Into the Past

Chapter One

Detective Lieutenant TJ Locke drove down Knowles Way to the end of the street, turned around, and parked in front of the empty lot that used to be his house. The bomb that had nearly killed him had decimated his home. He had the insurance money, but he didn’t know what he wanted to do with it.

Recovering from his injuries for the last three weeks at his parent’s house in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, his father had brought up the subject of TJ buying Miller Sullivan’s old farmhouse again. TJ wanted nothing more, but dropping his load on a farmhouse he couldn’t live in until he retired was not something he could do. If he bought the farmhouse, he wanted to live there. Period. But his life and his job were in Nannaquonset, Rhode Island.

TJ took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. Rita, his next-door neighbor on Knowles Way, wasn’t home. He debated calling to see what time she’d be back so he could commiserate with her. Her son, Mark, was devastated that TJ wasn’t living there anymore. Rita wouldn’t let the kid have a dog, and Mark had helped care for TJ’s old lab, Gaston. The last time he spoke to Mark on the phone a couple of weeks before, Mark begged Rita to let TJ move in with them.

C’mon, Mom. I’ll give TJ my room. I’ll sleep on the couch.

He heard Rita’s voice in the background. You’re more than welcome to stay, TJ.

TJ couldn’t do it. Hey, thanks, but no. I don’t want anything to happen to either of you. The bomb was bad enough. It wasn’t really that, he didn’t want to live with anyone, but it was the best excuse he had without hurting their feelings.

Luckily, Mark had been at hockey practice the night of the explosion, but TJ had thought a lot about that day. It could have been so much worse.

He returned the phone to his pocket, put the truck in drive, and headed toward the station.

In the motor pool, Hank stepped out of the office and shook his head when TJ pulled up.

Henry Hank LeFavre had been Chief Mechanic in the motor pool for twenty years. He was brusque and churlish, bordering on impolite, but a hell of a poker player and a damn good friend. Hank hadn’t been there when TJ had picked up his Chevy from the motor pool the day before. Since the night of the explosion, TJ’s truck had been in the impound lot.

Is that you? Hank asked.

Who’d you think? TJ opened the door and stepped out of the truck.

Hey, I don’t know, Hank said. You been gone so long I figured you got shit-canned. Where you been?

Stockbridge with my parents. As if Hank didn’t already know. TJ leaned against the door of the truck.

Yeah, you got that Mommy’s-been-taking-care-of-me-look about you now. Hank smiled, showing a wide gap in between two of his bottom teeth.

TJ dismissed the old man’s remark. Hank was also a ball-buster. Hey, thanks for taking care of the truck, TJ said. She runs like a dream. Before his life had turned upside down, TJ had been worried he would have to replace the engine.

Hank snorted. Yeah, well, if I catch you putting anything in her besides regular oil, I’ll kick your ass. That synthetic garbage you were using fouled up her insides. Hank patted her front quarter. She’s a Chevrolet, not a Ferrari.

Yeah, well, with my schedule, she’s lucky she had any oil in her at all.

Hey, how’s your girlfriend? Hank asked.

Mallory Pope, the psychic who worked with him on the last case, the case that had blown up his house, was not his girlfriend.

Mallory had suffered a flesh wound in the shoot out the night Jason Mercado tried to kill TJ, and detectives Battersbea and DeSanto. She’d needed convalescent care after being released from the hospital, and his mother thought it was a wonderful idea if they all stayed at Mallory’s together, that way she could look after both TJ and Mallory. Mallory’s boyfriend had been in Charlotte dealing with his mother’s death. However, five days after they arrived at Mallory’s, Harrison came home, and TJ left for Stockbridge with his parents.

She’s not my girlfriend, Hank, TJ said. She’s living with some guy.

Yeah, well, that’s not what I heard from upstairs.

She’s not my girlfriend, TJ said again. Although, from the way Mallory acted toward him, TJ thought that was what she wanted. But he wasn’t about to break up a relationship so he left her alone. Before he left for Stockbridge, she said, You can always live here until you decide if you want to rebuild. I have more than enough room.

It sounded good on paper, where else was he going to stay, but he just couldn’t handle living with her and her boyfriend.

Who’s upstairs? TJ asked Hank. Tomorrow was his first day back on the job. He figured he’d get up to speed.

How do I know? Go up and find out. Hank plucked a set of keys from the pegboard and headed toward the parking lot.

TJ shrugged. Yeah. Guess I should. He strode into the building.

Hey, Detective, how you doing? Marilyn, the desk Sergeant called to him. We missed you around here.

Hey, Marilyn, how’s it going?

Yeah, same old, different day. How you feeling? Marilyn leaned over the counter. You look good.

Yeah, I feel good. Although, I gotta’ tell you, when I say I have a pain in my ass, it’s true now.

Marilyn laughed. Too bad Kennelly’s not here.

Yeah, TJ said. Where’d he go anyway? Roger Kennelly, the forensics analyst had quit after TJ’s last case.

Providence, Marilyn said. He’s working for the M.E.

You talk to him? TJ asked.

Couple of weeks ago. He said he likes it up there. Everyone he works with is dead.

TJ smiled at Marilyn. Hey, I’ll see you later.

Marilyn said, Yeah, sure, TJ. It’s good to have you back.

TJ took the stairs two at a time. His left butt cheek tingled. The bomb blast had thrown him into the road and his gluteus muscles were still recovering. Stairs were a bitch, but the physical therapist said it was the best thing he could do for himself.

He entered the sanctuary of the detective’s room. Nicholas Nicotani and John Slonina, the junior grade detectives, otherwise known as the kids, were monitoring their computer screens. As TJ headed to his cubicle, he saw his boss, Captain Carl Lipinski behind the desk in his office.

TJ knocked on the Captain’s door. Hey, Carl. How’s it going? Lipinski was only a few years older than TJ’s fifty-two, but looked seventy-five. He’d worked twenty years in Providence before making the move down to Nannaquonset. The city had aged him prematurely.

I thought you weren’t coming in until tomorrow? Lipinski asked.

I figured I’d get caught up, TJ said. Where’s Battersbea? Detective First Grade Ken Battersbea had worked patrol until his wife had made him transfer to the detective unit.

Out at the pier with the new intern Goodhope. Couple of car break-ins last night. Lipinski leaned back in his chair. He needed something to do.

You hear from Jimmy? TJ asked. Detective Sergeant James DeSanto, Battersbea’s unofficial partner, had taken a bullet to the back of the neck in the shoot-out with Jason Mercado. A quarter inch to the left and he would have been a quadriplegic. When’s he due back?

Another month. Doc wants to make sure he’s a hundred percent. How you feeling?

Yeah, good, okay. TJ nodded.

You get cleared?

Yeah, I saw Alfonso yesterday. TJ didn’t want to see the shrink, but it was protocol.

You been to the gun range?

TJ flexed his left hand. Yeah, not a problem. I’m right-handed.

Hey, where you living anyway? Lipinski asked.

I took a cottage until my buddy Kevin finds me a house or something.

Lipinski shook his head. You’re not going to rebuild?

I’d like to, but Coastal Resources, DEM, and Town Hall are giving me the runaround. I had a modular home all picked out, but they think because it’s modular it’ll blow away in a hurricane. TJ was still pissed about that. Didn’t they know it was framed on a foundation? Frigging bureaucrats. So, what’s going on? What’ve I missed?

Nothing much actually. Lipinski smiled. It’s been pretty quiet since you’ve been gone. Nice for a change.

TJ smirked. Thanks, Carl.

It’s three weeks before Christmas, TJ. Nothing’s going on. The fun doesn’t start until December twenty-six, you know that.

TJ shook his head. Yeah. Hey, how’re the Forresters?

Couldn’t tell you. They moved. Up near her sister I think. Cumberland. Smithfield.

Really?

Yeah, I think her house went up on the market the day after we caught Mercado.

That’s too bad. TJ wondered if the Forrester daughters would ever get over their part in their father’s death.

Hey, you could probably buy it. I think it’s still for sale.

TJ shook his head. I don’t think insurance will cover that. Besides, I wouldn’t want it anyway. It’s too big. TJ looked over the barely occupied detective’s room. So, what are we working on if there’s nothing to do?

Cold cases, Lipinski said. He nodded to the two detectives in their respective cubicles. Nic and Johnny pulled the DeLagostino case.

They find anything? He was ever hopeful.

Lipinski shook his head. No.

TJ saw the dead file every four or five years. Cheryl DeLagostino had been a nineteen-year-old U.R.I student found half-buried on the beach at The Narrows in nineteen seventy-four. She had eight stab wounds, a broken neck, and had been raped. The senior detective at the time of the investigation, Fred Matheson, had questioned thirty-seven people, but came up empty. His conclusion—she was the possible first victim of a serial killer that had terrorized the Connecticut River Valley during the seventies. Cheryl DeLagostino had also been TJ’s older cousin. But no one in the department knew that. If they had, he’d never be allowed to investigate.

Did they run the M.E.’s report by Kennelly? TJ asked. And then he remembered Kennelly had quit.

Kennelly’s gone, TJ. He quit.

Yeah, I heard. I forgot. We get a new guy yet? TJ leaned against the wooden door casing.

Girl, Lipinski said. Marion Balb. Out of Boston. She’s good. I think you’re going to like her.

TJ inwardly sighed. He hated breaking in new staff. What did she say?

She’s still looking it over. Why don’t you go talk to her?

"What about the kids? I don’t want them pissing and moaning that I’m stepping in." Stealing another detective’s case was like stealing a girlfriend. But he wanted one more stab at it. This time, he had a secret weapon—he knew somebody who could talk to the dead.

I’ll move them over to warrants. Lipinski looked at him. I thought maybe you could ask Mallory to help you. She worked out pretty well on the Mercado case.

Sweet. Lipinski was onboard. It wouldn’t hurt to double check. I thought you said you didn’t like her because she was a stoner.

Yeah, well, Lucy had her over to dinner a couple of times while you were gone. She grew on me. Lipinski smiled. Besides, I think she’s got a thing for you.

She’s got a boyfriend. Whom she talked about constantly. Harrison did this. Harrison did that.

Who? Harrison? Lipinski laughed. Some detective you are. Harrison’s her butler, not her boyfriend.

"Her butler?" Who the hell had a butler anymore?

Yeah, he and his wife worked for Mallory in California. Harrison was her man-about-house. His wife was Mallory’s personal assistant. When the wife died, Harrison stayed on. Now he’s her butler-slash-bodyguard. When she has to go out, she brings him along to keep the unwelcome at bay. Women draw their own conclusions.

Then why hadn’t Mallory cleared that up when he stayed with her? What kind of head game was that? Especially if she wanted to get in his shorts. Then again, maybe he had misread her signals. It had been awhile since he’d been in the dating pool. And how would you know all this? TJ asked. An interesting development, but Mallory Pope was still out of his league. He just wanted to use her psychic skills to see if she could find Cheryl’s killer.

I told you, she’s been to the house a couple of times. Lipinski looked at his watch. All right, go do something. Go home. I have reports to write. I’ll see you tomorrow.

TJ nodded. Yeah. See you, Carl.

TJ stepped out of the office, closed the door, and walked over to his cubicle. His desk was exactly the way he had left it. However, the Mercado files were gone. The Feds took them when they had taken over the case after Mercado had blown up his house. Klinefelder, the lead FBI investigator, had kept him in the loop, and Mercado’s trial was a slam-dunk. Mercado was going to prison for a long time.

TJ sat down and