Depth of Deception (A Titanic Murder Mystery) (18 page)

C-R-E-A-K!

The familiar sound of the old door’s rusty hinges alerted him that there was someone creeping into the front foyer.

Callum picked his gun up from where he
had
set it
w
hen he knelt down to Ruthie. He tried to stand, his leg buckled. His leg had fallen asleep from being crouched down on the floor. He squinted in the dim light as he peeked toward the adjacent room and saw the tip of a pistol emerge from behind the front door. Ruthie’s killer had returned and Callum’s leg was useless.

He fired toward the front door, and saw the other gun disappear for shelter. Callum had no extra magazine to reload his Walther P38. He wasn’t going to be able to hold them off for long. He stumbled back toward the rear of the flat into the kitchen and limped to the kitchen table. He took a gamble and fired another shot in the darkness towards the front room. Then he pulled up the window and squeezed himself into the alleyway.

Once outside in the night air, he could hear the sounds of police sirens approaching. He had to get away. Stepping onto a rubbish bin and ignoring the pins-and-needles coursing through his feet, he leapt onto the fire escape and climbed up to the roof
top for a better vantage point.
He saw the familiar form of the white and orange police cars with blue flashing lights approaching. He thought about flagging one down, and then looked down at his blood-stained suit jacket. It would take some explaining…

BLAM!

A bullet ricocheted off the metal ladder next to him. The gunman had followed him out the window
and was shooting at him!

Callum stole a glance at the husky man below before continuing across the townhouse rooftop. Now that his leg was getting back to normal, he made good ground, leaping from one end of each rooftop to the next, grateful that he was in decent physical condition for a man his age.

Of course, he
couldn’t keep this up forever. H
e needed to hide. He paused to get his bearings.

He checked his coat pocket with his left hand, keeping his right hand armed with the gun. The pendant was still there.

Dragonslayer!
He could reach St. George’s Cross Station — it was very close by. Just a few more rooftops and a dash across Great Western Road. When he toured the neighbourhood the other day, Callum had suspected that Agatha Gilcrest’s murderer had made his escape to the St. George’s Cross station seventy years ago. Perhaps there was a clue there? After all, it was St. George’s image on the pendant.

_ _ _

Myra didn’t eat or talk to anyone for the rest of the morning. She just sat in a chair and stared blankly into space. Still wearing the old-fashioned turn-of-the century dress, Myra looked like a pale, disheveled ghost.

Natalie felt horrible. She was the one who had contacted Edward in hopes of helping Myra and it had only made things worse. She had no words of wisdom to help. The best Natalie could do at this point was to simply be around when Myra started to talk.

At lunchtime, Natalie entered Myra’s room with some take-out from McDonalds. It wasn’t smoked salmon with some fancy sauce, but it was mildly better than the bland clinic food, and she hoped the smell might entice Myra to eat.

Natalie set two places at the table in Myra’s room. Myra looked over at her, and without saying a word got up and shuffled over to sit next to her. Natalie bit the inside of her cheek
, as she struggled not to smile
while she watched Myra trying to eat a Big Mac with a knife and fork.

After she was finished, Myra stared out the window for a spell.

Nat
alie took the time to reflect on the recent events, trying to find some glimmer of hope in the mess.

"
I would like some clothing,
"
Myra finally said. The words brok
e the long silence with a voice
which still seemed hollow and distant.

"
You’re wearing clothes. That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing.
"

Myra shook her head and looked at Natalie, her sapphire blue eyes pleading,
"
No. I would like some garments similar to what you’re wearing.
"

Natalie was delighted to hear this.
At last, a breakthrough.
"
I’ll make the arrangements.
"

Natalie hastened to tidy up the foam containers. With Myra’s figure she’d look very stylish in modern fashions. After opening the door, Natalie leaned back into the room and said to Myra,
"
Congratulations. You have taken the first step towards recovery.
"

. . .

It was visiting hours on a Sunday at the nuthouse. Nigel had to watch himself. He almost said that out loud once. He didn’t want to lose his job at … the Clinic. Nigel, the doorman, stomped his feet and blew hot breath into his hands to keep his fingertips warm, something he wasn’t allowed to do in front of the guests or their families. This was the main reason why he hated Sundays in wintertime. It was the most popular day for visitations.

He was about to light up a cigarette for added warmth when he saw a sleek woman about to exit the building. He quickly moved and held the door open for her. He wondered why she didn’t have a coat. She was dressed in a trendy skirt and a warm-looking, green sweater.
Not hurting for cash.
Her piercing blue eyes looked about, trying to get her bearings.

Not a New Yorker,
he though
t. He was stunned by her beauty:
the contrast of dark hair, blue eyes and pale skin made her absolutely striking.

"
Would you like a taxi to take you to your hotel?
"
guessed Nigel.

The woman smiled,
"
Which way to Longacre… I mean, to Times Square?
"

Definitely not a New Yorker.
Nigel pointed westward.
"
Go that way and you’ll see the lights. Can’t miss it.
"

She started to walk in the direction he pointed. Nigel called out after her,
"
It’s a bit of a hike. I can call a taxi for you!
"

She turned, smiled, and politely responded,
"
Thank-you, no! I’ll be fine.
"

Definitely not a New Yorker.

_ _ _

Callum flew down the stone steps from the street to the front door of the underground station. It had taken him longer than he had hoped to reach it, but he could only go so far by rooftop — he’d then meandered through the labyrinth of back alleys and side streets to avoid detection. His eyes were drawn to the glowing red letters
St. Georges Cross.
Even as a child he had wondered why there was no apostrophe on the sign when there was one on the subway map.

Stepping into the front door he could still hear several sirens wailing like a pack of wolves on the hunt. He hoped they scared the gunman away, but then saw the husky man huffing as he descended the stairs. Their eyes met.
Damn, he saw me!

Callum turned and ran towards the fare box. Pushing past people with grocery bags, and without breaking a stride, he leapt over the turnstile. He could hear the muffled voice of the ticket-taker yelling at him.

The yellow-bricked island platform was dimly lit, looking very different from when Callum was a boy. The whole station had been recently renovated. Any clue that might have existed seventy years ago was long gone.

Callum spotted the gunman approaching from the far end.
He wouldn’t shoot here. Not in front of all these witnesses.
The man raised his gun. Callum cursed that there were no pillars to hide behind. As he ran further down the platform, he prayed for a train to arrive. Either direction would be fine at this moment. None came.

He reached the end of the platform; there was no other exit. Just a metal door for the utility room or something, and for a brief moment he considered jumping onto the tracks. He turned back to see the gunman slowing down as he drew closer.

Then, over the man’s humongous shoulders, Callum saw a handful of uniformed police officers with their black and white checkered caps approaching. Callum sighed in relief. The killer was now trapped.

"
Put your hands in the air where I can see them,
"
barked the husky gunman.

"
What?
"
asked Callum incredulously, did the idiot not know he was about to be arrested by police?

The gunman kept his weapon trained on Callum as he reached into his coat pocket. Callum resisted the urge to raise his gun. The police would reach them soon. The man pulled out
a
black leather billfold with a blue metal insignia with gold accents on it. It was a Strathclyde Police Warrant card badge with the name: Detective Sergeant Milton.

"
Police!
"
yelled Milton, the husky man.
"
Put your hands where I can see them! You’re under arrest for murder.
"

Shite!

Chapter
XXI

"
I just wanted you to know that Myra… escaped,
"
Natalie said into the phone receiver.

"
How the hell could you let that happen?
"
Roger bellowed so loudly that Natalie had to pull the phone receiver away from her ear. Natalie had asked herself the very same question, several times.
How could she have been so stupid? How could she have been so gullible?
She had so wanted Myra to make that first step towards reality that she had taken the desire for regular street clothes at face value. As they were approximately the same build she had gone out and purchased an outfit for Myra with her own money. Apparently no-one had recognized Myra when she left the building.

"
I don’t have time to get into the details,
"
Natalie replied curtly.
"
We’ve sent someone to watch the Hoffman office building. She will likely go looking for Edward.
"

"
She can look all she wants,
"
grumbled Roger.
"
I’m personally driving Edward out to his family’s lake house to get away from this madness.
"

"
That’s very kind of you,
"
Natalie replied into the phone receiver. It was above and beyond the duty of an attorney.
Hope he isn’t being paid by the hour for that.

"
Well, with all that’s happened, Edward is in no condition to drive himself. Please call my pager when you learn anything new.
"

"
I will,
"
Natalie responded as she eyed his business card before placing it back in her Rolodex.

After hanging up, she put on her jacket. It was getting cold. As she turned up the thermostat, Natalie’s anger melted into fear. The temperature outside was dropping rapidly.
It was as if Myra’s presence in New York was bringing the Arctic temperatures with her,
Natalie thought to herself. Earlier, she had seen on TV that some areas of the state were reporting 11°F. Na
talie glanced out the window. S
now was starting to come down and there was no word on Myra.
How could she survive without a warm coat or food or money?

Walking to the subway station, Natalie began to doubt everything.
Was Myra really alone? Was there someone else out there?
Natalie knew that the whole
Titanic
story was a fantasy but did Myra actually believe it or was there some ulterior motive?

Natalie hated herself for doubting her patient but she still knew nothing concrete about the person calling herself Myra. One thing was certain. There was no possible way she could be Edward’s mother… so… who was she?

. . .

Officer Willowby was used to dealing with wackos. Manhattan was full of them. In his years with the NYPD he’d had to ‘reason’ with every kind. He still had a scar on his face from trying to subdue a teen that was high on PCP (also known as
‘Angel dust’
), three years ago. Under the influence, the teen was unnaturally strong and lacked the capacity to reason, or feel pain. The youth was brandishing a broken bottle as a weapon, cutting his own fingers and not realizing it. Willowby had no choice but to break the teen’s legs to immobilize him. Even then, the teen didn’t feel his broken bones and continued to resist. In the struggle, Willowby’s face was cut with the broken bottle.

Officer Greenwyn, his partner, once commented that Willowby would subconsciously run his finger over the scar whenever they were called out to a disturbance.

This case was very different right from the start. They arrived at the scene of Straus Park at 106th and Broadway around 5pm to find a young, attractive, brunette Caucasian woman gripping a newspaper and screaming like a hellcat.