Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation (5 page)

“Aye, would seem so,” Felicity replied, her
words were forced squeakily through a deep yawn.

“Tired?”

“I’ve only had about an hour of sleep. What
do you think?”

“What time did you get in?”

“I didn’t get here until almost one
forty-five,” she replied.

“Why so late?”

“The shoot ran late, then I took a wrong turn
getting back to the highway, so that took forever. It was a bad
night all around.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“How about yours?”

“Uneventful. Took the dogs to the park,
answered some email then looked at the news.”

“You seemed pretty zonked when I came to bed.
I tried not to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” I called back to her. “I was
going to wait up but finally called it a night around
eleven-fifteen or so.”

“You…” the rest of the sentence was nothing
more than a squeaky garble as she yawned again.

“What?”

“You didn’t have to wait up,” she said in a
far more intelligible fashion.

“I missed you.”

“How sweet.”

“Okay, it’s a little early, so before this
gets any mushier, what’s up with this call?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I thought this whole thing was
supposed to be for the specialized stuff.”

“Or emergencies.”

“You never told me that part.”

“I didn’t?”

“No.”

“Must have slipped my mind then.”

“Yeah,” I grunted. “So this is an
emergency?”

“Apparently.”

“How so?”

“Flu epidemic.”

“Yeah, that’s old news. What does it have to
do with this?”

“Crime scene technicians get the flu
too.”

“All of them?” I asked with a note of
disbelief.

“The ones who know how to use a camera it
seems. There’s a bit more to it than taking a few point-and-shoot
snapshots you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“
Anyway, Ben said they were
short-staffed across the board.”

“But, still, it’s a bit quick to be calling
you out, don’t you think?” I pressed. “Didn’t they have anyone more
experienced on the list?”

“Aye, this is really getting under your skin,
isn’t it then?”

“No.”

“
Cac capaill,
” she
mumbled.

“I heard that,” I said in reply to her
under-the-breath Gaelic epithet. “And, where I come from we say
‘bullshit’.”

“Horse shit works too.”

“Okay. Yeah, so I’m not excited about it. But
you already knew that. Even so, that didn’t answer my
question.”

“You mean about experience? I guess. Maybe,”
she replied, and I could almost hear the shrug in her voice. “Ben
said he called four others before he got to me. I can’t help it
that I’m the only one who answered the phone.”

“You didn’t.” I corrected her over my
shoulder as I carefully filled the travel mugs. “I did.”

“Minor detail.”

“Oh yeah? Next time I’ll just let the machine
get it.”

“I’ll only hit you harder.”

“Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you?”

“Aye.”

I plopped a trio of raw sugar cubes into one
of the mugs then screwed the lid tightly onto it before continuing.
“So you’re telling me no one else answered?”

“That’s what Ben said.”

“Lucky you.”

“Aye. Lucky me.”

I stepped through the doorway and nudged
Felicity’s arm with the metal and plastic vessel. She looked up
from the street guide she was intently studying and turned her head
toward me.

“Here,” I said. “This might help get rid of
the accent.”

She looked at me and simply shook her head
then accepted the proffered mug and immediately took a swig. In a
quick motion, she held it back toward me at arm’s length. “Needs
sugar.”

“It’s in there,” I told her as I turned and
headed back into the kitchen. “Just give it a good swirl.”

“You didn’t stir it?” she called after
me.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re in a hurry, right? Besides, why dirty
up a spoon?”

I heard her let out a heavy sigh. “How many
then?”

“Three.”

“This is a big cup. It needs at least five.
Maybe six or seven.”

“You’re sweet enough already. You got
three.”

“Hah hah” was her exaggerated reply.

“So, do you have everything you need?” I
asked, coming back out of the kitchen with my own mug of the brew.
I had already donned my coat, and now I peered at her over the rim
of my cup as I took a drink.

“Where are
you
going?” she asked after sizing me
up.

“With you.”

“Why?”

“Because I ‘find it interesting’.”

“Rowan…” she huffed. “I’ll be fine. I can do
this without you.”

I reached down to pick up the larger of the
two camera cases she had sitting on the table then slung it over my
shoulder and headed for the door.

“I know you will, and I never said you
couldn’t.” I stopped in the living room and turned back toward her.
“So… Are you driving or am I?”

My wife rolled her eyes at me then muttered,
“Damned Pisces.”

“Damned Taurus,” I replied with a grin.

She simply sighed again and shook her head. A
moment later she took hold of the other equipment bag, hefted it
onto her own shoulder, then started forward and brushed past me
while saying, “Aye, we’ll take my Jeep. I think I’ve got some sugar
packets in the glove box.”

“Heya, Felicity,” Ben called out, nodding
toward my wife as he put himself through the excessive gyrations
necessary to slip his bulk beneath a bright yellow strip of crime
scene tape. “Sorry I had ta’ call ya’ out like this.”

“It’s no problem, then,” she returned.

Once he’d unfolded his frame, he continued
walking toward us. “Jeez,” he continued. “We’ve never had anything
like this happen before. I had ta’ make five calls just ta’ get the
okay ta’ bring in a freelancer.”

“That bad, huh?” she queried as he came to a
stop in front of us.

“Yeah. We’re so fuckin’ short-staffed it’s a
wonder some asshole hasn’t stolen the entire city,” he grumbled.
“And now this. Shit, if this whole scene wasn’t such a cluster, I’d
just stick a camera in someone’s hands and have ‘em take snapshots.
I’m really sorry I had ta’ call ya’ out on this.”

“Aye, Ben, it’s okay. Not a problem,”
Felicity repeated.

He abandoned seriousness for a moment and
allowed his face to spread into a slight grin. “Damn, I love it
when ya’ do the accent.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Ben,”
my wife quipped. “I don’t have an accent. You do.”

He chuckled and then leveled his gaze on me.
“So, what the hell are YOU doin’ here, white man?”

“Nice to see you too,” I replied.

Homicide Detective Benjamin Storm stood
six-foot-six, and a quick glance at him was enough to show he was
no stranger to the weight room. He was casually dressed as usual,
clad in a pair of faded denim jeans and a loose-fitting, charcoal
grey, fisherman’s sweater. His gold shield was hanging around his
neck on a thick cord, and his nine-millimeter Beretta was nestled
beneath his left arm in a worn, leather shoulder rig.

Now that he was close enough for us to see
his face, it was obvious that he’d probably been dragged out of his
own slumber just as unceremoniously as had we. Still, even with his
rumpled appearance, he made an altogether imposing figure. Of
course, it probably didn’t help that at this particular moment the
three of us were standing here in the oblique shadows of a motel
parking lot watching our breath condense on the chilly breeze.

Harsh red and white splashes of brightness
flickered across the scene from active light bars atop emergency
vehicles, their on and off glare lending a patina of chaos to what
would seem an otherwise somber night. The familiar background din
of static and tinny voices prevailed from police radios, running
the gamut of low range volumes.

Although Ben had recently begun to show a
minor bit of greying, he still possessed a collar length helm of
almost completely jet-black hair. That, his complexion, and his
dark eyes combined with his rugged features to leave no doubt as to
his full-blooded Native American heritage.If any doubt still
existed, however, the nickname he had just tagged me with was a
direct product of that history as well.

We’d been friends longer than I cared to
remember, and the tongue-in-cheek banter had been a part of our
dynamic almost from the word go. I would call him “Chief”, “Tonto”,
or even “Injun”. He would counter with “Kemosabe”, “white man”, or
“paleface”. He even went so far as to give Hollywoodesque Indian
names to Felicity such as “Firehair” or “Red Squaw”.

We were both perfectly aware that people
around us could be so caught up in runaway political correctness
that they would visibly cringe when they heard us. Of course, if we
happened to notice their discomfort, we would both be so amused
that we would exaggerate the repartee for nothing more than our own
entertainment.

However, at this very moment, the most
important thing about the moniker was that it told that he wasn’t
angered about me tagging along. He was merely giving me grief just
for the sake of it. Considering his earlier tone, I hadn’t been
sure what his reaction was going to be. His eventual reply to my
non-answer simply perpetuated the chaff.

“Didn’t say it wasn’t nice ta’ see ya’,” he
said. “I just don’t remember invitin’ you to our little
rendezvous.”

“You woke me up,” I told him. “That’s
invitation enough for me.”

My friend grunted then gave his head an
exaggerated shake and parked his hands on his hips. Looking over at
my wife with a flirtatious grin, he exclaimed, “Well damn,
sweetheart! Guess we’re gonna have ta’ find a different place ta’
meet now.”

She quickly picked up on the joke and nodded.
“Aye. I suppose you’re right, pookums.”

“Go ahead,” I offered with a shake of my
head. “She’d just hurt you.”

“Yeah, you’re prob’ly right ‘bout that,” he
agreed with a chuckle.

“So, you’re in an awfully good mood
considering the circumstances,” I said. “You didn’t sound this
chipper on the phone.”

“Prob’ly lack of sleep,” he replied, rubbing
a large hand across his chin. “That, or just tryin’ ta’ stay sane,
take your pick.”

“Knowing you? All of the above,” I
returned.

“Uh-huh,” he grunted then added with a note
of seriousness slipping into his voice, “Yeah, well, you got no
idea, Row.”

“Is it really that bad in there?” Felicity
asked.

My friend reflexively brought his hand back
up to smooth his hair, something he always did when he was
carefully mulling over a crucial thought. “If you’re talkin’ like
real gory, yes and no,” he finally said. “It sure’s hell ain’t
pretty, that’s a fact… Guess it depends on your stomach, but I know
you’ve both seen worse.”

“So not very high on the gore-meter?” she
returned.

“Oh, I dunno. ‘Bout a six or seven, I guess…
But that’s not really what I’m talkin’ about. The bad is gonna
happen soon as the TV people get here.”

“I’m surprised they aren’t already,” I
observed.

“Yeah, me too,” he agreed then suddenly gave
his head a quick jerk and exclaimed, “Jeezus, this is gonna be
fucked up!”

I shrugged. “You mean the press? So what?
That’s not unusual.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’m tellin’ ya’ this is
worse. It’s gonna be capital F-U-C-K-E-D fucked with an underline
this time.”

“Okay, I give. Why?”

He looked me square in the eyes and sighed.
“Well, you’re gonna know soon enough anyway.”

“Okay, so now I’m getting curious,” Felicity
announced. “What in the world has you so wrapped, then?”

“Jeezus…” he muttered then cast a glance
quickly between us. “So look, we’re tryin’ ta’ keep a lid on this
for as long as we can, so what I’m gonna tell ya’ doesn’t go any
further, ‘kay?”

I nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

“Of course,” my wife answered.

He looked off into space for a second then
back to us. “Either of you ever heard the name Hammond K.
Wentworth?”

I nodded. “Sounds familiar. He’s a judge or
something, isn’t he?”

“District court judge,” Felicity piped up.
“Isn’t he the one who presided over the big racketeering case with
that construction company earlier… Wait a minute, you’re not
saying…”

“Yeah, I’m sayin’…” Ben affirmed as he
nodded. “He’s the stiff yer gettin’ ready ta’ immortalize.”

“A federal judge?” my wife almost yelped the
question.

“Yeah. That’s why we had ta’ have a decent
photographer on the scene and not just have someone do the ‘point,
snap, okay I got the picture’ thing.”

The magnitude of the victim’s identity struck
home, and my brain immediately seized on the most obvious scenario.
“So do you think this was some kind of a contract killing?” I
asked. “Organized crime, all that?”

“Who the fuck knows?” he replied. “Maybe.
Maybe not. We gotta figure all the angles, and we definitely ain’t
rulin’ that one out.”

“But is that how it looks?” Felicity
asked.

“Let’s put it this way: The back of his
goddamn head and most of his brain is all over the wall, but…
Well…” he verbally stumbled, searching for words.

“Something’s not right?” I offered.

“‘
Zactly,” he said with a nod.
“Somethin’s hinky… I dunno what it is, but it just doesn’t look
right.

“Why a motel room?” Felicity asked. “Are you
thinking maybe suicide instead?”

He shook his head. “No. Prob’ly not suicide.
Not unless the gun grew legs and walked off. Maybe robbery…”

As his last words trailed off, I started
making my own connection with what I believed he was implying, so I
asked, “Robbery as in a personal services transaction gone wrong,
you mean?”