Crime & Punishment: The Prequel Ch. 11

Just as he finished saying this Polly came running from the rear of the house. Brandt jumped from his car and went to intercept her.

"Let me go," she demanded as Ed grabbed her arm.

"Wait up— what's wrong?"

"You've killed him, and now you're going to kill me."

"What?" Ed asked.

"He's overdosed. You spiked his heroin."

"I did no such thing," an angry Ed Bryant replied.

"He's dead. If you didn't do it who did?"

"That's what we need to find out," Jimmy said as he appeared on Polly's other side.

The two men managed to persuade her to go back inside. There they found Frank Patterson in his living room. He was dead as Polly had said, the needle still in his arm. A tin of brownish power on the end table by the chair he sat in.

Ed Brandt sniffed it, "Not just heroin," he said, "but I can't guess what else."

Jimmy began looking about the room, "who would be your principal suspect?" he asked Brandt.

"Top of the list Sullivan, then Fitzgerald, and then me."

"Or all three of you and me," O'Reilly said turning to Polly," I want to know everything that happened tonight."

"Nothing, he's been nervous as a cat all week, but tonight he was laughing telling his boring legal stories, and drinking."

"Nothing else?"

"He made a call on his cell about half an hour ago, just before we left the sport's bar," she said.

"She means Cityline over on Western. He's been drinking there for weeks."

"No one dropped by the table just to say hello?" Jimmy asked, but she shook her head.

"Just the phone call. He's got no friends, and there was just the one phone call."

"Did you see what he did with the phone?"

"He put it in his pocket."

O'Reilly went to where Patterson's jacket was slung over a chair.

"No, his pants pocket."

There was an iPhone in his jacket, but a second cheap phone in his pants. It wasn't locked, but it was clean of everything but the last number that he called.

"Do you recognize the number?" Ed asked.

"No, but it's a New York State Campus number from the first three digits. In the meanwhile, we need to get out of here leaving no trace that we've been here," Jimmy said.

Jimmy was gambling that the number went to the man they were looking for in the State Police. Then he called Fitzgerald.

*****

The Lynda's call came a little after midnight. She sounded funny. Her words were short and forced. She needed to see him right away. After the sex with Susan in the hotel, he felt wrong to go to Lynda that night, but something in her voice was sending warning bells off. She could be in trouble. Considering O'Reilly's call about Patterson, there was a definite possibility that Lynda was how they intended to get to him.

The drive out of Manhattan took far too long even after midnight. The New York traffic never really slows down, but when he reached Yonkers, it had dissipated. He pushed his speed as far as he dared. He was no race driver, and his Honda was no sports car. The temptation to buy something better now that he had his own money was beginning to weigh on him.

The streets of Croton were quiet and deserted. He pulled up in front of Lynda's apartment, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt the bite of fear in his belly. A single light that appeared to be coming from Lynda's living room was showing through the curtains.

He rang the bell and was not surprised that no answer came. He knocked and then slammed the door with his fist. It swung open. As he entered, you couldn't miss the body face down on the floor bleeding into Lynda's newly installed carpet. Even by the back of his head Steven had no difficulty identifying Tony Greco.

"Please come in Mr. Fitzgerald and close the door behind you," said a voice from the living room shadows just where the yellow incandescent light of the little table lamp faded. Lynda was in the big wingback chair she had hauled from her previous residence. She looked small almost doll-like ensconced in the large chair. She was asleep or dead he couldn't tell which.

A figure moved out of the shadows by the bedroom doorway, a tall man wearing an expensive V-neck sweater and a pair of dark-gray slacks. Something about the man said priest even without a clerical collar. The man was holding a revolver.

Steven closed the door slowly looking out into the dark night beyond. Then he crossed the room to where Lynda was in the chair trying to check her pulse.

"Don't worry Mr. Fitzgerald, she'll wake up. I was careful how much Fentanyl I gave her."

Lynda was sleeping. Her pulse was regular if rather slow. He wished he knew more about anatomy than the one course he had taken because Pat Sullivan was chasing a pre-med major and wanted a wingman. As it turned out, the girl was gay, and this thought brought a little chuckle to his lips.

"You find your situation funny?" the man with the revolver asked.

"Not particularity, but I am wondering why you haven't shot me already."

"The file. Where is the file?"

"Oh, that. Well someplace safe."

"Not a good answer."

"I'm sorry, but why do you need the file surely you kept a copy?"

"Now they told me you were smart, Mr. Fitzgerald. But how did you know I have a copy?"

"Please call me Steve. No use being formal in the circumstances and should I call you father?"

"Monsignor actually. Monsignor Mourluck but hopefully soon to be Arch-Bishop."

"Well, Monsignor I assume you made a copy when you gave the file to Bishop McManus, just a precaution, but in these circumstances a wise one. So, why this need for the original? I mean surely you can have the scandal you need to oust the Cardinal without the original records. I should think their loss could be played to the advantage of an ambitious cleric."

"Of course, I have a copy, and you are right it would be an excellent scandal even without the originals. However, to move up, I need plausible deniability. If I were simply to release the records, it would be obvious where they came from. It would be far better for the lost original to turn up in the hands of the wrong parties."

"Yes, I see, but since we both know you intend to murder me. Why should I help you?"

"You don't believe we can reach some accommodation?"

"Oh, I'm sure we could, but what about Nancy Ross Jordan. Surely she would object to leaving the man who could testify against her alive."

"Very good, we weren't sure you would remember her. Mr. Sullivan doesn't seem to recall her."

"I was the witness remember. She spent time interviewing me. Pat was the defendant. His attorney invoked his right to silence. If he saw her at all, it was only briefly, and he probably never got her name. The name I assume you purged from the record," Steven said seeming to pause for reflection before he continued.

"An interesting scheme Monsignor, first the lady helps plan a cover-up, then years later exposes it. Brings down the current administration and happily step into the governor's shoes just before the election. Yours was a well-planned plot. It just had the one flaw. The McManus woman got to the file first."

"Damn woman wouldn't give the file back. Can't produce what you don't have, the attorneys were right about that, but we had never intended to give the file away. The bishop's safe was just what we needed. It would all have worked so well. I moved the records to McManus and took out any mention of a female ADA. Then when the Bishop died, I would get the file back."

"You alert the US Attorney. She subpoena's you and the scandal comes out just in time to derail the governor's reelection."

"Damn whore had to meddle in things beyond her position," the monsignor grumbled, "and now we have you, Steve, where is the file?"

"Gave it to someone I trust. She owns a bank with a fine vault."

"Now that's a pity. I'd hate to have to give Ms. Segal another dose of Fentanyl."

"I don't think you will have time to do that."

"Why do you expect Tara O'Reilly to come storming through the door? The New York State police took care of her hours ago. It's all fixed. The infatuated Mr. Greco here shot you in a jealous rage, and you shot him defending yourself."

"What about Mr. Patterson?" Steven asked already knowing the answer but wanting to hear the confession of the murder of Patterson.

The monsignor smiled, "Already taken care of. His price for helping was the killing of Mr. Sullivan. What you two got up to with that man was of great assistance. Thank you. However, the failure of his little plot made him a liability. Fortunately, we arranged an overdose, Fentanyl in his heroin, that should come back on your Mr. O'Reilly."

"Very clever you seem to have thought of just about everyone."

"Now why don't we call your friend with the vault and make some arrangement about that file." The monsignor said.

"I don't think so. You see you did forget one person,"

"Oh,"

"Yes, the jealous wife, Isn't that right Ms. Hartman?"

"Don't move Monsignor. In twenty-seven years as a PI, I've never fired my Smith & Wesson anywhere but the range. It would be a pity to start now," Thresa Hartman said stepping clear of the bedroom.

The priest jerked to the awareness that someone had come out behind him, but as he did, he reflexively turned to defend himself against that person. Theresa didn't hesitate she fired. Monsignor Mourluck crumpled to the floor the gun in his hand went off as he did sending a bullet harmlessly into the bedroom door frame.

Theresa immediately squatted down to retrieve the loose gun. As she did, she checked to see if the priest was still breathing. He wasn't. She gave a sigh and said, "You should make sure your girlfriend fixes the broken lock on the patio doors, Steve."

Steven already had one arm around Lynda as he dialed 911.

When the operator came on, he informed her he needed an ambulance for a possible overdose and the police.

"I've got a question," Hartman asked.

"Go ahead ask."

"How did you know it was the priest?"

Steven smiled, "I bet you like to think of yourself as a detective. Well, answer this one. A name is missing from a file that should be there. You know because you were a witness to the original cover-up. The assistant D.A. seems to have vanished from the story. Now, who could do that?"

"Someone who had possession of the file, but why our friend here?"

"Bishop McMann had the file, a dying man. The monsignor not only gave him the file he left it with him. The plan all along was to have the file found as the Monsignor removed it from the McMann's safe, but the wife foiled that. I don't think they meant to kill her, but she was a determined woman, and once you start killing it does get easier."

Theresa nodded her head in testament to his logic as they heard the first siren approaching. For once it was a pleasant and encouraging sound.

*****

At four in the morning, the Circle Diner was nearly empty, but the few patrons and staff there all stared as the pretty young woman rushed in to throw her arms around the rather bedraggled middle-aged man dressed like a lawyer.

"Jimmy, Jimmy," Carrie Wilson cried, "I've been so worried."

"I'm all right," he replied, "and I may even be able to stay that way."

"I have something important to tell you," Carrie began, but Jimmy was having his say first.

"It will have to wait until I'm done. Sit down well back in the last booth and call the governor. He needs to do some things right away. Tony Greco is dead, and there will be reporters asking questions very soon."

Carrie was shocked at this news, but she did as Jimmy asked and ensconced herself in the farthest part of the last booth in the restaurant. Jimmy sent the waitress across to where Ed and Polly were seated sure that they would keep the help busy while he informed the governor that his aid was dead killed by a high-ranking churchman, and his state police implicated. If he thought to shock the governor, he was mistaken.

"Steven's ok, and no innocents killed?" the governor asked. He didn't sound the least bit sleepy, and with the speed that he answered Carrie's call, Jimmy suspected he had not been asleep.

"No one who was entirely innocent is dead, but we have racked up three bodies."

"Three?"

"A lawyer named Frank Patterson, apparently from an overdose."

"I know him," the governor said.

"He called a number before he died that I believe goes to the state police."

"Give it to me," the governor demanded, "Let me talk alone to Carrie for a few minutes."

Jimmy went to sit with Polly and Ed, and in just a few minutes a quite sober appearing Carrie joined them. Polly wore the only happy face seated around the table. Her part in this game was done. She had earned the exorbitant fee that Fitzgerald had promised her and as far as she was concerned her breakfast companions could all go to hell, as they probably well deserved. Well maybe not Ed the big police officer was rather cute, and she had learned his wife had left him for a younger man Foolish Bitch.

"Jimmy," Carrie began, "I have bad news." Three heads turned to her as she reached her hands over to cover Jimmy's. They were all wondering what more could go wrong.

"Your wife was caught in a rebel attack in the Congo. She's alive but seriously injured. They have flown her to France and by now possibly Germany. I've been trying to reach you with this news but been unable to. I got word day before yesterday, and the news covered the attack last evening, but I assume you were preoccupied.

In fact, Jimmy was too involved in his work to give any thought to his wayward wife. Simone had been the furthest thing from his mind for some time now.

"Do you know how bad she is injured?" he asked.

"No, but I've made inquiries and set up a liaison with the State Department, and they are prepared to help in any way they can. I have a number for you."

"Thanks," he said, "I'll take it, but right now I'd better go home and call my girls. They may have heard the news and need me." As Jimmy got up to leave so did Ed saying, "We ain't out of the woods yet counselor. You need an escort until all the opposition is taken care of."

Carrie got up too just saying, "I'm coming."

Polly sat all alone as the others exited. When the waitress asked if she wanted more coffee, she replied, "No thanks. Time, I got some sleep."

****

Steven Fitzgerald was bone tired and would have appreciated some sleep. By four that morning, the local police had been supplanted by the FBI, and Steven had noticed that the questioning had stopped when the FBI arrived. The agent in charge was a tall, slim man in his late fifties who introduced himself as agent Costello. He had come in taken over and cleared the scene, so the forensic squad could take it over. Theresa Hartman had her notebook out and was busy making notes. She had immediately surrendered her gun when the local police arrived. The paramedics had taken Lynda within a few minutes of arriving, but the local police held Steven and Theresa Hartman for questioning.

Agent Costello came over and politely asked Theresa for her notebook. "You will get it back when we are done with it," he reassured her. Then he released her and turned to Steven.

"Mr. Fitzgerald I'm afraid you will have to come with us," he said.

"And if I refuse?"

"I will place you under arrest."

"Do I get to know the charge?"

"No charge, I have a material witness warrant for you, but I don't have to execute it if you cooperate. We both know your life is in danger."

Steven shrugged, "Well' since I have no choice I will come voluntarily, but may I ask where precisely we are going in case I wish to tell my attorney."

"Our Newark New Jersey office, but if you were going to call Mr. Sullivan or O'Reilly don't bother we'll be bring them there for safe keeping as soon as we find them."

Agent Costello could tell the shifty defense attorney didn't like that, but with a little luck some very important people were going to find themselves in the shit house.