Tag Archives: chapter nine part three

A Hard Rain; chapter nine, part part three

“Damn it, Reynolds, tell me what the fuck is going on with the Robertson case, and tell me now.”  Chief Matthews bellowed at Detective Reynolds, a twenty-year veteran who still had a thirst for justice, despite his years on the force.

“I had officers canvass the area.  It seems that there were three strange cars that were seen at Ms. Robertson’s house the day she was murdered.”  Detective Reynolds was in his late forties, but he was still in good shape.  He prided himself on the fact that he had his full head of thick brown hair and that his eyesight was still as keen as ever.  He glanced at his notes before continuing.  “As we know, one of them was Amato.”  Detective Reynolds paused, looking momentarily uncomfortable.

“Who are the other two, Reynolds?”  Chief Matthews asked, his dark eyes boring into Detective Reynolds’ blue ones.  Detective Reynolds remained silent for a minute longer before reluctantly answering.

“Michael Erickson and Jonah Bronson.”  A murmur swelled among the other cops present; the chief was friends with both of the men.

“State Prosecutor Erickson and Senator Bronson?”  Chief Matthews asked, emphasizing the titles unconsciously.

“Yes.”  Detective Reynolds folded his arms across his chest and rocked back and forth on his heels.  He looked as if he wished he could be anywhere but where he was.  “The next door neighbors had a habit of keeping track of Ms. Robertson’s companions.  They knew who she was, of course.”  Of course.  Any fool with access to the internet knew who Amy Robertson was, and in these days of celebrity-gawking, of course the neighbors would have an unhealthy interest in the comings and goings of the daughter of an august senator such as Senator Robertson.  “They recognized both Senator Bronson and State Prosecutor Erickson on sight.”  The former was there in the afternoon for roughly an hour whereas the latter was there in the evening, but no one is sure for how long.”

“Reynolds,” Chief Matthews began, his eyes glowering.  Before he could say anything else, his phone rang.  “Matthews!”  The expression on Chief Matthews face turned from exasperation to…something else.  No one in the room had ever seen the chief look like that before.  He didn’t say anything other than, “Yes.”  “I see.”  “All right.” After he hung up the phone, he said to the room, “Everyone but Reynolds get out.”  The cops all began to protest in unison.  They had been on the case from the beginning, and they felt they had the right to know what was going on.  “Out.”  Chief Matthews didn’t need to raise his voice to get his point across.  Though the muttering continued, everyone but Reynolds filed out the door; Chief Matthews closed it after the last straggler had left.

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Out of Sight, Into Mind; chapter nine, part three

In my room, I halted before my closet, deciding to see if I could contact Danny again.  I sat on my bed and closed my eyes, willing his image to come to me.  I breathed deeply, knowing I couldn’t force anything.  Danny had to be willing to have me in his head in the first place.  Normally, he most likely wouldn’t have a problem with that, but these were not normal conditions.  I let those thoughts float through my brain without attaching any importance to them whatsoever.  I put my hands on my midsection, knowing that usually calmed me enough to focus on what I had to do.  Suddenly, a picture of poor Danny in only his underwear popped into my mind.  I stiffened, worried that his captors were taking things to a different level.

“Danny, can you hear me?”  I kept my voice low so I wouldn’t freak Danny out too much.  I didn’t want him to scream and alert someone that something was amiss.  Instead, Danny smiled at the sound of my voice, looking happier than he had two seconds ago.  There was a bruise around his right eye which suggested that his captors were getting frustrated.  That didn’t bode well for his future.

“Auntie!  You….back….scared….now!”  Danny was on the floor of the closet, huddled in the corner.  There was a strong stench pervading from the corner opposite, probably where Danny voided his bowels if his captors didn’t come in time to take him to the bathroom.  Poor Danny, having to sit with that foul smell every day!  They could at least clean it up from time to time.

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Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter nine, part three

“What happened exactly, Bet?”  Rafe asked as he drove me to my apartment.  I was still groggy and not up for a conversation, but I gave it the old college try.

“I’m not sure,” was my detailed answer.  “It happened so fast.”  Rafe sighed, but refrained from asking additional questions.

“How long do you think you’ll stay at your parents’?”  was Rafe’s next question.

“Not very long,” I answered, looking out the window.  My shoulder was beginning to hurt again, and I reminded Rafe to stop at the pharmacy so I could fill my prescription.  “I love my parents, but I don’t want to live under their roof again.”

We fell into a silence as he drove to the pharmacy.  Afterwards, we went to my apartment so I could decide what to take with me.  I should call Phillip to tell him that I wasn’t coming to work today—if he hadn’t figured it out—but I couldn’t seem to give a damn.  I was tired of FunLand, and I didn’t care if he fired me.  In fact, I would almost welcome it.  My aching shoulder agreed with me.  Rafe helped me change into a fresh pair of jeans and a black t-shirt before sitting me on the bed.  I watched as he started packing for me.  As I supervised him packing, I told him about my dreams.

“Weird,” Rafe commented, pausing in the packing.  “Do you think they have any significance?”

I shrugged as he folded my shirts before placing them in my suitcase.  I hadn’t given my dreams much thought, but I believed that our subconscious spoke to us in our dreams.  Therefore, there had to be something of use in those dreams, even if I couldn’t immediately identify what it was.  The second dream seemed marginally more straightforward than the first one, so I concentrated on the second one.  Obviously the painting in Lydia’s apartment had affected me, but was there more to it than that?  I would be hard-pressed to recall the details of the painting now even though I had liked it at the time, so I was inclined to believe that there was something to the painting—more than meets the eye.  What had the note said?  Something like almost there.  No, that wasn’t quite it.  Getting warmer.  That’s what it said.  What did that mean?

It meant that Lydia had expected someone to think of the painting—based on her first clue?  What was it?  Remembering a date.  What date?  Date?  Painting?  How did the two of them go together?  I frowned.  When else had Lydia talked about painting?  It was something she did in her spare time, but not something she talked much about.  She had a superstitious feeling that she’d jinx it if she talked about it too much.  But I distinctly remembered her telling me something about a painting she had done.  Recently.  What was it for?  I frowned and concentrated hard, but it was just at the edge of my consciousness.  I knew better than to try to force it, so I pushed it out of my mind.  It would come to me sooner or later.

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Parental Deception; chapter nine, part three

“Mrrrrrreow!” Onyx leaps into the air, and I catch her effortlessly. I cradle her to my chest and nuzzle her fur. She purrs happily, waving her front paws in the air. Jet dances around me, excited that his human is home. He bats at my legs, careful to keep his claws retracted. I ruffle the fur on his head, and he snuffles happily as if he’s a dog. I carry Onyx into the kitchen as she continues to fling her paws about. She’s being so goofy, I can’t help but laugh. Jet is literally nipping at my heels, and I admonish him to move away so I don’t step on him. He doesn’t listen, of course, because he’s a cat, and I use my empty stepping so I don’t accidentally squish him. I pull out the bag of Temptations and give them each four. I’m trying to curb their snacking, but I admit my heart’s not in it. I heat up some of the Thanksgiving leftovers, including a piece of the sweet potato pie. I grab a Diet Coke so when everything is ready, I can take my booty to the living room. As I’m eating, I start a new post about lies and deceptions. I don’t want to write specifically about George Tsai, but his deception galls me.

The sign of a good con man is that he knows intuitively his marks’ weaknesses. It’s the one ‘compliment’ I can give the president-elect—he has an uncanny knack for giving the people what they want. Not all people, of course, but enough to be elected—but that’s not the post I want to write, so I’m going to put it aside for now with great difficulty.

Recently, I had a man come into y life who purported to be someone I used to know. I didn’t quite believe him, but, I wanted to so very much.

My phone rings, startling me. I’m not expecting a call, but when I glance at the screen, I recognize the number. I can’t quite place it, but at least it’s not a telemarketer. I answer just because curiosity will kill me one day.

“Hello?” I say cautiously, ready to click the phone off if I’ve been tricked, and, indeed, it is an advertiser.

“How come you didn’t tell me?” A distraught female voice greets my ear. I yank my phone away because she’s hurting my ear.

“Mrs. Tsai? Is that you?” I think I can place the voice, but I’m not sure because it’s at high volume.

“You knew he was dead when you talked to me. That’s how you found me!” She’s continuing her monologue without paying any attention to me, but I get the gist of it. She’s pissed because I didn’t tell her that her husband was dead when we last talked, and I don’t blame her. I would be angry with me, too, if I were her. However, I don’t feel that bad because her husband offered a whopper of a lie to me and my sisters without any remorse. While she hadn’t approved of it, she went along with it. Was it her job to tell me and my sisters? No. It sure as hell would have been nice, though.

“I’m sorry,” I say, although it’s begrudging. “I didn’t think it was y place to tell you. How did you find out?”

“The Minneapolis police called me,” she says, bursting into tears. “Oh my god! How can he be dead? I just talked to him last night!”

“It seems he was going to have it out with someone he thought had scammed him,” I inform her, telling her everything I know. “Does that sound familiar to you?”

“What? No! I—wait. Is this from when he lived in Minnesota? We weren’t together at that time.” Mrs. Tsai is still crying, but at least I can understand what she’s saying. “George was secretive about his time in Minnesota. He always said it was a mistake and that he didn’t want to talk about it. I should have made him!” She bursts into tears again, and I wait for her to regain her calm. Every time she tries to catch her breath, she starts crying again.

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