by Gregory Ashe
Thoughts went through Hazard’s mind like flashbulbs: he needed to find where Evie was; he needed to call his parents; he needed to check on Nico and Billy and even that asshole Alec. It took a handful of seconds before he could pull himself together, recognize the signs of panic, and hit the brakes. He forced himself to go through all of it again. Rationally. Logically.
“She said he left us a map,” Hazard said.
Somers was nodding slowly. “So where is it?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
NOVEMBER 8
THURSDAY
10:07 PM
THEY DROVE BACK TO the station, which had mostly emptied, and pulled out boxes of evidence. A few of the uniformed officers drifted past, staring, but Hazard ignored them. The initial sorting was easy: first, piles for every person involved in the investigation; then, every pile got sorted into two more piles, this time by date. Everything before Friday went to one side; everything after went to another. If the kidnapper—Hazard refused to think of him as a killer yet—had left them a map, it was more likely that he would have done it after Rory, Phil, and Mitchell disappeared. Therefore, after Friday night.
They started with the post-Friday pile of everything connected to Cynthia. Hazard and Somers agreed that if this kidnapper had somehow left a message, it wouldn’t have been randomly left. It would have been placed purposefully, and that meant it likely had some connection to Cynthia, since she was the kidnapper’s messenger.
Since Cynthia’s death in the hospital the day before, the Wahredua PD had conducted an efficient—and thorough—search of her apartment. Thorough, Hazard thought, was a kind word for it. They had taken everything, it looked like. Cynthia’s piles were double the size of all the others, and it looked like the police had taken everything that wasn’t nailed down. Clothes. Bedding. A yogurt parfait that nobody had thought to refrigerate. They’d even taken an ornate soap dish shaped like a shell. Hazard tossed it back into a box with a disgusted noise.
While Hazard worked through a trash bag full of documents from Cynthia’s desk—electric bills, a Saint Patrick’s Day card, a credit card statement that showed regular visits to the local feminist bookstore, a scrap of paper on which she had jotted frozen avocado—Somers worked through the other piles.
“Do you think this is a clue?” Somers asked, holding up an XL t-shirt that said Literary Scholars Do It With Books.
Hazard glared and went back to his search.
A few minutes later, though, Somers asked, “What about this?”
Hazard kept going through an envelope containing gas station receipts. He was assembling a mental map of the stations she had visited, plotting them around the location of her apartment, looking for a pattern.
“Ree?”
Hazard bit the inside of his cheek and flipped over the next receipt. Lincoln Street. Ok. Lincoln Street was only two blocks—
“Ree, I just need to know if you think this is a clue?”
The envelope folded from the pressure of Hazard’s grip, a crease running under his thumb. Lincoln Street was only two blocks north of Cynthia’s apartment, and Hazard hadn’t seen any other station receipts for the area north of the apartment, so maybe—
“It’s just kind of important. But you’re busy. I get it.”
“What?” Hazard said, turning around so he could face his boyfriend. “What is so important that you have to—”
Somers was wearing a rainbow-colored poncho and an enormous sombrero with what looked like a plastic bowl set into the top to hold queso or salsa or guacamole. With a grin, Somers mimed taking a chip and dipping it into the invisible salsa. Then he took a loud bite.
The corner of Hazard’s mouth twitched. He suppressed it and said, “What the fuck are you doing? That’s evidence.”
“Right. Jesse Clark’s poncho and novelty sombrero, which for some reason Norman and Gross decided to bag, are the pieces of evidence we need to solve this.” Somers flapped the poncho. “How do I look?”
“Stupid.”
“I look great. Do you think these are an important clue?”
“They’re a really important clue. They’re a fundamental clue. They’re the only fucking clue that’s been any help today.” Hazard dropped back down and worried another box free from the pile. “They’re solid fucking proof that you are a total moron.”
“Ouch, Ree.”
“Get back to work.”
“That really hurt.”
“It is no fucking wonder nothing gets done around here anymore.”
“Well, you know, you could always come back . . .”
“No.”
“I’m just saying, you could think about it.”
“No. Will you please do some work?”
Before Somers could answer, another voice interrupted. “What’s going on, guys?”
Hazard looked up into the annoyingly boyish complexion of Gray Dulac. Dulac wore a MO State sweatshirt, joggers, and boat shoes. Somehow, the outfit didn’t make him look like a slouch. It tapped into the devilishly innocent good looks; it made him look like the guy you’d hook up with, again and again, no matter how much of a dumbshit he was the other days of the week.
“Go home,” Hazard said before opening the box.
“Uh, right.” The boat shoes squeaked on vinyl as Dulac came into the bullpen. “But, technically, I do work here.”
“Ok,” Hazard said, folding back cardboard flaps. “Then fuck off.”
“That’s kind of my desk, though.”
Hazard paused in the middle of lifting out a stack of paperbacks—why in the seven hells had Norman and Gross decided to bring Cynthia’s collection of Anne of Green Gables?—and looked up at Dulac. “I’m using it. Stop bothering me.”
Dulac drew in a deep breath, probably ready to launch into threats or shouts, but Hazard had already turned his attention back to the box. Somers was already talking by then, intervening, the way he so often did.
“Gray, sorry about this. We’ll clear out as soon as we can. What’s going on?”
“Couple of guys called me.”
“They called you?” Somers laughed. “Because I’m pulling evidence.”
Dulac didn’t say anything, but after a moment, Somers said, “That’s bullshit,” and so Hazard inferred that Dulac must have looked at Hazard to indicate why he had been called.
“That’s total bullshit,” Somers said. “He’s a consultant. He’s been hired to work on this case.”
“Technically—”
“And we’re trying to run down a lead on where those three people who disappeared might be.”
Hazard shoved the box away and grabbed a trash bag.
“Who?” Dulac said. “The sheriff’s son? I didn’t know that had anything to do with this.”
“It might. We’re not sure either.”
“It does,” Hazard said as he opened the trash bag and found himself staring at a dozen pairs of shoes. He slid the bag away and grabbed another box.
“You remember I told you what Cynthia said—” Somers began.
“Yeah, I fucking remember,” Dulac said, the devil-may-care tone sliding off his voice. “I remember really fucking clearly because we agreed you wouldn’t run off on your own again. We had a really fucking good talk, I thought, about the fact that we’re partners.”
“We did. And we are. And I would have contacted you before we did anything else.”
“That’s really fucking easy to say now.”
“Look, you’re here now. We need help. If we can find this map, whatever it is, then maybe we can find Rory and Phil and Mitchell.” Somers didn’t say what Hazard was thinking, but it filled the air: maybe they could find Rory and Phil and Mitchell while they were still alive. If they were still alive.
“It’s not fucking cool that you did this without me,” Dulac said. “It’s really not fucking cool. We’re supposed to be bros, John-Henry. We’re supposed to do this shit together.”
/> Something about Dulac’s tone, something about the word bros, something about the freckles and the way he smiled like he could get a girl pregnant and play altar boy the next morning, something about those fucking dock shoes—it all hit Hazard at the same time, and his head came up.
“No,” Somers said, his eyes locked on Hazard. “Get back to work.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yet. Back to work. Right now.”
“If he wants to say something,” Dulac said, “let him say something.”
“All right,” Hazard said.
“No.” Somers pointed a finger at Hazard. “Back to work. Gray, if you’re going to stay, will you grab a box and help out?”
Hazard kept his head up a moment longer, his gaze locked with Dulac’s. Then, with a fraction of a shrug, he bent to his task again.
“Yeah, sure,” Dulac said. “I mean, how hard can it be to find a map?”
Hazard couldn’t help it. His head came up again.
This time, Dulac had the decency to blush. “I mean, we’re looking for a map, right? And maps are pretty distinctive. Usually they’re pretty big, or they fold out so they’re big, and they—”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Ree, cool it.” Somers looked at Dulac and said, “Yes, Cynthia said he left us a map, but we think that’s a figure of speech. It’s probably a clue of some kind.”
Surveying the piles, Dulac let out a short breath. “But, like, that could be anything.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, did you look for a map? You know, like, in her car. Or something like that.”
“Somers,” Hazard said, “if he doesn’t start—”
“Ok, ok.” Somers pointed to a box. “Why don’t you do that pile?”
“I’m looking for a map,” Dulac said, shoving up his sleeves and laughing. “But it’s not a map. But maybe it is. I mean, maybe she was being literal.”
“It’s not a literal fucking map,” Hazard said. Although he had to admit he said it a little louder than he intended. He had to admit, he wasn’t expecting the way the words echoed through the station. Moderating his tone, he managed to add, “We don’t think.”
“Listen, Emery, I’ve really tried to be cool—”
“Box,” Somers said, pushing Dulac in one direction. Then, pointing a finger at Hazard. “Box.”
“I’m cool man,” Dulac said, stumbling toward his post. “I’m the one who’s been cool the whole time.”
“I’m a fucking iceberg,” Hazard snapped.
“Jesus Christ, somebody kill me,” Somers said.
They worked another two hours; they took turns brewing coffee in the station’s kitchen. It was past midnight when Hazard had finished the initial survey of anything related to Cynthia that he could date after Friday. That was all he’d done: a survey. A glance. He had a fucking mind map of gas stations, sure. He knew she liked cotton blend t-shirts. If somebody put the screws to him, maybe he’d say that he knew some basic spending patterns. But that was fuck all, in the big picture.
And then it hit him. He couldn’t help the low growl of frustration as he kicked a box away.
“What?” Somers said, glancing up from a stack of photographs taken at Carl Klimich’s storage unit. “What’s wrong? Did you figure it out?”
“I figured out that I’m a fucking idiot.”
Dulac cleared his throat and shifted; Hazard didn’t miss the way Somers threw his partner a warning look, but Hazard was too angry at himself to care.
“I’ve wasted our time. That’s what this has been. A big.” He punctuated the word with a kick to a box. “Huge.” Another kick. “Fucking.” Kick. “Waste.” Kick. Kick. Kick. The side of the cardboard box split, revealing another stack of books.
“You’re going to break a toe,” Dulac said. Then, when Somers glanced at him: “What? Dude, I’m trying to help. You don’t want a boyfriend with a broken toe, right?”
“Why in the fuck did I think we should look through this stuff?” Hazard said. “We should be looking through whatever the sheriff has for Rory and Phil and Mitchell.”
Somers nodded slowly. “Maybe. But it might be here.”
“It’s not. I know it’s not. Christ, talk about being blind.”
“You weren’t being blind. You were testing a hypothesis. Cynthia told us about the map, and one possibility was that she was in possession of it. Or she had been used to deliver it. You were testing the hypothesis.” Somers took a breath. “You’re sure?”
Hazard waved a hand because he couldn’t answer with words. He was still too angry. Somers’s point had been a good one: the only way to be sure Cynthia didn’t have the map was to examine everything in evidence. The point about the hypothesis was good, very good. Very Somers; even in his anger, Hazard wasn’t oblivious to how Somers knew to speak his language, knew to say the right thing, the one right thing, that could cut through his rage.
“Let’s box this up again,” Somers said, “and we’ll go to the Sheriff’s Department. Engels will let us take a look at whatever they’ve got for Rory and Phil.”
“And Mitchell,” Dulac chimed in, with the overeager tone of someone who just wants to be involved. “You said some dude named Mitchell too.”
“There is no evidence for Mitchell,” Hazard said, turning on Dulac. “Not a fucking thing because there’s no investigation on Mitchell. We did one fucking wellness check. That’s it. We’ve been so caught up in—”
And then it hit him, the vision so clear and hard that it actually hurt. It wasn’t logic. It was just plain old memory. And that just made it hurt more.
He could see it in Somers’s face.
“The book,” Somers said. “The book that was open on the bed.”
“With blueprints and maps and diagrams for Wroxall’s entire campus,” Hazard said. “I am such a fucking idiot.”
The moment hung over him like the weight of the world.
“I told you the map was a map,” Dulac said, jumping up. “Do you want me to drive?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
NOVEMBER 9
FRIDAY
1:11 AM
EVEN AFTER MIDNIGHT, WROXALL’S campus was dark without being still. Students drifted under the security lights—little shadows moving singly and in pairs. Laughter, a drunken shout, the clip of hurried steps. In some of the buildings, lights showed in the windows, marking academics desperate for the next publication, the next grant, the next award.
“It’s going to be locked, right?” Dulac said as they approached Mitchell’s building. “I’ll find the building manager.”
“It’s past midnight,” Hazard said, not breaking his stride.
“Places like these, they usually have somebody on site 24/7. They live here, you know. I’ll meet you at Mitchell’s unit.” He took off at a jog, pulling ahead of them.
“Fuck that,” Hazard said, turning away from the building’s main entrance. On the side of the structure, he spotted a fire exit propped open, and he headed for that.
Somers kept pace.
“If you want to go with Dulac, so you can say you did it by the book, go with Dulac.”
No words; Somers just squeezed Hazard’s arm and kept walking.
The fire exit opened onto a stairwell, and in the stairwell, a young man and a young woman were busy screwing each other’s brains out. Right on the stairs.
“Shit or get off the pot,” Hazard said, trying to get past on one side. The couple was scrambling, and they got into his way, so he growled and tried the other side. They were still scrambling and got in his way again. His growl turned into a roar, and he grabbed the handrails and launched himself up and over them.
Somers followed after. “Buddy,” he called over his shoulder. “A little slower next time. She doesn’t need road rash, and she didn’t sound like she was liking it.”
They were halfway up the stairs when Hazard heard the girl say, “Ac
tually, Ron, I did want to say something about how fast you were going.”
Fucking Somers, Hazard thought, a wild grin sliding across his face like an eclipse.
They climbed to the top of the building, the only sounds their breathing, shoes on cement, the echoes of their passage. At the last landing, Hazard crashed through the door and into the hallway.
Dulac was already there, waiting with the manager—same guy Hazard had seen the time before. The manager was still wearing his Members Only jacket; tonight, the sauerkraut smell was stronger.
“Elevator,” Dulac said, shrugging. “Modern miracles.”
Hazard pushed past them and into Mitchell’s apartment. Somers was right behind him, and Hazard glanced over his shoulder. “Where’d you leave it?”
“The bed, I think. Shit. I think.”
He was right: the book lay on the bed. Hazard snatched it up and offered it to Somers.
“Which page was it open to?”
“I don’t know.”
“John, which page?”
Grabbing the book, Somers flipped pages. He marked one spot with his thumb, kept going, slower now. Then he flipped forward maybe a hundred pages.
Hazard shifted his weight. Folded his arms. Walked a full circuit of the room, slapping one hand against the folding closet doors. The sound ran through the small apartment; from the hallway came a surprised squeak that Hazard guessed had been the manager.
“We’re fine,” Dulac shouted from the hall. “Everybody’s fine.”
Somers was still flipping big sections, then slowing down, turning individual pages like they were onionskin.
“John,” Hazard said, unable to stop himself. “What kind of search methodology is that?”
“Shush.”
Hazard did another circuit of the room.
Somers was still flipping back and forth.
“The book was left open,” Hazard said. “So the spine probably has some creasing. We could try letting it fall open on a flat surface. Or we could break it into sections. I remember you saying something about foundation work, so maybe if we look in the index—”
“Ree,” Somers said without looking up. “Shush.” And then Somers let out a little crow of triumph, flattened the book open, and held it out. “There.”
