Near You

by Mary Burton

  The man rubbed his eyes. “Mark Young. What’s the deal?”

  “Do you have a vehicle parked on this lot?” Bryce asked.

  “It’s that Ford Explorer right there,” Mark said.

  Bryce noted the Colorado plates. “Do you have your license and registration?”

  “Ah, yeah, sure.” Young dug a wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, removed his license and registration, and handed both to Bryce. “I’ve had the car about five years.”

  Bryce checked the details against the registration on the car, wrote down the man’s name and phone number, and thanked him for his cooperation.

  “What’s going on?” Young asked.

  “We have an unidentified car,” Bryce said. “Just trying to make sure the owner isn’t on-site.”

  Young looked past Bryce toward the car surrounded by cops, yellow tape, and two technicians shooting photographs. “Do you always do this for an unknown car? Is this some kind of terrorist thing?”

  “Nothing like that.” Bryce smiled. “The car is associated with a crime. Again, thank you.”

  He moved to the next door, and the process repeated several more times. Each motel guest was not happy to be awakened, but once they saw Bryce’s stern expression and realized he was not going anywhere until they complied, they submitted.

  A half hour later, Bryce knocked on his seventh door, room 107, and shouted, “Police.”

  A gravelly voice shouted back, “Just a minute!”

  Bryce waited as curtains again fluttered by the window. The door opened to Paul Thompson.

  Bryce had learned long ago not to be shocked by what he came across on the job. But seeing Thompson standing in the doorway, hair disheveled and shirt unevenly buttoned and looking nothing like his polished promo picture, took him by surprise. “Mr. Thompson.” Flukes like this were rarely accidental. “May I see your license and registration?”

  Thompson threaded his fingers through his hair. “What? Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “License and registration.” Bryce just might enjoy this.

  Thompson cleared his throat. “What’s going on? You don’t have the right to show up and ask for that.”

  “I do. License and registration.”

  Thompson’s next retort went unspoken when he met Bryce’s gaze head-on. The reporter, like all boys on the playground, avoided the kid spoiling for a fight. “Just a minute.”

  As the reporter foraged in his pocket for his identification, Bryce studied the room, noting the double beds, the dresser with a television, and the entry into the bathroom. The bed closest to the door was covered with papers, and there was a laptop in the center. The bed farthest away was not only unmade, but each pillow bore impressions of a head.

  “Are you in the room alone?” Bryce asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Someone else was here last night.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Who was she?” Bryce asked.

  “Carla. Just a woman from a bar.” He produced his identification and rental car papers. “Here you go.” He looked past Bryce to the parking lot and the collection of cops. “What’s going on here?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” He noted the car had been rented ten days ago at the airport. “When did you arrive in Missoula?”

  Thompson sniffed. “Ten days ago. Just like the rental agreement states.”

  “And you’ve been working on your podcast, correct?”

  “You know that.” He smoothed out his hair with his fingers, rebuttoned his shirt, and tucked it into his jeans. His attention shifted to the car surrounded by cops. “Whose car is that?”

  Instead of answering, Bryce asked, “Do you have people who can vouch for your whereabouts for the last couple of weeks?”

  “That’s a broad time frame. Can you be more specific?”

  “How about mid-August?”

  “I’d have to check my calendar. Why do I need an alibi?”

  As if Gideon had noticed Bryce was lingering at room 107, he approached. “Who’s this?”

  “Mr. Paul Thompson,” Bryce said. “He’s doing a story on Elijah Weston and the Fireflies.”

  Gideon’s expression hardened. “Right, I’ve heard about him.”

  “I believe he’s made contact with Dr. Ann Bailey,” Bryce said.

  “I’ve talked to a lot of people,” Thompson said. “Is this some kind of shakedown? Did Dr. Bailey send you two to scare me off?”

  “Mr. Thompson, we were investigating a crime, and as luck would have it, we’ve stumbled upon you,” Gideon said.

  “I haven’t committed any crime.” Thompson’s tone hardened with defensiveness.

  “Mr. Thompson, would you be willing to come to the station so we can ask you a few questions?” Bryce asked. “I’d really like to talk to you about your whereabouts for the last couple of months.”

  Thompson shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere with either of you until you tell me what’s going on.”

  “We are asking for your cooperation,” Gideon added. “Strictly voluntary, for now.”

  Thompson swiped his phone off the small table by the door and scrolled through the numbers in his contacts. “And if I don’t come?”

  “I’ll arrest you and impound your work until I have a forensic expert review every piece of paper and digital file in your possession,” Bryce said.

  Gideon shook his head, slipping into the role of a concerned man. “Hell, that’s going to take weeks, if not months, Bryce. Do you really want to go that route?”

  “No, I don’t,” Bryce said. “I’d like to do this the easy way and simply have a conversation with Mr. Thompson. But either way, we’re going to talk.”

  Gideon dropped his gaze and then looked back up at Thompson. “Just do it the easy way. None of us want the paperwork.”

  “I’m calling my attorney,” Thompson said. “This is not right.”

  “Go ahead. Call your lawyer,” Bryce said. “We’ll be waiting right here. And don’t close the door.”

  Thompson retreated to the back of his room, and the cops stepped away several feet, keeping an eye on him.

  “What’s the deal with Paul Thompson and Ann?” Gideon asked.

  “He showed up at her front doorstep for an interview.”

  “Yes, Ann told me. She’s seen a lot like him in the last year. Why is he such a big deal?”

  Bryce lowered his voice. “Thompson suggested he might have information about Nate’s paternity.”

  The lines in Gideon’s face deepened into a frown as he glared at Paul Thompson pacing back and forth in his room, phone pressed to his ear.

  “Nate’s paternity?” Gideon glanced again toward room 107. “How the hell did Paul find out?”

  “He said one of the Fireflies figured it out.”

  “The only one who knows besides me is Joan, and she’ll take it to her grave. The source must be Elijah. He must have had some suspicion.”

  “It’s getting harder to miss,” Bryce said. “Weston must see himself in the boy.”

  “Shit.” Gideon slid a hand in his pocket and rattled change. “But why tell one of his Fireflies? Unless he’s using them for some reason.”

  “I don’t know. But Nena Lassiter was a Firefly, and her car was seen at Edith Scott’s house right after her estimated time of death. One of Nena’s lovers also put her with Thompson. And now her car is parked in front of Paul Thompson’s motel room.”

  “Why would Paul Thompson kill Edith?” Gideon asked. “And if he’s that smart to pull off those murders, he’s not sloppy enough to park Nena’s car outside his motel room.”

  “That’s why we need to have a long conversation with him,” Bryce said.

  Gideon rested his hands on his hips. “How do you want to play this? He’ll be lawyered up before he steps out on the sidewalk.”

  “And I’ll be on the phone to a judge looking for a warrant to search his room after you take him in for questioning.”<
br />
  “If I hold him, then I’ll have to Mirandize him.”

  “If he goes willingly, you don’t. Dangle some case details. Tell him about the dead Fireflies. Even if he’s innocent, he won’t be able to resist the new information.”

  “Basically, you need time to get into that room.”

  “Exactly.”

  Paul Thompson stepped out of his room, closed the door, and locked it behind him. He had washed his face, doused his hair in water, combed it flat, and put on a clean shirt. His backpack was slung over his shoulder.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Thompson, we’ll be taking my car,” Gideon said.

  “Isn’t Sergeant McCabe coming?” Thompson asked.

  “Someone has to oversee the evidence collection in the vehicle,” Bryce said.

  “Whose car is it anyway?” Thompson asked.

  “I’ll share that with you once we get to the station,” Gideon said. “Do you have your wallet and cell on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” Gideon said. “Might want to put the backpack back in your room.”

  “Why?”

  “You won’t be able to carry it into the station. You could leave it in my car, but it’ll be safer here.”

  “What the hell is going on here?” The outrage that had heightened the color in Thompson’s cheeks was washing out.

  “Put the backpack away, and we’ll chat,” Gideon said. “I promise you that you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

  “You have to do better than that,” Thompson said.

  “I have information about the Fireflies that you’ll find very interesting,” Gideon said. “Most of what I have has not been released to the media.”

  Thompson’s gaze shifted from Gideon to the car, which for the moment was not surrounded by cops. “I know that car.”

  “Do you?” Gideon asked.

  “It belongs to Nena Lassiter.”

  “Yes, sir, it does,” Gideon said. “How did you know that?”

  “What’s going on with her? Has she said something about me?” Thompson asked.

  “This is one of many reasons why we need to talk,” Gideon said.

  Thompson muttered a curse. Finally, he returned to his room, set his backpack behind his bed, locked his door, and rejoined Gideon. When the two settled into the police car, Bryce was on the phone to a local judge and left him a voicemail requesting his warrant.

  While he waited for a callback, he returned to the crime scene and watched as the crew continued photographing the vehicle.

  The tech tried the door, discovered it was locked, and then obtained a long string from his van, which he worked between the door and jamb at the window’s top corner. He tied a slipknot at the end and, using a pen, maneuvered the string around the weather stripping and down toward the door’s vertical lock. He tightened the loop with a gentle twist and then tugged until the knob popped open.

  Once the door opened, the technician released the trunk, and the crew immediately inspected the space. Bryce noted several suitcases, blankets, several gas cans, and rumpled junk food wrappers.

  “Sergeant Bryce, have a look at this,” the tech said as he held up what looked like a scrapbook.

  On the title page of the handmade book was a picture of Nena and Elijah. His image appeared to have been generated from an online media report detailing his release from prison.

  Each subsequent page was filled with similar versions of Nena and Elijah. In several of her pictures, she wore a wedding dress and was holding a handful of flowers. The edges of the pages were decorated with red ink drawn into the shape of flames.

  The tech held up a purse, probed, and removed a wallet. He opened it and held up the California driver’s license for Nena Lassiter. He handed off the find to an assistant and continued to search the space. He discovered two more wallets. One had belonged to Dana Riley and the other to Sarah Cameron.

  Bryce studied Sarah’s stoic features on the license. “Nena has Sarah’s belongings,” he said, more to himself. It made sense because links had already been established between the victims. And then to the technician: “Keep searching.”

  Minutes later, the tech held up a credit card receipt. “It belongs to Dana Riley.”

  Bryce now had a vehicle linked to four murders, and all the dead women appeared to be connected to Paul Thompson.

  Elijah was waiting by the university classroom when the morning session started filing into the room, and he saw Ann bring Nate to the front of the building. She leaned over and kissed him, but he seemed to stiffen as he looked around. She did not force it and appeared to understand her boy was growing up and did not want to be mothered, but her smile was bittersweet.

  Ann might be losing her boy, bit by bit, but at least she had had the last ten years. Cheated out of the time, he had not seen Nate take his first step, cut a tooth, or ride a school bus. Resentment clawed its way up his throat.

  But he pushed the feelings back into the shadows and focused on the moment. When Ann walked away, he ducked into the classroom. Nate sat toward the front of the class, so Elijah chose a seat in the back, next to the door.

  For the next hour, the teacher broke down several math problems, and when he asked for a volunteer, Nate raised his hand along with several other students. Each time the teacher chose someone other than Nate, Elijah sensed the old man did not want the kid showing up him or the other students.

  When the class ended, Nate gathered up his books and made his way up the stairs. Elijah ducked out ahead of him and waited outside the room.

  As the boy passed, Elijah said, “He should have called on you, Nate.”

  The boy turned and eyed Elijah. “You’re not in this class.”

  “I wanted to speak to you.”

  “Why?”

  As people filed past them, Elijah thought about the DNA results in his pocket that vindicated all the feelings he had had since he’d first seen a picture of Nate six years ago. One of his Fireflies had taken the image and included it in one of her letters to him. He had known from the moment he laid eyes on the towhead with gray eyes that they were father and son.

  “Did you read King Lear?”

  “A couple of times.”

  Prioritizing his own desires and dreams over the boy’s would be as easy as it was wrong. Nate’s feelings had to take precedence. The child would figure out their connection sooner or later, and when he did, Elijah wanted him to understand he was trying to do this right.

  “I have another book for you,” Elijah said. He dug the new paperback from his jacket pocket. “It’s called Huckleberry Finn.”

  “By Mark Twain.”

  “That’s right. It’s a classic adventure story.” He held out the book, realizing he feared the boy would refuse this symbol of peace.

  But Nate took the book and thumbed through the stiff, unbroken pages. “Have you read it?”

  “Yes. I love books that involve travel.”

  “Because you were in prison?”

  The boy’s candor held no malice, but rather exhibited a scientific curiosity that Elijah understood. “I liked them before prison. I read them as a kid. It was the only way I could see the world. But I reread them all in prison.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Prison?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not great being told what to do all day long, and I had no friends or allies in prison. But I’m good at finding the best in a bad situation.”

  “I don’t have many friends other than Kyle.”

  “You’re lucky to have Kyle, then.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember, the world does turn, Nate.”

  His brow knotted. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means nothing stays the same. And if we play our cards right, it’ll get better.”

  “When?”

  Elijah smiled. “If I could predict that, I would be worth a lot more money.”

  The boy’s phone buzzed with a text, and he glanced at t
he display. “That’s my mom. I’ve got to go.”

  “Sure.” He slid his hands into his pockets, wishing they had the kind of relationship that allowed him a hug.

  “Thanks for the book,” Nate said.

  “Sure.”

  Nate started to walk away and then stopped. “Are you going to be in this class next week?”

  “I could be.”

  “If you are, I’ll tell you what I think of the book.”

  Elijah smiled. “Then I’ll definitely be here. I can’t wait to hear what you say.”

  “I can be picky.”

  “Good. That makes you a man of discerning tastes.”

  The boy tucked the book in his backpack, and Elijah stood in place, watching until he vanished around a corner. He had not said a tenth of what he had wanted to express to Nate, but discretion was the better part of valor. They had forged a start. And that was good enough.

  Bryce was on the phone with the judge for nearly twenty minutes, arguing for a search warrant of Thompson’s motel room. Not only did Bryce have a vehicle parked outside Thompson’s motel room that contained evidence related to four murders, but he reiterated that the reporter had given Dr. Bailey a detailed list of the Fireflies. Finally, the judge had relented and given Bryce a warrant that allowed him to do a cursory search of the room.

  When Bryce showed the warrant to the manager, Mike remained reluctant. He did not like the idea of invading a resident’s privacy, because he’d hear about it on Yelp.

  Still, he complied, and Bryce, along with a technician, entered Thompson’s motel room at noon.

  The room smelled of stale pizza, cigarette smoke, and faint hints of aftershave. At first, Bryce did not touch anything as he moved around the space, trying to get a handle on Paul Thompson’s work. The papers strewn on the second bed were printed manuscript pages that appeared edited, presumably by Thompson’s hand, in red ink. The pages at the top interview featured Sarah Cameron, and the ones after them introduced Dana Riley and Nena Lassiter.

  He dug deeper into the stack and found interviews of people who knew Elijah back in college. There was a section with Elijah’s mother, Lois Weston. Also in the mix were the original police reports from Elijah’s case, a transcript from his trial, and a list of the jurors on his case. Thompson had spoken to five, including Edith Scott.