Chapter 2 – Long Time Passing
"Where to, Miss Parker?" Sam asked solicitously, gazing into the rearview mirror at his boss. She'd been silent ever since she'd climbed into the back seat; in fact the only sound had been the unsnapping of her attaché case a few minutes back and the rustle of papers.
Miss Parker studied the police report carefully. "The Roadside Inn," she answered finally, "just off of Highway 1." She looked up and into the same rearview mirror so that her gaze connected with that of her personal sweeper. "That's where they found him."
Sam nodded and put the sedan in motion. "You don't actually think Sydney did… whatever they say he did… do you?" he asked with a concerned glance at her. She hadn't stopped browsing those reports at all.
"Sydney may have done many questionable things in his life, but he's no murderer, Sam," she answered bluntly, not even raising her eyes to glance at him.
"Murder!" Sam gaped into the mirror until he remembered he was piloting the car down the road. "What in the hell gave them that idea?"
"The fact that they found him in a motel room with a bed that looked more like a butcher's block than anything else – and a bloodstained razor in the bathroom with Syd's fingerprints all over it."
"Shit," Sam breathed softly.
"No shit," she agreed distractedly. She noted that while there had indeed been a semen stain found on the sheet along with all the blood, no DNA had been taken from Sydney himself to run for comparison yet. That would probably be only a matter of time – the circumstantial evidence would probably provide any judge with enough probable cause to sign off on a warrant to take a DNA sample from him, maybe even before she could spring him from the jail.
Quite literally the ONLY thing that Syd had going for him was the fact that, as yet, no body had been found to go with all that spilled blood on the motel room bed. That and the fact that the man had evidently known enough to keep his mouth shut so far. She smiled a very grim smile; having been called before the number of Centre T-Board interrogations that he had over the course of his career, Sydney had obviously learned his lessons well. No wonder the police had been so disgusted when she'd shown up – he'd probably been just polite enough in refusing to answer them to piss them off royally, and now would have had legal advice to continue the trend.
"There it is," Sam's voice called her from her musings once more, and she looked out of the window at the decidedly run-down motel that had a section of yellow crime scene tape over one of the upstairs doors. "What do you intend to do?" the sweeper spoke again, speaking to the reflection of his boss in the rearview mirror.
"Come with me," Miss Parker gestured to him, "let's go see what we can find out from the manager."
Sam turned off the ignition and was out of the driver's seat in time to be able to close Miss Parker's door for her. He found his place exactly one pace behind her and slightly to her left as they walked up to the office and pushed through the glass door.
Behind the desk, a slightly bedraggled and frazzled looking woman looked up at the interruption, a cigarette dangling from her thin lips. "What can I do for you folks?" she asked in an uninflected and automatic tone. "Rooms are sixty-five dollars for a night – although…" bleary blue eyes flicked over the tall brunette and the burly man behind her, "hourly rates can be negotiated."
"We want information, not a room," Miss Parker said quietly, refusing to rise to the bait. She moved steadily to the desk. "I understand you had some excitement here a little while back."
The tired, blue eyes of the manager narrowed. "You folks more cops?"
"Not exactly," Miss Parker admitted, "but we're investigating the circumstances. What do you know about what went on here?"
"All I know is that this young fella came storming into the office about six o'clock this morning, saying as how there was a woman screaming her lungs out in one of the upstairs rooms and that I'd best call the cops. When they got here, I'd been outside – and it was quiet as the grave." The blue eyes were deeply serious. "And when they checked out where that young fella told me that the screams were coming from, they found a bed plum full of blood and this older guy."
"If this woman was making all that much noise, how come you hadn't already heard something yourself?" Sam inquired suspiciously.
"I take sleeping pills," the manager confessed without blinking an eye. "As it was, he had to bang pretty hard on my door to wake me up in the first place."
Miss Parker frowned. "And just what did this 'young fella' who reported all the noise look like?"
The manager shrugged. "Like I told the cops already, he was wearing a baseball cap and jacket zipped up tight against the cold – I really didn't get a very good look at his face…"
"Had you seen him before?"
"I rented to him about three days ago – but he's gone now, I think." She shrugged. "I'd have to check…"
"And this older guy that the cops found, is he the one who rented the room this other fellow said all the ruckus was coming from?" Sam followed Miss Parker's lead in asking the questions, and Miss Parker found herself quite comfortable working this woman as a team player for a change.
"Uh-uhn," the manager shook her head firmly. "I remember the girl who put the money down for that place. Cute little thing, she was – said she was going to go see if she could rustle herself up a little action while she was in town." The woman put a hand to her tousled blonde hair nervously. "From the looks of things, she got more action than she bargained for."
"So you never even saw the older guy before?" Miss Parker asked in astonishment.
The manager shook her head after thinking for a moment. "Nope."
"Do you remember the older guy at all from anywhere else?" Sam asked over Miss Parker's shoulder. She didn't look back at him, but he knew he was pushing the limits of his role – but his curiosity was getting the better of him.
"I already told you, I never saw him before," the manager reported with waning patience. "I bet she found him in some bar."
"Why do you say that?" Miss Parker picked up on the statement at once.
"That's where she said she was headed," the woman told her tiredly. "She asked for where the closest watering hole was and told me she was tired of sleeping alone." The bleary blue eyes flicked back and forth between her two interviewers. "That's all I know."
Miss Parker knew that the chance of getting much more from the woman was remote, and so with a push of the hand against a broad chest, she steered Sam to turn around and leave the motel office ahead of her.
"Did you notice how she wasn't volunteering the name of the man in the baseball cap who reported the screams?" Sam commented over his shoulder to his boss.
"It doesn't matter," she replied thoughtfully. "The name was in the police report – I remember reading it – we'll look for that guy later. No," she shook her head as she got to the car and saw him turn to look at her after unlocking the driver's door, "there are just a lot of things that just aren't adding up. Syd says that the last thing he remembered, he was in the Land's End in Blue Cove – not some 'local watering hole' here in Dover. So how the hell…"
"…did he end up thirty miles north of where he started?" Sam finished for her.
"Something is REALLY not right here," Miss Parker mumbled as much to herself as to her sweeper as he pressed the unlock button and then held the door open for her to slip into the sedan. "I'm missing something."
"Where to now?" was the question from the man behind the steering wheel.
"The Centre," she answered unhappily. "Somebody's going to have to tell Raines what's going on."
Sam turned the key in the ignition, not for the first time more than grateful that he was only a sweeper. There was no way in the world that he'd want Miss Parker's job – and especially not now!
oOoOo
Even though he wasn't technically under arrest, Sydney felt the pressure of his situation as he slumped back against the cinder-block wall of the cell in which he'd been placed. There was no other place to sit in the eight by five barred cubicle besides on the narrow metal shelf covered with a thin and lumpy mattress – so he propped one leg up with knee bent while the other stretched out in front of him and tried to get comfortable. They hadn't taken his own clothing away – not yet, at any rate – but they'd taken his shoes and belt and suspenders, just in case, they told him, he had any ideas about doing himself a mischief. He tipped his head back against the block wall and closed his eyes.
It was essential that he try to remember what had happened – surely someone had seen or heard something that would stand to clear his name. He'd already told Parker about going into the Land's End Tavern in Blue Cove – no doubt she'd be checking up on his story there. He needed to have more for her the next time he saw her – give her something more substantial to work with to exonerate him.
There was no way around it: he needed to remember – and nobody would be able to help him do that. He brought one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose and forced his mind back in time…
After driving home, he hadn't even walked into his house to get rid of the briefcase – a briefcase that Raines had insisted on filling with documentation about the background of the young boy who was to be the new Pretender. He'd had orders to read and familiarize himself with the information, and to come to work in the morning with an outline of a training plan that would turn youthful potential into profit-making reality. But instead, he'd left the briefcase on the floorboard of the back seat of his Lincoln, climbed out from behind the steering wheel and started walking – hoping the fresh air and warm summer's evening would help him clear his mind and begin to see a way out of this latest trap.
Eventually, his steps had led him to the sidewalk in front of the Land's End Tavern – a relatively classy establishment that was a favorite place to relax for many of the Centre employees who called Blue Cove their home. He himself was known to enjoy a single, carefully-nursed drink from time to time, just to experience the flow of humanity around him as opposed to another lonely night reading psychiatric journals at home. He'd placed himself on a barstool in front of Clyde, the evening bartender, and ordered his regular Chivas with one ice cube. Clyde, a bartender long enough to see the signs of stress in his regular customers, had asked him if he was OK. Fine, he'd answered abruptly and downed the expensive whiskey in a single gulp. He'd have another, thank you.
It was about halfway through his third drink that he'd felt someone slip onto the barstool next to him. Sydney shuddered as he realized that it had been a woman – a very YOUNG woman at that – who had sat down next to him and struck up a conversation with him. He pushed against the alcoholic fog that was still trying to obscure his memories to try to focus on her face – to remember what she'd looked like. She'd been a tiny little thing, pretty, with long and curly auburn hair and twinkling green eyes and a ready smile. He remembered now… She'd nattered along about inconsequential things and slowly drawn him from his slough of despond over the course of another stiff whiskey or two. She'd been drinking… He frowned – why would he remember what she'd been drinking? Oh yes! She'd suggested at one point that his drink was too stodgy – that he should sample her tequila sunrise, and see what having a drink with some zip to it could do for him.
And then…
Oh God, he remembered more. She'd kept up with him with ease – finishing her drink even as he'd finish his and ordering a new one when he ordered his. And just about when the whiskey was beginning to give him a delightfully euphoric feeling that was almost enough to wipe away any thoughts of Raines or the Centre or a new Pretender child, she'd begun leaning into him. He stifled a moan as he remembered the first time she'd put her hand on his thigh – and moved it slowly and seductively. He remembered the first time she'd leaned over his shoulder and nibbled on his ear – and brought up goose pimples and… And…
And he now remembered walking out of the Land's End with her tucked securely under his arm, her arm wrapped tightly around his waist and steering him to the now-dark alleyway. They'd found a spot behind the storage shed, where the pool of light from the street lamp didn't reach, and she'd put her back to the brick wall of the tavern and pulled him roughly to her. Sydney put a hand over his eyes, as if doing so would wipe away the memory of hot and demanding kisses given and received; the feel of her little hands on his skin, on him – teasing him, arousing him; the feel of the soft skin of her breasts beneath his hands...
Sydney's eyes blinked wide open, and he stared out into his cell without seeing anything. He could remember now — remember running his hands up her legs and thighs to her buttocks and finding that she wasn't wearing anything beneath that prim skirt of hers. He could remember her opening his trousers, manipulating him to desperate, painful hardness. He could remember lifting her, of her laugh as he'd pressed her hard against the wall. And then…
Nothing.
No matter how hard he tried, it was as if the power had gone out in his memory and left him scrabbling in the dark. He could assume or deduce, from what he DID remember, that he'd had sex with the young woman right there in the alley, up against the brick wall of the tavern as if she were a common whore and he a desperate customer – but his memories just… died… there, prior to the actual consummation.
/So/ he asked himself for the millionth time since the police had burst in on him, /how the hell did I get from Blue Cove to Dover – and what the hell happened? Did I really have sex with that girl…/ His eyes widened in anguish. /Oh God, was that the girl who rented the motel room – the one I supposedly killed? COULD I have killed her? Could I have raped her and THEN killed her?/ He keeled over onto his side on the thin mattress, his knees pulled up to his chest and his eyes tightly shut, now wishing he could shut off the memories that he had so painstakingly retrieved of that lost evening.
What was happening to him? Why couldn't he remember?
oOoOo
Miss Parker could rarely remember ever seeing Mr. Raines rendered utterly speechless, regardless of the cause. The normally pale face had faded at least another shade or two toward grey, and the sunken blue eyes were staring at her as if she had grown three horns. "Murder!" he whispered.
Miss Parker heard Sam shift nervously behind her, and she was grateful that she'd decided to have him accompany her into the lion's den, as it were. Usually it was Sydney who was willing to brave the unstable environment with her – no! She wouldn't think about that now. Her old friend would be back at her side soon enough. "Yes, sir," she answered with deadly seriousness, swallowing back her repulsion at the honorific in order to put him in a mood to accept what she was intending. "I've taken the case as his lawyer…"
"You did what?" the gasping voice finally found a firmer tone.
"My license to practice law in Delaware is current – and Syd's going to need a lawyer…" she began.
The sunken eye narrowed. "You already have responsibilities, Miss Parker," Raines wheezed painfully. "We cannot allow this… development… to hamper the search for Jarod… The Centre HAS lawyers on retainer…"
"My search for Jarod is already hampered," she snapped at him. "Without Sydney, I have no way of seeing into Jarod's psyche…"
"Not that that has done you much good so far," he tossed back, and then pulled a painful breath from his ever-present oxygen tank.
"Sydney is essential to any effort to retrieve Jarod… sir," she insisted, harshly sitting on her impatience, the honorific bitter in her mouth. "He's one of the very few reasons we still have a chance of finding him."
Raines sat back in his chair and studied the woman in front of him, calculation clearly obvious in his gaze. "And what are you suggesting?"
"I'd like to head a Centre-run investigation into what is going on," she forged ahead with confidence. "There's something decidedly fishy about this whole situation, and I'd like the chance to get to the bottom of it."
"And the search for Jarod?"
She shrugged. "I'm not asking for Lyle's assistance. He can continue to follow up on any leads that come our way while I'm involved with Sydney's case." When the ailing Chairman still seemed less than convinced, she added, "I honestly feel it isn't in the Centre's best interests to let Sydney rot. He's been too involved in high-level Centre activities for far too long. If some of the information that he's been privy to for all these years starts to come out because we've abandoned him to his fate…"
At last, there was some sign of reaction – Raines flinched. "Very well, Miss Parker," he wheezed at her. "Do what you need to in order to find out what really happened and bring Sydney home to the Centre." He gazed over her shoulder at the tall and silent sweeper behind her. "I take it you'll require the assistance of your entire, regular team?"
"That would be very helpful, yes," she agreed quickly. She hadn't bargained on getting official approval for more than Sam's help, but having Broots in her corner on this might prove invaluable. "Thank you, sir." One more 'sir' wouldn't kill her… especially when she'd gotten more than she'd hoped for.
"One thing, Miss Parker," Raines raised a skeletal finger to her. "Failure is not an option here. Sydney cannot be allowed to be convicted and sent to prison. You will find out what really happened and make sure the Dover police take into custody the real person in charge – or you will make sure that you find evidence that implicates another to a much greater degree than that which points to Sydney. Either way, Sydney walks on this." The sunken blue eyes glittered malignantly at her. "Do we understand each other?"
"You are crystal, sir," she said serenely, inwardly seething. As if she'd falsify evidence and put another innocent person away instead. Syd was innocent – and she'd prove it or die trying. Sam caught her quick glance and left the office with her in the lead. She stalked purposefully to the elevator and punched the down button.
"Are you OK, Miss Parker?" the sweeper asked solicitously.
"I'm not mad at you," she said after a very deep, very vocal sigh. "I'm just…"
"Sis!" The call came from a distance away.
"Oh shit!" she whispered as she turned gracefully to watch her twin, Lyle, walking quickly toward her from his office at the opposite end of the corridor. "What is it NOW, Lyle – I'm still busy."
"Dad…"
"For your information, I just got out of a meeting with Mr. Raines," she told him in a completely exasperated tone. "He's aware of what I'm doing, why – and has given me permission to continue. So do me a favor, why don't you," she poked her finger into his upper chest in a deliberately painful way, "go find someone else to annoy."
He took hold of her finger and pulled it back away from him. "What the hell are you up to, Parker?"
Sam moved forward until he was standing right behind Miss Parker, and he stared at the way Lyle was hanging onto her finger with the cold and calculating look that told the more volatile Parker sibling that he'd best release the finger or risk losing the rest of the hand.
Lyle hesitated for a moment, and then reluctantly let her go. "What the hell are you up to?" he demanded again.
"None of your damned business," she snapped back at him. The feel of Sam's powerful bulk at her back had been reassuring. "If you're so damned curious, go ask 'Dad' and see what he has to say about it."
Lyle's face suddenly smoothed into a gentle smile, one that would have been disarming if there had been an ounce of sincerity in his eyes to go with it. "We're supposed to be on the same team, Parker, remember?"
"Since when?" she sneered at him and then deliberately turned and stepped around Sam to punch once more at the elevator button.
Sam remained utterly still, staring with ominous neutrality at this perpetual pain in his boss' shapely hind side until he heard the bell announcing the elevator car's arrival. He then turned away from Lyle and followed his boss into the elevator, taking his regular spot directly in front and slightly to the side of her as the silvered doors slid silently shut. He kept his face carefully schooled even as he chided himself internally for even THINKING about his boss' shapely hind side – thoughts like those were dangerous these days.
"Thanks," she said quietly. Sam had certainly been proving his worth that day.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered in a similar tone. "What now?"
"Now we bring Broots in and get three minds working on this thing," she announced determinedly. "Time's a-wasting."
oOoOo
Detective David Miller shifted the forensics reports and typed-up statements around on his desk, as if rearranging the papers would give him a clearer idea of just exactly what might have gone on in that motel room. The old man – a psychiatrist, he knew now – still wasn't talking, and had a lawyer now who would have to be present at any subsequent dealings. That lawyer was a bright penny – and a smart one. At the moment, there was very little outside circumstantial evidence making it possible for him to hang onto the quiet European gentleman that had been found in that room with the blood-soaked mattress and bloody razor. If he weren't very careful, that pretty and canny Centre lawyer would have his sole suspect sprung for lack of evidence.
He'd just gone down to the forensics lab and spoken to the technician about the amount of blood found at the scene. The best estimate the technician could give him, based upon the size of the puddle on the top of the mattress and the depth to which it had soaked prior to being analyzed, was that nearly two pints of blood had been shed there. There had been no doubt in the technician's mind that whoever had lost that much blood would not have been up and walking around – that amount of blood, lost quickly, was nearly always fatal. What was more, moving a body that had bled out to that extent SHOULD have left some signs somewhere – even if only on the sheet itself.
But after all the test, all the photos, all the evidence-gathering, the only things known about the evidence were that the blood was human, the semen had been present on the sheet before the blood – but not by very long, and the blood on the razor was the same type as that on the sheet, and had been outside the body for approximately the same length of time. DNA testing was pending to confirm that it was indeed the same person's blood, and the precinct captain had already notified the district attorney to get a court order for a DNA sample to be taken from the material witness for comparison against the semen stain.
But the evidence, when taken with the circumstances, had presented a very confusing picture. It didn't make sense that a murderer would have remained behind in the room in which he'd butchered a woman, remained behind and submitted meekly to being taken into custody. It didn't make sense that there was no sign indicating what had happened to the body. It didn't make sense that the man who had reported the screams and initiated the police action to begin with was now nowhere to be found. It didn't make sense that the woman who had rented the motel room to begin with evidently didn't exist – a check for a Delaware driver's license had yielded no Catherine Hallsey on the roles, and his requests to Maryland and Virginia had yet to get responses.
Frankly, Miller was starting to empathize with the man down in the lock-up – and to understand why he was being so reticent about offering any answers to any questions whatsoever. The blood-shot appearance of the man's eyes when they'd brought him into the station gave testimony to what had probably been a fairly decent bender the night before – although they'd have to wait until they could take a sample of his blood to confirm or deny that, too.
The detective sorted through the documents scattered across his desk until he finally came up with the business card that the lawyer had submitted when she'd presented herself for her preliminary interview with her client. Miss Parker, yes, that was the name he'd remembered. MISS Parker? For a brief moment, he wondered what the MISS stood for, and then dialed.
"What?" The lawyer, whoever she was, could take a lesson from her client when it came to politeness.
"Detective David Miller, Miss Parker. We met at the Dover Police Station…"
"Oh yes, Detective." The irritation in the woman's voice notched back noticeably. "What can I do for you?"
"We will be wanting to speak to your client again later this afternoon – I wanted to notify you so that you or an associate of yours could be present for the questioning," he informed her.
"Thank you, Detective. At what time will this happen?" It sounded as if she had propped the telephone handset against her shoulder and was reaching for a pad on which to note the time he'd give her.
"Will four o'clock be satisfactory?" That gave the judge plenty of time to sign the warrant for the DNA, and for any new evidence to hopefully shed some light on what looked to be a very complicated mystery.
"I'll be there," Miss Parker answered curtly. "Thank you for calling."
/She hung up on me/ Miller thought to himself in amazement. /That dame has brass ones, that's for sure!/ He stirred at the documents and reports absently. This case was one of the most puzzling he'd ever encountered – and that bothered him… a lot.
oOoOo
"They want to question him again," Miss Parker answered the unasked question from both of the men in her office.
"When?" Sam asked quietly.
"Four this afternoon," she replied.
"That gives you time to check out Syd's story a little, doesn't it?" Broots tried desperately to sound up beat. "You could go over to the Land's End on your way in to Dover…"
Miss Parker gifted him with a glare of exasperation. "Ya think, Scooby?" She lifted one of the documents from her desk. "In the meanwhile, I want you chasing down everything we have on a Calvin Dexter – the motel register states that he lives in Baltimore. And see if you can come up with an ID photo of this mysterious Catherine Hallsey."
"I'm on it." Broots turned on his heel and made a dash for the office door.
Miss Parker stared at the reports, her chin slowly sinking into the palm of her hand. The certainty that she'd missed something important hadn't diminished over the hour or so that she'd spent committing most of the facts in evidence to memory. It seemed something so very simple – something that should just leap out at her…
"I've got it!" she exclaimed and shot quickly to her feet. "C'mon."
"Where are we going?" Sam asked, suddenly finding that he needed to almost trot to keep up with her.
"Sydney's. I knew there was something that didn't compute…"
"What was that?"
"Did you see Syd's car at the motel?"
Sam blinked, and then shook his head after thinking for a moment. "No, I didn't." Sydney's car was like a Centre sedan – black and sleek – only slightly more luxurious on the interior. He would have noticed if a car looking as if it had just come from the Centre carpool had been parked in the motel parking lot."
"Neither did I," she replied, poking the elevator call button sharply three times. "Which only brings up the question that nobody's answered yet: how did Syd get from Blue Cove to Dover?"
"And you're going to see if his car is at his house," Sam guessed.
"Bingo," she remarked caustically as the elevator door slid open. "Before the cops think of it."
"Ah…" he breathed, not quite following her line of thinking but ready to back her up in whatever she decided.
oOoOo
"Oh shit."
Detective Miller climbed from his car and walked over to where the body lay almost hidden behind a dumpster in the litter-filled alleyway. "What have we got, Jim?" he asked the coroner who was still crouched down next to the partially nude woman.
"She's a mess," Jim Carlton glanced up at the detective. "We've got ligature marks at her wrists and ankles, her throat and abdomen slashed, and someone did a real number on her face." He lifted the black plastic tarp over the woman's face and deliberately didn't look up to see the detective flinch at the visible signs of horrific violence. The only recognizable feature that had been left intact was her long, straight, blonde hair.
"Tell me she's the girl we've been looking for from the motel scene," Miller pleaded.
"No can do without testing, Dave," Carlton shook his head. "There's not much blood here at the scene, so it's fairly obvious that she was killed elsewhere and dumped here. But other than that, you'll have to wait until I get her back to the lab."
"Any ID?"
"Just that." Carlton pointed to where a purse lay discarded a few feet away. "We've already done all the crime scene photos – so go ahead and take a peek. We'll process it back at the lab."
Miller pulled a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his coat and put them on expertly before crouching next to the purse and gingerly unzipping the main compartment. "We've got a wallet," he announced triumphantly and pulled the item from the depths of the bag. He unsnapped the wallet and stared at the picture ID that stared back at him. "Catherine Hallsey – we've got a Delaware driver's licen… Hey! Wait just a doggoned minute!"
He frowned at the ID in his hand. "I checked myself - Delaware state records don't show a driver's license issued to any Catherine Hallsey…" He looked at the driver's license closely – and then saw the very small details that indicated a forged ID, details that would normally escape a casual or uninformed glance. "I'll be damned! This is a fake," he muttered, to himself more than to anybody else, "and a damned good one. Somebody paid good money for this."
"There are signs of recent sexual activity," Jim announced grimly as he straightened to his full height and gestured to his assistants to collect the body. "I'll be able to tell you more maybe by this evening."
Miller didn't listen as the back door of the coroner's wagon was slammed shut and the wagon drove off toward the coroner's office. He just stared down into what he assumed was the face of the dead woman, wondering what the hell was going on. Just who was the dead woman – really – and what was her connection to the bed full of blood on the other side of town?