Blood Betrayal (John Jordan Mysteries Book 14)

by Michael Lister

  “And you still haven’t come up with any reasons why he did that?”

  “No, sir. Sorry.”

  “Could he have done it for the money?” I ask.

  “Money? What money?”

  “Reward money.”

  “He got all the reward money Angel’s family and friends raised?” he says, his voice rising. “Please tell me he didn’t.” He lets out a harsh little laugh. “Wanna hear something tragic and ironic? I donated to it. Please tell me I didn’t contribute to my own demise.”

  23

  That night Merrill and I ride to Apalach to follow up on a new lead relating to Randa and Daniel’s disappearance.

  As with every lead we’ve looked into so far nothing came of it. Someone thought they saw something—a woman who might be Randa, a man who might be Daniel, but it was neither, another dead end. Not a waste of time exactly—both because no time with Merrill is ever wasted and every dead end street we go down gets us closer to finding the street that Daniel is actually on.

  The trip down to Apalach and our time there was uneventful, but what happens on the way back is the most eventful thing to happen in the case so far.

  My phone rings and the readout on the screen says the number is blocked.

  I answer.

  “Hey John,” Randa Raffield says.

  I hesitate a second before saying, “Hey.”

  My mind races. What can I do? How can I trace the call? Track her down?

  I reach over and punch Merrill on the arm repeatedly. When he looks at me I mouth to him who it is.

  His eyes widen and he pulls out his phone and starts punching in numbers.

  “How are you?” she asks.

  “I’m good,” I say. “But I miss my friend Daniel a lot.”

  “Not me?” she says. “Just Daniel?”

  “No, I’d like to see you again too,” I say.

  “I hope you’re not wasting even a second of your time trying to figure out a way to trace this call,” she says. “If you don’t give me more credit than that by now I’m not sure I can continue our association.”

  “All I’m doing is talking to you,” I say.

  “Good. ’Cause I’m on a burner phone, prepaid piece of shit I’ll destroy after this call and I’ve routed it through several countries into yours, none of which are the one I’m in, so . . .”

  Merrill pulls off the road onto the shoulder and quietly gets out of the car.

  “Can’t help but notice you said the country you’re in, not we’re in,” I say. “Is Daniel no longer with you?”

  “Thought we had a deal, John,” she says. “You weren’t going to look for me and I was going to take good care of Daniel.”

  “Are you?” I ask.

  “What? Taking good care of Daniel? Are you looking for me?”

  “Are you calling because you think I am?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “I’m callin’ because I know you are.”

  “Don’t punish Daniel for what you think I’m doing,” I say.

  Merrill is standing in front of the car talking on the phone, his large frame in the headlights casting a long shadow on the damp shoulder of the road. I’m fairly certain he’s talking to Reggie or someone about trying to trace the call to my phone. I’m completely certain it will do no good.

  “What’re you working on these days?” she asks. “I mean besides finding me and Daniel?”

  “A few different things,” I say. “Why?”

  “Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t be vague. You know I’m asking about the Angel Diaz case.”

  How does she know? Does she have us bugged? Did she hack into our computers? I decide the latter is more likely. Our searches alone would let her know what we’re up to.

  “I listened to a podcast you were on about it,” I say.

  “You think you’re smarter than me, don’t you John?”

  “Actually,” I say, “I don’t. It’s not a competition, but . . . if it were, when we went head to head last time you won.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  “Wasn’t even close.”

  “Think you would’ve figured it out eventually?” she says.

  “Isn’t that why you took off and took Daniel?”

  “Was I right to?” she asks. “Were you getting close?”

  “Yeah, but . . . you still had a little time. I wasn’t about to knock on your door or anything.”

  She laughs.

  “What if we do the reverse of the previous deal?” I say. “What if you let Daniel go and I don’t try to find you?”

  “You didn’t keep the previous deal,” she says.

  “It wasn’t a deal we agreed to. It was a request you left me in a note.”

  “A request?”

  “Well, a demand.”

  “So if I let Daniel go, you’ll leave me alone, not try to find me? But what if he doesn’t want to go? What if I couldn’t get rid of him if I wanted to? What if I like the idea of being pursued by you? But let’s get back to what we were talking about earlier. I didn’t solve the Angel Diaz case.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So if you do does that mean you’re smarter than me?”

  “No.”

  “What if I’m still actively investigating it?” she says. “If we’re both working it at the same time, would whoever solves it first be smarter?”

  “Let’s ask Daniel,” I say. “Put him on the phone.”

  “Tell you what,” she says. “New deal. One you’ll actually keep if you agree to it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ll both work on the case,” she says. “If you solve it first, I’ll let Daniel go—whether he leaves or not is all him. If I solve the case first, you’ll stop looking for us, leave us alone.”

  “The only way it’ll be fair is if you have the case file,” I say. “I’ll mail you a copy. What’s your address? Better yet, I’ll bring it to you.”

  “Cute. Do we have a deal?”

  “Let Daniel go and we’ll stop looking for you,” I say. “It’s the best deal you’re going to get.”

  “So you’re scared of losing to me again?” she says.

  “I just won’t be able to stop looking for Daniel—even if you do win.”

  “It’s so sweet that you won’t lie to me,” she says. “Wow. I . . . mean . . . just precious. It’s precious. It really is. Tell you what . . . I’m a woman of my word too. So here’s the best deal you’re going to get. A totally insane, one-sided deal that only benefits you. If I solve the case before you, nothing happens—except it’ll be Randa two, John zero, but if you solve it first I’ll let Daniel go. And if you still just can’t live without me you can keep trying to find me. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “I’ll even give you a hint,” she says. “Qwon didn’t do it.”

  24

  “I can’t believe she called you,” Anna says.

  “Shows how confident she is,” I say, “how safe she feels.”

  We are in my favorite place in the world—our bed—on our sides facing each other, talking softly in the dusky half-darkness.

  “What’d she say exactly?”

  I tell her—well, as exactly as I can recall.

  “So she said very little about Daniel and wouldn’t let you speak to him,” she says. “Do you think he’s even alive?”

  “I do,” I say, “but . . . it’s not really based on anything.”

  “Why would she call?” she says. “What’s her motivation? What does it benefit her?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. Think it’s part of her psychological makeup. She likes to talk. Think about how many podcasts she was on. May still be on. She can’t help herself. Even when she’s in hiding, which she has been for years now, she has to reach out, to connect, to talk about things. Meets a certain need in her. She’s led a very lonely existence with limited face to face human interaction as far as we know. I thought having Daniel with her would make her less lonely.”
/>   “Which could mean he’s not with her any longer,” she says.

  “True, but it could also mean she had other reasons for calling.”

  “It can’t be a coincidence that she called after you looked for her in Apalach. Do you think she’s there? Maybe the lead y’all were following took you very close to her and she freaked out.”

  “The lead was truly a dead end,” I say. “Unless . . . it . . . coincidentally, randomly took us closer to her than we realized. Not the lead itself, but . . . just the area or the people or a road or a neighbor.”

  “Or it has nothing to do with any of that,” she says. “You think she really only got as far as Apalach? Think she’s in hiding just a few miles down the road from where she had been? I’ve been picturing her in a different country.”

  “Yeah, me too. And she alluded to being in a different country. I . . . wonder . . . What if she has someone there keeping an eye out? Lets her know what the police are doing or when people like me and Merrill show up.”

  “Or she left some sort of surveillance in place,” she says. “She certainly has the technical chops for something like that.”

  “That’s it,” I say. “She knew what I was working on, talked to me about Qwon’s case. She’s got us bugged or is hacking us. If she bugged us . . . it’s probably Merrill’s phone. She spent the most time around him while he was guarding Daniel and Sam. But she probably just hacked our computer and saw what we’ve been working on.”

  “Guarding them from the very person right there in the house with them,” Anna says, shaking her head.

  “Yeah. Says she’s going to solve the Angel Diaz case. Said if we solve it first, she’ll let Daniel go—though she indicated he might not want to leave.”

  “Like he’s with her by choice?” Anna says. “God, I hope not. I hope he hasn’t done that to Sam. That’s been my second biggest fear—after him being dead already.”

  “Yeah, mine too. I’ll get our phones and computers and cars checked for bugs.”

  “Don’t forget homes,” she says. “What if she’s listening right now?”

  “I seriously doubt she is,” I say. “But—”

  “I think just in case she is, we should give her something to listen to,” she says, closing the short gap between us, touching and caressing and kissing me, as she slips out of her nightgown.

  25

  “I’m a little nervous about seeing everyone,” Kathryn says, her blond hair blowing in the breeze.

  We are standing in front of the Marina Civic Center awaiting the arrival of some of her classmates who were down here the night Angel went missing.

  We’ve invited as many of them as we can to join us for a walk-through of the magical fateful night that Maya Angelou spoke and Kim and Ken had their house party.

  “Mostly Darius,” she says. “But everybody. Haven’t seen most of them in almost twenty years. Never felt like I could enjoy a class reunion with Qwon sitting in prison.”

  I nod. “I understand.”

  It’s early evening in Downtown Panama City, and the breeze blowing in off the bay is cool and brisk but not biting. Most of the shops are closed for the day, the streets and sidewalks nearly empty.

  I’m looking forward to hearing from everyone, but especially Darius—he was not only Kathryn’s boyfriend and Qwon’s best friend at the time, but Qwon actually spent that night with him.

  Thankfully Darius arrives first so the two of them can reconnect and exorcize any awkwardness before the others show up.

  He’s traded his red sport shirt with the Ace logo on it and tan trousers for a wrinkled button down and jeans. In contrast, Kathryn is wearing stylish navy slacks and a light blue blouse, only the front of which is tucked in, sexy sandals, and artisan jewelry.

  Though at first they act like shy children around each other, they hug and attempt to catch up a bit.

  Even all these years later, and though they are quite different—and not just because he’s black and she’s white, but more because his manner and dress are casual, hers more precise and put together—I can still picture them as a couple.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch more,” Darius says. “Well, at all.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’ve kept up with you through Qwon. Talk to him about once a week.”

  “You do?”

  He nods.

  “That’s so nice of you,” she says. “Gets expensive, doesn’t it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The collect calls.”

  “Oh, yeah. I don’t mind. I’m always happy to hear from him.”

  “You’re truly a good friend,” she says. “Those are hard to find—particularly if you’re in prison.”

  “You’re the one he’s lucky to have,” Darius says.

  Downtown Panama City is the soul of the city. It’s old and eclectic and where most of the coolest things in the city take place. It was far better when the Fiesta and places like Panama Java and the Gallery Above were open, but it’s still my favorite part of town.

  Beyond the civic center where we’re standing, the sun is low in the sky at the far edge of the bay. The swishing, airy sounds coming from the marina carry within swirling currents the shrieks of gulls, the slap of water against hulls, and the incessant clanging of boat ringing.

  Soon the others arrive—McKenna Roberts, Amber Thurman, Billy Anderson, Rex Timberson, Derrick Edwards, Paige Askew, and at the last minute and totally unexpected, Eric Pulisfer.

  All are white except for Derrick and Darius, and I wonder if their group had included just black guys or if there had been black girls in it as well.

  Kathryn walks up to each one and thanks them for helping us, including Eric, who is the most surprised and the most grateful.

  As soon as Kathryn accepts and welcomes Eric, the others warm to him too.

  I give them a little while to reacquaint themselves and to reconnect. Like most former classmates it’s not long until they are sharing memories and talking about their times.

  They laugh at their fashion—the oversized tee shirts, turtlenecks, slouch socks worn over sweatpants, leggings, ballet flats, Keds, tanktops, trainers, cargo pants, camouflage, crop tops, denim, so much denim, and bangs, so many bangs, and of course high ponytails with scrunchies or headbands—we were such dorks, weren’t we? Didn’t even know it. Everything came to Panama City a few years late—grunge, glamour, goth, preppy, Hip Hop, African, Asian.

  They remember their shows—Dawson’s Creek, Cosby (did you hear what that dirty bastard’s been up to?), Twin Peaks, The Wonder Years, Buffy, 90210, My So Called Life—we had the best high school shows, didn’t we?

  The movies—Home Alone, Titanic, Clueless, Scream, Forrest Gump, I Know What You Did Last Summer—this is sort of like that, isn’t it?

  I look at the too-early middle-aged group and try to picture the 90s teens they had been.

  “So,” I say, “we about ready to take a little walk?”

  “What we’re asking you to do is just say anything you remember from that night,” Kathryn says. “Anything at all—no matter how small it may seem.”

  Kathryn comes across far more together, far more educated and sophisticated than the rest of the group, but she still fits in—accepts them even as they accept her.

  “Maya Angelou was amazing,” Amber says. “I remember feeling like happy and hopeful.”

  Amber has pale skin and redish-tinged blond hair. She wears no makeup, a light cotton dress, and flip flops. Not only was she with the group that night, but Kathryn actually spent the night with her after leaving downtown.

  It has been a very warm February—even by North Florida standards, but I bet she’ll wish she’d dressed warmer if we’re still out here after the sun goes down.

  “I felt the same way,” McKenna says. “Haven’t thought about it in so long. After what happened to Angel . . . it’s easy to forget all the good things about that night.”

  McKenna is tall and thin with dark hai
r, a smattering of dark freckles on her nose and the tops of her cheeks, and thick bangs. So far she’s the most talkative and energetic of the group.

  “So,” Kathryn says, “Maya was amazing. We came through these doors back into the world and . . .”

  “Walked up Harrison Avenue,” Rex says.

  He’s a tall, oddly shaped man in his mid-thirties with black wavy hair and a round, pale face. He’s a little awkward and insecure and I picture him as a nice, girlfriendless guy on the fringe of the group back then.

  “Let’s do that,” Kathryn says. “Just tell us what you remember.”

  We all start walking out of the civic center parking lot and down the sidewalk on Harrison.

  “I remember seeing Angel and Qwon walking together,” Amber says, her reddish hair blowing in the breeze like everybody else’s. “They were up ahead of us a little. They seemed so happy. I mean, I know everyone was that night—or right when we came out of hearing Maya, but in general, they just always seemed so happy. Not all lovey-dovey but happy.”

  “Yeah,” McKenna says, “always seemed more like good friends than a couple to me.”

  We pass St. Andrews Towers, cross over Beach Drive, then when nothing is coming, cross Harrison over toward where Panama Java used to be.

  “Honestly,” Billy Anderson says, “I thought that’s what they were. I thought we all pretty much just assumed they were gay.”

  Billy is at least six and a half feet tall with a dark complexion, haunting green eyes, bushy hair in need of cutting beneath a misshapen ball cap, and a scraggly beard. He’s got large, prominent front teeth and too much saliva, which gives a wetness to his words that is so pronounced it almost sounds like a lisp.

  “Each other’s beard,” Derrick adds. “Each other’s gay best friend.”

  Derrick is a trim black guy with a small head.

  “Really?” Kathryn asks. “How many of you thought that?”

  Everyone but Rex, Eric, Darius, and Amber raise their hands.

  “We used to call them Crying Game,” Billy says, “just like we called you and Darius and Qwon and Angel Jungle Fever.”