by Jen Blood
“What are you doing?” Solomon hissed at me when I pulled her to the seat beside me.
“We need to talk.”
“No we don’t.”
“Yeah, we do. What happened last night—”
“You don’t need to explain,” she said quickly. “You were freaked out, and things have been building between us and then there’s this bed and we’re both in it and...I mean, it’s not surprising that something happened. And it’s not like I didn’t want it to happen or something, but I understand—you don’t think of me that way, and that’s fine because I don’t even know if I think of you that way, and there are a ton of complications that you don’t want to deal with after everything you went through with your ex...” I let her continue like that for a while, until she was babbling incoherently toward the end. Finally, she stopped short.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asked.
“Do you need me to? You’ve made a pretty good case for me being an asshole with no self-control, apparently teetering on the brink of mental collapse.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No? How about you don’t put words in my mouth, then.” I turned to face her. There were bird feeders lining the picture window. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a hummingbird buzz in for nectar from a bright red feeder. “Yes: I was freaked out last night. So were you. I was tired, and it’s been a rough few months, and you’re right—something has been building between us.”
“You don’t have to—” she started. I put my index finger to her lips. She glared at me, but she did shut up.
“But I’m not nuts,” I continued. “Apart from talking to dead people... Which I’m hoping is a temporary thing. I knew what I was doing. I don’t regret it. I’m not over it, just because we made out a little.”
“A lot,” she corrected me.
I grinned at her. “Fair enough. Made out a lot. But if what you just said is what you’re feeling—that you were just vulnerable and you didn’t really want things to move in that direction—tell me. Own it. Don’t try and tell me where I’m coming from, though.”
“Oh,” she said. She looked at me head on, one of the things I’ve always loved about Solomon. “I just thought when I woke up this morning and you were gone, and you didn’t really say anything when I got up...”
Well, shit. “You slept until ten o’clock this morning, and when you did get up, Wolf and Hector were sitting right there watching our every move.”
“It’s not a big deal. I mean, it’s not like I expected to spoon till noon or something—”
I leaned in and kissed her before she could continue. By the time I eventually pulled back, her face was flushed; I suspect mine was too.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t have any guarantees. I don’t know about next week or next month... But I wouldn’t have kissed you last night if I didn’t want some kind of morning after with you. Some kind of...something. Okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed. There was a light in her eyes that hadn’t been there before, and I got a strange burst of joy and terror at the thought that I’d put it there.
Behind us, Wolf cleared his throat. “I don’t want to interrupt...”
Solomon scooted away from me so fast she nearly fell in the pond. “That’s all right,” she assured him. “We were just talking.”
“Uh huh.”
I stood with a little more grace than Solomon had managed and nodded to the yard. “Charlene did this?”
“Her and Lizzie—and Maisie helped. We bought the place and it was overgrown; Johnny didn’t want anything to do with it. Lizzie did the inside, and Charlene tackled the yard. Worked like hell on it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. His gaze shifted to the pond. “They wanted to start a business, you know—the two of them, flipping houses in the area. Said I could do the heavy lifting, Lizzie would handle the design, and Charlene would do the landscaping.”
“What about Johnny?” Solomon asked. “Where did he fit in the grand scheme?”
His face darkened. He didn’t answer.
“Did Johnny know you were making plans without him?” I asked. “Maybe he got wind that you were getting ready to steal his girl and jump ship.”
He took a step toward me. “Will you knock off saying that shit? It wasn’t like that.”
“So you weren’t sleeping with Lisette?” I said.
“You don’t need to say it like that. Johnny knew the score—he was done with Lizzie.”
“All the more reason he might have decided to take her out rather than let the two of you make a fool of him—” Solomon said.
If I’d been the one to say it, I think Wolf would have knocked me on my ass. He gave Solomon a hard stare, but made no move. “You’re both wrong. He wouldn’t have done anything to Lizzie.”
“Why not?” I pressed.
“Because he knows how I feel about them,” he finally said with conviction. “He doesn’t give two shits about Lisette or Maisie, but he knows what it would do to me if something happened to them. He didn’t do this.”
I couldn’t say I believed him because I didn’t, but I didn’t know Johnny that well...and brotherhood is a powerful bond. Maybe Wolf was right, and Johnny was willing to look the other way while his model girlfriend fell in love with his older brother and they slept together right under his nose. Maybe.
I wouldn’t bet on it, though.
“Okay,” I said, “so let’s just put a pin in that for now and focus on the other things we need to do to get this story off the ground.”
“I should talk to Rafferty,” Solomon said.
“We can do that later,” I said with a shake of my head. “I say we focus on trying to find Jacob Deng—the man Maisie said was her father. And I want to have a word with Bobby Davies.”
“What about Foster?” Solomon asked.
“You still have the interview with him tomorrow, so let’s just hang onto that for now.”
“And the PI you mentioned?” Wolf asked. “Elias?”
“Cops are on that,” I said. “I’ll give his office a call, but if he was the one to go after Buzz, I don’t think we’ll get too close to the guy.”
“Or even should,” Solomon added. “As a general rule, I try to avoid sources who slice and dice when an interview goes badly.”
“So where do we start?” Wolf interrupted. “I want to talk to this Davies dickhead—we know where to find him and we know he’s got a link to Lizzie. And I don’t like the look of the guy.”
“All right, then,” I agreed. “Davies it is. But just remember, you promised not to kill him.”
“Didn’t say I wouldn’t hurt him a little, though.”
Given everything that had happened in the past few days, I didn’t have a problem with that.
Chapter 18
Considering the nature of the photos we’d been given of Bobby Davies and Rick Foster, it seemed unlikely Davies would be interested in scheduling a one-on-one interview with Solomon or me—and definitely not by deadline. Lacking any better ideas, we decided on a sneak attack while Davies was with his family at church. Because reporters really are exactly that low.
Davies was just coming out of the Portland Congregational Church with his family when we found him. His wife was an attractive brunette, their kids two bright-eyed pre-teens who looked more like Mom than Dad. Davies, on the other hand, was a pale man with thinning hair and tired eyes, his clothes a size too large for his frame. Since he and Foster had gone to school together, I assumed he would have to be about the same age: early- to mid-forties. He looked at least a decade older than that, though.
“I had no idea the Stepfords had moved to Portland,” Solomon muttered to me under her breath. We stood on the fringes of the crowd, sunshine beating down on a sea of white faces.
“Look around,” I said. “They’re everywhere.”
“I’m not so sure about this idea. What if he blows me off?” she asked. With her hair pulled back and the dusting of freckles on her pert
nose, coupled with the demure skirt and jacket we’d chosen for this job, she was every WASP’s wet dream.
“He won’t,” I promised her. “Just stick to the plan and you’ll be fine.” I gave her a little push. “Go on, before he takes off.”
She shot a glare over her shoulder and moved into position. The councilman stopped on the sidewalk in front of the massive old brick church to talk to the pastor when we approached. Wolf had agreed to stay in the truck, though not willingly—and only when I’d agreed he would have his shot at Davies if we didn’t get the information we needed.
I moved close enough to hear without being noticed while Solomon moved in.
“Councilman Davies?” she said. She approached with her hand extended and a bright smile on her face. “I’m a big fan of yours—I’ll actually be interviewing Congressman Foster for the Tribune tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind, but I saw you in the crowd and couldn’t resist stopping.”
There was something in Davies’ face that caught me off guard when he heard her spiel—a flicker of something, a tightening of his jaw and a furrow in his brow, when she said Foster’s name. She turned to the pastor with her beatific grin.
“Great sermon, Reverend. Very moving.”
We’d just arrived minutes ago so frankly neither of us knew what the hell his sermon had been, but the pastor smiled with pleasure. “Thank you, dear. And you are...?”
“Erin Solomon,” she said, her focus once more on Davies. “I was hoping you might have a few minutes to answer some questions, actually. I mean, since you’re here and I’m here...”
“Why don’t you call my office and set something up,” Davies said. His wife shot him a killing glare, and I wondered if it was because of the perky redhead fawning over him or the fact that he was taking up their Sunday talking politics. Solomon touched Davies’ arm; the wife’s eyes narrowed.
Perky redhead it was, then.
That was my cue.
“It won’t take long,” I assured the councilman, swooping in from offside. “We just wanted to talk to you about some traveling you and Congressman Foster did in the late ’80s. We have some interesting photos of one of your last trips together.”
Davies paled. According to his file, he and Mrs. Davies had been married for fifteen years. I was banking on the assumption that his wife didn’t have a clue what had gone down in Darfur, though—and Davies would do what he could to make sure it stayed that way.
“Just a few questions,” I promised. “We can ask them right here if you like. Just let me get those pictures...”
His pallor took on a green tint.
Mrs. Davies stepped forward, clearly irritated now. “As my husband said, you can schedule something with his secretary—”
“No,” Davies said quickly. “That’s all right, honey. I’ll talk to them now. Why don’t you...” He stopped and looked at me uncertainly.
“We’ll give you a ride home,” I said. “Your family can go on without you—we won’t keep you long.” Mrs. Davies opened her mouth to protest, and the councilman suddenly looked a lot less certain. “Or they can wait for you,” I added smoothly. “Like I said, this won’t take long.”
He looked around uneasily. “You said you’re with the Tribune?” he asked us both. Solomon answered.
“That’s right.”
“Clair, will you just give Paul Rafferty a call,” Davies said, taking control now. “I’ll meet you in the car in fifteen minutes.”
Solomon shifted where she stood. There was nothing we could do without giving ourselves away, though, and we could get a lot of information in fifteen minutes. Clair Davies took her Stepford kids and headed for the car, while the councilman led us into the church. Once or twice, I saw him look back over his shoulder as though afraid someone might be watching. The tightened jaw and crease in his forehead had returned.
He led us down a set of marble steps to a classroom in the basement with cutouts of Christ and the apostles Velcroed to a piece of felt on the wall. We’d just reached the bottom stair when Wolf appeared behind us. He double-timed it to catch up with his focus entirely on the councilman. That, incidentally, had not been part of the plan. I wasn’t about to stop mid-stream, though.
Davies’ eyes widened when Wolf elbowed his way past me into the room. I shut the door behind him.
“What’s this about?” Davies demanded.
I laid copies of the photos Mary had given me on a kid-sized card table, one at a time. “We were wondering if any of these ring any bells for you.”
He barely glanced at them. “Where did you get them?”
“That’s not important,” I said. “What is important is what’s going on in these pictures. Is whatever happened that week the reason you’re afraid of Rick Foster now?”
Solomon looked at me at the unexpected question, but I remained focused on Davies.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Rick Foster and I have known each other for years. We’ve been friends since college.” Even as he said it, I could see an almost physical aversion to speaking the name.
“College friends who’ve barely spoken since 1988,” Solomon said, “when you withdrew from three different committees the two of you were serving on together. He’d been on family holidays, you’d vacationed together, spearheaded fact-finding missions... And then, suddenly, you can’t stand to be in the same room.”
“Clearly you’re mistaken. We’ve both worked with Applewood Farms over the years—”
“That’s not true,” Solomon said. “You’re technically still part of the project, but you’ve had almost nothing to do with them since Foster came on board.”
“Why would Clair and I be hosting the congressman’s campaign fundraiser if I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him?”
“Great question,” I said.
Davies just stood there for a second, frozen, his gaze now fixed on the photos of him and Foster with Sefu, Lisette, and the Dsengani sisters.
“I—” he began, then stopped. Wolf took a step toward him. I put my hand on his chest, holding him back.
“Hang on,” I said to Wolf. Davies’ reaction had me confused—the overt fear didn’t gel with a man who had been complicit in this whole thing. “Just help us understand, all right? I don’t think you’re a bad guy. You jumped through a hell of a lot of hoops to get Charlene, Mary, and Maisie over here. You were the one who helped Charlene get the farmlands project up and running, not Foster—he only jumped on the bandwagon when it had already proven successful. And you still put a lot of energy into helping African asylees and refugees here in Portland.”
“It’s a cause I’m passionate about—one I’ve always been passionate about,” he said. He wasn’t the kind of man who made much of an impression: thinning hair, weak chin, fit but on the small side. I imagined him in college, and could see how he would have been flattered, taken in, by Rick Foster’s attention.
“Do you know someone named Eugene Elias?” I asked. Davies blinked fast, confused by the abrupt change in subject. That subtle flash of fear returned.
“I don’t think so, no.”
“So he never worked for you or Rick Foster?”
The look of fear intensified. No doubt about it, he definitely knew Elias.
“I don’t know if he worked for Rick. I’ve never heard of him.”
We let him relax for a couple of seconds, think that maybe the worst was over. Then:
“What happened in Darfur in 1987, Councilman?” Solomon asked.
Before he could answer, her cell phone rang. She ignored it, but the spell had been broken. Davies shook his head, and Wolf pushed past me. Davies looked like he was on the verge of tears.
“Do you know where Lisette Mandalay and Charlene’s daughter are?” Wolf asked.
“No,” Davies said immediately. He took a step back. Solomon’s phone rang again. I looked at her in annoyance, and she left the room to answer. “Please—I don’t know what’s happened to them. I don’t know who killed Charl
ene.”
“But you suspect,” I said.
“I told you, I have no idea,” he said. Sweat beaded his forehead. “Whoever did this horrible thing...they’ll have to answer for this—for the pain they’ve inflicted. They will answer for their crimes.”
“Their crimes,” Wolf said, jumping on the word. “More than one? More than Charlene?”
Panic flashed in Davies’ eyes. He shook his head violently. “I don’t know. It just slipped out.” Wolf grabbed him by the collar and pushed him back against the wall. “I’m telling you the truth!” Davies cried. “I don’t know anything.”
“Not true,” I said. “You know what happened that night in Darfur.”
I heard the door open behind me. “Diggs,” Solomon said.
“Give me a second,” I said, still fixed on Davies.
“I don’t think so,” a familiar male voice said. I turned unhappily to find Detective Thibodeau and three of Portland’s finest standing in the doorway.
“You’re late—you missed the wine and wafers, Detective,” I said as Thibodeau strode into the room. Wolf reluctantly let go of Davies.
Thibodeau didn’t look amused. “You can go, Councilman,” he said to Davies. “I’ll see that you aren’t bothered again.”
Davies glanced at the photos still on the table.
“You can take those,” I said. “I’ve got copies.”
He hesitated before he scooped them up, folded them roughly, and walked away.
“The wife called you?” I asked Thibodeau when Davies was gone.
“Better. Paul Rafferty actually gave me a ring, said there were a couple of rogue reporters using his paper’s good name. I had a pretty good idea who he was talking about.” He nodded to Wolf with forced cordiality. “Mr. Cole. You want to accompany these idiots to the station with me, or can I save you the call to that expensive lawyer your brother keeps on retainer?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Wolf said.
“Fine,” Thibodeau said without argument. “But I’m taking these two with me. You got a problem with that?”
Wolf shook his head, blue eyes dark and singularly unhappy. “Go ahead.” He looked at me. “You want me to call a lawyer?”
