A biological storm, p.5
A Biological Storm, page 5
“You sound a little pissed off,” Mallard observed.
Berger flashed the detective an annoyed look. “His disappearance was painful for our mother. She loved our father, and when he died and one of his sons wasn’t available…” His voice trailed off.
“It might be helpful,” Ganderson said, “if we knew what the argument with your father was about, especially if it precipitated your brother’s disappearance.”
Berger paused. “It was about Steven’s life choices. Dad didn’t approve.”
“What sort of life choices?” Ganderson continued.
Berger looked steadily at the rumpled detective. “My parents were old-fashioned, and my brother was…not.”
“What does that mean?”
Berger seemed to be about to speak when Mallard interrupted.
“Was the disagreement in any way about money?”
Ganderson glared at his partner, then turned to Berger, who was shaking his head.
“No, it was about the way my brother was living his life.”
“Did he drink? Was he into drugs?” Mallard asked.
“He had a few beers now and then—maybe a glass of wine. Little if anything more. And no drugs.”
Ganderson was looking hard at his partner, but his question was addressed to Berger. “What did your brother do for a living?”
“He worked at a bank. First National here in Beach City—first as a teller and eventually as branch manager. He made a good living, was well-liked, did his job well, and would have gone on to be a vice president—or so he believed.”
Ganderson looked away from Mallard and toward Berger. “Is there anyone you can put us in touch with that he’d been close to before he left? Friends? A significant other?”
Berger nodded, took out his phone, and began scrolling through contact information. “This was his best friend. I haven’t spoken to him because our father let it be known that he was not welcome in our home, and I thought reaching out to him might not go well. I figured I’d leave that to you.”
Ganderson wrote down the information. “Barry Hutchins. So this was his number and address five years ago? Do you know if it’s current?”
Berger slowly shook his head. “Sorry. I have no idea.”
Chapter 6
Dora and Missy were in Dora’s turbo on the way to Beach City Roman Catholic Church, often referred to by locals as BCRC.
“Besides her church, where else could we go to talk to people about Shelly?”
Missy bit her lower lip as she concentrated. “We’ve been to probably the best source of local information and gossip—the salon. After the church, let’s go back and look at Adam’s databases.”
“Good idea. Hopefully, the priest will know more.” Dora paused. “Um, there’s something I want to get back to. Remember a while back I asked about us moving in together?” As Dora was changing lanes to turn onto a side street, a black pickup cut them off and veered to the side street to make the same turn. “Hey!” Dora gunned the turbo and, with a burst of speed, swerved around the truck, cutting it off as she made the turn in front of him. The driver of the pickup blasted a long note on his horn and began to tailgate them.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Missy rolled her eyes. “Stop it, Dora.”
Dora slowed the turbo to a crawl. The truck’s driver screamed at them and turned onto a different street. Dora grinned.
“Someday, someone’s going to have a gun.”
“Well,” Dora answered, “they might have to use it.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence. As they parked, Missy shot Dora a bleak look. “Since we’re at a church, maybe I’ll say a prayer for your driving.”
Dora huffed. “Better to pray for the other guy.”
Beach City Catholic was a large brick building a block from the beach. Its main area, which was taller and wider than the rest, housed the sanctuary. The smaller area was home to the rectory.
Outside the rectory, they found a fit man in his late sixties, of medium height, with a full head of white hair, a reddish complexion, and an easy smile. He was planting colorful impatiens in a newly turned flower bed. He heard them approach and stood up, slapping his hands together to wipe away the dirt. He held them up and looked apologetic. “Still dirty.” He shrugged. “I don’t shake hands so much anymore anyway.” He beckoned them to follow him into the church.
Inside the rectory was a large office, its walls lined with filled bookshelves. Two desks sat on either side of the central area, one of which was staffed by a large gray-haired woman with bright blue eyes and a navy blue dress. She looked at the priest as they entered. When he saw her, he must have realized she was waiting for an introduction.
“Mrs. Hornfield, this is…”
“Dora Ellison and Missy Winters,” Dora supplied. “Private investigators.”
“How exciting!” Mrs. Hornfield eagerly exclaimed. “Has there been a murder?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” The priest looked at Dora and Missy, remembering. “I’m Father Walter Engells, but please call me Father Walt.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and led them to his office, a cozier, darkened room, also lined with filled bookshelves. Missy stopped to examine the tomes.
“Do you like to read?” the priest asked.
“I do,” Missy said. “I’m a librarian—part-time.”
Father Walt indicated the books. “Commentaries on the gospels and other religious-related writings, along with my share of classics. I, too, love to read.”
He sat down behind a modest wooden desk and bade them sit in the chairs opposite. “Now how can I help?”
“We’ve been hired to locate Shelly Borzer. She seems to have gone missing, and we understand she’s a member of your congregation.”
“That she is, and extremely popular. I hope she’s okay.” He looked concerned, realizing the possible gravity of the situation.
“What can you tell us about her?” Dora asked.
“Not very much I’m afraid, other than her being popular. She has a natural gregariousness—loves people, I suspect. Enjoys engaging with others—and very supportive. She’d probably be a natural in the clergy.”
“Does the church have female clergy?” Missy wondered aloud.
Father Walt did not seem to have heard the question. “Beyond that, I can’t say very much.”
“Do you know anything about her personal life?” Dora asked. “Anyone with whom she might be…especially friendly?”
Father Walt looked down, then back up at the women. “Again, I can’t say much about her personal life. Any conversations we might have had would be private, of course.”
“Of course,” Dora agreed. “But what about people she was friendly with at services? Surely that wouldn’t be so private. Anyone who was at services would have seen—”
“I understand, but I have to consider what Shelly’s wishes might be, and I have no way of knowing, so I err on the side of caution. You understand.”
On the short ride back to Geller Investigations, Missy gave Dora a long look. “I’m getting the sense that just about everyone who knew her is hiding something.”
Dora pressed her lips together. “And they’re hiding the fact that they’re hiding something.”
Once back at the office, they sat down at Adam’s computer, and Missy performed searches in several database applications that examined just about every aspect of one’s life that required data.
The list included food delivery information, vehicle registration, cell phone users, Internet search engine results, municipal liens and judgments, newspaper articles, and bankruptcy and foreclosure notices. She found several Shelly Borzers, but none were local. She found men with the same or similar names. But she did not find the hairdresser.
• • •
Charlie Bernelli sat in his son C3 and Sarah’s living room. Sarah was in the bedroom, feeding Olivia, their two-week-old daughter. Olivia was not taking easily to feeding, and Sarah was trying not to be too upset. She had read that babies with Down syndrome can take longer to adapt to feeding—and many other things. She and C3 believed they were prepared to deal with whatever issues Olivia was going to face. They would face them together, as a family.
“Do you have any scotch?” Charlie asked his son.
“Dad—I’m sober, in recovery.”
Charlie was pacing back and forth, the length of the living room. He was dressed in a gray suit, as he was going from his son and daughter-in-law’s apartment to his office for a meeting with a client. C3 sat on the couch, parrying and addressing his father’s questions, admonishments, and criticisms. He wore blue jeans and a black polo shirt. Father and son both had longish blond hair; the father’s was streaked with gray.
“You do know that babies like Olivia need to be watched for heart defects and hearing and vision issues,” Charlie pointed out. “There’s a tendency for Down syndrome babies to—”
“Olivia’s not a Down syndrome baby,” C3 interrupted.
Charlie was frustrated that his son, who had been so volatile his whole life, could be so placid at so critical a moment. “Of course she is!”
“No. That’s a label. Olivia’s not a label. She’s our daughter, and she’s a human being. She just happens to have been born with an extra twenty-first chromosome.”
Charlie stopped pacing. “Isn’t that a label?”
C3 sighed; he was exhausted. He and Sarah had taken turns all night getting up to sit with Olivia who, like many babies, was colicky. She seemed never to sleep, other than periodic dozing during the day.
“We’re staying on top of everything, Dad. We’re aware of the tendency Olivia may have toward certain conditions. We have a wonderful pediatrician. We’re doing all the right things. But more than anything, we’re loving our daughter.”
Charlie had resumed pacing again and ventured near the door to the bedroom, listening.
“Dad—stop.”
Charlie looked at his son. “You sure you haven’t got any scotch?”
• • •
Missy looked around for a waiter while Dora took a last look at her menu. They were at Petrocelli’s on a Wednesday evening, and the restaurant was rather empty, which, Missy had thought, would likely lead to the wait staff being more available than usual. Apparently, the reverse was true. The wait staff seemed to assume they were less needed than usual and made themselves less available.
“So far,” Dora said, looking up from her menu and putting it to one side of her setting, which sat on a linen napkin, “we have a bunch of semi-red flags but nothing actionable.” The latter phrase was one often used by Beach City Police Chief Terry Stalwell, a tough but fair leader of local law enforcement, whom Dora liked and admired.
“Right,” Missy agreed, taking out her iPhone and opening a Google Doc, where she had listed elements of the case thus far. She began to read. “There’s Shelly’s last appointment—apparently an emergency with a 90-something-year-old—followed by a group of some kind we don’t know much about. We really can’t account for her whereabouts from the time of her last appointment onwards. Then we have tension between the salons, and with the weirdo clients Willa told us about.”
“Barbara Skolnick and Kim Lamonte,” Dora said, remembering. “Both kind of tough cookie types, but I got no vibe they were hiding anything other than whatever personal stuff they share with their hairstylist. They were being themselves and were happy to talk about having their hair done, if not whatever they confided to Shelly.”
“Colorist—not stylist,” Missy corrected. “There’s also the fact that the salon carries Julienne products, a local company that’s been less than pristine.”
The waiter, Fabio, arrived with diet sodas for both women, which they had ordered just after sitting down. He then took their order; Dora ordered lasagna and Missy rigatoni pomodoro. Both came with side salads.
“So what do you think about moving in together?” Dora asked after Fabio had departed.
Missy’s voice quavered. “Um, let’s get back to that,” she suggested. “I was wondering what you thought of what we’ve gone over so far.”
Dora’s mouth twisted as she considered the question. “Look, they all have possibilities, if we’re looking at criminal behavior in a missing persons case, and yet, none gives us anything to lead us to believe that, like, here’s the smoking gun. Here’s what happened, right?”
“Tell you what jumps out at me,” Missy added. “Donny Schmidt. Now there’s a sick guy who’s done some criminal stuff.”
“Well, but he positively crows about hating Shelly—wanting her dead.”
Missy shrugged. “Maybe he’s a sociopath.”
“Maybe, but I don’t see him as quite that stupid.” The salads arrived. “In my opinion,” Dora continued, “the most telling information we’ve acquired thus far is whatever Father Walt wasn’t telling us. Whatever Shelly confided in him. I get the feeling there’s a missing puzzle piece here, and we’re just not seeing it.”
The women enjoyed their salads, followed by the rest of the meal, and split a cannoli for dessert. They never did return to the issue of moving in together.
• • •
Charlie arrived at the Bernelli building in the business district of Beach City, headed into his private office, ignoring the “hello” from his office manager, Vanessa, who was working in the outer office and went to the bar that was behind a waist-level sliding white door in a breakfront. His private bar was nearly as well stocked as many commercial bars.
Charlie despaired that his son was now saddled with this lifelong burden, though he had to admit, this burden was the gorgeous, magnetic, sweet new love of his life—his very own granddaughter.
He dealt with this extreme contradiction the only way he knew how. He poured himself a neat scotch, quickly drank it, and poured another. Only then did he venture into the outer office.
“What’s happening here?”
Vanessa was petite and attractive; her hair fell about her shoulders and collarbones in golden dreads that were bright against the chestnut tone of her skin. She wore a violet-colored business blouse and a navy skirt with a black belt; her shoes had heels, which were sensible and made for the back-and-forth required of her office work. Her makeup nicely accented her pretty features. “I’m sending another letter to Winchell Garstein,” she said. “Taking it up a notch.”
Charlie shook his head. His agency produced ads for an upscale local restaurant called The Elegant Lagoon. Garstein was the owner of a New York area music talent agency that sometimes “forgot” to pay its musicians, which led to occasional tension at the venue and, when the problem persisted, the fallout that spilled into other business relationships. Garstein liked to push musicians around, as did many venue and talent agency owners. Bad business, Charlie thought, since now, because Garstein was quite late in paying Johnny “Keys” Rabin, a local pianist and vocalist, Rabin had backed out of the next few weeks of gigs at The Elegant Lagoon, which was now losing weekend business—an unnecessary domino effect caused entirely by Garstein’s ego.
A few moments later, Charlie’s client arrived. Dean Clayburgh Jr. was the thirty-five-year-old owner of HelthE Snax snack foods. His unkempt and unwashed brown hair was long enough to cover his ears and collar—if he had a collar. Clayburgh, however, was wearing a red T-shirt with the logo of a well-known rock band, moccasins, and no socks.
He looked at Charlie’s suit and grinned. “Going to a business meeting?”
Swallowing his wounded pride, Charlie grinned back. “Just came from one,” he lied.
“What’re you driving these days?” Clayburgh asked.
“Twenty-two BMW M3,” Charlie answered. He knew what was coming.
“Bought a Lamborghini Huracán EVO six weeks ago. Looking to get rid of it, but there’s nowhere to go but down.” He shuffled over to the bar and examined its contents. “No single malt?”
Charlie sighed inwardly, opened a cabinet below the bar, and retrieved his personal stash of top-shelf scotch.
Clayburgh took the bottle and looked at the label. “Did you piss in the bottle or is this really what you drink?”
Without missing a beat, Charlie took the bottle from Clayburgh and began returning it to the cabinet.
“No, no.” Clayburgh shook his head, as though allowing himself to be thus demeaned was a personal tragedy. “If you can drink it, it’s good enough for me.”
“Well, that’s kind of you,” Charlie said.
“I know,” Clayburgh agreed.
Clayburgh’s company, HelthE Snax, was a new account for Charlie, one for which he hoped to produce package designs, store displays, shipping containers, and magazine ads. As such, they were of great enough value for Charlie to allow for Clayburgh’s incessant criticisms and pissing contests.
Clayburgh poured himself a tall single malt while Charlie watched, cringing. They both sat, but Clayburgh bounced up again. “Ooh, I have a surprise for you. You’re going to love this.”
The buzzer sounded. Charlie stood, frowning. He was not expecting anyone else.
Clayburgh winked. “Right on time! My surprise has arrived.” He nodded toward the door, which Charlie opened. An extremely handsome man with finely cut cheekbones, carefully coiffed dark hair, an imported suit, and expensive shoes stood in the doorway. When he smiled, twin dimples appeared on either side of his mouth with another in the center of his chin.
“This is Lorne Berger. He’s going to be the model for our new ad campaign.”
Charlie was surprised. He alone handled all creative aspects of whatever work he produced for his clientele. Here was one of his biggest accounts taking the reins of a creative aspect of work over which he insisted on personal control. Charlie briefly considered arguing with Dean, since a wrong creative choice could harm the man’s business. But he decided against speaking up, at least for now, since doing so might negatively impact their relationship going forward.
“Pleasure.” He smiled and shook Lorne’s hand, briefly wondered about COVID, then led the two men back to his bar, where he let them choose their poison. But Lorne was not looking at the bar; he was facing toward the outer office, where he was staring at Vanessa, who was turned away, bending over a copy machine.
