Sullivan's Law (18 page)

The majority of criminals were nocturnal. They wreaked havoc all hours of the night, and generally didn't come to life until their stomachs started growling around lunchtime. Law enforcement had used this fact to their advantage for years. Raids conducted during the early morning hours were usually successful, and far few officers were injured.

Hank had been on the force only two years when Charles Harrison had been promoted to chief. He recalled how much the men had looked up to him, and not only due to his position. Harrison hadn't cared about the politics, as many police chiefs did. He'd been loyal to the officers, determined to elevate their standard of living and find ways to ensure their safety.

At present, the investigation of the incident at the Seagull Motel seemed to be going nowhere. The demolition company, Barrow and Kline, admitted that the room had been wired along with the rest of the motel, yet they swore they weren't responsible for the explosion. According to Ralph Kline, one of the partners, an unknown person had disconnected some of the wires from the main system, reconnecting them through a device inside the phone, which was set to activate whenever it rang. A sharp electrician might have been able to rig up something along these lines, but Kline doubted it. In his opinion, the person probably had training in explosives. Hank wondered if he had been a former member of a police bomb squad, maybe an officer who'd worked under Harrison in the past.

Basically, Kline hadn't told him anything that he didn't already know.

“We're almost there, sir,” Russell told him, checking the numbers on the curb. “The address is 5036 Eagle Drive, right? This is 5034, but I can't find 5036.” He stopped in front of what appeared to be a vacant lot, dense with trees and overgrown shrubbery. “What do you think? Are you certain they gave you the right address?”

“Yes,” Hank answered. “I checked it twice.” There were no numbers on the curb and no mailbox. Pulling out a pair of binoculars, he spotted a house through the thick foliage at the rear of the lot. Obviously, Harrison didn't want to be found.

Hank looked up at the sky as they climbed out of the Ford. The day was overcast and gray. Living this close to the ocean, he'd hoped it was only morning fog. The fog generally burned off by late morning or early afternoon. Nope, he thought, shaking his head. He didn't think they were in for another rain shower. He was fairly certain, though, that the sun wasn't going to put in an appearance for the remainder of the day.

Hank had been divorced for ten years. Martha, his former wife, had later remarried and moved to Florida. He had vowed to live the rest of his life alone. His wife leaving had been a blow, but her remarriage had shot him down several more notches. That's when he'd dived into the bottle. Betty was a nice lady. He couldn't handle the dating scene. As far as he was concerned, Martha would always be his wife. The waitress might make a pleasant companion. A little sex now and then would spice up his life. Use it or lose it, one of his buddies had reminded him the other day.

When you went to visit a dying man, Hank decided, a gray day almost seemed appropriate. Even if the deputy chief had nothing to do with the recent crimes, the detective knew it would do him good to see a man who'd failed to know when it was time to stop drinking.

Officer Russell walked ahead and held back the tree branches and shrubbery leading to the front of the house. The detective rang the doorbell while Russell stood to one side with his hand on his service revolver.

When no one responded, Hank looked up and saw a light burning in an upstairs bedroom. He depressed the doorbell again and refused to let up until he heard the faint sound of footsteps. Turning quickly to Russell, he said, “Stay out of sight unless I need you. We don't have a warrant. This will only work if Harrison thinks I'm here on an unofficial visit.”

A small, olive-skinned woman cracked the door. “Go away,” she said, immediately closing it.

“Open up,” the detective shouted. “Your boss and I are old friends. I heard he was sick. Tell him Hank Sawyer from Ventura is here to see him.”

A short time later, the woman reappeared. He could tell now that she was Hispanic, and assumed she was Harrison's housekeeper.

“Do you have a warrant?”

How fast they learned, Hank thought, wondering how long she'd worked for Harrison. He had heard rumors that the deputy chief's wife was in a mental institution, that she'd suffered a breakdown after their son was killed. Harrison tried to tell people that she had some type of chronic illness. Everyone knew he was covering up the truth. Perhaps the diminutive woman with the silky dark hair and shapely body was more than Harrison's housekeeper.

“I don't need a warrant, lady,” he told her, his voice softening. “Like I said, Charles and I go way back. I came to cheer him up, talk about old times.”

The woman placed a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking as she began crying. A few moments later, she collected herself, wiping her eyes with the edge of her blouse. “You can't see him.”

“And why is that?” the detective asked, reaching in his pocket for a toothpick.

Again, the woman's face twisted in anguish. “Chief Harrison died last night. Now, will you leave us alone?”

Hank spat the toothpick out of his mouth, caught off-guard by this new development. “Is his body inside?”

Mike Russell took up a position next to the detective.

“No,” the woman said, raising her eyes to the tall, uniformed police officer. “The funeral home picked him up last night. We're making arrangements, contacting his relatives. Please, can't you respect our privacy?”

“Is Mrs. Harrison here?”

“Mrs. Harrison is in a hospital in Los Angeles. She knows about her husband. If you want to speak to her, you'll have to call Fairview Manor.”

“Then who is
we?”
Hank said, stepping closer so he could get a look inside the house. “Who else is inside this place?”

“Only Mario,” she said, refusing to budge from her position.

“Who's Mario?”

“The gardener.”

The detective was appalled. “You trying to tell me that you and the gardener are arranging Charles Harrison's funeral?”

“We're taking care of whatever has to be done,” she said, thrusting her chin forward. “Chief Harrison left specific instructions. Can't you go and leave us alone?”

“Were the police here earlier?”

“No,” the woman said, a puzzled look on her face. “The funeral home said it wasn't necessary to call the police, since Charles…I mean Chief Harrison…was under a doctor's care.”

Either they were lovers, as Hank had suspected, or the woman was shacking up with the gardener and they thought they could continue to live it up in Harrison's house. The detective brushed some leaves off his shoulder. He noticed that Russell had several scratches on his hands. For all Hank knew, Harrison was inside and had concocted this story to buy himself time.

“I'll leave, okay?” he said. “But not until you tell me the name of the funeral home.”

“Arden Brothers.”

“Is he going to be buried or cremated?”

“Cremated,” she said, sniveling again. “He didn't want to pay the extra money.”

“My ass,” Hank barked, spinning around to leave. The funeral business was the worst racket in town. Guys who played with dead bodies all day could be bought for a few grand. After two aborted attempts to kill Daniel Metroix, Harrison sends his thugs out to knock off Carolyn Sullivan, who persistently gets in his way. Then when he fails again, he stages his own death and skips town, either satisfied because Metroix was shot, or leaving whoever he'd hired behind to finish the job.

Hank tripped over a tree stump and landed hard on his right knee, the same knee he'd had surgery on two years before. Russell reached down and pulled him to his feet. “Thanks,” he said. “All Harrison needs is a pond filled with piranhas.”

Russell laughed. “Guess he didn't like visitors.”

When they reached the car, Hank glanced back at the overgrown yard again. Harrison's coconspirator was more than likely the man named Mario. He knew one thing. Mario sure as hell wasn't doing anything even remotely resembling gardening.

“Y
ou're not imposing,” Paul Leighton said, sitting across from Carolyn and Rebecca in his living room a few minutes after ten o'clock Friday morning. “Can I get you something to drink? We have coffee, tea, milk.”

“We're fine,” she answered, placing her hand on top of her daughter's. “I was going to leave her at my brother's house.” She started to explain that she was afraid that Neil would fall asleep, since he'd been working when she'd knocked on his door at four that morning. She'd slept only a few hours herself, but she'd had no choice. As an artist, her brother was also sensitive when it came to people invading his space. He could handle the models and girlfriends. Children were different.

“My mother could look after her,” Carolyn continued, “but after last night…”

The professor held up a palm. “You already explained when you called, Carolyn.”

Paul's home was sparsely, yet comfortably furnished. He had removed the carpeting and refinished the original hard-wood floors. In addition, he'd knocked down the wall separating the dining room from the living area, creating an open space which made the house seem larger. A maple-colored leather sofa and several matching chairs were positioned in the center of the room, along with a coffee table laden with books and magazines in neat stacks. Where the formal dining room had been was now a combination library and office. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined all three walls, except for the space required for the two windows. His desk seemed unusually small, similar to the student desk Carolyn had purchased several years ago for John. The surface contained a lamp, a pencil holder, a framed photo of his daughter, a pad of paper, and nothing more.

In one corner was another small desk and chair with a computer and printer. As she'd expected, the professor was extremely neat. He also had the luxury of a full-time housekeeper.

“Isobel will fix Rebecca's lunch,” Paul told her. “Lucy has a collection of DVDs she can watch. I'm certain she'll be pleased to find Rebecca here when she gets home from school.” He looked somewhat embarrassed. “I don't want you to get the impression that my daughter is spoiled. One of the reasons Lucy has so many DVDs is that I don't pay as much attention to her as I should. Time gets away from me when I'm working.”

“The doctor said for Rebecca to keep her foot elevated,” Carolyn told him, pulling a prescription bottle out of her purse. “You can give her one of these every four hours if she has pain. The X-ray showed a hairline fracture. She should be able to go back to school Monday.”

“Don't worry,” Paul said, smiling at Rebecca. “We'll take good care of her.”

Carolyn glanced anxiously at her watch. “I have to meet my supervisor at the office. It shouldn't take me more than a few hours. Do you plan on going out today? If so…”

“No,” he said, grasping the seriousness of the situation. He tilted his head toward a glass gun case, letting her know that he had the means to protect Rebecca should the need arise. “And as far as my work goes, I've been staring at a blank page for almost a week now.”

Carolyn removed Daniel's papers from her backpack. “I'd really appreciate it if you could take a look at these and let me know what you think.”

Paul seemed somewhat annoyed. “Is this your son's—”

“No,” she said, cutting him off. “I can't tell you the man's name. He's attempting to perfect a design for an exoskeleton.”

“An exoskeleton,” he said, taking the papers from her hand. He glanced at some of the drawings and equations, then jerked his head up. “Is this classified material? Did it come from the Department of Defense?”

“Of course not,” Carolyn told him. “I don't have any connection with the DOD.”

“Then why can't you tell me the man's name?” Paul asked. When he realized he wasn't going to get an answer, he set the papers down on the coffee table.

“I don't want anyone to know Rebecca's here,” Carolyn said, glancing over at her daughter. The garages of all the houses on their block were located in the back. Leaving the rented Camry at her brother's, Carolyn had taken a taxi to Leighton's. The driver was waiting outside to take her to the government center. After her meeting with Brad, she'd have no choice but to borrow a car from the county motor pool.

She stood to leave, kissing Rebecca on the cheek. “Oh,” she said, reaching into a sack and handing the girl one of the cell phones she'd purchased the day before, “if you need me, all you have to do is push number one on the auto dial. Number two is the police department. If it's an emergency, call the police first before you call me.”

“Cool,” the girl said, eagerly snatching the phone out of her mother's hand.

“I didn't buy this for you to chat with your friends, young lady.”

Rebecca's face fell, then quickly brightened. “Don't you have to pay a certain amount every month? One of the girls at school has a phone and she says she gets an hour or something free.” She thought a moment and then added, “It's called air time.”

Carolyn saw Paul smiling from across the room. “Kids are too smart these days,” she said, turning back to her daughter. “You can make a few calls. Don't go overboard. When this is all over, I'm taking the phone back.”

Rebecca's eyes narrowed. “Are you going to take John's away too? He thinks you're going to let him keep it.”

They'd stopped off at Turner Highland's house where John had spent the night. Carolyn wanted to drop off the phone and caution her son after the events of the night before. She'd instructed the cab driver to use the side streets, keeping her eyes peeled to make certain no one was following them. Turner's mother offered to pick the boys up after school.

With the responsibilities her son carried, Carolyn might consider letting him keep the phone. He wasn't the type to abuse such a privilege. John was too busy with his schoolwork to waste time talking nonsense. She wondered how Rebecca had figured it out, or if John had said something.

“Why don't you watch a movie like Professor Leighton suggested,” Carolyn told her. “Since you didn't get much sleep last night or the night before, maybe you should take a nap. Paul, do you mind if she rests on your sofa?”

“Make yourself comfortable in Lucy's room, Rebecca. That's where the DVD player is anyway. If you have trouble working anything, call me on the intercom.” He turned and peered into Carolyn's weary eyes. “When you finish whatever you need to do, take some of your own advice. You know, get some sleep. Your daughter will be safe here. Don't come back until six. And bring John with you. Isobel will make us all a nice meal. We can postpone our dinner out until next weekend. By then, perhaps all this will be behind you.”

Carolyn watched as Rebecca hobbled down the hallway to Lucy's bedroom on her crutches. Paul was standing next to her now and she could smell his aftershave, something musky and masculine. There was also a unique calmness about him, a comforting contrast to the frenzied pace of the last few days. As the light struck his face, she noticed how beautiful his eyes were—a pale shade of blue. Today he was wearing his reading glasses. Instead of detracting from his appearance, they made his eyes more noticeable and gave him a distinguished look. No, she corrected herself, this was a man who didn't need to
look
distinguished. He
was
distinguished.

Then another thought passed through Carolyn's mind. John was one of the few teenage boys who actually prayed. They didn't talk about it much, but he'd mounted his rosary on a hook over his desk. Had he been praying for his mother to fall in love with their new neighbor? Of course, John's aspirations to become a physicist may have led him to seek any help available.

More important reasons could also exist. Her son might want his mother to establish a relationship with the professor beyond obtaining a recommendation to MIT. Her former husband had virtually abandoned his children. In many ways, Frank's absence in John and Rebecca's life was a blessing. To think that her son longed for male companionship and guidance, however, was troubling. On the other hand, the solution might be standing right in front of her.

“I don't know how to thank you,” Carolyn said, a slight flutter in her voice.

“I'm beginning to feel like we're family,” Paul said, smiling. “It's kind of nice. When I'm teaching, there're more people around. Writing a book is a solitary task.” He stopped speaking, then added, “About this man's design for an exoskeleton…”

“I guess I'll see you at dinner then,” Carolyn said, smiling pleasantly. “I can take the papers back if you're too busy to look at them.”

“No,” he said, scowling. “I'd like to know whose work I'm evaluating.”

“I'll call and check on Rebecca in a few hours.”

“Sleep,” Paul said, his tone more of a command than a suggestion. “You look dead on your feet.”

“I promise I'll use the time wisely.”

Carolyn glanced over her shoulder at him as she walked out the door. A physicist of Paul Leighton's caliber might be intriguing, but she sensed he could also be controlling. She'd rather have a clandestine affair with Brad than end up as a constant in one of the professor's social equations.