Detective Jack Stratton Box Set

by Christopher Greyson

  “Or not.”

  Jack glared at the sky. Damn it. I’m too close to this. I can’t think straight.

  “We’ll go and talk to him tonight,” Replacement said. “When he’s alone.” She might have been making all the sense in the world, but to Jack it was just more buzz, like angry bees swarming inside his head, all the things he was angry about, all the questions he had, flying around looking for answers . . .

  Replacement didn’t move.

  “You gonna let me get in my car?”

  “Jack, what are you doing? You went straight at Terry. We can’t do that with this next guy. You know what to do, what questions to ask. You’re a policeman.”

  “Not out here I’m not. Not right now.”

  Replacement squared her shoulders. “Yes, right now.” She pointed at his heart. “You’re always a cop.” Then she tapped her temple. “But you need to be one here too. After all, when we do find the guy, and we will, we need to get evidence that we can take to the police, not kill the guy.”

  She smiled. Jack didn’t.

  “We are going to take the evidence to the police, right?”

  Jack didn’t answer her. He gently pushed her aside and opened his door. “Let’s go talk to Terry Martin.”

  16

  The Fiduciary

  Jack scanned the large brass mailbox in the entrance of the five-story office building. About thirty names were etched into the plates. “Two oh six. Second floor,” he snapped as he held open the door.

  Replacement looked up at him and flashed a big smile. “How about letting me do the talking on this one?”

  “I said keep me in check, not on a leash. I’ll do the talking. Just make sure I don’t flip out.”

  “How am I going to do that? Can I have a gun?”

  He winced. “That’s your plan? Shoot me if you have to?”

  “I wasn’t thinking that, but since you suggested it . . .” Her hands went out, and she grinned impishly. “I just don’t want you shooting anyone.”

  “I’m not going to shoot anyone. I wouldn’t use a gun to kill him, anyway.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  The polished marble floor shone in the sunlight and the fixtures were gleaming metal with glass accents. This place was clearly upscale.

  “The tenants must pay a lot for rent here,” Replacement noted.

  As they headed for the staircase, Jack went cold thinking about what he would do when he did find the guy who killed his father. He forced the thought away. That wasn’t something to dwell on—yet.

  On the second floor, they stopped before a large oak door with a bronze sign that read: Terry Martin—Fiduciary Advisor.

  Jack jabbed at the sign. “This one looked like a real weasel.”

  “That might not be the best way to start.”

  Jack opened the door into what appeared to be the reception area, with four leather chairs, a glass coffee table with a neat stack of magazines, and beside the chairs another little table with yet more magazines, artfully arranged. But there was no one reading magazines in the leather chairs, and the elegant oak reception desk was empty. Jack and Replacement exchanged a shrug.

  “What if I needed some fiduciary advising?” Replacement whispered. Jack put his finger to his lips and moved over to the desk. The computer was on, and there was a cup of coffee next to the keyboard.

  Replacement cleared her throat, raised her eyebrows twice, and tilted her head toward the closed door. Jack listened carefully, and then flashed his eyebrows back at her when he, too, picked up the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking.

  Replacement made a disgusted face. “Maybe we should go,” she whispered.

  Jack rapped hard on the door.

  “Or not.” Replacement stepped back.

  A minute later, the door opened and a young, disheveled blonde stood wide-eyed before them, smiling awkwardly.

  “Who is it?” a man’s voice called out from behind her.

  Jack walked right past her and through the door. A tall, middle-aged man adjusted his clothes as he moved behind his desk. Terry Martin had a large, pockmarked nose and dyed hair in an unconvincing comb-over.

  “Do you have an appointment?” he snapped, still adjusting his clothes as he sat down.

  “My name is Jack Stratton.” Jack strode over and took a seat without offering his hand to the man across the desk. “I have a few questions for you.”

  “Are you looking for financial advice?”

  “Did you know Patricia Cole?” Jack asked.

  “Subtle,” Replacement whispered as she slid into the seat next to him.

  “What?” Terry swiveled in his high-back chair. “Stephanie, you can go,” he said. After the blonde left, he turned to Jack. “Cole? Yes, I knew a Patty Cole, back in high school.”

  “How did you know Patty?”

  “What’s this all about? Who are you?”

  “Did you know Patty? Did you date her?”

  “Date her? You didn’t ‘date’ Patty. We, uh . . . I was— Did my wife send you?” Terry leaned forward. “The hag can’t get anything on me, so she goes back to some slut I screwed in high school?”

  Jack’s knuckles went white on the chair. The muscles in his jaw flexed, and Replacement shifted in her seat. Terry jumped up, and so did Replacement.

  She held up her hands. “We don’t know your wife. We’re doing some historical research and we’re hoping you could please—”

  Terry stormed around the desk, grabbed her by the arm, and yanked her toward the door. “Get the hell out—”

  Jack flew out of his chair. “Let go of her!”

  Terry let go, stumbled backward, and banged into the wall on the way down. A picture crashed to the floor, its glass cracking.

  “You piece of garbage.” Jack stepped toward him menacingly.

  Replacement held Jack’s arm.

  The office door flew open, and the secretary hurried in. “Terry!” She rushed to his side. “Leave him alone!” she screamed at Jack.

  She rushed toward Jack, but Replacement stepped between them, her feet wide and her shoulders square.

  “Your boyfriend fell,” Replacement said.

  “What about Steven? Steven Ritter?” Jack towered over Terry.

  “Steve?” Terry didn’t even try to get up. “The kid who was murdered at the pond?”

  “Did you know him?”

  “He was in some of my classes. I knew him since we were kids. Why? What does this have to do with my wife?”

  “I told you, I don’t know your wife. Get up.”

  “I don’t know anything about Steven getting killed. Did someone say I did? That’s crazy.”

  “I’m calling the police,” Stephanie said.

  Replacement shook her head. “There’s no need for that. We were just leaving.”

  “You knew Steven,” Jack said. He was still glaring at Terry. “I said get up.”

  Terry rose, but kept his hands out in front like he was facing a wild dog. “I had nothing to do with it. I couldn’t stab someone. I’ve never even been in a fight. I can’t fight my way out of a paper bag. Honest. I don’t know why anyone would say . . . Wait. Was it Patty? Is she still mad at me? If Patty said I had anything to do with it, she’s just out for revenge.”

  “Revenge for what?” Jack asked.

  “She—she wanted to join the band. I told her I could get her in. It was just a con. I really just wanted to get in her pants. Anyhow, that was a long time ago.”

  “You used her.” Jack took a step forward. The broken glass on the floor crunched beneath his heel.

  “It was high school! Guys did that crap.”

  “Looks like you haven’t learned your lesson.” Replacement tilted her head toward Stephanie, who looked befuddled and disgusted at the same time.

  Jack had the feeling Terry was going to have to look for somebody else to do his extracurricular filing.

  Terry scurried behind his desk. “I’m calling the police.” He reached fo
r the phone.

  Replacement jerked her thumb at the secretary, whose glare was withering. “Right now, Terry, I’d be more worried that she’s going to call your wife.”

  Terry straightened up and combed back his hair. “Get out. Now.”

  Jack spoke in a low voice. “Here’s the deal. I don’t care who the hell you call. I want to know where you were the night Steven was killed.” He put his hand on the desk.

  Terry’s eyes widened. “Wait a second . . . Are you . . . You’re Steven’s son?”

  Jack walked around the desk, his fists clenched.

  “Wait! I can prove I had nothing to do with it. I was in Spain!” Terry shouted. “The whole AP Spanish class went. The teacher only told us someone from school died, and I had to call my mom to find out who got killed. There’s got to be a record of the trip and who was on it.”

  Jack glared at Terry, who took another step back.

  “I liked Steven. I did. Check. Check with the school.”

  “I will.”

  Jack spun on his heel and headed for the door, pulling Replacement with him. As they retreated down the hall, Stephanie was yelling, “Helping me get by the CPA exam—was that just a lie to get in my pants, too?”

  Getting to the car and leaving was a blur. Jack’s anger was boiling over. He had no clue where he was going; he was just driving.

  “Jack, pull over,” Replacement urged. Jack kept driving. “Pull over.” Replacement put her hand on the door handle, like she was about to open it. “Now.”

  Jack knew she was serious. He hit the brake and pulled over. They both threw their doors open and jumped out of the car.

  “What in the blue blazes were you thinking, Jack?”

  “What was I thinking?” Jack spun around. “I wasn’t thinking at all.” He could see the shock on her face. He could only imagine how he looked. “I wanted to beat him to death. I didn’t just want to hurt him; I wanted him dead. Okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’m not thinking straight.” Jack’s eyes were black, and his hands shook.

  “Jack, I don’t think he had anything to do with it.”

  “I don’t either, but right now I don’t care.” He kicked a rock off the road and into the woods. “I just . . . It’s not just Steven. It’s Patty, too. I don’t know why, but I keep thinking of Patty as a kid. She just wanted to get into the band, and he used her!”

  Replacement crossed her arms over her chest. “Maybe we should go back home. Just for a while. You’re losing all perspective.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Jack growled. “Someone killed my father. I have to find out who.” He glared up at the gray sky and wanted to scream.

  “Jack, you’re going to do something you’re seriously going to regret if you don’t keep your anger in check.”

  “We still have to go talk to the other Terry,” Jack said.

  “What?” Replacement threw her hands up. “You just . . . Do you think talking to the other guy is at all wise after what you just did? So far, your plan is to yell and accuse. You’re not even asking questions. That last guy has an alibi—a good one—and we can check it out. But you’re just screaming. That’s just stupid.”

  “One of them did it. I just need to figure out which one.”

  “No. Not with me you’re not. I’m having nothing more to do with your professional suicide.”

  Jack looked down at his hands. His head pounded. “Fine. I’ll let you do the talking this time.”

  Replacement didn’t move.

  He hung his head and tried to slow his breathing. “Please?”

  Replacement put her hands on her hips and shook her head. She searched his eyes, and then exhaled. “I’ll do it, but you have to agree to three things. First, I do all the talking.” She held up a hand. “All the talking.”

  “Fine.”

  “Second, I drive.” She held out a hand, and he tossed her the keys.

  “Third, you sleep in the stupid bed tonight.”

  Jack hesitated, but then said, “Agreed.”

  Replacement’s face softened. “Jack, I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be.” Jack walked to the passenger side. “After all, I’ve got you watching my back. What could go wrong?”

  17

  Nothing to Worry About

  Jack glanced at the side mirror and saw a police car behind them. “Cop,” he muttered.

  “I see him.” Replacement held her hands at a perfect ten-and-two position on the steering wheel. She stopped at the stop sign and put her blinker on. “We have nothing to worry about as long as we obey the speed limits . . .”

  Blue lights flashed and a siren kicked on.

  “You were saying?”

  “What the heck?” Replacement pulled over. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I bet Terry Martin called the cops.” Jack sat up straighter. “I knew I should have put him through the wall.”

  “That would have been a big help.” Replacement made a face as she got her license out.

  A policeman with a crisp white shirt and salt-and-pepper hair marched over to Replacement’s window. “License and registration.”

  “What seems to be the problem, Officer?” she asked innocently as she handed him the papers. The policeman headed back to the cruiser without saying a word.

  “That was rude,” Replacement muttered.

  “He’s a lieutenant.” Jack watched him in the mirror. “The town’s so small they must have everyone pulling patrol.”

  “But I didn’t do anything. Do you really think Terry called?”

  Jack shook his head. “No. He didn’t ask for my license or even look at me.”

  They waited in silence for a while. At last the policeman came back and handed Replacement a ticket.

  “What?” Her voice went high as she read the ticket. “Failure to yield at an intersection?”

  “She came to a full stop,” Jack protested.

  “You can contest it.” The policeman’s voice was flat.

  Jack leaned over and read the man’s name tag. One look at the man’s set jaw and unsympathetic expression, and Jack knew that arguing was probably pointless, but he still had to try.

  “Lieutenant McCann, sir, I can assure you that she did come to a complete—”

  “You can explain it at traffic court.” McCann straightened up and folded his hands in front of himself. “Your girlfriend needs to obey the law. Have a nice day.” He started back to his car.

  Jack bristled. “Jerk.”

  The flashing blue lights shut off behind them, and Jack tried, unsuccessfully, not to glare as McCann pulled out and drove away.

  “Maybe we should just go back to the hotel,” Replacement suggested.

  “No. I agreed to your terms. Let’s go talk to Terry Martinez.”

  18

  The Art Teacher

  Terry Martinez’s house was a modest Cape Cod, painted deep red with black shutters. It fit right in with the other four well-kept homes on the cul-de-sac. A group of children rode bikes down the sidewalk, and a cinnamon-brown sedan was parked in the driveway.

  “Okay,” Replacement said, “whaddya got on Terry Martinez?”

  “High school art teacher. Widower. Wife died five years ago. No arrests. Finances in order.”

  When they reached the front door, Replacement said, “I do all the talking, right?”

  Jack moved his fingers in a horizontal zipping motion across his mouth.

  When the front door opened, Replacement smiled and held out her hand. “Terry Martinez? Hi. I’m Alice Campbell, and this is Jack Stratton. We’re doing some research on Hope Falls.”

  Jack had to admire her friendly, open approach, but the look Terry gave Jack caught his attention. While Jack held out his hand, Terry’s eyes moved to look at Jack’s mouth, nose, chin, and finally his eyes. Terry finally gave Jack’s hand a firm shake. His thick, wavy black hair was going gray at the sides. He was short and his blue T-shirt revealed a bit of a paunch.

  �
��How can I help you?”

  “I was wondering if we could speak with you about some people you went to high school with,” Replacement said.

  “High school.” He smiled and adjusted his glasses. “That was a long time ago. What do you want to know?”

  Replacement gave Jack a little warning nudge and replied smoothly, “Could we come in for a minute? We just have a few questions.”

  Terry looked puzzled but not suspicious as he said, “Sure, come on in.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  They followed Terry into the house, which was very neat and tidy, conservatively and impersonally decorated—somehow not what Jack had expected for an art teacher. Terry led them into the traditional living room and motioned them to a small couch.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  They both said no and Terry sat in a worn but comfortable-looking blue chair and waited for them to reveal the purpose of their visit.

  Replacement leaned forward, friendly and confiding. “You’re a teacher, right?”

  Terry looked pleased that his reputation had preceded him. “That’s right, an art teacher. More than twenty years now.”

  “Well, we figured you must remember names pretty well”—Terry nodded, amused—“and we were wondering if you knew Patricia Cole.”

  Terry leaned back and his smile faded. “Patty. Yes, I knew her. She grew up over on Winston. No brothers or sisters.”

  Jack had to hand it to Replacement—not one punch thrown yet and no sign of suspicion or anger from their subject. That’s a talent.

  “Can you tell us a little more about her?”

  Terry took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. “What’s this all about?”

  “We’re doing some family research, and we’d really appreciate it if you could fill in some information we need.”

  Terry’s eyes went wide; he stared at Jack again. “Family research,” he mused, and pursed his lips. “So, Patty is your mother?”

  “How did you know?” Jack asked, surprised.