Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 02 - River Mourn (30 page)

Tina unwrapped the child to show Rosswell, who shut the door
behind him when he came into her hospital room. “What do you think of our boy?”
She’d dabbed the lilac-smelling perfume behind her ears. Rosswell loved the
scent. He brushed her strawberry blonde hair away from her face before he
planted a smacker on her lips.

“Kind of small.” Rosswell leaned over the bed where
Tina and his son lay. “He’s red. And looks like a prune.” A sniff confirmed it.
“He smells fresh.”

A bubble formed on the baby’s mouth and burst. The
child loosed a contented sigh—something Rosswell figured he’d never hear again—and
then continued sleeping. Stroking the baby’s hand, tiny fingers grasped his
father’s finger. The child’s skin felt smoother and softer than any other baby’s
that he’d encountered. A smile crossed Rosswell’s face. Delivering babies was
one of the happy things he’d done as a medic while serving in the military.

“Rosswell, we’ve got to name him.”

“You do that.” Rosswell lifted the baby’s sock cap. “Bald
as Ollie.” He tucked the blanket around the child and kissed him on his
forehead. “I don’t know anything about a baby’s name.”

“I insist.”

Rosswell found himself distracted by the noise of the
hospital that he heard even through the closed door. “No, you do it.” Afraid to
actually pick up and cuddle the child, Rosswell felt that he wasn’t capable of
sticking a name on his son that the child would wear all his life. Naming
should be something a mother does. “I want you to be happy with what we call
him.”

“At least the first name. I’ll give him the middle
name.” She touched Rosswell’s cheek. “The name is totally your choice. I’ll
abide by it.” A tear welled up and rolled down her cheek. “I never want to be
separated from you again. I’ll call him whatever you say.”

Rosswell closed his eyes, thinking of various names,
until a good one showed up. His eyes popped open. “In
Moby-Dick
,
Ishmael tells the story
about Steelkilt, a mutineer who’s about to be flogged by an unnamed captain.
The story within the novel is quite moving.”

“Ishmael? Steelkilt?” Tina creased her brow. A tone of
confusion accented her words. “But our baby’s name—”

“The captain refused to thrash Steelkilt after he
whispered something to the captain. I’ve researched this and I know what he
whispered.”

“Rosswell…what?” The baby made a sound or moved a
certain way that Rosswell couldn’t fathom. Whatever the child had done, Tina
must’ve taken it as a sign he was hungry since she began nursing him. “I don’t
understand what you’re talking about.”

Rosswell drew in a deep breath. “The name is Herman.” He
rubbed his hands together, satisfied with the choice. “As in Herman
Melville.”

“Absolutely not!”

Rosswell realized that when Tina spoke in her
not-to-be-dissuaded
voice, he’d already lost the argument. Rebuttal and attempts at convincing her
otherwise were useless. “Let me think.” He closed his eyes and rocked back and
forth on his heels. “I’m the father of your grand-daughter.”

“I think you’re developing middle-aged attention
deficit disorder.” Tina rearranged her blanket, rewrapped the baby’s blanket,
and adjusted his sock cap, all the while breastfeeding him.

“That’s what Steelkilt whispered to the captain and
that’s why the captain allowed him to live.”

Tina moved the baby to her other breast. “You’re
tiring me.”

“You had a kid. Our son. You’re entitled to be worn
out.”

Tina closed her eyes. “I’m taking a nap.” She hugged
the baby closer. “Sit over there and be quiet till I wake up.”

“Ah! I’ve got it. Aristotle.”

Tina’s eyes flew open and grew wide. “Aris—” She
choked. “
Aristotle
?
We’re not Greeks.”

“The name Aristotle means the best one of all.”

“All the kids at school will call him Ari or something
even worse.”

“Jonathan. That’s from the Hebrew
Yonatan
, a shortened
version of
Yehonatan
,
meaning God has given. In the Bible, Jonathan was King Saul’s oldest boy and a
close friend of David. In America, Jonathan Trumbull was a Scot who was the
first governor of Connecticut.”

Tina’s silence worried Rosswell until she inclined her
head slightly. He took that as an affirmative sign. She said, “You’ve been
hanging around Ollie too much. But, yeah, Jonathan is fine.”

Rosswell hugged her. “ ‘Whatsoever thy soul desireth,
I will even do it for thee.’ First Samuel, chapter twenty, verse four.”

Tina said quickly, as if to forestall Rosswell
changing his mind, “And the middle name is David.”

Rosswell leaned over and again kissed the sleeping
child. “I name you Jonathan David Carew.” He stood straight, scrutinizing the
scene. Tina. Jonathan David. Both safe. Both healthy. A vital signs monitor on
a rolling stand stood silent and dark next to Tina’s bed. A good sign that
meant the doctors weren’t worried about her crashing. The nearly full moon
shone through the window. A healthy baby boy slept soundly. Rosswell decided
this wouldn’t be a good time to tell Tina that he’d forgotten to order a dozen
red roses to decorate her nightstand. Instead, he said, “Jonathan David Carew
is a strong name for a child who is strong.”

The odor reached Rosswell’s nose at the same instant
Tina said, “Time for Daddy to learn how to change a dirty diaper.”

Near the chapel door in
the hospital, Rosswell and Ollie huddled by a life-sized statue of a white dove,
its wings spread, its head pointed upward, about to take flight.

Rosswell rubbed the statue. “Marble? Some kind of stone,
hard yet smooth and somehow yielding, sculpted by somebody with talent. Is
there a bird cult around here?”

“Yes. Dove Love.”

An overhead spotlight shined down pearly white rays on
the bird. For a hospital, this part was blessedly quiet and deserted although cold
enough to hang beef.

Why are hospitals always five degrees colder than
comfortable?

Rosswell peeked in the chapel to find it empty. “Let’s
duck in here a minute.”

Once inside, they settled on the front pew, watching
the early morning sun piercing the stained glass windows. The colors of the
rainbow spread across the dark red carpeting and, as the sun climbed higher,
combined into shades covering the entire spectrum of visible light. Off to one
side, against a wall, a bank of prayer candles burned in dark blue glass
holders. A faint aroma of incense lingered from a previous service.

“Ollie, do you think the Goddess requires candles to
remind her that someone said a prayer? Or incense to nudge her into granting us
something?”

“I don’t care.” Ollie pushed forward in the pew. “Tina
and the baby—okay?”

“They’re doing great. They’ll be released tomorrow.”

“They don’t keep them long these days.” Ollie, posture
rigid and breathing shallowly, smoothed the padding of the pew with both hands,
as if his palms were sweaty. “No one hurt her or the baby?”

“No. But I’m going to find the son of a bitch doctor
who helped Nathaniel kidnap Tina.”

Ollie slumped against the back of the pew and relaxed
his shoulders. “Thank God. I mean, thank God that Tina’s okay. Leave the rest
of the stuff to the cops. The…” He coughed. “The
good
cops.”

“Take count.” Rosswell ticked off the names on his
fingers. “Turk, Susannah, Frankie Joe, Charlie. All of them in jail.”

“Gustave Fribeau and Nathaniel Dahlbert belong there,
too.”

“Philbert already chewed me out for letting the main
bad boy get loose.” Rosswell plucked a hymnal from the pew rack and thumbed
through it. “Like it’s my fault. I wasn’t after him. I was out to rescue Tina.
Nathaniel got in my way. I figured it out. He knew I wouldn’t shoot him even if
I had a chance. I don’t want to kill anyone ever again.” When he laid the book
down, it fell open to Christmas songs. “For all I know, Nathaniel’s waiting for
me in the parking lot.”

“Where’s Gustave?”

Before Rosswell could express his opinion, there was
an interruption.

“Gentlemen?”

The voice startled Rosswell, who shifted around in his
seat to see who’d spoken to them. Ollie twisted his head to look at the short,
dark man, dressed in a three-piece charcoal gray suit, white shirt, black tie. A
small leather wallet, which the man flipped open, appeared in his hands, then
shut quickly. Rosswell couldn’t identify the badge. He studied the man closely.
Rosswell noted that the hands were calloused and scratched.

“Nicolas?” Rosswell said.

“Nicolas Rodriguez,” he said, offering his hand to
Ollie who shook it. “The judge and I met earlier.”

“Ollie Groton. I’m Judge Carew’s research assistant.”

Nicolas’s sun-wrinkled face broke out in a grin. “I’ll
bet you are.”

“I met Mr. Rodriguez on my snooping expedition in
Farmington.” To Nicolas, he said, “I’m guessing that landscape gardening is not
your main profession.”

“A lot of days I wish it were my main profession and
not my occasional passion.”

Rosswell noted that the tie Nicolas wore was flat black,
not shiny. A certain sign that he was a federal agent of some kind. “The badge
there…I couldn’t quite tell who issued it.”

“This isn’t strictly an official visit.” Nicolas plopped
down in the pew behind Rosswell and Ollie.

Ollie said to Nicolas, “Are we in trouble?”

Nicolas leaned on the back of the pew in front of him.
“You’d know more about that than I would.” Then he gave them both a friendly
pat on the shoulder. “Something you need to know about Gustave. He’s loose.”

“We already know that. If I see him, I’ll dial 9-1-1.”
Rosswell felt the pat was less than comforting. A guy who implied he was law
enforcement was chatting with them. What did he want? Rosswell didn’t know, but
he felt compelled to keep the conversation going. “Ollie’s working on his manners.
Let me ask the proper question. To what do we owe this visit?”

“Watch out for bad guys.” Nicolas handed each of them
a business card. “You won’t see me again. Ever. But I’ll be searching for
Nathaniel Dahlbert. And Gustave Fribeau. Lots of people are interested in their
whereabouts.” Rosswell read the card.

A telephone number and someone’s name he didn’t
recognize. No agency. No department. No other identification.

None of them spoke. Rosswell convinced himself he
could hear one of those white noise machines running. Or maybe it was the air
conditioning. “You think Gustave is gunning for me?”

“Sure. And lots of other people, too.”

Ollie said, “What’s Nathaniel done that makes you so
interested in him?”

Rosswell said, “It’s not polite to ask questions about
things that are none of your business.”

“What?” If any hair had been growing on Ollie’s body, Rosswell
suspected it would’ve been bristling. “That’s what you hired me for.”

Nicolas said, “There are reasons that I can’t share
any info with you. There’s a phone number on the card. If you hear anything at
all about Nathaniel…or Gustave…let me know immediately.”

Rosswell read the card aloud. “Ramon Cortez.” He rattled
off the phone number. “I thought your name was Nicolas Rodriguez. And the
telephone number has an area code that I’m not familiar with. Is this for real?”

Ollie said, “It’s not polite to ask questions about
things that are none of your business.”

Nicolas—or Ramon or whatever his name was—said, “Ollie’s
right. But I wanted to thank you both. With your help, we’ve got a couple of
bad people off the street. Maybe we’ll round up some more when we catch
Nathaniel and Gustave.”

Rosswell said, “Whatever you did for Tina, thank you.”

“Tina’s a cop. We don’t ever leave cops behind enemy
lines. Never ever.”

A janitor wearing a hoodie opened the door and
trundled in, pushing a bucket full of water with a ratty string mop stuck in
it. When he spotted the trio, he bent over his work cart with his face averted.
“Won’t be long. Sorry for the interruption.” The janitor spoke barely above a
whisper. It sounded as if he had laryngitis.

A mop?

When the janitor reached for the mop, Rosswell spotted
it and yelled, “GUN!” Rosswell’s stomach went into overdrive, pumping acid into
his esophagus.

At the instant Rosswell yelled, Nicolas had drawn his
weapon, then rushed to a spot about fifteen feet behind the janitor. “Drop the
weapon. Let me see those hands way up high.”

The janitor dropped his pistol and shot his hands into
the sky. “I didn’t do nothing.” The same voice. Low. Raspy.

Nicolas said, “Turn around.”

The janitor faced Nicolas. When he did, Rosswell could
see that it was Gustave Fribeau.

Nicolas spoke quietly into his radio although Rosswell—even
with his superb hearing—couldn’t make out what he’d said.

Ollie, obviously unable to contain himself, said, “What
a crummy disguise. And even a man knows you don’t mop a carpet.”

Alessandra flew through the door, the aim of her
pistol never leaving Gustave’s center mass.

With a movement Rosswell couldn’t detect, Nicolas
jerked Gustave’s arms behind him and snapped handcuffs on him.

Nicolas said to Alessandra, “Do the honors.”

“You arrested him.”

“But we wouldn’t have known about him without you.”

Ollie nudged Rosswell, “I knew she was a cop.”

Alessandra said to Gustave, “Look at me. Straight in
the eye.” Gustave complied with her order. “You’re under arrest for the murder
of Ribs Freshwater. And we have a lot more charges later on. The feds have a
few of their own.”

Gustave, his voice normal now, said, “That’s the biggest
bunch of—”

“Can it. We’re not ready to interrogate you.” Alessandra
twirled him around. She and Nicolas escorted the sheriff out of the chapel.

Ollie hummed for a few moments before he said, “That
was different.”

Rosswell’s stomach calmed. “I wonder if Nathaniel is
hiding in here somewhere?”

The pair checked out the chapel and the hallways. No
one suspicious.

Rosswell said, “My whole life’s been different since
my bird watching was spoiled a week ago Sunday.”

“Do you believe that fussy little guy is a secret
agent? Or Theodore? Or Philbert? Sure seems like a hell of a lot of secret
agents running around. They don’t smell like secret agents.”

“They had guns and badges. They’re not secret agents.
They’re…” Rosswell wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.

“They’re what?” Ollie rubbed his arms, as if he grew
colder by the second. “Spies?”

“Government law enforcement. Federal government.”

“
Quis
custodiet ipsos custodes
?”

Rosswell focused on the burning candles
nearly to the point of hypnosis. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Who watches
the watchmen?”

“All those guys could be working for
Nathaniel Dahlbert as far as we know.”

“We have to trust someone.”

“Do we? What about Karyn Byler and Jill Mabli?”

Rosswell loved it when he trumped Ollie. “The
prosecutor and I had a long chat. She said that she’d already run the records
on both women. Found nothing stinky. And both are willing to turn informant but
the prosecutor insists that each one has her own lawyer. I’m working on that
now. Behind the scenes. As long as the ladies sing on key and don’t miss any
notes, they’ll be okay.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand about this whole
deal.”

“One thing?”

“Two things. Or, I should say, two people.” Ollie
rubbed his head, fresh from a Vaseline coating. “I like them. Lazar is a cool
dresser. And without Maman, you would’ve never found Tina. The old lady told
you exactly where she was.” He stuffed the Kleenex into his pocket. “Tell me
their story.”

“Maman Fribeau and Lazar Fribeau.” Rosswell folded his
hands. Ollie cocked his head, probably thinking that Rosswell would break out
in prayer. “It’s a story that begins hundreds of years ago.”