She turned her attention back to Reed, no small amount of accusation in her gaze. “Lot of damn good it did.”
Instantly, Reed knew where the discussion was going. He’d heard the lecture enough times to recognize all the signs.
He left without another word.
Chapter Twenty
Two cars were in the parking lot as The Good Son pulled in. Both were parked in the spots closest to the front door, each with a single occupant.
The morning sun had burned away any dew as he parked and climbed out, sweat shining from his forehead, his cotton t-shirt already damp.
After the night he’d had, the nights he’d had, this was not how he wanted to start the morning. He was aware that his mother had been difficult and that he was running three minutes behind schedule. He also knew that nothing these people needed was important enough for them to read him the riot act, though that wouldn’t stop them from doing it anyway.
It never did.
“The sign on the door says you open at 7:00,” the woman closest to him said, kicking off the tirade he knew was coming. She was short, with the beginnings of middle-age pudgy forming around her midsection. Her hair was dyed too dark and teased out in a ‘60s style, and she wore sunglasses that hid her eyes and most of her face.
Opposite her was an older man in jeans and a short sleeve plaid shirt, buttoned at the neck, the tail tucked in. He wore a rumpled ball cap from a nearby golf course, tufts of white hair sticking out from either side.
He wouldn’t be a problem, The Good Son knew. People like him never were.
“It’s four minutes after,” the woman said, falling in beside The Good Son as he walked to the front door. “I’m going to be late now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” The Good son said, his first words of the morning. “I’m very sorry. There was an accident on the way here.”
The woman grunted, letting it be known she was aware the excuse was a blatant lie. She stood just inches from his shoulder as he unlocked the doors and pushed them both open wide, standing aside so the two could enter. They were already inside before he was even able to flip on the lights, the sodium bulbs offering a thin haze as they began to warm up.
Bypassing most of the usual opening chores, The Good Son went straight to the cash register. Just like the lights overhead, the machine took a moment to get going, a secondhand relic with more than 10 years on its odometer.
As it cycled up, The Good Son pulled out an apron from under the counter and looped it over his head. As the register came alive, it spit out a tape marking the time and date, The Good Son tearing it away and dropping it beneath the cash drawer to begin the day.
Opening the store was a chore shared among the half dozen low-level employees on staff. One morning a week each person was required to come in at 7:00, manning the place until help arrived an hour later. At that time, The Good Son would hand off the register to one of the cashiers, retreating to the back for a day of manual labor unloading trucks, stacking bags of dog food and seed, and stocking shelves.
At 9:00 Beauregard arrived, making life miserable for everybody.
The thought brought a grimace to The Good Son’s face as he leaned against the front counter and waited, the lights above finally reaching full power. Combined with the sun streaming in through the front windows, it illuminated the dozen long aisles, the Good Son able to see everything from snack foods to landscape stones from where he stood.
The old man was the first to appear before him, a pair of white plastic elbow joints for home plumbing in hand. He dropped them onto the counter without saying a word, his mouth turned down in a frown.
The Good Son knew the look well enough to infer exactly what was being said, despite not a sound leaving the old man. He had been late, he had shown up wearing jeans and a t-shirt, the sleeves cut away. His truck was unwashed, and rooster tails of mud were splashed up the sides. Word for word he could almost recite the lecture he knew lurked inside the man, starting with some variation of back in my day and including words like self-respect and accountability.
The Good Son’s face let it be known he was not in the mood to hear it.
If this old man, if anybody, knew just how accountable he had been lately, they would stare in wonder. They wouldn’t dwell on a few surface imperfections, but would marvel at the lengths he was going to.
“$4.50,” The Good Son said, putting an edge on his voice to drive home the point.
It worked.
The old man peeled a five dollar bill away from a small wad of cash, staying quiet as The Good Son scraped two quarters out of the bottom of the drawer and handed them back to him. “Have yourself a good day.”
The words tasted caustic on his tongue as The Good Son watched the old man shuffle away.
For years - most of his life, in fact - he had fought to keep vile thoughts out of his head. He disliked the notion of hatred, absolutely despised the thought of anybody hating him.
At the same time, he found it harder every day to keep the dark energy at bay.
The things he had done were not only deplorable, they had been for nothing. They had failed to accomplish their objective, meaning they would have to continue. Realizing he would have to do something similar, or perhaps even worse, in the coming days darkened his mood immeasurably.
Knowing it was his fault they had to be done at all made it even worse.
From behind the register, The Good Son watched as the old man climbed behind the wheel of his car and drove away. He made no effort to hide his expression or look away as the car departed, for one tiny moment feeling a little better.
It was the first time in a long time he had pushed back.
Damn, did it feel good.
“Four minutes,” a voice said, drawing him from his thoughts. He turned to find the woman standing before him, a plastic watering can on the counter. “I just think if a place says they open at 7:00, they should be open at 7:00.”
Hostility oozed from every pore as she slid a Visa card from her pocketbook and handed it to The Good Son. Despite being inside, she had not yet removed the sunglasses, her face still hidden from view.
Just as he had with the old man, The Good Son plastered a look across his face. The thought of adding to the fabricated story passed through his mind, of telling the woman that the accident had produced a child fatality.
Instead, he pushed it aside, merely staring at her before looking down at the card.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Jurgensen, but I’m required to see some identification on all credit card purchases.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The woman on the other end of the line had told Reed she was willing to meet at Esther Rosen’s house, though he could tell it was nothing more than a token offer. The kind of thing a nice person does, but hopes will not be accepted.
That original inkling grew even more pronounced as he approached the corner table outside a Starbucks in Hilliard. Seated alone at it was a woman in her mid-20s, the only person brave enough to chance the metal chairs in the morning heat.
Inside the glass storefront he could see a line of people snaking throughout the building. Along the side of the place was a line of cars twice as long, everybody anxious to get their morning fix of caffeine.
“Janine Rosen?” Reed asked as he approached. He had opted to leave his badge in the car, not wanting to seem too overbearing, or even worse, for her to have to suffer the indignity of strangers gawking through the window and wondering what was going on outside.
For that reason, he had also left Billie in the car. The windows were down, and he was parked beneath a tree, but still, his timeframe was limited.
“Yes,” she said, rising halfway out of the seat as she stood and extended a hand toward him. “Detective Mattox?”
“Reed,” he corrected, meeting the handshake and sliding into the chair opposite her.
Based on her phone voice, she wasn’t exactly what Reed had expected. She had straight dark hair that was parted in the middle an
d outlined an oval face, a red nose and dark circles under her eyes her most prominent features. She wore no makeup and had on a subdued summer dress, flip-flops on her feet.
On the table in front of her was an iced coffee on a small stack of napkins. Condensation had formed on the side of it, drops streaking downward before being absorbed by the napkins.
Everything about her, from her tired eyes to her slouching posture, seemed to relay she was still grieving. For a moment Reed wanted to reach out to her, to pat her on the shoulder, to offer his condolences. At the same time, he remembered the way people had done those very things when Riley died and how much he hated it.
Even more so, the look of pity on their faces.
In a way, they had made his road to acceptance that much harder, and he would be damned if he would do the same thing to this young woman.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” he said. “I appreciate you making the time.”
Across from him Janine nodded, saying nothing.
Twice already this the morning he had gone over the questions he wanted to ask her, knowing them verbatim without having to consult his notebook.
Badge or not, nothing screamed cop like someone reciting from a pad. Already he could see a few people watching them through the window as they waited in line.
“Our records have you listed as Esther’s next of kin and emergency contact. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I’m her daughter.”
Reed nodded, already knowing that but needing to ask it anyway. “And your father?”
“He passed away six years ago,” Janine said, her voice sounding hollow, looking at Reed without actually focusing. “Lung cancer, never smoked a cigarette in his life.”
On pure reflex, Reed felt himself wince. In half a dozen years this young woman had lost both her parents long before their time, each a victim of tragic injustices.
“Did she always live in Franklinton?” Reed asked.
“My dad worked at Midwestern paper for 30 years. It was the only house they ever owned together, bought back before The Bottoms was too bad.”
It was clear there was more she wanted to add, Reed giving her time to do so. When no words came, he prompted, “But they stayed anyway?”
“Yeah,” she whispered, her eyes glassing over. “Our neighborhood was a little ways out from the worst parts, and they drove me to private school every day, so I don’t think they thought much of it.”
“And after your father passed?”
She shifted her attention, the watery veneer still present in her eyes. “I was at Ohio State at the time. I begged and begged her to move up near me. Must have brought it up at least once a week ever since. She wouldn’t dream of it though. Said it was the only way she still felt connected to my father.”
The last part was the sole reason Reed had felt compelled to press on the topic. “So after his passing, there was nobody else?”
He asked it gently, without inflection of any sort, but it still brought a sharp twist of the head from Janine.
“No. Never.” The words were firm, no wiggle room at all. “Why do you ask?”
Feeling the defensiveness in her, Reed sat back in his chair. “The other night a male called 911.”
The anger on Janine’s face bled away in an instant, a look of confusion replacing it. “A man called from my mother’s house? After midnight?”
“No, the call was made from a throwaway cell-phone. Our assumption is it came from whoever did this, but we needed to be sure there wasn’t somebody else who might have made it.”
Pursing her lips, Janine fell silent. Reed could see her mind working, her eyes fogging over, and remained silent to give her as much time as she needed.
“No,” she finally said, drawing the word out slowly. “Like I said, there was no other man, and we were close. We spoke every day, I was there often, I would have known.”
Reed nodded, accepting the information without pressing it. Janine’s fingerprints had been found throughout the house, proof that she was telling the truth.
“Besides, why would someone she knew call and then disappear before anybody showed up?”
“You’d be surprised,” Reed said, leaning in and resting his forearms on the edge of the table. “Sometimes people find someone who needs help and call it in, but get scared they might be seen as a suspect, so they run off.”
Reed paused to let her consider the statement. “Was your mother close with her neighbors? Anybody who might have stopped by and found her?”
“No, I don’t think so. If you can believe it, my mother was the young one on the block. I can’t imagine anybody being up at that time of night, much less coming inside and finding her in the bedroom.”
Reed nodded. There now existed no doubt that the killer had been the one to make the emergency call. He still didn’t know why exactly, whether it was a vanity thing or even a middle finger to the police, but he hoped to piece it together in the coming days.
He had to, because despite the reprieve last night, it wasn’t likely the killer was done yet. Nobody got away with two seemingly perfect crimes on seemingly unconnected victims and just walked away.
“You mentioned The Bottoms,” Reed said. “Was there anybody who would be considered an enemy? Any bad blood toward your mother, or your family in general?”
This time the veneer was too much to hold back, giving way to big tears. They hung on the undersides of Janine’s eyes before streaking down either cheek.
Ignoring his better judgment, Reed reached out and slid the bottom napkin from beneath her drink, extending it toward her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, accepting the napkin and running it under her nose. “No, not at all. I’m sure everyone you speak to says this, but my mother was a wonderful person. She taught first grade her entire career, never failed a single student. She sang in the choir at church, bought candy bars from Little Leaguers and cookies from Girl Scouts.
“She had no enemies. I can’t imagine why anybody would ever do something like this.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Three hours and a pair of false starts later, Reed pulled up to a house outside Grove City. Less than a mile from the outer belt, he could hear traffic in the distance as he parked at the curb and turned off the engine, the sound of semi-trucks carrying through the still midday air.
The home was like nearly every other one on the street, a small, squat structure with grey vinyl siding and black shutters. An aluminum awning extended out over a concrete porch, a matching carport on the side with a single car in it. The front yard was parched, the limbs on the willow tree out front hanging limp, its leaves wilted.
Reed exited the car and clipped the short lead to Billie’s collar. Despite not wanting to put his next interview on the defensive in the slightest, the sun overhead was just too strong, the interior of the car too hot for him to even consider leaving her.
She, like him, was an officer of the law. Despite her appearance, people would just have to accept her.
After Riley’s death, Billie had been the perfect pairing for him. She too had lost a partner when her Marine handler in Afghanistan fell victim to an IED. Together they were slowly getting to know one another as they worked out their new arrangement.
While he couldn’t speak for Billie, the pairing was therapeutic for Reed, allowing him to continue working while grieving and attempting to cope in his own way. There was no forced conversation, no having to get used to somebody else’s way of doing things.
That didn’t mean there wasn’t the occasional challenge, moments such as this when having a big dog that resembled a solid black wolf at his side, presented problems a human partner would not. Never had he been forced to consider if Riley should stay behind or come along, not once concerned with how her presence would be taken by a key witness or a close family member.
It was the only trick his police force trainers had failed to teach him, the one thing he had to learn on his own.
Reed did his be
st to push the thoughts from his head as they came up the driveway together. He walked along the edge of the concrete and allowed Billie to keep pace in the lawn beside it, the dead grass much easier on her feet. Reed reached up to knock on the screen door without ascending the stairs.
The first person to appear on the other side stood no more than 3’ tall, her hair a mass of short dreadlocks tied with brightly colored ribbons. She regarded Reed a moment before looking down to Billie, her eyes growing large. “Whoa, big doggie.”
A smile crossed Reed’s face. “Her name’s Billie. What’s your name?”
The girl never took her gaze from Billie as she began to twist slowly, her body moving just a few inches in either direction. “Lucy.”
“Hi, Lucy. My name’s Reed. I’m here to speak to your mommy.”
“Okay,” Lucy said, continuing to stare at Billie until she broke into giggling before turning and disappearing inside the house.
The smile grew on Reed’s face as he watched her go, staring after her as a second person appeared on the other side of the screen. Standing two and a half feet taller than Lucy, she had the same dark skin and large eyes, her hair pulled back into a tight bun behind her head. She wore a pair of running shorts and a tank top, a trio of rubber bands and bracelets around her wrist.
If Reed were to guess, she was on her way out for a run. Had she just gotten back, there was no possible way she would still be dry.
“Ms. Abbott?” Reed asked, looking up at her. He switched Billie’s lead to his left hand and reached into his rear pocket with his right, extracting his badge and waving at her. “Detective Reed Mattox, my partner Billie. We spoke on the phone last night.”
The woman’s eyes darted from Reed to Billie and back again. “You best come on inside. It’s too hot to leave the door open for very long.”
Her voice bore a weariness, and a wariness, that Reed recognized immediately, both very common reactions to police presence, each heightened given the situation.
The Good Son: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 2) Page 8
