Death in Her Eyes (A Mac Everett Mystery Book 1) (7 page)

“No. I don’t need anything, well not right away,” I said. “I’ve been hired to look over the Hunt homicide. I heard you’re in the Criminal Investigation Division now so I thought I’d call. You know, find out who I need to give the heads up to.”

“That would be me. My detectives made that case. You’re not working for that shyster Barber, are you?” Stan was never one to mince words.

“Naw, the sister hired me. She thinks you’ve made up your mind and done it too quick,” I said. I wanted to be honest with my friend, but I knew he’d be annoyed. There was a long silence and then what he said next surprised me.

“I’ve talked to her. She seems like a good person,” Stan observed. He was a good judge of character so I was feeling a little better about being involved. “She believes in her brother, but we have a strong motive, plenty of evidence and a bucket full of inconsistencies in his statements. It’s circumstantial, but … our commanding officer in Homicide is your old buddy.”

“Not Raven! Don’t tell me they didn’t fire him.”

“No they didn’t fire him. He got off with a reprimand, suspension and a reassignment to records. He was there a year. Guess they consider him rehabilitated because they promoted him and now he’s here. He’s still an asshole though and I have to work with him. Try not to piss him off, will ya.”

“Maybe it would be better to steer clear of him all together. Can I get a case summary and a witness list, Stan? I’ll check things out for myself. I’ll give you anything I find,” I said, “so long as I don’t have to go through Raven, that is.”

The silence on the line was uncomfortable and I wondered if I’d overstepped my bounds.

“Come on Stan. We’re looking for the truth after all.”

“I thought you didn’t want anything,” he complained.

I didn’t say anything. Either he’d help me or he wouldn’t.

After what seemed a year he said, “You need to make a records request through channels, Mac. I can’t help you.”

“You sure about that, Stan?”

“I’m grateful for what you did for me back in Iraq, but I can’t help you. I don’t owe you anything, we’re even,” he grunted.

“I know that Stan. I screwed up and put you in a bad spot. It was…it was a bad time for me.”

We’d been close in Iraq, but my record at the Sheriff’s Office caused him a lot of crap. I decided to ignore the past and move on with life. I thanked him and said good-bye.

My call to Stan bothered me on a couple levels. I’d hoped the passing of time would have left us space to be friends again. That wasn’t the case. There was also something in Stan’s silence. I wondered if he had doubts about the case.

I’d done a ton of research on the Hunt family for the blackmail investigation. I decided to see if I could find anything new. There were dozens of articles in the news about the murder and Cary Hunt’s arrest. None of them had any hard information. The Sheriff’s Office had done a good job keeping a lid on a high profile case. I’d have to ask Ward Barber for a copy of the case file.

Cary Hunt graduated third in his class from the areas elite prep school Lake Windacre Preparatory School. He went to Harvard where he graduated with a Bachelors and MBA in five years. His claim to fame, other than being a Hunt, was he had predicted the end of the real estate bubble and the credit crisis. Real estate prices peaked in 2006 and Cary had all of his clients out of those investments ahead of the recession. He made a bundle for his clients. The family history of ‘being ruined’ in the 1925 Florida real estate collapse cemented his place as an investment legend. I made a note to ask Ashton about that.

Cary married Stephanie Norse three years ago after a brief, but well-publicized courtship. She was from a well-heeled Chicago family. There wasn’t anything unusual about Stephanie Norse Hunt other than the fact that she was drop dead gorgeous and married to a handsome young money machine. She’d been valedictorian at the Anacola School on Chicago’s Near North Side. She went to Mount Holyoke where she graduated cum laude with a double major in psychology and accounting then she got an MBA from Columbia.

I hadn’t done a search on Ashton the first time around, so I checked her out. Cary Hunt’s twin Ashton was no slouch. She also went to the exclusive Lake Windacre Prep. She graduated from Bryn Mawr and went on to Colombia for law school. I wondered if she’d met Stephanie Norse there. Ashton was a senior associate with the New York law firm of Leopold & Leopold specializing in employment law according to the firm’s website.

I printed a couple articles about each of the three people and started a file. I made a list of the pertinent facts about each person and stapled it to the articles about that person. I stapled a picture of the person to the appropriate dossier too.

I rubbed my neck and saw I’d been at it for three hours. It was time for a break. I decided my recovery could handle just one beer and headed to the fridge about the time my office phone rang. I sprinted back to my desk and was surprised to find it was Stan.

“Mac,” he said. “I couldn’t talk earlier. There are too many ears around the office. I’d like to come by and talk. Are you still livin’ over that dive on Church Street? We can meet there.”

Stan’s offer surprised me. I hadn’t seen him since I left the Sheriff’s Office and we hadn’t talked much for probably a six months before that.

“It’s not a dive,” I said. “It’s just not high class like the places you go. Why don’t we go to that wing place on 436 you like? What’s it called, Marty’s? I’ll buy… wings and beer on me.” I figured it couldn’t hurt to spring for the food.

“Sorry buddy, it’s better I not be seen with you. You still have a bad rep around the cop shop,” he said. “I’m leaving the office now. I can be at your place around 6:30. Is that OK?”

“Great. See you then,” I said. I was hopeful we could patch things up. I knew it was a long shot with me poking around his business and his boss still looking to mount my head on a pike. Yeah, it was good to reconnect with Stan, but I’d have to be careful of Lt. Raven.

“See you,” he said and he was gone.

At 7:10, the buzzer sounded and I heard the voice of my former best friend on the speaker.

“Come on up Stan” I said.

A moment later, he was at my door and I knew I was in trouble. Instead of an old friend anxious to reconnect, the guy in my door was hard and closed off, a six-foot scowl.

“Howdy, Mac,” he said in an emotionless way.

“Hey Stan. I’m glad you came,” I replied. “I… ah… I hope we can put the past behind us and …”

“Hold it right there. We should get this out of the way. I’m sorry for the way things worked out. I know it was hard on you. I recommended you and I stuck up for you.”

“Not as hard as it was on you,” I replied. “I put you in a bind…but not hearing from you hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. In my own special way, I knew he really meant it. I read it in his eyes.

“It was no way to leave a teammate. I’ve regretted it… bury the hatchet?”

He extended his hand and with a firm handshake, I had one of my best friends back.

“Good to see you again Stan,” I said. Stan’s broad grim made up for the whole crappy mess.

“You look good, sir.”

“Cut the sir crap. I haven’t rated a salute in a long time. I look like hell and I know it, but thanks for saying it. I’m cleaning up my life,” I said with a smile.

“Good,” Stan nodded. “The haircut helps. The last time I saw you, you looked like a crack head, so I’d say you look good. It’s about time, too.” He teased. “You let me know if I can help you.”

“I’ve heard that before. Thanks Stan. That means a lot. How are
you
?” I replied.

“Should I tell you…. do you want to read my lips or is it my eyes?” There was a sparkle in those eyes.

Stan knew my secret. We shared a lot in Iraq, too much for him not to know. That was the rub with our falling out. Along with my other Lead NCO Roscoe Black, we’d interrogated nearly twenty-five hundred POWs. I’d made every one of them spill his guts and some of them ended up hysterical on the floor. Interrogation was my special skill. Stan and Roscoe had watched me with a mixture of apprehension and admiration.

One night, the three of us were sitting around the barracks doing the only thing there was to do over there. I got my advance degree in booze in the sandbox. After a couple glasses of expensive scotch, Stan asked me how I did it, how I broke so many men.

“Yeah, captain, I’ve been wondering that too,” Roscoe said. “How
do
you do it?”

He leaned his bulky fame back in the bunk and put his hands behind his head.

Taking a risk, I told them.

“You ever heard that the eyes are a window to the soul?” They just looked at me.

“That Shakespeare?” Stan asked after a bit.

“I’m not much into reading,” Roscoe scoffed as he leaned forward to pour another glass. “Come on Sarge, you graduated high school,” Roscoe joked. “You should be all over this poetry stuff. You being in touch with your softer side and all.”

“Shut up,” Stan said. “The captain’s talking.”

“It’s an old English proverb. The idea goes back to ancient times,” I began. “Cicero wrote about it, so did Shakespeare, you were right on there, Roscoe.”

Roscoe shot Stan a bird.

“It’s saying that by looking into a person's eyes,” I continued, “you can tell who they are on the inside, maybe look into their soul.”

“So you’re saying you’re telepathic,” Stan asked.

“Or you can read minds, something like that?” Roscoe added.

I was afraid Roscoe was going to draw down on me with his Beretta.

“No, it’s not mind reading or telepathy. I use body language, word choice, a lot of intuition, and subvocal expression…”

“What’s that?” Roscoe asked.

“It’s…when people think about something important many of them say what they want to hide under their breath or move their lips. It’s called subvocalization.”

“Like it’s on the tip of their tongue,” Roscoe said, “Only it really is. That’s kind of freaky.”

“I know. Not everyone does it and for the ones that do, it’s usually under stress.”

I took a shot of scotch and wiped my mouth on my sleeve.

“I put all that together and to most people it looks like mind reading,” I said.

“How …?” Stan asked.

“How did I ‘get’ this, learn how to do it?” This would be the hard part. Even I didn’t understand it. “When I was ten, I got sick, real sick, spinal meningitis. I had high fevers, convulsions, coma, and the works. It’s every parent’s nightmare.”

“You became a mind reader from having a fever?” Roscoe asked.

I thought, maybe I’d shoot him and just get it over with.

“No, it was the coma, or so the doctors think. I was unresponsive for weeks. My mother was there every day. She prayed, read to me, talked to me, she treated me like, - like I was still completely alive.”

“And when you woke up you could read minds?” Stan asked.

“It’s not mind reading, Stan. It’s reading a person and reading their lips,” I responded.

“Like interpreting body language?” Roscoe asked.

“That’s sort of it. Sometimes I don’t really know how I know how I do it.”

“So how did you get this… ability?” Roscoe asked.

“The doctors think my brain rewired itself because of the coma. One doctor thought I read my mom’s lips while I was in the coma. Bottom line…”

“Bottom line, you can ‘almost’ read minds,” Roscoe said. “No wonder the ali babas call you ‘The One Who Knows Your Dreams.’ ”

“How do you guys feel about it?” I asked.

They both looked at me with apprehension and didn’t answer. I could see fear in their eyes. We talked for a couple hours. They tested me over and over until finally Stan said, “Well Captain, I guess so long as you don’t spill any of my secret thoughts, I can hang out with you. What’d ya think, Roscoe?”

“I’m just gonna wear a mask around you, sir,” Roscoe laughed.

I laughed too and promised not to mess with anyone’s brain or let out any state secrets. It felt good to have confided in these guys. They were the only friends I had.

“We make a good team, don’t we sir?” Stan asked. He leaned back in his bunk and looked directly at me.

I was relieved. I’d confided in them and they had accepted me. We did make a good team. We got more out of any given group of prisoners than any other intel/interrogation group. Two days later, I held a wounded Stan in my arms. I looked deep into his eyes. When he asked me if he would die, I told him I wouldn’t let him die and he believed me. I think Roscoe did too.

When Stan sat down across from my desk that evening, he came as a friend.

He caught me up on his family, stuff at work, and his latest fishing expeditions. I told him about….well nothing. He was successful and I wished for a world of peace, harmony, and nakedness. I don’t really do anything except spend a couple nights a week at the Drunk Monk, but lately I’d been drinking club soda.

Stan scowled at me and told me I was welcome for dinner or a fishing trip any time, which I thanked him for, but doubted I’d go. My arrest had disappointed him. I was actually innocent. I beat the rap, quit the Sheriff’s Office, sued them, and won. We didn’t have much contact after that and we both liked it that way. “You’re really on the wagon?” he asked.