Detective Jack Stratton Box Set

by Christopher Greyson

  Jack nodded again.

  “Let’s start with this handbag.” Vargas held it up.

  The overhead light glared on the evidence bag and made the gold swirls sparkle. The image of Stacy’s golden hair glittering under the water flashed into Jack’s mind. He felt sick to his stomach.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  Numbly, he nodded then looked away.

  “I need your verbal confirmation. Look at it again, please.” Vargas gave the bag a little shake.

  Jack forced his eyes up. “That’s the bag I found.”

  “Can you please tell me how you came to find it?”

  Jack explained how he saw Robyn with the bag and recognized it from the description in the flyers, and then how he got it from her.

  “Wait a minute. You paid this homeless woman for evidence?”

  “No… She had the bag and I didn’t think that she’d just give it to me, so I traded her for it.”

  Vargas frowned. “Why didn’t you contact the police when you saw her with the bag?”

  Jack sat back. Chandler had wanted to go to the police, but Jack hadn’t listened to him. “I guess because I didn’t know for certain that it was Stacy’s.”

  “But you recognized it because of the flyer? Where did you get this flyer?”

  “Detective Clark. He was handing them out at the basketball court in Hamilton Park.”

  Vargas sat down and folded his hands on the table. “I heard you know Detective Clark.”

  “He’s a friend of my dad’s.”

  “So Clark gave you one of these flyers a couple of days ago?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you remembered the description of that handbag. That’s some seriously good police work.”

  Jack wanted to accept the comment as a compliment, but there was something about the detective’s undertone that made Jack question whether he was sincere.

  “I also heard you want to be a cop,” Vargas continued.

  “Yes, sir. I’m going into the Army first.”

  “I did that too. The Army was good to me. I did six years, then I moved right into law enforcement. San Antonio.”

  “I’m doing two years, then college.”

  “Why not go right to college?”

  “Money.”

  “That’s why I didn’t go.” Vargas leaned back in his chair. “Your parents aren’t helping you out?”

  The question bothered Jack. “My dad has to retire early. Health issues. This is his last year teaching. I don’t want him to worry about my school.”

  “Very considerate.” Vargas’s praise didn’t match the look in his dark eyes. “You told the responding officer that you didn’t touch any of the items in the handbag, is that correct?”

  “Yeah. I just looked inside.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if it was Stacy’s. I saw the medic alert tag. That’s when I figured it was hers.”

  Vargas crossed his arms. “And you didn’t call the police then?”

  “I planned to, but Robyn told me where she found it and I wanted to check that out.”

  “But you said earlier that you didn’t call the police when you first saw the bag because you weren’t sure it was Stacy’s. You looked inside. Now you’re sure. I think you would have called them at that point.” Vargas planted his feet on the floor and rocked back in the chair. “You knew it was hers then, right? You said so. Tan with gold swirls and a diabetic medic alert tag inside.” Vargas looked at the cop at the door, and they both nodded as if they had come to a mutual understanding. “So after you… traded for this handbag, you went to…” Vargas flipped open a notebook and scanned the page. “You went thirteen benches down from the fountain. Thirteen benches? That’s pretty specific directions this homeless woman gave you.”

  “Robyn’s superstitious. She doesn’t sit on the thirteenth bench.”

  “And then what? You went straight to Stacy’s body?” Vargas’s tone had changed. There was an edge to it.

  “No. I got to the bench—”

  “Just you?”

  “No. Chandler was with me, but he just came because I asked.”

  “So, you’re at the bench, what then? Did Robyn tell you that she found it on the east side?”

  “No, but she did say that she found it when she was going to the bathroom in the woods. The east side, if that’s the side toward the pond, has trees. The other side is open grass.”

  “What made you go to the pond?”

  “Well, we saw some branches were snapped and we followed them.”

  “That led you to the body?”

  “No, we turned around to leave and then we saw…” Jack swallowed. “Saw some blond hair on this holly bush.”

  “How far away were you from the hair when you saw it?”

  “Chandler saw it first. He was close, a few feet maybe. It stood out. It’s blond and the holly leaves are dark green.”

  “That’s still pretty far away from the pond.”

  “The reeds were broken—the path was obvious.”

  Vargas steepled his fingers. “The reeds were broken? Reeds?” He exchanged a quizzical look with the policeman near the door. “I thought reeds bend. But either way, are you a hunter?”

  “A hunter?” Jack asked, confused. “No. Why?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how you became a tracker.”

  “You don’t have to be a tracker to see that path. It was clear that someone went that way. Perhaps dragged a body. They were those dry reeds that break when you touch them. Chandler thought a fisherman made the path but—”

  “But you didn’t call the police?”

  “To tell them that I found a path?”

  “To alert us that you found the handbag and all that you suspected. You want to be a cop, right? What would a uniformed officer be required to do?”

  “Call it in,” Jack conceded. “But—”

  “So you trampled down the path and contaminated a crime scene?” Vargas grumbled.

  Jack held up both hands palms out. “I didn’t know it was a crime scene. I still hoped she was alive. I was just trying to help.”

  “Help?” Vargas stuck his tongue in his cheek. “Oh, that’s right, you want to be a cop. But I’m trying to figure out who you’re really helping. You see, we have a suspect in Stacy Shaw’s disappearance. His name’s Jay Martin. We put him in the Bay until he decides that he wants to cooperate. Make him sweat and tell us what happened to Stacy. That, and I wanted to see who he’d talk to.”

  Jack straightened up.

  “And someone did come to speak to Jay.” Vargas dragged his finger across his notebook page. “I see that Jack Stratton is listed on the visitor log of Long Bay Prison. And you visited Jay Martin.”

  “Yeah, but, but,” Jack stammered, “I drove his mother there.”

  “So you’re a friend of Jay Martin’s?”

  Jack tried to hold his tongue, but restraint lost out to youthful indignation. “Friend? No. Actually, I can’t stand the guy.”

  “You want me to believe that? Sure. You’re just a Good Samaritan. Is that why you were in the park?”

  “I was cutting through. I saw the handbag—”

  “And then you just happened to go straight to where the body was. Next thing I know, you’re going to tell me that Jay isn’t the real killer.”

  “He’s not. Jay’s telling the truth.”

  Vargas let his head roll to the side. He looked at the uniformed officer and laughed. “Didn’t I just tell him he’d say that?”

  The cop nodded.

  Jack’s stomach churned. “No. It’s not like that. Jay’s brother borrowed his jacket and shoes. For a date. I can prove it. I have pictures.” Jack patted himself down, trying to remember where he’d put them.

  “So do I.” Vargas flipped open a folder to show a picture of a black male at the ATM. It only caught a sliver of the man’s face, but Jay’s distinct jacket was clearly visible.

  Vargas’s finger bent wh
en he jammed it down on the picture. “There’s an old saying, Jack. Who am I gonna believe, you or my own lying eyes?”

  “That’s Two Point,” Jack stammered. “Tommy Martin. Jay’s brother.”

  “Ha!” The word popped from Vargas’s lips. “You want to know what I think?” He put his elbows on the table and his brown eyes bored holes in Jack. “I think you’re screwing with my investigation so you can help out your friend Jay Martin.”

  “No…”

  “Clark thinks that you’re just some wide-eyed kid who wants to be a detective someday, but I’m not buying it.” Vargas crossed his arms. “I think you’re a punk, helping out someone in his crew. You went to the prison and met with Jay. He told you where he dumped Stacy Shaw’s body. That’s how you went right to it. You didn’t ‘find’ it. You knew exactly where it was.”

  Jack rubbed his temples. He felt as though his head was about to explode. “I was trying to help and—”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  Jack’s mind raced as he struggled to figure out a way to prove his innocence. “How could I have known in advance the homeless lady had the handbag? And if I did, why wouldn’t I just leave an anonymous tip? That would lead you to the handbag and then to the body. If I was trying to help Jay Martin, then why say it was his brother and not ‘someone framed him’ or something? There’s a million different scenarios. If—”

  Vargas held up a hand. “Well, the facts say otherwise, but out of respect for Detective Clark, let’s just say I give you the benefit of the doubt and say you really were just trying to help out.”

  “I was.”

  “Then make no mistake about it, Nancy Drew: from here on out, stay the hell away from my investigation.” Vargas took his gold badge off his belt and held it in Jack’s face. “Do you see this? It’s a detective badge. See what it says? Detective Vargas.” He put the badge on the table and tapped it. “Do you have one? No. Because you’re not a detective. You’re not an officer. You’re nobody. Get that through your head. If I catch you within ten yards of that park or anyone with anything to do with my investigation, I’ll charge you with obstruction so fast your head will spin.” He looked at the cop and gestured to Jack. “Get him the hell out of my sight.”

  The policeman motioned to Jack. Jack stood and looked down at Vargas. He didn’t glare. He didn’t smirk. Just stared.

  “You want to say something?” Vargas picked his badge up and buffed it on his sleeve. “Don’t dig your hole any deeper.”

  Jack clamped his mouth shut and stalked out of the room.

  15

  Unlovable

  Jack and Chandler were sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for Aunt Haddie, when she finally walked in, after eleven. She looked exhausted. Everyone knew her for her smile and the twinkle in her eyes. Tonight, she almost didn’t look like the same woman; both boys saw the deep lines of concern on her face, the gray in her hair, and the slump in her shoulders. For the first time in his life, Jack realized she was getting old.

  Jack decided it was best not to tell her what Vargas had said to him at the police station. He stood and got her a ginger ale.

  “How’s Mrs. Martin?” Chandler asked.

  Aunt Haddie rubbed her eyes and smiled thinly at Jack as he handed her the glass. “Not good. They’re going to charge Jay with murder.”

  Jack leaned against the table. He had known it was coming, but it still rocked him. Vargas’s words haunted him now. Who are you gonna believe…

  “Is there anything we can do?” Chandler asked.

  Aunt Haddie sighed. “Pray. That’s a start.” She patted Jack’s shoulder. “It’s late. Why don’t you stay over, Jackie? Your old bedroom’s open.”

  Jack nodded.

  Aunt Haddie kissed Chandler’s cheek and the top of Jack’s head. “Thank you both for trying.” She shuffled down the hallway.

  “Do you think Two Point did it?” Chandler asked Jack, once she was gone.

  “I don’t think so,” Jack said. “Stacy Shaw was strangled. Remember when Two Point broke his wrist trying to go down the library stairs on his bike? His left hand is still all screwed up. I don’t think he’d be physically able to strangle anyone, even a small woman, with one hand.”

  “I forgot about the hand.”

  “Besides, he’s a pansy. You know how Bobbie G calls him Tommy Two Feet because he runs away if someone says boo. Stealing and running? Yeah, that I’d buy, but not murder.”

  “Yeah,” said Chandler. “I agree. He’s gone down a bad path, but this … yeah. It’s not Tommy.”

  The two friends talked for a bit more, then Chandler excused himself to go upstairs to bed.

  Jack was tired, but he knew he couldn’t fall asleep, and he wasn’t in a rush to go lie down and stare at the ceiling. So he just sat there at the kitchen table, listening to the sounds of the old house. It was familiar. It was comforting.

  He turned toward the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Aunt Haddie worked her way down the hall.

  “Do you have a second, Jackie?”

  Jack sat up straighter when she pulled back a chair and sat down.

  “Mrs. Martin wanted me to thank you.”

  “Thank me? A lot of good I did. I got Jay looking at a murder charge.”

  “But you tried.” She reached out and patted his hand.

  “Well, at least I’m done messing up.”

  “No. Now Jay needs your help even more.”

  “My help?” Jack looked into the old woman’s eyes. She had no idea how close he and Chandler had come to getting arrested. “The only person who can help Jay is Tommy.”

  “No, Charlotte finally heard from Tommy today. I hate to say this, but he’s not going to do anything. Tommy said Jay is on his own.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Tommy told us too. I can’t tell you what I think of him…” She shot him a look that might not have been totally disapproving of whatever insult he was about to level at Tommy. “But in that case,” he continued, “Jay needs to talk to his lawyer. Or the police. And I told Jay that.”

  “He did speak with his lawyer. They don’t believe him. Jackie… no one else is going to step up.”

  “There’s nothing I can do. I already stuck my neck out—not for Jay but for his mom’s sake—and what did it get me? I thought they were going to arrest me for a minute. I don’t like Jay anyway. He’s done enough bad stuff in his life that he never paid the price for. What goes around comes around. I can’t help him.”

  Aunt Haddie pointed at the kitchen door. “Ever since the first time you walked in here, you told me that one day you’re going to be an officer of the peace.”

  He nodded but kept silent, to let her make her point.

  “Well, what kind of policeman do you want to be? Are you only going to help white folk?”

  Jack’s mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide. “What?”

  “No need to raise your voice.”

  “Seriously?” Jack pointed at himself. “No way you’re saying I’m a racist!”

  “Of course not.” Aunt Haddie held up a hand. “Now lower your voice, or better yet, listen. You wouldn’t think twice about the color of someone’s skin. I know that about you as certainly as I know the sky is blue. But how can you draw a line on who you’ll help? And where do you draw that line? Are you only going to help little old ladies whose purses get stolen?”

  “That’s different. She needed my help.”

  “Jay needs your help. You and I both know he didn’t do it. But no one else believes him.”

  “The little old lady was nice,” Jack muttered.

  “Oh, so you’re only going to help nice folk. What about rich folk? How about plump middle-aged ladies like me? Or are you only going to help young skinny girls?”

  “Wait, Aunt Haddie, please. Do you know why they call him J-Dog? It’s short for Junkyard Dog. He’s—” Jack exhaled. “Do you know why I hate him? I had a pin. It was a cheap silver pin, half of it looked like it got run over b
y a car, but at the top it said Hope. My birth mother gave it to me. She said my father gave it to her. It was the only thing I had from either of them. I took it off when we went swimming, and guess what? A little later, I caught J-Dog in the act of stealing it. And instead of giving it back to me, he threw it in the pond.”

  Aunt Haddie looked both confused and angry. “Why?”

  Jack shrugged. “Because he’s mean. I doubt he even knows why he did it. Aunt Haddie, some people are born mean.”

  Aunt Haddie’s voice softened. “And some people change.”

  Jack huffed.

  “Black, white, rich, poor, or mean as a dog—a carpenter’s son I know came to help everyone, even those who don’t change. And that’s what we’re supposed to do. Love the unlovable.”

  Jack looked away.

  “You don’t know why a person acts the way they do. There’s still some good in that boy. I know it. And even if I didn’t, it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter at all. If you’re a police officer, you help everyone.”

  Aunt Haddie waited until Jack looked her in the eye.

  “You need to ask yourself a question before you put on that badge, Jackie. Who are you going to protect and serve? If the answer isn’t everyone, you’d better think twice about becoming a policeman.”

  Jack winced.

  “Right now, Jay needs your help.” Aunt Haddie reached out and took his hand.

  “But Aunt Haddie, what can I do? I’m not a cop.” He shrugged. “Right now, I’m just… Jack.”

  “Do me one favor? Pray on it. You’ll do that for me?”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “That’s not fair. I can’t say no to that.”

  Aunt Haddie squeezed his hand and winked. “Get some sleep.” She eased herself out of the chair and patted his shoulder. “I’ll go make up your bed.”

  Silence fell in the kitchen. Jack sat with his head in his hands, trying to drive the image of Stacy Shaw out of his mind. She died looking her killer in the eye.

  Jack finally stood up. He locked the back door and made sure the rest of the house was secure, then headed upstairs. At the end of the hallway, he opened the last door on the left. It was like running into an old friend. He’d spent four years calling this room his own. Aunt Haddie had made the bed, and the little room was neat and tidy. His room.