by Bo Thunboe
April nodded. “But Dad found them in an outhouse pit, so they all belonged to him.”
“Or the landowner.”
She shrugged again. “I guess.”
“Do you know where the pit was?”
“I don’t remember if he ever said.”
“You were with your dad when he sold one of the bars to the coin shop.”
“I remember that.” She wiped her eyes.
He needed to wrap this up. “Your dad told the coin shop guy he got the bar from a storage unit.”
April frowned and shook her head. “I’m sure Dad told me he found the bars in an outhouse pit.”
“What do you think?”
“Are you asking me if I think my dad lied about it?” Her voice spiked. “Lied to me about it?”
“No, I…” Jake grimaced. But that was exactly what he’d just asked the grieving daughter of his murdered friend. “I’m sorry, April. Thanks for talking with me. I’ll be… ah, I’ll be going now.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lynn stepped away from the swinging door when she heard Jake get up from the kitchen table. April had handled that perfectly. Jake definitely thought Jim Bowen killed Henry. The man had been so mad about the smaller bars, he must have freaked when he found out about the big ones. He must have thought he should own half of those, too.
But only half. The rest belonged to her and April. Five million dollars’ worth.
A dark thought occurred to her. What if Bowen already had the silver? Jake had said the killer searched Henry’s house—maybe Bowen had found the bars, or had found something telling him where they were. Which meant if Jake arrested Bowen, then she and April would lose their chance at the silver.
Lynn had to do something. Right now.
She ran to the front door and stood on tiptoe to look out the little window. She had to do something to stop Jake, or at least slow him down.
Think, you stupid woman!
* * *
Jake shook his head as he walked back to his car. Telling his grieving goddaughter her dad might have lied to her… that was an asshole move. But the questions had to be asked. Those and a lot more. Hell, if anything, he’d stopped short. Maybe he shouldn’t be handling this case.
And it looked like Henry had lied: his business records reflected only one of the twenty bars he’d found, and he’d told two different stories about where he’d found the silver. Which raised the question of just how many lies Henry had told, and to whom.
“Jake! Hang on a minute.”
Lynn came out the front door waving, leaves flying into the air from her thrusting feet. He stopped in the driveway and braced himself. He deserved whatever she was going to say to him.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree with Jim.” She stopped close to him, hugging herself against the cold. “He was here with me the night Henry was killed. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple months.”
“What?” He was so startled that was the only question he could find to ask.
“James was here that night.”
“Bowen was here? Because you and he…?”
“Like I said. We’re seeing each other—”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Where I work. He started coming in a lot after he lost his job. We got talk—”
“He’s married.”
Lynn looked away. “I know that, Jake. Any man worth spending time with is married.”
“And you’re what… in love?”
She shook her head and her gaze came back to meet his. “It’s just a… he would never leave his wife. Can’t afford to.”
“Does April know about—”
“No!” She hugged herself tighter, against the cold, or against his gaze, he couldn’t tell. “No one knows. No one.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“You never said anything about him.”
She was right. “You and Bowen were together here that night? Tuesday night?”
“His wife was out of town for work.” The cold was reddening her pale cheeks. Her gaze kept skittering away from his. Embarrassed. “We take time when we can find it.”
“Wasn’t April home?”
“She doesn’t have classes on Wednesdays, and she stayed overnight at her friend Lucia’s house.”
Jake gritted his teeth. Back to square one. “Thanks for telling me, Lynn.”
Behind her, April appeared in the doorway, still looking shell-shocked by Jake’s insensitivity. He raised a hand in apology, but she looked down and stepped out of sight.
“Jake, I’m not proud of this,” Lynn said, “so if you can keep it quiet, I’d appreciate it.”
“I can’t promise that.”
He left her standing in her yard, arms wrapped around herself.
Lynn’s story explained why Bowen had wanted to meet in his office with the door closed: he’d been worried Jake would bring up the affair. Or maybe Bowen had been prepared to disclose it if pressed but then his wife came into the room.
But Lynn’s news did more than explain Bowen’s behavior. It knocked both Bowen and Lynn both out of the suspect pool.
* * *
Lynn pulled the storm door open and stepped inside, a sharp gust of wind pushed a scatter of leaves inside with her. “Damn it.” She kicked at them.
“Mom!”
She flinched away from April, who stood against the wall just inside the door. “April! You scared me.”
“Mom!” April’s voice was so loud the storm door vibrated. She gave Lynn her I can’t believe you’re so dumb look. Lynn had seen it a thousand times during April’s teens.
“I had to do something,” Lynn explained. “We can’t let Jake arrest Mr. Bowen because he might already have the big bars. I’m sorry I didn’t talk it through with you first, but there was no time. And now Mr. Bowen will owe us, see? For giving him the alibi. So if he already has it all, he’ll give us our share.”
“But—
“And after we get what’s ours, then I’ll tell Jake I wasn’t with Mr. Bowen. I’ll say he forced me to say that. He’s a big man. Jake will believe me.”
“Mom! I didn’t sleep over at Lucia’s Tuesday night. I got tired of her and came home around midnight. All Mr. Houser has to do is call her and he’ll know.”
“Then you can tell Jake you were here and saw Mr. Bowen.”
“You want me to lie to my godfather?” April went into her room and slammed her door.
If April didn’t back up Lynn’s story, Jake would assume she’d been working with Bowen. And then he’d come for her.
The two bites of toast Lynn had eaten burped into her mouth. She ran into the bathroom and retched into the toilet. The retching went on and on, nothing but thin strings of gastric fluids after the first heave. When her stomach finally quit contracting she wiped down the toilet and flushed it, then washed her face with cold water.
She had to stop thinking about the silver, and start thinking about saving herself. At the rate she was going, she would talk herself straight into jail.
* * *
After Mr. Houser left, Conner had gone to his room to review his notes from his Romani interviews, which wasn’t easy with his parents downstairs shouting at each other. Mom pushing Dad to just go and talk—where and about what, Conner didn’t catch. Dad insisting he could handle it. Maybe this was about marriage counseling again.
When the shouting stopped and the house went quiet, Conner tiptoed downstairs, looked around, checked the garage. His mom’s car was gone. He called April, but she didn’t answer. Probably all tied up taking care of her mom. Mrs. Fox was a real piece of work. Immature, needy, and dumb as a rock. April definitely got her brains from her dad.
He went back to his room and returned to his notes. The stories the Romani had told him had b
een so interesting he’d ended up with more material than he could ever use. But somewhere in here were the exact right details to create the empathy he was shooting for.
His phone vibrated against his desk. April.
“Hey, baby.” He used the rumbly sex voice that made her laugh.
“Hey.” No laugh.
“How are you and your mom doing?”
“She’s so damn dumb!”
Conner laughed softly, but cut it off. Now wasn’t the time. “Sorry, baby.”
“She told Detective Houser she was with your dad all that night.”
“What?”
“She told him they were having an affair.”
“Oh, shit,” he said, then realized what April was saying. “She gave him an alibi!”
“I’m sorry—”
“Because she thinks he did it! Your mom thinks my dad killed your dad and has the silver.”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Cops always verify alibis.” More Law & Order knowledge. Which meant Houser would talk to people who knew April’s mom and his dad. He’d poke away until he found the truth.
“I want to see you,” April said.
“Will your mom let me come over?”
“What do you think?” Of course not. But his parents weren’t home…
“Let me check something,” he said.
He opened the find-my-phone app from their cell phone provider. He and his mom were on the same plan, and both showed on the map. His dad’s didn’t, of course; that would have made it harder for him to keep his secrets. Conner’s mom was at a building out on Bond Street. He opened Google Maps and zoomed in on that location. The Law Offices of Donald Hallagan. He clicked the link. The guy was a big-shot criminal defense attorney. Shit.
“My parents went to see a lawyer.”
“Guilty people get lawyers.”
“My dad didn’t do it, April. I know he’s an asshole, but… he can’t have done this. No way.”
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “I just…”
“I’m coming over.” She hung up.
Was she right?
Had his dad killed Mr. Fox?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jake parked in the middle of the lot at Paget Valley Coins. The sun shone bright but didn’t generate enough heat to beat the chill from a stiff breeze coming from the west. He hustled across the cracked pavement and inside.
Griffin stood behind the counter talking to a customer, so Jake waited while Griffin explained the “risk” the customer had assumed when he bought a used “timepiece.” It sounded like a speech he’d given to other unhappy customers. This one, a cantankerous old coot with stiff gray bristles sprouting from his nostrils, had apparently bought a used Omega from Griffin and was mad about what it had cost him to get it running. Griffin pointed out the disclaimer on the man’s receipt, reading out loud that “PVC makes no warranty about the condition of any timepiece. Timepieces are bought at the buyer’s risk.” The same message was posted on the wall behind Griffin in red and orange.
Jake’s distant law school memory said a “conspicuous” disclaimer meant buyer beware. This sign was extremely conspicuous.
After the old man repeated his argument for a third time, Griffin coldly asked him if there was anything else he could do for him—as if this matter had been settled. The guy cussed his way out of the store.
Jake took the old guy’s spot at the counter.
“You’re back,” Griffin observed without enthusiasm.
“I have more questions.”
Griffin gave Jake a hard-guy stare, but Jake waited him out.
“My office.” Griffin headed for the back room. “Jason, you have the floor.”
A twenty-something in khakis and a red polo shirt hopped down from a tall stool in the corner and started pacing behind the counter.
Jake followed Griffin through the curtain. The same two women worked the cluttered tables in the back, hard at it with tablet computers, taking photos and tapping information into the screens.
“Is it always like this back here?” Jake asked.
“We’re doing an internet auction,” Griffin said.
Neither woman looked up as Jake and Griffin weaved through the maze of tables to the glass cube in the back, where Griffin plopped into his executive chair. Jake closed the door, then stood at the end of the desk. Griffin pushed his chair back and stared up at Jake. The miasma from the man’s cologne was thicker today.
“Why the auction? You said you were great at finding buyers.”
Griffin sneered. “That’s for special pieces. I use the internet to sell the rest of it.” He waved his hand at the tables where the women worked. “In just a few hours I can unload stuff that would otherwise sit around for years.”
“What about the commodities like we talked about yesterday?”
“The silver?” Griffin glanced at the closed door, then turned the big monitor to face Jake. “Silver—and gold and platinum and palladium, the precious metals—are all sold in the market.” He pointed at a flashing number. “The spot price for silver is $20.47 an ounce right now.”
“What was it on June tenth?”
Griffin licked his lips then worked the computer, his cheeks reddening. “Spot price was $23.33.”
“So you would have sold the hundred-ounce bar you bought from Henry for a hundred times that, give or take a buck or two. So about $2,333?”
Griffin squirmed in his chair.
“You sold it for a thousand more than that,” Jake said. “What made the bar a special piece?”
Griffin’s face flushed a deeper red, and his gaze flitted once more to the closed door. He opened his mouth, then went still and sucked air through his teeth. “I can’t say anymore. People who hold precious metals don’t want anyone to know who they are or what they have, or even why they collect it.” He shook his head. “Not without a subpoena.”
Jake sat on the couch. “You mean a search warrant.” Griffin needed a reality check.
“Whatever.”
“The two are very different,” Jake said. “A subpoena is a gentlemanly discovery tool where one party in a lawsuit politely asks the other party for a certain type of document. If this were a contract dispute, for example, I would go back to my office and type up a subpoena for any and all documents and/or computer records related to the sale and purchase of the silver bar identified in the invoice.” Jake smiled. “But this is a murder case, and we use search warrants. A search warrant is a court order giving me access into every nook and cranny of this store, including that vault and every drawer inside it, and every byte within your computer system. If you insist on me getting one, I’ll seal this place up tight—with you outside—to protect the contents until the warrant gets here.”
Jake leaned back, throwing an arm up on the back of the couch. “Your call.”
Griffin reached for his phone. “I should call my lawyer.”
“A guilty person would.” A lawyer would tell Griffin to call Jake’s bluff and demand a warrant. That tactic would fail, of course; Jake had never been refused a search warrant on a murder case in Paget County. But it would slow him down by an hour—maybe longer if the duty judge was at lunch.
“I didn’t kill Henry.” Griffin pulled his hand slowly back from the phone, adjusted himself in the chair, then rubbed his face. “I’m an honest businessman. When I buy something I make the seller swear he owns it, and I take down his information. If it turns out he didn’t own it, then you got him dead to rights. And I don’t cheat people. I paid Henry a fair price for that bar. Market price.”
Deception. Selling his honesty, touching his face, and the anchor point movement. Did he kill Henry, or was he just a cheat?
Jake leaned forward. “Mr. Griffin, tell me—”
“
I sold that bar to a collector.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. “Who?”
Griffin wouldn’t meet Jake’s eyes as he answered the question. “Guy named Titus Cole. I’ll print out his information and then you can leave me alone.”
The name tickled Jake’s brain as he waited for the printout. He’d heard it recently, but couldn’t place it.
Griffin pulled the sheet off the printer and slid it across the big desk.
“Tell me about Titus Cole,” Jake said.
“It’s all there.” Griffin pointed at the printout. “That’s what your search warrant would find about that silver bar.”
The printout had Cole’s name and address—an apartment on Jefferson out near the cookie factory. He had bought the bar with cash.
“How did you find this buyer?” Jake asked. “A guy willing to pay a thousand-dollar premium for a silver bar?”
“He found me.”
Jake waited, relaxing into the couch. Griffin eyed him, then shook his head and started talking.
“He came in here maybe eight or ten years ago. Said he collected silver bars. The bars are finished to different qualities and come from different mints, so they have different mint marks. He asked me to let him look at everything that came in. I’d call him and he’d come in and take a look, but he didn’t buy much. And I see some weird stuff. Whenever the price spikes up a bit—like in April of ’11 when the price was double what it is today—sellers pop out of the woodwork with all kinds of stuff. So I told him he should tell me what he was looking for and I’d keep my eye out. Save himself the trips up here.”
“Trips up here?” Jake rattled the page in his hand. “This says he lives here in town.”
“Now he does. But back then he lived in Texas.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“A tall stocky guy in his fifties?” Jake asked. “A cowboy type?”
“No.” Griffin looked down at the desk, his face shading red. “Older. Probably seventy. But solid, in good shape.” He motioned with his hand along his jaw. “A strawberry on his face along here.”
The old man with the binoculars talking with Bantam down by the barn.
