The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller Page 5

  “So as far as you know the Ackerman’s had a perfectly normal family life?”

  “Absolutely. You don’t believe James or Carol had anything to do with the fire, do you?”

  “It's looking that way.”

  “I’m certain that neither of them would do anything to hurt their daughter. I hope you’re not considering them as suspects.”

  “Not them,” Isaac corrected. “Just him. His wife is dead.”

  The old woman gasped. “What do you mean? Carol.”

  “I mean Mrs. Ackerman burned in a motel just up the road.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “And James is missing. So what do you think?”

  "I'm just in shock. I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know what else to say."

  “You don't have to say anything. You've said enough. It wasn't my intention to upset you. But I really appreciate your help." Isaac rose from the love seat and extended his hand. "It was nice meeting you."

  Mrs. Mills escorted Isaac to the front door and led him back on to the porch. Right as she was about to shut the door, she stopped Isaac and ran back inside. When she returned, she handed him a painting all torn in shreds.

  “I found it scattered on the sidewalk outside my house. I think it might have been Lori’s.”

  Isaac didn’t know what to make of it.

  “I just thought you might want it.”

  5

  The gold plaque on the door read: Chief of Police Donald Stevens.

  Isaac sat down across from the chief and quickly spilled the daily news.

  Yes, James Ackerman is a murderer. No, we don't know where he's at.

  Then he moved on to other topics of interest, like, “How did Simmons become a detective?”

  Stevens was taken aback by the question. He almost looked ready to crack a smile, a small one. “Well, I imagine the same way you did, Isaac.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Do you have a problem with Simmons?”

  “No, but a lot of people do.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Good point.”

  “Personally, I like the guy. But he’s clearly short on experience.”

  “He’s still learning.”

  “That’s it?” Isaac inquired.

  Stevens leaned over the desk.

  “Okay, look, if I tell you, you have to promise you won’t go spreading it around to the others.”

  “Are you kidding? How long have you known me?”

  “Almost twenty years, but you still have to promise. Trust me, we don’t want any trouble.”

  “That serious, huh?”

  “Semi-serious,” Stevens said. “Now do you promise?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Okay, remember when he transferred from Jacksonville and I told everyone how he had been a detective with the Jacksonville Police Department.”

  “He wasn’t really from Jacksonville?”

  “No, he really did transfer from the Jacksonville P.D, but he wasn’t a detective. He didn’t become a detective until right before he transferred. Before then, he was just your average policeman working the night shift like so many others. I looked into it and he had only been an officer for two years with the Jacksonville P.D, with no other prior experience in law enforcement.”

  “So how did he make the jump so soon?”

  Stevens leaned further over the desk. “That’s the messy part. I had my suspicions about him also. So I dug even further and discovered that he is the cousin of Larry Colvin.”

  “The Jacksonville chief of police?”

  “That’s him.”

  “His cousin hooked him up?”

  Stevens nodded. “And that’s why he was transferred here.”

  “So things wouldn’t look suspicious?”

  “Right, but I figured why not give him a chance.”

  “And so you stuck him with me. You thought if he followed me around, he might catch on quicker. Am I right?”

  “Talk about catching on quick.”

  Isaac smirked. “I guess I can live with that.”

  Stevens picked up a mess of papers on the desk and neatly piled them in a corner. “Look, why don’t you go on home for now. See your daughter. Get some rest. Whatever. There’s no point in hanging around here all night. If we locate Mr. Ackerman, trust me, you’ll be the first one to know.”

  Chapter Three

  1

  Amy was accustomed to being alone in the house at night. Oftentimes, her father would get home from work very late and on a number of occasions would be gone all night long. Of course he would always call in the middle of the night just to see if she was okay, and although sometimes it would annoy her, she understood he was just doing his job, doing what dads are supposed to do.

  All Amy knew of her mother was through stories her father had told her, like how they first met at a Chicago concert when they were both twenty-one years old. How lucky he was to have gotten row F, seat 15, right next to her mother, Linda. Less than a year after the concert, Isaac and Linda were married and hopeful for children. After years of trying to conceive a child without success, and after many tests, their doctor informed them that Linda would never be able to have children. Those words expressed exactly what they had feared all along. Both felt as though the doctor had taken their dream and squashed it under his foot. They knew it wasn’t his fault, it was nobody’s fault, some things in life are just not meant to be. For them, children had become one of those things. Still, the bad news didn’t stop them from trying, as long as she didn’t have a headache and he could breathe, nothing would get in their way.

  After waiting eight years for a miracle, the miracle finally came.

  Isaac could remember holding Amy for the first time in the hospital, thanking God for taking the time to answer his prayers and deliver such a wonderful blessing.

  April 18, 1994 was the happiest day of Isaac’s life. How could he have known that the worst day of his life would come not even one year later?

  Isaac decided to be the one to give his wife’s eulogy. Instead of preparing a passage in advance, he let his emotion take over and guide him each painful step of the way. It had been such a beautiful day outside in spite of the storm tearing through Isaac’s heart. After he finished delivering the eulogy, he leaned down and placed a single white rose on the casket. Tears ran down the sides of his face. He stood up and looked over at his now deceased father, who was holding Amy in his arms, rocking her back and forth.

  She had cried alongside everyone else.

  Amy was watching television in the living room when her father entered through the front door.

  “You’re home,” she said, smiling at him as he hung up his coat.

  “Don’t get too excited,” he said. “I don’t know how long I’m gonna be here.”

  “Awe, I thought we could order a movie or something.”

  Isaac sat down on the couch next to his daughter. “You can if you want. Hey, did you see me on the evening news?”

  “You were on the news?”

  “I don't know. Maybe.”

  “You should have called and told me. What were you doing on the news anyway?”

  “Walking, I think.”

  “You didn’t say anything?”

  “I might have. I don’t remember.”

  “Are you sure you don’t have amnesia?”

  Isaac smiled. “No, it’s just been a rough day. So why don’t you go ahead and order a movie?”

  “Not if you might have to leave during the middle of it. It would be a waste of money.”

  “It’s my money. And you’ll be here to watch it.”

  “If you have to go out, are you going to let me come with?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You have before.”

  “I know. But not tonight.”

  Amy leaned over and put her arms around her father. “C’mon. Why not?”

  "For
one it's a school night. Plus you're a wimpy girl."

  "Oh shut up."

  Isaac went upstairs and took a shower. When he was done, he changed clothes and headed back downstairs to his office. Inside, he picked up the phone and dialed Simmons’s cell phone number, letting the phone ring four or five times before hanging up. He wasn’t sure if he had Simmons’s home number, but if not, he could always call and get it from the precinct.

  He pulled a small leather organizer from the desk drawer and flipped through the letters in the phone directory. When he reached the beginning of the letter S, he stopped and searched down the page. He must have known a great many people with a last name beginning with the letter S; the next three pages were covered with dozens of numbers and addresses, most unknown or simply forgotten. A little more than halfway down the second page, he found the name he was looking for: Daniel Simmons, with both cell and home number listed, squeezed right between Shaw and Sinister.

  Yes, long ago in his academy years Isaac had known a man with the last name of Sinister, and unlike most people with unusual or characterizing last names, names such as David Ferry or Susan Whore, Sinister described this young academy good-for-nothing perfectly.

  He picked up the phone and this time dialed Simmons’s home number. After a couple of rings, a woman picked up.

  "Hello, is Detective Daniel Simmons there?”

  “May I ask who is calling?”

  “Detective Winters,” said Isaac. “I’m working on a case with your husband.”

  Suddenly, Isaac remembered what Chief Stevens had told him about Simmons, how his cousin had given him occupational surgery and thrown him back into the sea with a new pair of gills. He waited patiently for Simmons to come to the phone.

  After a moment, Simmons picked up. “Isaac,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “Not much really. Did you forget your cell phone at the precinct or something?”

  “I think I did. Left it right on the desk.”

  Isaac had planned to stay in for the rest of the night unless he absolutely had to leave, but now he felt like going out for a while, just to unwind and take a break from the case, or thinking about the case. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Just lounging around.”

  “That sounds like you. I know a good bar.”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Well, then you can watch me drink, or you could get something to eat. I know you like to eat.”

  “I can’t deny that,” Simmons said. “Everybody has their weakness.”

  “So you want to go?”

  “Sure, I suppose.”

  Isaac shut down the computer, jammed the organizer back in the desk drawer, and left the office. He sat down beside his daughter sleeping on the couch.

  Amy yawned and sat up.

  “I’m going to be leaving for a little while.”

  “Work?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The Hideaway.”

  Amy smiled awkwardly at her father. “That shitty bar?”

  “It's not shitty. You sure you’ll be all right?”

  “I’m fine. Go ahead,” Amy said. “I’ll probably be going to bed soon anyway.”

  Isaac leaned over and kissed his daughter on the forehead.

  2

  The neon sign lit the shadowy parking lot with bright streaks of silver and gold.

  THE HIDEAWAY, it read.

  Signature beer signs glowed red, blue, and green through the large dark tinted front windows. A couple of Harley’s sat lonely in the motorcycle spaces near the front door. On a Friday night, the entire lot could easily be filled with twenty or more hogs, half classics, newly polished for the big night of show and tell.

  Oh, darn, Isaac thought. Tonight he might not get to witness any wasted wives sing karaoke and shake their fat asses while their badly tattooed leather jacket wearing husbands holler obscenities like take it off Margie. Take it all off!

  He parked the Charger in the center space, a few spaces over from the Harley’s, and then walked into the bar. He took a seat on a black bar stool and waited for Charlie, the owner and bartender, to finish wiping down some spilt beer on the other side of the counter.

  When he noticed Isaac sitting at the bar, Charlie immediately dropped the wet rag and headed over.

  “Isaac,” he said, surprised. “I haven’t seen you in a while. What you been up to?”

  He reached his hand out and Isaac firmly shook it.

  “Same old.”

  “You still putting people behind bars?”

  Isaac nodded.

  “Wow, how many years has it been now?”

  “Too many.”

  Isaac shuttered to think of the actual number. Too many would suffice.

  “So, how’s business?”

  “The usual. Friday and Saturday nights we pull a good number of people in here, but the rest of the week I’d say we make moderate business. As you can see, Tuesday night isn’t one of our strongest.”

  Isaac swiveled in his stool and peered around the rest of the bar. Other than a few scattered alcoholics passed out on tables and two couples playing pool nearby, the bar was a graveyard.

  “Can I get you a beer?"

  “Do dogs have smelly farts?”

  "Well, yeah." Charlie filled the glass beer mug until the white suds dripped over the top, and then pushed it across the counter to Isaac.

  Right as Isaac looked up at the Budweiser clock on the back wall and thought how every bar in the world has one of those, the hanging bell chimed and Simmons strolled through the door. He sat down next to Isaac at the bar and ordered an ice water.

  “You sure?” Charlie asked.

  Simmons nodded.

  “Whatever you say.” Charlie scooped up the ice and filled the glass with water. He pushed it in front of Simmons and went back to wiping down the counter.

  “Do you come here often?” Simmons asked.

  Isaac waited a moment, nearly choking on his beer, and then burst out laughing.

  Simmons smiled. “What’s so funny?”

  Isaac tried to catch his breath. His face turned red as he coughed.

  “Do I come here often? Are you trying to pick me up?”

  “What?”

  “Cause if you are it’s not gonna work.” Isaac took a deep breath and wiped some beer away from his mouth with his hand. “Nothing personal, but you’re really not my type.”

  “Huh,” said Simmons, wearing the ridiculous Kermit the Frog grin across his face. “I don’t get it.”

  “Never mind. And no, I don’t come here that often. But I did for many years after Linda died.”

  “Linda was your wife?”

  Isaac immediately stopped laughing, took another long sip of beer, and stared into the large mirror spread across the back wall of the bar.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “She was my wife.”

  “When did she die?”

  “Sixteen years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Simmons. “I didn’t know. How did she die?”

  Isaac guzzled the last half of his beer and then stared down at the empty glass on the counter. “She was murdered.”

  He glanced up at Simmons and saw the unmistakable look of shock that had become all too common over the last sixteen years.

  “Murdered?”

  Charlie came by and refilled Isaac’s empty mug with a second round of brew. The detectives waited until the bartender left before continuing the conversation.

  “A man named Jacob Walsh broke into my house one night while I was sleeping. At first, I thought he was just a burglar, but he had something entirely different on his mind. Jacob did time in prison for shooting and nearly killing a liquor store clerk. I was the arresting officer. I testified in court against him and I guess you could say he didn’t like me too much. The state released him three years early. Good behavior.”

  “He had been planning to kill your wife the entire time
he was behind bars?”

  “I guess,” Isaac said. “He tried to take me out, too. I think he wanted the whole family.” Isaac opened his coat and pulled down the left side of his shirt revealing the bullet wound in his chest. “A few centimeters to the left and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  Simmons looked closely at the round pink and white scar tissue that formed a hairless spot on Isaac’s chest. “He shot you?”

  “Then he went upstairs and shot Linda. Four times in the chest and stomach.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “And he had one bullet left. Thankfully, I stopped him before he had a chance to use it.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Yep. After that, an ambulance rushed me to the hospital. I almost bled to death before I even arrived in the emergency room.”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t.”

  “Sometimes I wish I had.”

  Isaac finished off the last warm inch of beer at the bottom of the glass then went to leave a piss. After he was done, he sat back down at the bar and ordered another beer.

  “Do you want to play pool or something?”

  Simmons shrugged. “Sure, if you want.”

  Isaac walked over to the only empty table, racked the balls, and grabbed a pool stick off the wall rack. Two couples laughed, fondled, and played beside them on the only other pool table.

  “You wanna break?”

  “No, I think you’d better,” said Simmons. “I’m not very good at pool.”

  “Neither am I.” Isaac chalked up the end of his stick then slammed it into the white cue ball, pocketing two stripes before the last ball stopped rolling.

  “I thought you weren’t any good.”

  Isaac smiled and buried another stripe. “I’m not. Beginners luck.”

  After Isaac finished beating Simmons for the third time, the detectives left the bar and stood silent in the parking lot admiring the fresh, cool air, and then said their goodnights.

  When Isaac got back home, he opened the bottom drawer of the stereo cabinet next to the television and searched through his old records. Once he found the record he sought out, he removed it from the sleeve, carefully placed it on to the dusty player, and plopped down on the couch. Then he dimmed the light and rested his head against the back cushion.