Invisible Injuries

Invisible Injuries

M. K. Eddleman

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

ISBN13: 978-1-62183-489-2

Copyright © 2018

eBook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other characters or to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher or copyright owner.

Acknowledgments

Every time we watched the Oscars together, about an hour into it, we would look cross- eyed at each other and say, Why don’t they just write a nice thank you note. And yet when acquisitions editor Don McGuire emailed and then called to confirm a Brighton Publishing’ offer to acquire Invisible Injuries, we wanted to thank everyone involved. First and foremost, thanks to all the staff, editors, and artists at Brighton. Their help and suggestions have been invaluable.

Next, we start with each other for dropping any mother-daughter tensions or ego to concentrate on the story. We move to our supportive mates Mark and Phil who put up with In a minute, I’m writing, and being brave enough to read, reread and criticize constructively. Finally, special love to the offspring (Ken, Sharon, Naomi and Kai) who may have felt slightly ignored at times.

From a place of deep gratitude, we appreciate our friends’ responses to Please be honest and ruthless as you read the draft. Truly, we have no ego (perhaps a stretch).

Martha thanks the women of Splendid Company, her support group for over twenty years; Bev Preslik-Gerbracht for her honesty and attention to detail; Claudia Wanlin for her willingness to read and reread; Ro LaFrancesca, Carol Shaw, Anne Lindl and Janet Muldoon for their discerning eye for story, grammar and spelling; Olive Green for her Irish accent and inspiration. Three beta readers deserve mention: Michelle Yockey who kept writing in margins needs tension, and Susan Huber and Mary Stephenson who wanted Mike to come alive. Special thanks to Officer Katie Krause who answered my text questions about police procedure. And finally, to the East Bay Times, a daily local newspaper, for providing the seed for the idea about the Irish Mafia in an article they wrote describing an organization I never knew existed near our quiet community.

Katie thanks Linda Berzok, Beatrice Goldsmith, and Joan Milner for their comments, support, and encouragement to keep going; Lisa Maish and Shunn Buchanan for their inspiration; Calvin Vanderleeuw, Karen Pischansky, Kirk Sampson, Nora Macias, and Holly Rook who help ease the pressure of work; and the students who have passed through her 7th & 8th grade science classes who make every moment she spends teaching worthwhile and fulfilling. And thank you Midge and Bill Hardy for being Walter’s second parents.

Prologue

Belfast—the time of the Troubles

Strong, calloused hands lifted Brendan out of his bed. Confused, the five-year-old groaned in protest.

Shh, his father commanded, adjusting his grip to cradle the slender, pajama-clad youngster against his chest so he could navigate down the narrow stairway from the sleeping loft to the kitchen.

Once at the bottom, he handed the boy over to his mother and hurried over to the sink. Lifting the drab, threadbare curtain, he proceeded to remove a large red plastic pail, a forty-eight-ounce container of Malone’s Natural Antibacterial Cleaner, a hand broom and dust pan, a pile of rags reeking of mildew, and a garbage can filled with scraps of food, cellophane wrappers, soiled napkins, and squashed beer cans—all producing a heavy stench of decay.

Turning back to his wife, the father snapped, Give ’em here. And by the way, don’t ya ever clean under here? Reminds me of me days in Her Majesty’s hell hole.

If ya’d help me once ‘n a while instead of whinin’ about yer days in prison—

Just give me the babby, and shut your gob. You know notin’ about what I went through, he said and then thought, I’d rather die than go back to that hellhole. He settled down on one knee, sitting the boy on the other, and whispered, I’m gun ta put ya under the sink. Some bad men are comin’ here, and I don’t want ya to be hurt by them. Stay where I put ya. Don’t move. Don’t cry. Don’t even whimper. Ya hear me?

The boy nodded.

I mean it. No matter what you tink you hear, stay put. And remember, I love ya. With those words, he shoved the child against the back of the wall behind the pipes and returned the cleaning products and garbage can. Once he dropped the curtain, he stood to listen. Good boy. Yer doin’ great.

The boy heard his father whisper something to his mother but couldn’t make out what was said. They turned off the light and left him alone. Before he could register the growing fear, he was distracted by the dampness invading his pajamas and the rank smell insulting his nose. An ice-cold drip from one of the pipes hit the back of his neck, startling him, but the DNA of hundreds of years of survival prevented him from crying out. Instead, he started to shiver. He pulled up his knees to have a place for his chin and wrapped his arms around his legs. He started to fall asleep when the sound of a door crashing open startled him. Terror seeped into every pore. He heard footsteps slowly enter the room. The light clicked on. He almost called out, Da? Is that you? when he heard an unfamiliar voice call from the loft.

No one up here.

Another strange voice answered, Shh.

The room went still. The creak of a floorboard straining under the weight of the invader gave the man’s position away. The boy held his breath. The unmistakable sound of his mother’s voice penetrated the silence as she shrieked upon being discovered.

Where’s that skank husband of yours hidin’? Tell me, hoor, or I’ll snuff you right now, he barked, savagely slapping her face.

The boy’s mother fell to the floor with a thud. He’s in the back alley.

The intruder reached down, grabbed her hair, and dragged her out of the kitchen and down the back stairs. Her screams pierced the cold night air. For a moment, the world stopped. Quietly floating in through the open door, the boy caught whispers of his father’s voice as he pleaded for the life of his wife. Then he heard two popping sounds.

Silence was more frightening than screams. But all the boy could think was, She told them where my da was.

Chapter One

Oakland Airport, Six Months Ago

Tall and alluringly attractive, Brendan leaned into a corner of the baggage claim area aware of the security cameras documenting faces. Wearing a charcoal gray Brioni suit and shielding his eyes behind $300 Aviators, he scanned the crowd, instinctively noting the location of every visible security agent in the airport. He was momentarily amused by a frail old woman struggling to lift her suitcase off the circling carousel while a businessman standing next to her deliberately stepped away to look at his watch. He could tell the businessmen. It was the shoes. They were the only ones who weren’t wearing some form of athletic shoe, hiking sandal, or flip-flop. No one dressed up anymore.

Brendan shook his head in disgust. Impatiently, he pulled out his phone from the inner pocket of his hand-tailored jacket to look at the time and check the status of the flight on an app that gave the location of every nonmilitary aircraft in the country. He could feel the heat of anger rising in his gut. Flight 628 from Chicago was delayed. This was why he usually sent one of his grunts to pick up his cargo. He knew he should have checked before he left Live Oak, but he had relied on his right-hand man to do it. Typical, he thought. He couldn’t rely on anyone. Never could. If he wanted something done right, he always had to do it himself. And airlines. They really made his blood boil. If he ran his business the way they ran theirs, he’d be living on the streets.

Boss, the plane’s on the runway, a raspy voice whispered in his ear.

You got your sign ready? he asked, looking at the behemoth of a man obediently waiting for orders. The man discreetly showed his boss the Murphy Party placard. Wanting his imports to Americanize right away, Brendan had his team in Ireland arrange their new names, identities, and papers weeks in advance. They prepared them for the culture shock of the gluttonous amounts of consumerism in America and had them work on Anglicizing their accents.

Pleased with the sign, Brendan said, They should be all together. Two guys and two girls. I imagine they’ll be pretty disheveled. They left Dublin yesterday. I booked the cheapest flights and arranged it so they’d go through customs in New York. That way we wouldn’t have to wait here. Remind me to rethink that idea. He paused, thinking about why he had come in the first place. As a rule, he avoided airports and public places in general. But his team had told him one of the girls was clean on. If she were as beautiful as promised, he’d place her in his own home as a housekeeper.

He glanced up to see passengers beginning to file down the escalator into the baggage area. He was torn about whether to stay and risk being caught on camera with the newly arrived charges. He opted to leave.

I’m going back to the car. Pushing off the wall, Brendan couldn’t resist one last look, hoping to glimpse the girl.

The escalator strained under the weight of a full load of passengers, tired and weary from dealing with weather delays in Chicago. The delightful shrill of laughter caught his ear. He stopped. Carrying what few possessions they owned, a group of four modern-looking young people came into view. They were beaming, smiling ear to ear, excitedly pointing at the splendors in the airport. He scanned the group, his eyes falling on a stunning girl with gorgeous red curls, a lithe body, and emerald-green eyes. Blood surged through his body. His heart raced. Decades of training to be in control of his every action evaporated at the sight of this true Irish beauty. She would be his.

***

Live Oak, Present Day

Attending the closing ceremony of the Scottish Games on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend was a tradition for Patty and Mike Valdez. Patty’s father had started the tradition when she was a little girl. He wanted her to know her Scottish heritage. When Mike entered the picture, he insisted that they continue going. Tonight, they sat in the grandstand of the county fairground racetrack listening to thirty-five bagpipes play Amazing Grace. On the last note, the games ended. For a full minute, the crowd stood silently, savoring the moment.

The tune brought Mike back to the day he decided to become a policeman. At the age of seven, his family suffered the loss of his older brother Arturo in a traffic accident on CA-99 near Tulare. Wondering why his brother wasn’t home yet, Mike started making his sister a bowl of cereal for dinner to try to stop her crying. Standing by the kitchen sink, milk carton in hand, he looked out the window and saw a police officer lift the makeshift wire latch on the chain link fence, walk across the dead grass to the front door, and knock forcefully. Fear, bordering on terror, paralyzed Mike. He was sure he was going to jail but didn’t know why.

By the time he shook off his panic, Mike realized his sister had responded to the knocking, opened the door, and innocently let the policeman in. The officer asked her if her mommy was home. Holding a tattered stuffed unicorn in her hand, she stared at him with her teary brown eyes. Surprisingly, instead of getting in trouble as Mike expected, the policeman correctly assessed the situation—hungry children waiting for their parents to come home after a full day of picking tomatoes in the valley fields.

He said to the children, Stay put. I’ll be back, and disappeared.

Mike wasn’t convinced. Even at his young age, he was acutely aware of the precarious status of Mexican migrant workers. Little did he know how his life was about to change. He was shocked when the officer returned, arms loaded with bags full of the most delicious smells in the world. Mike had never tasted the double bacon cheeseburgers coupled with crunchy fries salted to perfection and thick chocolate milkshakes so common to American youth. From that evening on, Officer Abraham took Mike under his wing, getting him involved in youth sports, making sure he stayed out of trouble, and insisting he maintain good grades. Largely through Abraham’s continuing guidance, Mike was the first of his family to graduate from high school and college, earning a degree in law enforcement from San Jose State University. The pain of his brother’s death eased, but the kindness of the policeman never did.

The crescendo of applause invaded Mike’s memory, pulling him into the present. Patty looked up at Mike, tears filling her eyes, and said, Thank you for indulging me and coming here every year.

I love it as much as you do, he said, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. As the applause settled down, the crowd lingered, reluctant to let go of the experience they had just shared.

We better get going. It’s going to take a while to get out of here, Mike said. He lightly touched Patty’s back and gently guided her through the departing crowd. Would you mind if I drop you off at home? I’d like to stop by the station to make sure I have everything in order for tomorrow.

No problem. Are you nervous about your first day as the newly appointed police captain? she asked, bumping her shoulder into him in a teasing gesture. She was proud of his promotion. Mike was fully aware of the sacrifices the family had made as he worked long hours and studied hard to pass the exam.

A little, he said, but he didn’t elaborate. Actually, he had been restless all weekend. Live Oak was a gentrified suburb of San Francisco. Taking over operations of a police department in such a community was daunting. Although he knew the area well—Mike had served as a detective for the Live Oak Police Department for the past four years—he also knew expectations of the residents were high, exceeded only by the expectation that their property values would continue to rise. He knew he was up to the task, or he wouldn’t have applied for the job. Nevertheless, he was nervous about his first day.

They walked with the crowd to the dirt parking lot.

Next year, let’s splurge and fork out the money to park in the paved lot, Patty groused as she looked at her once clean shoes, which were now covered in dust.

What? And miss the joy of traipsing through the weeds and packed dirt of the county’s finest parking lot? Mike said with mocked sincerity.

Once in the car, Patty took out her phone, scrolled through her texts, answered two, and found the album of Scottish music they had bought years ago. Already synced via Bluetooth to the car’s stereo system, the stirring tunes from Gordon Duncan soon filled the car. They drove home, comfortable not talking.

Mike pulled into the driveway to let Patty out. He walked her to the door, leaned over to give her a kiss, and said, I won’t be long.

Folding his 6′ 3″ frame back into the car, Mike switched on the car stereo and punched in the radio station dedicated to the hottest hits of the ‘90s. The pipes were great in the open air but not so great in a closed car.

Code three. 11-44 at Live Oak High School cafeteria, announced Roseanne Lucido, the dispatch supervisor, interrupting Celine Dion singing "The Power of Love." Startled, Mike thought, What the… police called… ambulances called? Did she say high school? He paid careful attention, hoping he had misheard.

All cars in the vicinity, proceed to Live Oak High School…

He didn’t need to listen anymore. His mind started racing. A possible fatality at his daughter Sophie’s high school filled him with dread. He vaguely remembered her saying something about band members working a special Labor Day bingo game to earn money for uniforms. God, he hoped she wasn’t there. He popped the trunk and shot out of the car to don his bulletproof vest and duty belt, placing the .40 caliber Smith and Wesson semiautomatic pistol into the attached Bianchi holster. A surge of adrenaline forced him to take some deep breaths to stop his legs from shaking.

Ten-four. Nine twenty-one on the way, Mike responded to the dispatcher as he jumped back into the car and reached down to extract a magnetic strobe light from the side storage compartment on the inside door panel of his car. He pressed the lever to open the window, affixed the light to the roof of the car and took off down the street. Nearing the school, Mike’s heart sank as two ambulances pulled up to the building. He watched EMTs leap out of both cabs, open the rear doors and extract stretchers. He parked on the perimeter of the activity, aware that people were not paying attention to their surroundings as they raced to action. The smell of diesel from the idling fire engines filled his nose and mouth as he jogged toward the cafeteria. He followed a paramedic wheeling a gurney through the large double doors propped open by first responder firemen armed with resuscitators and defibrillators. He quickly took in the scene. Huge monitors, still blinking with the image of a bingo card and the number N-35, hung in the corners of the room. Bingo balls continued to bounce in the console on the stage that served as a platform for the caller. Packets of bingo cards, strange dolls with wild neon hair, and colored daubers lay haphazardly over long tables. One of the two tables at the entrance was tipped over. A mix of old and not so old people were mulling around, checking with each other to make sure everyone was OK.

Mike spotted a group of kids with tear-stained faces from the band’s wind section, Sophie’s section, huddled together near the back of the auditorium. The room started to blur.

I don’t see Sophie. Where is she? Oh my God, where is she?

Mike drew in a long breath to calm himself and repeated in his mind, Be present. The room came into focus. There she is. Is that David with her? It is. Why is her grandfather here?

Mr. Valdez. A sharp tug on Mike’s arm stopped him as he passed one of the toppled tables. He wanted to check in with the EMTs about the downed body just a few steps away, then get to Sophie, but the tugging and Mr. Valdez persisted. Turning, he recognized the small but imposing Danika Milner, the school secretary. Fiercely loyal to the school and the students, she was furious.

The strongbox with over fifteen thousand dollars is missing. Tonight’s take is gone. Some horrible person stole from our kids, she hissed with deep anger and indignation.

Mike looked at her in disbelief. You had a strongbox with fifteen thousand in it?

That’s right. And someone stole it. We’ve looked everywhere, she said defiantly, throwing her arms in the air. Few people challenged her words, even police officers.

OK, Mike backed off, I’ll get someone on it immediately.

Sir! Sir! beckoned one of the EMTs kneeling next to a body lying on the floor.

Mike, remaining in control despite the frenzied commotion surrounding him, held up a finger as he put in a call for someone to help Ms. Milner.

OK. What were you saying? Mike said, looking back at the EMT. Crouching down on his haunches to hear the man better, Mike became aware that the EMTs were attending to two men. One was sitting up, rocking, his arms crossed over his stomach. The man was dressed in a uniform not unlike the police. Mike recognized the arm patch identifying a private security agency hired by the school district to ensure safety. The other man, lying motionless with a small stream of blood from his nose drying in the creases of his face, made the hairs down Mike’s back stand on edge. Mike, with chilling clarity, realized his first night as the Live Oak police captain was burdened with the responsibility of solving a crime surrounding one of Live Oak’s favorite booster club supporters, Brad Mancini. Legendary for all the time and money he poured into sports and academic pursuits at Live Oak, Brad Mancini was the epitome of a local boy made good.

Focusing on the tragedy unfolding before him, Mike asked, What happened?

He’s dead, sir. Looks like either an injury to his head or maybe a broken neck caused death, the paramedic said. No pulse for five minutes.

Stunned, all Mike could say was, His name is Brad Mancini. After a pause while he looked over Brad’s body, Mike asked, What about the security guy?

"His name is Luis Rodriguez. Works for Sierra Pacific Security Agency. Apparently, something tripped the electricity in the building. The whole