A Cup Full of Midnight

by Jaden Terrell

  “That makes no sense.”

  “Nobody hates the world that much unless he hates himself even more. I think he planned for Byron to kill him, get the letter, and then kill himself. Go out in a blaze of glory, so to speak. The ultimate expression of the Parker Principle.”

  “That wasn’t in his journals.”

  Keating looked more resigned than surprised. “I read between the lines,” he said. “And you’ve been in my home.”

  I put my hands in my jacket pocket and looked at him for a while without saying anything.

  His shoulders sagged and he sank back into the chair, fingering the edge of a blue silk tie stamped with gold koi fish. “You’re like a damn snapping turtle. Tell me, what does it take to get you to let go?”

  “You want to tell me what happened?”

  “There’s not that much to tell.”

  “Did you kill him? Or did Byron?”

  He cast an angry look in my direction. “Leave Byron out of this. He was at the gym, like he said.”

  “So all those plans for Byron to commit a murder/suicide—”

  “Something better came along.”

  “You were the big prize, weren’t you?” I asked. “The one he needed to prove something about—or to. Did you kill him because you found out he was responsible for Chase Eddington’s death? Or was it still that damn experiment? Were you still part of it?”

  “Part of it?” he echoed. “I wouldn’t be part of that—”

  “But you were,” I said. “Back in college. What happened? You found out he was still keeping records and were afraid he might use the diaries to ruin your career?”

  “That was all taken care of by the university. I explained to you how it happened. It was a mistake, that was all. A stupid, horrible mistake.”

  “Costly mistake.”

  “No one was permanently injured,” he said. Then his face crumpled and he rubbed at it with both hands. “Listen to me. Still justifying it after all this time. No, you’re right. It was a costly mistake. But I would never have killed anybody over it.”

  “When did you realize Razor was still trying to prove the Parker Principle?”

  “When—” He stopped himself. “First of all, it wasn’t an experiment. It was a game. Scientifically, it was full of flaws. There were no controls. Everything was at his whim. He had no real interest in science. It was an ego trip. He did it because it was fun.”

  “And you knew about it when?”

  “He was already dead by the time I found out,” he said carefully.

  “Why’d you take the books?”

  He looked down at his lap, fiddled with his tie. “I didn’t want the world to think he was a monster.”

  “He was a monster.”

  “People are more complex than that.”

  There was an awkward silence. Then I said, “He wrote in his journal the day he was killed. The police searched the house right after Byron found the body and the books weren’t there then. So how’d you get them?”

  He forced himself to meet my gaze. “They were hidden.”

  “Secret compartment behind a false ceiling in the closet, right?”

  His breathing quickened, and I saw his gaze flicker left, then right. Searching for a way out?

  “Cops found that,” I said. “The day he was killed. It was empty.”

  “You think Razor had just one hiding place?” he asked, but his voice was weak.

  “Come on, Keating. You were in the house between the time Razor was murdered and the time the police searched the house. A decent prosecutor could make a good case that you killed him.”

  His knee began to jiggle. He noticed what he was doing and stopped. A line of perspiration formed on his upper lip and he licked it away. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Why did you cancel your appointments that afternoon?”

  “I got a phone call from . . . someone in crisis. Not a client, exactly. I cleared my calendar so I could be available in case . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Meltdown.”

  “Not exactly clinical terminology, but accurate enough.”

  “This meltdown . . . It had something to do with Razor?”

  “I don’t think I should discuss it any further.”

  “Were you afraid this person would kill Razor?”

  “That thought never occurred to me.”

  “But that’s what happened, isn’t it?”

  He slumped further in his seat and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger. “I loved Bastian,” he said finally. “But he was . . . ill. Not evil, you understand. Ill.”

  “If you say so.”

  He glanced back toward Byron’s room. “In a sense, Razor killed himself.”

  “Philosophically speaking,” I said, “you may be right. But legally speaking, I’d say you’re in deep shit.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I might be a snapping turtle, but Keating was just as stubborn, in his own way. Since not even the threat of being charged with Razor’s murder could pry further information from him, I left him in the waiting room and dialed Frank’s mobile. It took him a while to answer, and when he did it sounded like he’d stuffed his mouth with cotton balls. Or maybe deviled eggs.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I asked.

  “Won’t know ’til you ask.”

  “Phone records. Alan Keating’s office.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “I’ll let you know when I’m sure. Can you do it?”

  There was silence on the line. Then he said, “Might not get an answer ’til tomorrow. How far back you want to go?”

  I gave him a date a week before Razor’s death.

  “You want to tell me where you’ve been and why you’ve suddenly got a hard-on for Keating?”

  I hesitated. “You really want to know?”

  Another pause. Then, “Tell me something I can live with.”

  “Let’s say I went over to Keating’s to ask him some questions about Razor. The gate to the backyard was ajar, and when I went back there, I noticed signs of forced entry.”

  “Let me guess.” His voice was dry. “You were concerned for his safety, so you went inside to make sure he was okay.”

  “Matter of fact, I did. Nobody home, as it turns out, but there were some interesting items in the guest room and the study.”

  “Interesting items, huh?”

  “Notebooks. An envelope addressed to Byron. It’s from Razor, but it was sent weeks after he died.”

  “You’re going to give me gray hair, you know that, McKean? I call in this story, are you going to stick with it?”

  “I was thinking an anonymous tip.”

  “You going to make the call?”

  “I wouldn’t be a very good citizen if I didn’t.”

  “Good. Then I don’t want to know any more about it.” He let out a guttural growl. “Damn it, Mac. Gotta go. Spilled my potato salad.”

  It was the middle of the next afternoon before he called. The temperature had plummeted, and the sky was heavy and gray. Occasionally, it spat out a mouthful of icy rain.

  Jay and I were in the dining room wrapping presents for Paulie, and when the phone rang, I lunged across the table and snatched up the phone on the first ring. Jay made a face, and I tried to look apologetic.

  “Got it,” Frank said, without preamble. “You’re off the payroll on this one, right?”

  “Right. Why?”

  “Your guy Mayers is a prosecutor’s wet dream. Not only did he do the dirty deed, he admits to it. No question he did the Knights and Medea. And there are two cops who saw him try to take down Collins. But if there’s someone else out there . . . You get what I’m saying?”

  “Sure. If there’s someone else out there, you want him.”

  “You like Keating for the Parker thing?”

  “He was there. Whether he was there from the beginning or got called in afterward, I don’t know. My guess is, he came in later.�
�

  “Yeah. But either way, we got another guy to catch. Anybody turns up on this list, you willing to wear a wire when you talk to them?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “So why don’t you come down here and take a look?”

  The calls were listed in chronological order. Beside the numbers of the callers, Frank had listed names and addresses. On the day of Razor’s murder, in addition to the outgoing calls he’d made to cancel his appointments, Keating had received a call at 8:16 a.m. from his tailor and one from his dry cleaner’s at 10:35. At 11:03, just before the flurry of cancellations, he’d received another call.

  The name leaped out at me.

  Someone in crisis, Keating had said. Not exactly a client.

  Beside the phone number on the printout, Frank had scribbled Doug and Hannah Eddington. There was another call at 1:15. This one came from a mobile phone assigned to Doug.

  I’d’ve killed the bastard then, if I’d gotten my hands on him.

  Keating had told me all I needed to know. I just hadn’t recognized it.

  Rage.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  “Doug?” I said. “It’s Jared. Jared McKean. Remember me?”

  “Jared. Sure.”Wary at first, then a forced friendliness. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Something’s turned up in the Parker case. Would it be okay if I came by? Asked you and your wife a few more questions?”

  Silence. Then, “It’s really not a good time. So close to Christmas and all. It’s been hard on Hannah.”

  “I understand. I won’t take much of your time.”

  “Your visits upset her. I know you don’t mean to. But dredging it all up—”

  “This is the last time,” I said. “It’s important.”

  “This will get you out of our hair for good and all?”

  “Word of honor. This is the last time you’ll hear from me.”

  “Oh, hell. Let’s just get this over with.”

  I’d spent three years in Vice before joining the Murder Squad. Wearing a wire, I’d always felt an adrenaline rush, a tremor of excitement like a bloodhound catching scent, laced with an edgy understanding that today might be my day to die.

  This time, I just felt bad.

  The center of my chest itched where they’d attached the wire.

  I climbed out of the surveillance van and into the Silverado. The surveillance team slammed the door I’d just come out of and revved the engine. Frank gave them a wave and followed me to my truck.

  “Be careful,” he said. “I don’t want to have to explain to my boss how I let you get yourself chopped up into little pieces.”

  “I’m touched by your concern.”

  He chuckled and headed for the Crown Vic. He and the surveillance team would park a short distance away so the Eddingtons wouldn’t see them and get spooked. I pulled the Silverado all the way up into the Eddingtons’ driveway.

  Doug Eddington met me at the door. “Hannah’s lying down,” he said. “I didn’t see any need to wake her.”

  He didn’t offer me a drink this time. We went into the living room and sat across from each other in soft, salmon-colored chairs.

  “So,” he said. “You had some questions.”

  It wasn’t a real undercover operation. Eddington knew exactly who I was and what I was there for. If I wanted the truth from him, I’d have to get him rattled, make him think I had a royal flush instead of just a lousy pair of twos. I didn’t think he’d rattle easy.

  “Last time we talked, you told me your only contact with Keating was when he was treating your son.”

  “If you want to call it treatment.”

  “But actually, you called him twice the day Razor died. Once in the morning and once in the afternoon.”

  His gaze met mine. Unwavering. Sizing up the enemy? Stalling for time? “You want to know why I called him?”

  “The question occurred to me.”

  He shifted his weight and plopped one ankle onto the opposite knee. Cleared his throat. “Actually . . . The first call was from Hannah. It’s a rough time for her, coming up on the holidays. She was clearing out Chase’s room and it got to be more than she could handle.”

  “Why call Keating? Wouldn’t he be the last guy she’d want to talk to?”

  With one finger, he traced the pattern on the crocheted doily on the arm of his chair. “I guess she wanted to talk to someone who’d known Chase. Then she called me at work and I came straight home. Got her calmed down. I called Keating that afternoon to let him know she was all right and wouldn’t be needing him anymore.”

  It was a good story. I wondered if he’d practiced it.

  I wondered if it might be true.

  “She found the letter, didn’t she?” I asked. “That’s what upset her.”

  Silence. He blinked once, very slowly. Then he said, “What letter would that be?”

  “The one Razor sent to your son. The one that told him if he’d take his own life, he’d be one with Razor forever.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched, and for a moment his eyes filled with a terrible sadness. Then it was gone. “You think my son killed himself over a letter?”

  “I think he was confused. I think Razor had been working on him a long time, got him all tangled up inside. The letter just pushed him over the edge.”

  “Pretty farfetched theory.”

  “My nephew got a letter just like it.”

  He gave me a long, flat look. “Is your nephew dead, Jared?”

  “No, but—”

  “Well, then.”

  “It was a near thing.”

  His fingers drummed on the arms of his chair. “You want me to say Chase got a letter like that and that’s what drove him to kill himself? I guess it’s possible.”

  “But you never saw the letter.”

  “I couldn’t say there was one, no.”

  I couldn’t say. Careful words. A careful man. Not a lie, exactly, but not entirely the truth.

  “Razor kept a journal. He mentioned sending the letter.”

  “I see. And you’re certain it arrived?”

  “Razor seemed to be.”

  He uncrossed his legs and put his hands on his knees. “You think I had something to do with that man’s murder?”

  Still couldn’t bring himself to say the name. “Didn’t it occur to you that one or more of Razor’s neighbors might have seen you and Keating at his house that afternoon?”

  His smile was forced, but his gaze never wavered. “Eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable. Or so I’ve heard. Besides, they couldn’t have seen what wasn’t there.”

  “I know you were careful. But it was the middle of the day on a Friday. How could someone not have seen?”

  He looked down at his hands. Then he said, “You’re bluffing. If I’d been identified by neighbors, I’d be talking to the police, not you.”

  “Smart man,” I said. “I’m impressed. But I think you’re going at this the wrong way.”

  “How do you mean?”

  I walked over to the end table and picked up a picture of Doug and Hannah with their son. “It could be argued that Razor was responsible for Chase’s death.”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “It could be argued, yes.”

  “Wife calls you, tells you about this letter she found that almost certainly contributed to your son’s suicide. You go over to confront Razor. Things get out of hand. There’s no doubt in anybody’s mind that Razor was scum. Any defense attorney with half a brain could convince a jury you were out of your mind with grief when you killed him. Panicked. Called Keating to help you clean things up. That’s how I’d go about it.”

  “Why do you assume I did it?”

  I held up the photograph. “You had the best motive.”

  He plucked again at the frayed patch. “I bet you can’t count on both hands the people who wanted him dead. Besides, I heard on the news they got the guy who did it.”

  “Elgin Mayers. He did some bad things,
but he didn’t kill Razor. Besides, we know Keating was there that afternoon.”

  “Then why aren’t you talking to him?”

  “We did. And we know there are calls from your phone to Keating’s shortly before and shortly after Razor died.”

  “Circumstantial evidence.”

  “Sometimes that’s the best kind. But I agree. You might get away with it, since it’ll be easier for a prosecutor to pin it all on Keating. It was an ugly murder. They may even go for the death penalty.”

  A strangled cry came from the doorway, and I turned to see who had made it. Hannah Eddington stood just inside the room, one hand pressed to her lips, the other gripping the doorframe so hard her knuckles turned white.

  “Honey . . .” Doug got to his feet, pushed past me to get to his wife. “You should be upstairs. Resting.”

  “Is it true?” she asked me. Her knees buckled, and she steadied herself against the door. “Alan is in trouble?”

  Alan. Not Mr. Keating.

  “He’s in trouble,” I said.

  She started to speak, but Doug put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close. His eyes were wild. “Hannah. Don’t.”

  “We have to,” she said. “We have to. We can’t just let him—”

  “Hush,” he said. “This guy’s grasping at straws.”

  I took a step toward them. “You remember what you said earlier, Doug? About how if the neighbors had ID’d you, you’d be talking to the police right now instead of me?”

  “So?”The affable demeanor was gone and there was nothing in his face now but a smoldering hostility.

  I unbuttoned my shirt and showed him the wire. “You are talking to the police.”

  “Oh, God,” Hannah said.

  Doug looked at the wire and then back at his wife. All the air seemed to leak out of him, and he suddenly looked smaller.

  “All right,” he said. “All right. You’ve worked it all out. I killed him. I thought I’d covered everything, but I guess I was wrong.” His hand gripped Hannah’s shoulder so hard it must have hurt.

  She put her arms around his waist and buried her face in his shirt. Took a deep breath, as if somehow she could draw his strength in through her lungs.

  “Sssh,” he said, stroking her hair. “It’s all right, honey. It will be all right.”Then Hannah lifted her face to look at me, and Doug said, “Honey, no, don’t.”