“No hospital,” I decided. That would turn into an hour or so of sitting in a chair in the emergency room, anyhow. I was walking and talking and not bleeding profusely, and in a Cleveland ER, that knocks you to the bottom of the list. Instead, I swallowed a few more ibuprofen to keep the swelling down and went to bed.
He’d told me I’d be left alone as long as I stayed away from it. What the asshole didn’t understand was that I was going to stay away from it. Right up until he put that bag on my head.
PART TWO
OLD SINS
12
I found the photograph in the morning. It was a simple print on low-quality paper, slipped into the back pocket of my jeans. I hadn’t noticed it the previous night, but I’d been damn groggy then. Besides, the picture didn’t have much weight to it. Not until you looked at it.
Alex Jefferson’s head and upper torso filled the frame. His shirt was off, and there were two diagonal slashes across his chest, intersecting at the bottom of the picture in a way that made me think it was the top half of an X. The blood appeared more black than red in the photograph, and the wound had to be fresh, because the blood was just beginning to spill and coat his skin and the wiry gray hairs that covered his chest.
There was duct tape over his mouth, covering the lower half of his face, and above it his eyes bulged with pain and horror. His gray hair hung disheveled over his forehead, a sheen of sweat on his skin. Temperatures had taken a drop the week Jefferson died, cold nights and cool mornings, like the one when Targent and Daly showed up at my gym. I remembered that, and then I thought about the sort of pain that could make your body break out into a full sweat on a cold night.
For a long time I looked at his eyes. I’d swung on them that night in the country club parking lot. Connected with his nose, maybe, but when I felt my fist shatter bone and saw Jefferson’s legs crumple soft beneath him, it was his eyes I wanted to change. The smugness, the arrogance, that sense he had that the world was in his palm, everything perfectly in control. I wanted to remove it, and I failed. The splash of blood on the pavement didn’t disrupt his life anywhere near as much as mine. The next time I saw him, the world was still his, and his eyes showed it.
Not anymore. I looked at the photograph, and I saw that all the things I’d loathed were gone from his face. The world had risen up out of his palm, risen harsh and angry and violent, leaving a powerful man utterly powerless in the end. The world has that tendency.
Several minutes passed while I stood alone in the bedroom with the photograph in my hand. The police should have it—evidence, directly connected to the crime scene.
Evidence. The word had been running through my brain for all of my professional life. It was the focus of my work, what I pursued, what I needed. And now, what I feared. Any other day, with a photograph of a murder scene in my hand, I’d be reaching for the telephone to call the police. Today, I hesitated. Evidence.
I saw Targent leaning into the cab of my truck again, his face reflecting the dashboard lights, explaining the options he and Brewer had discussed. They were options that would send me to jail. Ludicrous options, sure. But now I held a photograph of a murdered man in my hand. It would be evidence, yes, but evidence against whom? I already knew that there would be no fingerprints on it, that the paper would be a generic brand sold across the country, that the image itself would offer nothing to point back to the killer’s identity. All that would have been cleared long before it was carefully folded and placed in my pocket. Jefferson’s killer was a pro.
There was my face, the bruises and damage left by my attacker. Would that be proof enough, though? Would Targent and Brewer, pinning me between two investigations hundreds of miles apart, believe my story?
I wasn’t going to give them the photograph. Even while I realized this, I marveled at it, the audacity and stupidity of such a decision. It was ridiculous. A crime, suppression of evidence. I chastised myself when I held the flame of a cigarette lighter to the photograph’s edge, continued even while I sprayed water at the charred remains to drive them down the sink drain in a swirling smear of wet ash, kept the lecture up until I was in my truck and headed for Karen’s. I expected the berating would scare me eventually, convince me I had made a mistake. Instead, what let the fear loose was the unshakable sense that I had not.
______
“Lincoln—your face!”
It wasn’t the nicest greeting I’d ever heard, but I suppose it had to be expected. I tried to smile at Karen as she stood there in the doorway, but didn’t put too much into it. Wouldn’t want that split lip to open up again and start dripping blood all over her furniture.
“Morning,” I said. “You mind if I come in?”
She stepped away from the door, her expression still horrified, and let me inside. This time, she didn’t take me into the living room but just stood in the entryway.
“What happened?”
There was a mirror just over her shoulder, a huge thing with a polished brass frame that probably weighed about eighty pounds. I caught a glimpse of myself in it, and it took effort not to grimace.
“One of your husband’s old friends decided to look me up,” I said. “He wished to talk. The talk, I was told, was the alternative to killing me.”
She lifted a hand to her mouth and then lowered it, slowly. “Who . . .”
“Didn’t give me a name, unfortunately.”
“Well, what did he say? What did he say about Alex?”
“That he killed him.”
Her head rocked back, and more of the rest of her went with it than should have, and then she blinked and steadied herself.
“You saw the person who killed him.”
I shook my head. “No. I saw the inside of the bag he tied over my head after he knocked me out and dragged me off into the woods to sit with a gun against the back of my head and answer questions.”
She seemed twenty years older than me, and I wasn’t feeling particularly young. Her face was pale, with dark circles under her eyes, and her expression was the weary look of someone who’s been lost for a very long time and has given up on ever making sense of the map.
“You didn’t see him.”
“No.”
“What did he sound like?” she said, and her voice had a hard edge.
The question surprised me, but I answered it without hesitation. “Like an evil son of a bitch, Karen.”
She didn’t say anything to that, just turned and wandered out into the living room as if I weren’t even in the house. After a pause, I followed her. She watched me as I sat down, but her eyes were unfocused, distant. They stayed that way while I told her the rest of it, providing as near to a word-for-word account as I could manage. I came pretty close, too. It hadn’t been the sort of incident that fades from memory overnight.
When I was finished, she was sitting quietly. She hadn’t interrupted once, hadn’t visibly reacted. This wasn’t the Karen I knew. She’d never been able to internalize her emotions well, and I remembered that while we were together I’d thought that quality would’ve made her a bad cop—unable to stay distanced and unable to bluff.
“Is there anyone who has been pressuring you for money? Any unsettled debts?”
She shook her head.
“No.” “No one’s made contact with you about the murder?”
“The only contact I’ve had came in the form of two police officers showing up at my door to tell me Alex was gone.”
“Your husband was looking into turning assets to cash just before he was killed. Looking to generate big money, and do it fast. Why?”
“The police told you that?”
“Not directly. But I think the money is important. Liquidating assets just before he was killed could suggest extortion.”
“I know. And some of it is missing.”
“What?”
“According to the police. I didn’t even know. But the police have looked, and they say there’s fifty thousand dollars missing.”
; “That’s all?”
“That’s all that they told me about.”
Fifty grand, gone. Jefferson trying to free up even more cash. A menacing presence back in his life, reminding him of old sins. Whatever Jefferson had done, it must have been serious. The fifty grand hadn’t made a dent in his debt, apparently. Neither had his life.
“We’ll start with a phone call,” I said.
“Who are you going to call?”
“Nobody. But this all began with a phone call, and we need to find out when it happened. You told me that the one night your husband talked to you about what was happening, he made a comment about getting a call at two in the morning.”
She nodded. “He said he knew it was either going to be a wrong number or it would change his life.”
“Right. And last night the bastard who attacked me made a similar comment. He said that Matt Jefferson called your husband for help and that he—the guy who attacked me—paid the price. He said he paid it for five years.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“I didn’t expect you would. But you should be able to get phone records. You’re the spouse, after all—I think they’ll have to honor that request. If we get those records, if we go back and find this phone call that came in the middle of the night five years ago and changed your husband’s life, we’ll have a starting point. A day on the calendar, if nothing else.”
“We won’t need to make a request.”
“No?”
“Alex almost never used the house phone, just his cell phone. He had some weird hangup with that.”
It was easier to trace and tap landline calls. To be concerned with something like that was the essence of the corrupt. I was interested but didn’t comment.
“We’ll still need the records, though.”
“The cell phones have detailed billing. He saved all the bills.”
“You can go back five years or more?”
“I’d be stunned if I can’t, but let me check.”
“Please do. It’s a place to start, and without the phone call, I don’t seem to have one.”
“Two days ago you didn’t want one,” she said. “Two days ago you wanted to get far, far away from it all.”
“Uh-huh. Then I changed my mind. Credit for that goes to the guy who killed your husband, though.”
She gazed at me through those flat eyes she’d seemingly developed overnight. “Well, I hope he gets all the credit that’s due to him.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s the goal.”
13
It took an hour to put together the possibilities. Alex Jefferson didn’t receive many phone calls in the early hours of the morning, but there were a few. Karen was right: The bills were detailed, and they went back eight years. I found three early-morning calls in the previous month’s bill and recorded all the numbers. One was from an 812 area code, which I recognized now as belonging to southern Indiana. That had been the first call from his son in many years. The other two calls were local numbers, and I noted them and moved on.
I’d gone through five years when I got another hit. On July fifth, Alex Jefferson received a call on his cell phone at 1:36 A.M., again from a number with an 812 area code. The call had lasted eleven minutes. The next call on the record, this one outgoing, had been placed at 1:52 A.M., to a number with an area code from northeastern Ohio, between Cleveland and Pennsylvania, the Ashtabula area.
I went through the rest of the bills, just because they were there, and found five additional calls that had come in around one or two in the morning. While I recorded each number, I wasn’t optimistic that they would matter. What was interesting, though, was the prevalence of calls from that 812 number.
“Would you have an address book or a phone list around somewhere?” I asked Karen. “Anything that would show old numbers?”
“A Rolodex in the office.”
I wrote the 812 number down and handed it to her. “See if you can find this. I think it belonged to his son at one point.”
Five minutes later she returned with confirmation. “The Rolodex says that was Matt’s cell phone number. I just tried to call it, and I got some woman who had no idea who Matt was.”
“I bet he stopped using it several years ago. The last number he called from is different. All I needed to know was that it belonged to him at one time.”
“So you’re getting somewhere?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve got a list of numbers and call times that I can check out. It’s something to do. There are other places to look, too, and I’ll be working on them soon.” I paused and then added, “Hopefully, with some assistance.”
Joe was on his way out of the house when I pulled into his driveway. He was wearing jeans and that big parka again, holding his car keys in his hand. He stopped walking as I put the window down and glanced in at me.
“Bad timing, LP. I’m on my way to physical therapy.”
“Skip it,” I said.
He tilted his head and peered in the car, looking at me with surprise. “What?”
I turned to face him, making sure he could see my black eye and battered lip as I shut off the engine. “I need you for a minute, Joe. Is that okay?”
He managed a nod. “Sure. I guess we better go inside.”
We went in and sat in the kitchen. Or I sat, at least. He poured himself a glass of water, drank a little, and then leaned against the counter.
“Well,” he said. “What’s up?”
I told him what was up. He didn’t say a word. Just stood there and drank his water and refilled the glass once. I was in a chair at the little kitchen table, everything in the room so damn neat and ordered and so . . . Joe. When I was finished with the story, I met his eyes.
“I’m starting to drown in it a little bit, Joe. I’m starting to feel a little over-matched. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should be good with all this, be all collected and focused and calm about it, everything that you’d be if you were in my shoes. But, damn it, I’m used to working with a partner. Used to working with you. Then this shit keeps stacking up, and I’ve got cops talking about murder charges, and guys putting bags over my head and guns against my skull, and I turn around and look in my corner for you, and you’re not there.” I softened my voice, leaned back in my chair. “I don’t see you there, at least.”
He stared at me, no clear emotion on his face, and then he finished the rest of his water and set the glass aside. He shook his head.
“I’m sorry to hear you say that. But you have to admit, I didn’t know about most of this until five minutes ago.”
“Right,” I said. “Because you haven’t been around. Don’t misunderstand me—you getting healthy is the most important thing. But did you have to go so far away to get healthy?”
“I’ve been right here.”
“Did you have to go so far away to get healthy?” I repeated, and after a pause, he nodded, getting it this time.
“All right,” he said. “That’s fair enough.”
It was quiet for a moment.
“I’m not blaming you for anything,” I said. “Shit, Joe, you took those bullets for me. Because of me. If I can realize that and somehow be pissed at you for all of this, then I’m pretty damn self-absorbed. I’m just saying that . . .”
“What?”
“That I could use you right now. That I need some help. Okay? I need some help.”
He ran a hand through his gray hair and nodded. “Then I’ll help. Of course I’ll help. Damn, LP, you had to know that.”
“I did. I do. But you have to understand the kind of distance you’ve been keeping lately. It’s my fault that you’re gone—”
“It’s not your fault.”
“The hell it’s not. It’s absolutely my fault, and I understand that. But do you think that makes it easy for me to approach you, ask you when you’re going to come back?”
Something changed in his eyes then. Something a stranger or casual acquaintance wouldn’t pick up on,
but that I couldn’t help but notice after years of working so closely with him.
“Are you coming back, Joe?”
He picked up the empty glass and rinsed it. Rinsed water out of a glass with more water, then set it back down as if he’d accomplished something.
“Look,” he said, “the issue of the day is what’s happening with Karen. Right?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Then let’s get focused on that, LP. You aren’t going to need to worry about having a partner if they send you to prison.” He paused, then smiled slightly. “On second thought, maybe having a partner is exactly what you will need to worry about if they send you to prison.”
I was laughing then, and so was he, and it felt damn good. Shit, when was the last time Joe and I had laughed over anything? I couldn’t think of it. We laughed about the prospect of me in prison, a real howler of a subject, and then he pulled up a chair and sat down across from me, resting his bad arm on the edge of the table.
“So what have you got? Other than a beat-to-shit face, what have you got?”
“A vague reference to an old sin, a list of late-night phone calls, a missing fifty grand, and that’s it. Had a photograph of the murder victim, but not anymore.”
He frowned. “I don’t like your decision on that one. You could have guessed that, I’m sure. That’s evidence, LP.”
“Same word I used to motivate myself when I burned it.”
He sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, we aren’t going to accomplish much if we stay in this kitchen, are we? Better get down to the office.”
I looked at the clock. “How long was the therapy session supposed to go?”
“An hour.”
“Would they let you start late if you told them you got held up with something important?”
He shrugged. “Probably.”
A Welcome Grave Page 10
