For the Right Reasons

by Kara Lennox

  “I have new information,” Bree said in a calm, neutral voice. Eric admired her control. “Philomene’s phone was stolen. It turned up in the possession of a drug dealer.”

  “And how did you come across this information?” the sheriff asked.

  “The drug dealer’s mother found the phone and started calling the recently called numbers to find out whose it was.” This was the story Bree and Eric had agreed on, rather than implicating Mitch in what had obviously been some kind of illegal access to phone records. “It’s sounding more like Philomene met with foul play, right?”

  “Do you know how many cell phones get stolen in a day?”

  “Sheriff DeVille,” Eric began, “I know you don’t have the resources to chase down every person who leaves town without telling someone where they’re going. But a number of factors grouped together like this—”

  “Save me your big-word lawyer speech,” the sheriff said tiredly. “Find me some blood. Or find her car abandoned someplace. Then I might think about suspecting foul play. But Philomene Switzer isn’t some innocent kid. She has a checkered past—been arrested a time or two.”

  “Not for a long time,” Bree objected. “She’s worked so hard to straighten out her life. She had a good job, an apartment—”

  “And a boyfriend who’d run up her credit cards.” The sheriff raised one eyebrow. “I see I’ve surprised you. I’m not as ill-informed as you seem to think. It’s entirely possible she disappeared to avoid paying her debts.”

  “You’re right,” Bree said, sounding just short of defeated. “I didn’t know that.”

  “What does this boyfriend look like?” Eric asked. “Maybe he’s the one we saw at her apartment Wednesday night.”

  “I got a picture of him. He’s not exactly a stranger here.” The sheriff disappeared but returned shortly with an old-fashioned mug book. God, was the sheriff’s department not even computerized? How could any modern law enforcement agency survive without access to the NCIC database? Or AFIS, to run fingerprints through?

  DeVille flipped a couple of pages in the book until he found what he wanted. “There. Jerrod Crowley.”

  Bree and Eric both bent their heads over the book. They were so close that Eric felt her hair brush against his ear as it fell across her cheek. He could smell her. A certain part of his anatomy stirred and he jumped. The sensation was both familiar and alien—alien because it had been so long since he’d let a woman do this to him.

  Why her? Why now?

  “Is that the guy?” Bree asked.

  Eric forced himself to concentrate on the mug shot of Jerrod Crowley. Large build, straggly medium-length brown hair, fair skin. “It could be him. I’m not a hundred percent sure—he ran by really fast.”

  “Was he wearing overalls?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yeah. How did you know that?”

  “’Cause that’s all Jerrod Crowley ever wears. Musta been him, then. Came over for a booty call, found the place deserted and decided to see what he could steal.”

  “Or he did something to her.” Bree’s hard-fought-for calm had deserted her. “Aren’t you even going to question him?”

  “Please. Crowley doesn’t have the brains or the drive to commit a murder and then conceal it. He tried to steal a car once.” The sheriff burst out laughing. “What an effing joke that was.”

  “But he might know something,” Bree insisted. “He might have seen something.”

  “If I run across him, I’ll have a chat,” the sheriff said mildly. “Anything else?”

  Bree and Eric exchanged a look. She wanted him to play the Daniel card, but he honestly couldn’t figure out a way to work it into the conversation.

  “Well, maybe Daniel Logan will talk to him,” Bree said. “Eric works for him, you know. Mr. Logan is very interested in the Kelly Ralston case and everything associated with it, including Philomene.”

  Eric took a sharp breath. What was Bree doing?

  “Am I supposed to know who this Logan fella is?” the sheriff asked.

  “Daniel Logan. The oil billionaire, runs Logan Energy?”

  The sheriff shrugged one of his massive shoulders. “Means nothing to me.”

  “He’s a very powerful man,” Bree said. “He’s personal friends with the governor.”

  “Well, if he comes here throwing his weight around, I’ll tell him the same thing I told you. No sign of foul play, no investigation. He’s welcome to look into it all he wants.”

  “Sheriff DeVille—Philomene wanted to recant her testimony about Kelly. She said she felt pressured to identify him in the lineup. What if the real murderer—”

  “I don’t want to hear this crap!” the sheriff exploded.

  “Now, wait a minute,” Eric objected. “You can’t talk to your constituents that way.”

  “Oh, really? In my office, I can talk any way I damn well please. Now get out, both of you. Before I find something to charge you with.”

  “Fine,” Bree said tightly. “But when she turns up dead, it’ll be on you.”

  Eric held his tongue until they were outside. “Bree! I thought we agreed we weren’t going to lie about Daniel’s involvement.”

  “I didn’t. Well, not exactly. Daniel was very interested in Kelly’s case. Until you ruined that.”

  “I’ll only warn you once more. Daniel will not take kindly to anyone using his name without permission. He’ll come after you.”

  “So you never intended to play the Daniel card at all?”

  “If I had, I’d do it without crossing the line. Which you left far behind in your rearview mirror.”

  She challenged him with her blue-eyed laser stare, but he didn’t back down. He was right about this, and she needed to understand about Daniel, for her own good.

  Finally she looked away. “Okay. Maybe I got a little carried away. Didn’t matter anyway. DeVille was completely immune to the threat of Daniel’s involvement.”

  “A possible sign that despite his rudeness, he’s not corrupt. Or derelict in his duties, at least not to his mind. He didn’t show a lick of fear.”

  “No, he didn’t. So what now?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d consider giving up? No,” he said quickly when she shot him a venomous look.

  “We’re gonna talk to Jerrod Crowley.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  BREE KNEW SHE wasn’t playing fair. She’d found Eric’s Achilles’ heel—he had a chivalrous streak a mile wide—and she was exploiting it. She wasn’t normally a manipulative person. But too much was at stake for her to play nice. First Kelly’s freedom and now Philomene’s life. No matter how the evidence stacked up, Bree was convinced the woman had not left Tuckerville of her own free will.

  “You’re sure you want to talk to this guy?” Eric asked. They’d found Crowley’s address easily enough. All they’d had to do was stop at the gas station on Main Street, where a bunch of guys had been hanging out, smoking and drinking not very well-disguised beer. They’d looked like the kind of lowlifes who would associate with someone like Crowley, and sure enough, they were. Turned out he’d lived with his brother and sister-in-law in a spare bedroom since his parents had kicked him out. The gas station lowlifes hadn’t even hesitated to bad-mouth their supposed friend.

  “How did Philomene hook up with a jerk like Jerrod?” Eric asked as they let his GPS lead them to Crowley’s address.

  “A lot of people said the same thing about me when Kelly and I were dating,” Bree said a bit huffily. “‘What’s the mayor’s daughter doing with a guy whose father is a drunk and whose mother works at the counter of a doughnut shop?’”

  “I’ve wondered that myself,” Eric said. “Though I didn’t know you were the mayor’s daughter.”

  “Kelly
was a sweet guy. Yeah, he’d been in a few scrapes, but nothing serious. Shoplifting. Probably because he was hungry, or he wanted something for his mom. I remember once, on Mother’s Day, he didn’t have enough money to buy her a present, so he stole a potted daylily off someone’s front porch.” She laughed.

  “I’m sure his mother was proud,” Eric said, tongue firmly in cheek.

  “She was thrilled. And she didn’t ask how he got the money, though she probably knew he hadn’t bought the plant at the local nursery. Anyway, Jerrod Crowley must have some redeeming qualities. Maybe Philomene saw something about him that no one else did. Maybe he was just nice to her, and that was all it took. Philomene is...” Bree shrugged.

  “Damaged from the rape? Low self-esteem?”

  “Yeah. She didn’t grow up with a good home situation. I don’t remember her when she was younger, but I’m guessing she was the kind who always tried a little too hard, wore too much makeup and let any boy have his way if she thought he had feelings for her. Girls like that are so easy to victimize. And I don’t think that rape was the first time she was a victim, either. I mean, I don’t know her that well. Not well at all. But I can read between the lines.”

  “That’s sad. I really hope I can raise MacKenzie to think more of herself than that. I mean, she’s already a victim, indirectly. In all likelihood she witnessed her mother’s murder. It’s certainly had an effect on her.”

  “Oh, God. I didn’t know that.”

  “We don’t know for sure, because she doesn’t remember that day. Or at least, she won’t talk about it if she does. But she hasn’t been the same since it happened.”

  “She seems bright. And sweet.”

  “She is. I just hope she’s not too sweet.”

  “Arriving at destination,” Suzy the GPS said, “on right.”

  “The brown brick house,” Bree said.

  They were in a 1950s subdivision of cookie-cutter houses.

  “Nice trees,” Bree remarked. The houses might be cheap and a little shabby, but mature live oak trees elevated the neighborhood’s appeal.

  A pleasant-looking woman in her thirties with a toddler on her hip answered the door wearing a look of caution. “Yes?”

  “Does Jerrod Crowley live here?” Bree asked. Eric was content to let her do the talking; she was less intimidating and people were more likely to drop their guards.

  If anything, the woman at the door looked even more wary. “Jesus. What’s he done this time?”

  “Nothing that we know of,” Bree said. “We’re trying to find his girlfriend.”

  “Oh. Well, Jerrod’s not here. He’s supposedly out looking for a job now that he’s got a car. That’ll be the day.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “God only knows. He comes home when he runs out of money to buy beer.” The woman’s sturdy body blocked the door. There was zero chance she’d invite them in to wait.

  “So he has money now?” Eric asked.

  “He comes up with a little cash every once in a while—mows a lawn or details someone’s car. That’s what he used to do when he had a job. What’s up with Phil? Is she in trouble? I don’t know her that well, but she seems like one of the nicer girls he’s gone with.”

  “We can’t find her, that’s all,” Bree said. “Has Jerrod said anything about her disappearing?”

  The woman frowned. “No. God, I hope...”

  “You hope what?” Eric prodded.

  “Nothing. Oh, hey, you’re in luck. That’s him now.”

  A blue Toyota Corolla was coming down the street way too fast. It whipped into the driveway with a screech of brakes.

  “Oh, my God,” Bree said under her breath.

  Exactly what Eric had been about to say. Jerrod was driving Philomene’s car.

  * * *

  RATHER THAN WAITING for Jerrod to exit the car, Eric was across the postage-stamp lawn in three long strides. He wasn’t going to give this jerk a chance to flee as he had the other night. The second the driver’s door opened, Eric had the man by his elbow and was dragging him out of the car.

  “Hey!” Jerrod screamed as Eric shoved him up against the car. “What the—”

  “Jerrod Crowley. Want to tell me what you’re doing with that car?”

  “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking. Get the hell away from me before I break your nose!”

  Eric wasn’t worried. This guy was soft and doughy, and the fear in his eyes gave him away. He was the type to run rather than fight. Eric could take him any day of the week.

  “How did you get this car?”

  “It’s my girlfriend’s.”

  “And where is Philomene?”

  “Look, I don’t know. She vanished couple of days ago, no warning. Then she texted me, said she was leaving town for a while. Check my phone. The text is still there.”

  Eric loosened his grip on Jerrod, just enough that the man could reach in his back pocket and pull out his phone.

  Jerrod scrolled through his texts for a few seconds, then handed the phone to Eric. “Right there. See?”

  The text was dated Tuesday, the same day Philomene had stood them up at the Home Cookin’ Café. The message had originated from Philomene’s phone—Eric recognized the number by now.

  HAD TO LEAVE FOR A WHILE. PICK UP MY CAR AT CURRY ROAD & 238. KEYS UNDER MAT. LOVE YOU.

  “He could have texted that message to himself,” Bree said.

  Eric jumped. He hadn’t realized she’d come up behind him. “So he could explain why he has her car.”

  “Are you guys cops?” Jerrod asked dubiously.

  It was tempting to say yes. The second Jerrod knew they were civilians with no authority over him, he would cease to cooperate. But impersonating a cop came with some pretty severe penalties. Eric wasn’t above allowing someone to believe something that wasn’t true, but he wasn’t going to lie about it. He’d done enough lying this week to last him awhile.

  “We’re not cops,” Eric said.

  “Then get your friggin’ hands off me.” Jerrod shook off Eric’s grip.

  “We’re worried about Philomene,” Bree said. “And if you care anything about her, you should be worried, too.”

  “She took off. What’s the big deal? People do it all the time.”

  “Then why did she abandon her car at some intersection in the middle of nowhere?” Bree countered.

  “I figured she met some guy there. Phil wasn’t too happy with me lately—it was only a matter of time before she moved on. I was kinda surprised she left her car with me. She never loaned it to me, not after I put a big scratch in the side. But then I thought maybe that was her way of saying sorry. You know. For dumping me.”

  Jerrod’s story was plausible...barely. At any rate, Eric wasn’t willing to threaten the guy with any more violence. Already Eric could be charged with assault. He took a step back, giving the other man some breathing room.

  “Sorry, dude,” he said. “I’m just worried about Philomene. I went a little crazy there.”

  “Why do you care about her?” Jerrod asked suspiciously. “She sleeping with you, too?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “We’re her friends, that’s all.” Bree placed her hand on Eric’s arm. “Come on, this is getting us nowhere. Let’s go look somewhere else.”

  Eric would have preferred to stay here and pound some more answers out of Jerrod. If they really were cops, they would ask the same questions over and over in different ways, trying to get Jerrod to change his story. But Bree was uncomfortable.

  “If you find her,” Jerrod said, “tell her to call me. She’s still got some DVDs of mine, and if we’re through, I want ’em back.”

  “You don’t sound that broken up about gett
ing dumped,” Eric observed.

  Jerrod shrugged. “Like I said, it didn’t come as a big surprise.”

  Bree said nothing until they were back in the car. “Wow. Here I thought you were some mild-mannered lawyer, and you go all Rambo on that poor guy.”

  “‘That poor guy’ is our best suspect. Why would Philomene abandon her car if she was leaving town? And why would she give it to a guy like that?”

  “Yeah, but someone texted Jerrod. If he did it himself, why didn’t he cook up a better story?”

  “Because he’s not too bright?”

  “Yeah, well, bright or not, he could have you arrested for the way you manhandled him.”

  Since Eric had been thinking the same thing, he didn’t argue. He didn’t quite understand the urge to physically intimidate Jerrod—he wasn’t a naturally violent person. He’d just taken an instant dislike to Crowley.

  “Do you normally solve conflicts with your fists?”

  “No.”

  “Did you get into fights in prison?”

  “You know about at least one.”

  “Yeah, but according to you, that was an accident. You were trying to stop a fight. Were there other times?”

  “Sometimes it’s unavoidable. If you don’t defend yourself, you become your cellblock’s favorite punching bag.” Or worse. He’d had no choice but to learn to fight.

  “Before you went to prison, would you have pushed Jerrod Crowley around?”

  He had to think about that for a few moments. She seemed genuinely interested, so he tried to give her an honest answer. “I’m not the same person I was before Tammy’s murder. It’s hard for me to even remember what it felt like to be that ‘mild-mannered lawyer’ you mentioned. But, yeah, before prison, I hadn’t raised my fists since high school.”

  “So prison can change a man.”

  “I would argue it’s impossible to spend any time in prison and not be fundamentally changed.”

  “So isn’t it conceivable that the Kelly Ralston you knew wasn’t violent when he went into prison? That the environment changed him into the person who knifed you?”