She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,214

himself into a plush white leather chair. “I’m Robert Trudeau. How can I help you?”

Something seemed off about the man’s eyes. He made eye contact, but rather than look at her, he seemed to look through her. As if focused on some distant object in the room behind her.

Fogel turned and looked at the wall. There was a white credenza with another of those white paintings hanging above, nothing else. She turned back. “Mr. Trudeau, what exactly do you do here?”

“Robert, please.”

“Robert.”

“Yes?”

“What exactly do you do here,” she repeated.

“Pharmaceutical research.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He waved a hand through the air. “We have a number of government-related contracts. I’m afraid you don’t have the proper clearances to discuss what we do here.”

“How do you know?”

Trudeau smiled. “I know.”

A white MacBook sat on his desk. He glanced at the screen, clicked a few keys, then returned his attention to her. The smile on his face appeared fixed, as if painted on. “Ms. Toomey said you were here to investigate a murder. Can you elaborate on that?”

“Multiple homicides, actually.”

The man leaned forward. “Really? Who died?”

“I’m afraid you don’t have the proper clearances to discuss who died,” Fogel said.

“Pity. I do like a good mystery.”

A muted trill rang out from somewhere behind the desk. Trudeau’s smiled faded, and for a moment he appeared puzzled. He pulled open the drawer on his top left and took out a Nokia cell phone not unlike the one Stack and gotten her. “Please excuse me, I need to take this.”

He pressed a button on the keypad and raised the phone to his ear.

Fogel strained to hear whoever was speaking but couldn’t make out the words.

Trudeau nodded several times, said, “That is excellent news,” and disconnected the call. He set down the Nokia and picked up the receiver on his desk phone.

He held up a finger. “I’m sorry, this will only take me a minute.”

Trudeau dialed a number. While the line rang, he picked up a white ballpoint pen and twirled it between his fingers, the smile still plastered on his face. When someone picked up on the other side, Trudeau didn’t identify himself or offer a greeting, he simply said, “We have confirmation. Both the boy and the Nettleton girl are on Whidbey, the remaining adults, too.”

Trudeau twirled the pen faster as he listened, weaving it in and out of his fingers. “Of course,” he said. “Perhaps after I wrap up this meeting.”

Fogel wondered what color ink was in the pen. Any color seemed blasphemous here. She couldn’t tell if the voice on the other end of the call was male or female.

“A police detective. Homicide, no less,” Trudeau said, the pen picking up speed. “I completely understand. You truly are a beautiful man.”

Trudeau hung up the phone, placed the tip of the ballpoint pen in his ear, and slammed the palm of his hand against the back with enough force to send the pen down his ear canal, through his inner ear, and past the vestibular nerve into his brain. He slumped over in his chair, the smile never leaving his face.

11

My father had been horribly beaten. Both his eyes were puffy and blackening, the left swollen shut completely. He had a nasty cut on his forehead. His head lolled to the side, swiveling loosely on his neck. His hands and feet were both tied with heavy-duty orange extension cords.

I shouted for Preacher.

I pulled the gag from my father’s mouth, a dirty rag smelling of oil.

Nearly unconscious, he didn’t realize I was standing there. When he did see me, he might have thought I was some kind of hallucination, because he just coughed, his one good eye closed, and he started to drift off.

A second later, that good eye snapped open, glared at me. “Jack?”

“You’re going to be okay.”

I stuck my head out the open door. “Preacher! Cammie! In here!”

That’s when the phone in the corner of the shed began to ring.

12

Detective Joy Fogel had seen a lot during her time with Pittsburgh PD, but she had never seen someone take their own life.

At some point, she gripped the edge of her chair and her fingers held onto the metal frame like vice grips, her muscles tense and squeezing with all the force they could muster. She wanted to scream, but the only sound to leave her lips was a single gasp.

Robert Trudeau’s blank stare remained on her.

Fogel didn’t move.

Time passed. If someone were to ask her, she wouldn’t be able to tell them if ten