After reaching voicemail on Scofield's phone for a third time, Henry tried the other number on the card. He dialed it using Jo's cell phone and someone answered immediately. Jo had already once instructed him how to place a call on speaker so he did that and they identified themselves and the reason for their call. The person at the other end, Scofield's secretary, advised them to call his private number.
"We were unable to reach him at that number. Is there another way to reach him?" Jo spoke, taking over the call.
("No, but I'd be happy to fax the information to you.")
"Well, we don't give our fax number out to the general public," Jo replied. "Could we come by and pick it up?"
("Sure. Anytime.")
"Thanks. We're on our way," Jo said. The car lurched through another intersection beating the light.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Jo, slow down, please," Henry urged her. "Now, I understand that you'd like to kick a certain someone's butt - mine - with that lead foot of yours right now, but if you don't mind, I'd like to live long enough to get home tonight!" Sans a swim in the river.
Jo smiled apologetically at him. "Sorry." She looked over at him and said, "Just ... a lot on my mind right now." She surprised and relieved him with a slight smile.
He returned her smile but Hanson's previous advice repeated in his mind: 'Just apologize and quick.' Good advice that he intended to act on as soon as possible.
Another two blocks and they arrived at Scofield's office on East 54th Street and Lexington Avenue. They parked in the parking garage, thankful that the clang and clamor of ongoing construction work across the street was now somewhat muted. While they rode the elevator up to the 22nd floor, Jo asked a rhetorical question.
"Why does everybody have to live and work in the stratosphere nowadays?"
"Perching one's self above the masses gives one a sense of superiority, false as it may be," Henry responded anyway in a wistful manner, his hands clasped behind his back as his eyes roamed up and around. "Opens one up to a new level of thinking, of expanded creativity, I've also heard. However," he continued as they exited the elevator, "in the days before elevators, the privileged few paid more money to occupy the lower levels with the less fortunate relegated to the cheaper, upper levels."
"Can't say I'm really up for another of your lectures, Henry," she admitted, "but that just sounds mean. Making poor people walk up a ton of floors so the fat cats could claim the lucky spots."
"It's the way it was, Detective," Henry replied matter-of-factly. The filth and squalor that most of the poor people were forced to endure was horrendous. In winter, many of them froze to death for lack of heat if they didn't wilt and die of heat stroke or heart attacks in the sweltering summer heat. Accidents, crime, and other diseases took an astounding toll on others. The faces of those unfortunate ones presented themselves one after the other in his memory. The many calls he'd answered in his capacity as a doctor had wrenched at his heart, his sense of decency recoiling from both the economic and emotional despair.
"You make it sound like you were actually there," she half-joked as they approached Scofield's office.
Henry coughed into his fist to clear his throat. "I am, ah, quite the history buff," he managed to say as they walked through the doors of Scofield's music management office.
They were met with the sight of a reception area replete with sleek, modern furnishings and accessories. A grey sectional with white cushions and the rectangular ottoman doing double duty as the coffee table, graced the corner to their left. The three, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a spectacular view of the city below. But again, as when they had been in Maureen's hotel room, there was little time to enjoy it. They approached the oak wood reception desk in the shape of a half circle but found no one in the chair on the other side of it. They looked briefly to each other for how to proceed before hearing a piercing scream coming from the hallway. As they raced in that direction, they nearly collided with a hysterical, bespectacled woman in her mid-50s with her hair pulled back tightly in a mingly gray and blonde bun.
"Oh, it's awful, just awful," she whispered in a shaky voice with her hands raised and shaking, as well.
Henry helped her into the reception area and sat her down on the sofa. He looked behind the reception desk and spotted a few bottles of water reserved for guests. He plucked one of them up and opened it for her, placing it into her hands. She sipped from it and handed it back to him. Her tears were flowing freely and she continued to moan that it was awful, just awful.
"Tell me what happened to upset you so," Henry gently asked.
"I didn't know he was there," she replied tearfully. "But he must have been there all along."
"Who must have been there? Where?" he asked.
She swallowed and blinked as her tears continued to flow. "Paul, my boss, he's ... in the men's restroom ... dead." She paused to catch her breath and Henry told her to take her time. "I ... arrived for work at 8:00 on the dot as usual," she emphasized. "He usually comes in around 9 or 10, depending on his morning appointments with whatever client. But ... he must have come in even before me. Or, or stayed late from last night, I don't know." She sobbed again and struggled to compose herself before continuing. "He's dead. Someone killed him! Paul is dead and, and he must have been there all along while I was ... schlumping around out here, thinking he'd be here soon and ... "
"And what?" Henry asked.
"Wanting to ask him for the afternoon off for my granddaughter's soccer match." She threw up both hands and laughed mirthlessly. "Well, looks like I can have all the afternoons off from now until forever." He handed her a box of kleenex he'd also plucked from behind the reception desk. She snatched several of them out of the box and buried her face in them. Henry stood up just as he heard Jo's voice in the hallway.
"Henry, you'd better come look at this."
vvvv
"Male, caucasion, 56 years of age, cause of death: exsanguination as a result of the head wound," Henry reported to Jo and Hanson as they stood on opposite sides of the stainless steel table with Paul Scofield's body on it.
"This man was murdered," Hanson wryly remarked, stealing Henry's line.
"Do you have a time of death?" Jo asked Henry but with her eyes averted downward to Scofield's body which didn't go unnoticed by Hanson and Lucas.
"Approximately between 11:30 PM and 12:15 PM, based on the amount of blood loss and the temperature of his inner body core," he replied. Jo merely nodded. Giving up on making eye contact with her, he looked over at Hanson, who furrowed his brow at him while quickly darting his eyes a couple of times to Jo and back to him. He straightened up and schooled his features when Jo looked over at him.
"Schoolboy shenanigans over, I hope," she wryly remarked, closing up her notepad. Armed with the documentation from Scofield's secretary and information about his demise, Jo said, "Let's go find out if there is a connection between the deaths of these two men so closely associated with Maureen Delacroix."
"I can tell you one connection," Lucas said to all of their surprise. Although reveling briefly in the limelight, he backed off a bit by saying, "Well, maybe it is, maybe it isn't. I mean - "
"Lucas," Henry interrupted. "What is the connection?"
"Look, any fan of hers knows that she was once married to this guy," he said, pointing to Scofield's corpse. "In the 90s."
"Right," Hanson drew out. "Right after she got popular again they got married and he became her manager. How could I have forgotten that? But she and Scanlon were never married."
"Yeah, but they were engaged. He was gonna be hub #5," Lucas replied. "My folks are huge fans of hers especially since my Mom once sang backup for her during one of her tour dates here in New York in the 90s."
"Your mother?" Jo asked, pleasantly surprised.
"Yeah, you know, she was able to get the gig through the musician's registry," Lucas explained. "Contrary to what a lot of people might believe, singers don't always tour with the same set of backup singers and musicians. They get some of 'em along the way. Cheaper like that," he added.
The wheels in Henry's head began to turn in a most troubling way as he pulled off his gloves and dispensed with them. He began to pull off his lab coat as he pondered out loud. "So, according to your theory, Scanlon would have been husband #5. Scofield had been husband #4." He didn't like where this was leading him. "That means husband #3 - " His eyes widened in horror as he spun around and marched into his office. Grabbing up the desk phone's receiver, he punched the speed dial for the antiques shop. When it went to voicemail, he slammed the receiver back into its cradle and uncharacteristically ignoring his scarf, yanked his jacket off of the coat rack, arming into it as he marched then jogged out of the morgue.
"What's got him all worked up?" Hanson asked.
"Abe used to be married to Maureen," Jo told him. She took off after Henry and Hanson took off after her.
Left alone with Scofield's body on the autopsy table, Lucas slowly drew the sheet up over its face. He turned to routine and began taking the body back to the cooler to get his mind off of the fact that Abe could be their newest unlive patient.
vvvv
Henry jumped out of Jo's car without waiting for her to properly park it. He rushed into the shop bellowing his son's name, Jo and Hanson filing in behind him. "Abraham! Abraham, are you here?!"
"I'm here, I'm here," he replied as he emerged from the basement and closed the trap door. Henry rushed up to him and hugged him tightly. "What's all the fuss?" Abe asked, patting his back.
Henry released the hug and caught his breath. "You didn't answer the phone when I called."
"Went down into the basement to test out the new wall safe and knocked one of the specimen jars over; had to clean it up," he told him, shrugging.
"I was so worried when you didn't pick up," Henry said still trying to calm his breathing, fear giving way to relief on his face.
"Sorry," Abe told him again. As if seeing Jo and Hanson for the first time, he stated, "There's something else. All three of you wouldn't have rushed over here if it weren't real important."
"Yes, there is something else," Henry admitted. "Let's go upstairs, shall we?"
vvvv
Hanson left the shop after he and Jo had questioned Abe about his past relationship with Maureen and had informed him that the deaths of her ex-husband, Scofield, and her fiancee, Scanlon, appeared to be the work of the same killer. Although both detectives had been invited to stay for dinner, only Jo had accepted because she was willing to insert a lull in their investigation so she could get some answers out of her two hosts. Hanson nudged Henry again with a look behind Jo's back before he'd left.
While Jo took in the evening breeze on the rooftop terrace, Henry and Abe prepared the meal in the kitchen.
"It's hopeless," Henry said with a sigh as he pulled off his coat and hung it up. Out of habit, he then reached up to remove his scarf before remembering that he'd left it at the office.
"You mean she's goin' down for murder?!" a disappointed Abe asked.
"Wha - no, Abe. I meant ... " He sighed again while rolling up his sleeves and washing his hand. "Sorry if I upset you. No, Maureen did not kill these two men. You needn't worry about that." Now standing by the cutting board, he selected a knife from out of the wooden knife block.
Abe heaved a deep sigh of relief then furrowed his brow, eyeing his father as he chopped the vegetables almost absentmindedly. "That's good to know," he said. "But when you said 'hopeless' you were referring to ... "
Henry nodded deeply, pursing his lips. "Yes. The situation with Jo." He suddenly patted his shirt pocket underneath his vest.
"She still has it," Abe said plaintively, referring to the aged photo of him when he was a baby with his beaming parents. "She was gonna figure it out, Dad. Glad you decided to tell her rather than make her do all that digging. Would have just made her madder at you," he pointed out.
"Hanson said something similar earlier today," Henry said. Sensing Abe's question, he quickly told him, "No. He doesn't know about me. He does have eyes and ears although one doesn't need to be a detective to see that Jo is upset with me about something."
Abe eyed his father for a moment then put his hand on his father's wrist to quiet his chopping. "Go to her now. I'll finish up here. Go," he urged him again.
Henry rolled his eyes but with a soft smile relinquished the knife to him. "You're right. I'll go get the ball rolling, as they say. If I don't come clean with her and soon, she probably won't want me to go out into the field with her anymore. And we've got to find a killer who may have plans to make you their next victim."
"Oh. Okay. So that's the only reason you wanna stay on her good side, right?" Abe deadpanned, knowing the answer already. As ominous as it sounded, that he could be some psycho's next murder victim, he wanted his father to also acknowledge another reason for wanting to keep helping Jo solve crimes.
Henry chastised him with a squinty-eyed scowl before climbing the stairs to the terrace. He found her at the edge of the terrace looking out over the city and sipping from a half-empty glass of wine. Pausing for a moment to watch her as she gazed up at the sky, he was reminded again of just how beautiful she was. Bands of yellow, orange, and red were the last remnants of sunset gently releasing their hold on the darkening sky. Hands shoved down into his trouser pants, he walked up and stood beside her.
"Good you're here. Hate to drink alone. It's beautiful up here," she said. Her large brown eyes roamed over the cityscape, eventually finding his. It was so easy for them to get lost in each other's eyes. When had that happened? The first time she could recall was in his office right after he'd told her how to wander the streets with someone special and get lost in Paris. And later on that same night in the shop when she had come to tell him that she'd rather wander and get lost with him instead of Isaac Monroe. This wasn't the time for any of that, though, she told herself, pushing her emotions aside.
"It is beautiful up here," he told her. "Especially with you gracing us with your presence."
"That's ... really corny, Henry," she told him despite the fact that they both knew she was blushing.
"Yes, I suppose it is," he replied. But he was relieved and gratified to see a smile working its way across her face. Encouraged, he felt it was best to dive right in and begin his long story.
"I would like very much to continue our conversation that was interrupted earlier. Your questions about the, ah ... "
"The photo," she said, finishing for him.
He closed his eyes, pausing for a breath. "Yes." He paused again then suggested that they sit down at the table.
"Henry ... " Jo closed her eyes and shook her head in frustration.
"My knees will ... buckle very soon if we don't," he confessed. "Please." He gestured again toward the table and relaxed a bit when she gave in and sat down. She pulled out the photo from her jacket pocket, placing it on the table between them, and he eased down into the chair next to her.
"That's Abraham," he said, pointing to the baby.
"I figured as much," she said. "Cute."
"His mother is holding him," he continued, his voice caressing the words as he fondly recalled that picture-taking day.
"Sylvia Blake, Abe's mother," she recalled. "Only ... that wasn't her real name, was it?" He opened his mouth to respond but said nothing. "Lucas mentioned that she had used different aliases. Stands to reason that Sylvia Blake had also been an alias. Was I wrong to have assumed that?"
"No, no," he replied, shaking his head. "It ... her real name was ... Abigail." Jo's eyes widened and she leaned forward looking at the photo. "Abigail Morgan. My wife," he clarified. Jo's eyes narrowed as she lifted them up to meet his and she leaned away from him.
"Henry, what you're trying to tell me is that you are Abe's father?!" He gulped and nodded, pressing his lips together. "Well, that just ... makes no sense."
He huffed out a sigh and replied, "It does if ... if his father never ages."
Anger began to cloud her face even while she worked to fend off the laughter that threatened to burst from her. "You mean like the Highlander?"
Henry frowned, recalling that Lucas had once mentioned that very same word. "Highlander," he repeated. Turning his head sideways but keeping eye contact with her, he asked, "Is that some sort of term or reference to an Immortal?"
Jo rolled her eyes and replied loudly, "Yes! An Immortal. You're saying that you're an Immortal, that you live forever, that you never die?" She had risen from her chair and was pacing slowly back and forth in front of him, the pitch of her voice rising higher and higher as she spoke.
"Well, I do die, Jo, I just don't stay dead," he corrected her.
At that, she froze for a moment, turned an incredulous face to him, then rolled her eyes and resumed her rant and slow pacing, her fists balled up in anger.
He rose from his chair, as well, unsuccessfully trying to get a word in edgewise while simultaneously extending his arms out to her and then flopping them down in frustration when she ignored him.
She suddenly stopped pacing and turned to face him with her hands on her hips. "Henry Morgan, you said that it was a long story, not a crazy story!"
Abe seemed to appear from out of nowhere with a roast duck and all the trimmings on a serving platter. He set it down on a wheeled serving trolley near the stairs and rolled it over to the table. Keeping his eyes on the delicious entree, he straightened up a bit with one fist shoved against his hip. He then said to his father, "Maybe you should have waited until after dessert."
Jo dropped her hands from her hips and strolled nonchalantly closer to Abe. "What? Feed me great food first then feed me this, this bull?!"
"Since when did I become the bad guy in all of this?" he asked his father as he pointed to himself.
"Well, as it turns out, she has a bone to pick with you, as well," Henry informed his stunned son.
"Why? Because she feels I helped you keep the truth from her?"
Henry cleared his throat and replied simply, "Yes." He glanced at Jo, who grunted and turned her back to them. "But also because she now knows that you may have led Maureen to believe that I was your son. You're basically ... an accessory before, during, and after the fact."
"I never told Maureen such a thing!" he said, his fists on his hips.
Jo spun around and stepped closer to them. "But you never told her that he wasn't, either," she speculated.
"I didn't exactly ... well ... it's complicated," he reluctantly admitted, clearing his suddenly dry throat.
"Oh, ho, ho. Complicated. Those are the words of the day for you guys," Jo said disdainfully. When neither of them replied, she suddenly grabbed her purse and armed into her jacket. "Sorry, guys, but I gotta get out of here. You want to continue to talk crazy like this instead of telling me the truth ... "
"But we are telling you the truth, Jo," Henry told her.
"Then I'm gone," she said. They watched her leave the terrace and disappear down the stairs.
Henry walked a few paces after her but stopped a few feet from the stairs. Although his back was turned to Abe, the tension, frustration, and disappointment were evident in his posture. He hung his head and then ran a hand over his dark curls. Turning around slowly, he walked back to the table and sat back down in the chair he'd previously occupied. Abe came up behind him and proceeded to knead the tight muscles in his neck and shoulders.
"Sorry, Pops," he quietly told him. "I was sure it would go better than this."
"I've lost her, Abe," Henry said forlornly. Baby Abe's and Abigail's smiling faces in the photo caught his eye and he picked it up to look closer at it. He rubbed his thumb over their faces, a pained smile of remembrance on his lips.
"Nah, she'll be back," Abe reassured him, patting him on the shoulder. "She's a detective. Once she puts two and two together, she'll know we weren't lying to her."
Henry clutched the photo with both hands now. "We were a ... happy family for a while."
"That we were," Abe agreed wistfully.
"Just ... was hoping that she would have ... believed me, accepted me. And in time ... " His voice became quiet and it was harder to see the photo clearly because of the tears welling up in his eyes.
"Time. That's one of the key words of the day, isn't it?"
Both men startled, snapping their heads in the direction of Jo's voice as she stood near the top of the stairs again. She shook her head and closed her eyes then opened them before stating, "You did fall off the roof of Grand Central along with Koehler."
Henry rose from his chair, encouraged. "Yes. Yes, I did."
"My God," she said in jaw-dropped wonder. "You're an Immortal."
Notes:
Slight reference to "Forever" 2014-2015 TV show Pilot episode that aired September 2014 on ABC and to S01/E22 The Last Death of Henry Morgan.
The character, Abigail Morgan, appeared in ten episodes and the character, Maureen Delacroix, appeared in S01/E08 The Ecstacy of Agony.
