“From a few weeks ago? Yeah, I remember.”
“Right. Okay, well, we thought it might be cancer.”
“I remember that too.”
He gave her this look that made her think he didn’t find her insertion necessary and went on. “I did a lot of reading on the internet. You know, for common symptoms of cancer.”
“You really shouldn’t do that. It’s not healthy.”
“I’ll tell you what’s not healthy. Feeling like crap and doing nothing about it.”
“It’s noth—” She was prepared to downplay his concern again, to dismiss the way she felt, but then that one big C-word sank in. Her grandmother had died of a cancerous brain tumor. But Madison was fine. She didn’t need a doctor to tell her. But what if she wasn’t fine? What if she had cancer? Early detection was key to successful treatment. “I’ll make an appointment with my doctor.”
“There you go.” Terry smiled, obviously pleased with himself.
She didn’t know which was worse—not knowing the cause of her nausea or entertaining the possibility she might have cancer. Both served to make her feel awful, and the latter, afraid, and she didn’t frighten easily.
Madison knocked on the door for Carl Long #1. A fifty-something answered in his boxers, not self-conscious about his appearance though maybe he should have been. He stank of stale beer—a putrid smell she never appreciated and an alcoholic beverage she could live without—and he had crumbs stuck in his chest hair. Gak!
It only took a few pointed questions to determine Carl Long #1 was not the Carl they were after.
Twenty minutes later, they were on the doorstep for Carl Long #2. Madison raised her hand to knock and hesitated, preparing herself for what might answer the door. She stalled long enough that Terry butted in and rapped his knuckles against the wood.
She glared at him.
“What? I would love to reclaim some of this weekend.”
She knocked and kept it going.
“I’m coming!” a man yelled and flung the door open. Madison’s hand was still raised. “What the hell is the damn rush?”
Madison pulled her detective’s badge, and Terry followed her lead.
“Detectives Knight and Grant with the Stiles PD,” she said, gesturing first to herself, then to Terry.
“Okay? What does that mean for me?” Carl Long #2 was obviously not swayed by the presence of law enforcement at his door. Either that or he was overcompensating. If Madison worked like Troy did, she’d have been armed with Carl Long’s background before hitting his doorstep.
“It means that we have some questions for you, and we’d like the answers.” She squared her shoulders and hardened her gaze.
“Doesn’t everybody, sweetheart.”
She bristled at his sexist retort. “We need to talk to you about your friend Saul Abbott.” She ran with the assumption and made it sound like Saul was hurt or dead. Even though the name was an alias, a person close to Abbott would be familiar with it.
Carl’s face went blank.
“Your friend Saul?” she prompted.
Still devoid of emotion. “I don’t know anyone by that name. Why are you interested in this guy? Something happen to him?”
“Why would you care if you don’t know him?” Madison eyed the opening in the doorway between Carl and the frame and brushed inside.
“Hey!” he called out.
She held up her hands. “I’ll stay right here in the entry.”
Long narrowed his eyes.
“It’s just cold out there.” She gave him a fake smile, which was painfully obvious given his withering expression in return. “You want to know what I think, Carl?”
“I don’t really care,” he deadpanned.
“I think you know Saul Abbott. I think you’re really good friends with him.”
“Listen, lady.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t know a Saul Abbott.”
Madison caught a tattoo on his bicep, and she got a feeling. Lots of prison inmates got ink, and between that and his attitude toward them, she’d wager he spent some time behind bars. “You want to go back to jail? Keep lying to my face.”
His eyes met hers, his mouth twitched, and he spun and flew out the door.
“Ah, shit!” She flailed her hands in the air. She hated it when they ran. The damn devil’s pastime.
Terry was already down the front steps and to the sidewalk, well on his way to catching Carl Long #2. Might as well let her partner nab the guy. He’s the one who loved running, after all.
She stepped out to the stoop and tapped a foot. Then stopped. A wave of nausea struck and had her rubbing her stomach. Could she really have cancer? What would she do? Poor Troy, her sister, her parents…
Terry returned holding Carl Long #2 by the back of his collar. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pair of cuffs?” Terry said to her, even though he’d have his own.
She pulled hers out and handed them over.
“Thanks.” Terry snapped them on Long’s wrists.
Long howled. “You could take it a little easy.”
Terry met her eyes, and he didn’t say it out loud, but she got the message: what’s the fun in that? She smiled. She’d really rubbed off on her partner.
Madison and Terry stood in the observation room looking at Carl Long. She was tapping a folder that contained his background against the palm of her right hand. She was already thoroughly familiar with his past, to the point that Troy would have been proud.
She headed next door to interrogation room two—technically labeled as Interview Room 2—Terry following.
Long was hunched forward, his shoulders rounded from a lifetime of poor posture. His potbelly, the result of poor eating habits. His greasy hair, poor hygiene. He wasn’t much to look at, and he reeked of body odor, although Terry didn’t seem to notice.
She wondered if an enhanced sense of smell was a symptom of cancer and tried to dismiss the panic in her chest. She had a job to focus on right now.
She slipped into the chair across from Long and opened the folder. “I know all there is to know about you. It’s all right here.” She patted the report.
Long didn’t say anything.
Terry leaned against the wall behind Madison and jingled the change in his pocket, an unnerving technique he often utilized in the interview room.
She continued. “You went to Mitchell County Prison for break-and-enter when you were twenty-five. Served eleven years, and got out due to good behavior…” She paused there when Long’s gaze flicked away.
“I shouldn’t have gone to jail in the first place.”
“Got out on good behavior about ten years ago,” she finished. “You and a buddy smashed the window in a house and—”
“He made me. Not that anyone cares.”
She could have said, “No one can make you do anything,” but she wasn’t that naive. There were people quite skilled at manipulating others. What Long told her, though, made her more convinced she’d found the Carl Long who was friends with Saul Abbott. The con man would make easy work of bending Long to his wishes. Long was a people pleaser.
She took out a copy of the photo Lana Barrett had given them and pushed it across the table. She said nothing but watched Long inspect it.
He flicked a finger toward the picture. “Who’s this?”
Long wasn’t going to win an acting award anytime soon. The dismissal was a vain attempt to cover up the recognition that lit in his eyes. It is often said the eyes are windows to the soul, and while Madison wasn’t sure about that, they did have a way of saying a lot.
“You’re sure you don’t know that man?”
Long sniffed and didn’t look back at the photo. “Never seen him before.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t care if you don’t believe me.”
“Yo
u should. That is unless you like the three squares a day at Mitchell County Prison. They must be tasty.”
“Fine, I might know him,” he mumbled.
“I didn’t quite catch that.” Madison angled her head and cupped her ear.
“I know him,” Long repeated loud and clear.
“What’s his real name?”
“If it’s not Saul Abbott, I have no clue what it would be.”
“Huh.” Madison wasn’t believing a word coming out of this man’s mouth right now. “Who is he to you? It seems you have a great sense of loyalty toward him.” She detected Long had something to lose if he exposed the extent of his relationship with Abbott. He could have been getting a kickback for the weddings—real and/or fake—that he performed for Abbott.
“He’s just someone I know. Nothing much to it.”
“Then you’re not performing sham marriages for him?” she slapped out.
“No…no, of course not. I have my marriage officiant license.”
She smirked. “Not denying the marriage part, though?”
Long tapped his fingers on the table. Pat, pat, pat. Pat, pat, pat. Pat, pat, pat.
“Not really a question,” she said.
Long stopped tapping but said nothing.
Madison pulled a blown-up DMV photo of Chantelle Carson from the folder and tossed it across the table. “Do you know this woman?”
Long glanced at it and shook his head. “No.”
“You’re not young enough or anywhere near charming enough to play dumb and come off looking cute.”
He scowled.
Her words might have been a little harsh, but they were on point as far as she was concerned. “How do you know her?”
“I just said I don’t know her.” He spoke so slow that his four-worded claim came out sounding like four individual sentences. His eyes were flat, too, and she was leaning toward believing him.
“Well, your buddy Saul apparently knew her quite well,” she began. “He was going to have you marry them.”
“That’s news to me.”
“Do you know what Saul Abbott did to that woman?” Madison nudged her head toward the photo. Terry stopped jingling his change, and the room fell into a dense silence.
Long lowered his eyelids and shook his head.
She had a feeling he knew exactly what scheme Abbott was up to. Con men like that didn’t just pull off something like this once and stop. There were probably other victims…and possibly after Carson. She had seen him kissing another woman. “Does Saul have a girlfriend currently?”
Long met her gaze, and the truth was reflected in them.
“Who?” she asked.
Terry started rattling his change again, and Long’s gaze flicked past Madison to Terry.
She snapped her fingers to get Long’s attention. “Who?” she repeated.
“No clue. Saul was always seeing someone, though.”
Madison leaned across the table and pressed a finger to the photo of Carson. “That woman there, her name was Chantelle Carson.”
“Was?” The word seemed to scratch from his throat.
“That’s right. She was murdered. Stabbed three times. Know anything about that?”
He slowly shook his head and sat back in his chair, eyes wide and wet.
“I’m sure you can appreciate why we’re interested in talking with Saul,” she said after a few seconds.
“Not exactly. You think he killed her?”
She shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“Yeah, no, I don’t think so.”
“Saul’s a con man. What’s his real name anyhow? I’m sure you know.” She thought she’d take another stab at wrestling it loose.
“I don’t know, and that’s the honest truth.”
“Because you’ve been so honest up until this point,” she volleyed back drily. “Your friend Saul ruined Chantelle financially, and, yes, we’d like to speak with him regarding Chantelle’s murder. You said you didn’t want to go jail. This is your chance to prove that. Just tell me where your buddy Saul is these days. Simple as that.”
“I don’t know.”
She pushed her chair back, and its legs scraped against the floor. She stood and waved for Terry to join her.
Long reached his arms out. “Where are you go—”
“I’m leaving,” she cut in.
“You can’t just leave me here.” His face knotted in panic.
“I can actually.”
“On what grounds?” His voice reached a high octave.
“Obstruction of justice, for one. Possible accessory to murder. Probably conspiracy to commit fraud. I’m quite sure that you helped Saul with his con jobs by marrying him to women. Likely for a kickback. Give me time, and I’ll get all the evidence I need against you.”
Long rubbed his throat. “I honestly don’t know where Saul is.”
She took him in. “Here’s the thing, Mr. Long. I hate liars, and you’ve lied to me. You first said you didn’t know Saul, but it turns out you do. I really think you know where we could find Saul and just don’t want to say. And that’s fine. The city will be happy to have you for the night.”
He sunk his head in his hands, and she and Terry left.
“You could have asked when he saw Abbott last,” Terry said as they walked down the hall.
“I could have, but he’s not ready to cooperate yet.”
“Okay,” Terry dragged out. “What do you suggest we do now?”
“I want to figure out how Long and Abbott first came into contact, and you noted his loyalty in there?” She jacked a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the interrogation room that was a good distance behind them now. They’d reached their desks. She dropped in her chair.
“I did. You even pointed it out to him.”
“Right. He went away to prison for B&E.”
“Yes, we know—”
She held up a hand to stay him. “He also committed that crime with someone. As he said, his buddy made him to do it. So who was his buddy?”
“All right, but Carl Long is forty-six. Saul Abbott is twenty-five.”
Madison smirked. “He lied about his name, why not his age?”
“You saw his picture.”
“I did, and some people can look a lot younger than their actual age.” She was thinking she needed to have a better look at Saul’s eyes. She pulled up the picture on her phone and enlarged it as much as she could, which wasn’t much, and shook her head. No way of discerning maturity and experience from that photo. “Anyway, I think we really need to dig into Long’s past. Who he committed the crime with to start.”
“That being twenty-one years ago.”
“Yeah, sure.” She’d take his word for it, as she wasn’t about to do the math.
“All right, let’s get to work.”
“Actually, I’m going to start on this,” she said. “Could you follow up with Higgins on the canvassing officers and how they’re making out? Also, maybe pop down to the lab, see if Cynthia’s in yet and if she has anything for us.”
“I can, but you sure you don’t want to do that?”
“I’m good here.”
Her partner held eye contact with her for a bit but ended up walking off. Usually she didn’t miss an opportunity to talk with her friend, but she wasn’t sure how she’d handle seeing her the day after spotting Garrett Murphy at Club Sophisticated. And, truth be told, her stomach was already churning.
-
Eighteen
Madison was reading the arrest record for Carl Long, including some of his lawyer’s statements of defense. The house he’d entered belonged to his then-girlfriend’s father. Long’s attorney—doing what defense lawyers do—tried to minimize his part in the crime by saying that his girlfriend had told him to go to the house that ni
ght and enter through her window, only it was locked when Long showed up. Flimsy. And Long’s defense fell further apart from there. One, an invitation to his girlfriend’s room didn’t explain his friend “tagging along.” Two, it didn’t provide a basis for the fact his friend had been armed with a KA-BAR knife. Three—and the most damaging—the girlfriend didn’t back up Long’s claim.
Madison pulled the background on Long’s partner in crime, Peter Harris. Forty-five. Single. Currently employed by a car manufacturer in Stiles. She brought up his driver’s license photo and slammed a palm on her desk. Unless the Saul Abbott in the photo Lana Barrett had provided had undergone extreme cosmetic surgery, the likes of which would make Hollywood proud, Harris was not Abbott.
So how did Carl Long know Saul Abbott, whoever-he-was?
Her stomach rumbled, and a glance at the clock told her it was after one in the afternoon. She pulled out her drawer filled with the Hershey’s bars and considered eating one, but chocolate was mostly all she was eating these days. She should eat something with protein, but that would mean leaving the station, and she’d like to get some things taken care of.
Another stab of hunger pain and she gave in, peeling back the wrapper on a bar. Always heaven, she thought as she chewed. All her chastisement from a few seconds ago were gone, melted like the chocolate on her tongue.
Besides, it was much easier to think with a full stomach. And if the candy was the only thing settling these days, then who was she to argue?
How does Carl Long know Saul Abbott?
The question repeated in her head as a constant droning. Eventually, the gist of an idea floated on the edges of her consciousness. Long was loyal and likely easy to control. He was an ex-con and would have probably learned some ways to beat the system while behind bars. If he was getting a kickback from Abbott, he wouldn’t want to jeopardize his payday.
She returned to Long’s background report. Listed under his place of work was Self-Employed. No details. It was hard to imagine that a person could make a living on performing wedding ceremonies alone, and he didn’t have an actual business—it would have been noted. Previous employment was a body shop in the east end of town where Carl had started a few months after his release from prison and worked for seven years.
What We Bury Page 9
