What Laurel Sees: a love story (A Redeeming Romance Mystery) (19 page)

eighteen

S
irens wailed in Joe’s ears. Once again, they split through the work-a-day drone of the city streets. Debra eased aside to let another squad car pass. Joe didn’t like riding with Debra, or anyone else for that matter. He always preferred to drive himself. Not that he could get them there any faster, but somehow it was easier to be at the wheel than grinding his teeth in the passenger seat.

Debra pulled back into traffic. Why she let another car squeeze out in front of her was beyond him. But he’d had no control at this point. His SUV was still back at the bus depot. If it hadn’t been towed on account of the long-expired meter.

When she turned, their destination came into view. The cathedral loomed large on the skyline. It stood sentinel for most, but not for Clay, and definitely not for Joe. He checked the time. Not a minute had passed since the last time he’d looked at his watch. But something about the sight of old Saint So-and-So’s always sent such a chill up his spine. Especially that disquieting tower. He rubbed the tops of his thighs.

“Almost there, Joe.”

Debra cut her eyes toward him like she understood what he was going through. But Debra didn’t know the half of it. She only thought she knew. It was ironic, really. As anxious as he was to get to the cathedral, even the sight of it was nauseating.

He kneaded his stomach. How could he do what he had to do with that pain stabbing at his gut?  The closer they got, the tighter it wound, refusing to give him relief.

A squad car pulled perpendicular to the street, forming a blockade ahead.

“Pull over.” Joe pointed to a space at the curb. “Park there. We can run the last couple of blocks.”

She’d hardly stopped the car before he sprang out, slammed the door, and bolted down the walk. If he knew Debra’s nose for a story, she wouldn’t be far behind him.

As he neared the cathedral, it dawned on Joe. It wasn’t so surprising that Clay had gone there. Not with the article Adele had printed in the day’s edition, trumpeting how the church had hired Zoring after Clay got him fired from Oliverio’s. Of course, Clay would go there. Just like he’d gone to the restaurant. Only now, something in Clay had snapped. If he’d been desperate enough to abduct Laurel, there was no telling what he had planned for Zoring. Not that Zoring didn’t have a world of hurt coming to him. But the law—they’d never see it that way.

Joe raised the yellow tape bordering the cathedral’s grounds.

“I’m right behind you!” Debra ducked under the tape alongside him.

Bedlam was what the place was. Utter bedlam. A SWAT team took position. Ambulances idled at the curb. Police and fire trucks formed a blockade. Church officials hurried school children out into the churchyard. A nun ran alongside her students. “Quickly, now. Stay with your teachers.” It was just like it had been for Joe during fire drills there as a child. Only this was no drill. This was for real.

A squad car squealed past Joe and Debra. Detective McTier popped out. He strode toward the police barricade. Lou and Adele were already there, just ahead.

“Come on.” Joe grabbed Debra’s arm. They would stay on McTier’s heels.  

Snipers were being ordered into position by a SWAT team captain. 

McTier reached the captain. “What do we got, Captain?”

The captain pointed toward the cathedral. “Far as we know, one hostage. Subject has at least one hand gun.  Looked like a nine.”

Lou set up his camera. He leaned toward Adele. “What is all this?”

Adele hiked her brows. “My first cover.”

Joe saw a hunger he recognized, glinting in Adele’s eyes. She wanted this. Badly.

Debra sidled up to Lou as he rapid-fired photos.  She reached up and lowered his camera. “Put it away. Lou, I mean it.”

Adele shot a look at Debra, clearly shocked. “What are you doing?  This is my story!”

Debra gave Joe an empathetic nod before she snapped back toward Adele. “You work for me. You got that? That means I decide when it’s your story. And hear me when I say this, Adele. This is not your story. Not this time.”

What had gotten into Debra, Joe didn’t know. They turned together to catch up with McTier. The SWAT captain leaned into his walkie-talkie, barking orders to snipers. No doubt they’d have their rifles trained all over the site.

Joe and Debra stepped over a barrier. A crowd control officer strode toward them. He put his arms out, impeding their way. “You two!  Back behind the line!”

Joe flagged an arm at the cathedral. “That’s my brother in there.”

“Sorry. Too dangerous,” the officer said.

Joe craned around him. “McTier!”

The detective whirled and caught his eye. He waved Joe his way. “Let him in. But she stays.”

Debra retreated compliantly as Joe made his way toward McTier, where he flanked the SWAT captain.

The SWAT captain spat into his radio. “Are you in position?”

Joe jogged up to the detective. “I want to talk to my brother. Not on the radio. In person.”

“He’s armed, you know,” McTier said.

Joe raised his hands at his side. “I don’t care. It’s on me.”

McTier traded a glance with the captain. The captain studied Joe, then handed an earpiece to him. “Put this in. We’ll be able to hear each other fine, but press it to talk to me. Got it?”

Another helicopter arrived as Joe nestled the device into his ear. The captain put his walkie-talkie to his chin. “Clear the brother to the bell tower.”

Joe gazed up at the structure. Something twinged in his stomach. “The bell tower?”

McTier glared at him impatiently. “You going or not?”

There was no time to coddle his reservations or to nurse his private fears. Before he knew what was happening, Joe was running headlong toward the cathedral.

Joe felt his muscles tense as he entered the structure. It was like moving forward and backward, all at the same time. He rounded the corner and stepped into the arched doorway to the tower.

There was Clay, his back to Joe, training Frank Fischer’s revolver on a cowering Tom Zoring. “Yeah, yeah. You know the way. You lead this time.”

His face white with terror, Zoring took hold of the ladder and began to climb.

“How does it feel?” Clay taunted. He sauntered toward the ladder. “You like having a grown man coming up your back?” Rung by rung, Clay climbed.

Joe opened his mouth to speak, but something seized inside like a vice. Nothing came out. Instead, he found himself moving toward the foot of the ladder, his heart throbbing in his chest.

“I was wrong.” Zoring’s cry echoed against the walls of the tower.

“You were wrong, were you?” Clay kept climbing. “I’m curious. When exactly?”

Lurid memories sniped at Joe as he started up the ladder.

“Tell me,” Clay taunted. “Was it when you lured me up here, when you said Jesus might visit us in this tower?”

A long-denied memory flashed in Joe’s mind. He’d only been eight years-old when a younger Father Zoring had urged him up this ladder.

“
That’s it, Joe
,” Zoring had said. “
I’m right behind you
.”

Joe wrestled the memory away.

Clay followed Zoring onto the upper deck. “That time you think you were wrong. Tell me. Could it have been when you wrecked me for life?”

Joe grasped the next rung. Another memory, far worse than the first, exploded in his mind. That godless, stinking, wretched event returned. His eyes dulled all over again at the thought.

“
You’ve been made for this, Joe
,” Zoring had said. “
You sense that, don’t you?
”

Bile shot into Joe’s throat. How many times had he thrown up that day? That putrid taste. There it was in his mouth, all over again.

What brought him back was Clay’s voice, still torturing Zoring. “Or are you saying you were wrong way back then, when you denied it all in court?”

Joe peered onto the bell tower’s deck.

“I have since confessed,” Zoring sputtered.

“Really.” Clay waggled the gun dramatically. “How convenient for you. Quickie absolution, the requisite remorse, and you’re back here, safe in the arms of the faithful, sweeping the walk like nothing ever happened.”

“It’s not that way,” Zoring replied, catching sight of Joe as he stepped off the ladder to the deck.

Clay whipped around. “Stay out of this, Joe.”

Joe threw his hands up in surrender. “Clay, you can still get out of this. Laurel won’t press charges and you have a good case for self-defense with the councilman.”

Clay gawked in disbelief. “This was never about either one of them. This is about him.” He swung the gun back toward a trembling Zoring.

A dark helicopter rose in the window behind Zoring. A sharp shooter leaned from the chopper, strapped to a mount.

The SWAT captain’s voice rang through Joe’s earpiece. “
Do you have a shot?
”

“
Subject is blocked
,” came the radioed reply.

Joe touched his earpiece. “Give me time.”

Clay spun toward Joe. “You’re wired?”

Joe braved a step toward his brother. “I just want to help you, Clay. That’s all.”

The captain’s voice crackled in Joe’s ear. “
You get a shot, you take it. Do you read?
”

“
Copy that
.”

“Don’t help me, Joe! Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that?” Clay aimed the revolver toward Zoring.

Joe’s heart leapt to his throat.

Clay cocked the gun.

The chopper hovered side-to-side for position.

Clay fingered the trigger, his gaze locked on Zoring. “Question, Zoring: You die today. You gonna meet Jesus?”

Joe took a step closer. “Clay, please...”

Zoring backed against the window frame, trembling.

Clay jabbed the gun in Zoring’s direction. “Heaven or hell. What’s it going to be?”

Zoring threw his head back. “I don’t know.” He crumbled, sliding down the wall behind him.

Joe looked on in horror as the chopper swung into its newly cleared position. The sharp shooter raised his rifle as he radioed the ground. “
Subject in sites
.”

“
Take him
,” the SWAT captain ordered.

Joe dove for his brother. “Clay!”

The shot rang out just as Clay started to turn. A bullet ripped into Clay’s side. Clay gaped at the wound, in shock. He dropped the revolver and slumped into Joe’s arms.

“
Subject down
.
Subject down
.”

Joe touched his earpiece. “Back off! He’s hit. He’s hit.”

“
Stand down
,” the captain ordered
. “Repeat. Stand down
.”

Joe cradled Clay in his arms.

Clay looked up, his eyes flashing with fear. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” Joe promised. “I’m here.” He pressed his fingers into the wound. Already, there was so much blood.

Clay gasped for breath. “I’m not...I’m not ready to die... God hates me.”

“Shhh... Try to be still.”

Clay shook uncontrollably. “I’m gonna burn.”

Joe brushed the hair from Clay’s face. “No, don’t go there, Clay. Don’t. Just say you’re sorry.”

“Yeah, right...” All too quickly, the life was draining out of Clay. Gurgles choked his words. “Sure...and every revolting thing I...ever did...it just goes away?”

“So I’m told.”

Clay opened his mouth, fighting to speak. Blood ran down his cheek. Then a whisper. So faint. A prayer. “I’m sorry... for everything.”

Tears soaked Joe’s cheeks. He glanced across the deck at Zoring.

The old man was weeping, right along with him. “This is all my fault. Forgive me.”

Laurel’s words drifted across Joe’s mind.  Until that moment, the idea of forgiving Zoring, it had never even occurred to him. It was the last thing he could deal with now.

Joe turned back to his dying brother. “I’m sorry, too, Clay. I’m so sorry.” Joe leaned down to kiss Clay’s battered cheek.

Clay’s lips parted. Ever so softly, he nodded. A stillness came over Clay. It enveloped him as his chest rose and fell one last time.

Never in his life had Joe known his brother to be still, to lie so contentedly in his care. Gone was all the restlessness, the struggle, all that wistful longing to be understood, that yearning to be known and loved.

And Clay was loved. Though Joe had never once said it or even realized it before, it was still so very true. Inexplicably, he loved his brother. He knew it from the depths of his soul, from the ache tearing at his heart in that final, wrenching goodbye.

nineteen

S
hana Fischer stood at the doorway to Frank’s walk-in closet. So many beautiful shirts and suits, tailored so handsomely. He’d looked so dashing in the charcoal one, the one she’d bought for his election night gala. How proud she’d been to stand at his side that evening. Strange how such a stunning victory had been eclipsed by such a devastating loss.

The scent of Frank’s aftershave mingled with that musky aroma that was so distinctly his. Happier times glimmered through her mind. Their passionate romance, their wedding day, the campaign, the hard-fought battle they’d won for full custody of Grace.

Mostly, though, it was the ordinary stuff of life with Frank that she would miss. Waking up in his strong arms. Sipping their morning lattes together. The sweet nothings that made up their days. It had all added up to what she’d always wanted, ever since losing her parents so young. Finally, she had belonged to another human being. Body, heart, and soul.

At least that’s what she’d thought.

How had it all crumbled into absolute ashes before her? How could a man who seemed so devoted have betrayed her this way? None of it made sense, not with the man she knew.

She ran her fingers along his cashmere coat. Whatever could she do with all his things now? Perhaps there was a charity, one of those places that helped parolees like Tom Zoring get a fresh start in life, after they’d paid their debt to society. The church had been so supportive of him, but others, they weren’t always so fortunate.

The hinge of the bedroom door creaked. Sensible flats tapped toward her. Helen.

Shana stepped back from the closet. “Helen, I was just wondering if you’d order some wardrobe boxes for me.”

“Right away, Mrs. Fischer. I know just the place to call. And this...” Helen reached into her pocket and drew out an envelope. “It was with the morning mail.”

Shana sighed. Another sympathy card. There had been so many. Thousands. They were all starting to run together. The ones with the stock sentiments were so saccharine, so impersonal. And as hard as some had tried to scratch out a few lines, no one seemed to know what to say. Was Frank really in a better place, as so many supposed?

Shana drew the closet door over till the latch clicked into place. “I don’t think I can face it right now, Helen. Just put it with the other cards. I’ll get to it one of these days.”

Helen tapped the envelope lightly against her wrist. “I just thought you’d want to know about this one. It was hand delivered, slipped through the slot at the gate.” Bittersweet understanding shone in her eyes. “It’s from Laurel.”

Shana brushed a weary hand over her mouth. So much drama. It was all so much. Too much. She could feel her blood pressure rising, just at the thought of Laurel and the turbulent history between them.

Helen turned. She set the card down on the dressing table and headed toward the bedroom door. “I’ll go call about those boxes for you.”

Shana dropped her head. That was so like Helen. So respectful, so gentle, yet so quietly forceful. All at the same time. Oh, to have that kind of strength.

She gazed at the envelope, lying there across the room. What could Laurel have to say that would make her feel any better? If anything, Laurel would probably make her feel even worse than she already did.

One thing was for sure. Waiting wouldn’t make Laurel’s card disappear. She could throw it away. She could toss it into the wastebasket and be done with it.  Yes, that was the thing to do.

Shana strode to the vanity and picked up the envelope. It was marked
Personal and Confidential
, in Laurel’s hand. No wonder Helen hadn’t presumed to open it, along with the rest of the mail.

Shana sunk onto the vanity’s seat cushion. If she knew Laurel, this was probably an appeal about seeing Grace more often. Now that Laurel had been cleared of suspicion in Frank’s death, the judge would review custody soon. And Frank’s will. The will would certainly come into play. Howard would see to that.

Wearily, she turned the envelope over. The longer she waited to open that card, the longer the unknown of it would wield power over her. The longer thoughts of Laurel and whatever she had written would occupy her mind.

Time to get this over with. Skim it and toss it. She shoved a fingernail under the flap. Her jaw tightened as she yanked out the card and opened it. Her eyes fell on hand-penned words:

I owe you an apology, Shana.

What a terrible time you’ve endured. Though I never intended to, I realize I’ve made it worse. That dream I had—the one I spoke to Frank about, just before he died—I thought I’d seen him with another woman. As it turns out, I was wrong.

You may have been wondering what happened that night—why Frank was at his office at all. I wouldn’t have known myself if Clay Hardisty hadn’t told me. (It’s one good thing that came from that part of this tragedy.)

Clay had phoned Frank with a last minute ultimatum: either meet him alone at 2:00 a.m. or, come morning, he’d fight Tom Zoring’s parole in full Marilyn regalia. Frank hopped the last plane back to make that meeting. Nothing more. He was there waiting for Clay when he called to ask me to hold my support check briefly. It was right after I’d had that foreboding dream.

As you grieve, I hope it will be of some comfort to know this. When we spoke that last time, Frank was adamant that he was not seeing another
woman. In fact, his final words before hanging up on me were, “Don’t bother me with this nonsense. I love my wife.”

With sincere sorrow,

Laurel

Shana clutched an arm around her waist.  Rocking, she reread the final paragraph. Again and again, she retraced it, until the truth of it sank to the bottom of her soul.

Frank had been faithful to her. He had only been trying to help secure Tom Zoring’s parole, just as he’d promised her as he left for the convention. Frank had loved her with his whole heart, just as she’d loved him.

All the way to the end.

Sobs buckled Shana. Streams welled from her innermost being. For the first time since Frank’s passing, she laid her head down between her arms and shook with unreserved grief.

Laurel gazed across a hillside cemetery. The sky—it was so gray, as if all of heaven were grieving along with her. Crosses, tombstones, and mausoleums stretched out before her. Row after row, as far as the eye could see. Mourners gathered around a gravesite to her right as a rabbi lifted up Hebrew prayers. Joe was not the only one setting a loved one to rest on this day. 

Respectfully, she set out across the grass easement to the east. Grave markers caught her eye as she passed. Some weathered by time, some freshly attended with bouquets. A devoted married couple. Such a young child. So many lives. So many epitaphs. Frank’s was out there somewhere. There wouldn’t be a stone yet. Just a brass marker, noting the breadth of his days.

Was Frank really gone? It was still so very hard to believe. She could only hope that Grace was coming to accept it. In just a few days she could schedule a visit. She could wrap her arms around her baby girl. They could grieve her father together.

Laurel shielded her eyes from the sun. There, in the distance, stood a man, alone except for a uniformed worker cranking a mechanism, lowering a casket into a grave.

Joe.

Laurel’s eyes brimmed at the sight of him. He was tending to his brother, all the way to the end. So like Joe to do it this way. There were no mourners, not even someone to officiate. Clay hadn’t had any friends. Not really. And what friends Joe had, apparently they’d been told there was no need to come. Just like he’d told her.

Ever so quietly, Laurel approached Clay’s gravesite. Wordlessly, she stood at Joe’s side.

Joe barely glanced her way. He looked more rested, but pain etched his face. “I just wish I could have saved him. Somehow.”

“Saving him...that wasn’t your job, Joe. But he is safe now, and I think you did your part.”

“I was just...” He shrugged. “Truth is, I was only trying to help him feel better. Not so afraid to die.”

Lightly, she brushed his arm. “And you did help him. More than you know.”

Joe still shook his head. “You really think—after everything—one last second ‘I’m sorry’ and, just like that, he’s in?”

She nodded. “Kind of like the thief on the cross. That’s grace for you. Audacious stuff.”

He fixed his eyes on Clay’s casket. “That day we first met in the park? I told you I didn’t believe.”

“But you do.”

Joe drew in a contemplative breath. “Yeah. I do. I guess I always did. I’ve just been so angry. For so long.” He gazed into the clouds. “I do want what you have, Laurel. I want to move past this. I just don’t know what to say after all this time.”

“That’s okay. I don’t always either.”

He looked mildly surprised.

A soft smile crossed her lips. “As often as I tend to I blow it, I usually start off with an apology of some sort. He’s pretty good at carrying the conversation after that.”

His reaction was so slight, and so very wry. It barely cracked through the gloom of his face. “Okay.”

“Okay?” She searched his face. “You’re sure?”

Ever so subtly, he nodded. He extended his hand toward hers. “Sure as I’ll ever be.”

She laced her fingers with his. Together, they broke the silence that had persisted so very long. She heard nothing from the heavens, nothing but the song of a meadowlark, mingling with the murmurs rising from Joe’s lips as he finally made peace with his Maker.

A vision unveiled before her, a single picture, so radiant and golden. She could only hope that somehow, Joe could see it, too. There, standing at the end of a very long road was a joyous father—arms stretched wide—in welcome to his long lost son.