Now You See Him (Roy Ballard Book 4)

by Ben Rehder

  “Jeremy Sawyer told a lot of people on the barge that he was a state champion swimmer,” Moss said. “He’d been bragging about it all night. There was no reason for anyone to be concerned.”

  “Starlyn looked concerned to me,” I said.

  “She was angry and upset with Anson.”

  “Then why was she trying to stop the boat?”

  “Not because she was concerned for Jeremy’s safety. She wanted to apologize to him for Anson’s behavior. The video proves it.”

  I chuckled. “Really?”

  He stared at me.

  “Literally nobody will believe that,” I said. “But it’s going to be fun watching you try to talk your way out of it with the sheriff’s office. Everything you’ve done to cover it up is about to hit the fan.”

  I could’ve left then, but I couldn’t resist goading him some more.

  “You know what happens in a situation like this?” I said. “Everybody starts turning on each other, looking for any chance to work with the DA and strike a deal. Holloway, Meatball, even Anson—they’re all going to point the finger at you. You are well and truly screwed.”

  He was drumming the desktop with his fingertips. Getting anxious. Looking for a solution.

  “What is it you want?” he asked.

  “I want you to admit that you asked Holloway to kill me.”

  “But it isn’t true.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “I’ll give you fifty thousand dollars,” he said. “And another fifty thousand to Jeremy’s family. So we can put this misunderstanding behind us.”

  “You could afford a hell of a lot more than that,” I said, “but money isn’t the issue.”

  “Starlyn wants to go into a life of public service—to help people.”

  “She can still do that.”

  “Not really. Her options will be limited if that video comes out. It will follow her around forever.”

  “She should’ve done the right thing,” I said.

  “One hundred thousand dollars,” Moss said.

  I said, “Jeremy’s family will file a civil suit and get millions. You won’t need that money anyway, because you’ll be serving time. A long time.”

  His face was turning bright red as the anger built up inside him, but he didn’t respond.

  I said, “That’s all I came to say, really. That you should enjoy your free time now, because it won’t last long.”

  “Get out of my house,” he said, his jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder he didn’t crack a tooth.

  “It’s been a pleasure,” I said. I rose from my chair and he followed me out of the office, toward the foyer. He was just a few feet behind me, and I was almost hoping he would try to jump me, but at the same time, I knew he wouldn’t.

  Just as I passed a credenza against the right-hand wall, almost to the front door, he said, “A quarter million.”

  I turned to face him. “For me?”

  “For you. Same for Jeremy’s family.”

  I could see the desperation in his face, and I’ll admit I enjoyed it.

  “That’s tempting,” I said, “but all things considered, I think it would be better if you’d go fuck yourself.”

  I grinned at him.

  If you’ve ever seen the angry, frustrated face of a five-year-old not getting his way, you know exactly how Eric Moss looked right then.

  Likewise, if you have a temper, as I do, you’re familiar with the adrenaline rush that comes in moments like this, when the promise of violence becomes as irresistible as any drug.

  He was close enough that I could see a slight twitch under his right eye.

  “You know you want to do it,” I said, with my voice low and in control. “But you don’t have the guts. You pay other people to do your dirty work. In a situation like this, you’re a coward.”

  He was right on the verge of acting.

  “You’ll never get another chance,” I said. “You’ll have to remember this moment every day in a cell, and the shame you’ll feel will haunt you like—”

  And he finally swung. Not a good swing, of course, because a man like Eric Moss had never had to learn how to throw a proper punch. No, instead, he drew back with his right fist, giving me plenty of time to prepare, and then came around with it in a big, sloppy loop.

  I leaned backward and the punch missed.

  Then I stepped forward and drove my right fist like a piston into his exposed right cheek. I connected hard and Moss let out a pained grunt. He surprised me by staying on his feet, but he was wobbly.

  He lurched toward me, trying to wrap me up, but I shoved him backwards with my right hand, then drove a left hook into his rib cage. He doubled over, cradling his midsection, and I resisted the urge to throw an uppercut into the center of his face.

  He was struggling to catch his breath, and now he placed his right hand on the credenza for support. He seemed to suddenly focus on the woven basket beside the lamp. He lifted the lid, reached inside, and came out with a dog leash, which he set aside. Then he reached in again and came out with something I recognized immediately—a telescoping steel baton about twelve inches in length when collapsed. Something he used to protect his tiny dog from larger dogs.

  I made a grab for it, but I was too slow, and with a flick of his wrist, Moss popped the baton open. That changed the situation considerably. One forceful swing of the baton could easily break a wrist bone—or crack a skull.

  And that was apparently what Moss had in mind, because he took a big horizontal swipe at my forehead. I managed to duck under it, but I could feel the baton brush against the hair on the crown of my head.

  Now I was wishing I had thrown that uppercut.

  Moss came closer, backing me up against the door, and tried a vertical swing this time. I attempted to step to the side, but he caught me hard in the left shoulder, and I could feel my collarbone snap. Not only that, I could hear it, and Moss could, too.

  The grin on his face was almost demonic. This was a man losing control.

  I had my good arm up, ready to fend off the next blow, if possible. He feinted a swing, but didn’t follow through, obviously enjoying the fact that he had the clear advantage. Blood was trickling from a cut on his cheekbone.

  “Your offer still stand?” I asked. Always the jokester.

  “You’re a dead man,” he said.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” I said. “But I should also mention that—”

  And I rushed him, fast and hard, hoping to catch him off guard. He swung again, but it was too late and I was too close. I drove my torso into him, wrapping him up as best I could in my injured state. He toppled backwards onto the tiled floor and I landed on top of him, feeling a jolt of pain in my shoulder.

  He was growling like an animal, with one hand tearing at my shirt and one trying to rip at my face. My right arm was still fine, so I used it—but not my fist. I couldn’t draw it back, because he was grabbing my sleeve.

  Instead, I pulled my fist up toward my own face, then came down hard with my elbow on the bridge of his nose. He grunted in pain and blood flowed from both nostrils. I repeated the same move, even harder this time, and his grip on my shirt began to loosen. One final blow from my elbow knocked him unconscious.

  My breath was coming in ragged gasps and my heart was hammering. I rose off the floor and took a minute to gather my thoughts. Did I need to call 911? Possibly, but I could also wait for Moss to regain consciousness. What I couldn’t do was leave until then—not after delivering three strong blows to the head.

  The baton was on the floor beside him, so I rolled it further away with the sole of one foot. Didn’t want to put my fingerprints on it, just in case. Then something caught my eye and I bent down for a closer look. Oh, man. The final piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. The surface of the baton featured a diamond-shaped pattern.

  Just like the pattern left on Harvey Selberg’s forehead.

  I called Ruelas.

  38

  In th
e coming days and weeks, most of what I predicted in Eric Moss’s office came true.

  Meatball turned on Gilbert Holloway, Eric Moss and Anson Byrd. Dirk Crider turned on Gilbert Holloway. Even Gilbert Holloway, in an effort to blame Eric Moss for everything, squealed like a rusty piece of boat equipment. I can’t specify what type of equipment, because I still don’t know that much about boats.

  All three of them hired lawyers to press for the best possible deal from the district attorney, in return for giving truthful and complete testimony about, well, just about every damn thing that had happened since the dawning of the age of mankind. If any of them lied about anything, the deal was off. There was one detail, however, that Meatball and Holloway wouldn’t budge on, and that was our little excursion on the barge. They continued to claim that they were merely trying to scare me—as ordered by Moss—but they had no plans to drop me overboard. I still didn’t believe them, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.

  Starlyn Kurtis remained quiet, for the time being, protecting her stepdad, or possibly giving in to his coercion. Her lawyer wouldn’t let anyone near her.

  That left Anson Byrd. Problem was, instead of trying to strike a deal, he took off. Just got in his truck and disappeared. I figured they’d track him down quickly, because it is extremely difficult to run without getting caught, but days passed and he remained elusive. Had he fled the country? If he had, his only viable choice would’ve been Mexico, and he would’ve had to cross by foot. Even then, it wasn’t as easy to remain undetected as it used to be. He would’ve had to show a passport, unless he managed to cross illegally.

  Still, without any testimony from Eric Moss, Starlyn Kurtis, or Anson Byrd, the sheriff’s investigators were able to put together a fairly detailed re-creation of what happened the night Jeremy Sawyer died, and in the days afterward.

  It began, of course, with the incident recorded on Harvey’s phone. Jeremy went over the railing. Starlyn tried to stop the boat, failed, and then gave in to Anson’s urgings to just keep going. Possibly she was upset by that, or maybe Anson convinced her that Jeremy would be fine, because he was an accomplished swimmer.

  Some time later, Jeremy’s friend Randy started wondering where he was. He searched the barge from top to bottom, then began to get worried. He asked everybody to just shut up for a second and look for Jeremy. No luck. Jeremy was gone. The most telling thing—from the standpoint of a potential jury—was that Starlyn and Anson didn’t step forward right then and reveal what had happened. If they’d truly thought he could swim to shore, why not speak up? But they kept quiet.

  Except that they must’ve told everything to Eric Moss, because, just moments after the boat arrived back at the dock, but before the deputies arrived, Anson called Moss, as confirmed by cell phone records.

  Moss would’ve realized that Starlyn and Anson had created a potentially catastrophic situation for themselves. The call lasted more than seven minutes, suggesting that there had been a lot of discussion. Moss wouldn’t have been concerned as much for Anson—screw him—as he would’ve been for his stepdaughter.

  I could imagine the questions he would’ve asked.

  “Are you sure nobody else saw it happen?”

  “The guy who was recording it—do you know his name?”

  “Are the cops there yet?”

  “Have you told anyone anything?”

  Based on deputies’ logs, we knew that the first deputy arrived at the dock about two minutes before the phone call between Anson and Moss ended. That was just enough time for the deputy to walk down from his unit and take control of the scene, telling everyone who had been on the barge to gather around and put their phones away, because almost everyone would’ve been texting or calling someone.

  All of the partygoers were interviewed, including Harvey, who was driven home afterward by his girlfriend Amelia, because she was sober by then. Later interviews with Amelia revealed that she was angry with Harvey for drinking so much, so she went home instead of staying over.

  Then came the intruder in Harvey’s house—which happened at about 4:30 in the morning. The alarm on Harvey’s phone went off, waking him up, and he realized somebody was in his house. He got up, went after them, and got smacked with an object that left a diamond-shaped pattern in the bruised flesh across his forehead.

  But who was the intruder? Gilbert Holloway, Dirk Crider, and Meatball all claimed they’d had nothing to do with it, and that they knew nothing about it. Meatball and Holloway admitted that Starlyn Kurtis had driven the boat for a brief period that night, and on a handful of previous occasions, but never for more than a minute or two, and only when they were out on open water. Had they known that a video existed showing Starlyn at the helm? They both gave an emphatic no.

  However, Holloway did say that Eric Moss had called him at about 2:00 that morning and asked for a copy of the passenger manifest. Holloway thought that was weird. Why would Moss want that? Holloway said he’d already given a copy to the investigators, but Moss wanted a copy, too. Well, he was the boss, so Holloway emailed a photo of it to him. The manifest contained the name of every passenger on board. Oh, and the address. How convenient.

  It was no leap of deductive reasoning to think Moss asked for the manifest so he could have Harvey Selberg’s address. And then he decided to protect his stepdaughter by making sure Harvey’s recording never reached the cops. He went to Harvey’s—carrying his steel baton, just in case—and stole the phone. The trick would be proving it all.

  Fortunately, two days after my brawl with Eric Moss, forensic technicians processed Selberg’s phone and found Moss’s fingerprints. I can’t tell you how happy that made me. The prints, coupled with the unique bruise pattern from the baton, were enough probable cause for the sheriff’s department to secure an arrest warrant. Moss, accompanied by his attorney, turned himself in the next day and quickly bonded out. Of course, he refused to submit to an interview by investigators. Why would he?

  Was Moss alone when he entered Harvey Selberg’s home, or did he have an accomplice? My guess was that Anson Byrd had tagged along. Maybe he drove while Moss entered the house, or vice versa. Moss’s fingerprints could’ve been on Selberg’s phone either way. Conveniently enough, both Moss’s and Byrd’s phones failed to ping off any cell towers from about 3:32 a.m. until 5:17 a.m. Well, duh. They’d turned their phones off. Some people would say that was smart, but it would’ve been smarter to leave the phones at home, still turned on and pinging off the closest tower, which they could claim was proof they hadn’t been anywhere near Harvey’s house.

  And what about Starlyn? What would happen to her? Technically, the sheriff’s department might have been able to charge her with something, but it would be difficult to make it stick. Picture it from a juror’s standpoint: Some guy willingly jumped off a boat, and this same guy had bragged about being a champion swimmer. Couldn’t Jeremy have jumped with the express intent of swimming to shore? How far was it? A hundred yards? Two hundred? Not a big deal for a young, experienced swimmer. That’s what a defense attorney would say.

  For now, I simply had to have faith that the judicial system would deal Moss the punishment he deserved, and that his wealth wouldn’t allow him to avoid a guilty verdict. That possibility caused me to daydream about various ways I might extract some measure of revenge. Many of the ways were violent, and none of them were legal. I realize it isn’t healthy to harbor this kind of animosity, but when I’ve tried to push such thoughts from my mind, I’ve failed.

  The most rewarding aspect of having found Harvey Selberg’s phone and determining what had happened to Jeremy was the closure I’d given his family. I’d met with them a few days earlier and they’d told me how healing it had been to learn the facts. Yes, they were still angry and grief-stricken, but the largest questions had been answered, and that provided a tremendous amount of relief.

  That left just one mystery—at least, for me—and her name was Mia.

  She called me one afternoon after ever
ything had settled down and said, “Hey, I know I’ve been acting a little weird lately—”

  “Just acting?” I said.

  “It’s because we need to talk.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “Everything okay?”

  “I think so.”

  None of these words were comforting.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Let’s talk in person,” she said. “How about if I come over in thirty minutes?”

  It was a long thirty minutes, during which I convinced myself I knew what she had on her mind.

  She was going to break up with me. What else could it possibly be? That’s what “we need to talk” always meant. Who didn’t know that?

  She hadn’t been willing to tell me she loved me, because she didn’t. But it was better that way. I wouldn’t want her to lie to me.

  Now we needed to sit down like adults and see where we go from here. Would we be able to maintain our partnership? I would want to try. Would she? I couldn’t imagine what my days would be like if Mia was suddenly out of my life. I knew that I would—

  I heard a knock on my door.

  Honestly, I didn’t really want to open the door, but I did, and the expression on her face confirmed everything. I saw nothing but anxiety and worry.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey.”

  “You okay?” I said. “Never mind. I need to stop asking you that. Come on in.”

  She walked past me, without pausing for a kiss, and now I was wondering if I’d ever get to kiss her again. The very thought made me want to cry.

  We sat on the couch facing each other.

  “How’s your shoulder?” she asked.

  “Not bad. I haven’t taken a painkiller in three days. It’s healing up.”

  “Good.”

  She wasn’t meeting my eyes.

  I said, “Okay, now that we’ve gotten the small talk out of the way, you might as well do it.”