by Chris Culver
She nodded and looked to the closed closet door.
“He started as a builder, you know. He was a finish carpenter when I met him, but he had all these big ideas about opening his own business. When he renovated the closet, I assumed he was feeling nostalgic.”
Sherlock nodded and swung his legs off the side of the bed. “Did you see my pants?”
“They’re in the hallway,” she said, stretching and arching her back. He wanted to make love to her again, but he had work to do first. He swung his legs off the bed and dressed in the hallway. Diana sat up in bed and held the blanket over her chest. “Come back to bed, honey. It’s late.”
“It’s never too late for money, darling,” he said, winking. She rolled her eyes and lay down again as he walked to the front door to retrieve his hammer and tarp. When he returned, Diana was in the restroom, showering. He laid the tarp on the floor and hammered the wall, breaking the drywall. The shower turned off, and Diana’s voice called out.
“Are you breaking the walls open at midnight?”
“Christopher is my client. I have to find out whether he’s lying.”
Instead of answering, she turned the shower back on. Sherlock kept hammering and tearing away sheets of drywall. The tarp caught most of the mess, but he’d still need a Shop-Vac to clean the carpet. If Christopher had hidden a quarter-million cash in the walls, he wouldn’t mind buying one at all.
After opening holes on every wall, he found what he had been looking for: plastic-wrapped straps of cash. He pulled them out. There were five bricks, each of which held twenty-five bundles of fresh twenty-dollar bills.
He carried them into the bedroom and tore open the plastic on two of the bricks. A hundred thousand dollars cash spread over the bed. Another hundred and fifty thousand remained wrapped in plastic.
“Diana,” he called. She came to the bathroom door a moment later with a towel wrapped around her ample chest. Her eyes grew wide.
“That’s a lot of money,” she whispered. “Christopher gave you this money to kill me?”
Sherlock nodded. “Yep.”
She let her towel drop before lying down and pulling the money overtop herself and smiling.
“I feel like we should celebrate.”
“I kind of feel like that, too,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt. Once he had removed his clothes, he climbed onto the bed beside her. As they made love on their cash, she bit his ear and moaned.
“When Christopher gets out of prison, you’ve got to kill him.”
He pulled his head away from her. “You want to talk about him now?”
“You’re all I want to talk about,” she said. “But if he’s alive, he won’t let us keep his money.”
Sherlock cupped her cheek with his hand.
“You needn’t worry about him. I’ll never let him hurt you again.”
“Are you going to kill him, then?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No, I’ll let the police do that for me.”
22
Roger’s snoring woke me up a little before six the next morning. I tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but his snoring was still so loud it almost shook the bed. I tried putting a pillow over my ears next, but that didn’t work, either. I thought about waking him up and kicking him out of the house, but he looked so content I didn’t have the heart.
I grabbed a thick bathrobe from my laundry hamper and crept out of the room, being careful to avoid kicking the wooden stairs Roger used to climb to the bed. My vet had told me that dogs at his age declined quickly and that I needed to prepare myself, but I couldn’t think about life without him. He was a dog, but he was my buddy. I loved him.
It was too early for such maudlin thoughts, though, so I changed into some yoga pants and a sweatshirt and ran on the trails in the woods behind my house. Hard alcohol at night and hard exercise in the morning made my life manageable. The exercise woke me up, and the liquor put me down. Combined, the two kept me from dwelling on thoughts I had no reason to dwell upon.
After forty-five minutes on those wooded trails, my lungs loosened, my legs grew tired, and sweat dripped down my forehead and into my eyes. Dirt and bits of dried leaves covered my arms, neck, and legs, but I felt well. When I got home, Roger stretched on the back porch, having come out of the doggy door. Then he yawned and lay down again. It was a tough life he led.
I fed Roger, made a pot of coffee, and sat down on the back porch to watch the world wake up. It would have been a pleasant morning had my cell phone not rung at ten after seven. I sipped my coffee and let the call go to voicemail without looking at the screen. When it rang again two minutes later, I groaned to myself and looked at the screen.
Green, Julia.
“Hey, Julia,” I said, upon answering. “You rarely call this early. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” she said. “I needed to catch you before work. Are you alone?”
“Are you asking whether I picked up a man in the bar for a wild night of anonymous sex?”
Julia hesitated. “I didn’t think you did that kind of thing.”
“I don’t.”
Julia said nothing for a second. “Are you happy, sweetheart?”
“That’s why you’re calling? I like living alone. I’ve got friends, I’ve got Roger, I’ve got everything I need. That’s all I have time for.”
She sighed.
“I want you happy.”
“I like my life,” I said. “I’m not lonely if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“That worries me, but it’s not why I called,” she said. “We need to talk about work.”
I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw before speaking.
“Is this about Detective Ledgerman?”
“No,” she said. “Not directly, at least. Our coroner’s office has been working with Dr. Sheridan, your coroner. He sent over dental X-rays of the victim who died in St. Augustine. We compared those dental X-rays to ones of Megan Young and got a match.”
I blinked and drew in a breath. “The detective on the case here has been operating on the theory that a pizza delivery driver killed her in some kind of failed robbery. He won’t appreciate hearing that.”
“I’m sure he’ll get over it. The story is already going national. We’ve got a truck from CNN parked on Forsyth Boulevard right now. Christopher Hughes’s attorney filed a petition of habeas corpus last night on Christopher’s behalf. Christopher’s confession complicates things, but he didn’t kill Megan Young.”
“He may not have killed her, but he hurt people.”
“I know,” she said. She paused. “He’s getting out. A rep from the governor’s office called last night, and somebody from the DOJ called this morning. If we don’t move to vacate the charges against him, there’ll be riots.”
I blinked and drew in a deep breath. “He’s in prison for a crime he didn’t do. I get it. When are you going to charge him with rape?”
“We’re not,” she said. “The prosecutor thinks he’s spent enough time in prison. The county is going into damage-control mode. Hughes’s current lawyer claims we coerced his client into signing a confession he didn’t understand. He’s already filed a civil lawsuit against the county and state. The world’s watching us. We don’t want a riot on live TV. The county is already in negotiations to settle.”
“I see,” I said, nodding as a cold chill passed through me. “So they’ll throw the police under the bus and pay Hughes millions. That sounds about right.”
“It sucks,” said Julia. “Everything about this is wrong. I want to kill the guy as much as you do, but we can’t. He’s been in jail twelve years, but he’s getting out today. It’s already on the docket. Andy—the prosecutor—will drop all the charges against Christopher at nine this morning. He’ll be a free man by noon. With luck, he’ll take his money and move to Hawaii or Florida. He’ll be someone else’s problem.”
“I don’t want to kill him. I want to see him in prison.”
She paused.
“I’m sorry, but it won’t happen.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I said, clearing my throat. “Thanks for calling. I need to get ready for work.”
“No, you don’t,” she said. “Take the day off and come home, sweetheart. Your father and I love you, and we’re here to support you.”
She meant it, too. I could hear it in her voice. My eyes grew moist, so I blinked until a tear fell.
“I appreciate that, and I love you guys, too,” I said. I coughed so she wouldn’t hear the catch in my throat. “But it’s fair week. If I stay home, someone else has to work a double shift. That wouldn’t be fair for anybody.”
She sighed. “Okay. If you need me, call me anytime. I’ll have my cell phone with me all day.”
“I know. I’ll call you later.”
Before she hung up, she told me she loved me again. For a moment, I sat there, watching the trees sway in the breeze and listening as the birds sang. Then I drank the final sip of my coffee and petted Roger’s head. My throat felt tight, but I couldn’t let this bother me. I coughed and blinked away the tears that threatened to fall.
I’d go to work, and then I’d come home and get drunk. People might frown at that, but I didn’t care. Life was about survival. You either made it through the day, or you didn’t. I’d make it to tomorrow, and then I’d make it through the next day and then the next day. Because that was who I was. I was a survivor, and I wouldn’t let that son of a bitch bring me down.
23
I showered, got dressed, and threw a ball to Roger for a few minutes before heading to work. It wasn’t even eight in the morning, so St. Augustine was just waking up. A bar owner was hosing off the sidewalk in front of his establishment on Main Street, and a few tourists sauntered to diners and restaurants for breakfast.
My phone call with Julia had thrown off my schedule, so I had missed the morning roll-call meeting once again, which wouldn’t endear me to either my boss or anyone else in the station. I skipped my usual stop at Rise and Grind and went to work, where I found my boss—Travis—in the conference room along with Detectives Delgado and Martin. All of them sat around a table strewn with documents and photographs, most of which focused on Megan Young. When he saw me, Delgado’s face went red.
“You missed roll call again,” he said. “That’s two strikes. What do you think happens at three?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll turn on the news and learn I screwed up a murder investigation because I refused to listen to a colleague.”
Delgado didn’t get the chance to speak before Travis escorted me out of the room. When we reached my desk, he crossed his arms.
“What did you hope to accomplish with that conversation?”
“I had hoped Delgado and Martin would listen and pull their heads out of their asses,” I said. “Megan Young was my case before they took it. I was right, and they were wrong. If I were still on the case, we’d be days closer to finding our murderer. We might have even been able to save our department some embarrassment. Instead, I’m sidelined to working the speed trap. Is that what I’m wasting my time on today?”
He paused before speaking.
“You’re close to insubordination.”
“I don’t care. Delgado and Martin can do the job, but I’m better. I’m not bragging; I’m stating a fact. You know it, and I know it. That should be my case.”
He sat on a nearby desk. “You’re too close to it.”
I shook my head and tried to keep my voice level and strong.
“My proximity to the case gives me insight other people can’t possess. From what Harry tells me, those two clowns in the conference room were ready to start waterboarding a pizza delivery driver yesterday. They should have been following up on Megan Young. Instead, they wasted everybody’s time and harassed some poor kids trying to make a buck at their after-school jobs.”
Travis drew in a breath and raised his eyebrows while looking down.
“Delgado and Martin had their own ideas about the investigation. They were wrong, but I’m not sure what I would have done differently.”
“Then you would have screwed up, too,” I said. “I had already asked Dr. Sheridan to check the victim’s teeth against Megan Young’s records. Delgado told him not to. Even if the guy doesn’t like me, even if he thinks I’m an idiot, he should have let the process work.”
Travis uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on either side of him. His eyes locked onto mine.
“You’re right. They should have listened to you,” he said. “Since they didn’t, we all have to deal with the consequences. This isn’t some personal vendetta, though. They talked to witnesses who saw a pizza delivery driver at the Wayfair Motel at the time of Megan Young’s murder. They followed the evidence and did their jobs.”
“They should have let Dr. Sheridan do his job, too,” I said. “And this is personal, Travis. Delgado has had it out for me ever since I became a detective. He’s patronizing, misogynistic, and mean. I’ve tried to talk to him about it, but he ignores me. If we had an HR department, I’d talk to them. But we don’t have an HR department. We’ve got you. You’re the boss. He’s your employee. Deal with him.”
Travis looked down. He bit his lip before speaking.
“You remind me of Julia when you say things like that.”
“Then respect me as much as you respect her and do something about an asshole under your command.”
He looked up and raised his eyebrows while nodding. “I’ll talk to him. Meantime, I need you to work a missing-persons case. Boy’s name is Jude Lewis. Parents came in early this morning.”
I walked around my desk, opened the top drawer for a notepad, and then flipped through pages of interview notes.
“He’s Paige Maxwell’s boyfriend. Her parents reported her missing last night. I think they ran off together.”
“I see,” said Travis, standing. “Talk to the parents. Trisha has their contact information.”
“Does this mean I’m off the speed trap?”
He nodded. “You’re off the speed trap. You’re too close to the Megan Young case, so I stand by my decision to take you off it. That said, I’ll make sure you have access to Delgado and Martin’s reports. Maybe you’ll see something they don’t.”
“Helen Keller could see things they don’t.”
Travis nodded and then stood. “Respect goes both ways, Detective.”
I softened my voice. “Yeah. Message received.”
“Good,” he said before walking away.
I spent the rest of the morning talking to Doug and Karen Lewis, Jude Lewis’s parents. When I told them Paige Maxwell was also missing, they seemed relieved. They knew Paige had difficult circumstances at home, so they weren’t surprised that she and Jude might have gone away for a while.
Even though I suspected the two of them were together and safe, I dug into both of their lives. I looked into their bank accounts and found that they had both withdrawn several hundred dollars. I checked on their cell phones and found that both were off and inaccessible. Then I talked to their friends. Nobody admitted knowing where the two kids were, but their friends all agreed to call me if they heard from them. Next, I called two dozen hospitals to make sure they hadn’t admitted anyone who matched the description of Paige or Jude. And last, I contacted the Missouri Highway Patrol to ask them to look for Paige’s white Ford Focus.
Beyond that, I couldn’t do much. If they wanted to hide, we wouldn’t find them. More than that, nothing I had found told me they were in trouble. They were two kids in love, and they wanted a break from the stresses of their lives. I couldn’t blame them. If we hadn’t found them by the week’s end, I’d worry, but for now, the two of them could have their fun.
I left the high school where I had interviewed Jude’s friends at about noon, and my stomach was rumbling. On a normal day, I would have picked up a sandwich at Able’s Diner for lunch, but I didn’t want to wait in line—not when I had other options, at least. I pulled out my phone and call
ed Trisha at work. When she answered, there was a commotion in the background. That wasn’t too uncommon in a police station.
“Hey, it’s Joe. I’m going to run by the grocery store and pick up lunch. You want anything?”
“Lunch? No,” she said, sounding surprised. “I need you to get down here.”
“Something wrong?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Get down here. Lights and sirens.”
My old truck didn’t have lights or a siren, but I turned my key in the ignition. “I’m on my way. See you in a few.”
24
When I reached my station, a few dozen protestors stood on the sidewalk out front. Some chanted, while others booed. Two men in suits stood at the top of the steps while Sasquatch and two other St. Augustine uniformed officers tried to keep the crowd at bay. Four news crews—including one from CNN—filmed everything.
I parked and got out of my car, not knowing what the hell was going on until one of the camera crews turned toward me. Then a familiar-looking woman sauntered toward me from a news van near the street. Her hair, makeup, and clothes were impeccable, and she walked with a quiet confidence born from years of practiced performance. She held her hand out.
“Angela Pritchard,” she said. “We spoke on the phone. I’m glad to meet you.”
I glanced at her and then to the crowd.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” I said, ignoring her outstretched hand and walking toward the building. Pritchard’s smile didn’t waver, but she couldn’t keep her annoyance out of her eyes. I didn’t care. I directed my focus toward the two men on the steps. James Holmes and Christopher Hughes. My heart pounded against my chest. Julia had told me Christopher would get out, but to see him on the streets again made a knot grow in my gut and my fingers tremble. My throat felt tight, and I could feel my breath grow shallow.
Even twelve years after I had last seen him, even with a gun at my hip and a badge on my belt, he terrified me. I tightened my hands into fists so he wouldn’t see me tremble as a cold sweat formed all over my body.
