Copper, p.14
Copper, page 14
“How do you know someone didn’t do this to him?” Coleson asks, ever the detective.
“Look around, man.” I gesture to the box cutter and the rum. “Ten bucks says there’s a suicide note or email on that laptop.”
Coleson looks at the box cutter and the rum. He reaches into his pocket and quickly gloves up before opening a side door that leads to what looks like an office with a large desk and bookshelves. I look around for footprints on the laminate flooring, but unless someone came in and killed Murphy Beckett in muddy shoes, we won’t find much on this kind of floor.
“It looks like he got shit drunk and felt like we were closing in. Nothing more. Nothing less.” I look around the den and the adjoining office. “Tell forensics to grab what you can from the files in there and take the computer. We could get good info on cohorts. Bag anything you can. But this looks pretty cut and dry. Suicide.”
Coleson frowns and nods, silently agreeing with me. We’ve both seen it more than a few times, and this is standard. I see nothing, smell nothing, and hear nothing that tells me this was anything but death by Murphy’s own hand. The door was locked, and we cleared the house, finding not a soul.
As the coroner and forensic team show up to retrieve anything they can from the house, I back out of the room, taking one last look at Murphy Beckett. Raising my middle finger, I smirk. “Fuck yourself in hell, you piece of shit.”
I take a deep breath of early spring air as I step outside the house. This is over. At least until someone fills the vacuum of space he leaves in the drug and trafficking business. Another honcho will move into the area and set up shop, and we’ll have to work to get something on that guy too.
But I can be with Lucy without worry now. Whatever was happening with Murphy and the hired thugs that threatened Lucy is over.
I can go home to Lucy and convince her to stay more often or even permanently. I can go get my girls and bring them home.
All of them.
Chapter 21
Lucy
“It was flashlight,” Pearl says, pouting that we couldn’t figure out her word. She crosses her arms and marches back to her spot on the floor as Ruby stands up for her turn to draw a choice.
I haven’t played charades in years, but the girls insisted we play it as soon as the pizza arrived. For my first couple of days of meeting the girls, they’re taking my presence quite well. It can’t be easy to come home from a visit to your grandmother’s house and find a strange woman suddenly sharing your house and making goo-goo eyes at your dad.
Granted, Aaron and I haven’t flaunted our adult relationship. Most of my stuff is still in the guest room, and I waited until after the girls went to bed last night to creep down the hallway into Aaron’s room. He held the door open for me and put his finger to his lips as we both quietly giggled at how much it felt like sneaking around as teenagers again.
When I came hard as he took me from behind last night, I bit into the pillow so the girls wouldn’t hear me moan for their daddy. That’ll be the hardest part of my nights in this house. Aaron also sighed and whispered when he came, and I missed the loud moans from his throat.
For now, I’m Aaron’s friend from high school who’s staying with them. Pearl asked a few questions about me dating Aaron in high school, but I made it fun by pulling out an old purse-sized photo album I’ve had since high school. She had a great time giggling with me about Aaron’s high school haircut and his old basketball pictures. Maybe when she’s older, she’ll realize how much I love her dad since I kept everything from back then. I showed her the ticket stubs from a Foo Fighters concert even Aaron had forgotten he’d taken me to.
Ruby stuffs another bite of pizza in her little mouth, straightens her right pigtail, and starts mimicking something that looks like her stirring a pot. I marvel at how much she looks like Aaron. She even chews like him, favoring the right side of her mouth and wrinkling her nose when something’s extra crunchy or sticky.
“Cooking?” I guess, trying to ignore Aaron’s hand suddenly on my inner thigh in a possessive and loving position. If the girls notice, they ignore it. “You’re stirring something. Stirring? Mixing! Um, baking a cake?”
“Baking cupcakes!” Aaron yells next to my ear.
“Hey, that’s cheating when you piggyback off my guess.”
Pearl laughs at me for calling out Aaron, and Ruby gets a case of the giggles, dropping to the floor, her little face reddening as she laughs.
She laughs so long the timer runs out, and Aaron points to me. “You’re up next.”
I stand and brush pizza crumbs off my pants, smiling as Pearl holds up one of Aaron’s old beanie hats that we’re using to pick the item cards. I rummage my hand in the fabric as Ruby, still giggling, walks to Aaron and climbs on his lap. My heart practically melts when she throws her arms around him and he kisses her on the forehead.
He’s an amazing father to these girls, and nostalgia for having a family hits me in the gut.
I pick a card and walk to the spot in front of Aaron’s fireplace mantel. It’s a chilly evening for spring, and a fire crackles behind me.
I look down at the card, and my mouth opens. The card says punching. It’s meant to be an innocent reference. The charades game is for kids, and the card probably refers to hitting a mat or a cartoonish punch between animated characters. Defending yourself from a bully.
Unfortunately, I’ve taken too many punches to emulate this. What am I going to do? Swing my arms the way Beck did toward my face for years?
The card flutters from my hand and slowly hits the ground. Aaron’s face darkens as I feel the blood drain from my face.
He sets Ruby next to him on the couch and is in front of me in seconds. “Lucy, look at me. What’s wrong? Is this part of the game?”
I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes as I flash back to one especially bad episode with Beck. Even Aaron’s loving hands on my cheek and shoulder don’t comfort me.
Aaron picks up the card and looks at the word. “Girls, go to your room for a few minutes,” he says in a voice that doesn’t allow argument.
“Are we in trouble?” Pearl asks.
“No, sweetheart. This isn’t because you did something bad. I just need to talk to Lucy.”
Both girls get up from the couch, and Mickey trails after Pearl. I’ve noticed the dog is always near her if he’s not under Aaron’s feet.
My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. Aaron bends to my eye level, but I squeeze my eyes shut. “Lucy, look at me. Please. Focus on me.”
I shake my head like a petulant child and fist my pants pockets so hard I’m worried I’ll rip them. “Baby, it’s OK. I’m surprised you don’t have more episodes of this, but look at me because you’ll see that I’m here. You don’t have to be scared. I’ll never hurt you. Never hit you. Never even talk to you the way he did.”
I slowly open my eyes and take in the room. A pizza box is still open on the coffee table. I’d get hit for that. Paper plates. I’d get a swift kick for not using the good dishes. Throw pillows the girls were sitting on are still on the floor. I’d get hit for that.
I look down at my clothes. Sweatpants in front of my man. I’d get hit or pushed for that if I was lucky. He would often rip clothes he didn’t approve of off my body before beating me while I was naked. The little things in the room and on my own body suddenly suffocate me, and Aaron’s voice sounds far away.
“Breathe, Lucy. You’re safe. I’ll be here telling you you’re safe until you believe it. Have I ever told you it was OK when it wasn’t OK?”
I shake my head, but the memories of being on the floor and kicked by my husband won’t retreat. “The pillows are on the floor,” I mumble between my heavy breaths.
Thankfully, Aaron understands. He cups my cheeks and presses his forehead against mine. “And it’s OK. It’s OK to be a little messy in my house. You’re safe.”
“Paper plates.”
“Bad for the environment but OK on a family game night,” Aaron says, grinning a little. “I say it’s OK. And you’re safe.”
“Sweatpants.”
“You don’t have to be perfect all the time. In fact, I like you real. I love you without makeup and with that gorgeous hair in a messy bun. My Lucy. I say it’s OK. You’re safe.”
My hands shake, but I close my eyes when I feel Aaron’s gentle fingers against my own. “Listen to me breathe, Lucy. Do I seem angry with you? Listen to the tone of my voice.”
“H-he was always calm when he beat me,” I stammer. “That’s what made it so scary. It was just another part of his day. Like b-brushing his teeth.”
Aaron walks me over to the couch and pulls me down next to him. He wraps his arms around me and tucks my head under his chin so I can hear his heartbeat. “Listen to my heart. It’s steady, right?”
I nod.
“You’re safe. I will never let anyone hurt you as long as I’m alive. You understand that, right?”
I understand the words, and I trust Aaron. I just wish someone would explain it to my PTSD.
I take deep breaths, trying to let Aaron’s heartbeat calm me. He strokes my back, and I let my eyes close. I’ve had to be strong for too long. The first time I get a night with Aaron and his daughters, this happens. Why? Have I been on a constant adrenaline kick, and I let my guard down?
“Do you want to talk to someone about this that isn’t me? We have a great counselor at the station who may be able to recommend someone.”
I shake my head. “I can’t. Anyone I told before, well, they either aren’t my friend anymore or it got back to…” My voice trails off. It’s hard to say his name when I remember what happened. “I tried to ask for help once and talk about it, but he found out and hit me so hard my left ear made a ringing noise for a week, and I had to get a veneer for a couple of back teeth.”
“This help is OK, Lucy. She won’t be able to tell…him.” Aaron can’t say the dickhead’s name either.
“I know it won’t get back to him,” I whisper, my mouth wanting to move. To talk. Tell Aaron everything. “I know he won’t find out about any of this.”
“Come here,” he says, leaning back and pulling me with him along with a red blanket that’s draped over the back of the couch.
He tucks the blanket around me, and I close my eyes. I could sleep right here, curled into Aaron’s side with a warm blanket and fire in the fireplace. “It’s OK, Lucy. The door is locked. Murphy Beckett is dead. Almost all of the guys who threatened you are dead. You’re with me. Mickey is here. You’re safe.”
“Safe,” I mumble to myself over and over, willing myself to believe it.
Chapter 22
Aaron
Coleson walks into my office, shuts the door so hard that the blinds rattle against my window, and sits in my guest chair without being invited. I freeze with a late afternoon coffee halfway to my mouth. Raising my eyebrows, I smile at him over my mug. “Is something upsetting you?”
“Nothing that should. We scraped Murphy Beckett’s computer,” he says, just as my desk phone lights up with one of the department’s assistants trying to reach me.
“And?” I ask, pressing the ignore button.
“We have a suicide email to the vice president of the motorcycle club.”
“Why are we upset?” I ask, squinting.
Coleson shrugs just as my phone lights up again. I wipe my forehead in agitation and press ignore. “Are you going to take that?” he asks, nodding toward my phone.
“Nah. It’s probably not important. Get back to the Murphy problem.”
“There is no problem. It’s cut and dry, just like my smart boss said. We have a suicide note, and you wouldn’t believe what we found in the library.”
I lean forward in my seat. “Tell me it rained dickhead names.”
He smiles. “Happy Easter, boss. We got the names and offshore account numbers for every member of the mafia and every trafficker we had our sights on from here to Cleveland. I turned it over to the feds. They were pretty happy.”
“Why are you pouting in my office?”
“We got him, but something still doesn’t feel…right. I don’t know how to explain it. You know that pit in the bottom of a police officer’s stomach that says it isn’t as easy as it looks?”
I nod. I know that feeling well. I’ve had it a lot lately, too, but things seem to be working themselves out just fine.
“Do you want to hear my advice?” I ask.
“That’s why I came in here.”
I put my mug down and prop my elbows on my desk. My phone lights up again, and I sigh, looking away from it. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Think of it like it’s college football. We got a win and should enjoy it until we get our asses handed to us the next time a big fish comes into town.”
My phone lights up yet again, and I point toward the door. “I better get this. Someone obviously has their ass on fire.”
As soon as Coleson shuts my door, I pick up the phone. “Yeah, Bertie,” I say, answering the assistant in the nicest voice I can muster. She’s older and sweet. The kind that brings cookies on a random Wednesday.
“Sheriff Dwyer, there’s a man here to talk to you. Says it’s urgent.”
I scowl at the phone. “Did he say what it’s about?”
“Something about a Beck Lenin.”
Cold dread moves to my balls, and I grip the receiver tight in my hand so it doesn’t fall to my desk. Sweat forms on my upper lip, and I clear my throat, knowing whatever I say will come out sounding like gravel. “Send him in.”
***
The man in front of me is not Beck Lenin. I’ve never seen this person before in my life, but he’s short, stocky, and waving his Chicago police badge around like I’m supposed to be impressed.
I stand at my desk and wave the man forward. “Sherriff Aaron Dwyer. And you are?” I ask, holding out my hand.
The man shakes it and sits in the chair Coleson just vacated. “Blair DeLuth. I’m a detective over in Chicago. It’s nice to meet you.”
I sit back in my chair and take a drink of my now cold coffee, more for something to do with my hands. “My assistant said you were here about Beck Lenin. What can I help you with?”
The man tilts his head to the side. He’s missing a back tooth, and I only see that because he’s smiling an odd grin. His face has large pores, and his eyebrows desperately need a pluck up the middle. “Did you know Beck Lenin?”
“Yes, sir. I met him once. I came over to your neck of the woods a couple weeks ago looking around for him.”
“That’s what we heard. Care to explain why?”
“Of course. Lucy Lenin, Beck’s wife, recently moved to our county.” Fuck, I need to wash my mouth out with something stronger than coffee to get the filth out of my mouth after saying his name. “She has a vested interest in finding her husband to serve divorce papers. Since she’ll serve from her county of residence, we have an interest.”
“Some of his coworkers at the firm mentioned you came by and asked a few questions. Was that necessary?”
I put my mug back on the blotter and lean toward the man. I don’t know who this guy thinks he is, but he doesn’t scare me. “Did Jalen Quarry say that?”
The man startles like I slapped him. “You talked to Mr. Quarry?” I nod and furrow my brow. Interesting that he hasn’t. “Mr. Quarry didn’t mention it. Some of the front desk staff mentioned you were there asking to speak with someone about him.”
I need to take control of the situation here. “Let’s back up and slow down. I think we can share intel here. What have you found? Lucy says that she’s been trying to get you guys to look into it for months.”
“Do you know how many missing person reports we get in the city, Sheriff Dwyer? A grown man leaving his wife isn’t exactly top priority.”
I smile at the man and silently chuckle. “I’m sure there’s a lot. Let me fill you in. I talked to Jalen Quarry. He said that Beck Lenin often talked about leaving his wife and disappearing. Everyone at the office in the upper echelon, who you obviously didn’t talk to, thinks he just ran off and disappeared. I’m sure it would have been taken more seriously if work colleagues reported a concern, but they didn’t. They kind of shrugged and went about their business. They say they weren’t surprised he disappeared. Leaving on his own merit makes sense because some mafia friends of his, who are now dead by the way, came by his wife’s house several months ago asking about some money Beck owed them.”
Detective DeLuth reddens when I mention I’ve actually talked to Beck’s peers.
“Now, we have a dead human trafficker with mafia ties. I’m sure you’ve heard the name Murphy Beckett.”
The detective nods and looks at his feet. “We’re aware of him. What’s this got to do with Beck Lenin?”
“Murphy Beckett and Beck Lenin were cousins. I say that in the past tense because Murphy killed himself a few days ago. Ironically, it was the same day we got a warrant to go into the house. If you’re a betting man, I’ll put fifty bucks down that Lenin borrowed money from the mafia to leave Lucy and now has a new passport and an impressive house in Ecuador. Maybe he was involved in what Murphy had going. Who knows? I don’t think we ever will.”
“Are you sure the wife doesn’t know where he is?”
“Absolutely sure,” I say. “I went to high school with Lucy. She’s a sweetheart and just wants to divorce the loser.” I open a drawer, pull out a file I have on Lucy, open it, and slide it over to Detective DeLuth. “These are copies of her text messages to him. She repeatedly asks for information on where he’s at. No response. I also have record of an email she sent to your department about the missing person report. Again, no response. She did her due diligence in Chicago and followed up here when she moved and wanted to cite abandonment.” I lean over and flip through a few pages. “Here are the financial records Lucy provided to me. There’s absolutely nothing amiss in their bank accounts. He obviously had something we don’t know about. In fact, he kept a lot of monetary access from his wife. He didn’t allow her to be on a joint account. She had the equivalent of a kid’s preloaded card she could use on makeup and a gym membership.”
