******
In the hotel room with the wide mirror and the wide bed and windows on the dark city, Ann Dillon kisses Manny Whitman on the lips, says they’ll meet next weekend at the Bed and Breakfast in Lenox, and leaves.
She walks down the hall, passing doors, takes the elevator to the garage and starts across the lot. She steps without looking. A car screeches and rushes beside her. She steps back. The car stops with a skid. It takes a second to process. She‘s about to swear, and Mark Moraski gets out of the car.
“Get in,” he says.
“Mark, what are you doing? You almost hit me.”
“Get in, I said.”
“Mark! What’s the matter with you? Have you been following me?”
“I was curious.”
“More like stalking.”
“I’ve got a lot of questions. Now, please, get in.”
Ann looks around, pouts, says something under her breath and gets in.
Moraski drives out of the lot. The only sound is the static from the police band radio. After they drive through town, heading west, he asks her what’s she’s up to?
“What do you mean?”
“What do you and Manny Whitman have to talk about?”
“That’s none of your business, Mark.”
“It is my business, Ann.”
“Look, Mark, I don’t have to talk about any of this. The fact that I know Manny Whitman is a personal matter.”
“Personal?”
“Yes, personal.”
“What do you mean – ‘personal’?”
“What do you think I mean?”
“As in, hello, how are you, and how do we get away with this?”
“That’s beneath you, Mark. I don’t need to get away with anything, because I’ve done nothing.”
“Jesus, Ann, you know I like you; I’ve always liked you, but don’t tell me you’ve got yourself mixed up in this thing.”
“What thing?”
“What do you think – what thing?”
“Manny and I, we’ve been …”
“And don’t tell me that either.”
“And what’s it to you, Mark? You’ve got your life; you’re a married man.”
“Just don’t, alright?”
The static goes loud with volume. The dispatcher’s voice directs all units to an address on the border between West Hartford and Hartford.
“Look, Mark, my personal life doesn’t have a thing to do with your investigation. When you asked, I told you I think the letter’s a forgery.”
“And then you go – whatever – with the girl you just accused?”
“She wrote a letter. At most it’s attempted fraud by a confused, distraught orphan with a disability who just lost her last living relative. O, yeah, they’ll throw away the key with that one.”
“Quiet,” Mark says, leaning into the sound. “That address,” he says.
“What about it?”
Mark pulls a U-turn.
“Sounds familiar,” he says.
They arrive at the O’Neal house. There’s a black and white with two youngsters talking into their shoulders. The first kid with the baby fat and the acne on the chin walks up to Moraski and asks what he wants. Moraski flashes his badge, and the kid says a neighbor heard a commotion, saw lights and called it in. He and Moraski start up the porch steps while the other cop goes around the back. Ann gets out of the car and starts to follow. Moraski tells her stay where she is.
Moraski and Officer Delaney press against the front door. It’s unlocked, unlatched. It swings open. The foyer is wide and empty except for a rocking chair that moves with the incoming breeze. The downstairs is almost Gothic in shadows with copper-white from one lamp near the staircase and the parabolas of light blooming up the walls.
Moraski takes the stairs slowly. Delaney follows until Moraski tells him to check the downstairs and the basement.
The darkness at the top of the stairs allows for the reflection of light from the end of the corridor, and when Moraski reaches the top step he hears noises from the bedroom. He starts down the hall and hears someone behind him. He turns and Ann Dillon stands there with a pale, open expression on her face.
He hisses: “I told you to wait behind.”
“I think I know who’s here,” she says.
“Who?” he asks, and with that the breeze from the front door runs through the house and strikes the bedroom door. It swings open and Moraski and Ann see Cal Stevens on his knees beside Emma O’Neal’s bed.
Ann rushes into the room.
“Mr. Stevens?” she says, “Are you alright? What are you doing here?”
He ignores her or doesn’t hear her and continues to mumble words, racked with sobs, crying, asking, pleading. It sounds like a confession.
Moraski follows Ann into the bedroom, sees Stevens and a handgun with a silencer lying on the bedspread.
“I’m so sorry,” Cal Stevens says, the words made broad with emotion and sounds Ann had never heard the old man make before. “He was going to get away with it,” he says, and Ann looks to Moraski who looks to Cal as Delaney and his partner enter the room.
“We got a situation downstairs,” Delaney says to Moraski, who’s trying to figure out what Cal Stevens is saying.
“What situation?” Ann asks, as if she has standing, as if she’s in authority.
“We got a guy down. Shot in the chest,” Delaney says.
“What?” Moraski yells, whipping his head around.
“In the kitchen,” Delaney says. “And we got a little puppy down there shivering to death.”
“A puppy?” Moraski says.
“That’s right,” Delaney says. “Puppy’s okay, though. Just terrified - kinda’ made a mess. But the guy, I think he’s gone.”
“You think!” Moraski yells, and then turns to Cal Stevens who’s resting his elbows and forearms on the bed, crying with small gasps, admitting his guilt, calling out for somebody’s forgiveness, crying for somebody’s love.
“Jesus Christ,” Moraski says, leaving the bedroom while Ann walks over to Mr. Stevens to rub his back, to help him to his feet.
YOU ARE READING
Burial of the Dead
Mystery / ThrillerA wealthy woman is dead in Hartford, CT, and the cause of death is anyone's guess. Suicide? Murder? Natural causes? The manner of death will determine the payout of her estate and there are as many possibilities as suspects. A powerful and thrilling...
