The Dead Girl: Greg Owen Mystery #1

by Evan Ronan

I tell them.

  Not a muscle twitches on either cop face.

  But they also don’t blink for a stretch, which kind of gives them away.

  I nod. “How would he know that?”

  “Could have guessed,” Minghella says.

  Barnes jumps in immediately to back up his partner. “I think that’s the preferred style these days. From what I hear.”

  “Still.” I give them a long look. “It’s worth looking into.”

  Minghella folds his arms. “He guessed, Owen. That’s all. He guessed and he was right. He’s got nothing to lose by guessing wrong. Because he ends up in the exact same spot where he is right now.”

  “He was always there at the high school. Volunteering, chaperoning, attending the games. He was always there. I’ve talked to one of Julie’s friends and she told me—her words—that they all thought he was creepy. And you know who else talked to him?”

  They don’t answer.

  “Julie. She talked to him a few times.”

  They still don’t answer.

  “Come on, guys. Don’t you think it’s worth looking into?”

  “We’ll take that under advisement,” Minghella says. “Now was there anything else?”

  “Hold up.” I stand, aggravated and not a little indignant. “I come to you with a solid lead and you’re not going to do anything about it?”

  “We will do something about it,” Barnes says.

  “Like what?”

  Minghella pushes away from the wall, puts his knuckles on the table and leans forward. “We’ll do our jobs.”

  “Meanwhile Nick Carlisle rots away in that prison cell.”

  “The same kid who pled guilty after he got a full and fair trial, Owen.”

  I shake my head. “I’m going back there tomorrow.”

  Twenty-Two

  The storefront window on the convenience store looks great at least. So I’ve got that going for me.

  On my way to the hall, Denise calls me to check in. I don’t tell her what I know. I’m afraid to get her hopes up, thinking if this lead falls through it will crush her.

  “Lunch tomorrow?” she says.

  “What time is your break?”

  “I can go anytime between eleven-thirty and one.”

  “Eleven-thirty it is. Lunch for you, breakfast for me.”

  We hang up and I get the irrational desire to call her back so we can just talk. I can’t remember the last time I did that with anybody other than my daughter. These days my calls are strictly utilitarian in nature: let’s meet at X at Y time to do or discuss Z.

  But this is what Denise and I used to do. There was a period in high school where we were each other’s last call. Like talking one more time before we went to bed was on our To Do List.

  I keep driving.

  My cousin’s only son, Brad, is working. It’s a slow night. Many of the regulars attend the nine-ball tourney and so they’re not back the following day.

  Brad gives me the run-down. Asks if he can take off an hour early because he’s got a test tomorrow. I tell him no problem. Kid is in the middle of his Senior Slide and I know he doesn’t care about tests anymore. I also know there’s a ninety-nine percent chance he’s headed to his girlfriend’s house or meeting her somewhere.

  More power to him.

  Back in my office, I go over everything I have on Warren John Fereday, Nick Carlisle, Julie Stein, Molly Coates, and Henry Lucetti. Do I believe Nick?

  I’m starting to.

  What are the chances, though, that Fereday’s the guy?

  I mean,

  Really?

  Dealing in probabilities and what-ifs is probably a waste of time, but I’ve looked everything else over a thousand times now so I indulge myself.

  I guess the chances are good. Julie Stein fits in with Fereday’s type. I shudder at the thought. He also knows something about her that few other people on the planet, maybe only one, would know.

  Actually, two.

  Henry Lucetti might know as well. He used the phrase hook up when referring to his night with Julie. In my day that phrase ran the gamut, but these days I’m pretty sure that means sex.

  So what?

  So Henry knew about Julie’s grooming habits. What difference does that make? The fact is, Fereday knows and I doubt Nick or Henry would have shared that knowledge with him.

  Or Julie for that matter.

  She was the nice girl, by all accounts. No way in hell is she teasing an older, pedophile-looking creep by sharing personal information like that with him. No way.

  So Fereday knows.

  My guy punches out early and the last table running also shuts down. I’m alone with my thoughts.

  And a couple bottles of hooch.

  It’s not a good idea to mix booze with the mood I’m in, which combines elements of disgust, hope, a strange longing, and a tinge of nostalgia. Taking on this case reminds me of high school. More specifically, it reminds me of Denise and the odd relationship we had and of course that gets me to wondering how things might have turned out if we had gotten together. Would we have stuck together through college? Probably not.

  But it would have changed things. Maybe in this alternate history I don’t wind up with Lorelei and then Tammy is never born. Just imagining the non-existence of my daughter makes my heart ache.

  I go round and round like this, my hand inching closer and closer to the drawer where I stashed the booze last night. But something stops me. I don’t know what.

  You’re acting like an angst-ridden teenager.

  Get over yourself.

  It’s been half an hour since my last customers clocked out on their table. Though I’m supposed to stay open for another hour, I decide to shut it down. I didn’t get much sleep last night, with the break-in at the store, so I could use the rest.

  I turn off the appliances and arcade cabinets, kill the lights, lock up. My car is the only one in the parking lot. The other stores in the strip mall are all closed. Across the highway is a fast food joint, with a couple cars sitting in the drive-thru.

  As I take a step toward my car, I hear something to my right. Before I can whip my head around, some blunt object hits me hard and the world does a little somersault.

  I hit the pavement.

  Hard.

  Something unforgiving slams into my ribs. The air goes out of me. I get a look at my attackers, am surprised it’s only one guy, and the one guy is dressed all in black including a black ski mask, but my surprise is short-lived because what must be a steel-toed boot just about murders me. The pain in my side is sharp and bad, I can tell it’s real bad.

  The man brings a bat down hard. I block it. With my wrist. Pain explodes there and shoots up my arm, while numbness shoots into my hand.

  This guy has gotten too many good blows in for me to fight back effectively. My eggs are scrambled still from the shot to the head with what must have been the steel bat.

  I do what I can.

  Lashing out with a foot, I connect with the guy’s knee. He screams.

  Yay, me.

  My attacker regroups and whips the bat around. This time he’s swinging it low, like it’s a golf club and I’m out of position to block or grab it, so I try to roll away from it.

  The bat slams into my shoulder blade.

  Instant

  Pain

  That feels like a heart attack.

  I tighten every muscle in my body, hoping this big squeeze will blunt the next impact of the bat.

  But there is no next blow.

  When I open my eyes and get them to focus as much as they can, I see the guy hobbling away into the darkness, around the side of the building. He must have parked out of sight of the cameras.

  Twenty-Three

  The squeak of tiny wheels wakes me. A nurse is bringing a cart into my room.

  Why is a nurse inside my house?

  Surely this is a dream.

  I mean, like every other guy, I’ve had this fantasy.

  O
nly my nurse has got about thirty years on me.

  “Good afternoon, Greg.” She smiles. “How we feeling?”

  “I don’t know how you’re feeling, but I’m feeling great. When can I get out of here?”

  “Uh-uh-uh.” She wags a finger. “Doctor will be around shortly. You’re on some pretty powerful meds so you’ll need somebody to drive you home. That’s if, if, you get to leave today.”

  “What ha …”

  My left wrist has a splint on it and is heavily bandaged. When I try to lift my head, a dull throb pings my skull letting me know this is a very, very bad idea. Then I do the damned foolish thing of trying to shift positions in the bed, and my left shoulder blade revolts. A pain rips through my back and out my chest—like I’m having a heart attack.

  “Try not to move,” she says, about three seconds too late. “You got really dinged up.”

  “How bad?” I ask.

  “Definitely a concussion,” she says. “Fractured wrist. Hairline fracture in one of your ribs. And that blow to the shoulder blade is a bad one too. Might have bruised your heart from behind.”

  “Didn’t know that was possible.”

  “Sense of humor, huh? Well that’s good.” She checks my chart, takes my temp, then gives me the ole, “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain? Ten being the worst.”

  “Zero,” I say. “Non-existent. I’m ready to be discharged.”

  She makes a face. “Greg Owen, I knew your mother and she would not approve of you lying to me.”

  Everybody knows everybody.

  I try to move an inch—just one lousy inch—and this sends me into a spasm. “Alright, let’s split the difference and call it a five.”

  She gives me a skeptical, disapproving look but this time I don’t budge. Reluctantly she enters that slightly misleading information into my chart. In truth, my pain’s a ten. But I hate hospitals and I do not have time for this today. There’s a killer out there and any minute Jason Shaw will be calling—

  Oh shit.

  “Can you hand me my phone?” I ask.

  “Right next to you.” She smiles, a bit evilly. “Since your pain is only a five, you can get it yourself, I’m sure.”

  The nurse waits to watch me with a superior air that would rankle if she wasn’t so right about my condition. With as straight and pain-free a face as I can manage, I reach across my body with my right hand and grab my phone. This move alone causes me to break out into a sweat.

  “Your ex-wife was here, as was Denise. I believe Denise went down to the cafeteria and will be back shortly.”

  “Thank you.”

  She goes to leave.

  “Say, I never got your name.”

  “It’s Rebecca.” She smiles and this time it’s a friendly one. “Your mother and I were in a book club, many moons ago.”

  Everybody knows everybody.

  “How is she?” Rebecca asks.

  “She’s been gone now for …” I count the years. “Awhile.”

  “Oh my Lord, I’m so sorry. She was really a sweetheart. Talked about her pride and joy constantly.”

  “Me?”

  “Her husband.”

  Rebecca makes a face.

  “Just kidding. Of course you.”

  The nurse leaves and I think about Mom for a moment. The last time we spoke, she was in a bed like the one I’m in now.

  Cancer.

  She died and Pop wasn’t very far behind. And then it was just me. No brothers or sisters. A few cousins, but most of them scattered to the winds.

  Enough feeling sorry for yourself.

  On my phone, I manage to get to my email without aggravating some pretty aggravated injuries. Notes from the inspector and the two experts. Preliminary results look good. They need a couple days to finalize their reports, but otherwise I’ve got the greenlight to close on this property.

  Despite being in excruciating pain, this brings a smile to my face. Tom opens at the pool hall today, so I’m good there. Right after I check voicemail, I can give Shaw a buzz and get him on the hook.

  Three messages.

  The first is hard to hear:

  “Hello, Greg, this is Bronson Healy over at PennSafe Mortgage. I’m calling about the preapproval we issued you a few weeks ago …”

  I do not like the note I detect in his voice.

  “ … I’m afraid some errors with the processing came to our attention and we are going to have to retract that preapproval. I’m sorry about this, but you’ll be getting a letter in the mail to that effect in the next day or two. If you would like to reapply for a loan, you can always do so through our website or at …”

  Eventually the asshole whom I’ve never spoken to leaves me his direct extension. I call him immediately.

  What the hell is happening?

  “Bronson Healy, how may I help you?”

  “Hi, Bronson, this is Greg Owen returning your call.”

  “Oh, hi, Greg.” He doesn’t extend his offer to help.

  “Look, Bronson, I’m laid up in the hospital right now and just got your message from this morning. I guess I’m confused. Steve LaBeque knows me personally over there, he’s the guy I’ve been dealing with. There was no problem with my application or my credit and Steve went over my income and the equity I have in various properties and businesses. Fast forward a couple weeks and now I’m getting a call from you about some kind of error in the processing? What exactly does that mean?”

  “Oh, well. First, let me say how sorry I am to hear you’re in the hospital. Is everything okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. Now could you tell me what the issue is?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. You see, I don’t process loans, I just interact with our valued customers like you.”

  “I’m not really a customer if you’re rescinding my preapproval. Who would know what went wrong? And why aren’t I talking to Steve right now?”

  “You can try to reach him, of course. But like I said, you’re welcome to reapply through our website or you can schedule a—”

  “Based on the loan,” I unceremoniously cut him off, “I entered into negotiations on a sizable property. The seller is acting in good faith and the deal is moving forward. Now if I go online and reapply, I’m going to have to go through the whole process again. Things are in motion here, and you can’t even tell me what the hell the problem is. I’m not getting back in line, Bronson. This is unacceptable and unprofessional. I’m calling Steve now, and if I can’t get through to him I’m calling you back and I need to know exactly what’s wrong with the processing.”

  What the hell is happening?

  Steve and I aren’t best friends, but he knows me. I’m not some guy off the street with nothing to show and a hand out.

  I run through my emails to find his number, call him, and get dumped into voicemail. I leave him as professional a message as I can.

  Then I go to my next message.

  “Greg! It’s Denise! I just heard, I’m on my way out. I’m so sorry about all this. I’m so sorry …” And she’s crying, taking this on. Denise has a heightened sense of responsibility. “I’ll be there soon.”

  Last message.

  “Hey, Greg, it’s Jason Shaw. Your guys have been through here, turned this place upside-down. If you’re serious about this, let’s get moving. I’ve got other people interested but I’m looking to move fast here. Call me back so we can set up a meeting.”

  Shit.

  Without an approved loan I might as well be ISIS.

  It’s likely other people are interested in the property, because the information I’m acting off of, while hard to get, is publicly available. So if he’s got other people lining up to make him an offer, and they’ve got an approved loan …

  I’ll call him later after I get the mortgage guy on the line.

  “Greg!”

  Denise comes in, tears in her eyes, and throws her arms around my neck.

  “Oh my God I’m so sorry!”

&nbs
p; “It’s okay.”

  She lets me go and I try to hide how much she just hurt me by giving me a hug. Damn if I feel this bad from a little love tap, I won’t be getting out of here today.

  But I have to.

  I have to go see Warren John and …

  The pain is coming on strong now. The meds must be wearing off.

  “You don’t look good,” she says.

  “I’m fine,” I lie badly. She can see right through it.

  “I’ll get the nurse.”

  I don’t argue.

  My septuagenarian nurse comes back with one of those tiny cups they put pills in and Denise uncaps a bottled water she got down in the cafeteria.

  “What’s this?”

  “Vicodin,” the nurse says.

  I’m not big on popping pills, but there’s no arguing with this pain so down the hatch. The nurse leaves us alone and Denise grips my forearm—the good one—tensely.

  “Are you alright?”

  I nod.

  “Who did this?”

  “I’ve got some ideas.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asks.

  I sit up. Bad idea. Another throb in my head.

  “Take it easy, Greg.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and it’s déjà vu all over again. I can remember the last time she touched my body like that. We were at a diner. She had just broken up with her boyfriend and …

  “Greg?”

  “Sorry, just thinking about something.” I lay back down. “I need to see a few people today.”

  “Who?”

  I don’t tell her. Because I don’t want to argue about it.

  “Just a few people.”

  “Greg … this is related to Nick’s case, isn’t it?”

  I can lie to her, but what’s the point? We both know it is.

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe this was a bad idea.” She looks down. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “What about the police?” she asks.

  I close my eyes. The Vicodin can’t start taking effect soon enough.

  “They’re not very motivated to do anything about Nick,” I say. “They can’t help us without making themselves look bad.”

  “That’s bullshit,” she says.

  It’s the smart play. I don’t begrudge them.