Dark Waters (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (11 page)

Da-Marr’s expression remained impassive.

“I’m sure you can understand my concern,” Richard pressed. “Evelyn tells me you come from a close-knit family. We have that in common. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my family.”

Da-Marr shrugged.

“I understand your parents and sisters have been worried about you getting mixed up with the wrong element, and that’s why your aunt has taken such an interest in your future.”

“She treats me like a kid.”

“I think she loves you very much and wants you to be successful.”

“She don’t ask me what I want to
do
or
be
. Are you gonna let me drive Brenda’s car or not?”

Richard shook his head. “Sorry. You know your aunt better than I do. She’s made a decision and I have no intention of crossing her.”

Da-Marr turned away in disgust. “Pussy-whipped asshole,” he grated and left the room.

Ungrateful idiot who can’t see a golden opportunity when it’s handed to him.

The phone rang. Richard leaned forward to pick up the receiver.

“Mr. Alpert, this is Bill at Erie County Glass. Our mobile unit can be at your house within the hour.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

“No problem, sir.”

Richard hung up and leaned back in his chair once again. Da-Marr’s question haunted him. Why hadn’t he called the police? He knew he’d better come up with an explanation before the next time he spoke with Jeff.

Ivy’s On Main was a dump. It seemed to have changed hands at least twice since I’d come back to Buffalo some eighteen months before. Its proximity not far from UB’s south campus meant that the student foot traffic was high, and so was the rent, even if the décor sucked. At least the walls had recently seen a coat of paint, and the ancient tile floor looked like it had been pressure-washed since the first — and only time — I had darkened its door.

As predicted, the place was full of students and others grabbing a beer with lunch. A table in the back was empty, so I snagged it. There were no individual menus. The bill of fare had been written on a blackboard in different colored chalk, featuring burgers, fries, and sandwiches. I had a feeling Mike and I would be ordering the same thing.

It was already a little past noon, with no sight of Mike Ryan. Good thing, too. My phone rang. I looked at the number.

“Hi, Sam. What’s up?

“Did you get anything else off that piece of chalk?”

Crap. With everything that had gone on in the previous sixteen hours, I’d forgotten all about it. I couldn’t even recall where I’d left it. Somewhere in my apartment. After my visitor the previous evening, I wasn’t even confident it would still be there.

I answered simply. “No.”

“Too bad. Are you doing anything important this afternoon? Care to take another field trip?”

“Where to this time?

“An auction of Jack Morrow’s personal possessions.”

“Why haven’t I heard about this before now?”

“Well, if you read my paper you might have,” he said sounding annoyed. “There’s a piece in this morning’s business section.”

“Sorry. I only got as far as the comics.”

“You need to expand your horizons.”

“I’ve heard that before. Where and when?” He gave me the address and we agreed to meet at two that afternoon.

“Can you bring your camera?”

“Don’t I always?”

“Good. See you then.”

I ended the call just as Father Ryan approached the table.

“Sorry I’m late,” Mike said, looking like he’d just stepped out of a men’s clothing store ad. His dark suit didn’t look like it had come off the rack, and the scarf around his neck looked like cashmere. He obviously hadn’t taken a vow of poverty.

“They were gifts,” he said as though reading my mind and took the seat opposite me. “I have a rich aunt who dotes on me — I’m the son she never had.”

The word aunt caused me to wince, painfully reminding me of Richard’s houseguests. Hadn’t Brenda told me that Evelyn had three daughters — no sons? Is that why she doted on Da-Marr? And what did her daughters think of that?

“Have you ordered?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

Mike turned and raised a hand to get the waitress’s attention, dazzling her with a smile. Did Catholic priests with loving aunts also have their teeth whitened?

“Are you ready to order?” asked the slim, blue-haired coed in black pants and shirt. Gold studs marred her nose and lip.

“Beef on weck and a Molson for me.”

I nodded. “I’ll have the same.”

“Coming right up.”

Mike leaned forward. “I wear the scarf to hide the collar. It’s just easier that way.”

“I know you don’t have a lot of time,” I guessed, “so where should I start?”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened. Maggie said you were stung by a bee.”

I nodded. “The next thing I knew, I was on the ground looking up at the sky.”

He shook his head. “If that was true, we wouldn’t be talking now.”

I sobered. “Yeah. Well, as you’re an expert on this kind of stuff, I was kind of hoping you’d tell me what it all means.”

“I don’t know that it means anything. You need to discover what your experience means to
you
. And you still haven’t explained it to me. Is there a reason?”

I shook my head. “I saw the classic white light and it scared the shit out of me.”

“Were you frightened before the experience, during, or after?”

I hadn’t thought about it before now. “During and after.”

He nodded. “Most people feel a sense of peace as they approach the light. But before we go into that, can you tell me more about what you remember and felt just prior to your experience?”

I shrugged. “I remember looking at my hand and watching the bite turn into a welt before falling from the ladder. And then things get murky. I was being sucked into this glaring white light.”

“Have you ever had an out of body experience before this? Did you see yourself, your surroundings, from above as your soul left your body?”

I frowned. “My soul never left my body. I was aware that I was still me, but … not. I know that doesn’t make much sense.”

His expression darkened. “Did you feel weightless?”

I shook my head. “I could feel the pull of gravity.” I closed my eyes to blot out the sight of the bustling bar, to better concentrate, and felt my fists clench. “I was being sucked up, into the air, but it wasn’t.…” I had spent far too much time trying not to think about what had happened, and now I wasn’t sure what it was I’d gone through. I opened my eyes, finding Mike looking at me intently.

“Okay, if you can’t tell me what it was, can you tell me what it wasn’t?”

I let out a breath, unsure of how to answer. “I’ve gone online. I’ve read near-death accounts. Many people find it to be an enlightening thing. It wasn’t for me. Or is it that I’m just a coward and am afraid to face death?”

“From what I’ve heard, you’ve faced death more than your fair share of times, so I don’t think that’s your problem.”

I wasn’t sure I liked hearing that. How much had Maggie told him about me? But as I thought about it, it became apparent that
I’d
made this experience a problem. It nagged at me. I found myself thinking about it at odd moments. I’d let it bother me in waking hours, and it had reawakened the nightmares from the mugging, giving them a new and more terrifying ending.

“What do you think
is
my problem?” I challenged.

Mike laughed. “I have no idea. But I suspect you do.”

“Now you sound like a shrink.”

He shrugged, just as the waitress brought our beers. “Your sandwiches will be ready in a couple of minutes,” she said, and went to the next table to check on their progress.

Mike turned back to me. “You don’t strike me a person of faith.”

“Sorry.”

“No apologies necessary. I may be a priest, but I don’t go around criticizing what people believe or don’t believe.”

“That’s not exactly church doctrine.”

“I prefer to think — or at least hope — that as time goes on there’ll be more forward-thinking leadership. Hey, Pope Francis took the first steps. I’m encouraged that more progress will happen in the coming years no matter who’s wearing the white cassock.”

“You’re a heretic,” I accused.

He laughed. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve been accused of.”

“And the worst would be?”

“Just don’t get into a poker game with me.”

I couldn’t help but smile, but it was short-lived. A beer and a good conversation over lunch weren’t going to change the fact that I couldn’t seem to let this whole near-death thing drop. It was going to come back the minute I shut my eyes for sleep, and the flashback to the mugging was going to come back to slam me the next time I saw Da-Marr.

Maybe I did need a shrink, but there was no way I was going to voluntarily go that route.

True to her word, the waitress arrived and plunked down our sandwiches and fries, along with a bottle of ketchup and a pot of horseradish to share between us. “If you need anything else, give a holler.”

“Thanks,” Mike said, and turned to his lunch. “This is what I’ve been waiting days for.” He removed the top of the roll and slathered on a generous helping of horseradish. I did the same before taking a bite. Ivy’s might be a dump, but they made a damn fine beef on weck. The horseradish was so pungent it brought tears to my eyes. Perfection!

Mike swallowed his first bite, coughed, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “When your mind replays the sequence, how long would you say it lasts?”

“Forever.”

“Do you get stuck at a certain point in the nightmare?”

I took a sip of my beer and thought about it. “As I spiral up into the blinding light, it gets bigger and bigger until it’s about to — ” I tossed my hands in the air and made a noise like an explosion.

Mike took another bite and looked thoughtful. “Do you hear any sounds?”

“Come to think of it, no.”

“Some people describe celestial noises, although what they sound like changes from person to person.”

I’d once thought I heard celestial noises after whacking my head after being pushed down a flight of stairs. Only for me, the sound was reminiscent of wind chimes.

“Have you thought about writing down your experience? You might find clarity if you could put it down on paper.”

“I don’t know if I’m looking so much for clarity or understanding.” Once I’d said it, I knew it was the latter, not the former. “Why did this happen to me? Lots of people go into anaphylactic shock and don’t see a bright light. When I got mugged, I saw the bat come at me, but it wasn’t a bright light I saw, it was — ” I stopped myself. “What else did Maggie tell you about me?”

“Not much, really. In fact, she mostly talked about herself. She’s terribly afraid she’s going to lose her mother-in-law.”

Then she hadn’t told him about my gift — not that I thought of knowing things about people, glomming onto their emotions, and sometimes experiencing clairvoyance as a gift. I sure as hell wasn’t going to mention it.

“You were saying?” Mike prompted.

I shook my head. “Nothing.” I took another bite of my sandwich.

“Not to be a braggart, but if you’d like to read my dissertation, I’d be happy to loan you a copy.”

“Not to be rude, but I don’t think so. I almost wish I hadn’t checked the Internet to read up on the experience. I think it may have colored my memory of the experience.”

“That’s a valid observation.”

“The more I think about it, the better I like your idea of writing down what I remember. Maybe I will get clarity and understanding.”

He shrugged. “It can’t hurt.” Mike changed the subject. “So, what do you think of the Bills this season?” It turned out he was a Patriots fan, and we discussed past games and predicted the outcome of the upcoming game.

When the check came, I grabbed it.

“Thanks,” Mike said. “I’ve enjoyed our conversation. If you’d like to talk some other time, I’d be happy to meet again.

“Thanks,” I said, leaving the invitation open.

When we left the tavern, he went left while I turned right. I still had more than an hour to kill before I had to meet Sam. Up the street was a college bookstore where I knew I could buy a notebook.

I did just that, and then sat in my car for the next twenty minutes writing down my thoughts and memories of the mugging and the near-death experience. My pen had practically danced across the pages as I wrote. When I finished, I looked at my watch and realized I had twenty minutes to make it across town to meet Sam.

Mike had been right. I may not have found clarity or understanding, but writing down my experiences had been cathartic. Not that the memories wouldn’t surface again, but somehow I felt better for having acknowledged them in a concrete form.

I closed the notebook and set it on the passenger seat before starting the car. I’d acknowledged one set of angst. Would examining Morrow’s personal possessions bring on another?

I was glad I’d left my camera in my car’s trunk after our last investigative foray, since that meant I didn’t have to go back to my place to get it.

When Sam and I arrived at Adam’s Mark’s East Ballroom, a long line snaked out into the lobby and out the front door. I felt sorry for the poor schmucks who didn’t have umbrellas, and even those who did have one looked pretty damp around the edges.

Sam flashed his newspaper ID and waited to be let in to have a preview of the auction preview. The guard made a call and we waited for our escort to arrive.

We turned away, trying to get a glance inside the ballroom.

“If I’m supposed to be your photographer, how am I going to touch the stuff? Won’t they expect you to hold onto whatever you want me to scope out while I take the shot?”

“Hmm. I hadn’t thought about that,” Sam admitted. “We’ll just have to fake it.”

“This doesn’t bode well,” I said under my breath as a handsome woman of perhaps fifty approached. Her hair was not a natural strawberry blonde, but it suited her and complimented the coffee-colored suit she wore.

“Hello, I’m Diane Kelly. I’m the PR liaison for Meier’s Auction House, which is coordinating the sale for Bison Bank. I’m happy to accompany you while you look through the items going up for auction tonight.”

“Thanks,” Sam said and introduced us; she shook both our hands. I got no bright flash of insight from her, which was fine with me since I didn’t have a clue what I might encounter when touching Morrow’s stuff.

“If you’ll follow me,” Diane said, and Sam dutifully fell into step, with me a half-pace behind them.

“I’ve read through the program,” Sam said, “but what’s your take on the assembled goods?”

Diane paused and sighed. “The sole reason for the sale is to try to recover as much revenue as possible to repay those who lost their life savings through poor financial decisions.”

“That’s a nice way of saying the people who trusted Morrow were swindled,” Sam said.

Diane did not dignify his statement by agreeing.

I wasn’t sure what I’d experience upon entering a room that housed so many of Jack Morrow’s possessions. The word that best describes it is overwhelming, but the sensation bore no resemblance to the aura still attached to the chalk cube. It wasn’t so much Morrow I sensed in that ballroom, but an overwhelming sense of greed, which was uncomfortable to say the least.

I viewed the large ballroom through the lens of my Nikon and snapped a picture. It seemed to have been divided into sections, with one corner set up to look like a clothing store with racks of suits, boxes and boxes of new and barely worn shoes and monogrammed slippers, and tables of other clothing.

I paused to take another photo as we walked along the aisles of merchandise on offer, and Sam turned to me. “The catalog lists clothes, shoes, household accessories, and sports memorabilia. What do you think will give off the strongest vibes?”

“I have no idea,” I said as we started off again, passing a table piled with expensive, custom French-made shirts. “Is it likely Diane is going to let me handle anything?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

“All we have to do is ask.”

But we didn’t — at least not just then. Instead, we walked along the rows and rows of largess: shelves filled with Jack Morrow’s books; his artwork collection; his stereo equipment and collection of CDs, which favored classical composers. Richard could have enhanced his own collection from the pickings. Also among the loot were knick-knacks, souvenirs of Morrow’s travels to other countries, and several sets of antique French and Russian dinnerware. I snapped pictures of gold-plated cutlery, as well as baroque mirrors, along with gold-and silver-leafed picture frames with images of Morrow’s family still gracing them. It was like an estate sale: one person’s lifetime collection of flotsam and jetsam up for sale to the highest bidder.

Sam paused and turned to Diane. “Is it okay if we take a closer look at some of this stuff?”

“Are you registered to bid?” she asked.

“No, but I figured it might be a more powerful experience to hold something that Jack Morrow might have actually touched,” Sam said, laying it on thick.

“Mr. Nielsen, don’t tell me a hardened newsman like yourself actually admired a man like Jack Morrow.”

“Not admire, but perhaps I’m in awe. How did the man sleep?”

Diane shrugged. “Go ahead,” she said, amused.

Sam picked up one of the silver frames with a picture of good-looking man — an ivy leaguer, for sure. “What do you think about this, Jeff? Wouldn’t a picture of your girlfriend look great in this?”

He handed me the frame, which I held in both hands, staring at the photo.

Wrong, wrong, wrong!

I let out a breath. “Maggie looks great in every picture,” I said.

“And who’s the guy in the photo?” Sam asked Diane.

She shrugged. “A family member, I would guess. I’ve seen photos of Morrow’s wife, but I can’t say I’ve seen pictures of any of his other family members.”

I knew Sam would be on it like a tick the minute he could get a moment to check Google images.

A big, locked display case held an assortment of rings, watches, cufflinks, and tie tacks. I didn’t even know people still wore tie tacks. Sam eyed a watch in its original case. “Is that really a Rolex?”

“It’s been authenticated,” Diane said with a nod.

Sam looked almost coy. “Any chance we could…?”

“Try it on?” Diane finished.

“I may never get another opportunity to see the real thing.”

“You can get a knockoff on just about any corner in Manhattan,” I commented and could tell by Sam’s glare that my opinion was not welcome.

Diane withdrew a set of keys from the pocket of her skirt and unlocked the case. She reached for the Rolex and handed it to Sam. He slid the stretch band over his wrist and smiled, then he looked at me and seemed to realize his mistake. He might have just tainted the piece so that I’d get his vibes — and not those of its former owner. “It sure is nice,” he said, flexing his wrist to try and make it catch the light. I took a picture of it, figuring Sam might like it for himself.

He took it off and handed it to me. “Try it on for size. Who knows, if it looks good, you may even get one in your Christmas stocking.”

“Is that an offer?” I asked, slung my camera strap over my left shoulder and took it from him, sliding it onto my right wrist, which felt awkward and unnatural. I stared at the face of the watch, and it wasn’t Sam’s aura that came through, but must have been Morrow’s. A man who’d once felt powerful and unstoppable, but during the last days he’d worn the watch, he’d felt panicked and emasculated. A looming jail sentence would certainly have had me sweating in the same manner. If I’d had more time to wear the watch, would I have picked up more? Like where he’d supposedly hidden a chunk of his ill-gotten gains? Maybe, maybe not.

I took the watch off and handed it back to Diane, who put it away and locked the case once more. “Shall we continue the tour?” she suggested.

Finally, we came to the land of sports memorabilia, which included baseball cards, signed footballs and several framed jerseys from Buffalo Bills players that spanned the years from O.J. Simpson to Jim Kelly. How much would Morrow have been willing to pay for a ring if the Bills had ever won a Super Bowl? The prospect of the team going to the playoffs seemed possible early in the season.

I studied all the items on offer. To think all this stuff had once graced the walls of the home we’d seen the day before, or had some of it come from Morrow’s office, or maybe his sky box at Ralph Wilson Stadium?

“Damn, look at that,” Sam said and pointed to a baseball encased in a cube of Lucite. “A signed Ty Cobb baseball. What do you think something like that would go for?” he asked Diane.

“Anywhere from two to eight thousand, but we’re hoping to get at least five.”

Sam winced. “Out of my league, I’m afraid.” He eyed the rest of the collection, his envious gaze coming to rest on a bat signed by Joe DiMaggio.

Uneasy, I took a step back.

“What’s the estimate on the Yankee Clipper’s bat?” he asked.

“Anywhere from two to four thousand. If we get three, we’ll be quite happy,” Diane said.

“Any chance I could hold it?”

Diane forced a smile; she was getting tired of show and tell. “Of course.” With great care, she picked up the bat and handed it to him.

Sam studied the signature on the barrel end and whistled. “It’s dated, too. During the time he was married to Marilyn Monroe.” He shook his head in admiration. “What I wouldn’t do to have this baby hanging on my living room wall.”

And then time seemed to slow to a crawl. I watched in horrified fascination as Sam gripped the handle with both hands and assumed a batter’s stance.

The image of a Reggie Jackson special flashed before my eyes, the bat arching down at me from above.

Sam drew the bat back toward his shoulder.

I took two steps back but something was in my way.

The bat swung toward me, but it wasn’t Sam who held it.

The teenage thug’s fury-filled face loomed before me once again.

Panicked, I pushed at whatever was in my way, stumbled, and fell to the floor with the sound of shattering glass ringing in my ear.

“What on earth?” Diane practically screamed in my ear. “Get off of me.”

Suddenly Sam loomed over me, pushing me away as he tried to pull Diane to her feet.

Shame burned within me and I struggled to my feet, making a grab for my camera, which had hit the floor. I heard the rattle of the broken mirror within it and my heart sank. “I’m so sorry, I — I — ” but I didn’t have a decent explanation for my abhorrent behavior.

Diane pulled her suit jacket down and tried to brush the wrinkles from her skirt. She raised her angry gaze to take in my face and her annoyance immediately dissipated. “Are you all right?”

I suddenly realized how hard it seemed to breathe. “Yeah.”

“You don’t look it,” Sam said.

I didn’t feel it, either. My heart pounded, and the back of my collar was damp with sweat. I coughed and cleared my throat. “I think I need a drink. Water fountain?” I asked hopefully.

“Hang on a minute. I’ll see if I can get you a glass,” Diane said kindly.

She hurried away, almost as freaked out as I was.

“What the hell was that all about?’ Sam asked once she was out of earshot.

I turned away. “I’m sorry. I — ” But there was no way I could explain it to him what I’d just experienced.

“Wait a minute. When you got mugged — didn’t they come after you with — ?”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

I suddenly felt frozen and realized I was shaking.

And I felt stupid, and panicked, and emasculated — just like Morrow had felt when he’d last worn his Rolex.

Or was the already-fading sense of terror a remnant of Morrow’s anxiety?

Not a chance in hell.

“I’ve gotta get out of here,” I told Sam.

“I’m sorry, Jeff. I forgot. You know I wouldn’t have — ”

“Forget it. I’ve had a bad couple of days. Too many reminders of what happened….” I didn’t — couldn’t — explain farther. “Make my excuses, willya?” I asked, but didn’t wait for his reply and dashed for the exit.

I barreled through the doors and into the corridor, which was seething with even more people. Gaze leveled on the floor, I charged down the corridor and headed for the lobby.

Once outside, I practically ran for my car, though I couldn’t have said why. No one was chasing me, and yet I couldn’t seem to let go of the feeling that I had to escape. And escape to where? Maggie had too much on her plate to indulge me and my insecurities. I didn’t have to work. There was only one other place I could go — back to Richard’s. Back to what, until just a few days before, had been the first real home I’d had in way-too-many years. I knew I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

I unlocked my trunk, but took a moment to try out the camera. I looked through the viewfinder, but everything was a blur. My beautiful Nikon was ruined. I placed the camera inside and shut it, then got in my car and headed for the only friendly place of comfort I knew.

Richard looked at the platter overloaded with four, inch-thick Angus steaks Evelyn had picked out at the grocery store. He and Brenda could have shared one between them, and it was more than apparent that Evelyn hadn’t expected — or wanted — Jeff to join them for dinner. Not that he could have convinced his brother to do so.

“Here’s a clean platter to put the steaks on when they’re cooked, and the fork to turn them. And remember, I like my steak cooked through,” Evelyn said, practically pushing him toward the door. Thank goodness it wasn’t raining, although he wasn’t sure that would have deterred Evelyn from her dinner choice.

“I like mine rare,” Da-Marr said as he entered the kitchen from the hall.

“Then you go out and supervise. You stayed in your room all day, you could use some fresh air,” Evelyn said, and pushed him toward the back door as well.

Richard threw a look over his shoulder as he passed into the pantry for the outside door and saw his wife give him a pained smile.
Only a few more days
, he reassured himself,
only a few more days
.

Richard headed out to the backyard and the barbecue, wishing the house had a more direct route. Built in the 1920s before people added decks and patios, the house was lovely but not always user friendly.

He set the steaks down on one of the low tables and lit the grill. A thoroughly bored Da-Marr dragged himself up the deck steps and settled on the rail. He’d spent the day sulking.

Richard put the first of the steaks on the grill and glanced over at Da-Marr, who stared vacantly at the large expanse of lawn, its fringes no longer decorated with the last remnants of summer.

“So, you’re going to school in January,” Richard said.

“I guess,” Da-Marr muttered.

“Are you really going to take criminal justice?”

Da-Marr shook his head.

“Then what will you take, or do you really care about going to college?”

Da-Marr shrugged. “I’m going because my family has decided it would be the best thing for me.”