Behind The Veil: A Gina Harwood Novel Page 12

  Morgan sidled up closer to peer at the cases.

  Having never actually seen an FBI badge before, Morgan could only scrutinize it against what he thought it should look like, and it pretty much fit that description. “So, you are FBI, then?” asked Harwood again. “I only ask because you didn't really answer the question the first time.”

  Parker ignored her question and turned instead to face him. “Ah, Detective Snyder. I trust your Chief was able to shed some light on the situation?” Her voice instantly lost its warmth as she turned to face him.

  “He did, yes.” Morgan wanted to ask when they'd be done, but he was pre-empted by the still-insistent Harwood.

  “I must confess, we don't get a whole lot a' special agents in these here parts,” she started with a shockingly thick faux-drawl. Morgan looked at her with alarm. “But perhaps you could humor us backwoods local coppers. Just for a few more minutes.”

  Charlie had turned away. “We are working a scene. Perhaps we can save the conversation for later, Detective.”

  “It's just strange, see? I got here as soon as I could; my partner beat me here AND got coffee. And both of us were beat out by both of you.”

  The feds continued their work, wordlessly.

  “That's weird, yeah?” Gina persisted. “It's awful early in the morning. Haven't seen y'all on either of the other two murders connected to this case. But as soon as this one goes down, bam! On the scene! From where? I don't think I caught your accent, Charlie. And hello! Who are you?” Harwood raised her voice and threw it at the suited man, who, perhaps because of Gina's increased volume, had turned to stare at her, surprised.

  “That's Yori Hanagawa. He's second-generation Japanese-American,” informed Morgan, leaning toward his partner.

  “Ah! Hanagawa-san, hajimemashite. Nihongo ga wakarimasu ka?”

  Morgan involuntarily took a step back from Harwood, shocked. He glanced at Hanagawa and saw the same wide-eyed surprise that Morgan felt, reflected in the man's vaguely-Asian face. Yori had instinctively bowed, but was frozen in a strange half-bow pose.

  Silence reverberated through the room. Even Charlie had stopped her activity and was staring at her partner, her back still turned to the local detectives.

  “Um, no, not really. I didn't learn it,” stammered Yori.

  “Ah, that's too bad,” replied Harwood, cheerfully. “It would have been nice to practice. Not too many people in this area speak Japanese, you know.”

  Yori blinked. “No, I wouldn't think so.”

  “Hanagawa is an unusual surname. I don't think I've run across it before. What does it mean?”

  Morgan almost felt bad for the guy.

  “Story-time is over, sweetheart,” Charlie had turned and her lips had again thinned to a pale white line. “Let us do our job, and then we'll let you have the scene.” She turned to Morgan, and her voice hardened again. “Unless you weren't satisfied with your Chief's instructions? I imagine he was pretty clear.”

  Morgan snarled at her, surprising himself but not trying to hold it back; he grabbed Harwood's arm and marched back out of the house.

  Harwood drew in a large breath, probably to begin an intentionally loud rampage. Morgan surprised both of them, again, by clamping his hand over her mouth and dragging her out of view. “Let's go somewhere else, anywhere else,” he said. “Not here. Trust me, not here.”

  She narrowed her eyes and he snatched his hand back as her teeth sank into his palm.

  11

  The yellow glow of the Waffle House seemed to make the heated air even more cozy. Gina didn't want to feel cozy; she wasn't, however, going to say no to some hash browns and coffee.

  “It doesn't feel right,” she repeated for the third time.

  Snyder grunted in response and sipped his coffee, apparently watching the short order cook deftly maneuver around the small kitchen.

  “Hanagawa understood me. I know he did,” she continued. “Why would he say he didn't? It gives nothing away if he already said he was Japanese-American.”

  “He was writing his notes in some other language,” offered Snyder.

  “See?” she declared triumphantly. “Probably Japanese! If I'd gotten close enough, I would have been able to tell.”

  “Incidentally, you never told me you could speak Japanese.” Snyder was looking at her now, one eyebrow cocked. His face made Gina wonder if his coffee was too bitter.

  “You never asked,” she replied primly. “And besides, it's not like it comes in handy very often. And I'm not really fluent. It's been years since I was fluent.” Gina's gaze wandered to the cook, too, and she watched him crack two eggs in one hand. “They never answered the question.”

  Snyder snorted.

  “What? Seriously!” she exclaimed. “That woman never answered it directly.”

  “They showed us badges, Harwood. Badges.”

  Gina waved him off. “So? Could mean anything.”

  Snyder rolled his eyes. “Chief would have checked up. It had to come from a high-up. It's not like they just showed up and announced themselves.”

  “How do you know? Maybe they did.” Gina scowled into her coffee before setting it down and adding more cream. “Why didn't we hear about them before? How did they hear about the scene before we did?”

  Snyder shrugged, but he looked thoughtful.

  “I know that look. What is it?” Gina leaned closer and peered at him.

  His eyebrows drew in closer. “Margie didn't know they were feds. She'd have said something. She thought they were photogs.”

  “Yes,” announced Gina. “Yes! See? Why the secrecy?”

  “They're feds. They like secrecy. It's their thing,” replied Snyder, watching the cook with a more impatient look. “There's nothing we can do about it now anyway, except cover the scene whenever we're 'allowed' in. Maybe we can crack it before they do. Or maybe we get pulled off the case entirely. Don't know.”

  Gina exhaled sharply. “Are you sure she'll call?”

  “Yep. Margie'll let me know as soon as they say they're done.”

  Lifting her cup in the air to signify to the waitress that she needed a refill of caffeine, Gina cradled her head on one fist. “If you say so. None of this feels right.”

  Snyder grunted again.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  The light snoring sounds brought immense relief to Jake O'Malley. They meant that Marcus had finally drifted into an uneasy sleep, leaving Jake free to explore his thoughts without interruption. He was unsure of how many hours had passed, but the lightening of the sky ahead of the car indicated it had been more than a few. He glanced over at his friend, whose lanky form was curled tightly in the passenger seat with an ancient, ratty blanket he'd found in the backseat protecting his body against the cold. Marcus was wearing an old, probably dirty, band shirt from the floorboards. Good ol' Marcus. Loyal, dependable Marcus.

  Shame washed over him. Marcus shouldn't be here.

  Jake renewed his concentration on the yellow line of the highway and continued pushing the car inexorably eastward. He didn't really know where he was going, but he'd started east, and kept going east, navigating the highway interchanges instinctively. He didn't like the idea of running forever, and he had an uncomfortable feeling it would be forever. He wanted to know what had happened to his family, and what was happening to him.

  Jake shivered, but he wasn't feeling the cold.

  Blackness, the thing had been solid blackness, an area devoid of light. It had eyes, eyes that had peered at Jake, seen through him. Shown him things he didn't want to see. It had screamed with his own voice, through his own throat.

  Jake shivered again and eased up on the accelerator. No use getting pulled over for a speeding ticket; there might be a warrant out for him or something. He didn't want anyone else getting hurt, maybe killed. No more blood. His shiver intensified into a shudder that threatened to dislodge him from the seat. He glanced over at his friend, still sleeping, still snoring lightly.

  Marcu
s shouldn't be here, he thought again, and blinked back tears. I shouldn't be here either, he thought, and grimaced at the sudden flood of faces flitting through his memory, faces that had been marred by that horrible darkness. Faces of family he would never see again alive.

  Tightening his hands on the steering wheel, he edged the poor old car up to the speed limit and raced toward the sunrise.

  12

  “I told you so,” whispered Snyder furtively, munching on a pear.

  Gina closed her eyes to calm down, doing her best to ignore the crunch of the fruit. Without opening them, she continued. “It is a slow month. We have a DUI, that's it. And we have the O'Malleys. Why pull us off of it entirely? We could help.”

  The Chief grumbled under his breath and Gina opened her eyes again. “Not my call, Harwood. It's no longer our case, and I have specific instructions that we're not to be involved. Meeting over.”

  Snyder turned on his heel and walked out of the office, holding the door open for her to follow. She opened her mouth to speak again, but decided against it, and took his lead grudgingly. They walked back to their small office in silence.

  Gina was ready as soon as the door was closed. “This is bullshit!” she hissed. “Bullshit!”

  Snyder slumped into his chair, looking desolate.

  “You know as well as I...” she continued.

  “Stop, please.” He raised his head to look at her, and Gina stopped short. Snyder looked suddenly tired and old, and his eyes didn't gleam with their normal mischievous sparkle. “Please. Please, just don't start. It's not my fault. I can't change it. I know you hate it, I do too, okay? Let's just... let's just...” But he didn't finish. He tossed his half-eaten pear into the trash can and swiveled his chair toward his desk, facing away from her, so that she couldn't see his face, just the defeated slump of his shoulders. “I'm sorry.”

  She slumped into her own chair, feeling deflated, and chomped on her lower lip. Minutes passed with only the rustling of paper for a soundtrack; the room was so silent Gina could hear the scratching of his pen on the forms. “Why?” she asked, and even her low near-whisper was shockingly loud in the room.

  Snyder sighed and swiveled back to face her. “Why? Why, Harwood? Because I don't want to hear it, that's why. You always fly off the handle when shit happens, and I can't take it right now.”

  She pursed her lips. “No, I meant why are you sorry? You said it wasn't your fault.” She managed to wrangle the snarl away from her mouth and kept her expression carefully neutral.

  “Oh.” He furrowed his brow and looked at his shoes.

  Gina remained silent and let the question hang in the air.

  “I should have solved it. I should have worked harder on it.” His voice was flat. “You did most of the leg work, and now the whole family's gone. And we had nothing. I had nothing.”

  Thoughtful, she considered this for a moment, mindlessly tapping her chin with one fingernail. “The whole family's not gone. The son is still alive. Jake.”

  Snyder swiveled away again and expelled air furiously. “Thanks, Harwood. You really know how to make a guy feel great.”

  Confused, Gina stared at his back for a few minutes before deciding that maybe it was best if they both concentrate on new work for a while. Even if it was just a routine DUI manslaughter.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  Harsh light spilled in through the windows and showered Marcus' face. Momentarily lost, he blinked hard against it, pressing his knuckles into his eyelids to stop the barrage. As his eyes adjusted to the sun, he peered out of the window at the blurred landscapes passing by, and remembered why he was in a car.

  Marcus bolted upright so quickly his head hit the roof.

  “Ow!” he yelped, rubbing his scalp and glancing at his neighbor in the driver seat.

  Jake didn't respond, didn't look over; Marcus couldn't tell if he'd even heard his exclamation.

  That could wait a moment; currently, every tendon in his body was reminding him of the odd angles at which he'd found some slumber. He whipped his head from side to side, eliciting a series of cracks that would make a chiropractor proud. That done, he flipped his body to the opposite side, resting on his left hip and facing his friend.

  “Hey, Jake.” The terror of the previous night was edging on the outskirts of his mind, but he tried to keep his tone light and casual.

  Jake still didn't respond, although Marcus saw his eyes glance over toward him before bouncing back to the road ahead.

  “Where are we, man?” The scenery was greener than at home, even in the cold, and it was still very cold. He pulled the knobbly tan blanket up further, wincing at a dark red stain in the corner. Looking back at Jake, he saw that his shirt was still covered in gore, with a red splash across his forehead and up into his hairline. Marcus shivered.

  Jake sighed heavily, a reaction Marcus interpreted as being irritated that he was awake. This irritated Marcus in return. Here he was, in the middle of nowhere, on some highway, with his life however many hundreds of miles behind him, freezing cold and covered with a bloodstained blanket. To his mind, Jake should have been thankful that he was along; he could think of no one in their right mind who would have signed up for this road trip.

  “I'm not sure,” answered Jake with a thick tongue, as though speaking words were causing him immense effort.

  Marcus felt himself recoil in surprise. “Um, where are we going?” he tried.

  “Maryland,” Jake answered with more confidence.

  “Maryland,” Marcus parroted dumbly. “Okay. Why Maryland?”

  The look Jake threw now definitely smacked of annoyance. “If you don't remember, I'm not going to tell you,” he snapped.

  Marcus blinked hard again and recoiled further at the sudden, childish tone in his friend's voice. Jake had been many things throughout their long relationship, but petty was never one of them. Overly emotional, perhaps; occasionally depressive, definitely. This, however, was new. Nevertheless, Marcus closed his eyes and racked his memory for references to their destination. Slowly, he opened his eyes. “Are you sure that's a good idea?” he almost whispered. “We're supposed to be running away.”

  Jake continued to stare at the road.

  Marcus whimpered slightly before he caught himself and sank deeper into the chair.

  13

  Paperwork dulled her mind, and there was more than enough of it to go around. The myriad and labyrinthine forms that had to be filled out by hand, and then fed into the computer, was a ridiculous burden even at the best of times; today, however, Gina was almost glad for the monotony. It kept both her and her partner busy, and more importantly, both of them largely silent. By 4:30, however, she had had enough.

  “I think I've had just about enough,” she announced to the ceiling, stretching tall in her chair.

  She heard the mechanical creak of Snyder's chair move, followed by a huff of air that might have been a chuckle. “Yeah,” he said. “Think I'm there too.”

  “Figure Ellison would kill us if we run out thirty minutes early?” Gina stood to elongate her stretch, and perched on the edge of her desk.

  “Our day started last night, if you recall,” he replied, mimicking her stretch. “I think we're overdue.”

  Gina smiled expectantly, a small, cautious smile. She was relieved to receive one in return.

  Gina Harwood's cell phone began to ring.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  “C'mon, c'mon,” he whispered in the tiny bathroom, noticing for a moment that everything in it seemed to be metal, from the walls, to the floor, to the appliances. Everything was metal, everything was slightly rusty, and noises were terribly amplified. His breathing sounded like a freight train to his ears. He shot a nervous glance at the locked door. “Pick up, c'mon,” he whispered again to the rings emanating like sirens from the cell phone.

  “You've reached Detective Gina Harwood, I'm afraid I'm not available at the moment...”

  “Shit,” he spat, clamping the cell pho
ne shut.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  Gina flipped her cell open a smidgen too late, and the screen switched from incoming call to missed call. “Went to voicemail,” she advised, but trailed off, looking at the numbers on the screen. “Hey, Snyder, this number...” she said, pointing at the screen. “I think it's Jake's.”

  “O'Malley?” he replied, sounding shocked. “What, turning himself in?”

  Gina frowned. One of the neighbors had positively identified Jake O'Malley running, blood-covered, from the scene of the most recent murder. It didn't quite seem to fit, but if he wasn't involved directly, then he certainly had been there near the time of death. However, since the Chief had ordered them off the case... Well, it didn't matter. The feds were aware of the reports, and the neighbor's testimony.

  Still, maybe it did matter, if Jake were calling her directly.

  Snyder had that look on his face, the one she liked to call the “Irritated Father” look. “Give it to the feds,” he ordered.

  Her eyes widened in a look of mock-innocence. “He has rapport with me. Besides, I don't know it's him. It's just a missed call. Surely, I should call it back. Could be my dentist's office, confirming my appointment next week.” She lifted the phone to her ear, with her thumb hovering over the green “call” button.

  His stern look intensified. “Seriously, Harwood, he'll skin us alive. Us. Both of us. You AND me.”

  “You gonna tell on me, Snyder? Come off it, it's a missed call, that's all you know.” She depressed her thumb and heard the phone click into action.

  Snyder sighed heavily and pursed his lips, but smoothly and quickly whipped out his tape recorder and held it up to the receiving end of the cell phone. Gina obligingly turned up the volume and held it slightly away from her ear.