Absolute Liability

by Jennifer Becton

  His truck was parked a few spaces away from my Explorer, and as I headed for my own car out of habit, he gestured at the GMC. “Hop in.”

  “So you’re driving then?” I said it just to see what he’d say. I really didn’t care who drove, and it was better to ride together. Present a united front, save gas, and all that.

  He raised an eyebrow as if he knew I was screwing with him. “Just get in.”

  I did, but I stopped to grab my sunglasses from the Explorer first.

  When I slid onto the bench seat of Vincent’s truck, I chanced a quick look at him. He was relaxed but all business.

  During my time with the MPD, I’d been around lots of tough guys. I mean real battle-hardened military men. It had become their habit to intimidate and posture, but sometimes, deep inside, they were something utterly different. I’d seen them spend hours on crazy calls, things like trying to catch loose horses that had no inclination to be captured. I’d seen them rescue kittens and go above and beyond to comfort victims.

  I liked to imagine there was that kind of softness inside even the toughest of tough guys. In that regard, I guess I’m like most other women. I like the idea of these bad boys having soft nougat centers.

  Of course, not all men are like that. You break them open, expecting nougat, and you end up with something disgusting like coconut. That’s something that needs to be understood from the get-go. Some men are just assholes. Period.

  But my gut said Mark Vincent was something different. I wasn’t sure exactly what was inside him, but I was hoping for nougat. That would make our working relationship doable.

  “I thought we’d start by interviewing Roger McKade.” I eyed him, wondering what he would think of beginning with the suspected arsonist instead of the wastewater treatment plant, the more obvious choice. It had been insured by Southeastern, which was where the abduction had taken place. There was a clear link between Southeastern and the plant, but to me, it made sense to start with the arson. It was a much more violent crime than a standard fraud.

  Vincent surprised me by nodding. “I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “Statistics say that arsonists are prone to aggression and violent behavior, so it might not take much for McKade to come after you. That, in conjunction with his arrests for public intoxication and assault, makes him more likely to be involved in Amber’s abduction. Just knowing he was under scrutiny might be enough to set him over the edge.”

  I looked at him, realizing for the first time how much I’d missed working with a partner, and, I admit, I was pleased that he agreed with me. It would make working together more enjoyable if we were on the same page.

  He caught me studying him, but I didn’t turn away. I had nothing to feel guilty about. I was just looking, not admiring.

  Into the silence, he said, “Tell me about McKade. What wasn’t in the DOI prelims.”

  “Roger McKade owns a furniture warehouse that burned this weekend. His claim was $500,000 in lost property and inventory. After some checking, his insurer found that he filed for bankruptcy last month, so the claim has the stink of duplicity. In fact, it reeks of owner-initiated arson.”

  Sorry to say, but insurance doesn’t cover voluntary destruction of property.

  “Have you had one of the arson guys out yet?”

  “I called Eva Sinclair. She’ll be out Monday with her arson dog. I went to the site yesterday to get a preliminary feel for what might have happened and to take some pictures. Unfortunately, those pictures were on the camera that was taken with Amber, so I obviously can’t show them to you. I’m not an arson expert, but it seems entirely possible that the fire was set purposely.”

  If it turned out McKade had set the fire himself, the truth would soon be out. He would have a darn good reason to be pissed at me: he wouldn’t get a dime out of his insurance company, and if it were proven that he’d torched the place, then he’d be charged with second-degree arson, a felony that would put him away for as many as ten years. Plus, he’d be stuck with stacks of charred furniture in a scorched building.

  “He has half a million reasons to want to end your investigation.”

  “That he does,” I said, not liking the sound of it at all.

  We rode in silence to McKade’s neighborhood, which turned out to be a sea of middle-class brick ranches almost indistinguishable from each other. We pulled onto his street, and Vincent drove slowly enough for us to read mailbox numbers. Finally, we pulled into the right driveway.

  Here’s where I expected Vincent to warn me about letting him do all the talking or remind me that seeing me alive and free could set off the guilty party. But he didn’t. We just got out of the truck and walked together through the heat toward the door. I put on my cursed jacket and began to sweat almost immediately, but the gun on my hip was a comfort.

  I rang the doorbell, and we waited. I sweated.

  The door opened, and we encountered a short, bald man who endeavored to hide that fact by sweeping about five long hairs from the left side of his head to the right. I had news for him: it wasn’t working all that well.

  “Roger McKade?” I asked.

  He glanced down at the badge I had clipped to my belt. “Shit. Cops?”

  “Department of Insurance,” I said, studying his reaction. He didn’t look surprised as much as pissed to see us. Maybe in this case pissed was good, but honestly, I wasn’t sure.

  He jerked a thumb at Vincent. “Who’s this jackass?”

  Vincent introduced himself by flashing his badge, and McKade used a few more choice words.

  “Mr. McKade, we’re here about the fire at your warehouse this weekend,” Vincent said with extreme patience.

  “I thought you already went to the warehouse to investigate,” he said, making air quotes around “investigate.”

  “This is just a follow-up visit, Mr. McKade.”

  “Yeah, well, I told the cops—the real cops—I didn’t burn my own warehouse, for chrissake. You gonna arrest me? I ain’t in no mood to be arrested today.”

  I wondered vaguely if there were actually a mood in which I’d want to be arrested. While I mulled over that little tidbit, Vincent said, “We just have a few questions, Mr. McKade.”

  “About the fire? I done talked all about that already.”

  “This will help us process the claim faster,” I lied. Nothing short of a papal declaration could make claims move any faster, and of course, I had nothing whatsoever to do with his claim.

  But he didn’t know that.

  “Fine. Come in.” McKade opened the door wider and the air conditioner hit us in a cool, welcoming wave. We entered, and that was where the hospitable feeling ended. Abruptly. The front room was cluttered with magazines, mail, and dirty dishes, but the furniture was nice, what I could see of it anyway. The TV was on and muted. It was some morning show I’d never watched. I’m not much for morning TV.

  A gun display case stood in the corner. As I picked my way through the trash around it, I noted that it was locked. And absolutely packed with firearms of all shapes and sizes.

  There was no doubt that McKade met another criterion for the abductor. He had easy access to firearms.

  As he tromped to his oversized blue recliner, McKade evinced no interest in opening the gun case and shooting me. This was a good sign. He flopped into the recliner and issued us an invitation fit for royalty: “Since you’re here, you might as well sit.”

  I tripped and stumbled my way toward the couch and then used my purse to clear a patch to sit on. Vincent remained standing in front of the gun case. “Nice collection,” he commented.

  McKade perked up a bit. “You hunt?”

  “Nope.”

  “Huh.” With that one syllable, it was clear that McKade was writing Vincent off as a city-boy pansy. “Well, I’m a hunter. It’s my constitutional right to kill bears with arms.”

  I was glad when Vincent didn’t laugh. It gave me hope that the sense of humor I’d glimpsed beneath his stoic exterior was decent. He j
ust studied the cabinet and then walked around the room, checking things out, I guess. I could already tell him what he’d find. More trash. Maybe a shotgun.

  McKade gestured at the glass cabinet. “Those are my rifles and shotguns over there, but I just picked up a dandy little hunting revolver.”

  “Yeah?” Vincent asked. He was on the other side of the room now, peeking into the kitchen.

  Curious, I got up and plowed back over to the case. I hadn’t noticed any revolvers on my first pass. “It’s not in here.”

  “Then it’s probably in the gun safe in my bedroom. I keep things secure. I ain’t no animal,” he said to me and then returned his attention to Vincent for some man talk. “Taurus Tracker .357 Magnum. Loud as hell. Ported barrel helps with the kick, but it would still knock this little lady on her cute little ass.”

  “Nice,” Vincent said. I turned from the cabinet to find them both looking at a suspiciously low point on my anatomy. I wasn’t sure if Vincent was responding to the gun or the comment about my ass. I didn’t want to know.

  I frowned. Comments on my anatomy signaled that the time was past to build a rapport with the suspect, and I glared at Vincent. He got the message.

  “Mr. McKade, the DOI sometimes checks up on claims like yours. Just to make sure the insurance company is handling everything properly.” He took out a notebook and pen, as if poised to take notes. “Tell me, are you satisfied with the way Southeastern Insurance is processing your claim?”

  This wasn’t the line of questioning I’d expected. I shot a look at Vincent and then studied McKade. I could tell he hadn’t anticipated this type of question either. He scratched his head roughly, and I began to worry that those five hairs would soon be down to four.

  “Well, I’d like to have my money.”

  “Of course you would.” Vincent was all affability. “But we do require these types of claims to be investigated thoroughly.”

  “Well, Southeastern ain’t been nothing but thorough.”

  “Good, good.” Vincent made some notes. “No complaints then?”

  “As long as I get my money, I got no trouble with them.”

  Vincent tapped his pen on his notebook a few more times and then looked at me. “Any follow-up questions, Special Agent Jackson?”

  I tried to find a nice segue between Vincent’s checking-up-on-the-claim ruse and the questions we needed to ask. “As you know, our investigator was on site yesterday.” I left out the fact that I had been the investigator. “And for our records, we need to know where you were from eleven to three.”

  McKade shuffled his feet, clearly deciding whether or not to lie. “Why do y’all care where I was yesterday?”

  “We just need to make sure the investigator got an unbiased look at the site. He’s not supposed to meet with owners. You know the drill.”

  “Well, I wasn’t there.” He shuffled his feet around some more, crumpling newspapers with each movement. “I ain’t been there since it burned, and that was over the weekend. This whole insurance deal is taking forever. You should be out writing me a check for the damages, not sending out no investigators.”

  “Mr. McKade,” I said in my best placating tone, “these things take a lot of time. Red tape. Nothing I can do. You know how it is.”

  I was pretty sure McKade didn’t grasp the concept of bureaucracy. Judging by the way his gaze kept dropping to my butt, I suspected he was more interested in grasping other things. If he were to act on these grasping impulses, I would be forced to cause him a great deal of pain.

  “Well, I need the money pretty darn soon. My bills are piling up.”

  I glanced around. Something was certainly piling up.

  Vincent had worked his way around the whole room and was standing behind the recliner when he asked, “So where were you?”

  McKade shuffled his feet yet again. He’d moved the pile of debris so that I could make out a bit of green carpet beneath his feet. Before he burrowed through the carpet to the subfloor, he managed to say, “I was getting a haircut.”

  I looked at the five hairs on the top of his head. A four-hour haircut seemed unlikely. That was almost an hour per hair.

  “All afternoon?” asked Vincent, obviously as skeptical as I was.

  “Yeah.”

  Both of us eyed him. He squirmed some more. “Okay, okay, I might have gotten a facial too.”

  We kept staring. I felt my mouth drop open, and I cocked my head to the side, trying to see how his pores looked after his facial. I was pretty sure that wasn’t why Vincent was staring. He looked more disbelieving than curious.

  “Right,” he said.

  “No, really. I got a facial and a massage.” He looked sheepish. “And a mani-pedi.”

  I almost laughed. “Seriously?” The guy looked like he hadn’t seen the inside of a shower in months, and he expected us to believe he’d been at a spa. I would have been much more likely to believe he’d been at a deer processing center.

  Roger McKade looked positively insulted. “Hell, yeah. Women like smooth skin.” He looked at me. “You like smooth skin, right?”

  The only thing that kept me from laughing was the fact that we were here on deadly serious business. Vincent saved me from responding.

  “What salon?” He said the word “salon” as if it were an epithet.

  “La Belle Day Spa.”

  Vincent recorded the info, gave McKade a disgusted look, and then gestured to me that we were done. “We’ll check on that.”

  McKade walked us across the piles of debris toward the door, no doubt eager to see the back of us. “I’d rather you get me my check.”

  “We’ll get back to you.” As we headed down the walk, I turned around and added, “Mr. McKade, do you recognize this woman?” I felt like Colombo as I showed him the picture of Amber Willis that the MPD had provided, as if I’d completely forgotten about it.

  He studied it for a moment. “She that bartender down at Boony’s?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then I don’t know her.”

  “Her name’s Amber Willis,” I said helpfully. “Does that ring any bells?”

  “Doesn’t matter what her name is.” He shook his head. “I still don’t know her. She’s cute though. You got her number?”

  With that, Vincent and I retreated to the truck. Even though it was only mid-morning, the Georgia sun had heated the cab to approximately 900 degrees Fahrenheit. Vincent opened my door, and I stepped back from the blast of heat. After a few moments, I took my jacket off and slid onto the seat. The vinyl burned my bare arms. Gotta love summer in the South.

  Vincent got in, started the truck, and turned the air on full blast, which wouldn’t do any good until we started rolling and the compressor began working in earnest. But it was a nice thought.

  He removed his sport coat and rolled up his sleeves. Here is where I was supposed to notice his muscular forearms, but that’s not what drew my attention. He had a tattoo: an anchor inked on the inside of his left forearm close to the crook of his elbow. The anchor was entwined with a rope, and a nautical star was centered above it. Underneath were the words “Hold Fast.” It wasn’t fresh ink or even a modern-looking tattoo. Simple and stark in plain black ink, it looked more like the tattoo a World War II sailor might have.

  I knew that tattoos had been a part of the naval tradition since the first sailing vessel was launched into the ocean blue. I’d bet Noah himself had a tattoo of a pair of doves to commemorate his famous sea voyage. But that anchor on Vincent’s forearm surprised me. He just didn’t look the type. I wasn’t much of a fan of tattoos in general, so I couldn’t explain exactly why I liked Vincent’s, but I did.

  As we pulled out of the driveway, I forced myself to stop thinking of tattoos and start reviewing what McKade had told us. Suddenly, my mind was overwhelmed by the image of his porky little body in a fluffy white robe and his face covered in a mud mask and cucumbers. I had restrained myself during the interview, but couldn’t hold back now.


  Vincent looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.

  “La Belle Day Spa?” I squeaked by way of explanation. “Can you imagine what the manicurist must have had to deal with? I’ll bet she wore two pairs of gloves to keep herself from getting a fungus!” I was really laughing now.

  I looked at Vincent. His face reflected a mixture of amusement and disgust. “I can honestly say that day spa wasn’t the alibi I was expecting. Pathetic.”

  “Agreed,” I said. No woman wants a man who spends his days at the spa and uses the term “mani-pedi.”

  “Yes, and now we have to go there. Unfortunately.”

  “I’ll look it up.” I fiddled with my smartphone and found the place after a few minutes. “It’s not too far from here,” I said, and then on a whim I added, “Maybe you can get a facial too.”

  Vincent’s blue eyes brightened and a slow smile spread across his face. “Super,” he said with an affected lisp.

  He parked the truck in the lot at La Belle Day Spa, which was housed in an old shopping center off Riverdale, and we went inside.

  Green plants were arranged around the entryway and a faux rock fountain dribbled water next to the reception desk. New Age music played in the background.

  McKade would fit right in here. I could just see him in a spa robe, waddling around with pedicure separators between his toes.

  A woman in her forties with hair colored an unnatural red and shaped into a severe, angular bob appeared behind the desk. Her hair would probably not move in a hurricane. I made the mistake of looking at my hair in the mirror we passed in the lobby. Good Lord, it looked like it had never seen the business end of a brush.

  Based on the look the receptionist gave me, she agreed. “Good morning, I’m Mimsy,” she said while looking down her nose at me. She slid her eyes over to Vincent and began ogling him like he was a choice cut of meat. “How may I serve you today?”

  This was directed at Vincent. She punctuated her question by leaning forward on the desk and mashing her breasts together for his viewing pleasure. The effect, unfortunately, wasn’t all that pleasing. Unless you preferred women’s breasts to be shaped and textured like partially deflated footballs.