Sweet Dreams Page 3

  When the doorbell rang, Sam jumped up and ran down the stairs yelling, “Gramma, Grandpa!” K’s parents loved to babysit Samantha, which was especially nice when they needed someone to look after Sam overnight.

  Scooping up the bag with Sam’s teddy bear and other overnight necessities, Mark made his way downstairs to say hello to his in-laws and to hug his daughter goodnight.

  Sam was jumping up and down, giggling. She loved to go to her grandparent’s house. Her blue eyes were wide as she grabbed her sippy cup with one hand and Grandpa’s hand with the other and pulled him toward the car.

  “Samantha, come give me a hug and a kiss,” Mark said. He laughed as she ran back, gave him and K quick hugs and kisses, then skipped back to the car, snagging her grandpa’s hand on the way.

  He watched as his in-laws’ dark-blue, Chrysler Minivan backed out of the driveway and turned onto Carwell Avenue toward their home in the West Hamptons. Bill and Holly Bardwell had lived in the Hamptons since before people had to be wealthy to own a home there. K had grown up in the same house as her father had.

  Now, the Bardwells ran an exclusive bed and breakfast in their home during the summer months. Bill was in real estate and had done very well for himself over the years. Holly was in love with art, and that is where K got her love for the arts, as well as her talent. She and her mother used to spend hours looking out at the sunsets from the back porch of their home, painting what they saw, and sometimes not only what they saw but what they felt.

  When the minivan disappeared and they’d waved their last wave to Samantha, K returned to their bedroom to finish putting on her make-up, while Mark changed into a black pinstriped suit with a white shirt and a blood-red tie. He ran some water through his short, blond hair and made it spike up a little.

  K laughed at him when he announced he was ready to go. “Hey, some people don’t just fall out of bed looking good. I have to try a little harder than you do.” She tied part of her hair back with a thin silk ribbon and let the rest fall on her shoulders, then glanced at him and smiled.

  It was that smile, a smile worth waiting all day to see.

  * * *

  KIRK WESTON SAT IN the third row of the briefing room. He looked at the other occupants. There were twenty or so people in the room, and everyone was wearing a suit but him. The FBI had called the Detroit Police Department and requested he fly to New York to help them with an urgent case. Which didn’t make sense.

  He was on the bottom of the food chain back home in Detroit and had a hard time believing anyone would request his presence on an out-of-state case, especially the feds. He also wondered why his captain hadn’t balked.

  He rubbed his hand across the dome of his shaved head. He knew he was a good cop. A guy doesn’t make detective by hanging out at the donut shops and showing up late for work. But he also knew his outright disregard for authority cost him a lot of brownie points with the stripes.

  And he was more than annoyed they’d pulled him off the case he was working. But it seemed, from the dark looks on the faces of the others in the room, that everyone else was in the same boat. Not that his other case was all that important. Just a rapist who had a bad habit of picking targets under the age of sixteen. No biggie. Let some other slob go after the guy. “Stupid feds,” he muttered just loud enough for the two gentlemen in front of him to hear.

  They nodded their agreement.

  He could see badges from New York, Boston, even Washington. He was the only one not in uniform. No matter. He felt more comfortable in jeans and a white T-shirt, and no one was going to tell him what to wear, anyway.

  A well-built man with thick, black hair that spiked on top of his head like a tiny army of soldiers made his way to the front of the room. He adjusted his green tie that had no business next to his salmon shirt, unless he was appearing in a sad Christmas play. He looked up through thick glasses and cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Mathews, special agent in charge.” He pulled up a PowerPoint on a computer as he glanced around the room, a somber look on his face. “As most of you know, yesterday there was an incident at the David’s Island Correctional Facility. If you’ll look on the screen behind me, you can see that the inmates in this photo appear unconscious.”

  The picture showed hundreds of men in orange jumpsuits lying face down on the floor and others still sitting in their seats with their faces buried in their food. Fifty or so paramedics and firefighters appeared to be working on the victims. The photo was of the main mess hall or cafeteria, taken from a high angle, maybe from a balcony

  Kirk shifted in his seat. So they ate bad shrimp.

  Metal tables that looked like elongated picnic tables sat in neat rows, and in the top part of the picture, a long counter with glass behind it was probably where the cooks prepared the food.

  “As reported on the news stations, the poisoning affected every inmate in the building. Only the inmates showed signs of poisoning. The guards are fine.” He paused. “Now for the real story.” Mathews took off his glasses and switched to the next photo.

  A slow muttering rippled through the room.

  “These people are not unconscious.” He waited until the crowd quieted. “Every inmate you see here is dead.”

  Whispers and gasps, especially from the women, sounded as the officers began to comprehend what had happened.

  Kirk smirked. That particular prison housed some of the most vile criminals in the country, and now they were all dead. Justice had been served.

  Mathews raised his hand. “People, please cut the chatter. I’ll turn it over to Captain Jacobson, who has been with the FBI for over twenty-five years and has been at the scene of the crime from almost the moment the attack was reported.”

  A tall, lanky-looking man with bottle-cap glasses stood up. Kirk decided his strong, commanding voice didn’t match his appearance.

  “Here’s what we know. First, every inmate died within seconds of exposure to the food. Not all of them actually ate the food. Next, not one guard has died or even become ill, even though some of them ate the same food. And last, but not least, so far, we’ve found no trace of poison or anything abnormal in the food or in any of the victims.” The captain showed several more slides, then asked for questions.

  Kirk studied the slides with new interest, not because a bunch of slime bags died, but because he loved a good mystery. He wanted to know how it was done, to see if he could crack the case and look into the eyes of the mastermind. The prison yard had body bags littered from one side of the picture to the other. Individuals in hazmat suits with the letters CDC stamped on their backs like a bold black warning looked like they were testing something. Kirk guessed it would be the air and food. More photographs showed agents going through the cells looking for any clue that would lead to an answer to the cause of death.

  A thin, redheaded agent wearing a pale-gray suit, who was sitting in the front row, raised her hand.

  “Yes, Sally, go ahead,” Jacobson said.

  “So you’re saying you’ve found no poison in the food, no toxic substance in the air, and nothing out of the ordinary?”

  The captain arched an eyebrow as he pulled up the next picture. “That’s not completely true. We found this tag inside of every inmate’s pillow. They were sewn inside as if it they had been placed there by the factory.” The picture showed a cut-open pillow with a small piece of cloth containing the initials WJA. “We’re looking into every possibility. I need you all to be on top of this case, and unless we get anything that proves the contrary, we will be classifying this case as a mass homicide.”

  Captain Jacobson looked around the room one last time, then turned the meeting back over to Special Agent Mathews and took a seat next to Sally in the front row.

  Mathews split the room and gave each of them assignments. Each person was handed a cream-colored file folder stuffed with photos and case records. The file contained everything one did and did not want to know about the inmates housed at Da
vid’s Island.

  They were to follow up with the families of the deceased individuals to see what, if anything, they could learn from them. It was a shot in the dark, and Kirk thought they were barking up the wrong tree. They should be looking into the WJA note, the pillow factory, and the food delivery service. Someone had to have seen or remembered something that could help.

  Mathews dismissed everyone with the old “go out there and make us proud” speech, or something like that. Kirk was only half listening as he hurried out of the room and headed for the exit. He pushed open the door to the parking garage.

  Lights lit on a rented, dark-blue Ford Crown Victoria as he beeped off the alarm. The car was a hard habit to break. He had driven a Crown Vic for as long as he could remember. He liked knowing what he had under the hood. Inside, he tossed the files in the back, where they scattered all over the seat, photos fluttering to the floor.

  He turned the key and peeled out of the garage, driving in the direction of his hotel. He had to think, to really think. Did he want to do this? Did he even have a choice? His career was almost over, anyway. One more cluster mug, and his boss would have him patrolling a mall parking lot for the rest of his life. He hunched over as he drove, his back was aching again. The stress and the flight hadn’t helped.

  “Ah, screw it!”

  He flipped the car around and headed for the expressway in the direction of David’s Island, ignoring the honking horns and the angry gestures of the drivers he’d just cut off. He had to see the crime scene for himself.

  CHAPTER 3

  THOUGH THE VIEW OF the New York skyline was breathtaking, Mark stared into K’s eyes. He couldn’t remember when she looked more beautiful. He reached into his pocket and pulled out her gift, then placed it on the table and slid it toward her with a smile.

  “Oh, Mark, Honey, you shouldn’t have. All I need tonight is you.” Her eyes sparkled as she untied the red bow. The lid of the narrow, black box made a faint popping sound as she opened it.

  K gasped and put her hand to her lips. “It’s beautiful.” She lifted an intricate, silver chain from the silk lining. The diamond pendant suspended from the necklace caught the moonlight that swathed the balcony in white and twinkled a response.

  He moved to her side of the table to kneel behind her chair and hook the necklace for her. Nuzzling her ear, he whispered, “This has been the most wonderful five years of my life, sweetheart. Never in all my wildest dreams did I think marriage would be this good.”

  She nodded, tears glistening like stars on her eyelashes. “Me too.”

  He kissed her shoulder, then pulled her to her feet. They embraced for a long, tender moment. His cheek against hers, he murmured, “Dance with me, my love?”

  A string quartet played softly in the background as they danced, holding each other close. The balcony of The Leaf sat fifteen floors above the city and overlooked Brooklyn Bridge. All around the terrace, orange flames flickered from tall torches. His wife’s soft skin glowed in the firelight. Despite the cool breeze, he felt warm and content holding her in his arms. He was the luckiest man in the world.

  After Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata ended, they joined hands and walked to the edge of the balcony. The city was alive with the lights that filled the sky around them, making the stars pale in comparison.

  “Thank you, honey, for five wonderful years,” whispered K. “And for tonight. This has been an incredible evening.” She leaned her head on his shoulder.

  He felt a shiver vibrate through her body. “Are you cold?”

  “Just a little.” The weather was warm, but a gentle wind off the East River cooled their skin.

  “I’ll get the check and be right back. I have another surprise for you.” He hurried off to find the waiter.

  After taking care of the bill, Mark wrapped his arm around his wife and hurried her down the elevator to the lobby. Their car was waiting for them at the entrance to the restaurant. When they walked out the door, a short man wearing a white shirt and a red vest with the restaurant’s signature cursive L stepped from behind the wheel. Mark gave him a fifty and opened the door for K.

  As soon as he got behind the wheel, she tugged on his arm. “Where are we going?”

  He grinned. “You’ll see when we get there.”

  She pretended to pout, a look he always loved. Before he pulled into traffic, he kissed her long and hard, silencing her protests.

  The streets were busy, but then again, it was Friday night in New York City. He’d booked the Hilton Garden Inn, the hotel where they’d spent their wedding night before heading to California for their honeymoon. He couldn’t wait to see K’s reaction when she realized he’d booked the same room they’d shared their first night of marriage.

  As they drove up in front of the fourteen-story, stucco-and-glass building, the valet, a thin-faced, grade-school-looking kid, took the keys and delivered the car to the parking garage. K giggled as she clutched Mark’s hand and pulled him up the stairs and into the front lobby. “Mark, you sneak. How did you get us a room? They’re always booked.”

  “Not just a room. I got our room!”

  She smacked his arm with her purse.

  He grinned and deflected the blow. Sam got her energy—and her orneriness.

  Inside the lobby, smooth, cream-colored, marble floors were topped by red-leather couches and fluffy chairs in the same, soft shade of red. A fireplace glowed in the sitting room. Mark checked in and they took the elevator up to their room.

  The room was everything they remembered. It was as if they had stepped into a time machine and it was their very first time together as husband and wife. A fire burned in the living-room fireplace, sending soft orange-and-white light throughout the room. Candles flickered on the nightstand.

  K’s eyes reflected the light from the fire, dancing like fireflies in the spring. Her soft hands took his, and she led him to the bedroom through a set of French doors. Her long, blonde hair was that of an angel. Mark touched a strand, which curled around her shoulder. He tried to say something but she put a finger to his lips, reached behind her, and closed the door.

  Mark knew from the way he felt tonight, how his heart pounded in his throat, that what they had was something special, something not found by accident. This was love, true love. It couldn’t be faked or manufactured. Every day, he fell more and more in love with his wife, and he so looked forward to growing old with her.

  “I love you, K.”

  * * *

  REPORTERS SWARMED THE YARD like ants scurrying around an anthill. The prison had an odd presence about it. It was like Death had moved in, and even after he'd done his work, the stench of his soul lingered.

  Kirk was used to seeing guards high up in towers or roaming the grounds, and inmates in orange jumpsuits working out or playing courtyard ball. However, this facility looked like a movie set without the cameras rolling.

  Most of the bodies were already at the CSI crime lab for their final examination. He got out of his car and flashed his badge at a potbellied officer wearing dark sunglasses and holding a radio in his hand, who was trying to restrain the media mob without much success. The cop glanced at his ID and let him pass. The poor guy had probably been fighting off FBI tweaks and NYPD all day, so what was one more goon tromping around the crime scene? He squinted over his shoulder at the reporters and muttered, “Stinkin’ vultures. They all want a piece.” He looked around. Finding the poor sap who was supposed to be in charge was easy. He would be the guy in the cowboy hat barking out orders, a blueprint of the prison in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

  Kirk sauntered over to him. “Hey, Cap. You the man around here?” He didn’t bother to take off his mirrored-finish sunglasses, though he knew it was a sign of disrespect. He’d never been good at the whole butt-kissing thing.

  “Yeah. Who wants to know?” The captain’s thick mustache curled as he spoke, and he talked out only one side of his mouth.

  “Name’s Kirk Weston, DPD. I‘m here
with the FBI to look around.” He held up his badge.

  The captain glared at Kirk from under his wide-brimmed hat. “Fine. Just don’t touch anything. There isn’t much to see, but knock yourself out anyway.” It was obvious he didn’t appreciate an outsider stomping around in his crime scene.

  Kirk didn’t blame him. Heck, he didn’t want to be there. “Thanks.” He turned toward the front door, ducked under the police tape and headed in the direction of where he thought the cafeteria might be.

  The correctional facility—or as he called it, prison—stinking liberals liked to gussy up the place to make it seem like a four-star resort—had the usual amenities. To the west, for the inmates’ viewing pleasure, stood a concrete wall with razor wire affixed to the top. He stared at the building in front of him. Not many windows or bushes. To his surprise, there were no petunia gardens to brighten the drab surroundings. The felon lovers must have fallen down on the job.

  The front doors stood open and unguarded, which was highly unusual for a maximum-security prison. A paramedic wheeled by him pushing a gurney with a black body bag strapped to it, another paramedic right behind him pushing a similar load. Kirk wandered into the building and down the hall. Following the smell of stale milk and instant mashed potatoes, he turned left and walked through two sets of double doors by using a borrowed card key into the cafeteria.

  Trays of food still sat on the tables. Others had fallen to the floor and spilled gravy and corn in a splash of yellow and brown across the concrete floor. It was like time had frozen, and everyone had disappeared. Metal tables were lined up in neat rows, just like in the pictures he’d seen earlier, but with one distinct difference–no one sat at the tables, stunned looks on their faces, fear in their eyes. A few rows over from where he stood, crime scene investigators were collecting samples and placing them in labeled plastic bags.

  “I thought you guys would be done by now.” The sound of his own voice intruding into the silence of the huge room surprised him.