Read The Stones Cry Out Online
Authors: Sibella Giorello
Tags: #Mystery, #Contemporary, #Mysteries & Thrillers
The Stones Cry Out (35 page)
More troubling: Janine Falcon.
"What about the mayor?" I said. "Did Mel explain where Mendant fits in?"
"Not so much. He seems awfully afraid of Mr. Mayor. But we're serving a warrant at His Honor’s tomorrow. That might clear things up. And I put White Collar on his records. Turns out he’s the real owner of that boxing gym. Money went through that place on a conveyor belt. Or should I say a laundry machine. And yet the place never pays any taxes. Go figure."
"Is that why Mel went to Mendant’s house last night?"
“No.” John laughed.
“What’s funny?”
"Sorry, it’s just funny to me. That kid claims you stole his sweat suit. He got scared because it’s the one he wore on the roof that day. He thought Mendant should know, because you’re an FBI agent. And while Mel was in there spilling beans somebody called the house -- probably our Chinese delivery guy,
after
he got his money. Mel took off running." He grinned. “Is this a great case or what?"
His expression was something I'd never seen before on his face. Borderline joy.
"Hey, Raleigh, I owe you an apology. I gave you a hard time on this. But you were right. All along, you were right."
"Thanks." The victory felt hollow. "Really. Thanks."
"And I'll return the favor. Promise. You have my word."
I smiled and waved him off, fighting back the mean thoughts.
How could he return the favor, when he was retiring?
Still smiling, I said, "Soak it all up, John. Enjoy the glory. Go out in a blaze."
And I almost meant it.
The late afternoon air felt whispery as I walked home from John's condo building. But the gusting summer breeze had shifted by the time I reached Monument Avenue. Burst of air pushed through the gingko trees, flipping the fan-shaped leaves upside down to show the silver-green underbellies. And the clouds were darkening.
I took the alley route to the carriage house, still beating back a seething self-pity. It just seemed so wrong. Phaup suspended me for sticking to this case, and now John looked like a genius for cracking it. I could hear the cheers in the office, all the backslapping. John Breit, the agent who solved a Civil Rights case in Richmond and also brought down the city’s mayor.
The story would go national.
He would retire with honors.
For several long moments, with the air swirling around me, I stood at the back fence. In the alley, my sister Helen’s lime-green VW Beetle was parked illegally. I let out a groan. Then I decided misery was misery.
Walking across the courtyard, I opened the kitchen door.
My sister was sitting at the table between my mom and Wally. The dog rested at Wally’s feet. And my mother wore red clogs. With a Dutch Master’s cap. She looked like a woman lifted out of a Vermeer painting.
"Raleigh!" she exclaimed. "You're finally home!"
She said it as though I was the child who never came around.
"Now that you're finally here, you can see Helen’s photos. Come and look!"
"Amsterdam?" I managed.
"It was amazing,” Helen said. "And I was such a hit, they asked me to come to Brussels in September. My research on van Gogh is absolutely groundbreaking."
My mother turned to me. Her face was shining with bliss, the good cheer blushing her lips like pink tulips.
"Your sister is world famous, Raleigh. Wouldn't your father be proud?"
I sat down and endured fifteen minutes of Helen's photographs. As usual, my sister made ample use of her camera's self-timer, so she could pose in every other frame. And why shouldn’t she? In addition to everything else, Helen looked even more beautiful on film.
Helen Harmon: her own work of art.
At the appropriate moments, I smiled. I nodded. Ooh'ing and aah'ing and listening as Helen boasted of her brilliance. Meanwhile my mind ruminated on Miss Williamson's verse from Second Corinthians. And I wondered why God hadn’t sent a lightning bolt to smote my sister.
She was collecting the photos, stacking them into a neat pile, when she said, "You know what I want to do?"
I could only imagine.
"What? What?" My mother asked, excited beyond all measure.
"Let's all go out to eat. My treat."
My mother clapped her hands. The bracelets sang. "And let's get dressed up! I want to wear my new hat."
Helen looked at me. “Well?”
I smiled, as politely as possible. "I have work to do."
"Work, work, work!" My mother shook her head. The feather in her cap wagged at me, like a finger. "That's all you do, Raleigh. Work. Why can't you be more like your sister, live a little?"
Wally stood up. My friend for life. “I can’t go either,” he said. “But, hey, thanks for the invitation.”
I fully expected my sister to suddenly back out. Helen never liked to bear her own responsibilities.
But instead she began making a big production of getting the Dutch mistress out the door. Five minutes of insisting this meal was going to be the best of our mother's life.
When they finally left, the red clogs hammering across the slate courtyard, Wally went to his darkroom and I went to the carriage house, taking Madame with me. Heat lightning flashed in the sky and in the distance, thunder gave its muted grumble.
In the carriage house, I gave Madame some cookies and stood at the windows waiting for rain. It began slowly, a simple little dance of water. But quickly it built to a roaring crescendo, the water sluicing down the brick walls and spilling across the hallowed cobblestones, rushing like a flash flood.
Lost in thought, I must have stood there a long time. Helen and my mother returned from their meal, both of them shrieking like girls through the downpour, leaping into the kitchen.
I turned and walked to my bedroom.
From under the bed, I removed the shoe box containing my father’s broken Timex. Holding it in my hand, I thought of Janine Falcon. She would be receiving her husband’s watch. And I remembered that night when Detective Greene handed me his partner’s file. “Mike’s ghost.” And I recalled his words, that if I didn’t have a ghost yet, I would someday.
I didn’t have the strength to tell him. Maybe I never would.
But I had a ghost: My dad’s case.
From another box under the bed, I took out the legal papers and notes. Things I collected from his desk the day after he died. The day after somebody murdered him. I stared at his blue-ink notations in the margins of the legal pads. His handwriting looked fresh.
In the living room, I spread the paperwork across the floor, making a whispery quilt. Then I settled down in the low lamplight, and began.
I began my work.
The End
Thank you for taking the time to read
The Stones Cry Out.
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Acknowledgments
No book, particularly one written by a mother with young children, is a solo effort. Without the help of people endowed with generous spirits, this book would not exist. Here are some of the good souls:
The G-men (and women) in the FBI's Richmond field office, who graciously answered my questions. Interviewing these people was nothing short of an honor. In particular, Special Agent Wayne Smith deserves a medal for his tireless support of this project. And Special Agent Katie Land, for her wit. In the Bureau's Materials Analysis Lab, thanks go to Special Agent Bruce Hall, soil specialist extraordinaire, and the hardworking crew in the mineralogy lab.
Richmond is a city full of southern characters who don't realize they're characters—the best kind—and many are playing within this book. Thanks to all who told me their stories. And the late Nelson Hyde, the character who first opened the door to Richmond.
Detectives Tom Leonard and Boo Quick with the Richmond Police Department let me hang around their shop while they quietly cracked ice-cold cases. Rick Berquist, geologist with the Virginia Division of Mineral Resources, carried soil to my house in a Ziploc bag, then patiently explained why it was special. Amy Brichta, with the Richmond Medical Examiner's office, offered knowledge and scary science books. My agent, Brian Peterson, gave unwavering enthusiasm; my editor at Revell, Lonnie Hull DuPont, graced every step with her poetic spirit. Amy Lathrop, the genius behind LitFuse publicity, and Christy Anderson for making sure every “i” was dotted, and every “t” crossed, without losing the story. (By the way, when Christy read that last clause, she pointed out that the individual letters should be italicized. But I’m leaving them, ensuring her job security).
And finally, Rev. Charles "Where's my rock?" Reynolds who took me through the book of Micah with piercing intelligence—then said the greatest sentence in the Bible might be "Jesus wept," but a close second would be "Jesus laughed."
On a personal note, the wagons gathered many times over the eight years it took to finish this project, allowing me time for interviews and writing. Thanks go to Sherry Clements, who makes kids feel like kings; Pam Hill and her fun house; Claudia Cronin, Crys Gaston, and Robin O'Leaiy, for friendship beyond measure; Phyllis Theroux, my mentor, my friend; and Debbie Kendrick, who tapped my shoulder one evening many years ago and proceeded to electrify my spirit.
Thanks to my parents, who always encouraged adventure but never forgot what was home. And to all my family in Seattle, especially my brother Roger.
My deepest thanks, however, go to the Three Wise Guys: Joe, Daniel, and Nico. Without your love, laughter, and unending support, this book would not be possible. I am forever grateful.
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About the Author
Sibella Giorello was a features reporter for the Richmond
Times-Dispatch
for more than ten years. Her stories won many state and national awards, including two nominations for the Pulitzer Prize. She now lives in Washington State with her husband and sons. This is her first novel in the Raleigh Harmon series. For more information, go to HYPERLINK "http://www.sibellagiorello.com"
www.SibellaGiorello.com
.
Copyright
Cool Gus Publishing
http://coolgus.com
Copyright 2007, Revell Copyright 2010, Sibella Giorello, updated 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Giorello, Sibella.
The stones cry out : a novel / Sibella Giorello.
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