The Call: (A Harper & Lane Short Story) Read online

  The car is a blue sedan.

  "Well I'll be damned," Harper says. "And it's the right plate, too."

  Ernest just stands there, rooted to the spot, the cigarette drooping from his slack mouth.

  Stu gets in close enough he is towering over the older man. Ernest looks up at him, eyes heavy and mournful.

  "Time you lived up to your namesake, Earnest. Where's your fucking car?"

  * * *

  "That was gut instinct back there," Harper tells him as they drive away from Ernest's house. They left a couple of uniforms to interview Ernest. Meanwhile Harper and Raley hunt for a crimson Ford pickup with a gray wing.

  Stu dials an extension, holding the cell to his ear. "I almost had a Columbo moment. You know what I'm talkin' about?"

  "Not really."

  "Just wun more ting," he says in his very best Peter Falk voice, squinting with the one eye. Harper is unimpressed. Stu shakes his head at her, then talks into the phone as someone the other end picks up. "Uh, yeah, this is Raley. I need you to run a plate," he says, reeling off the number. "We need to be tracing it back from the address of Ernest Pritchett. His brother says he left early this morning, before eight. It's a crimson . . . yeah, crimson. Dark red. What is this? Crimson Ford pickup. Yeah, the old kind. Had a busted left wing, so he got it replaced with a gray one till he can get it repainted. That should help narrow things down . . . yeah, you too."

  Harper looks across at him. "Who was that?"

  "Kapersky," Stu says. "Being a wise ass."

  "We should pick something up on the cameras," Harper says. "We have a time, the make and model, a distinguishing feature. We've only gotta get him at a gas station, or a motel."

  "You reckon that's what he's doing? Skipping town?"

  Harper shrugs. "I would if I was a man, and I'd killed my wife."

  Stu looks at her with a lopsided grin that lifts one side of his mouth. "Now, don't start giving me ideas, Harper."

  3.

  "Pretty straightforward, then," Morelli says, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  Harper sips her own. "Stanley killed her and ran. It's the first impulse of most people. Fight or flight. Usually they choose flight."

  Morelli shakes his head solemnly. "So where we at chasing down his car?"

  Harper and Stu follow the captain into his office, where he settles in behind the desk.

  "We're on it," Stu says. "I think we'll catch up to him by the end of the day."

  "Hey, Detective Raley, I know you're not a rookie when it comes to this, but if you're gonna give an estimate of time, make it that bit longer. Say tomorrow. Not this evening. The moment the sun's gone down I'm gonna be riding your ass expecting to see a suspect in custody."

  "Understood sir."

  "That's not a criticism, Raley. Just some . . . friendly advice."

  "Yes sir," Stu says, jaw tight with tension. "I'll take it on board."

  Harper notices the shift in Stu's body language. He's gone stiff—if there's one thing he can't stand, it's being told what to do in a way that belittles him. She's certain that Morelli didn't intend for it to come across like that. But it did, and Stu is visibly pissed.

  "So the inevitable question is why he did it," Morelli says. "What's this guys motivation?"

  Harper says, "I've done some digging. His wife worked at a local nursing home for dementia patients. The Sundale Retirement Home?"

  "Never heard of it," Morelli says, before cracking a smile. "But, you know, that could mean I'm an escapee patient."

  Bad taste, sir, Harper thinks. Bad taste. She manages a teetering little laugh and glances sideward at Stu. He's sitting rock still, listening and making eye contact, but so removed from the conversation he's little more than a bystander.

  "Anyway," Harper continues, before Morelli notices that Stu is sitting like there's something long and hard stuffed up his butt. "It could be someone there has heard something. I thought it was worth a try."

  "I'll let you get to it," Morelli says.

  Harper nudges Stu as she opens the captain's office door. "Thanks. We'll let you know what we find."

  "Yeah, do," Morelli says, head already down, immersing himself in a document left on his desk. He barely looks up as they leave, working their way through the outside office. The desks; the many detectives and officers walking here and there; cuffed suspects being led to the interview rooms or, the cells. It's not until they're back outside that Stu speaks up.

  "Prick," he grumbles under his breath.

  "Huh?"

  Stu glares back at the station as they walk to the car. "Speaking down to me like that . . . like I'm some kind of fuckin' kid . . ."

  "Stu."

  "What?" he snaps.

  Harper unlocks the car, giving him 'The Look'. It's the look that says to the family pet, "Don't you dare chew the end of the sofa." It's the look that catches a little kid with his hand in the cookie jar and a guilty expression on his face. It's the look a wife gives a husband when he says something out of turn. A look that says, "Excuse me?"

  Stu's eyes dart away as she talks to him in an even, calm voice. "I know you don't like being preached to like that. Trouble with you is, you don't take it as constructive criticism—just criticism." Stu goes to say something, but Harper silences him with one finger. "Hold on. I'm not saying there's anything to critcize. You know what Morelli's like. He's old guard."

  "Old prick," Stu spits.

  Harper rolls her eyes, climbs in behind the wheel. Stu gets in next to her with a sigh.

  "What is up with you? Earlier you were in good spirits. Now you're miserable as all hell. Is it about this morning?"

  "No," Stu snaps. He tries to find the words; she can see the conscious effort. "Karen got in touch with me a few days ago. Wants to get back together."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope," he says with one shake of his head. "I told you, she's crazy."

  "But you're divorced."

  Stu smirks. "You think I forgot?"

  "No, it's just . . ." Harper starts the engine. "Why didn't you say anything earlier?"

  "I don't know."

  "What did you tell her?"

  "Remember earlier in the station I went off to go do something? Well, that's what it was. I called her up, told her it'd never happen."

  "What did she say?"

  Stu hesitates. "Not a lot," he says, eyeing her for a reaction that doesn't come.

  "Well, you've just got to move on," Harper says, patting his hand. "I've been there. I ended up here as a result, don't forget."

  "You sayin' I'm a rebound, kiddo?" Stu asks, smirking.

  Harper puts the car into gear. "Maybe."

  * * *

  At a set of lights, Harper feels her cell phone vibrate in her pocket. She digs it out and looks at the notification on the screen. Her heart flutters in her chest, like a trapped moth. There's a voicemail. She has to blink, looking at the name on the notification to be sure she's seeing it properly.

  It can't be.

  "Hey."

  Harper puts the phone away, not making eye contact with Stu, feeling momentarily displaced. "What?"

  He nudges her arm. "Fucksake, Jane. The lights have changed."

  "Oh!" Harper says, snapping back to reality. From then, driving across town, her mind is on the phone in her pocket—and the message waiting for her inside of it.

  * * *

  The Sundale Retirement Home is a dark brick building stretching away to either side beneath the dappled shade of overhanging trees. The two detectives park, then walk inside. At the front desk, they ask for whoever Manages the place.

  "Oh, that'd be Miss Gest."

  "Can you call her for us?" Harper asks.

  The receptionist—her name badge says ANITA—frowns at them both. "Is there some trouble?"

  Harper smiles. "We just need to speak to your Manager."

  Anita picks up the phone, dials an internal number then waits for an answer.

  Stu leans forward on the counter. "Hey . . . did you clock us as cops?"

  "I know the type," Anita says in a hushed voice.

  "And what type is that?" Stu asks, pushing for the answer. Someone picks up the other end, because Anita is suddenly animated, telling them that they have cops at the front desk, asking for the manager. Anita puts the phone back in the cradle.

  "She'll be down right away," Anita says.

  A minute later, a woman in her late fifties—gray-blonde hair pulled back and held in place by a big glitzy hair slide—enters the lobby, extending her hand to them in turn.

  "Hello, I'm Rachel Gest. Manager here at the home . . . what can I help you both with?"

  "Perhaps we could talk somewhere private?" Stu suggests.

  Miss Gest smiles uncertainly. "Uh . . . yes. We have a meeting room just down the hall here."

  "Great," Stu says.

  Miss Gest leads them from the lobby, down a long white hallway with numerous doors, leading to a plush meeting room at the very end. Her red heels click and clack against the polished tile floor. Inside they find soft chairs and subdued lighting. Harper picks a seat.

  "I like to bring the families of potential residents down here, so that we can talk things over somewhere comfortable," Gest tells them. "It puts them more at ease. Making the decision to put a loved one somewhere like this is hard enough, and I like to think we're one of the better ones."

  "We're here about an employee of yours. Annabelle Pritchett?"

  Miss Gest frowns. "Anna? Has something happened?"

  "I'm afraid Anna was found dead at her home today," Harper tells her. It's always hard to break that kind of news to someone who isn't expecting it. Miss Gest seems to deflate in front of her, sagging into her chair as if she's been slugged in the stomach. "I know it's a shock, but we really want to locate her husband. Have you seen or heard from him?"

  "No," Miss Gest says, shaking her head. Her face has turned deathly pale. "I can't believe it . . ."

  "We've launched a full investigation into her death, believe me," Harper explains.

  Miss Gest looks at her. "How did she die?"

  "I'm afraid we can't go into details as of now," Harper says.

  Stu clears his throat. "How was she as an employee, Miss Gest?" he asks, pad and pencil at the ready, leaning forward in his chair the way he does.

  "Exemplary," Miss Gest answers without hesitation. "A really, honest-to-goodness, nice person. You know the type? They don't come along often."

  "I understand," Harper says. "And how was she with her colleagues?"

  At that, Miss Gest looks down. She has transformed from the confident, elegant Manager that led them into the room, and become something far more diminished. "Fine . . . mostly."

  "Go on," Stu says.

  Miss Gest starts crying. "I feel rotten telling you this. What with her gone and all. But if it's going to help you in some way . . ."

  "Was there some bother with the other employees here at the home?"

  "Not quite. It was more a rumour, really. They said she was having an affair with our maintenance man. I heard it from different people and decided to ask her directly about it."

  "What did she say?" Harper asks.

  Miss Gest dabs at her eyes. "She said the rumours were true. Things had turned sour at home. Her husband had become . . . violent. She couldn't cope anymore. Rick Santos was there for her when she needed a shoulder to cry on, and things just progressed from there I guess."

  "Santos is the maintenance man, correct?" Stu asks, jotting that down. Miss Gest nods and offers to provide his cell number. "Why?"

  "Oh he's not here. He didn't turn up for work this morning."

  Harper is on her feet first. "We're going to need his address and his contact details right now."

  Miss Gest looks up at her, a dazed expression on her face.

  Harper claps her hands. "Now!"

  * * *

  Sure enough, the crimson pickup is parked out the front of Rick Santos' home. The two detectives check their pieces. Harper asks Stu for his cell.

  "What's wrong with yours?"

  She gives him The Look and he duly hands it over. Harper tells the dispatcher "Officers in need of assistance," and gives the address. She hands the phone back to Stu.

  "Ready?" she asks him. The bullet proof vest is heavy and cumbersome over her shirt, especially in the heat.

  Stu checks his sidearm. "Ready as I'll ever be."

  "God I hope he's not armed," Harper says, flexing her fingers on her own gun.

  "That makes two of us," Stu says. They walk to the front porch. Stu opens the screen and hammers on the door. "This is the police! Open up!"

  There's sounds of movement from within; something toppling over; shattering glass.

  "Breach?" Harper asks her partner.

  Stu reaches for the door handle and tries it. To both of their surprise, it creaks open.

  "Saves us a job," he mumbles, pushing the door open. The hinges squeal—the inside of the house is deadly silent. The air still.

  They enter, each covering the other, training and instinct kicking in as they check every corner, eyes roaming to every possible source of movement. Stu signals for Harper to take the kitchen while he continues into the lounge.

  Gun braced in her hands, Harper slides into the kitchen, instantly tensing up at the sight of a man being held at knifepoint. Rick Santos has someone's arm around his chest, hugging him tight. With his other hand, his attacker is pressing a knife against his throat.

  "Stop! Don't move or I'll slit his fucking throat, so help me I will!"

  The point of the knife digs into Santos' neck, pinching the skin, drawing a trickle of blood that runs across his adam's apple, and onto his T-shirt like a red teardrop. Harper holds her gun up and away. "Okay. See? No one's going to hurt anyone."

  Stanley Pritchett's eyes dart feverishly from her to the hallway behind her, to the door to his left that leads out onto a small patio. Rick Santos has a nice home—from the looks of things, he lives there alone.

  "He made me do it," Stanley shouts. "This fucker right here. Made me kill her."

  Harper shakes her head slowly. "No one's assigning blame, Mister Pritchett. Put the knife down. Let's talk about this."

  At that, sirens blare up the street. Their tyres screech to a halt outside the front of the house. Stanley edges toward the back door. Gingerly, Harper takes slow, careful baby steps forward. At that, Stanley nudges the blade in a bit, causing Rick Santos to cry out in pain.

  "Don't take another step! I'll skewer him, don't think I won't!"

  Harper stops. "Fine."

  She watches as Stanley reaches around behind him, his hand finding the door handle. He awkwardly yanks the door inward, and a breath of fresh air rushes into the kitchen. Stanley backs out of the kitchen, down the couple of steps leading from the door to the patio.

  "This ain't over till I say it is!" he yells, eyes wild.

  Stu rushes up behind him, lifting his gun up and over, slamming it down on the back of Stanley's head, the sound like a coconut cracking open. Stanley's eyes roll over white and he drops to the ground, legs buckling beneath him. Stu scoops him under the armpits and manages to lower him down to the patio. Rick Santos jumps away, hand instinctively rushing to his neck.

  Harper holsters her sidearm and calls back into the house, where uniforms are moving about inside. "Suspect in custody!"

  She gets Santos to show her the cut.

  "I r-r-really thought he'd d-d-do it," Santos stammers, body trembling.

  "If we hadn't been here, he would've," Harper tells him in no uncertain terms. "He killed Annabelle Pritchett. We found her body today."

  "Jesus," Santos says, looking down at Stanley's inert form on the patio, and then the long knife a metre or so away from him.

  "How's his cut?" Stu asks.

  Harper pulls a face. "Call it in."

  Stu kicks the knife further away and dials an ambulance on his cell. After, he helps two uniforms as they cuff Stanley's wrists behind his back and drag his inert form through the house, stuffing him into the back of one of the black and whites. If he happens to miraculously wake up, he can't embark on another murderous rampage.

  "You're going to be okay," Harper tells Santos. She smiles. "Honest."

  "We didn't want to hurt anyone . . ." Santos says, breaking down.

  Harper rubs the man's back, and directs him to a patio table and chairs. "Sit. Come on, don't beat yourself up too hard about it."

  "It was wrong," Santos babbles, face in his hands. "We shouldn't have done it. Now look what's happened."

  "Look," she says, squatting down in front of him. "Maybe having an affair is wrong. It's not for anyone to judge, not that I can because I've never had one. But I'll tell you, there's no way of knowing who you're going to fall for. That's life, Mister Santos."

  Stu appears in the doorway. When he catches sight of Santos he rolls his eyes, stalking back inside with his shoulders hunched, and Harper thinks: There goes the world's most compassionate cop.

  A team of paramedics arrive and tend to Santos' neck. They assess Stanley's condition from where is laying on the back seat of the cruiser, and deem him safe to transport to the hospital. He murmurs as they get him onto the stretcher, accompanied into the back of the van by a pair of officers.

  Harper and Stu stand at the front of the Santos residence, watching their quarry leave for the hospital. "D'you think he turned psychotic?" Stu asks.

  Harper sniggers. "Don't you?"

  "I guess."

  "Santos had a reason to be scared. If we hadn't caught that lucky break and got here in time . . ."

  "Well, we did." Stu stretches. "You should be happy. We made tidy work of this, kiddo."

  Harper pulls her phone from her pocket and looks at the screen. "Almost," she says.

  4.

  "I can't believe I'm calling you. I know this isn't the voice you want to hear. When you told your Dad that you wanted no contact, you wanted him to leave you alone, we both respected your wishes. We stayed away.

  "It's why this call is so difficult . . . Jane, your Dad has been very sick. They found cancer. It started in his bladder and worked its way up through his body. He didn't want to tell you this. He knew how you felt about him. The prognosis was never good.