Shadow Suspect

by Patrick Logan

  “Oh, I know, I’ve seen it.”

  Chase made a hmph sound.

  “Really? That’s interesting because you told me a minute ago that you haven’t seen Thomas in years.”

  “I haven’t.”

  Okay, okay, I see where this is going.

  “C’mon now, Tim. You want me to believe that you—you, working as a common gardener—could get with Clarissa? Could make her cheat on Thomas? Gimme a break.”

  Tim turned red again and he leaned forward. His breath was coming out his nostrils in short bursts.

  “You wanna know what happened? Well maybe you should talk to Thomas bastard of a brother Wes, or maybe the godfather, Ken. Did you know he was planning to run for mayor?”

  Chase nodded.

  “Yeah, I knew that.”

  Tim seemed surprised by this, but then continued as if she hadn’t offered a reply.

  “Well, then you must know that he has been going around town spreading his money around, trying to clean up the filth that Thomas had piled on top of the Smith name. I bet you didn’t know that, did you?”

  Chase recalled what Detective Simmons had told him about the teacher with the brand new Audi. She had her suspicions that Ken Smith was doing exactly as Tim suggested, but decided to keep this information close to her chest.

  “Go on.”

  “Well I hadn’t spoken to Neil for years, but he contacted me a few months ago. Told me he had a hookup with a high-priced call girl. Wanted me to get in on the action, said it would be like old times. I wasn’t interested, but went along with it—the Butterfly Gardens were strapped and I thought maybe I could ask him to make a donation. But when I found out that Thomas was seeing this call girl, too? I—I couldn’t believe it. I mean, he had Clarissa, what more does a man need?”

  “So you killed him for cheating on her? Your first love?”

  Tim laughed, a high and tight sound.

  “I didn’t kill anyone. But I followed Thomas, just to make sure that Neil wasn’t just talking out of his ass like he used to do as a kid. And I saw him. Thomas was seeing that call girl—Veronica, I think her name was—once a week. Sometimes more. I did some more digging and found out that he would tell Clarissa that he was going away for business and stay with Veronica for days at a time. I mean, days. Can you believe that?”

  Chase nodded.

  “I understand why you would be pissed.”

  “She didn’t deserve that. Shit, she deserved better than Thomas. Sure, he would go to all of these events, give money to these causes, but it was all a show. Thomas wasn’t a saint, far from it. He was just a spoiled rich kid with too much money. Thought he could do whatever he wanted and get away with it, that daddy would just pay everyone off, make them forget. But obviously not everybody…”

  A strange expression crossed Tim’s face as his sentence trailed off.

  “But not you, right Tim? They can’t buy you off. And when they tried… well, that was the final straw, wasn’t it? Did you ask for money? Blackmail the Smiths to make a donation to the Gardens? What, they turn you down?”

  Tim scoffed.

  “I don’t want their money.”

  “Then what did you do about it? About Thomas cheating on Clarissa?”

  “I went to her, I went to see Clarissa. She didn’t believe me at first, but I had evidence. Photographs that even she couldn’t deny.”

  Chase mulled this over for a few seconds, wondering if he was telling the truth. If he was, then Clarissa was a much better liar than she had ever thought.

  And I’m supposed to be good at reading people…

  “So you tried to, what? Get her to seek revenge on Thomas by propositioning her? And she rejected you? But you couldn’t hurt her, right? Because you still love her.”

  Tim frowned deeply.

  There was that raw nerve again. He did love her.

  “So you went after him instead. Threatened him. Eventually things went wrong, and you ended up killing him.”

  Tim shook his head emphatically.

  “I told you already, I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill anyone. I left after Clarissa told me that she was leaving him. She was going to pick Thomas Jr. up from school and just leave.”

  “But she didn’t, did she?”

  Tim growled.

  “No, she didn’t. I got a text from her the next day saying she had changed her mind, that they were going to work things out. That wasn’t her; that wasn’t Clarissa.”

  “So what happened?”

  Tim leaned back in his chair.

  “I’ll tell you what happened. That creepy housekeeper showed up at my doorstep the next day with an envelope full of cash—twenty grand, can you believe it? He said I just had to keep my mouth shut, and I could keep it. No strings attached.”

  “But you refused.”

  Tim nodded.

  “Damn right I refused; as I said, Clarissa deserved better.”

  “She deserved you?”

  He shrugged.

  “It doesn’t matter. Anyways, I didn’t take the money and a week later I get a letter from the court. The Butterfly Gardens were being sued by SSJ, and I was being held personally liable for some bullshit charge about breaking some law about exotic plants. Gimme a fucking break. It was Ken Smith again, waving his fucking wallet around, trying to keep his son’s infidelity a secret, trying once again to clean up his mess. The impish maid came by, said that it could all go away if I just took the money.” He clenched his jaw. “I refused.”

  The room fell silent, and Chase took the time to process everything that Tim had said. It sounded reasonable, even seemed to make sense based on everything that she knew about this case. And yet it wasn’t the entire truth, she knew that too.

  What else is he hiding?

  “Can I go now?” Tim asked.

  “No, you can’t.”

  Tim threw his hands up.

  “I’ve told you everything. You should be out there, searching for whoever broke into my house. That’s your killer, not me!”

  “You know what, Tim? I don’t think you’ve told me everything.”

  Tim raised an eyebrow, silently urging Chase to continue.

  “You haven’t told me about the butterflies.”

  Something dark flashed across his face. Chase opened the yearbook and flipped through the pages, stopping when she reached the photograph of Tim, Neil, Chris and Thomas, their mouths wide in either joy or fury. Then she lowered her finger to the only boy that they had yet to identify, the one with the long arms hanging at his sides, the one with the frown.

  “Who’s this, Tim? Who’s this boy?”

  Tim’s face went completely dark.

  “I’ve said enough.”

  “Tim, tell me who this is.”

  “I’ve said enough!” he bellowed. “And now I want my lawyer.”

  CHAPTER 54

  Unlike his late son, Ken Smith didn’t live in an estate in the outskirts of the city. Instead, he lived in a high-rise in downtown Manhattan. As Drake entered the building, a security guard approached, confirmed his name, and then asked him to put his gun in the box along with any other weapons.

  Drake reluctantly put Chase’s gun in the bin and then made his way with escort to the elevator. Inside, the man pushed the ‘P’ at the top, then flashed his keycard to make the elevator ascend.

  Drake, tired, slightly drunk, looked around until his eyes fell on the camera located in the upper left hand corner of the chrome elevator. For some reason, he winked at it.

  When the elevator came to a stop on the top floor, the security guard held the door for him and then the man, a portly fellow with eyebrows that exactly matched his mustache both in color and size, followed him out.

  Not much could startle Drake after what he had seen during his tenure as an NYPD detective, but Ken Smith’s apartment rendered him speechless.

  It was like nothing he had ever seen; from the elevator, the entire floor opened up, open concept to a new extreme. He coul
d see a sitting room off to one side, complete with wall to ceiling bookshelves, a fireplace, and furniture that looked as if it might have been on loan from the Louvre. There was a kitchen with stainless steel appliances, high gloss white cabinets, and a fridge that looked large enough to contain Drake’s entire apartment.

  The soft sound of a waterfall came from a backlit fountain to his right, which was flanked by glass cabinets that seemed to contain relics of some sort: an antique gun, a yellowed parchment of paper, an ancient-looking clock.

  “That’ll be all, Stewart,” a voice called from the sitting room. “Thank you.”

  The man with the mustache replied, “Are you sure, Mr. Smith?”

  The reply was calm and relaxed. Mellow, even.

  “I’m sure. I have Raul to help serve my guest.”

  Raul? Raul’s here?

  Drake’s eyes whipped around, trying to find the source of the voice. It took him a while, but he eventually spotted a thin trail of smoke drifting upward from one of the chairs in the sitting room, the back to him.

  “Have a nice night, Mr. Smith,” the security guard said as the elevator doors closed.

  When the whirr of the metal box faded, Ken Smith stood, and turned to face Drake.

  He was tall, with a shock of white hair and matching stubble that stood out on his tanned skin. Drake thought he looked to be in his late-fifties, but based on the age of his late son, he expected that the man’s actual age might be closer to seventy. Despite the hour, he was wearing a neatly pressed white shirt, sans tie, and navy blue slacks that ended in coffee-colored loafers.

  “Welcome, Detective Drake,” Ken Smith said, opening his arms in a friendly gesture. “I’m glad that you could make it.”

  Drake grumbled something of a hello as Ken brought a cigar to his lips and puffed.

  “I promised you a drink? What would you like?” he asked, turning his attention to the kitchen. “Raul? Please get our guest a…” he looked expectantly to Drake.

  “Johnny Red,” he said.

  Ken chuckled.

  “I’m sorry, but my bar is not fully stocked. I do, however, have a supply of Johnny Walker Blue. Would this suit you just as well?”

  Drake said it would do.

  “Then as Raul prepares your drink—neat, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then we shall palaver.”

  Drake made a face, realizing that he had entered another world.

  Palaver?

  “Please, take a seat,” Ken said, indicating the chair opposite the one he had been sitting.

  Drake did, and as soon as his ass hit the plush, olive-colored material, he let out an audible sigh.

  It was like sitting on a marshmallow.

  Ken laughed briefly, a pleasant, friendly sound.

  “There’s nothing quite like it after a long day of work. Believe me, I make the same noise every single night.”

  Raul suddenly appeared, wearing a white shirt with a black bow-tie, a rock glass with three fingers of golden liquid at the bottom in hand.

  Drake squinted up at the man, trying to get a read on him. Raul gave away nothing; he was as stone-faced as he had been while driving the Rover, and as quiet as he had been at the station.

  “Raul has been with our family for a long time,” Ken said, puffing on his cigar again. “He is more than our servant; he is part of our family.”

  Raul nodded, and then placed the glass on the table beside Drake.

  “Your errand boy? Bringing cash to people all over the city?” Drake said.

  Ken smiled.

  “Maybe. Sometimes. He does what we ask of him, and is compensated accordingly.”

  Drake stared at the man across from him. He had seen photographs of Ken Smith, and while he looked pretty much the same in real life, his attitude and demeanor were different.

  In the photographs, he had given off an air of authority, in a utilitarian way, which was almost to be expected as the lead ‘Smith’ in SSJ. But this version of Ken Smith was different. He was calm, relaxed, unfazed. Friendly, even.

  And it was off-putting to Drake. He was a New York City detective investigating the death of his son in the presence of the mustachioed servant who he had questioned less than twenty-four hours ago.

  No one should be this calm.

  Especially not Ken Smith.

  “Cohiba Behike 56,” Ken said suddenly.

  “Excuse me?”

  Ken smiled again and held up the cigar.

  “I’m sorry, please excuse my lack of manners. It has, after all, been a long week. Would you like a cigar? So long as you don’t tell, of course—they are Cuban.”

  Drake shook his head and frowned.

  No, this man really wasn’t afraid of anything.

  “Suit yourself, but before we get started, I suggest you try your beverage.”

  Unlike the cigar, this was not an offer that Drake declined. He reached over and picked up the glass.

  It was like liquid oak.

  Smooth, clean, perfect.

  He tried to remain ambivalent, but knew that his eyes gave him away. Drake gulped, and swished the liquid around his mouth unconsciously for a second before swallowing.

  “Delicious, isn’t it?”

  Drake drank the rest and held it up.

  “Raul?” Ken said, “why don’t you fill up our guest again, but leave the bottle this time.”

  Raul returned and did as he was asked.

  “Now,” Ken began. “I have a proposition for you, one that you would do well to consider carefully.”

  CHAPTER 55

  Chase breathed deeply, pushing her back against the interrogation room door.

  “Hey, Detective Adams, you okay?” a uniform asked.

  She looked up.

  “Yeah, fine. Look, officer…”

  “Hale, Trevor Hale.”

  “Alright Officer Hale, can you do me a favor?”

  The man shifted on his heels.

  “Sure, I’m here all night.”

  “Good. The man in room 1 wants his lawyer. Make sure he gets a phone, okay?”

  Officer Hale nodded.

  “Sure thing, Adams. Should I book him, too?”

  Chase looked down at her shoes, grateful that she had worn her flats today. It had been a long, long day.

  “No. Just hold him. No charges. Let the clock start now on his eight-hour break. I’ll be back in the morning. Whatever you do, don’t let him go, okay Hale? And don’t let anyone speak to him, except for his lawyer.”

  Trevor Hale said that this wouldn’t be a problem, then started shifting uncomfortably again.

  “Is there anything else?”

  He looked down, and for a moment Chase thought that he was blushing.

  “Yeah, I mean if, you know, you’re—”

  “No, Trevor. The answer is no—before you even ask and embarrass both of us.”

  The tops of the man’s ears went a deep crimson. He was cute, in a boyish sort of way. Cute and innocent.

  Chase started toward him.

  “Just make sure he contacts his lawyer, okay?”

  ~

  Chase parked in her driveway and sat in her car for a few moments to collect herself.

  It was past midnight now, and she was beyond exhausted. And yet, she knew that she wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight. Not with people out there like Tim Jenkins.

  With a heavy sigh, Chase opened the door to her BMW and stepped out into the night. She was fishing the keys out of her pockets when the door to her house suddenly opened and her heart leapt into her throat.

  “Jesus!” she gasped, but then relaxed when she saw her husband’s handsome face. He looked tired as well, his puffy eyes an indication that he hadn’t slept yet tonight, either.

  “Hey hon,” he said, as he wrapped his arms around her. Chase leaned in, breathing in his smell, and squeezed back.

  After several full breaths, Chase pulled away.

  “You okay?” Brad Adams ask
ed as he surveyed his wife.

  Chase nodded, and together they went into the house, making sure to lock the door after them. Once inside, Chase flipped off her shoes and immediately went to the sofa, sinking into the soft cushions.

  No matter what Drake said, the couch was always more comfortable than her car seats.

  The television was on, but it was muted. Sports highlights ran, which was fine by her.

  A necessary distraction.

  “You want something to eat?” Brad asked from the kitchen. The question was rhetorical; she could already hear him fussing with the cutlery, putting together a plate for her.

  “Sure,” she said as she transitioned to lying down.

  “Saw you on the news today,” Brad said as he came over to her. In one hand was a warm bowl of pasta with several shrimp piled on top, in the other was a beer.

  Chase sat up and took both.

  She hadn’t thought that she was particularly hungry, but the smell changed her mind.

  She devoured her pasta in record time.

  “How’d I look?”

  “You looked great,” Brad answered. “The man with the glasses and the beady eyes… him not so much.”

  Chase nodded and took a gulp of her beer.

  “Sergeant Rhodes. He’s on my ass, second guessing everything that I do.”

  Brad tapped her legs, and she moved over to give him space to sit.

  “And your partner? Damien? How’s he doing?”

  Chase tilted her head to one side.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Brad took her beer and had a sip before handing it back.

  “You want to elaborate?” he asked.

  Chase shook her head.

  “No, not really,” but then she did anyway. “He’s a good man, Detective Drake. I know he is. It’s just… he’s… he’s…” he’s haunted by demons, she wanted to say, but instead, she went with, “he just makes some mistakes. A good cop, a good man, but troubled.”

  Brad nodded, but it wasn’t a patronizing nod. Looking over at him, staring at his blue eyes, his flat expression, Chase knew that he understood.

  After all, he had spent the better part of his adult life defending criminals; like Chase, he had seen and experienced the gamut of the human condition.

  Brad put a hand on her thigh.

  “You going to be alright?” he asked.