MARY CLARK - Piece of My Heart

“Dad, are we absolutely positive that the man the police killed was actually Blue Eyes?”

“A hundred percent,” he said. “That man spent half his life blaming me for every problem he had in life, all because of a decision I made as a young patrolman. Blue Eyes is dead, Laurie. That nightmare finally ended two years ago. He has nothing to do with this.”

Alex and her father exchanged a look that was unmistakable. They were certain she was on the wrong track, but had no idea how to change her mind.

“Dad, I know I don’t have your kind of police experience, but please don’t look at Alex like I need to be saved from my own ideas. If you were working this case as a detective, and I was your partner, I think you’d hear my theory out. It’s based on facts.”

“Fair enough. But my entire reason for bringing up Blue Eyes in the first place was to suggest that maybe this whole episode has been ‘triggering,’ as they say these days. You were never one to put a label on what you went through, but you can’t survive something like Greg’s murder and the threats that followed without experiencing a bit of PTSD.”

She had met so many crime victims who did in fact suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, but she certainly didn’t think of herself as having it. “Maybe someone close to Blue Eyes is still in the picture?” she said, still bouncing around ideas aloud. When she analyzed a story idea, it was always how she did her best work. “They could be trying to finish what he started.”

“Laurie, there was no one close to Blue Eyes. Not a single person cared about him. That was his whole motive for going after you and Timmy—to get to me. He wanted me to lose everything and everyone I loved. He was determined to see me as isolated and lonely as he was.”

Alex gave her shoulder a small squeeze. “It makes perfect sense that you would connect Johnny’s disappearance to those threats against you and Timmy, but your son is safe. Blue Eyes is gone.”

“Fine, so it’s not Blue Eyes. I was simply saying that we should be taking a look at people who have threatened me.” She was already composing a text to Jerry, asking him to pull up the file they kept of worrisome communications. With Jerry’s trademark humor, he had labeled the file Weirdos .

“Does anyone specific come to mind?” Alex asked.

“There’s a woman who has long been suspected of hurting her stepson. The boy has been missing for more than seven years, but the police are convinced that the stepmother killed him and disposed of his body so she could go on with her life without raising another woman’s child. The father very much wants me to profile the case on Under Suspicion , but the stepmother won’t agree. The last time I approached her, she said maybe I should worry more about my own son instead of someone else’s. It sent a chill up my spine, and I made a vow to myself that I’d never contact her again.”

“And how long ago was that?” Alex asked.

“About three months ago.”

“And have you kept your vow?”

She had. Alex had a point. The woman’s veiled threat had worked. There was no reason for her to target Laurie and Timmy now. “Plus, she lives on the West Coast. Okay, so she’s not the most likely suspect. We do get a lot of creepy messages, though.”

“An email or a tweet is one thing,” Alex said. “Going from that to kidnapping a child is a big leap.”

“I’ve never seen you push back on my ideas this way, Alex. I’m only trying to help.”

He took a deep breath before answering. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just know you so well. We’re all helping, but you try so hard to fix everyone else’s problems, even at your own expense. This wasn’t your fault, Laurie. Whatever happened, it’s not because of anything you did or didn’t do.”

Laurie noticed that her father had been uncharacteristically silent. He appeared deep in thought, his brow wrinkled.

“You look like you’re mulling something over, Dad.”

He held up a tentative finger, as if he were literally trying to point to an idea he had in mind. “Alex is right, Laurie. It’s not your fault. But it might be mine.”

Laurie and Alex exchanged a perplexed glance before Leo continued.

“We were talking about Blue Eyes. His obsession with harming you and Timmy stemmed from his desire for revenge against me . When Alex asked you if someone came to mind who might want to hurt your son, you had to reach for a woman on the West Coast who made a cryptic comment about Timmy three months ago. You’re not in the middle of working a case that might give someone a motive to intimidate you this very minute.”

It didn’t take Laurie long to follow his train of thought. She knew how important her father’s meeting that morning had been with the District Attorney’s Office. “But you are,” she said, looking intently at her father.

“This could be Darren Gunther’s handiwork. He won’t be satisfied until I admit that I framed him for the murder of Lou Finney.”

Chapter 17

Eighteen Years Earlier

Lou Finney heard the chime of jingle bells as the bar door opened, then felt a rush of cold air blow past the front booth, his favorite place to sit if he wasn’t in the back office or working behind the bar. He recognized the newcomer as Rocky, one of his neighborhood regulars.

“Had a feeling I’d find you right there,” Rocky said. “First snow of the year means Finn sitting right in that very spot. Only question is whether you follow the snow, or the snow follows you.”

Lou’s first and middle names, Louis Caron, were after his maternal grandfather, but he’d been called Finn as long as he could remember. The bar bore the same name, naturally. Rocky’s got an observant eye , Finn thought. This was indeed one of Finn’s many annual traditions. A shot of Jameson on St. Patty’s Day. A good beer during the first Mets game. Watching the first snowfall from the front booth in winter.

Rocky took his time in the doorway, waiting as a group of young women made their way toward the exit from the Thursday night trivia contest at the back of the bar.

“You gonna close that door or what, Rocky?” Finn asked. “The heat don’t run for free in here.”

Rocky smiled, looking pleased as the line of attractive women walked past, each one thanking him for holding the door open for her on the way out.

“Such a gentleman,” Finn said dryly.

As the door finally closed, Rocky threw him a wink. “Can you blame me, Finn? That’s the closest thing I’m getting to a hot date any time soon at our age.”

“Speak for yourself, old-timer.”

Rocky grabbed one of Finn’s shoulders and gave it a good, friendly shake.

“Get this geezer a drink on me,” Finn said, calling out to Clarissa behind the bar.

Rocky gave him an appreciative wink. “Business must be good.”

Indeed, it was, Finn thought. He’d opened this bar thirty-five years ago, when he was only twenty-seven years old, with a business loan cosigned by his parents. That was back when the denizens of the West Village were artists, rebels, hippies, and others looking for a community away from the posher, more proper areas of New York City. Finn wasn’t drawn so much to the counterculture as he was to the cheap rent.

He told his folks that someday this neighborhood would take off, but never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined the hipness of downtown Manhattan in the new millennium. Now he enjoyed the best of both worlds. He still catered to regulars like Rocky, keeping the music on the jukebox about right for their era. But he also had a cocktail menu with cosmopolitans and apple martinis, trivia night Thursdays, and Sunday Bloody Mary singalongs to bring in the young people who thought it was cool to hang out at an old established joint once in a while.