Jennifer looked into Brownie’s eyes.
“And if Roscoe was waving a gun around, tattoo like that might just get stuck in your face…”
“Or in your mind,” Jennifer said suddenly.
“Right,” Brownie answered, and walked out of the lab.
six
“Push me, Mom!” Granville yelled. “Please!”
The swing set behind the Watson Road house was one of the first things that Gardner had bought to celebrate his son’s birth. It was “a child lives here” symbol. And, as Granville grew, he was out there all the time.
“Push me,” Granville called again.
Carole watched from the porch as the boy allowed the swing to slowly lose its momentum and die. In the past week, he’d continued his backward slide. He had insisted on sleeping in her bed every night now, and today he couldn’t even keep the swing going by himself. This was normal, the therapist said. The increased clinginess was a natural by-product of the shootings.
Carole stepped into the yard and took Granville by the waist.
“Push, Push!” Granville chanted.
“Okay,” Carole said.
She drew him back, and released, allowing a gentle forward swing.
“Do what Dad used to do!” Granville begged. “Ride under!”
Carole’s mind flashed back to Gardner pulling the swing way, way back, then running forward, pushing it up over his head, and releasing. She’d always hated it, the steep angles were too dangerous. She’d even made Gardner stop doing it.
“Ride under, Mom!” Granville was still lobbying for the high ride.
“No, Granny. I don’t like it.”
“Please?”
“I’ll give you a big push instead,” Carole said, shoving harder.
Meanwhile, in a wooded strip two hundred yards below the house, a pair of eyes was watching.
The man adjusted his binoculars and tried to keep the face of the little boy in view. Because of the angle, and the motion of the swing, it was hard to do. But at the top of the ride he stopped for a fraction of a second, and the face was perfectly framed in the circular lens.
That was him. The little shit who had walked in at the Bowers’. Sticking his nose into a situation that was none of his business.
The swing dropped back, and the face disappeared. Then it returned. No memory, huh? No ID? I don’t believe it. He knows. The bastard knows. The little shit should have gone the same route as the Bowers. A 280 grain shot to the head.
The man shifted his position on the ground. A nice setup the prosecutor had. Ex-wife and son in a big house in the middle of nowhere. So remote. So accessible. The address was no secret, and with all of the trails and woods and back roads in the area, it was a piece of cake to sneak up on it. The face popped into view again. No way the kid’s sick, the man thought. He’s a normal jerky little kid. A witness. Nothin’ but trouble…
Just then, he detected movement past the house, and shifted his glasses to the parking area. A county police car was pulling up to the front of the house.
The man ducked, and retreated into the woods. Can’t remember! Bullshit! The cops are working on him. They’ve got nothing else to make the case. If he shoots off his mouth, it’s all over.
The man was sprinting now, dodging trees and bushes to retrace the route he’d taken in. The image of Granville haunted him as he ran. Something had to be done. One more hit. Wipe that goo-goo expression off the little bastard’s face with another look down the barrel of his gun. One more face-to-face. Only this time, he’d get more than a bruise between the eyes.
Purvis Bowers was already at the store when Brownie arrived. They had agreed to meet at 10:30 A.M., but Brownie decided to get there early and walk the perimeter again. It was 10:00 A.M., and Bowers was parked out front and waiting. He got out of his gray compact car when he saw Brownie’s door open. Wearing a blue polyester suit and a knit tie he looked like a character in a 1930’s movie.
“Mornin’, Mr. Bowers,” Brownie said with a smile. “See you’re a bit early.”
Bowers nodded.
“Been inside yet?”
Purvis shook a no, adding, “You people took the key.”
“You didn’t keep a spare?”
“No. Police told me they didn’t want anyone in the store but them.”
That was correct. The initial investigation team had confiscated all the keys to the store, and had Bowers sign a statement that there were no others in circulation.
“Do you have any problem going inside with me now?” Brownie opened the door with the key he had brought and turned to face Purvis.
The man was standing at the bottom step. “Is that really necessary? You never said anything about going inside.”
“I’d appreciate it if you would,” Brownie said gently.
Just then the noise of a vehicle erupted around the western curve in Mountain Road. A beat-up red truck approached at high speed. Brownie and Purvis both turned to look at the truck. It slowed suddenly, as if to stop, then picked up speed again when it came opposite the lab van. The driver was shaded by the cab, not clearly visible. In an instant, it had blown by, and vanished into the wooded grove to the east.
“You know that guy?” Brownie asked.
Bowers had not moved a muscle since the truck first rounded the curve. “Huh?” Purvis said absently.
“Miller. Roscoe Miller. You know him?”
Purvis removed his glasses, and probed an eyesocket with his knuckle. “Miller?”
“Yeah,” Brownie answered. “Roscoe Miller. You ever seen him before?” It was a question without accusatory intent. “I might have run into him a couple of times…” Brownie’s ears pricked. “Yeah? Where?”
Purvis unbuttoned his coat. “Around town. Here or there…”
Brownie made a mental note. Purvis and Roscoe. Maybe it meant something. He decided to let it ride for now.
“Let’s go inside.” Brownie changed gears, and led Purvis into the store. This time, when he hit the switch, the lights came on. They walked past the cash register and stopped. The blood had been scrubbed and the stains removed, but the white lines on the floor remained. “Heard you did some accounting work for your aunt and uncle,” Brownie said suddenly. “That right?”
Bowers took several steps away from the chalk lines. “Yes,” he answered.
“Did they deposit their income in a bank?”
“Bank?”
“Yeah,” Brownie said sarcastically. “Bank. A place where people keep money.”
Purvis crossed his arms. “They did use Western National occasionally, for cashing checks they received.”
“But did they deposit their receipts?”
“No. Not that I’m aware of.”
“Never had a bank account.” Brownie’s statement was really a question.
“No,” Bowers reiterated. “Uncle Henry had a problem with banks. He never trusted them.”
“So how much cash did your aunt and uncle have?” Brownie had done so well up to now, why not hit the central issue head on.
Purvis took another step away from the lines. “How much money?”
“Yeah,” Brownie repeated. “How much cash?”
Bowers did not respond. He was thinking. “Why are you asking me these questions?” he finally said.
“I’m doing a murder investigation,” Brownie answered firmly. “I have to ask questions.”
“But I already gave a statement to the other officers,” Purvis said. “Told them everything I knew.”
Brownie motioned Purvis outside, and they walked to the porch. “That was a preliminary report. They didn’t ask you about your aunt and uncle’s finances. If they had some money stashed away, big money, it might have been the motive for the shooting.”
Purvis turned around suddenly. “They told me it was a robbery attempt. No one said anything about money being taken.”
Brownie leaned against a porch post. “I’m working another angle. Maybe it was more than an atte
mpt. Maybe something was actually taken. Some hidden cash—that’s why we need to know what they had.”
Purvis closed his eyes for a moment.
“Can you answer the question, Mr. Bowers? Did your uncle have some money hidden away?”
Bowers remained silent.
Brownie sensed a problem. “How much money did they have?” he repeated.
“Am I under arrest or anything?” Bowers asked suddenly.
Brownie recoiled in surprise. “No! Of course not! But if you know anything about any secret money your aunt and uncle had, you’d better tell me now. If we turn it up later, you might be implicated!”
Bowers turned and started walking rapidly toward his car.
Brownie jumped off the porch and headed him off. “Please, Mr. Bowers, give me a break. Tell me what you know about the money!”
Purvis said nothing.
“Well?” Brownie was still waiting.
Bowers looked past him toward the car. “No.”
Brownie’s face heated. “Why not?”
“I want to talk to my lawyer first. Before I answer any more questions.”
“Who’s your lawyer?” Brownie asked.
“Mr. Kent King,” Purvis said. “Now, if you would please get out of my way, I’m going to leave.”
Brownie’s question still hung in the air. He’d touched a nerve with Bowers. Maybe there really was a money trail that led back to the killings.
Brownie stepped back and let Bowers pass. He had no authority to hold him. “Give King my regards,” he said sarcastically.
Bowers started his engine and drove off without answering.
“King?” Gardner had just been briefed by Jennifer on the Purvis Bowers impasse. It was noon, and Gardner had returned from a court appearance on a misdemeanor case.
Jennifer was now working full-time on the Bowers investigation, and Brownie had called her immediately after Purvis had cut and run at the store.
“He said he had to talk to his attorney before answering questions about the money,” Jennifer continued.
“Fuckin’ King!” Gardner pounded his fist on his walnut desk. “Always in the middle of everything…”
Jennifer winced. “Take it easy.”
“Let me see the file,” Gardner said gruffly, ignoring her admonition. The assistant shoved it across the desk. Gardner opened it and thumbed the pages rapidly. “No bank. Never used a bank… big deal!”
“Brownie seems to think it’s something…” Jennifer was trying to get a handle on Gardner’s mood swings. Ever since the shootings he’d been up and down daily. It was really beginning to get tedious.
“So the new theory is that Addie and Henry were hoarding cash,” Gardner said sarcastically, “and they were killed for it!” He’d been around the Bowers long enough to see how they lived. They were simple, very simple. They had an old car, old clothes, old everything. They never even owned a color TV, Henry used to brag. And now, suddenly, they were Rockefellers, wiped out for their dough!
“This was a flubbed robbery attempt, Jennifer. You’re getting off track.”
Jennifer resisted the temptation to argue.
“And King is gonna jerk you all around all he can, just for kicks. You know the way he operates…”
Jennifer was still struggling to control herself. “Gard, you put me in charge because you can’t handle this case. Both Brownie and I think there may be an angle with the missing money. We want to pursue it.”
Gardner’s face went dark. “You’re both wrong. This is a dead end, I’m telling you.”
Jennifer looked at the door to make sure it was closed. “Listen to me. As long as I am in charge, I’m gonna decide how to run this investigation. Please keep your negative comments to yourself !”
Gardner looked as if he’d just been slapped in the face. He picked up the telephone and dialed.
“What are you doing?” she asked nervously. His expression was diabolic.
“Calling King,” he answered.
“Don’t do it.”
Gardner pulled the phone closer, as if to protect it from her reach. “Uh, yes. Good afternoon. This is Gardner Lawson. Let me speak to King.”
Jennifer stood up and leaned over the desk. “Don’t do this!”
Gardner ignored her. “Kent, Gardner. You got a client named Purvis Bowers?”
Jennifer gripped the edge of the desk to keep herself from throwing a punch. Gardner could never relinquish control. That was obvious now.
“Okay.” Gardner’s voice was smooth and reserved. “We may have to bring him in before the Grand Jury…”
Gardner flashed a coy look to Jennifer. “Right. The financial situation.”
Jennifer fired back a cold stare.
“No?” Gardner gave Jennifer a smug smile. “How about immunity, then? Transactional immunity for full disclosure?”
That was it. Jennifer reached across the desk and slammed down the hook with her finger.
“Whaaa?” Gardner suddenly realized he was cut off. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jennifer snapped back.
“Trying to save this case!” Gardner huffed. “You want the financial data, and I’m gonna get it for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Jennifer said sternly. “What if Bowers was in on it? You gonna walk him? Huh? Did you think of that?”
Gardner frowned. It was obvious that he hadn’t.
“King calling back on line one,” Gardner’s secretary, Miss Cass, announced over the intercom.
Gardner glanced at Jennifer and reached for the phone.
Jennifer blocked his hand and picked it up. “Mr. King, this is Jennifer Munday.”
Gardner sank deep in his chair, and covered the side of his face with his hand.
“We are not in a position to offer immunity to anyone.” She looked at Gardner. His fingers tugged at his cheek, drawing down one eye. “You misunderstood Mr. Lawson, and if you believe that he made such an offer, you can consider it withdrawn.”
Gardner could hear King’s explosive response.
“Sorry, he’s stepped out.” Jennifer uttered a few closing words, and hung up the phone. Then she looked at Gardner like a mother about to discipline her child. “Don’t ever do that to me again, Gard. I mean it.”
He didn’t answer.
The phone rang in IV Starke’s dorm room, and he picked it up.
“Hello?” It was late afternoon, and classes were done for the day.
“IV, it’s Joel Jacobs.”
An unexpected call. “Mr. Jacobs…” IV put down his magazine and sat up on his bed.
“Your dad asked me to call. Heard you had some trouble on the gun range.”
News traveled fast in New York, especially between Wellington Starke and the master. “Yeah, but it’s okay now. They decided to drop the whole thing.” Thanks to Dad and you, he was tempted to add.
“No suspension?”
“No, sir. They didn’t even make me apologize. Said it was just a misunderstanding.”
Jacobs cleared his throat. “Was it?”
“Huh?” IV didn’t catch the meaning.
“A misunderstanding.” His emphasis on the word suddenly crystallized the question.
“Oh. Uh, no. I mean, yes!”
“So you didn’t point the weapon?”
“No, sir!” This time he was emphatic. “It was sort of in their direction, but I never pointed it!”
“IV, you’ve got to be careful!” Joel said suddenly. “Do you have any idea of the consequences of that sort of thing?”
IV went silent. “I said I didn’t do anything dangerous. Don’t you believe me?”
This time Joel paused. It was as if he was counting to ten. “I believe you, son,” he said with considerable effort. “But if that gun had gone off, all your dad’s money couldn’t save you.”
“It didn’t go off !” IV said defiantly. “I knew what I was doing!”
&
nbsp; “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jacobs replied. “Your smartass attitude is going to do you in one of these days. Get yourself under control!” That was definitely an order.
“Uh, I’ll try, Mr. Jacobs,” IV said meekly.
Jacobs was about to hang up, when IV stopped him. “Uh, Mr. J., can I ask you a question?”
“Yes. Go ahead.”
“If something major happened, would you be there for me?” His tone was ominous.
“What do you mean, IV?”
“I mean what if someone said I did something really serious? Would you defend me?”
Jacobs cleared his throat again. “You’re going to have to be more specific, son.”
“I mean if someone really did get hurt, and they said I did it. Would you be my lawyer?”
“Did you do something else?” Jacobs did not sound pleased.
“No!” IV’s voice suddenly trailed off. “But there’s people… people around here who don’t like me. I’m afraid they may try to set me up or something…”
“IV! What the hell are you into?”
“Nothing! I swear it! But I’m afraid…”
“What of, son? You’ve got to tell me!”
“Just say you’ll represent me, no matter what. Please!”
“IV, you know I will…” Joel was comforting now.
“Good. I feel a lot better.”
Jacobs waited for more, but his young client stayed silent. “IV, you’d better come up to New York. I think we need to have a long talk.”
“Can’t do it. Got two more weeks of school. Then I’m goin’ to Nantucket.”
“I suggest you try to fit it in. It’s very important.”
IV made an excuse that the dinner bell had rung, and told the lawyer he had to run. “I’ll try to come up.”
“Do more than try, son,” Jacobs commanded. Then he said good-bye.
IV put down the phone and looked in the mirror above his dresser. Why would they want to mess with someone as cool as him? He was rich. Smart. And powerful. Anyone would be stupid to try to take him down. But if they did, he could always call on his New York reinforcements.
It was 10:30 P.M., and Roscoe Miller was well on his way to being drunk. He had money in his pocket and sex on his mind, so he had hustled up past the state line, to a notorious roadhouse known as the Drive Inn. Situated on the interstate, the gaudy red-roofed saloon attracted truckers, coal miners, and straying housewives. Supported by a two-hundred-room motel that backed up to the parking lot, the place was ideal for a night out, and Roscoe had no intention of leaving until he got what he wanted.
Silent Son Page 9
