Chapter 6 - The Longest Night
The police station in Northwood was a low brick building that smelled of wet wool, stale tobacco, and floor cleaner.
By midnight, the small waiting room was packed with people who had no business being in the same room together.
On one side sat three of Boston’s most prominent defense attorneys, sitting in hard plastic chairs while their silver briefcases rested on the linoleum floor. Across from them sat Mary Miller, her hands still stained with the grey water from the buckets she had used at her morning cleaning job, holding a styrofoam cup of black coffee that had gone cold an hour ago.
In the corner interview room behind double-paned glass, Edward Fitzgerald sat with his head in his hands while two detectives from the State Police Economic Crimes Division systematically went through three boxes of financial records that had been seized from his home on Oak Ridge Drive.
Dr. Arthur Harrison was in a separate room down the hall, his high-collared shirt unbuttoned, his face red as he explained to his own lawyer that he had only signed the evaluation because Edward had threatened to reveal certain irregularities in his medical practice.
Julian Mercer came out of the Chief’s office, his tie loosened, his gold spectacles tucked into his breast pocket.
He walked over to Henry, who was sitting near the radiator with Abigail at his side.
“It’s solid,” Mercer said softly, leaning down so his voice wouldn't carry across the room. “The state police have already issued a warrant for grand larceny, corporate fraud, and endangerment of an elder. Dr. Harrison has agreed to turn state’s evidence in exchange for a plea deal on the conspiracy charge.”
Mary lifted her head from her hands. “Will Edward... will he go to prison?”
“For a very long time, Mrs. Miller,” Mercer said. “The evidence in that red binder—combined with the financial transfers we found in the Cayman accounts—shows a clear pattern of premeditated abuse over a eighteen-month period. He wasn't just trying to take control of the firm. He was systematically draining his father’s personal accounts before Henry even passed.”
Henry didn't look triumphant. He looked old.
The clarity that had filled his eyes in the boardroom and in the alley seemed to sink back down into the gray depths of his weary frame. He looked down at his bare hands, where the waxy purple color had finally been replaced by the dull pale cream of age.
“He was eight when his mother died,” Henry said, his voice hardly louder than the hum of the vending machine near the door. “I brought him to the office three days after the funeral because I didn't know what else to do with a child who wouldn't stop crying. I gave him a stack of ledger paper and a red pen.”
He turned his head slowly to look at Abigail.
“I thought I was teaching him how to build things,” Henry said. “I didn't know I was teaching him how to measure people by their weight in paper.”
Abigail reached out and took his hand. The skin was rough and dry, like old parchment that had been left in the sun, but it was warm now.
“You didn't make him like this, Henry,” she said quietly.
“No,” Henry said, looking at her pale hair and the thin coat resting on her knees. “But I let him think that money was the only language we spoke in that house. It took a girl with a hole in her glove to remind me that some things aren't written on stock certificates.”
The door to the outer corridor opened, and Dale Cooper walked in.
The diner manager looked utterly out of place in the police station. He was wearing his stained greasy jacket, his thin hair tossed by the wind outside, holding a brown paper bag in his large, red hands.
He stopped when he saw Abigail sitting beside the billionaire.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his small eyes darting nervously toward the four high-priced lawyers sitting across the room.
“Abigail,” Dale began, his voice lacking its usual sharp edge. He cleared his throat twice. “The... the officer at the desk said you were still here.”
Abigail didn't stand up. “What do you want, Mr. Cooper?”
Dale reached into the brown bag and pulled out her navy apron, neatly folded for the first time in three years, along with an envelope.
“I... I brought your final check,” Dale said, stepping forward two paces and setting the envelope on the empty chair beside her. “And... well... I wanted to say... I didn't know who the old man was last night. If I’d known—”
“If you’d known he was rich, you wouldn't have thrown him out?” Abigail interrupted, her voice cool and steady as a marble shelf.
Dale’s face turned the color of a stale turnip. “That’s not... I have a business to run, Miller. Rules are rules.”
“Your rules,” Henry Fitzgerald said, lifting his head slowly from his chest, “are very small, Mr. Cooper. Like the mind of the man who wrote them.”
He looked at Julian Mercer.
“Julian,” Henry said, “who owns the building where Bell’s Diner is located?”
Mercer pulled a small digital tablet from his coat and tapped the screen twice. “The property at 112 Harrow Street is held by Northwood Real Estate Holdings, sir. A subsidiary of Fitzgerald Commercial Properties.”
“Terminate the lease,” Henry said simply.
Dale Cooper’s mouth opened, but no sound came out for five seconds. “You... you can’t do that! I’ve been there twelve years!”
“You have thirty days to clear your equipment, Mr. Cooper,” Henry said, his blue eyes locking onto the manager with the cold finality of an iron door closing. “I intend to turn the space into a drop-in shelter for elderly residents who have nowhere to go when the temperature falls below twenty.”
He looked back at Abigail.
May you like
“And I believe the head manager position will be open,” Henry added. “Though the new owner will require someone with better judgment regarding who is allowed inside.”
Dale Cooper stood frozen for a moment, looking at the small seventeen-year-old girl he had fired six hours ago for being six minutes late, then turned and walked out into the snow without saying another word.
