The Thomas Blume Series

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The months weighed heavily.

The bright sun bursting through open curtains woke me early the next morning. Not that I’d have slept much longer. I wake early most mornings. If I sleep more than five hours, I’m useless the next day. It probably came down to my body’s confusion. In New York, my go-to drug of choice had been caffeine. Sarah always called me the Man with the Styrofoam Hands because I always seemed to have a cup of bitter precinct coffee in my palm.

Sarah …

A quick breakfast of dry toast and coffee followed. A reminder to buy some butter, too. I brushed my teeth and ran a hand over my jaw.

Jesus, I felt like crap.

I’d once been called “handsome,” by a female D.A. back in New York. The boys in the precinct had found it hilarious. But those days were just a memory now. Echoes of former glory etched by history, my face was worn by deep creases. I wasn’t the man I used to be, and even he wasn’t up to much.

Moving into the stale-smelling office, memories of the day before hit me hard.

I looked outside and opened the window a crack, breathing in the cool, moist atmosphere that always seemed to pervade the English capital. People coming and going everywhere, surrounded by the morning smells of London—baking bread, tea and coffee, car exhaust, and the after-scent of rain. In the distance, tower blocks clawed at the gray sky. Beneath my window, a narrow street crowded with hustling couriers and black taxis signaled the start of another day.

It was all pleasant enough. I wanted it to sway me from my somber mood.

I’d been in this dark place for a while. Most people told me that the best way to overcome it was to think of the great memories I had of Sarah and Tommy, but trying to do that only reminded me of how badly I missed them.

My family had been brutally murdered on the wrong side of the world, and I had come to London with the express purpose of finding out what had happened. Six months later, the same thoughts still burned in my mind.

Murdered.

Even now I could barely believe it was true, or perhaps some part of me just didn’t want to accept that I’d lost the only two people in the world who made my life worth living.

Remorse ambushed me again when I recalled the events.

Against my better judgment, Sarah had taken a job in London, while I had remained in New York to finish my night course at Columbia University. Gunning for Lieutenant, the advanced forensics qualification had been my ticket to promotion.

God help me, I’d encouraged Sarah to go for the interim Editor position. I’d even agreed to her taking Tommy over the summer to see her home country. I had. Me. I had sent my wife and son 3,500 miles away for a “temporary situation.”

Now they were dead, and there was nothing temporary about it. They were never coming back.

The night I found out is seared into my memory. I can’t forget. I won’t forget. Every time I close my eyes to rest, he’s there again as though it’s happening afresh. A knock at the door. An officer’s voice on the other side.

“Detective Blume? I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

The memories threatened to break me again. I collapsed into the chair behind my desk, desperate for a distraction that didn’t come in a bottle. The booze was so often my greatest ally and worst enemy rolled into one. The first touch magic, the last, an angry punch to the gut.

Glancing around, the tiny office space looked quaint enough, cluttered with papers, files, magazines, and folders. The beat-up laptop on my desk should have been euthanized years ago; I had no idea how it had survived this long … at least seven years. I sat behind it, but rather than power it up, I reached for my digital camera, still sitting in the middle of the desk from yesterday’s meeting with Anthony.

Frame and shoot.

Scrolling through the pictures it became clear that I did indeed have a few photographs of the man with the goatee. I studied him. A little overweight, and very pale. The suit confirmed my earlier assumption that the guy probably worked in an office. If I wanted to, I could doubtless track him down. I’d start by asking the desk clerk at the hotel and then—

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. Not wanting any visitors to see Anthony’s wife in such a compromising position, I clicked off the camera and answered.

Two men stood stiffly in the hallway, holding up Police IDs. Detectives and, as was my habit, I found myself sizing them up right away.

The warrant cards looked real. Detectives Ian Fairbanks and Craig Welsh.

“Mr. Blume?” Fairbanks asked. Tall but not muscular, he wore a mustache that could have been chiseled on. The creases around the eyes made me think he did a lot of squinting into the sun. He must have found it on his vacations. I hadn’t seen the yellow orb for months.

“That’s me,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“There’s a situation we hope you can provide some answers to,” Welsh said. This one was bulky but looked like he had done a lot of drugs during high school. It was clear from his slack, pock-marked face. He reminded me of a dog, but I couldn’t remember which type.

Turner and Hooch—my new best friends. They looked at me as though I was going to invite them in.

I didn’t.

“What situation is that?” I asked.

“Mr. Blume, do you know a man by the name of Anthony Taylor?”

Alarms screamed in my head, but I tried not to let it show. “I do,” I answered, keeping my tone nonchalant, relaxed.

“Mr. Taylor committed suicide last night.”

“Jesus,” I muttered, as guilt hit me again.

Is there anything else I can screw up?

“A note in his planner says he met with you yesterday,” Fairbanks said. “As you were an acquaintance of his, we thought we’d check to see what, exactly, you were meeting about?”

“That’s private information,” I said, but a part of me knew they’d tear that defense to shreds … which they did, promptly.

“He killed himself and, as far as we know, you are the last person to see him alive. You know that the privacy shite won’t work here,” Welsh said. “This ain’t America!”

They were right, and all I could do was shrug.

“He thought his wife was cheating on him but didn’t have the courage to confront her about it,” I informed them. I stepped in front of the doorway, making sure they knew damn well that I wasn’t going to invite them in. Yes, they were just doing their job but, for a reason I could not explain, I had a sense of responsibility for Anthony … not with what he had decided to do, but in the personal ramifications of working with him.

“And?” Welsh continued.

“And he turned out to be right. I presented him with the evidence yesterday.”

“Evidence?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Pictures.”

The two cops shared an expression that enraged me … an expression that basically translated to: Get a load of this worthless son of a b***h. And damn it if I didn’t agree with them.

“You didn’t think there would be repercussions?” Fairbanks glared.

“No. I’ve helped a few people with these kinds of things. There’s always some anger and regret, but it comes to one of two conclusions. The cheated spouse either leaves or the marriage mends itself.”

“I see. How long you been living in London now?” Welsh flicked through a notebook and glanced at me.

“Who said I was living here?”

The taller detective smiled. “We ran your name through our system. You entered the UK on April the sixteenth. Never returned to the United States. At least not on the record. So, unless we’re mistaken, you’ve been here for almost half a year.”

“It’s a long visit,” I said.

“Aye,” Welsh nodded along. “I’ll say. I’m just curious, Mr. Blume. Where you been stayin’ during this long visit, here?”

“I don’t have to tell you that.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Fairbanks. “But, if you chose not to, we would be obliged to imagine you aren’t staying anywhere. Which means you’re a vagrant.”

“A foreign vagrant,” his partner added.

“And that’s not good.”

“Not good at all.”

“Course if you are staying somewhere, we don’t have to worry about that.”

I sighed, looking from one to the other, scowling at each in turn. Finally, I told them the truth and motioned at the shoddy apartment behind me.

“Now,” the first cop went on, “of course since you are staying here, paying a monthly rent and all, you are in fact in violation of the travel visa on which you entered the country.”

I shook my head. “You asshole.”

“I’m afraid you can probably guess what we do to visitors who violate their visas, can’t you?”

When I said nothing, Welsh answered for me. “We deport them.” He grinned and fluttered his fingers at me. “Bye-bye. Back to ’Merica.”

I stared at them, my heart frozen. They couldn’t deport me; I still had work to do here. I needed to solve Sarah and Tommy’s murder. Lord knew, if these two clowns were examples of the UK’s finest, there was no hope otherwise.

It was down to me. I had to stay.

“Come on,” I mumbled.

“Sorry, mate.” Fairbank’s smug smile made me want to tear out his throat. “Just doing our job,’ he said. “Maybe next time you overstay your welcome somewhere you’ll be smart enough to stay out of trouble.”

“You don’t understand,” I insisted. “I used to be a cop. If you—”

“No, you don't understand,” the tall detective cut in. “According to the Border Agency, if you ain’t got a job in two weeks, it’s back across the pond for you. Got it?”

“Maybe you could become a photographer?” his partner chimed in, his tone dark with sarcasm. “How much did Anthony Taylor pay you for those pictures anyway?”

“This conversation is over, gentlemen,” I said.

I slammed the door in their faces, and I waited a moment, sure that they would knock again, but they clearly decided to leave me alone. I could hear their muffled voices and footfalls echoing back down the corridor and to the steps beyond. They had no evidence of my wrongdoing, and for now, they couldn’t charge me with anything.

Shaking, I stormed to my desk and snatched up the camera. Then, without realizing what I was doing, I slammed it down on the desk and roared with anger. When it did not break, I threw it hard to the floor. It cracked into pieces, the lens popping out and the body splintering.

I stood for a moment trembling, as rage and grief washed over me.

It’s not your fault, Sarah’s voice finally whispered to me. My own words would have heaped on more and more guilt. And I’d have deserved it. But, as always, Sarah’s was the voice of reason. Not your fault…

Deflated, I collapsed into my chair and fired up my computer. I had nothing to do, but I desperately wanted to use my time in some way other than occupying real estate at the pub.

Anthony Taylor was dead and, if Welsh and Fairbanks had their way, within two weeks the Border cops would be back, and I wouldn’t be able to keep them out. They’d bundle me on the first plane back to America, flying away from any hope of justice for my family.

I couldn’t leave this country. Not yet. I had a job to do.

I started by opening my browser and shopping for a new camera. I had fourteen days to get it together, or everything was lost.