Beneath the Cracks (31 page)

"Over tea and scones," Maya grinned.

"I need to get busy.  I'll try to stop
by later today if things work out."  I leaned over and kissed
her forehead.  "Wipe your mouth.  You've left trace
evidence."

Chapter 27

"Briscoe."  He yawned it into the phone
and confirmed my suspicions.  For a brief moment, I imagined
Tony and Crevan snuggled up together under a blanket in the back
seat of the sedan.  The comical scene seemed so out of place,
not because of Crevan, but because I realized that Briscoe would
never be Crevan's type.

The image had been gelling in my head since
Crevan's adamant denial of how and why Belle was blackmailing
him.  Crevan was gorgeous, a sculpted, coiffed specimen of
male perfection.  He would definitely be attracted to the
same.

"H'lo?"

"Sorry, Tony, it's Helen."

"Oh hey, Eriksson.  How goes it?"

I filled him in on the progress at MSUH.

"Well glory be.  We finally know who
these poor bastards were.  You hear that Puppy?  Hang on,
Helen.  Crevan wants to put this phone gizmo on speaker so we
can both talk to you."

"Morning, Helen."

"Hey, Crevan.  You two sound well
rested."

"Yeah, don't rub it in.  Is that
cinnamon latte I smell?"

"I wish," I stared at the cup of black brew
pilfered from the hospital before I left.  An oily prism
swirled on top of the blend specially formulated to induce gastric
ulcers.  "Did you see anything interesting at the farm last
night?"

"Not a peep outta the place, Eriksson,"
Briscoe said.  "Nobody seems to know that the mad scientist is
AWOL."

"You might be onto something, Tony.  If
Denton is a run of the mill mad scientist, we could end up with egg
on our face for holding someone as a material witness to his own
bipolar mood disorder."

"Is that what you think is the guy's
problem?"

"Possibly.  He seemed pretty manic both
times we encountered him."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Crevan said. 

I heard shuffling in the car.  "What's
happening?"

"We've got some activity at the lab,
Helen.  Tony, get the camera.  Not the one on the phone,
the telephoto.  Take some pictures of this."

"Tell me what you see!"

"A van…black…I can't make out the tag number
from this angle.  We've got two men getting out.  They're
meeting armed guards at the research building."

"What are they doing?"  The sound of
the camera shutter rapidly opening and closing punctuated the
silence.

"They're opening the back of the van, so we
can't get a good look at the cargo."

"Are they more workers?"

"Negative on that, Helen.  They're
taking large canvass bags out of the van.  The guards are
moving them inside the building."

"Canvass bags?  Could they be supplies
for the research facility?"

"Not unless this guy is studying the science
of finance, Helen.  The bags are stamped with  a logo,
one you'll recognize when you get your first check."

"You're right, Puppy.  Those are cash
bags from Darkwater Municipal Trust Company."

"Money."

"Gobs of it from the look of it," Tony
said.  "Maybe Denton's got an external source of funding for
his bovine research."

"Or maybe those are the proceeds of another
crime altogether," Crevan speculated.

"The drugs that killed Detective Cox
perhaps?" Briscoe grunted.

"We've got to get probable cause to search
that building, gentlemen.  Until I can talk to Thomas Denton
and put the fear of becoming a prison bitch into him, the pictures
you've taken aren't going to be enough.  In the meantime, I
want you to get as many shots of this little financial transaction
as possible.  Faces would be great."

"And then what?  You know, I think I
might've strolled into some poison sumac when I went outside the
car to take a leak last night.  I could use some medical
attention and a strong analgesic cream."

"When the van leaves the building, come back
to Downey.  I'll see what I can do about getting a
prescription for your jock itch, Tony."

"It ain't –"

I disconnected the call and drove the short
distance between Metro State University Hospital and Downey
Division.  My stomach was rumbling before I parked the
car.  Another half hour wouldn't kill Denton.  A little
desperation could only work to my advantage.

Inside the diner, the smell of sausage and
eggs and bacon and fresh cinnamon rolls overwhelmed my empty
stomach.  I took a seat at the counter and started with
coffee.  The jam on toast reminded me of the last breakfast I
clearly remembered eating – croissant and raspberry jam that Johnny
brought for breakfast several days ago.

Half way through a pile of scrambled eggs
and sausage and whole grain toast slathered with something called
chokecherry
jam, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. 
Downey.  I washed the mouthful down with a swig of orange
juice and asked the waitress for black coffee to go.

"Eriksson."

"Helen, it's Shelly.  Where are
you?"

"Breakfast.  I know it's a little
late," creeping up on nine-thirty to be exact, "but she's pouring
my coffee to go and I should be in the house a soon as I can walk
across the street."  Saturday.  Sabbath not over. 
Call from inside Downey.  "Uh-oh.  What happened?"

I peeled off a twenty and mouthed a sincere
thank you to the waitress and took off for the door.  "Did we
screw up without realizing it?"

"Get over here now," Shelly snapped. 
"Right now, Helen."

I broke into a dead run.

"Downstairs in the tombs," the desk sergeant
directed when I hit the front door.  "She's waiting for
you."

"Did something happen?  Is Denton
talking?"

The sergeant shook his head, not in a
negative affirmation way, more the
pitiful situation
variety.  I charged down the stairs where Shelly paced and
kept a small throng of uniformed officers at bay.

"What happened?"

Shelly pointed into the open cell
door.  Thomas Denton lay on the floor, lips bright pink, as if
he'd been exposed to carbon monoxide.

"Don't go near him, Helen."

"Why not?  Is he –"

"Dead," she said.  "And I know that
smell.  Don't go near him.  I already called CSD and the
medical examiner.  They're sending Winslow and Forsythe over
right away."

I cringed.  I met Ken on my way out of
the hospital and knew Maya wasn't going anywhere.  Billy
Withers rolled a gurney off the elevator.  "CSD is right
behind me," he said.  "What do we have?"

"Where's Winslow?" 

Billy shot me a quizzical glance. 
"Uh…off."

"Off where?"  Shelly's voice rose
higher than it's usual modulated tone.  "This is the second
time we've had a suspect die in this building under suspicious
circumstances and I will not see this investigation fall apart
because we do not have the best pathologist on the case!  I
don't care where she is or what she is doing, I want here down
here.  Right now!"

"I uh…" he glanced at me again.  "I
honestly don't know where she is, lieutenant."

Shelly picked up on his body language. 
She impaled me with a glare.  "Are you familiar with the
history of this division, Detective Eriksson?"

"A little bit.  I think I know what
suspect you're talking about.  The one who died while Tony and
Orion were questioning him, right?"

"If you know anything about –"

"CSD," Smith's voice boomed through the
corridor.  "Unless you're one of us or from Bay County ME, get
out."

"Where is Lieutenant Forsythe?"

"Off," Smith said.  "But we've got this
lieutenant."

"For the love of Christ!  Does no one
listen to me when I give a direct order?  I want
Winslow.  I want Forsythe.  I want them here, right
fucking
now.  Do you understand me?  No one
touches this man or an inch of this holding cell until they are
here!  Do I make myself clear?"

"Shelly, we should talk," I said
softly.  "In private."

"Unless you plan to pull Winslow and
Forsythe out of your Prada handbag, I don't think I'm interested in
hearing what you have to say, Helen.  Forgive me, but this is
a serious matter, one for which I am ultimately responsible!"

"You really need to listen to me," I
said.  "And I can't talk about this with all these people
around."

"Fine.  Someone find Briscoe and Conall
and get them over here immediately!"  Finkelstein stomped
through the corridor and surprised me when her short legs managed
to take the stairs two at a time.  "This had better be earth
shattering news, Helen."

"It's not my place to give you the details,
but Maya Winslow absolutely will not be able to come to this crime
scene.  She won't be able to perform the autopsy."

"Why not?  And what are they doing over
there at the county office, letting the two highest ranking people
off duty at the same time?"

"Ken is with Maya."

She threw up her hands. 
"Fantastic!  And the city and county are on hold while they're
off on some romantic holiday?"

"Shelly, it's absolutely not what you're
thinking.  I mean, partly it is, because…well…"

"I know; it's not your place to
out
your buddy's relationship."

"She and Ken are involved, but they're not
away on a romantic vacation.  Shelly, Maya's in the
hospital."

Finkelstein slumped into her chair. 
"Why wasn't I told about this?  What's wrong?"  She
pointed sternly when I opened my mouth.  "The next words I
hear had better not be that you can't say, Helen.  I think
under the circumstances that you absolutely
must
say."

"Without giving you all the private details,
I will tell you that she had surgery last Monday."

"And she's still in the hospital on
Saturday?  What did they do, chop off a limb?"

"Not a limb."

Her creamy brown skin paled. 
"Serious?"

"Very."

"Chemotherapy serious?"

"Yes," I said.  "She took me into her
confidence as a friend.  The county supervisor is aware of the
situation and they all felt that Maya's staff could handle anything
that came up in the meantime.  Will you tell me why you're so
adamant that she personally handle this case?"

"He smells like almonds," Shelly said.

"Oh no…"

"And if you really understand the history of
my division, you know that a second death of a younger man under
suspicious circumstances is not something we needed to have happen
again."

"Shelly, there were paramedics from the city
service here last night.  They gave him an injection of
haloperidol to settle him down.  I saw them prepare the dosage
myself.  I stayed with him for more than an hour until the
drug took effect.  If it had been cyanide, he'd have died
right in front of me."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. 
"This is why I want Winslow on this case.  We need to know
without any doubt this time what happened to Dr. Denton.  I
will not accept some generic cause of death when even my untrained
nose can smell cyanide."

"Let me make some calls and see what I can
do," I said.

The path to probable cause at Dupree Farm
evaporated before my eyes.  Why Denton?  How could this
happen?  Who could gain access to a material witness held in
the basement of a busy police division?

I called Ken's cell phone and explained the
situation. 

"Tell Steve I'll be right there.  In
the meantime, we'll have someone from tech come over here and get
Maya set up with a web cam.  It might be the first virtual
autopsy in the history of Darkwater Bay, but we'll get her
done."

"Thank you.  Shelly will be relieved
that Maya can at least direct the pathologist performing the
postmortem exam.  Tell her I'm sorry, Ken.  I had no
choice but to explain to Shelly what's going on."

"Don't worry about it.  It's not like
we'll be able to hide the hospital room when she's on the web
cam.  It would've come out sooner or later anyway."

My stomach churned trying to decide whether
breakfast would be rejected or digested while CSD processed the
crime scene.  Tony and Crevan arrived faster than I would've
imagined possible and immediately began planning an investigation
into how someone could've gotten to Denton and poisoned him.

Shelly was certain that the autopsy and
toxicology reports were little more than formalities.  I
tended to agree with her.  Based on Billy's measurement of
Denton's body temperature, the haloperidol injection was quickly
ruled out as the mode of delivery.  By eleven thirty, Billy
estimated that the victim could not have been dead for more than
six hours.

We went to the tech room and started
reviewing digital security records.

"There," Conall pointed at the screen. 
"See that?  The uniform with the bag in his hand."

"I see it," I said.  "Can you blow that
up and enhance it at all?"

"Even if I could, it wouldn't do much good,"
the tech said.  "See the way he keeps his head slightly turned
away from the camera and pointed down?  We couldn't get enough
markers on the face to identify him anyway."

"What about his size relative to
surroundings?  Can't we get an accurate estimate of height and
weight?  Can we determine if that uniform is authentic or if
it's a knock off?"

"Sure looks real to me," Briscoe
muttered.

Finkelstein started cursing under her breath
again.  It drew horrified stares from her detectives who were
not apparently accustomed to hearing such profane speech from their
lieutenant. 

"Let's be rational about this.  If this
guy got his hands on a police uniform, we should be able to figure
out how he did it," I said.