HABIT: a gripping detective thriller full of suspense Read online

  “Hot,” Brendan said. “You know, it’s late in the summer, too.”

  “That doesn’t matter. It’s all getting hotter.”

  Brendan glanced over. “Global Warming?”

  Kevin shrugged. His eyes were ringed red from crying, glassy and small as if shrink-wrapped. He was a good-looking kid, with a strong jaw and straight nose. Brendan’s own nose was bent to one side, something he had always been a little bit self-conscious about. That and the smattering of Irish freckles he had around his cheeks and temples. He was grateful he wasn’t a redhead. With the rest of his complexion and red hair he would have been Howdy Doody. But Brendan had inherited some of the darker looks of his Italian mother, too. His hair was black. Along with his green eyes, hatchet nose and light complexion, he often thought of his appearance as uncomely, like a ghost’s.

  Kevin cleared his throat. “I’m not a proponent of anything. It could be CO2 emissions; it could be the Chandler Wobble. Who knows.”

  “The Chandler Wobble?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of the wobble of the earth?”

  “I wasn’t a Geology major.”

  “It’s like this. Let’s say you were to stick a pencil in an orange. Then you put the tip of that pencil on a piece of paper. You spin the orange. A perfect spin, and the pencil just makes a dot on the paper. Now imagine that the orange is wobbling, and . . .”

  “It makes an ellipse on the paper. What causes the wobble?”

  “That’s just it. Maybe global warming causes the wobble. Or maybe the wobble causes global warming. It’s the chicken or the egg.”

  The comment made Brendan think of the shed. Particularly of the chicken coop made out of stacks of cages, banded together by some simple one-by-four lumber. “Did your sister keep chickens?”

  At first he thought Kevin would answer, but then the young man put his forehead in his hand. His elbow was propped on the passenger door. The wind slamming by sucked at his hair and pulled it out the window. A moment later and he had both of his hands covering his face, leaning forward.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Brendan said. He realized that while he’d always winced at such generic phrases, there was nothing else to say in moments like this.

  “She never should have come up here,” said Kevin through his hands. He snuffled back some tears and wiped a hasty hand across his face. He looked out at the scenery rushing by; corn, barns, silos, gnarled oak trees, a long swath of pines in the distance.

  “Where did she come up from?” Brendan asked, emphasizing the last word. “On your driver’s license, it says you’re from Scarsdale. That where she’s from, too?”

  Kevin cut his eyes over to look at the detective, then turned to look back out the blustery open window. He didn’t seem to want to answer the question.

  “I’m from Westchester County, too,” Brendan offered.

  Another sideways glance from the young man. “Oh yeah? Where?”

  “Hawthorne.”

  Brendan had tried not to leap to an instant assumption about where Kevin was from, but Scarsdale meant money. It was the richest city in one of the richest counties in the country. The last he’d checked the statistics, Westchester was second only to Fairfax County for per capita wealth. It was hard not to connect the young woman, who had an entire farm to herself with an Audi parked in the driveway, to a wealthy family supporting her. He tried to proceed tactfully.

  “Scarsdale is nice,” he said.

  “I went to school in White Plains.”

  “College?”

  “High school. We were right along the edge of that district.” He paused and added a little defensively, “I didn’t go to college.”

  They were just a couple miles from Remsen. Brendan let off the gas just a little. “No, huh? You seem educated.”

  “I educated myself.”

  Brendan could tell this was sensitive territory, and imagined heated conversations Kevin might have had with his parents.

  “Are your parents together?”

  “That’s hard to say.”

  “But they’re not divorced.”

  “No.” Kevin finished his cigarette and pitched the butt out the window.

  Brendan took a breath. “Do they own the house where your sister was found today?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, we need to talk to them right away. The coroner is obligated to call them, and he will, within the next few minutes, I’m sure. Maybe you’d like to call them. Maybe it would be better if they heard it from you.”

  “No,” said Kevin with little hesitation. “It wouldn’t.”

  Brendan considered this. Maybe the kid wasn’t prepared to go through it. Family brought out the strongest emotions. Or maybe it would be tough in another way – maybe they would blame him, maybe he was the family whipping boy, who knew?

  Or maybe he had something to hide from them.

  Brendan, changed tack. “How long has your family owned the place?”

  “Uhm, I don’t know. Three years? More? I’m sure Bops bought it because he was trying to hide money. Avoid capital gains tax.”

  “Bops?”

  “My father. We call him Bops because . . . Well. Let’s just say my parents got into the family game late in life. Both Bops and Ma’am are career-driven people. Bops was in his mid-forties when Rebecca came. He’s seventy-one now. Maybe seventy-two; I don’t know.” Kevin surprised Brendan by cracking a smile. “Man, she was a fucking surprise. Maybe Ma’am’s body had rejected the pill by then – she was thirty-five or thirty-eight or something. Ma’am is in publishing. For whatever reason, they started having kids. I’m the last in a line of fucking token children.”

  Brendan absorbed all of this. The kid clearly expressed bitterness and resentment. It was to be expected, Brendan supposed.

  “And how close were you and Rebecca?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You talk regularly and stuff? I don’t know how it works. I’m an only.”

  Kevin sighed. He ran a hand across his face again. Brendan glanced and saw the shine of tears. “We were close, I guess, yeah. Not always, but more since . . . we got older. Look, man, I can’t, I can’t go into this right now.” Suddenly he sat up straighter, and his voice grew louder. “Did you get her phone?”

  “The CSI unit – that’s the Crime Scene Investigation team – they bagged her phone. They’d take any of her personals, like cell phone, computer, wallet, down to the lab. What about the phone?”

  Kevin’s body seemed to slump again. He returned to looking out the window. There were small, modular homes alongside the road now. They were coming into Remsen. “Nothing,” he said.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Kevin was quiet.

  “Did your sister have any children?”

  Kevin abruptly turned his head to the side to cut a look over at Brendan. His jaw was set, his lips pursed. “No,” he said.

  Brendan felt like the kid was lying.

  After that, they lapsed into silence.

  * * *

  At the diner, Brendan ordered a BLT and a coffee. Kevin said he wasn’t hungry.

  “I know it’s probably not appealing,” Brendan said. “But you should eat something.”

  Kevin conceded to an order of eggs and toast. He had an orange juice brought over with Brendan’s coffee. He sipped the juice, and grimaced. “Bitter,” he said. He pushed it away.

  “Kevin, I’m having someone meet us here.”

  The young man raised his eyebrows. He made solid eye contact most of the time, Brendan thought, but always looked away first, as he did now, scanning the other patrons in the diner. It was fairly busy for a Thursday morning. A group of four older men sat at a nearby table. One was wearing a trucker’s cap which read “American Legion” on it. They wore flannel and suspenders and their shirt pockets bulged.

  Brendan and Kevin sat in one of the booths by the window. There were five booths in a row. In the next booth over, behind Kevin, Brenda
n observed a young woman with a baby. The child was crying as it was fed mashed potatoes.

  “Who’s meeting us?”

  “She’s a grief counselor,” said Brendan.

  Kevin didn’t look pleased. He pushed the silverware around on his paper placemat. He glanced up at the far door as if he were considering leaving.

  “You’ve been through an incredible shock,” said Brendan. “I can’t begin to imagine the loss. But, Kevin, these first 48 hours are crucial. If we’re going to find your sister’s killer, I’m going to need your help. But I don’t want to neglect your own personal needs; what you’re going through. It’s a tough situation.”

  Kevin looked back at Brendan. His blue eyes seemed to darken. “Tough? Sorry, but you don’t know anything about tough right now.” He gripped the table in front of him. “I don’t like this. I don’t like counselors, all that.” Indeed, the young man seemed to be getting agitated. His eyes, glassy and red, darted around the room.

  “Why is that?”

  Those eyes pinned Brendan, even darker now, as if drawn into harder material, like pits. “You like to be under the microscope?”

  Brendan sipped his coffee. He thought of the nervousness he’d felt this morning, coming upon his first official crime scene up here in God’s country. It still came around, sometimes, his doubt in himself. But for some reason his gut told him that this wasn’t the reason why Kevin was apprehensive. Again, it felt more like the young man had something to hide. “Nobody really likes being . . . looked into. But I think what you learn is how to be gracious.”

  “Gracious,” Kevin scoffed, spitting the word.

  “Are you a user?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Brendan kept his voice low. “I mean do you use drugs. Did Rebecca use drugs? Illegal or prescription?”

  “See? This is what I’m talking about. Do you use drugs, detective?”

  Brendan had expected the young man to be combative. It was better that he got riled than panicky, and ran out.

  “I used to,” said Brendan.

  “So? What about you? Let’s talk about you. See how you like people prying into your life.”

  “It’s not fun; you’re right.”

  “What is a guy from Westchester doing up here in Podunk central working as a detective?”

  Brendan took a deep breath, and exhaled. He moved his cup of coffee in front of him and took it with both hands. He spoke in a clear voice, not too soft, not too loud.

  “I was born and raised in Hawthorne to a middle class family. I got a scholarship to a school where I studied the biology of the brain. Particularly, I studied how we formed habits, did things routinely. Everything from muscle memory, to the basal ganglia. I didn’t graduate top of my class, or anywhere near it. I barely made it through. Then I came close to receiving my PhD in neurobiology when I was your age, but fell short.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know how I made it through, even that far, because I was drinking the whole time. I had met a girl at school, and we were married in two years. We had a child the year I was finishing. Then, I lost it all.”

  He paused there, and gauged Kevin’s reaction. The young man seemed incredulous. “You almost got a PhD in neurobiology? What the fuck are you doing as a cop? That can’t pay much.”

  “Neither does neurobiology. It’s a myth that a doctorate automatically translates into a high income. I wasn’t going to be a brain surgeon. I did research. It all depends on who you go to work for as a researcher, or if you stay in academia and go after grants. At the time, with the economy, let’s say the prospects were grim. But that’s not why I became a cop.”

  “Then why?” Kevin seemed genuinely more relaxed with the focus off him for now. And some of the combative energy seemed to have temporarily subsided. You could often reveal more about a person of interest by talking about things other than themselves. Sometimes the indirect approach worked best. Back in Westchester, a policeman named Argon had taught Brendan that.

  “I became a cop because of everything I lost. My wife, my child, my life. I sobered up, thanks to the help of someone who came into my life just when I needed it most. That man was a cop. It took me time to get myself together, but during part of my recovery, I went to the police academy. I figured lots of push-ups and sit-ups would be a good thing.”

  Brendan shrugged, and sat back, letting go of the coffee cup.

  Kevin’s face was open now. He regarded Brendan plainly from across the table. His fight or flight impulse seemed to have subsided. A moment later, a woman appeared. Both men glanced up, thinking their food had arrived.

  Instead of the waitress, they saw a pretty brunette in jeans and a white blouse, a small bag over her shoulder. She smiled at them. “Good morning. I’m Olivia. Can I join you?”

  Kevin looked across the table at Brendan. His eyes were bloodshot.

  “I don’t want to talk to this woman.”

  Brendan was opening his mouth to speak when the grief counselor responded. She addressed Brendan directly at first.

  “Good morning, Detective. I’d like to start by being clear about something; about who my client is. My client is this man, Kevin. It is not the Sheriff’s Department.”

  Now her eyes drifted over to Kevin, who was looking down at his hands. “What you and I discuss is entirely confidential. My job is to help you through this process. If you feel like you are in a good condition to help the police officers after we speak, then that is for you to determine. But, you may not. And that’s okay, too.”

  Kevin lifted his head up and met her gaze.

  CHAPTER SEVEN / THURSDAY, 12:12 PM

  Brendan left Kevin with the grief counselor and headed back to the scene. It had been about forty-five minutes, and he needed to debrief with Delaney. The CSI unit would probably be close to finishing up the first round. One or two of them would take all the evidence collected so far to the lab. The others would stay behind. It might take the entire day to process the scene. Brendan wouldn’t have to wait for it all to be collected – he would want to get going right away on some priority items like the cell phone. He also wanted to talk to the owners, who he’d found out from Kevin were the victim’s parents, right away.

  He and Olivia had agreed to meet at her in-home office that afternoon at four. She had very quickly volunteered to bring Kevin Heilshorn back to the house, back to his motorcycle.

  Brendan didn’t pretend to know her methods, but he felt intuitively that besides being polite and helpful, the therapist may have seen value in returning to the scene of the tragedy with the young man whom it affected so deeply. Perhaps more effective “work” could be done if they were in the presence of what had caused such tremendous grief, rather than away somewhere else, where it could be dulled or sanitized. Either way, Brendan was grateful for her offer. He had consulted with her at the door, on his way out the diner, and had stressed to her that he needed to keep Kevin Heilshorn close at hand. She understood.

  The next few minutes unfolded like a kind of dream. Several news vans had arrived on the scene. Eager reporters were held back by the barrier the deputies had placed in front of the driveway. Bollards had been placed along the front edge of the property where it abutted Route 12 by State Troopers.

  Two trooper vehicles sat in the road, their lights flashing. The sun crawled even higher, and baked the already scorched grass and corn. Small bugs zipped about in the air. Bees droned past. The voices of reporters drifted over from where they talked with deputies and State Troopers.

  Brendan walked from his car, which he’d parked along the shoulder of Route 12, and over towards the house. Delaney stood in the center of the giant front yard, holding a cell phone to his ear. Two men in white Hazmat suits were coming out of the shed with large bags. He also saw a new face, over by the victim’s Audi, talking to one of the CSIs. He knew by reputation it was Howard Skene, the Senior Prosecutor for Oneida County.

  Delaney snapped his phone shut. He too looked across the dr
y grass at Skene, and said to Brendan, “You’re just in time. Let’s go tell him how much we don’t have to go on.”

  Skene walked over. He had a peculiar gait, as though his pleated pants didn’t fit quite right around his crotch. Delaney would say he had a stick up his ass. Skene didn’t shake hands either, but parked both of his palms on his hips. Brendan could see the heat of the day getting to the prosecutor, too. His upper lip was beaded with perspiration, and his dark hair was damp around his ears and forehead.

  “Morning,” said Brendan.

  Brendan and Skene had never met in person, and Delaney made introductions. Skene nodded. He wore black sunglasses, but Brendan could sense the prosecutor’s eyes examining him. After a moment, Skene said, “So?”

  Delaney took a barely perceptible step to the side and looked at Brendan, indicating that he had the floor.

  “Well, sir,” Brendan began doubtfully. He tried to sort the information in his head in order to proceed articulately. “The victim is 28 year-old Rebecca Heilshorn. What we know right now is that the house and the property are owned by her parents, also named Heilshorn.”

  “Is she married? Kept her name?”

  “There was no wedding ring on her finger, but I have yet to get with CSI and establish a real inventory of the contents of the home. Right now the house doesn’t seem very lived-in. The kitchen and the bedroom and upstairs bath are the only places that show real signs of habitation. There’s thick dust over everything else. Some plastic on the furniture in the living room. However, the master bedroom upstairs looks like it recently underwent a renovation, as if someone were planning a more regular occupancy of the home.”

  Skene was expressionless. He said, “That’s a very nice description, Detective.” He turned to Delaney. “Any leads?”

  “A brother of the victim showed up not long after we got here,” said Delaney. “He wrecked his bike, he was hyperactive. He had to be subdued by one of our deputies.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Skene, raising his eyebrows. He then turned and glanced towards the group of reporters, held at bay by the driveway gates.