Habit (12 page)

They made cursory introductions and Rudy Colinas sat in the one chair across from Brendan as he took him through the case. Most of it Rudy was familiar with, nodding here or there, but he remained absolutely silent the entire time, and jotted down occasional notes. When they were finished, Brendan’s stomach was growling. He looked at the clock on his phone and saw that it was almost ten in the morning.

It was absurd to think of devoting precious time now to the therapist, Olivia Jane. Brendan needed to do what was prudent and procedural – to work his suspects, as the Sheriff had reiterated. Eddie, the Heilshorns, the dead brother. Kevin Heilshorn’s death would become its own case. Brendan felt a knot of dread when he considered this prospect – yesterday’s meeting with IA was only the beginning in what was often a protracted matter: the investigation of a police shooting. There would be more meetings, and there was always the possibility of a lawsuit. Brendan found the words came with difficulty as he tried to explain the situation to Colinas. It felt like he had marbles in his mouth.

“Tough situation,” said Colinas. It wasn’t clear whether he was referring to the shooting of Kevin Heilshorn, or the conflict with Brendan, as the shooter, continuing an investigation which involved Kevin’s parents. Maybe both.

Colinas gazed off into the air in the small office space. “I had to draw my weapon on someone once. My heart was beating so hard. I didn’t know . . . you know, if it came down to it . . .” He trailed off, and then his eyes came back to Brendan. “So, where do we go from here, boss? I’m on the parents, got it. I’ll be extremely gentle with them. But suppose I don’t get through, or it takes a while, what next? You want me looking into the victim?”

“Absolutely,” said Brendan. He was already liking Colinas. “Everything about her. Where she went to grade school up to where she shopped for groceries last week. Of course I’ll help you. I’ve got to see about something else first.”

“What about this Eddie? You want me to look into that, too, right?”

“I’m hoping they dovetail,” said Brendan, getting up and collecting his bag. He slipped the manila envelope, containing
The Screwtape Letters, into it
. “Finding out the history of Rebecca will hopefully run right into the chapter where Eddie was in her life. Hell, check Facebook. See what her timeline has to offer.”

“On it.”

Brendan stuck out his hand. “I’ll be back in an hour. Oh. I have one other thing.” Brendan pulled the piece of paper out of his notes which had the serial number on it for the melted laptop. He handed it to Colinas. “See if you can find who this laptop computer was registered to, who purchased it, anything.”

The men exchanged phone numbers, shook hands, and Brendan hurried out the door, thinking about the best way to evade the reporters if they were still downstairs.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN / FRIDAY, 10:12 AM

He pulled up to Olivia Jane’s house and found Deputy Bostrom parked out front. Brendan opened the driver’s side door to the Camry, dropped and squashed his cigarette butt along the shoulder of the road, and got out. He noticed instantly how crammed Olivia’s short driveway had become. There was a dark blue Chevy Caprice, with a long antenna, parked in behind her green Aztec. It was a State Detective Squad undercover vehicle. Probably just like the one Rudy Colinas drove. Behind it was a Land Rover.

Bostrom’s Sheriff’s Department car was parked at the edge of the driveway, near the shoulder of the road. He was sitting in the vehicle as Brendan approached. As he neared the house, the garage came into better view, and the space between, through which the garden was visible. He could see the gold of police tape fluttering in the wind.

“This is insane,” he muttered.

Bostrom rolled down his window, seeing Brendan approach. The two men greeted one another, and Brendan looked at the house.

“Two State Dicks in there,” said Bostrom.

“When did they get here?”

“Bout seven-thirty this morning. Maybe a little before. I came on at seven.”

Brendan nodded. He looked over at the Land Rover, which was close enough to spit on.

“The woman’s lawyer,” remarked Bostrom, looking at the vehicle. His front bumper almost made contact with it.

“And when did he or she arrive?”

“She. Maybe ten minutes after the dicks.”

That could explain Olivia’s behavior on the phone
, thought Brendan. Last night his own department had responded to the scene when he’d called 911 and given his badge number after shooting Kevin Heilshorn. Now that he was back here, the scene replayed itself yet again. He could see right where the young man had been standing. Brendan began to feel light-headed.

Bostrom was looking at Brendan’s hands. Brendan looked down and saw that they were shaking. He was holding the manila envelope, and it was quivering against his leg.

“You alright?” Bostrom’s question was genuine. The two men may have had some tension the day before, but there was no hint of pleasure in Bostrom’s face as he asked the detective how he was doing.

“I don’t know,” answered Brendan honestly.

“Rough night,” said the deputy.

It was all anyone seemed to know how to say.
Rough night. Tough situation.
He felt like they were the kinds of euphemisms people offered to someone with a terminal sickness. Brendan wondered how much longer he had on the case. The Sheriff was in his corner, but that might be it; Taber wanted a conference later. Ostensibly, it was to go over case notes and put together a more official progress report. But Brendan knew what the ulterior might be; further questioning of his ability to continue with the investigation, given the extreme developments of late.

Brendan started up towards Olivia’s house without another word to Bostrom. The deputy leaned out of the car and asked, cryptically, “You sure?” Maybe what he wanted to ask was,
Are you nuts, heading in there?

Brendan didn’t know how dialed-in Bostrom was to the situation with Olivia Jane, but perhaps he was intuitive enough to understand that, given the circumstances, it was an odd choice to go house-calling when the State Detective Squad was running this side of things, and the woman had her goddamn lawyer present.

The lawyer was a curious addition to the equation, Brendan thought. Likely, though, it had far less to do with any possibility of culpability on the part of Olivia Jane, but more to do with her need to protect her confidentiality, and guide her role as it pertained to both investigations.

He looked at her quaint Cape Cod-style house, with its elegant porch and lathed posts and railing spindles. The windows which had been shot out were crisscrossed with masking tape.

Brendan stopped. He tapped the manila envelope gently against his leg. His shaking was subsiding, his heart rate resuming a normal tempo. The day was shining, and bright bulbs of clouds sailed overhead.

Halfway up the path, Brendan decided to turn around.

He started back towards the driveway, and could see some sort of relief in Bostrom’s face, who was watching. Then Bostrom’s eyes flicked over Brendan’s shoulder as he looked up at the house.

“Investigator Healy?”

He looked back and saw Olivia Jane. She stood on the porch at the top of the three stairs down to the walkway. He took a few steps back in her direction, and then stopped again when he saw she had ventured no further herself.

He tried on a smile. “Wanted to see if you would go get that breakfast with me, after all.”

She gave him a look, trying to size him up. He saw her eyes fall to the envelope he was carrying, and so he lifted it up. “Something I really need to get your opinion on. But it can wait. Sorry to bother you.” He smiled again and gave her a short nod, almost a bow. Then he started to leave once more.

“I can meet with you tomorrow,” she said.

He paused. He looked at her across the short distance, twenty feet or so, between them. She was wearing grey slacks and a white dress shirt, the short collar open and revealing her neck and collar bones; and a grey vest, buttoned. Her hair was pulled up, her face open, and tired. She looked exhausted and pretty at the same time.

“That would be great,” Brendan said.

“Around noon?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Okay.” She left the porch without lingering and went back inside.

Brendan stood on the walkway for a moment after the door closed and then resumed walking back to his car. Bostrom was gaping. “Did you just score a
date
, Detective Healy? Gonna roast the broomstick or what?”

Brendan ignored the remark, but felt the corner of his mouth curl up a little. He passed Bostrom in his vehicle and got back into the Camry.

* * *

Brendan ate by himself at a diner near the department, which was often populated by policemen and construction workers. At ten-thirty, hardly anyone was around. He spread his notes out on the table and ordered a coffee, an omelet with ham and cheese, toast, bacon, and hash browns. He doubted he would finish it all, but he’d felt ravenous when he ordered.

He worked his case notes for a while and ate. Then he took out his phone, found Colinas’s phone number, and called him up.

“Rudy Colinas,” said the State Detective.

“Colinas. Healy.”

“You get hit by those reporters on your way out?”

Brendan had managed to slip by them this time. “No. Why?”

“There’s more of them. From Syracuse, Albany, and word is, on the way from New York. I guess Heilshorn, the dad, he’s a big time doctor in the city. Someone in his office overheard something, maybe Heilshorn talking to the coroner, some nurse, who knows, and the press knows and is on their way. He’s a pretty big deal, I guess. He apparently saved some woman’s blue-baby by injecting it with oxygen, or something. You believe that? It lived for thirty minutes without taking a breath.”

“So who’s making a statement?”

“Skene. Your Oneida Senior Prosecutor. He’s on his way, he says, press conference in about an hour. I guarantee you he’s waiting for New York press to show up.”

Brendan put his head in his free hand and massaged his temples. He imagined the headline: Cop Shoots Son of Wealthy Doctor While Investigating Daughter’s Murder. This was getting worse by the second. He wasn’t going to be able to carry on an efficient investigation this way, and Delaney would know it. It was Delaney’s call, anyway. They were short on detectives, yes, but they were already adding in people from the State, and they could pull on city investigators too, from Utica and Rome.

While he was thinking these depressing thoughts, he heard Colinas rustling about on the other end. Colinas said “What?” then, “Yeah, okay.”

“What’s going on?”

Colinas came back over with a clearer voice. “Delaney and Taber want to meet with you. Where are you?”

“I’m at the diner.”

“He’s at the diner,” Colinas said, once more with his mouth not quite to the phone. Back again: “Okay, yeah. Stay there. They’ll be right over.” He added, “Hey, good luck.”

Then, just when Brendan was about to hang up the call, Colinas blurted something. “Oh! I found out about the serial number.” There was genuine excitement in the State Detective’s voice.

“Tell me.”

“You’re going to love it. The laptop that got melted to shit is registered to user ‘Eddie Stemp.’ ”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Think that’s our Eddie?”

“Either that or it’s one hell of a coincidence. And from what those older, bitter cops all tell you, there’s no such thing.”

“Ha. Right. So, not bad. Two birds, one stone.”

“Thanks, Colinas.”

“You bet.”

Brendan hung up.

* * *

Delaney was red-faced when he came into the diner. Apparently he’d hustled his ass. Taber, younger and in better shape, didn’t look so out of breath.

They sat down across from Brendan. The waitress appeared.

“Just coffee,” said Taber. Delaney asked to see a menu. They waited while Delaney traced his finger along the menu, a long laminated sheet with pictures and descriptions on both sides. He flipped it over, examined it, and then flipped it back again. Finally, he looked at Brendan’s plate, which was mostly cleared, and said, “Whatever he had.”

The waitress left. Brendan looked at his two superiors expectantly, but he was already bracing himself for the inevitable. They would deliver the news that he was off the case and on administrative leave, he’d plead why he needed to continue, they would explain the particulars to him, and that it was non-negotiable anyway. They would blame bureaucracy, and talk to him about his mental health.

“Heilshorn called shortly after you left,” Taber said.

“You spoke to him?”

“I did.” Taber gave Delaney a look. The two men were almost comical, both of them considerably large individuals, crammed into one side of the booth next to each other. “He’s not pleased.”

“Oh?” Brendan figured he might as well pay the check and leave.

“He’s not,” Taber went on. “He wants to bring in his own investigators.”

Brendan opened his mouth to say something, he wasn’t sure what. Maybe,
Okay, you can find me at home if you need me, staring at a dark wall.
The thought of drinking passed through his mind, like a reflex, and he even thought he could taste the whiskey on his tongue. It filled him with a kind of nauseating warmth, and an excitement, like the idea of getting suddenly rich.

“It’s liable to turn into a fucking circus,” said Delaney before Brendan had the chance to speak.

“But we’re not going to let it,” said Taber.

Brendan regarded the two men. “How does he think he can bring in his own investigators? P.I.s, you mean?”

Taber was nodding. “Yes. He has a private investigator. Jerry Brown. Maybe more than him. Not only do we have to, by law, allow them to adjunct the investigation, but Heilshorn is putting in calls to determine which detectives will work the case up here.”

“That’s insane. Who does he think he is?”

“He’s a very wealthy man,” said Taber.

“Oh Jesus. Why does it always have to be, ‘He’s a very wealthy man’?”

Both Taber and Delaney looked at Brendan like they didn’t quite understand the reference. Brendan asked, “Don’t you guys ever go to the movies? It’s always some rich family. It’s never a movie about a poor family.”

Taber blinked. “I went to see the
Expendables II
. My son took me. Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sylvester Stallone, all those guys.”

Brendan suddenly laughed. Taber was so matter-of-fact, Brendan had to wonder if there was a figurative bone in the Sheriff’s earnest body.

“I’m surprised your son knows who those guys are,” Delaney interjected. “How old is Tom? Eighteen?”

Taber was nodding. “Eighteen. Freshman at UAlbany. Oh, he knows who they are, I guess.”

They quickly returned their attention from this little digression back to Brendan. At the same time, Taber’s coffee came. “Thank you,” he said absently, and leaned into the table. “We said, ‘We’re not taking Healy off the case.’ ”

“ ‘Fuck this guy,’ we said,” Delaney chimed in.

Brendan gaped at his two superior officers.

“You did what you had to do, you held your own in the line of duty,” said Delaney. “Who knows what was going through this Kevin-kid’s head. You saw how he was – grief stricken and mentally unstable. We know you did what any good cop would have done. And we told Heilshorn that, with all due respect, he was just too upset to see it. That we needed to keep you on the case because you’ve been a part of it, every moment since it began.”

“For the last thirty hours,” Taber added. He sipped his coffee.

It took Brendan a moment, but then he waited for the penny to drop.