The Good Son: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 2)

by Dustin Stevens

  Solomon considered this a moment, her lips pursed. “I know this doesn’t give you the answers you were looking for, but it does strip away a lot of possibilities. Body found dead in the park, guy beat all to hell, looks strung out, not hard to assume the worst.”

  To that Reed had no counter, her thinking exactly in line with his own.

  “I just figured you should know that wasn’t the case here.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  For someone who had made it a point to be invisible the previous six months, Reed lately found himself spending a lot of time in Grimes’s office. Despite the fact that he was in his mid-30s and had done nothing wrong, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being a kid sitting in the principal’s office as he stared across at the man almost 20 years his senior. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite pin down why the sensation nagged at him, though he suspected it pertained to the glower on his boss’s face, the steaming demeanor that hinted he could explode at any moment.

  “I take it the idea to go to the media wasn’t well received?” Reed opened.

  An eyebrow was arched in return, Grimes saying, “Not quite. Last night I got home to a pair of nasty voice messages from Brandt downtown, followed by another from her lackey Dade.”

  Reed nodded, resisting the urge to offer his condolences. Eleanor Brandt was the chief of the Columbus Police Department, a small, severe woman he had gone toe-to-toe with just a few months before. It was no secret around the precinct that the only reason he still had a job was because he was right in the matter, though the fact that he had saved the lives of her and her nephew in the process didn’t hurt.

  Working under her was a man named Oliver Dade, someone Reed had seen a few different times but had barely heard speak. His official title was Senior Media Consultant, though as a civilian employee, Reed suspected his official capacity was closer to Spin Doctor.

  “They say anything useful?” Reed asked, bypassing any side commentary.

  The captain waved a hand in his direction. “Same old stuff. Asked what we were thinking going to the press, did we have any idea this could create a public outcry, why weren’t they consulted first…”

  “That all coming from Brandt,” Reed said, having heard a similar tirade himself once before.

  “Right,” Grimes said. “Dade was his typical even-handed self, tried to make it seem like he was my friend, just wanted to help, offered some suggestions for any media engagements in the future.”

  For a moment Reed envisioned Grimes just arriving home at the end of a long day, already tense and angry after his interview with Leveritt, only to have Dade lecture him on how to handle an interview.

  The image was equal parts humor and horror.

  “Please tell me you called back and let him have it,” Reed said, wanting to siphon off some tiny bit of satisfaction from the encounter, the first he’d had in days.

  The scowl on Grimes’s face deepened. “I thought about it, even dialed his number, but eventually hung up before I got the chance to do something really stupid.”

  “Ah,” Reed said, keeping his voice low. He’d worked with the captain long enough to recognize when an outburst might be lurking, opting against pressing the matter any further. He waited another moment, allowing the residual tension to bleed away, before starting on a different track. “Has the phone line yielded anything worthwhile yet?”

  “Not that I know of,” Grimes said. “The call center is handling everything and sending me updates every so often, fast tracking anything that seems important.”

  He paused there, inserting an eye-roll for effect. “So far most of the stuff coming in has been from angry citizens, people either wanting to bitch about what’s going on or bitch about us not doing our jobs.”

  “Hmm,” Reed said, having heard every tired line too many times before. “Pigs. Bacon. Waste of taxpayer money.”

  “Isn’t there a donut somewhere needs saving?” Grimes continued. “Barney Fife. Dudley Do-Right.”

  “Keystone Cops.”

  “And apparently something called Super Troopers,” Grimes finished, “whatever the hell that means?”

  For a split second Reed considered updating his captain on the pop culture reference before deciding against it. The question was only rhetorical, more venting from a tired and frustrated civil servant.

  “Did either one acknowledge we made the right decision?” Reed asked. “That even if we risk reinforcing what everybody already thinks of us, it was worth it to make the public-at-large aware of what was going on?”

  Scrunching the left side of his face, Grimes raised a hand, wagging it on edge at Reed. “In a backhanded sort of way. They did say it needed to be done, but were quick to point out we botched the handling of it.”

  It was the fourth or fifth time in the conversation Grimes had used the first person plural pronoun we, denoting that he and Reed were lumped together. Whether that was by design or in response to what the higher-ups were saying he couldn’t be certain.

  “How about your end?” Grimes asked. “Anything shake loose?”

  That very question had been ping-ponging through Reed’s mind all morning, from the moment Solomon slid Ruggles’s body away until Reed entered Grimes’s office. He still didn’t have a complete handle on what he’d been given, unable to shake the thought that the doctor had been correct in pointing it out, but not sure what to do with it.

  “Had an interesting discussion with Dr. Solomon over at the coroner’s this morning,” Reed said. “Henry Ruggles, our John Doe from the park, was in the late stages of liver failure. As she put it, if somebody had just waited a week he would have been dead anyway.”

  The news brought the same reaction from Grimes that it had from Reed, his eyebrows tracking higher up his forehead. “Meaning what? Drug addict?”

  “Nope. That was my first guess too,” Reed said. “Guy was completely clean, suffering from some genetic disease.”

  “You think it means something?” Grimes asked.

  “I can’t decide yet, but I’m going to go speak to Ruggles’s ex-wife right after this, see if maybe something more kicks loose. That work?”

  “Do what you need to,” Grimes said, “just do it fast. I don’t think I need to point out what Brandt had to say about making this disappear as soon as possible.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  There wasn’t a phone number listed for Bethanee Cleary, so Reed had no choice but to show up unannounced. It wasn’t his preferred manner of arriving, especially in search of the kind of information he was after. He was also reasonably certain that nobody had notified her about the death yet, making the prospect of what he faced even more difficult.

  Not only did he have to deliver such horrific news, he had to be the jerk that stuck around and tried to pull any meaningful information he could from her.

  The prospect brought a dour expression to his face as he worked his way north up the outer belt, well beyond the reach of the 8th Precinct. He pushed past the geographic parameters of his old jurisdiction to the north as well, passing through Hilliard before turning into the southern outskirts of Worthington. Every few minutes he glanced over to the GPS mounted to his dash, preferring to read for himself rather than hear the annoying automated voice tell him every time he missed a turn or needed to merge lanes.

  Thirty minutes after exiting Grimes’s office, Reed pulled up in front of a small, single family home.

  The front of it was white, with red brick trim across the bottom half. Most of Reed’s view of it was blocked by a neatly trimmed hedge, a smattering of maple trees dotting the yard between him and the front door. Their wilted leaves provided just enough shade to cover the front lawn, the occasional patch of sunlight just barely making it through.

  As he sat out front, Reed couldn’t help but notice that not one other car was parked along the street. For a moment he considered pulling into the driveway before thinking better of it.

  Given everything that was about to occur, he figured th
e last of Cleary’s concerns would be whatever the neighbors thought.

  “You ready?” Reed asked, climbing from the front seat. Before opening the rear door, he touched his back pocket to make sure his badge was still stowed before letting Billie out and clipping her to the short lead.

  The other upside to having a number to call ahead of time would be to ensure somebody was home, the thought crossing Reed’s mind as he stared at the closed aluminum garage door. There were no windows along the top of it, no way of seeing inside.

  The trip north had been a bit of a detour, the thought of doing so again not something Reed was particularly fond of.

  The grimace on his face grew more pronounced as he walked to the front door and rang the bell, Billie pressed tight against his leg. Taking her cue from him, she tensed just slightly as steps could be heard, her senses picking up on his slightest physiological shift. She stayed that way as the sound grew ever closer before stopping, the light behind the peep hole disappearing.

  Again Reed felt his pulse rise, Billie reacting similarly beside him, before the door was jerked backwards, a gust of cool air flowing out.

  Standing before them was a woman in her late-30s with dark eyes and sharp features, her ears, nose, and chin all pointed in hard angles. Her hair was pulled up behind her head, a thick gray headband around the front to hold down any strays. Of average height and weight, she wore jeans and a plain black tank top, her feet bare.

  If there was any surprise at seeing Reed, or even any question as to who he was, she didn’t let it show.

  “He finally did it, didn’t he?”

  The voice, deep and abrasive, was just as much a shock to Reed as the question it asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, aren’t you here to tell me Henry finally offed himself?” she asked.

  The words, void of any compassion, caustic in every way, set Reed back a moment. His mouth opened once, then twice, as he tried to formulate a response before giving up and starting again. “I’m sorry, are you Bethanee Cleary?”

  She gave him a look that managed to simultaneously relay that he was an idiot and she was bored. “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Ex-wife of Henry Ruggles?”

  “Yes,” she said, forcing the word out in a huff. “Isn’t that why you’re here? To tell me he’s finally gone?”

  Confusion roiled within Reed. Of everything he did as a detective, delivering bad news was one of the very worst tasks. It was something he had gladly handed off to Riley whenever the situation arose in the past, resigning himself to playing the strong silent type in the background.

  Now it was Billie’s turn to assume that role, leaving him to decipher the reaction before him.

  “Ms. Cleary, why do you believe your husband, um, took his own life?” Reed asked, almost being tripped up into using her own words, despite the inappropriateness of the expression.

  “Ex-husband,” she corrected. “And have you seen him? Damn man has wasted away to nothing. Kept saying for years he was just going to end it one day. Guess he finally got the guts to go ahead and do it.”

  Unlike every other similar situation before, Reed didn’t have to remind himself not to apologize or offer condolences. He certainly didn’t need to remember the most important thing, which was to never make any promises he couldn’t keep. Instead, he had to force himself not to lash out at her, to tell her that her ex-husband was dead in the most vicious way he could, if for no other reason than just so she would feel bad about the callous way she was acting.

  He didn’t, though. All that would do was fill him with shame after the fact, something he could not afford at the moment.

  “No,” Reed replied. “He was killed sometime night before last. His body was found yesterday at the Overland Dog Park in Franklinton.”

  Most people react in some variation of the same way to hearing that someone has been killed, whether they knew the victim or not. Their eyes grew large, their body became rigid, and after a few moments of fumbling, they asked what happened.

  Bethanee Cleary did none of those things. She simply leaned her shoulder against the edge of the door and stared out at him, her body language letting it be known the conversation could end at any moment. “Well, I was here all that night. My boyfriend and his two kids can vouch for me. They’ll be back any time now.”

  The urge to lash out grew even stronger, finally overtaking the confusion Reed felt about the entire thing.

  “That’s actually not why I’m here,” Reed said. “You were listed in his records as a next of kin, so I came to tell you what happened and to ask if there is any reason you might know why it occurred.”

  Cleary’s lips moved just slightly as she stared off at some point above Reed’s head before shifting her gaze back down to him. “Next of kin, huh? I don’t suppose there’s been a reading of the will yet, has there?”

  The combination of heat and his growing disdain for Bethanee Cleary pushed a rush of blood through Reed’s body. For the first time all day he began to sweat, starting with his brow, followed shortly by his forearms and lower back. “I really wouldn’t know, ma’am. That’s pretty far outside my area of interest.”

  A smirk drew her head back, an obvious retort on her lips, though she refrained from sharing it. “Yeah, well, there can’t be much left at this point anyway. He spent every last dime he had for treatment or on that damn support group of his.”

  Pushing past the comment, Reed asked, “Ms. Cleary, how long have you and Mr. Ruggles been...“

  “Divorced?” she asked, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Since the day he found out he needed a transplant. He told me it was going to be a long hard road, and I told him he’d better get walking then.”

  There were no words for Reed to respond with. He stood slack jawed on the concrete sidewalk, sweat streaming down his face, staring at arguably one of the most vile creatures he had ever encountered.

  A tall order considering everything he’d seen in the last 12 years.

  “Point being, I can’t help you. I don’t know any more about that man’s life than I know about yours.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “You alright?”

  The question was asked softly, in a tone that was almost timid. It was barely audible, The Good Son barely noticing it, the words pulling him from his haze.

  The entire day had been a blur, the night before it as well, and the previous several days too if he really wanted to get down to it. He had done things, things he never would have thought himself capable of doing, things he still didn’t quite believe were possible.

  The only proof he had that any of it had been real were the images, forever seared into his mind, waiting for him every time he closed his eyes. They began with Esther Rosen, culminated with Henry Ruggles, contained every last wretched act in between.

  “Hmm?” The Good Son asked, his eyes puffy, just barely slits, the result of more time spent crying than sleeping over the last two days.

  “Are you okay?” Cindy Neely asked, taking a step closer, her hands clasped in front of her.

  At 43-years-old, Cindy was the oldest employee in the store. Twice she had been offered the manager’s position, and twice she had turned it down, telling them each time that she preferred the flexibility and people interaction of remaining a cashier.

  More than once The Good Son had wanted to point out to her that had she only accepted the position they would be free of Beauregard, though he had never actually voiced that opinion out loud. Most everybody in the store already knew what he thought of the man. It was the same opinion held by them all.

  There was no need to make Cindy feel bad about it.

  “Oh, yeah, I’m good,” The Good Son replied, looking up from the box of weed killer he was loading onto a shelf. He glanced down and forced a half smile, the muscles feeling awkward in his face. “I think one of these bottles is leaking and got fumes in my eyes.”

  Matching the half smile, Cindy inched a bit closer. “Yeah, it lo
oks pretty bad. Maybe you should go wash them out?”

  The Good Son appreciated her concern. Of everyone in the store, she was the only one he’d believe was asking him out of sympathy and not a deep rooted desire to be the first one to determine some bit of gossip and go running back to share it with the others.

  “Oh, that’s alright,” The Good Son said. “Thanks for asking though.”

  He watched as she nodded in acknowledgement, venturing a few inches closer. Despite the fact that she was standing, she rose no more than a few inches above him, her tiny body weighing 100 pounds if she was lucky. The red apron she wore around her neck hung almost to the floor, the hem resting just above her shoelaces.

  “Listen,” she said, lowering her voice a bit more. She closed the gap between them to less than a foot, glancing in either direction before saying, “Can you do me a quick favor?”

  Her voice betrayed a slight crack as she asked it, drawing The Good Son’s gaze up to hers. A spider web pattern of red veins were spread across her eyes, her upper lip trembling just slightly.

  “Sure, Cindy,” The Good Son said, leaning back and resting his bottom on his heels. “What’s up?”

  “Can you man the front register for me for a few minutes? I have kind of, an, uh, emergency...” Her voice receded with each passing word, her face, her body, somehow managing to do the same.

  By the time she was done, her shoulders were pinched so far inward she measured less than a foot from side to side.

  The Good Son felt his mouth drop for a moment before the realization of what she was saying settled in. His eyebrows rose, his puffy eyes unable to do the same.

  “Oh,” he said, a hint of surprise in his voice.

  As much as he liked Cindy, under normal circumstances would have no problem helping her, at the moment there was nothing in the world he wanted to do less. His stomach churned and his chest tightened, his breaths becoming slower and more pained as he thought about what his mother had said the night before.

  He didn’t want to do it. He had told her that, and no matter how much berating she lobbed his way, he couldn’t bring himself to change his stance.