Blood of Cain

23

A U.S. Senator, in the throes of a presidential campaign, doesn’t simply enter a room, he or she tries to decorate a room with their presence. Senator Lloyd Logan along with his entourage of handlers and advisors, poured into the coffee shop with three TV news crews and an assortment of media types, their flash-photography like strobe lights and hand-held devices uploading sights, sounds and opinions to blogs, social media, and news media sites.

I was glad the cameras were to Logan’s back when he saw us. Even with the swagger of a politician’s ego, Logan looked like he’d burped up a bad pepperoni. His shark’s smile was more lopsided than predatory. He stepped up to us and extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Lloyd Logan.”

I smiled. “Sean O’Brien. It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s mutual. I see that you and Andrea know each other. I’m glad you’re here for the rally, Sean. I do hope we can count on your support. Andrea, we have a plane to catch.”

“Lloyd, Sean and I were good friends in college. He came out to hear your message. We were just catching up. It’s been at least twenty years.”

Logan lowered his voice, his legislator’s smile returning. “How much of my message could he hear if you’ve been in Starbucks?” He slapped me on my back. “Good meeting you Sean. I do hope you heard enough of my agenda for the country to take personal stock in it.”

With that, they turned and streamed out of the coffee shop, mustering even more fanfare than the entourage did entering. I watched Andrea walking hand-in-hand with the candidate under the wide oaks, she moved slightly out-of-step, her former unbridled gait, her free spirit, now more like a compulsory march.

I felt a stab of sadness for the woman I’d once known, for what might have been had we persevered. And now the knowledge of a child, my child—a daughter, accentuated a kind of remorse I’d never known before. I watched the media pack stalk them and thought of Courtney. Was she my daughter? Our daughter? If so, and even if she had killed in self-defense, what would that mean for the campaign of Senator Lloyd Logan if it became public? And what would it mean for Courtney Burke?

I walked out of the Starbucks and placed a call to the mobile phone of Detective Dan Grant. He answered and said, “Talk to me. Did Courtney Burke try to contact you?”

“No. Look, Dan, since you and I go way back, there’s something I need to tell you about Courtney."

“I’m listening.”

“She knew something about me that very few people know. I’m trying to make sense of it, but I don’t have enough to go on.”

“What are you telling me, Sean? I’m almost afraid to even ask that question.”

“I might be related to her.”

“You mean as in family?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh shit. What a damn modern family that would be. Don’t tell me she’s your daughter.”

“I don’t know … she knew about a small birthmark on my arm. And she said if it was there, then we’re related.”

“Did she actually tell you this?”

“She told a guy at the fair, and he told me.”

“Who’s this guy?”

“Said his name’s Isaac Solminski.”

“The dwarf?”

“Don’t know what he looks like. Spoke with him on the phone. High voice.”

“I interviewed him. He’s like most carnies, always holding their cards close to their chests, only revealing what they want to reveal. Cooperation with the cops isn’t their thing.”

“Did you speak with Randal Barnes, one of the two guys who Nick overheard talking in the bar?”

“We found him. He wanted to deny ever being in the Tiki Bar. I told him credit card records don’t lie when somebody fitting his description, mermaid tattoo and all, was there with a guy named Smitty. Barnes finally admitted he was there, but denied ever talking about the killing of Lonnie Ebert. He said the guy called Smitty was someone he met at the bar.”

“He’s lying, Dan.”

“I know that, but we couldn’t find this Smitty character. Probably walked away from the carnival. So all of this isn’t even good circumstantial evidence. The carnival is pulling out earlier than the full week schedule. Seems murder is bad for business. One other thing, forensics found a partial print on the ice pick that wasn’t Courtney Burke’s print. Looks like a thumb. This wasn’t left in blood, but it was there. No match anywhere, yet.”

“Thanks, Dan—”

“Quick word of advice: I don’t care if you think this chick is your niece or a daughter you never knew you had, stay away from it, Sean. You’re a former homicide cop. In my book, she’s a serial killer. Man, that’s a bad damn mix. We’ll find her because she’s good at leaving a trail of bodies.”

He disconnected as I stood next to my Jeep, watching the entourage of Senator Lloyd Logan load into limos, the Secret Service in a black SUV, the convoy circling the town square for a final pass, waving to the crowd and smiling, before driving to the airport and boarding a private jet. Andrea Logan was sitting in the back seat of the black Lincoln, going through the motions of the dutiful wife of a career politician. But as the car passed me, as she looked my way, I could see a distant mourning in her eyes that would follow her far beyond the White House.