Beneath the Cracks (28 page)

That covered everything I was willing to
divulge, but what Darnell learned from the file the FBI sent about
the process of vetting me for employment surely had revealed
more.  My eyes fluttered shut.  "To top off this lovely
tale, you should know that my father is not dead, even though I
would much rather think of him that way.  He's been a guest in
a lovely facility in upstate New York for the last two decades,
give or take a year or two.  He was convicted of armed robbery
and felony murder of the guards driving the armored car he
robbed.  I understand you can read all about his exploits on
the Internet.  They called him Jersey Third Eye, and in
addition to being a successful thief, dear old Dad also killed two
innocent people.  That aside, he was still a decorated police
detective."

A pin dropping would've made the racket of a
sonic boom.  Nobody looked more shocked than Darnell, which
surprised me I guess.  Had he requested a file and not
bothered to read it?

"Helen…"

I interrupted Darnell before he could
verbalize the multitude of questions written in his somber
expression. "I'd say it's obvious why I don't speak of my father
much, and when I do, the memories are from far before I learned the
truth about him."

"How old were you when he was
arrested?"  Darnell's face transformed into an unreadable
mask.  His voice trembled just the slightest bit, and if I
thought Seleeby struck the fear of God in my heart, it paled to
what simmered under the surface of Darnell's barely controlled
anger.

"I was nineteen years old, a college student
for two years."

His eyes settled on Seleeby who had grown
smugger by the second while I let him believe he forced me to tip
the scales in his favor.  It was all a matter of record
anyway.  Nothing I said was incriminating beyond unfortunate
circumstance.  The really damning stuff would go with me to my
grave – or so I thought.

"You sir," Darnell's anger let loose, "are a
fool.  You're basing this witch hunt on things that happened
beyond Detective Eriksson's control.  She was a child when her
father was on the loose, in the first place, but more importantly,
our justice system does not visit the sins of the father on his
children.  As for her marital errors, my first wife was
dishonorably discharged from the military.  Should the Corps
have put me under a microscope because she was a bad soldier? 
It is not only possible for spouses to be deceitful creatures, it
happens a hell of a lot more than a misanthropic zealot like
yourself is obviously aware."

Tony and Crevan edged away from Darnell and
Seleeby and closer to me.  Possibly from the force of
Darnell's anger, I'm not sure.

"Thanks to you, my weekend, my
down
time
with a wife who is loving and faithful not only to me, but
the values I hold dear, is completely wrecked."

"I don't give a damn about your –"

"You should," Darnell cut him off, "because
the FBI asked if I'd be so kind as to personally escort you back to
D.C.  I believe they're planning to hold a disciplinary
hearing, one for which you had better appear sufficiently whipped
into contrition if you value your position at all."

Throwing his federal credentials around was
the one thing Seleeby valued more than nailing me for a crime he
could not possibly have evidence I committed.

"I'll go with you, Mr. Darnell, but I would
like the opportunity to ask Helen one question before I go."

Darnell glanced at me.  "Eriksson?" he
barked.  "You good with that?"

"Did you come here to flaunt this murder
weapon you supposedly have again?" I asked.

Seleeby shook his head, and the gleam in his
eye should've started waving red flags all over the place in my
brain.  Unfortunately, it did not. 

"I was wondering if you've ever heard of
Eddie Franchetta."

"I believe he has a pizza parlor on the
Upper East Side," I deadpanned.

"No, but he does enjoy his Sunday evening
jogs in the national parks."

"Good for him," I said.  I didn't
flinch.  Didn't look worried.  Didn't let my heart slam
through my sternum and flop around on the floor.  I got the
message loud and clear. 

Seleeby believed he had an eyewitness to
Rick's murder.

Darnell snorted softly and waved one hand in
front of Seleeby.  "We have a private flight to catch, Mr.
Seleeby, and I think the director said something about the cost of
it coming out of your salary."

I started wondering if the mess I left
behind me would ever stop haunting me.  The preemptive strike
against what Seleeby planned to reveal to my newfound brothers in
arms had left two witnesses staring at me with something akin to
stunned horror.

"Oh stop already.  Do you expect me to
believe you wouldn't be reluctant to trot a history like that out
for mass consumption?  Christ, it's no wonder Seleeby thinks
I've got to be guilty of more than stupidity."

Briscoe slumped against the edge of his
desk.  "Damn."

"It's not as bad as it sounds, Tony. 
C'mon.  Don't let this –"

"This ex of yours is lucky Marcos got to him
first," Crevan said.  "Because I promise you, Helen, if Johnny
had known you while this guy was still breathing, and found out all
the details, I think Seleeby would be harassing somebody else."

"It's like the fucker is still reaching out
from the grave and screwin' with your life," Briscoe said. 
"Pardon my French, Eriksson."

Unbelievable.  They were both fixated
on Rick, and not one comment dropped about Wendell.

"Really," Crevan agreed with his
partner.  "I wouldn't put it past Marcos to have targeted Rick
because
Helen was in the bureau.  Sort of like an
insurance policy if anybody ever got too close."

"Hold on there, you two.  The last
thing I need is more conspiracy theories."  Besides, that one
danced a little too close to the truth, one that would've
ultimately shown both of them exactly how much motive I did have to
kill Rick.  "Nobody held a gun to Rick's head and made him
decide to break the law.  Nobody held a gun to his head and
made him lead Seleeby to believe he'd testify against Marcos."

"No but somebody sure did to make sure he
wouldn't testify against Marcos," Crevan said.  "Honey, I'm so
sorry for all you've been through.  Come here."

I felt like an utter shit for accepting the
condolences offered by two good cops who believed in someone they
thought was their friend.  Accept it I did.  I stepped
into Crevan's embrace.  "I'm fine, Crevan.  It's taken
awhile, but I'm going to be okay."

Tony patted my shoulder.  "Geez,
Helen.  No wonder you been such a basket case all this
time.  Why didn't you tell us about this mess in the first
place?"

"You didn't know me." 
Still
don't
.  "Why would I believe you'd care about my
problems?"

His finger stabbed the air in a trademark
gesture.  "'Cause you're one of us, and we look out for our
own.  You been our kinda people since the night you set foot
on our soggy soil.  Got it?"

"Thanks," I rasped.  For the first time
in years, I meant it.  At least when it was directed to peers
that
weren't
David.  Speaking of which…why hadn't he
called me?

"Is our guest out for the night?" Briscoe
asked.

I nodded.  "Snoring like a Saint
Bernard."

"Then I suggest we take a cue from the man
of the hour and catch some z's before he wakes up and we get to
take a run at him."

"I think I'd rather stick around and make
sure he's not alone when the haloperidol wears off."  We
hadn't had the chance to discuss Denton's paranoia before the drama
with Seleeby unfolded again.  "He's pretty convinced that
someone's going to get to him no matter where we put him."

"Helen, he's safe here.  Nobody without
a badge can get downstairs to the tombs.  You need your rest
too.  From what I've heard, this has been a pretty exhausting
week for you."

My eyes snapped into focus on Conall,
narrowed, assessing, suspicious.  "You men are worse gossips
than any ten women I know."

"He cares about you, that's all."

"Yeah, well Orion still has a big
mouth."

"Go home, Eriksson.  We'll pick up with
Denton bright and early tomorrow morning."

"No way.  I'll deal with Denton. 
I want you two keeping an eye on Dupree Farm.  Surely someone
has noticed that he didn't return with his workforce tonight. 
Maybe we should be out there watching the place right now."

Briscoe sighed and grabbed his jacket. 
"C'mon, Puppy.  I can take a hint.  Let's head on out
there and see what's what."

"On one condition," Crevan said.  "You
go home and rest."

"Deal."

But something was bothering me, a deep
tickle buried deep in my brain.  Something someone once said
to me mingled with Denton's fear.  What was it?  I pushed
it aside as a symptom of the candle wick burning too fast from both
ends.  Again. 

And I almost fell asleep without wondering
where Johnny was and if he missed me as much as I was starting to
feel the absence of him.

Chapter 25

Wendell Eriksson had been kept segregated
from the general population since his incarceration in Attica
Correctional Facility commenced some seventeen years earlier. 
Prior to the move upstate, Wendell resided on Rikers Island for
twenty-one months while he awaited the trial that ultimately
brought him to his home for the rest of his natural life. 

The segregation was an abomination in the
eyes of the inmates and most of the guards.  Wendell Eriksson
fell into a rare breed of prisoner.  He was one of the most
reviled criminals and a formerly decorated cop.  Either the
other inmates wanted to be the one to shank the infamous Jersey
Third Eye, or to make the pig bleed.

The irony was that there were still a few
guys running around the joint that Wendell helped put there. 
Mostly, though, he was grateful for the segregation, even though
the loneliness provided a little too much time for
reflection.  The first five or ten years had been more than
enough.  Everything after that turned into torture and
constant questioning:
what if
.

As in,
what if he had let his daughter
provide an adequate defense
? 

That one plagued Wendell almost as much as
his curiosity about Helen's life creeping up on twenty years after
he'd seen her last.  Sure, he had contacts, knew things, but
it wasn't the same.  It could never be good enough, not like
being able to watch over her personally.

Of all the things Wendell Eriksson had seen,
of all the so-called crimes against humanity he had committed, he
continued to look back on his life without regret.  The reason
for that had not changed in these many years.  Helen was worth
everything.

Pragmatic concerns made him speak of her
with only bitterness to those who came into contact with him. 
Everyone must believe he hated and resented her as much as the
woman who ended his free rein in society. 

With Marie, the hate was no act. 
Wendell cursed – and frequently – the day he met his late
wife.  She seemed an acceptable choice at the time, a
self-proclaimed infertile woman with moral flexibility that she
cleverly cloaked with devout faith and church attendance. 

The morality had been no lie, none of
it.  Marie turned out to be as religious a nut as they came,
but it never stopped her from performing what she called, the Robin
Hood Routine.  Steal from the rich and give to the church, in
her case. 

Infertility had been the big lie. 
Wendell wondered now at the outrage he felt when Marie's body
started to swell.  She swore up and down that she'd just been
eating more than usual.  When it ballooned by more than fifty
pounds in six months, Wendell dragged her to a doctor who gave him
the news of the impending blessed event.

"Scrape it out of her now," Wendell had
demanded.

Of course late term abortions were unheard
of at that time, so Wendell had originally planned to place this
squalling mistake in the loving arms of parents who wanted it, who
could give it a life he had no intention of living.

All that changed the day Helen was
born.  The nurse placed the spindly limbed child in his arms
outside a hospital nursery.  She wasn't screaming and
protesting the abrupt change in the environment like most babies
did.  Helen was different.  She was born with an
awareness that immediately pulled the umbilical cord away from
Marie and implanted it irrevocably between Wendell and his
daughter.

Even the day she was born, he knew she was
unique.  Helen's black eyes squinted in the bright light of
the hospital, but she looked at Wendell with a thoughtful gaze, and
he knew.  This child was him in a new incarnation.  Marie
had been little more than the vessel used to grow his
offspring.  Helen belonged to him alone.

So he had been the one to choose her name,
Helen Irene Eriksson, after his much loved, but long since departed
mother, and he was the one who bathed her, fed her, nurtured her,
kissed the boo boos and imparted what he hoped had been enough
wisdom to put her on a different path in life.  God knows he'd
done everything under the sun to provide for Helen financially.

In the end, Marie's hatred had ruined
everything.  "Stupid bitch," he muttered for the millionth
time since Marie tried to kill him on the Williamsburg Bridge after
their last heist.  "All she had to do was ask for a
divorce."

"Wendell, Wendell, Wendell," a taunting
voice floated into his cell.  "After all these years, it looks
like I was right."