned the cleaning products and garbage can. Once he dropped the curtain, he stood to listen. “Good boy. Yer doin’ great.”
The boy heard his father whisper something to his mother but couldn’t make out what was said. They turned off the light and left him alone. Before he could register the growing fear, he was distracted by the dampness invading his pajamas and the rank smell insulting his nose. An ice-cold drip from one of the pipes hit the back of his neck, startling him, but the DNA of hundreds of years of survival prevented him from crying out. Instead, he started to shiver. He pulled up his knees to have a place for his chin and wrapped his arms around his legs. He started to fall asleep when the sound of a door crashing open startled him. Terror seeped into every pore. He heard footsteps slowly enter the room. The light clicked on. He almost called out, “Da? Is that you?” when he heard an unfamiliar voice call from the loft.
“No one up here.”
Another strange voice answered, “Shh.”
The room went still. The creak of a floorboard straining under the weight of the invader gave the man’s position away. The boy held his breath. The unmistakable sound of his mother’s voice penetrated the silence as she shrieked upon being discovered.
“Where’s that skank husband of yours hidin’? Tell me, hoor, or I’ll snuff you right now,” he barked, savagely slapping her face.
The boy’s mother fell to the floor with a thud. “He’s in the back alley.”
The intruder reached down, grabbed her hair, and dragged her out of the kitchen and down the back stairs. Her screams pierced the cold night air. For a moment, the world stopped. Quietly floating in through the open door, the boy caught whispers of his father’s voice as he pleaded for the life of his wife. Then he heard two popping sounds.
The silence was more frightening than screams. But all the boy could think was, She told them where my da was.
Chapter One
Oakland Airport,
Six Months Ago
Tall and alluringly attractive, Brendan leaned into a corner of the baggage claim area aware of the security cameras documenting faces. Wearing a charcoal gray Brioni suit and shielding his eyes behind $300 Aviators, he scanned the crowd, instinctively noting the location of every visible security agent in the airport. He was momentarily amused by a frail old woman struggling to lift her suitcase off the circling carousel while a businessman standing next to her deliberately stepped away to look at his watch. He could tell the businessmen. It was the shoes. They were the only ones who weren’t wearing some form of athletic shoe, hiking sandal, or flip-flop. No one dressed up anymore.
Brendan shook his head in disgust. Impatiently, he pulled out his phone from the inner pocket of his hand-tailored jacket to look at the time and check the status of the flight on an app that gave the location of every nonmilitary aircraft in the country. He could feel the heat of anger rising in his gut. Flight 628 from Chicago was delayed. This was why he usually sent one of his grunts to pick up his cargo. He knew he should have checked before he left Live Oak, but he had relied on his right-hand man to do it. Typical, he thought. He couldn’t rely on anyone. Never could. If he wanted something done right, he always had to do it himself. And airlines. They really made his blood boil. If he ran his business the way they ran theirs, he’d be living on the streets.
“Boss, the plane’s on the runway,” a raspy voice whispered in his ear.
“You got your sign ready?” he asked, looking at the behemoth of a man obediently waiting for orders. The man discreetly showed his boss the “Murphy Party” placard. Wanting his imports to Americanize right away, Brendan had his team in Ireland arrange their new names, identities, and papers weeks in advance. They prepared them for the culture shock of the gluttonous amounts of consumerism in America and had them work on Anglicizing their accents.
Pleased with the sign, Brendan said, “They should be all together. Two guys and two girls. I imagine they’ll be pretty disheveled. They left Dublin yesterday. I booked the cheapest flights and arranged it so they’d go through customs in New York. That way we wouldn’t have to wait here. Remind me to rethink that idea.” He paused, thinking about why he had come in the first place. As a rule, he avoided airports and public places in general. But his team had told him one of the girls was “clean on.” If she were as beautiful as promised, he’d place her in his own home as a housekeeper.
He glanced up to see passengers beginning to file down the escalator into the baggage area. He was torn about whether to stay and risk being caught on camera with the newly arrived charges. He opted to leave.
“I’m going back to the car.” Pushing off the wall, Brendan couldn’t resist one last look, hoping to glimpse the girl.
The escalator strained under the weight of a full load of passengers, tired and weary from dealing with weather delays in Chicago. The delightful shrill of laughter caught his ear. He stopped. Carrying what few possessions they owned, a group of four modern-looking young people came into view. They were beaming, smiling ear to ear, excitedly pointing at the splendors in the airport. He scanned the group, his eyes falling on a stunning girl with gorgeous red curls, a lithe body, and emerald-green eyes. Blood surged through his body. His heart raced. Decades of training to be in control of his every action evaporated at the sight of this true Irish beauty. She would be his.
Live Oak,
Present Day
Attending the closing ceremony of the Scottish Games on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend was a tradition for Patty and Mike Valdez. Patty’s father had started the tradition when she was a little girl. He wanted her to know her Scottish heritage. When Mike entered the picture, he insisted that they continue going. Tonight, they sat in the grandstand of the county fairground racetrack listening to thirty-five bagpipes play “Amazing Grace.” On the last note, the games ended. For a full minute, the crowd stood silently, savoring the moment.
The tune brought Mike back to the day he decided to become a policeman. At the age of seven, his family suffered the loss of his older brother Arturo in a traffic accident on CA-99 near Tulare. Wondering why his brother wasn’t home yet, Mike started making his sister a bowl of cereal for dinner to try to stop her crying. Standing by the kitchen sink, milk carton in hand, he looked out the window and saw a police officer lift the makeshift wire latch on the chain link fence, walk across the dead grass to the front door, and knock forcefully. Fear, bordering on terror, paralyzed Mike. He was sure he was going to jail but didn’t know why.
By the time he shook off his panic, Mike realized his sister had responded to the knocking, opened the door, and innocently let the policeman in. The officer asked her if her mommy was home. Holding a tattered stuffed unicorn in her hand, she stared at him with her teary brown eyes. Surprisingly, instead of getting in trouble as Mike expected, the policeman correctly assessed the situation—hungry children waiting for their parents to come home after a full day of picking tomatoes in the valley fields.
He said to the children, “Stay put. I’ll be back,” and disappeared.
Mike wasn’t convinced. Even at his young age, he was acutely aware of the precarious status of Mexican migrant workers. Little did he know how his life was about to change. He was shocked when the officer returned, arms loaded with bags full of the most delicious smells in the world. Mike had never tasted the double bacon cheeseburgers coupled with crunchy fries salted to perfection and thick chocolate milkshakes so common to American youth. From that evening on, Officer Abraham took Mike under his wing, getting him involved in youth sports, making sure he stayed out of trouble, and insisting he maintain good grades. Largely through Abraham’s continuing guidance, Mike was the first of his family to graduate from high school and college, earning a degree in law enforcement from San Jose State University. The pain of his brother’s death eased, but the kindness of the policeman never did.
The crescendo of applause invaded Mike’s memory, pulling him into the present. Patty looked up at Mike, tears filling her eyes, and said, “Thank you for indulging me and coming here every year.”
“I love it as much as you do,” he said, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. As the applause settled down, the crowd lingered, reluctant to let go of the experience they had just shared.
“We better get going. It’s going to take a while to get out of here,” Mike said. He lightly touched Patty’s back and gently guided her through the departing crowd. “Would you mind if I drop you off at home? I’d like to stop by the station to make sure I have everything in order for tomorrow.”
“No problem. Are you nervous about your first day as the newly appointed police captain?” she asked, bumping her shoulder into him in a teasing gesture. She was proud of his promotion. Mike was fully aware of the sacrifices the family had made as he worked long hours and studied hard to pass the exam.
“A little,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate. Actually, he had been restless all weekend. Live Oak was a gentrified suburb of San Francisco. Taking over operations of a police department in such a community was daunting. Although he knew the area well—Mike had served as a detective for the Live Oak Police Department for the past four years—he also knew expectations of the residents were high, exceeded only by the expectation that their property values would continue to rise. He knew he was up to the task, or he wouldn’t have applied for the job. Nevertheless, he was nervous about his first day.
They walked with the crowd to the dirt parking lot.
“Next year, let’s splurge and fork out the money to park in the paved lot,” Patty groused as she looked at her once clean shoes, which were now covered in dust.
“What? And miss the joy of traipsing through the weeds and packed dirt of the county’s finest parking lot?” Mike said with mocked sincerity.
Once in the car, Patty took out her phone, scrolled through her texts, answered two, and found the album of Scottish music they had bought years ago. Already synced via Bluetooth to the car’s stereo system, the stirring tunes from Gordon Duncan soon filled the car. They drove home, comfortable not talking.
Mike pulled into the driveway to let Patty out. He walked her to the door, leaned over to give her a kiss, and said, “I won’t be long.”
Folding his 6′ 3″ frame back into the car, Mike switched on the car stereo and punched in the radio station dedicated to the hottest hits of the ‘90s. The pipes were great in the open air but not so great in a closed car.
“Code three. 11-44 at Live Oak High School cafeteria,” announced Roseanne Lucido, the dispatch supervisor, interrupting Celine Dion singing “The Power of Love.” Startled, Mike thought, What the… police called… ambulances called? Did she say high school? He paid careful attention, hoping he had misheard.
“All cars in the vicinity, proceed to Live Oak High School…”
He didn’t need to listen anymore. His mind started racing. A possible fatality at his daughter Sophie’s high school filled him with dread. He vaguely remembered her saying something about band members working a special Labor Day bingo game to earn money for uniforms. God, he hoped she wasn’t there. He popped the trunk and shot out of the car to don his bulletproof vest and duty belt, placing the .40 caliber Smith and Wesson semiautomatic pistol into the attached Bianchi holster. A surge of adrenaline forced him to take some deep breaths to stop his legs from shaking.
“Ten-four. Nine twenty-one on the way,” Mike responded to the dispatcher as he jumped back into the car and reached down to extract a magnetic strobe light from the side storage compartment on the inside door panel of his car. He pressed the lever to open the window, affixed the light to the roof of the car and took off down the street. Nearing the school, Mike’s heart sank as two ambulances pulled up to the building. He watched EMTs leap out of both cabs, open the rear doors and extract stretchers. He parked on the perimeter of the activity, aware that people were not paying attention to their surroundings as they raced to action. The smell of diesel from the idling fire engines filled his nose and mouth as he jogged toward the cafeteria. He followed a paramedic wheeling a gurney through the large double doors propped open by first responder firemen armed with resuscitators and defibrillators. He quickly took in the scene. Huge monitors, still blinking with the image of a bingo card and the number N-35, hung in the corners of the room. Bingo balls continued to bounce in the console on the stage that served as a platform for the caller. Packets of bingo cards, strange dolls with wild neon hair, and colored daubers lay haphazardly over long tables. One of the two tables at the entrance was tipped over. A mix of old and not so old people were mulling around, checking with each other to make sure everyone was OK.
Mike spotted a group of kids with tear-stained faces from the band’s wind section, Sophie’s section, huddled together near the back of the auditorium. The room started to blur.
I don’t see Sophie. Where is she? Oh my God, where is she?
Mike drew in a long breath to calm himself and repeated in his mind, Be present. The room came into focus. There she is. Is that David with her? It is. Why is her grandfather here?
“Mr. Valdez.” A sharp tug on Mike’s arm stopped him as he passed one of the toppled tables. He wanted to check in with the EMTs about the downed body just a few steps away, then get to Sophie, but the tugging and “Mr. Valdez” persisted. Turning, he recognized the small but imposing Danika Milner, the school secretary. Fiercely loyal to the school and the students, she was furious.
“The strongbox with over fifteen thousand dollars is missing. Tonight’s take is gone. Some horrible person stole from our kids,” she hissed with deep anger and indignation.
Mike looked at her in disbelief. “You had a strongbox with fifteen thousand in it?”
“That’s right. And someone stole it. We’ve looked everywhere,” she said defiantly, throwing her arms in the air. Few people challenged her words, even police officers.
“OK,” Mike backed off, “I’ll get someone on it immediately.”
“Sir! Sir!” beckoned one of the EMTs kneeling next to a body lying on the floor.
Mike, remaining in control despite the frenzied commotion surrounding him, held up a finger as he put in a call for someone to help Ms. Milner.
“OK. What were you saying?” Mike said, looking back at the EMT. Crouching down on his haunches to hear the man better, Mike became aware that the EMTs were attending to two men. One was sitting up, rocking, his arms crossed over his stomach. The man was dressed in a uniform not unlike the police. Mike recognized the arm patch identifying a private security agency hired by the school district to ensure safety. The other man, lying motionless with a small stream of blood from his nose drying in the creases of his face, made the hairs down Mike’s back stand on edge. Mike, with chilling clarity, realized his first night as the Live Oak police captain was burdened with the responsibility of solving a crime surrounding one of Live Oak’s favorite booster club supporters, Brad Mancini. Legendary for all the time and money he poured into sports and academic pursuits at Live Oak, Brad Mancini was the epitome of a local boy made good.
Focusing on the tragedy unfolding before him, Mike asked, “What happened?”
“He’s dead, sir. Looks like either an injury to his head or maybe a broken neck caused death,” the paramedic said. “No pulse for five minutes.”
Stunned, all Mike could say was, “His name is Brad Mancini.” After a pause while he looked over Brad’s body, Mike asked, “What about the security guy?”
“His name is Luis Rodriguez. Works for Sierra Pacific Security Agency. Apparently, something tripped the electricity in the building. The whole scene went dark. Luis said he found the electric panel, flipped a couple of switches to get it going again, and then came into the auditorium. According to him, he saw Mancini on the floor, rushed over planning to administer CPR, but passed out when he saw the blood. He’s really embarrassed.”
“We’ve all been there,” Mike said with the empathy of someone who’s experienced how gruesome death can be. His baptism by fire had come on his second day as a rookie. Patrolling a neighborhood, an 11-79 came through. The call meant an ambulance was on the way to an accident. Not thinking and pumped with excitement, Mike turned on his lights and siren and sped two blocks to the intersection where the accident occurred. He had thought he was acquainted with death until he saw the two bodies, soaked in blood, strewn on the pavement. As he started to get out of his black and white, he stepped on the dismembered leg of one of the victims. His reaction was unexpected but immediate. He vomited all over himself and the inside door of the car. To say he was “mortified” was probably an understatement. Dismissing the embarrassing memory, Mike looked up, his training kicking in, and searched the room for assistance. He recognized two uniformed officers, Alex Bankowski and Sean O’Hara, walking into the room and beckoned them over.
“Glad you’re here, gentlemen. We have a lot of stolen money and a dead vic. We need to check everyone entering or exiting the building. Sean, secure the back door. Alex, you take the front. Get the names, addresses, and phone numbers of everyone here. Nobody gets in or out without going through you first. Hold anyone who looks suspicious. Remember, some of the people here are pretty old. Make sure no one needs emergency services before you let them go. Be on the lookout for people who are shivering or seem confused. If you think they need medical attention, get them help. Use your judgment. Sean, when you’re finished with the doors, I need you to inform Mrs. Mancini. Then I need you back here. It’s going to be a long night.” Mike turned his attention back to the EMTs. “Call the coroner. I’ll get the tech squad.”
Once the situation was somewhat under control, Mike felt confident enough to look for Sophie. He spotted her across the room sitting at a table with her grandfather and some other people whom he recognized. Winding his way through the crowd, Mike made his way to his daughter. She looked up as he approached.
“Dad,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
He wrapped his arms around her, whispering, “You’re OK. I got you.”
Sophie hugged her dad tight. “Opa made sure I was safe,” she sniffled. “Poor Mr. Mancini. Is he gonna be OK?” she asked, easing her hug and standing back to look at her dad.
“We don’t know everything yet,” Mike lied. Changing the subject, he looked at his father-in-law and grasped his right hand, pulling him in to give him a hug, and said, “David. You’ll never know how glad I am to see you. Thanks for taking care of Sophie.” Backing away, he added, “What are you doing here anyway?”
“I came, or I should say, we came,” David said, sweeping his arm toward the group of women sitting at the table to his right, “to support Sophie’s band. She texted me that she’d be working to earn money for the band tonight and asked if I would support her. I thought it might be fun. I knew you and Patty would be at the games, so I invited a couple of friends from the Creek.”
Mike nodded and waved at the women but turned immediately back to David and Sophie.
“I have a favor to ask of you David. Would you drive Sophie home?”
“Dad,” Sophie said, surprised. “I’m with a group. I can’t leave. We have to clean up, or we don’t get paid.”
“Janitors are going to have to clean up tonight,” Mike said with a firmness neither Sophie nor David expected. Respecting his authority, they both nodded in agreement.
“Well, can’t I at least go home with the group I came with?” Sophie asked.
“No.”
“Da-ad,” Sophie said, drawing out the name, half whining, half begging.
“No. Your grandfather will take you home,” Mike said. He wondered to himself, If I can’t get you to do what I want, how am I supposed to command an entire police force?
He leaned over to give Sophie a kiss before she left, but she ignored him, turned to her friends, shook her head no, and turned her thumb down. Sophie really didn’t mind having her grandfather drive her home, but she didn’t want her father to know it, so she walked away, head held high, to sit by the exit and wait.
Sophie didn’t realize that her dad didn’t care if she was mad or not. Mike was too busy dealing with a murder to bother with fleeting teenage attitude.
Chapter Two
Around 11:30, the ambulance drove away with Brad’s body while the volunteers and janitor started to clean up. Mike, busy checking names of witnesses with Alex, heard the school secretary crying. He was surprised she was still sitting at the ticket table. He knew she must be exhausted and reacting to Brad’s death. He walked over, intending to tell her to go home and get some rest, but she insisted he help her look one last time for the strongbox. After another intense search, she accepted that they weren’t going to find the money. Furious, her jaw clenched, she assured him that she’d have the exact missing amount figured out in the morning. Awed by her devotion to the students, Mike thanked her but insisted she go home.
By 1:00 a.m., the tech team had gathered evidence, taken pictures, and cordoned off the building. Luckily, the department had a day to complete their investigation before they risked the return of curious students who, inconvenienced by the barred area, might potentially contaminate the scene. Mike looked around the empty auditorium feeling exhaustion envelop his body and mind. All he wanted to do was go home and go to bed. He realized he hadn’t texted Patty to let her know he was going to be late.
She must be frantic, he thought. Damn, I can’t text her now—she’s probably in bed. Fatigue overrode guilt. He let it go.
Walking over to Alex, he said, “I’m headed home. You stay here till everyone’s finished and then close up. The janitor should be able to help you if you need anything. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Mike had no intention of letting the two young officers know he was drained.
***
Mike pulled into his driveway, surprised to see lights still on throughout the house. As he walked into the living room, Casablanca was the late-night movie filling the TV screen, Patty was dozing in her lounge chair, and Sophie was asleep on the couch. Patty would have been horrified by her gaping mouth and faint snore, but he loved it. He started to kiss her on the top of her head when she woke up with a start and bumped his lip hard enough to break skin.
“Mmm,” he said running his tongue over his lip, tasting blood. He took out his handkerchief to dab at it, hoping Patty would be sympathetic rather than angry. “I’m sorry I didn’t text you, honey. Tonight was crazy.”
“It’s OK. Dad told me what happened when he brought Sophie home,” Patty said. “Is Brad all right?”
“I’m afraid not. He’s dead.” The waning adrenaline of his unexpectedly trying night left him with a wave of unbearable exhaustion.
“Oh, my God. What happened?” Patty whispered, tears starting to pool. Not only did she know how important Brad had been to the community but she had served with his wife on various school committees for the past six years. “Does Pamela know he died?”
“Yes, she knows. One of my officers informed her. As far as what happened, we’re not sure yet,” Mike said.
“This is awful. Who is going to run the bingo games now? The kids only have a few months to raise thousands of dollars for their trip to the Holiday Bowl.”
“Good question. I have no idea.”
Patty questioned Mike about whether Brad had had a heart attack or suffered some other fate. As she talked, Mike realized there would be another victim from tonight’s events. The Mike he used to be, the Mike who often told Patty everything, who sought her insight and reason when working out a case, could no longer seek her counsel. The silence that came with his new authority was deafening.
“I’m not going to be able to tell you as much about what I’m doing as I used to now that I’m head of operations.”
Patty leaned up against him, putting her arms around his waist. “Oh, wow. I hadn’t thought of that.”
He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. There were no words to express how complete she made him feel.
After a minute, their embrace over, he sat down in his chair and almost fell asleep. Patty stared at him.
“I’m going to miss our talks. I always felt I was helping in some way, even if you were only humoring me.”
“You did,” he said. Changing the direction of the conversation, Mike asked, “By the way, what did your dad say?”
“Not much,” Patty said. “He was trying to make light of driving Sophie home. She was not a happy camper. She’s really mad that you wouldn’t let her friends drive her home. Dad was joking, but I could tell he was shaken by the whole night. Sophie’s attitude didn’t help either.”
“I know she thinks I overreacted,” Mike confessed, “but I was too busy to argue with her.”
“I heard that,” Sophie said, rising up from the sofa.
“What did you hear?” Mike asked.
“Too busy to care about your own daughter,” she huffed and then got up and stormed out of the room, ignoring her parent’s unified call.
“Sophie, wait.”
Patty and Mike looked at each other acknowledging their frustration with their daughter’s mood swings.
“She’ll get over it in two years,” Patty said.
Exhausted to the core, Mike headed for the bedroom while unbuttoning his shirt. The man he saw in the mirror as he brushed his teeth looked older, more wrinkled than the one he imagined himself to be. He slipped into bed next to Patty, thinking he’d fall right to sleep, but the Committee of Concerns had other ideas for him.
What a way to start a new job. I swear it couldn’t be worse. Hell, I don’t even know if Brad’s death was a homicide, medical condition, or bad timing. Fifteen thousand dollars missing seems mighty suspicious. Was it a theft? Some opportunistic volunteer who thought no one would notice? Was it foul play? Did someone plan to murder Brad and take the money? Did I overreact with Sophie tonight? Am I overreacting about Brad and the money? I don’t want to spread panic in town. What if it is homicide and I don’t act? The town will be pissed and rightly so. I better go for felony charges. I need a crackerjack team to help me with this. Whom do I choose for the team?
On and on through the night the loop of concerns swirled through his brain. He’d come up with answers only to doubt himself and start all over again. The last time he remembered looking at the clock, Mike saw the red digital numbers switch to 4:47.
Chapter Three
Mike’s newly painted name on the door was hardly dry when he walked into his office on Monday morning. His instincts were on full alert as he shuffled details of the previous night’s crime scene through his mind.
The briefing was ten minutes away. The immediate problem facing Mike was choosing the right team to investigate the how, why, and who of the case. Last night, he told the two young sergeants they were on the team as they closed up the school. Now he needed to make some tough decisions about who else to select. Mike stood up, buttoned his shirt, secured the knot of his tie, adjusted the tie bar, rubbed his hands down the side of his pants to dry his sweating palms, and crossed the room to open the door to his new responsibility. He took one last look at his phone and saw a dollar amount encased in a text banner flash up on the screen.
The situation room was full, considering the holiday, but, with a statistic of one homicide every two years, Live Oak’s finest wanted to be part of the investigation if the rumors were true about the bingo game. Mike couldn’t help but smile watching huddled conversations break apart as men and women sat straighter, focusing their attention on him.
“Wow. This is quite a turn out,” Mike said, blowing his planned opening of, “Thank you for coming. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Let’s get started.” Instead he said, “Clearly, you’ve all heard about the incident at the bingo game at the Live Oak High School auditorium last night. Even though we don’t have the medical examiner’s report yet, we know that Brad Mancini, a healthy fifty-year old white male, is dead and,” glancing at his phone he read, “$18,653.50 is missing. We’re going to treat this as a robbery and potential homicide.”
Mike was beginning to feel his confidence build when he noticed Police Chief Kevin Estrada slip into the back of the room. He continued to talk but felt his nerves ratchet up ever so slightly.
“This will not be easy. The crime took place after someone turned off the lights. They were off between three to five minutes. According to the statements collected by Sean and Alex last night, nobody claims to have seen anything. A security guard, Luis Rodriguez, turned the lights back on and then rushed over and started giving CPR to Mr. Mancini. He must have realized Brad was dead because he fainted. Rodriguez was taken to the hospital, so we haven’t had a chance to question him. He certainly is someone we want to talk to.”
Looking out among the eager faces, he zeroed in on Claudia Riley, one of only three female officers in the LOPD.
“Claudia. I want you to check out Mr. Rodriguez. I’m sure Sierra Pacific Security will know where to find him,” Mike said. “You might want to talk to the volunteers who were in the area close to where the money was kept. They might have some impressions. Who’s your partner?”
“Sergeant Joe Buckner, sir,” Claudia said, trying to keep her voice from betraying the absolute thrill she felt at being chosen. She couldn’t believe the captain had selected her. She held her breath as she turned to look at Joe.
At the same time, Joe Buckner raised his hand in response to the captain’s question. Standing at 5′11″ on a good day, Joe was, never-the-less, impressive. From his perfectly balanced muscular frame to his square jaw accented by a short, boxed beard, he commanded respect. But what women responded to were his dreamy black eyes and warm smile. They were ready to confess everything just to get his attention. Initially, Claudia was drawn to Joe by the same thing, but in time came to appreciate his intelligence and kindness. She trusted him. They understood each other, sharing a private language like twins. Often, in tight situations, they didn’t have to say anything to know what the other was thinking. Working together was easy.
“Joe. You’re in. Be sure you two go everywhere together. We don’t want any slip-ups. And this applies to all of you. From now on, I want complete, well-written reports. Too many cases get thrown out because of sloppy police work. If we do have foul play on our hands, I want everything done by the book and done well.”
Stopping for a minute, Mike scanned the room and spotted the one person he knew was meticulous about the notes and reports he wrote. Mike looked directly at Lieutenant Phil Scott as he announced his choice.
“Phil, I’d like you to be my go-to man,” Mike said, catching sight of Alex Bankowski sneering. Noting the reaction but not reacting to it, he added, “Phil, you might want to talk to Officers O’Hara and Bankowski. They were at the scene last night. They have the names and contact numbers for all the people who were there.”
“On it,” Phil said, keeping his face neutral.
“In fact,” Mike added, looking directly at Alex, “will the two of you check out all the cameras located at the school? See if you can find anything that might help the investigation. And run a background check on Mancini. See if he has any priors or anything that might make him a target.”
“Sir,” interrupted Claudia. “Shouldn’t someone talk to the widow of Mr. Mancini?”
“Good idea. It’s all yours.”
Mike paused. He turned to Phil. “A lot of money was taken last night. In essence, money a bunch of band kids were working hard to get so they could represent our city at the Holiday Bowl. Finding who stole it is paramount.”
“I may be able to help you there,” said a voice from the back of the room. Heads turned to watch the chief walk confidently to the front of the room. He was a man used to taking charge. With an air of authority combined with a touch of self-importance, he approached Mike saying, “I’m a friend of Ed Conrad. He’s been the head of boosters for a long time and knows how they handle the money. I’ve heard him talk about the bingo games. He knew Brad well and spoke highly of him. Let me see what I can find out. Be kind of nice to do some good old-fashioned sleuthing instead of endless PR.”
“Good. Thanks, Chief,” Mike said. “That covers it for now. If there’s no more, let’s get started.”
No one said anything so Mike shook hands with the chief and thanked him for volunteering. He added, “My father-in-law was at the bingo games last night. You gave me a good idea. I think I’ll talk to him… see if he can shed any light on this mess.” A few more perfunctory words of sympathy mixed with encouragement passed between the two men. Turning, Mike motioned Phil to follow him. Some of the officers stayed to schmooze the chief, but most dispersed to continue their duties.
One of the sergeants whispered to his partner as they walked out of the briefing room, “Did you see Bankowski’s face when the Captain appointed Scott?”
“No, I was watching Lieutenant Scott. Did you see him? He’s still pissed he didn’t get the job.”
***
“Take a seat,” Mike said, pointing to the plain metal chair while walking around his large institutional desk to his faded leather swivel chair the department had purchased from the public surplus website.
“Why’d you pick me?” Lieutenant Scott scoffed through his teeth as if he were afraid he might bite Mike’s head off if he opened his mouth and really said what he wanted.
“Because I thought you were the best man in the room,” Mike answered, not completely blindsided by the question.
“Don’t patronize me. If I were the best man in the room, I’d be sitting on your side of the desk. Not where I am,” Scott said mockingly.
“Look, Phil, we both wanted this job. I’m sure it was a hard decision for the committee,” Mike said.
“Yeah, maybe I didn’t have the right skin color,” Phil blurted out, slightly ashamed but not regretting his intent.
And there it was, landing between the two men like a tsunami surging over the shore, wreaking havoc and then receding back into the ocean, leaving its foamy imprint as a scar on the wet sand. Phil resented Mike, believing he lost the promotion because Mike was Latino. Mike knew that many of the men felt that way, and perhaps there was some truth to it, but he wasn’t going to get into a pissing contest over it. He knew how well he had done on the exam. He knew he had the best conviction rate in the department. He knew how many veiled comments about his heritage he had pretended not to hear. He wasn’t going to defend himself. He had earned this position through hard work, intelligence, and integrity.
“I’m sorry that’s the way you feel, but this case isn’t about you and me. If you don’t want to be in charge of the investigative team, I’ll find someone who does,” Mike said. “Either buy in with no hidden agendas or go back to vice and continue with your work with them.”
For the first time, Phil began to understand why Mike might have been chosen over him. Mike called his bluff, making him face up to his own ambition. Reluctantly, he began to realize Mike was giving him a key role in a case that could be important to his career.
“You’re right. This isn’t about us. Count me in,” Phil said, swallowing his pride while still feeling the sting of envy. Placing his clipboard on the edge of Mike’s desk, he changed the subject. “I know some of the men don’t like me. They think I’m too hard on them.”
“And, that’s exactly why I picked you. You’ve done a good job with vice. Until you took over, the department was pretty lax. You’ve done a lot to clean it up,” Mike said, going on as though nothing had passed between the two, letting go of the exchange, forgiving but never forgetting.
“Thanks, but there’s still more to do. A couple of the guys are lazy. Maybe sloppy is a better word. Bankowski is one of the worst.”
“I thought I saw a reaction from him when I said you’d head up the investigation,” Mike said. “What’s the problem?”
“He and I have had some words over his poor writing skills. His reports are almost unintelligible. I got all over him on a write up over some stolen guns he found. He arrested this guy for possession but provided no information about the circumstances. Not only that, but the misspellings and horrible grammar gave me a headache.”
“Look at this as an opportunity to continue to help him and his partner,” Mike said. “In fact, one of the many facets of this job is to make sure our young officers don’t abuse their power. Departments all over the country are under heavy scrutiny for what the public sees as people with guns overstepping their authority.”
“True. I’ll do my best,” Phil groaned. “Claudia is a good catch. She’s probably the most underrated officer on the force. She’s had to put up with some pretty stupid pranks. You’d think in today’s world she wouldn’t have to deal with adolescent behavior like putting Vaseline on a toilet seat.”
“Again?”
“Yep. Two days ago. Anyway, I like working with her. She’s thorough and has good instincts.”
“I’ve been watching her for a year or so. She is very good. She’s never really been given a chance to use her intelligence,” Mike said. “You know she’s married to a detective with the Oakland PD? I think he’s in vice too. Maybe that’s where she learned… Woops…If my wife ever heard me say that, she would give me some serious grief. ‘Oh sure, like a woman needs a man to learn how to do things right.’ Anyway, I’m just glad you like her. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. At the moment, we only have you, Claudia, Joe, Alex, Sean, and me assigned to this case, with a little backup from the chief, but he’s pretty busy. If it turns out Brad was murdered, you’ll need more manpower. We’re short on numbers, but I’ll see what I can do if you need help.”
“Thanks Mike. I won’t let you down. I’m sorry about what I said,” Phil said, starting to regret his outburst.
“Forget it. We’ve got a case to solve.”
After Phil left, Mike shook off the meeting. He needed more information about the events that occurred at the bingo game. He wondered if Patty’s father might be able to give him a clearer picture of what went on so he texted him, asking if they could meet for breakfast the next morning.
End of this sample.
Belfast—the time of the “Troubles.”
Strong, calloused hands lifted Brendan out of his bed. Confused, the five-year-old groaned in protest.
“Shh,” his father commanded, adjusting his grip to cradle the slender, pajama-clad youngster against his chest so he could navigate down the narrow stairway from the sleeping loft to the kitchen.
Once at the bottom, he handed the boy over to his mother and hurried over to the sink. Lifting the drab, threadbare curtain, he proceeded to remove a large red plastic pail, a forty-eight-ounce container of Malone’s Natural Antibacterial Cleaner, a hand broom and dust pan, a pile of rags reeking of mildew, and a garbage can filled with scraps of food, cellophane wrappers, soiled napkins, and squashed beer cans—all producing a heavy stench of decay.
Turning back to his wife, the father snapped, “Give ’em here. And by the way, don’t ya ever clean under here? Reminds me of me days in Her Majesty’s hell hole.”
“If ya’d help me once ‘n a while instead of whinin’ about yer days in prison—”
“Just give me the babby, and shut your gob. You know notin’ about what I went through,” he said and then thought, I’d rather die than go back to that hellhole. He settled down on one knee, sitting the boy on the other, and whispered, “I’m gun ta put ya under the sink. Some bad men are comin’ here, and I don’t want ya to be hurt by them. Stay where I put ya. Don’t move. Don’t cry. Don’t even whimper. Ya hear me?”
The boy nodded.
“I mean it. No matter what you tink you hear, stay put. And remember, I love ya.” With those words, he shoved the child against the back of the wall behind the pipes and returned the cleaning products and garbage can. Once he dropped the curtain, he stood to listen. “Good boy. Yer doin’ great.”
The boy heard his father whisper something to his mother but couldn’t make out what was said. They turned off the light and left him alone. Before he could register the growing fear, he was distracted by the dampness invading his pajamas and the rank smell insulting his nose. An ice-cold drip from one of the pipes hit the back of his neck, startling him, but the DNA of hundreds of years of survival prevented him from crying out. Instead, he started to shiver. He pulled up his knees to have a place for his chin and wrapped his arms around his legs. He started to fall asleep when the sound of a door crashing open startled him. Terror seeped into every pore. He heard footsteps slowly enter the room. The light clicked on. He almost called out, “Da? Is that you?” when he heard an unfamiliar voice call from the loft.
“No one up here.”
Another strange voice answered, “Shh.”
The room went still. The creak of a floorboard straining under the weight of the invader gave the man’s position away. The boy held his breath. The unmistakable sound of his mother’s voice penetrated the silence as she shrieked upon being discovered.
“Where’s that skank husband of yours hidin’? Tell me, hoor, or I’ll snuff you right now,” he barked, savagely slapping her face.
The boy’s mother fell to the floor with a thud. “He’s in the back alley.”
The intruder reached down, grabbed her hair, and dragged her out of the kitchen and down the back stairs. Her screams pierced the cold night air. For a moment, the world stopped. Quietly floating in through the open door, the boy caught whispers of his father’s voice as he pleaded for the life of his wife. Then he heard two popping sounds.
The silence was more frightening than screams. But all the boy could think was, She told them where my da was.
Chapter One
Oakland Airport,
Six Months Ago
Tall and alluringly attractive, Brendan leaned into a corner of the baggage claim area aware of the security cameras documenting faces. Wearing a charcoal gray Brioni suit and shielding his eyes behind $300 Aviators, he scanned the crowd, instinctively noting the location of every visible security agent in the airport. He was momentarily amused by a frail old woman struggling to lift her suitcase off the circling carousel while a businessman standing next to her deliberately stepped away to look at his watch. He could tell the businessmen. It was the shoes. They were the only ones who weren’t wearing some form of athletic shoe, hiking sandal, or flip-flop. No one dressed up anymore.
Brendan shook his head in disgust. Impatiently, he pulled out his phone from the inner pocket of his hand-tailored jacket to look at the time and check the status of the flight on an app that gave the location of every nonmilitary aircraft in the country. He could feel the heat of anger rising in his gut. Flight 628 from Chicago was delayed. This was why he usually sent one of his grunts to pick up his cargo. He knew he should have checked before he left Live Oak, but he had relied on his right-hand man to do it. Typical, he thought. He couldn’t rely on anyone. Never could. If he wanted something done right, he always had to do it himself. And airlines. They really made his blood boil. If he ran his business the way they ran theirs, he’d be living on the streets.
“Boss, the plane’s on the runway,” a raspy voice whispered in his ear.
“You got your sign ready?” he asked, looking at the behemoth of a man obediently waiting for orders. The man discreetly showed his boss the “Murphy Party” placard. Wanting his imports to Americanize right away, Brendan had his team in Ireland arrange their new names, identities, and papers weeks in advance. They prepared them for the culture shock of the gluttonous amounts of consumerism in America and had them work on Anglicizing their accents.
Pleased with the sign, Brendan said, “They should be all together. Two guys and two girls. I imagine they’ll be pretty disheveled. They left Dublin yesterday. I booked the cheapest flights and arranged it so they’d go through customs in New York. That way we wouldn’t have to wait here. Remind me to rethink that idea.” He paused, thinking about why he had come in the first place. As a rule, he avoided airports and public places in general. But his team had told him one of the girls was “clean on.” If she were as beautiful as promised, he’d place her in his own home as a housekeeper.
He glanced up to see passengers beginning to file down the escalator into the baggage area. He was torn about whether to stay and risk being caught on camera with the newly arrived charges. He opted to leave.
“I’m going back to the car.” Pushing off the wall, Brendan couldn’t resist one last look, hoping to glimpse the girl.
The escalator strained under the weight of a full load of passengers, tired and weary from dealing with weather delays in Chicago. The delightful shrill of laughter caught his ear. He stopped. Carrying what few possessions they owned, a group of four modern-looking young people came into view. They were beaming, smiling ear to ear, excitedly pointing at the splendors in the airport. He scanned the group, his eyes falling on a stunning girl with gorgeous red curls, a lithe body, and emerald-green eyes. Blood surged through his body. His heart raced. Decades of training to be in control of his every action evaporated at the sight of this true Irish beauty. She would be his.
Live Oak,
Present Day
Attending the closing ceremony of the Scottish Games on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend was a tradition for Patty and Mike Valdez. Patty’s father had started the tradition when she was a little girl. He wanted her to know her Scottish heritage. When Mike entered the picture, he insisted that they continue going. Tonight, they sat in the grandstand of the county fairground racetrack listening to thirty-five bagpipes play “Amazing Grace.” On the last note, the games ended. For a full minute, the crowd stood silently, savoring the moment.
The tune brought Mike back to the day he decided to become a policeman. At the age of seven, his family suffered the loss of his older brother Arturo in a traffic accident on CA-99 near Tulare. Wondering why his brother wasn’t home yet, Mike started making his sister a bowl of cereal for dinner to try to stop her crying. Standing by the kitchen sink, milk carton in hand, he looked out the window and saw a police officer lift the makeshift wire latch on the chain link fence, walk across the dead grass to the front door, and knock forcefully. Fear, bordering on terror, paralyzed Mike. He was sure he was going to jail but didn’t know why.
By the time he shook off his panic, Mike realized his sister had responded to the knocking, opened the door, and innocently let the policeman in. The officer asked her if her mommy was home. Holding a tattered stuffed unicorn in her hand, she stared at him with her teary brown eyes. Surprisingly, instead of getting in trouble as Mike expected, the policeman correctly assessed the situation—hungry children waiting for their parents to come home after a full day of picking tomatoes in the valley fields.
He said to the children, “Stay put. I’ll be back,” and disappeared.
Mike wasn’t convinced. Even at his young age, he was acutely aware of the precarious status of Mexican migrant workers. Little did he know how his life was about to change. He was shocked when the officer returned, arms loaded with bags full of the most delicious smells in the world. Mike had never tasted the double bacon cheeseburgers coupled with crunchy fries salted to perfection and thick chocolate milkshakes so common to American youth. From that evening on, Officer Abraham took Mike under his wing, getting him involved in youth sports, making sure he stayed out of trouble, and insisting he maintain good grades. Largely through Abraham’s continuing guidance, Mike was the first of his family to graduate from high school and college, earning a degree in law enforcement from San Jose State University. The pain of his brother’s death eased, but the kindness of the policeman never did.
The crescendo of applause invaded Mike’s memory, pulling him into the present. Patty looked up at Mike, tears filling her eyes, and said, “Thank you for indulging me and coming here every year.”
“I love it as much as you do,” he said, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. As the applause settled down, the crowd lingered, reluctant to let go of the experience they had just shared.
“We better get going. It’s going to take a while to get out of here,” Mike said. He lightly touched Patty’s back and gently guided her through the departing crowd. “Would you mind if I drop you off at home? I’d like to stop by the station to make sure I have everything in order for tomorrow.”
“No problem. Are you nervous about your first day as the newly appointed police captain?” she asked, bumping her shoulder into him in a teasing gesture. She was proud of his promotion. Mike was fully aware of the sacrifices the family had made as he worked long hours and studied hard to pass the exam.
“A little,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate. Actually, he had been restless all weekend. Live Oak was a gentrified suburb of San Francisco. Taking over operations of a police department in such a community was daunting. Although he knew the area well—Mike had served as a detective for the Live Oak Police Department for the past four years—he also knew expectations of the residents were high, exceeded only by the expectation that their property values would continue to rise. He knew he was up to the task, or he wouldn’t have applied for the job. Nevertheless, he was nervous about his first day.
They walked with the crowd to the dirt parking lot.
“Next year, let’s splurge and fork out the money to park in the paved lot,” Patty groused as she looked at her once clean shoes, which were now covered in dust.
“What? And miss the joy of traipsing through the weeds and packed dirt of the county’s finest parking lot?” Mike said with mocked sincerity.
Once in the car, Patty took out her phone, scrolled through her texts, answered two, and found the album of Scottish music they had bought years ago. Already synced via Bluetooth to the car’s stereo system, the stirring tunes from Gordon Duncan soon filled the car. They drove home, comfortable not talking.
Mike pulled into the driveway to let Patty out. He walked her to the door, leaned over to give her a kiss, and said, “I won’t be long.”
Folding his 6′ 3″ frame back into the car, Mike switched on the car stereo and punched in the radio station dedicated to the hottest hits of the ‘90s. The pipes were great in the open air but not so great in a closed car.
“Code three. 11-44 at Live Oak High School cafeteria,” announced Roseanne Lucido, the dispatch supervisor, interrupting Celine Dion singing “The Power of Love.” Startled, Mike thought, What the… police called… ambulances called? Did she say high school? He paid careful attention, hoping he had misheard.
“All cars in the vicinity, proceed to Live Oak High School…”
He didn’t need to listen anymore. His mind started racing. A possible fatality at his daughter Sophie’s high school filled him with dread. He vaguely remembered her saying something about band members working a special Labor Day bingo game to earn money for uniforms. God, he hoped she wasn’t there. He popped the trunk and shot out of the car to don his bulletproof vest and duty belt, placing the .40 caliber Smith and Wesson semiautomatic pistol into the attached Bianchi holster. A surge of adrenaline forced him to take some deep breaths to stop his legs from shaking.
“Ten-four. Nine twenty-one on the way,” Mike responded to the dispatcher as he jumped back into the car and reached down to extract a magnetic strobe light from the side storage compartment on the inside door panel of his car. He pressed the lever to open the window, affixed the light to the roof of the car and took off down the street. Nearing the school, Mike’s heart sank as two ambulances pulled up to the building. He watched EMTs leap out of both cabs, open the rear doors and extract stretchers. He parked on the perimeter of the activity, aware that people were not paying attention to their surroundings as they raced to action. The smell of diesel from the idling fire engines filled his nose and mouth as he jogged toward the cafeteria. He followed a paramedic wheeling a gurney through the large double doors propped open by first responder firemen armed with resuscitators and defibrillators. He quickly took in the scene. Huge monitors, still blinking with the image of a bingo card and the number N-35, hung in the corners of the room. Bingo balls continued to bounce in the console on the stage that served as a platform for the caller. Packets of bingo cards, strange dolls with wild neon hair, and colored daubers lay haphazardly over long tables. One of the two tables at the entrance was tipped over. A mix of old and not so old people were mulling around, checking with each other to make sure everyone was OK.
Mike spotted a group of kids with tear-stained faces from the band’s wind section, Sophie’s section, huddled together near the back of the auditorium. The room started to blur.
I don’t see Sophie. Where is she? Oh my God, where is she?
Mike drew in a long breath to calm himself and repeated in his mind, Be present. The room came into focus. There she is. Is that David with her? It is. Why is her grandfather here?
“Mr. Valdez.” A sharp tug on Mike’s arm stopped him as he passed one of the toppled tables. He wanted to check in with the EMTs about the downed body just a few steps away, then get to Sophie, but the tugging and “Mr. Valdez” persisted. Turning, he recognized the small but imposing Danika Milner, the school secretary. Fiercely loyal to the school and the students, she was furious.
“The strongbox with over fifteen thousand dollars is missing. Tonight’s take is gone. Some horrible person stole from our kids,” she hissed with deep anger and indignation.
Mike looked at her in disbelief. “You had a strongbox with fifteen thousand in it?”
“That’s right. And someone stole it. We’ve looked everywhere,” she said defiantly, throwing her arms in the air. Few people challenged her words, even police officers.
“OK,” Mike backed off, “I’ll get someone on it immediately.”
“Sir! Sir!” beckoned one of the EMTs kneeling next to a body lying on the floor.
Mike, remaining in control despite the frenzied commotion surrounding him, held up a finger as he put in a call for someone to help Ms. Milner.
“OK. What were you saying?” Mike said, looking back at the EMT. Crouching down on his haunches to hear the man better, Mike became aware that the EMTs were attending to two men. One was sitting up, rocking, his arms crossed over his stomach. The man was dressed in a uniform not unlike the police. Mike recognized the arm patch identifying a private security agency hired by the school district to ensure safety. The other man, lying motionless with a small stream of blood from his nose drying in the creases of his face, made the hairs down Mike’s back stand on edge. Mike, with chilling clarity, realized his first night as the Live Oak police captain was burdened with the responsibility of solving a crime surrounding one of Live Oak’s favorite booster club supporters, Brad Mancini. Legendary for all the time and money he poured into sports and academic pursuits at Live Oak, Brad Mancini was the epitome of a local boy made good.
Focusing on the tragedy unfolding before him, Mike asked, “What happened?”
“He’s dead, sir. Looks like either an injury to his head or maybe a broken neck caused death,” the paramedic said. “No pulse for five minutes.”
Stunned, all Mike could say was, “His name is Brad Mancini.” After a pause while he looked over Brad’s body, Mike asked, “What about the security guy?”
“His name is Luis Rodriguez. Works for Sierra Pacific Security Agency. Apparently, something tripped the electricity in the building. The whole scene went dark. Luis said he found the electric panel, flipped a couple of switches to get it going again, and then came into the auditorium. According to him, he saw Mancini on the floor, rushed over planning to administer CPR, but passed out when he saw the blood. He’s really embarrassed.”
“We’ve all been there,” Mike said with the empathy of someone who’s experienced how gruesome death can be. His baptism by fire had come on his second day as a rookie. Patrolling a neighborhood, an 11-79 came through. The call meant an ambulance was on the way to an accident. Not thinking and pumped with excitement, Mike turned on his lights and siren and sped two blocks to the intersection where the accident occurred. He had thought he was acquainted with death until he saw the two bodies, soaked in blood, strewn on the pavement. As he started to get out of his black and white, he stepped on the dismembered leg of one of the victims. His reaction was unexpected but immediate. He vomited all over himself and the inside door of the car. To say he was “mortified” was probably an understatement. Dismissing the embarrassing memory, Mike looked up, his training kicking in, and searched the room for assistance. He recognized two uniformed officers, Alex Bankowski and Sean O’Hara, walking into the room and beckoned them over.
“Glad you’re here, gentlemen. We have a lot of stolen money and a dead vic. We need to check everyone entering or exiting the building. Sean, secure the back door. Alex, you take the front. Get the names, addresses, and phone numbers of everyone here. Nobody gets in or out without going through you first. Hold anyone who looks suspicious. Remember, some of the people here are pretty old. Make sure no one needs emergency services before you let them go. Be on the lookout for people who are shivering or seem confused. If you think they need medical attention, get them help. Use your judgment. Sean, when you’re finished with the doors, I need you to inform Mrs. Mancini. Then I need you back here. It’s going to be a long night.” Mike turned his attention back to the EMTs. “Call the coroner. I’ll get the tech squad.”
Once the situation was somewhat under control, Mike felt confident enough to look for Sophie. He spotted her across the room sitting at a table with her grandfather and some other people whom he recognized. Winding his way through the crowd, Mike made his way to his daughter. She looked up as he approached.
“Dad,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
He wrapped his arms around her, whispering, “You’re OK. I got you.”
Sophie hugged her dad tight. “Opa made sure I was safe,” she sniffled. “Poor Mr. Mancini. Is he gonna be OK?” she asked, easing her hug and standing back to look at her dad.
“We don’t know everything yet,” Mike lied. Changing the subject, he looked at his father-in-law and grasped his right hand, pulling him in to give him a hug, and said, “David. You’ll never know how glad I am to see you. Thanks for taking care of Sophie.” Backing away, he added, “What are you doing here anyway?”
“I came, or I should say, we came,” David said, sweeping his arm toward the group of women sitting at the table to his right, “to support Sophie’s band. She texted me that she’d be working to earn money for the band tonight and asked if I would support her. I thought it might be fun. I knew you and Patty would be at the games, so I invited a couple of friends from the Creek.”
Mike nodded and waved at the women but turned immediately back to David and Sophie.
“I have a favor to ask of you David. Would you drive Sophie home?”
“Dad,” Sophie said, surprised. “I’m with a group. I can’t leave. We have to clean up, or we don’t get paid.”
“Janitors are going to have to clean up tonight,” Mike said with a firmness neither Sophie nor David expected. Respecting his authority, they both nodded in agreement.
“Well, can’t I at least go home with the group I came with?” Sophie asked.
“No.”
“Da-ad,” Sophie said, drawing out the name, half whining, half begging.
“No. Your grandfather will take you home,” Mike said. He wondered to himself, If I can’t get you to do what I want, how am I supposed to command an entire police force?
He leaned over to give Sophie a kiss before she left, but she ignored him, turned to her friends, shook her head no, and turned her thumb down. Sophie really didn’t mind having her grandfather drive her home, but she didn’t want her father to know it, so she walked away, head held high, to sit by the exit and wait.
Sophie didn’t realize that her dad didn’t care if she was mad or not. Mike was too busy dealing with a murder to bother with fleeting teenage attitude.
Chapter Two
Around 11:30, the ambulance drove away with Brad’s body while the volunteers and janitor started to clean up. Mike, busy checking names of witnesses with Alex, heard the school secretary crying. He was surprised she was still sitting at the ticket table. He knew she must be exhausted and reacting to Brad’s death. He walked over, intending to tell her to go home and get some rest, but she insisted he help her look one last time for the strongbox. After another intense search, she accepted that they weren’t going to find the money. Furious, her jaw clenched, she assured him that she’d have the exact missing amount figured out in the morning. Awed by her devotion to the students, Mike thanked her but insisted she go home.
By 1:00 a.m., the tech team had gathered evidence, taken pictures, and cordoned off the building. Luckily, the department had a day to complete their investigation before they risked the return of curious students who, inconvenienced by the barred area, might potentially contaminate the scene. Mike looked around the empty auditorium feeling exhaustion envelop his body and mind. All he wanted to do was go home and go to bed. He realized he hadn’t texted Patty to let her know he was going to be late.
She must be frantic, he thought. Damn, I can’t text her now—she’s probably in bed. Fatigue overrode guilt. He let it go.
Walking over to Alex, he said, “I’m headed home. You stay here till everyone’s finished and then close up. The janitor should be able to help you if you need anything. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Mike had no intention of letting the two young officers know he was drained.
***
Mike pulled into his driveway, surprised to see lights still on throughout the house. As he walked into the living room, Casablanca was the late-night movie filling the TV screen, Patty was dozing in her lounge chair, and Sophie was asleep on the couch. Patty would have been horrified by her gaping mouth and faint snore, but he loved it. He started to kiss her on the top of her head when she woke up with a start and bumped his lip hard enough to break skin.
“Mmm,” he said running his tongue over his lip, tasting blood. He took out his handkerchief to dab at it, hoping Patty would be sympathetic rather than angry. “I’m sorry I didn’t text you, honey. Tonight was crazy.”
“It’s OK. Dad told me what happened when he brought Sophie home,” Patty said. “Is Brad all right?”
“I’m afraid not. He’s dead.” The waning adrenaline of his unexpectedly trying night left him with a wave of unbearable exhaustion.
“Oh, my God. What happened?” Patty whispered, tears starting to pool. Not only did she know how important Brad had been to the community but she had served with his wife on various school committees for the past six years. “Does Pamela know he died?”
“Yes, she knows. One of my officers informed her. As far as what happened, we’re not sure yet,” Mike said.
“This is awful. Who is going to run the bingo games now? The kids only have a few months to raise thousands of dollars for their trip to the Holiday Bowl.”
“Good question. I have no idea.”
Patty questioned Mike about whether Brad had had a heart attack or suffered some other fate. As she talked, Mike realized there would be another victim from tonight’s events. The Mike he used to be, the Mike who often told Patty everything, who sought her insight and reason when working out a case, could no longer seek her counsel. The silence that came with his new authority was deafening.
“I’m not going to be able to tell you as much about what I’m doing as I used to now that I’m head of operations.”
Patty leaned up against him, putting her arms around his waist. “Oh, wow. I hadn’t thought of that.”
He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. There were no words to express how complete she made him feel.
After a minute, their embrace over, he sat down in his chair and almost fell asleep. Patty stared at him.
“I’m going to miss our talks. I always felt I was helping in some way, even if you were only humoring me.”
“You did,” he said. Changing the direction of the conversation, Mike asked, “By the way, what did your dad say?”
“Not much,” Patty said. “He was trying to make light of driving Sophie home. She was not a happy camper. She’s really mad that you wouldn’t let her friends drive her home. Dad was joking, but I could tell he was shaken by the whole night. Sophie’s attitude didn’t help either.”
“I know she thinks I overreacted,” Mike confessed, “but I was too busy to argue with her.”
“I heard that,” Sophie said, rising up from the sofa.
“What did you hear?” Mike asked.
“Too busy to care about your own daughter,” she huffed and then got up and stormed out of the room, ignoring her parent’s unified call.
“Sophie, wait.”
Patty and Mike looked at each other acknowledging their frustration with their daughter’s mood swings.
“She’ll get over it in two years,” Patty said.
Exhausted to the core, Mike headed for the bedroom while unbuttoning his shirt. The man he saw in the mirror as he brushed his teeth looked older, more wrinkled than the one he imagined himself to be. He slipped into bed next to Patty, thinking he’d fall right to sleep, but the Committee of Concerns had other ideas for him.
What a way to start a new job. I swear it couldn’t be worse. Hell, I don’t even know if Brad’s death was a homicide, medical condition, or bad timing. Fifteen thousand dollars missing seems mighty suspicious. Was it a theft? Some opportunistic volunteer who thought no one would notice? Was it foul play? Did someone plan to murder Brad and take the money? Did I overreact with Sophie tonight? Am I overreacting about Brad and the money? I don’t want to spread panic in town. What if it is homicide and I don’t act? The town will be pissed and rightly so. I better go for felony charges. I need a crackerjack team to help me with this. Whom do I choose for the team?
On and on through the night the loop of concerns swirled through his brain. He’d come up with answers only to doubt himself and start all over again. The last time he remembered looking at the clock, Mike saw the red digital numbers switch to 4:47.
Chapter Three
Mike’s newly painted name on the door was hardly dry when he walked into his office on Monday morning. His instincts were on full alert as he shuffled details of the previous night’s crime scene through his mind.
The briefing was ten minutes away. The immediate problem facing Mike was choosing the right team to investigate the how, why, and who of the case. Last night, he told the two young sergeants they were on the team as they closed up the school. Now he needed to make some tough decisions about who else to select. Mike stood up, buttoned his shirt, secured the knot of his tie, adjusted the tie bar, rubbed his hands down the side of his pants to dry his sweating palms, and crossed the room to open the door to his new responsibility. He took one last look at his phone and saw a dollar amount encased in a text banner flash up on the screen.
The situation room was full, considering the holiday, but, with a statistic of one homicide every two years, Live Oak’s finest wanted to be part of the investigation if the rumors were true about the bingo game. Mike couldn’t help but smile watching huddled conversations break apart as men and women sat straighter, focusing their attention on him.
“Wow. This is quite a turn out,” Mike said, blowing his planned opening of, “Thank you for coming. We’ve got a lot of work to do. Let’s get started.” Instead he said, “Clearly, you’ve all heard about the incident at the bingo game at the Live Oak High School auditorium last night. Even though we don’t have the medical examiner’s report yet, we know that Brad Mancini, a healthy fifty-year old white male, is dead and,” glancing at his phone he read, “$18,653.50 is missing. We’re going to treat this as a robbery and potential homicide.”
Mike was beginning to feel his confidence build when he noticed Police Chief Kevin Estrada slip into the back of the room. He continued to talk but felt his nerves ratchet up ever so slightly.
“This will not be easy. The crime took place after someone turned off the lights. They were off between three to five minutes. According to the statements collected by Sean and Alex last night, nobody claims to have seen anything. A security guard, Luis Rodriguez, turned the lights back on and then rushed over and started giving CPR to Mr. Mancini. He must have realized Brad was dead because he fainted. Rodriguez was taken to the hospital, so we haven’t had a chance to question him. He certainly is someone we want to talk to.”
Looking out among the eager faces, he zeroed in on Claudia Riley, one of only three female officers in the LOPD.
“Claudia. I want you to check out Mr. Rodriguez. I’m sure Sierra Pacific Security will know where to find him,” Mike said. “You might want to talk to the volunteers who were in the area close to where the money was kept. They might have some impressions. Who’s your partner?”
“Sergeant Joe Buckner, sir,” Claudia said, trying to keep her voice from betraying the absolute thrill she felt at being chosen. She couldn’t believe the captain had selected her. She held her breath as she turned to look at Joe.
At the same time, Joe Buckner raised his hand in response to the captain’s question. Standing at 5′11″ on a good day, Joe was, never-the-less, impressive. From his perfectly balanced muscular frame to his square jaw accented by a short, boxed beard, he commanded respect. But what women responded to were his dreamy black eyes and warm smile. They were ready to confess everything just to get his attention. Initially, Claudia was drawn to Joe by the same thing, but in time came to appreciate his intelligence and kindness. She trusted him. They understood each other, sharing a private language like twins. Often, in tight situations, they didn’t have to say anything to know what the other was thinking. Working together was easy.
“Joe. You’re in. Be sure you two go everywhere together. We don’t want any slip-ups. And this applies to all of you. From now on, I want complete, well-written reports. Too many cases get thrown out because of sloppy police work. If we do have foul play on our hands, I want everything done by the book and done well.”
Stopping for a minute, Mike scanned the room and spotted the one person he knew was meticulous about the notes and reports he wrote. Mike looked directly at Lieutenant Phil Scott as he announced his choice.
“Phil, I’d like you to be my go-to man,” Mike said, catching sight of Alex Bankowski sneering. Noting the reaction but not reacting to it, he added, “Phil, you might want to talk to Officers O’Hara and Bankowski. They were at the scene last night. They have the names and contact numbers for all the people who were there.”
“On it,” Phil said, keeping his face neutral.
“In fact,” Mike added, looking directly at Alex, “will the two of you check out all the cameras located at the school? See if you can find anything that might help the investigation. And run a background check on Mancini. See if he has any priors or anything that might make him a target.”
“Sir,” interrupted Claudia. “Shouldn’t someone talk to the widow of Mr. Mancini?”
“Good idea. It’s all yours.”
Mike paused. He turned to Phil. “A lot of money was taken last night. In essence, money a bunch of band kids were working hard to get so they could represent our city at the Holiday Bowl. Finding who stole it is paramount.”
“I may be able to help you there,” said a voice from the back of the room. Heads turned to watch the chief walk confidently to the front of the room. He was a man used to taking charge. With an air of authority combined with a touch of self-importance, he approached Mike saying, “I’m a friend of Ed Conrad. He’s been the head of boosters for a long time and knows how they handle the money. I’ve heard him talk about the bingo games. He knew Brad well and spoke highly of him. Let me see what I can find out. Be kind of nice to do some good old-fashioned sleuthing instead of endless PR.”
“Good. Thanks, Chief,” Mike said. “That covers it for now. If there’s no more, let’s get started.”
No one said anything so Mike shook hands with the chief and thanked him for volunteering. He added, “My father-in-law was at the bingo games last night. You gave me a good idea. I think I’ll talk to him… see if he can shed any light on this mess.” A few more perfunctory words of sympathy mixed with encouragement passed between the two men. Turning, Mike motioned Phil to follow him. Some of the officers stayed to schmooze the chief, but most dispersed to continue their duties.
One of the sergeants whispered to his partner as they walked out of the briefing room, “Did you see Bankowski’s face when the Captain appointed Scott?”
“No, I was watching Lieutenant Scott. Did you see him? He’s still pissed he didn’t get the job.”
***
“Take a seat,” Mike said, pointing to the plain metal chair while walking around his large institutional desk to his faded leather swivel chair the department had purchased from the public surplus website.
“Why’d you pick me?” Lieutenant Scott scoffed through his teeth as if he were afraid he might bite Mike’s head off if he opened his mouth and really said what he wanted.
“Because I thought you were the best man in the room,” Mike answered, not completely blindsided by the question.
“Don’t patronize me. If I were the best man in the room, I’d be sitting on your side of the desk. Not where I am,” Scott said mockingly.
“Look, Phil, we both wanted this job. I’m sure it was a hard decision for the committee,” Mike said.
“Yeah, maybe I didn’t have the right skin color,” Phil blurted out, slightly ashamed but not regretting his intent.
And there it was, landing between the two men like a tsunami surging over the shore, wreaking havoc and then receding back into the ocean, leaving its foamy imprint as a scar on the wet sand. Phil resented Mike, believing he lost the promotion because Mike was Latino. Mike knew that many of the men felt that way, and perhaps there was some truth to it, but he wasn’t going to get into a pissing contest over it. He knew how well he had done on the exam. He knew he had the best conviction rate in the department. He knew how many veiled comments about his heritage he had pretended not to hear. He wasn’t going to defend himself. He had earned this position through hard work, intelligence, and integrity.
“I’m sorry that’s the way you feel, but this case isn’t about you and me. If you don’t want to be in charge of the investigative team, I’ll find someone who does,” Mike said. “Either buy in with no hidden agendas or go back to vice and continue with your work with them.”
For the first time, Phil began to understand why Mike might have been chosen over him. Mike called his bluff, making him face up to his own ambition. Reluctantly, he began to realize Mike was giving him a key role in a case that could be important to his career.
“You’re right. This isn’t about us. Count me in,” Phil said, swallowing his pride while still feeling the sting of envy. Placing his clipboard on the edge of Mike’s desk, he changed the subject. “I know some of the men don’t like me. They think I’m too hard on them.”
“And, that’s exactly why I picked you. You’ve done a good job with vice. Until you took over, the department was pretty lax. You’ve done a lot to clean it up,” Mike said, going on as though nothing had passed between the two, letting go of the exchange, forgiving but never forgetting.
“Thanks, but there’s still more to do. A couple of the guys are lazy. Maybe sloppy is a better word. Bankowski is one of the worst.”
“I thought I saw a reaction from him when I said you’d head up the investigation,” Mike said. “What’s the problem?”
“He and I have had some words over his poor writing skills. His reports are almost unintelligible. I got all over him on a write up over some stolen guns he found. He arrested this guy for possession but provided no information about the circumstances. Not only that, but the misspellings and horrible grammar gave me a headache.”
“Look at this as an opportunity to continue to help him and his partner,” Mike said. “In fact, one of the many facets of this job is to make sure our young officers don’t abuse their power. Departments all over the country are under heavy scrutiny for what the public sees as people with guns overstepping their authority.”
“True. I’ll do my best,” Phil groaned. “Claudia is a good catch. She’s probably the most underrated officer on the force. She’s had to put up with some pretty stupid pranks. You’d think in today’s world she wouldn’t have to deal with adolescent behavior like putting Vaseline on a toilet seat.”
“Again?”
“Yep. Two days ago. Anyway, I like working with her. She’s thorough and has good instincts.”
“I’ve been watching her for a year or so. She is very good. She’s never really been given a chance to use her intelligence,” Mike said. “You know she’s married to a detective with the Oakland PD? I think he’s in vice too. Maybe that’s where she learned… Woops…If my wife ever heard me say that, she would give me some serious grief. ‘Oh sure, like a woman needs a man to learn how to do things right.’ Anyway, I’m just glad you like her. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. At the moment, we only have you, Claudia, Joe, Alex, Sean, and me assigned to this case, with a little backup from the chief, but he’s pretty busy. If it turns out Brad was murdered, you’ll need more manpower. We’re short on numbers, but I’ll see what I can do if you need help.”
“Thanks Mike. I won’t let you down. I’m sorry about what I said,” Phil said, starting to regret his outburst.
“Forget it. We’ve got a case to solve.”
After Phil left, Mike shook off the meeting. He needed more information about the events that occurred at the bingo game. He wondered if Patty’s father might be able to give him a clearer picture of what went on so he texted him, asking if they could meet for breakfast the next morning.
End of this sample.