Chapter One
Havenport, Rhode Island — May 2018
Police Chief James Kanter headed out of the Havenport business district with his lieutenant, Brian Taylor. No sirens—rather a peaceful ride down Washington Avenue past the hospital. Seventy-two hours ago, Jim was anything but calm and composed. Three days ago, he left Brian at the crime scene while he kept vigil in the back of the ambulance beside his longtime friend, Simon Farrell. Lights flashing and horn blaring, the ambulance had rushed down the same avenue toward the emergency room.
Now, each time Simon came to mind, the ache in his chest returned. Hard to believe Simon was gone, and harder still to believe someone killed him.
“It will be strange not to catch sight of Simon at the police academy. Everyone packed into his class. Even big brass enjoyed his digital forgery lectures and the war stories of his life before incarceration,” Brian said. “His memoir, Coming Clean: A Forger’s Story, was an eye-opener. Some only saw a brilliant digital investigator who could make digital protégés look like wimps. No one expected the publicity and recognition he received from his book would elevate him in everyone’s eyes. An asset to the department.”
Jim didn’t know how to respond, so the two policemen rode on in silence. Everyone loved Simon’s old stories, the samples he showed, and the hands-on class where people tried to create their own document duplicates. No one would use the word forgery, but the excitement he created and the discussion that followed was amazing.
“Ancient history,” someone said. It didn’t surprise him that once document forgery became a crime of the past, Simon went digital. Jim chuckled silently. The old likable geezer always had a story, each bigger and better than the last.
“It’s an amazing story why and how he became a forger, a World War II hero,” Brian said.
“He was very brave for a fifteen-year-old in Paris in the1940s. In those years an ID card was the difference between life and death. He worked in the French underground and developed a talent for copying documents. His first test was to make an exact copy of an ID card in the handwriting of a particular clerk. He practiced and practiced until he could reproduce it exactly, even in his sleep. Then the real test began. He had to create a card for himself and pass through various Paris checkpoints without getting caught.”
“He was very low-profile. Who would have thought the old, unassuming man was awarded the French Resistance Medal? His passports, train tickets, and ID cards saved fourteen thousand lives. Who knew?” Brian said.
Jim knew. He spent hours with Simon, listening to his old stories, heroic ones. Simon would be angry if he’d heard that. “I broke the law,” he would say. “Forget about me.” But he wasn’t forgotten. His funeral proved that.
“You couldn’t find a place to stand with all the Newport, Providence, and Boston police departments paying their respects. And the eulogies. I had no idea he was a concert violinist, but when I thought about his artistic creativity, his nimble fingers, it made sense. And the stories from the people he helped and kept in touch with all these years. I wish I knew him better. If a funeral could be good, that was it,” Brian said as he paused at a stoplight.
The intense past couple of days had taken their toll on Jim. He rubbed a small brass key between his thumb and forefinger.
Three days ago, he found Simon sprawled on the beach, his life seeped away amid the swirling papers of his empty folio. The man was barely alive. Trixie, his cat, kept watch over him like a stoic Egyptian statue.
An early jogger found Simon in a desolate area, the zone between the public beach and the elite yacht club. The Good Samaritan tried to stem the flow of blood but the makeshift tourniquet loosened.
With his friend’s life leaking out and soaking into the sand, he went into action. He placed his knee on Simon’s femoral artery and leaned into him with all his weight. The flow stopped. He had to work fast. He took the emergency kit from his service pants, put on the trauma gloves, and had the tourniquet open in a matter of seconds.
Working quickly, Jim wrapped the belt around Simon’s thigh, well above the injury. He threaded the strap through the buckle and pulled it tight so no more than three fingers could get between the belt and Simon’s thigh.
“How you doing?” he asked as he twisted the rod. Simon was awake, but drowsy, probably from the loss of blood.
Thankful the pumping blood stopped, he clipped the rod in place, then took out the gauze. Carefully he packed the wound.
“Jim.” Simon grabbed his shirt and pulled him close. Trixie mewed and brushed against Jim, encouraging him toward her friend.
The look in Simon’s eyes, the color of his skin, and the ever-spreading bloodstain on the lower part of his body told him Simon had only minutes to live. He gave the rod one more twist. A wave of grief tinged with eminent loss rippled through him and left him empty.
“Right here, Simon. The ambulance is on its way.” A quick glance at the feeder road produced no ambulance or hint of a siren. Jim opened his clenched fist, curled his fingers around the rod, and gave it another twist, then reached for Simon’s ankle. There shouldn’t be a pulse if the tourniquet was doing its job. A breath escaped his lips. No pulse. He checked the wound. No bleeding. For now. Where the hell were the medics?
He swung back to face Simon and cursed his helplessness.
The distant wail of an emergency siren reached his ears. “Finally,” he murmured, and sucked in a deep breath, the first one he’d been able to manage since he’d got the emergency call from the jogger.
The ambulance came to a stop near Jim’s cruiser. Bob and Val, volunteer EMTs, hurried out of the cab and raced to the back. The rear doors flew open and the EMTs pulled out their emergency kits.
“We got here as soon as we could. All the equipment is at the multicar crash on the outskirts of town by Killer Curve,” Bob said as he reached Simon and Jim.
The medics made a quick assessment of Jim’s handiwork.
“Great job, Chief.” Bob turned to Val. “We’ll need the stretcher.”
“You two go get it. I’ll stay here with Simon.” Jim had no intention of leaving his side.
“Jim.” The urgency in the old man’s voice startled him. Nothing fazed Simon Farrell. Always calm and cool, even all those years ago at his trial.
“Easy, Simon. I’m right here. Everything’s going to be fine.” He smiled through his growing concern.
“Don’t sugarcoat it. I know what’s happening. Where’s Trixie?” Simon struggled to his elbows.
“Whoa, not so fast. That cat of yours has nine lives. You, I’m not so sure.” Jim gently pushed on Simon’s shoulders, but the old man wouldn’t move. Simon put something in his hand.
“What’s…”Jim searched Simon’s face.
“They think they took it from me.”
The old forger chuckled. “Nothing, they have nothing. Don’t let anyone find out I gave this to you. Don’t give it to anyone, and more importantly don’t tell anyone anything. The proof. Ownership. I tell you I have the proof you need.” The man’s eyes went wild, his breathing rapid.
Simon fell back onto the sand.
“Relax. I’ll keep it safe. No one will take it from me. Please, Simon, stay calm.”
A dark spot started to spread. Shit. The tourniquet must have slipped again. Jim gave the rod another twist.
The medics hauled the gurney through the sand and finally reached him and Simon.
Bob and Val eased Simon onto the stretcher. Trixie hopped on and curled at Simon’s feet. Val gave Bob a glare, but the senior EMT nodded. Val shrugged and wheeled their patient off the beach into the waiting ambulance. The medics started an intravenous line and hooked Simon to the equipment. Amid the activity inside the makeshift triage center, medical machines came to life while Jim stood by the door helpless.
Police sirens blared as cars rushed down the road and pulled up next to the ambulance. Brian got out and hurried to Jim.
“How bad is the accident in town?” Jim asked.
“A three-car pileup. Witnesses said some nutjob floored it coming out of Killer Curve. At least ninety miles an hour. I’ll check out the surveillance tape when I get back to the office. I can’t imagine how anyone would go that fast coming out of that curve without ending up on the beach.”
Brian stared at the stretcher, then back at Jim. “Is he going to be…”
Jim shook his head slowly.
“I can take care of things here. Go with Simon,” Brian said, his hand out for Jim’s car keys. “I’ll bring your car back to the station.”
Keys in hand, Brian motioned to his men and led the way to the beach.
“Chief.” Val peeked out of the ambulance. “He’s all hooked up. You can ride in the back with him.”
Jim climbed into the vehicle. Afraid his friend would die before the ambulance reached the hospital, he didn’t want Simon to be alone. “Just get us to the hospital.”
Bob closed the doors. In seconds, the ambulance moved out, sirens blaring.
The cat hobbled up the stretcher and cuddled next to the old man.
“Trixie, go to Jim,” Simon whispered. He glanced at the cat, then at Jim.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.”
Somehow Trixie made her way to him along the edge of the stretcher as the ambulance bounced down the road.
Jim stroked the feline, who nuzzled his hand and purred.
“She’s a good companion, quiet and independent. Can’t tie her down, likes to come and go. Make sure you leave a window open for her at night.”
Simon smiled in a fatherly way. Thank goodness the man quieted. Jim bent close to the old man’s ear, more to help Simon than to keep the conversation private.
“Who attacked you?”
“I’ve waited a long time for him.” He let out a labored breath. “Maybe I can stop looking over my shoulder now. I can lie quiet next to my Nancy and be at peace.”
The ambulance pulled into the emergency bay at Havenport Medical Center. Simon looked at Jim with a touch of sorrow before his eyes clouded over and the machines let off a cacophony of sounds. The doors were yanked open. Bob and Val made quick work of getting the stretcher out. The triage nurse climbed onto the gurney and administered CPR as Bob and Val rolled Simon away. Jim stood in the ambulance and stared as the automatic doors closed, sure he would never see Simon alive again.
That was three days ago. Now, Jim sat in the police car and stared at the small brass key. Numbers or letters stamped into the metal had been removed without a trace.
“You never told me how you figured out what the key opened,” Brian said. “Did I miss something?”
“No, you didn’t miss anything. Simon told me before he died. Simon said he could lie quiet next to Nancy and rest in peace, except Simon was buried here with his family in Havenport. Nancy is buried in Scotland, Connecticut. He knew he wouldn’t be buried with her. Aside from the fact she is in a single grave, her family would make sure of that.
“What a pity. He married very late in life. I think Nancy and Simon were mad about each other, but her children would have nothing to do with him after his trial. They either convinced or coerced her to divorce him. It doesn’t matter what happened. In the end, the marriage was over. Simon didn’t speak of Nancy after that, but he mentioned her in the ambulance. My gut told me the key fit a safe-deposit box at the Scotland Savings Bank or a box at the post office. It couldn’t be a safe-deposit box. I would have to be with Simon when he rented the box. It had to be the post office.”
Brian nodded and drove on in silence.
Scotland, Connecticut, was a rural town where everyone knew one another. Jim and Brian planned to stop at the police station and say hello to Police Chief Brown. This wasn’t a courtesy call, but a necessary one. In Scotland, Jim stood out like a sore thumb. Scots didn’t like intruders. The town still remembered the upheaval caused by Simon’s trial when the media flooded their paradise and trampled everyone’s gardens asking questions about Simon. And the Mulligans. Nancy’s parents kept her away from it all. The trial, too. Simon grieved her loss more than his freedom. That was a long time ago.
Brian drove to the back of Scotland City Hall and pulled to the curb in front of the police department. Jim got out of the car, then leaned in the window.
“I shouldn’t be too long.”
Brian didn’t say anything. He took out his cell phone. Jim shook his head and walked into the building.
“Thank you for the call about Simon. I alerted my boys, but things are quiet here,” Nathan Brown said. In his fifties and balding with a stocky build, Brown was an easygoing man in an easygoing town. He sat behind his desk with a cup of coffee in his hand.
“Think nothing of it. You’d do the same for me.” Jim left the police station and went next door to the post office.
He was firing on all cylinders today. He told the clerk he had his key, but forgot his box number. The clerk took his ID and brought out a card with his box number clearly printed in the upper-right corner. He had to laugh. Simon Farrell had opened a post office box and signed Jim’s name. Even he couldn’t tell the signature was not his own. He glanced at the date on the form. Four weeks ago.
Jim went over to the wall of boxes, slipped in his key, and opened the door. For a moment he stared at the manila envelope waiting for him, unable to take it out.
“Okay, Simon. What did you leave me? Your will? Or did you keep an old list of clients after all? That would be sweet.”
The prosecution really wanted to get their hands on his list. Simon insisted he didn’t keep a record of his clients—bad for business. He rattled off eight to ten names from memory, but no one believed that was everyone, not even him.
Jim took out the envelope and quickly eyeballed the contents. There were three items inside. The first was a newspaper article from two years ago. The second was an old document dated 1774, and the third—a doodle—was clipped to it.
He swept his hand around the box. Empty. He closed the door.
Jim walked out of the post office and into the waiting cruiser. He placed the envelope on his lap.
“A message from the office came in while you were inside. The fire department was called to Simon’s place. The house was fully engulfed. The fire department did everything possible, but nothing was left. The fire chief suspects arson. There was no sign of Trixie.” Brian pulled the cruiser onto the highway.
“Ryan’s taking care of her,” Jim said. “The cat is a constant visitor at her office. It seems Trixie likes Ryan’s treats better than those we dole out.”
Murder. Fire. Jim took in the information. Nothing left. A man’s life reduced to the papers in his lap.
“Success, I see.” Brian pointed to the envelope. “Any idea when he opened the box?”
“The card said four weeks ago.”
“Do you think it’s a coincidence that Simon rented the box shortly before he was killed?” Brian asked.
“It would have been if he hadn’t forged my signature to rent the box. No, Simon did all he could to protect these papers. He knew he was in trouble. He said something about watching over his shoulder for years.”
Jim focused on the envelope. The preliminary murder investigation had come up empty. Other than the early-morning jogger who’d found Simon, there were no leads. These papers were all he had.
“You and Simon were good friends. Why didn’t he tell you? We could have kept him safe,” Brian said.
Sure, keeping people safe was his job. Too bad he’d failed. The acid in his stomach rose, and he fought to beat down the voice inside his head. He’d failed Simon just like he’d failed his friends in Iraq during Desert Storm. Simon’s murder brought back the days and months of shame and self-loathing. He let out one strangled breath, then another. That’s right, calm down.
Echoes of the past surrounded him, and he was back in the desert. The kid had no idea he’d given away their position. He closed his eyes to deny the shadows that crowded around him. I did what I could, I did what I could, I did what I could, he repeated over and over. The team was gone, but so was the fucking sniper with a hole in his head for each of Jim’s men he’d killed.
“Protect your own” was his mantra. Nothing would stop him from finding the bastard who’d killed Simon and bringing him to justice.
“Who wanted Simon dead?” Jim whispered the rhetorical question he didn’t expect Brian to answer.
“Precisely. Who?” Brian kept his eyes on the road. “Could it be related to his trial?”
“The trial was almost ten years ago.”
Jim was at a loss. “The parole records show he’s been clean. The only thing I can think of is someone from his past, maybe from prison.”
The answers had to be sitting on his lap. His fingers absently drummed a steady beat. Why else would Simon have made sure he collected these papers?
He opened the envelope and fanned through the pages.
Item one: a news article taped to a sheet of white paper. Two years old, the article covered the drug bust he and FBI Agent Matt Lyons had worked. Handwritten on the back of the paper were the names of prominent Havenport citizens who weren’t associated with the drug bust. What was their connection to Simon? Was this the list the prosecution had been hunting for?
Item two: a tourist souvenir, a reproduction of the 1774 bill of sale of the Emersons’ waterfront property to Zachariah Emerson’s daughter and son-in-law. Over the years, reproductions of the famous manuscript had improved from a poor paper copy to one on high-quality parchment. This was definitely the parchment version.
Item three: a doodle of sorts, with caenn cadha handwritten in three-dimensional block letters sitting in a sea of clover. He screwed up his eyebrow and shook his head. The phrase rang a bell, but he couldn’t place it.
The bill of sale interested him because his girlfriend studied old documents. Her hobby wore off on him. Calligraphers used raised marks as guidelines to align the letters. He ran his fingertips over the page as she had shown him in order to make sure the marks were printed, then pulled his hand away as if burned. The tangible feel of pricks and score marks were evident. If he was right, this wasn’t a reproduction. His heart pounded in his ears. Why did Simon have an original document? Again, he ran his finger over the document, this time the entire document. It was consistent. It may not be authentic, written in 1774, but it wasn’t a photocopy. He blanched at the idea. Had Simon created a forgery and hidden it away? If so, why had Simon directed him here? Nothing was getting clearer.
He put everything back into the envelope, emptied his mind, and stared at the scenery without seeing a thing as Brian continued on toward Havenport.
* * *
Brian pulled to the curb an hour later. “You want me to wait, or can you find your way home?”
“Thanks. I left my car in the lot. See you tomorrow.” Jim got out of the car and waited until Brian pulled away, then headed for the twin glass doors of one of the few upscale office buildings in Havenport.
On the third floor, the brass plaque affixed on the polished mahogany doors read Livingston and Livingston, Attorneys at Law. Ryan Livingston shared the suite with her older brother, Rhode Island State Assemblyman Peter Ryan Livingston.
Jim and Ryan had a comfortable relationship. He’d met her in court seven years ago when she’d done a favor for Mayor Henry’s son.
“I didn’t know Livingston and Livingston represented traffic violators,” Brian said as he stood with Jim in the back of the courtroom. Jim scanned the defendant’s table.
“I thought the law firm was more high profile,” Jim said. “You go on to the office. This should be quick. State the facts and leave. I want to be on the road to Providence as soon as possible.”
“Thanks for your support, but there’s no need for you to come to the police academy. This is not the first time I’m teaching the class. I can handle it,” Brian said.
“I’m well aware you can handle the class. If I thought otherwise, I wouldn’t have recommended you as an instructor. You better leave. I’ll meet you there later.”
As he hurried past the defense table, he sent some papers onto the floor. He and the attorney reached for them at the same time. When he looked up, papers in hand, he stared into the most compelling ice-blue eyes he had ever seen, serious and playful at the same time. He recognized intelligence mixed with understanding and a softness that took his breath away. Short and cropped almost boyish platinum-blonde hair framed her oval face. He wondered how it would feel in his hand, and how she would look with long hair, way past her shoulders.
“Are you going to give those to me? I promise I’m not hiding anything.” Her lips curved into a smile that went all the way to her eyes, which warmed into a more fantastic blue, if that was possible.
All thoughts of meeting Brian in Providence faded.
He smirked at her playful tone and handed her the papers.
She stood next to him, her expression all business. “Chief Kanter, would you consider a bargain? My client has a clean record. A young boy with his first car got carried away on the very tempting straight road right after that awful curve.”
“The speed limit on that part of the road is forty miles an hour. I clocked him going thirty-five miles over the speed limit. That section of road is deadly at the marked speed. I’m sure Mayor Henry would rather I speak to him about a traffic ticket than about a funeral. Listen, I’m not here to scar the kid for life, just protect him from himself, if necessary.”
“Would you recommend community service?” The attorney’s blue eyes held him captive. He had a reputation of recommending work in lieu of a hefty fine. It pleased him she asked rather than expected him to be in favor of fifteen to twenty hours of service. He liked her more by the minute.
“All rise,” the bailiff said. Jim went to the prosecutor’s table as the court was called to order.
“Will the attorneys please approach the bench,” the judge said.
Jim admired the confidence in the defense attorney’s stride and took her in from his place at the prosecutor’s table. She wore a dark navy suit and crisp white blouse with a red print scarf. He noticed her reasonable high heels. It wasn’t just one thing about her he found attractive, it was the whole package. This woman was sexy as hell.
At the end of the day, the boy paid his adjusted lower fine and was assigned to work fifteen hours at the animal shelter. He took the defense attorney to dinner. It didn’t take long before he was head over heels in love with her.
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