SURVIVORS: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN / Sunday, 4:26 PM

Ali’s Pizza was closed.

They sat across the street in Russell Gide’s BMW. A light rain had begun to fall, and Gide flipped on the windshield wipers.

He grimaced in the gloom. It was now going on four thirty, and the day had gotten darker. “Closed? The hell are they closed for?”

Brendan could see the sign through the rain. “It says closed on Mondays and Tuesdays.”

“Must be they just started that. For the off-season. Probably the owners take a vacation, you know? They’re nice people. I’ve met the woman who runs the place. She’s just like you’d think. You ever meet her? Nice lady. Huge bust, I mean, Italian all the way. She’s got that hair, you know . . . what?”

Brendan was looking at Russell. Suddenly, Brendan had Russell’s tracksuit top clenched in his fist, and he yanked on it like a dog’s pinch collar, pulling Russell’s head and face towards him, towards the other fist he had cocked back, hovering in the air.

“Who are you?”

“Jesus Christ!” Russell gasped. He made as if he was going to try and pull back, or to bust out of the grip, and Brendan yanked harder, closing off the man’s air supply enough for him to cough and sputter.

“You show up at Argon’s house, you say you don’t know he’s dead, you put on this big show, and then you lure me away from the house. What do you know? Who are you?”

“Jesus, man . . .” Russell’s eyes were bulging, like he was seeing some kind of monster. Brendan relaxed his grip a little, allowing Russell’s airway to open, and the man sucked up a big, whooping breath. Brendan held onto him, and kept his fist floating in the air, ready to strike.

“Talk.”

“I’m Russell-fucking-Gide, man. Check my goddamn driver’s license. I’ve known Argon for four years. Since I started coming to Holy Ro’ meetings. Since I got sober. I’m a fucking Best Buy manager, okay? And I’m a volunteer fireman here in Hawthorne. What more do you want?”

“You don’t know anything about how Argon died? You saw nothing, you heard nothing?”

“I swear, man. I swear.”

“And this is your car? Registered to you? You weren’t following me yesterday on the Taconic?”

“What? No, man, no, I wasn’t following you. Yes, this is my car. For five hundred bucks a month it better be.”

Brendan hung on for a moment longer, and then let go and dropped his fist. He sat back and stared out the windshield into the rain. He expected his heart to be racing, and to need a moment to calm down, but his nerves were firing normally, his heart beating a steady rhythm.

The two men were silent for a full half a minute, the rain drumming the roof. There weren’t many people around, and they were without umbrellas, moving swiftly for cover. Men in business suits, a woman in a grey trench coat and high heels, two teenagers in low-hanging pants.

“Jesus,” Russell said again. “Hey, aren’t you a suspicious type? My friend just died, okay?” His voice was low and hoarse. He looked like he might start crying again.

“How well did you know Argon?”

Russell shrugged. “About as good as anybody. You know? He kept to himself.”

“Do you know if he has any siblings?”

Russell looked at Brendan. “A sister, yeah. In Dobb’s Ferry.”

Brendan nodded. It was something, though not much, that Russell knew about the sister, considering Brendan hadn’t.

Russell arched an eyebrow. “You’re investigating his death.” In the confines of the car, his face loomed. He had a big face. A long nose. Brendan wondered what the name
Gide
was. Maybe French-Canadian. “Her name is Philomena,” Russell went on. “I never met her. Does that make me less of a friend? Am I fucking cleared of suspicion now, officer?”

“I didn’t even know,” Brendan shared, hoping to ease Russell back a little bit.

Russell’s eyes stayed pinned on Brendan for a moment. Brendan knew the type. Russell’s pride was wounded now, and he would bark about it every chance he got unless Brendan set things right.

Russell returned his gaze to the street, through the oscillating wipers. “Yeah,” he said. “Philomena. I’m sure she’ll be mentioned in a death announcement, whenever that comes out.”

The men were silent. They looked out at Ali’s Pizza. They could see red-checked tablecloths through the window. Brendan was sure they were the plastic kind. Felt underneath. Smooth spill-proof latex on top.

“You want to help me out?”

Russell turned to look at him again. Brendan met his gaze.

“Like how? Whaddyou, deputize me or something?”

Brendan smiled. “I’m not a cop. I’m a private investigator. But I’m here as Argon’s friend. Like you. And I want to know what happened to him, and why.”

“You don’t think it was . . . what they said. Traffic accident, coulda happened to anyone?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it was made to look like that.”

“Hey,” Russell said, his eyes widening. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How’s it work? I mean, what do they do with the body? His things? His house? All that?”

Brendan took a breath, thinking. “Well, when an officer dies in the line of duty, the police usually come take their belongings. But I don’t think anyone’s been to Argon’s yet. When they do, they hold everything in storage until someone comes to collect. If no one comes, the belongings are eventually destroyed.”

“No shit.”

Both men were quiet for a moment. The thought of Argon’s worldly possessions moldering away in a dank locker somewhere was depressing. Unless the sister materialized, and took custody of the belongings.

“Last year, there were just under a hundred line-of-duty deaths in the country. LODDs. Arrests are the most dangerous. Traffic pursuits and stops after that, then domestic calls. About half the total number died in accidents.” Brendan licked his lips and looked out into the rain. “So, it’s common enough. Police chief usually makes that call, unless extenuating circumstances warrant IA or FBI investigation.”

“Are there? Extenuating circumstances?”

“The police chief, guy named Cushing, has an internal investigation going. But that may just be because he’s thorough. You can call just about anything extenuating, really. I don’t know, what, in this case, though.”

“What happens to him?”

“Argon? After the body is recovered from the scene it can get taken for medical examination. An examiner or coroner might be present on scene, do some work there, maybe they continue the investigation back at a morgue. So, within forty-eight to seventy-two hours, unless a family member or someone else with the necessary authority comes forward, the police step in and handle it. I mean . . . Argon died early Saturday morning? So, it’s been over thirty-six hours, and no family, no sister.”

Gide shook his head. “Man.”

“A confidential information form gets filled out by every officer – I filled one out myself when I worked for Mount Pleasant and again for Oneida. They’re sealed, filed, and kept in the Communications Division.”

Brendan fell silent and considered his own words. Any information about Argon’s sister would be in the confidential information form, and he’d have to go through Cushing to get it, a guy Taber had warned him would be of little use, possibly a hindrance.

Already there were crisscrossing lines of investigation, conflicts and contradictions.

Which was why he’d been thinking about the medical examination. There would be a medical report filed at the hospital where Argon’s body had been taken.

“So you want to help me or what?”

Russell made his characteristic scowl. “You gonna put hands on me again? Because next time, I may not react so understandingly.”

“No. I won’t touch you again. I apologize.”

That seemed to appease Russell, whose shambolic appearance came together nicely whenever he smiled, which was frequently.

“What do I do?”

“Let’s drive somewhere. I think someone was following me yesterday, so maybe it’s good to be in a different car. Maybe we can stop and get a burger or something on the way. It’s not far.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Shit. The wife and kids don’t expect me back until after the meeting. Where to?”

“Westchester County Medical Center.”

* * *

From Elmwood, they took Bradhurst Ave. It was a straight shot down to the Medical Center on Woods Road in Valhalla.

Brendan watched the town roll past in the rain. It was a quiet drive, with mostly residential homes alongside the avenue. Brendan thought of the families just getting home from school and work. Despite the rain, a couple of kids were out shooting hoops in their driveway.

Westchester Medical Center was a medium-sized hospital, renowned for its referral care. The hospital saw patients coming in from New Jersey and New York City for oncology, cardiology, and pediatric surgery.

“You want I should pull up front?”

“No, just go ahead and park in the lot. I’ll walk in. You sure this is alright? I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“It’s fine. I got somewhere to be, right? This was my night with Argon. I think I’m in shock.”

Brendan didn’t know how to respond. He supposed it was possible that he was in some sort of shock, too. He knew he had to keep a cool head, to push aside his personal feelings for Argon, but he suspected that, deep down, there was more. It was territory he didn’t want to go into again. The crushing loss of Angie and Gloria. The despair. The old, familiar habits nibbling at the base of his skull, trying to work their way back in, and already succeeding a little. Because with the repression of grief, the first emotion to show up was anger.

He slipped his seatbelt off. “Hey, we’ll talk it through, okay? And I really am sorry, you know, for grabbing you. I’ll be right back.”

Russell nodded, his eyes glimmering with tears again.

Brendan offered a smile, got out, and walked across the lot to the front entrance of the hospital.

* * *

The rain dampened his hair and shoulders, but it was little more than a drizzle. He was at the entrance when his phone buzzed in his pocket. It had been so long since anyone had called him, he’d forgotten he had it.

It was Taber.

“I’m sorry,” he puffed. “I’m feeling my neck on a few things.”

“Everything alright?” Brendan paused under the large front awning. A skinny woman was smoking near it.

“I’m fine. Where are you? I hear rain.”

“I’m at Westchester Med.”

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s where they brought him. Good. Did you search his place?”

Brendan flinched. Something struck him about Taber’s manner. For one, he sounded winded. That alone didn’t mean much. But it was a certain kind of winded, like he was rushed, harried by something. Whatever it was, it put Brendan on alert.

His gaze darted to the woman who was smoking. She had been looking at him, and now glanced away.

The entranceway was flanked by large trees. Brendan edged toward them, his back to the front doors of the hospital.

“I haven’t had a chance to search it thoroughly yet, no.”

“Okay . . .” Taber sounded impatient. “I need you to look into it right away.”

“I know. Someone showed up.”

“Who?”

“A friend of his. An AA buddy. Seems like someone he just did the AA thing with, get pizza, that sort of thing.”

“Oh. Okay.” Taber sounded relieved.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Are you alright? If you are under any sort of duress, Sheriff . . . maybe, you know, this may be stupid. Overcautious. But . . . you could signal to me.”

Taber gave a sharp laugh. It was loud enough that Brendan pulled the phone away from his ear for a second.

“You sound different, sir. That’s all.”

“I sound different?” Taber paused. “Someone called here for you.”

“For me? Who?” Brendan felt a little trill of panic ripple through him.

“From the Justice Department.

“The Justice Department? Jesus? Why?”

“Brendan, I, uh . . .”

“You’re freaking me out, Taber.”

A powdery laugh, nervous, unlike the Sheriff. “Yeah. Listen, I know how you feel about your anonymity. I told her I would give you her number.”

“Her?”

“Jennifer Aiken. You should take the number.”

“Hold on.” Brendan pulled a pen and small notebook from his inner pocket. He jotted her number down. The trees were not offering much in the way of shelter, and larger drops of rain were splattering down. One hit the notebook, blurring the ink. Brendan started over.

“Did she say why? I mean . . .”

“Can you call me when you’ve had a chance to thoroughly search Argon’s apartment? I got to go.”

“I will. Just . . . what’s going on?”

“She’s looking into the Heilshorn case. Which is all the more reason for you to find out what happened to Argon.”

Brendan felt something cold settle into his bones. “We’re not trying to keep anything from . . .”