by P J Parrish
Back to the blood-soaked kitchen. A trunk full of bodies. And Benjamin.
His heart quickened and he opened his eyes. He looked first at the nightstand. His Glock was still there, and the small clock read eight forty-five.
Then he turned and looked at Susan, still sleeping next to him. She was facing him, her eyes squeezed tight as if staying asleep was an effort. The comforter was tucked under her chin, and her hair was spiked around the powder blue pillow. Even in sleep, she didn’t look peaceful.
He moved gently, easing out from under the comforter, and swung his feet to the wood floor. He picked up the gun and started out to the living room. He stopped in the bedroom doorway, just inside the short hall.
In the center of the living room stood Detective Joe Frye, her black leather jacket slick with rain, her light brown hair dark and damp. Her gold badge hung from her neck on a chain. She was standing next to Jewell. She was as tall as he was, but despite her slenderness, she looked more commanding than he ever would.
“Joe,” Louis said.
Her gray eyes jumped to him, moving quickly over his rumpled sweats, stocking feet, and the gun in his hand. Her eyes flicked behind him and Louis knew she could see into the bedroom, see Susan in the bed.
Joe’s eyes came back to him. “Sorry to show up like this, but this was the only address I had besides yours,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Louis said, coming toward her. “What’s happened?”
“Nothing as far as Benjamin is concerned, but we have a suspect.”
“Who?”
“A man named Byron Ellis,” Joe said, holding out a manila file. “We got him from his prints on that old Chevy Bel Air outside Outlaw’s office. He’s an ex-con out of Raiford.”
“Yeah, I know. We got the name early this morning,” Louis said.
Joe looked confused. Louis filled her in on everything that had happened, the pizza guy’s murder, the carnage at the old people’s house, Ellis’s suspected getaway by canal.
“Was he alone?” she asked.
“We don’t know,” Louis said. “I doubt it.”
Louis moved to the sofa, setting the Glock on the coffee table. He opened the manila folder and looked at the black and white photograph of Byron Ellis. He had expected to see the typical mug shot, empty or defiant eyes and a sneer. But Ellis’s eyes had a spark of humor, the head tilted slightly to the side, his lips tipped in a faint smile. His face was pock-marked, the lines along his mouth and around his eyes were deeply scored into his dark leathered skin.
The statistics said Ellis was forty-five, but despite the smile, Louis suspected it had been a hard forty-five years.
His record was as Wainwright had stated the night before, a smattering of grand theft auto, burglaries, and finally the manslaughter charge that had sent him to Raiford.
“What’s happened?”
Louis’s head snapped to Susan, standing in the bedroom doorway, her robe pulled tight. He started to stand up but Joe was quicker. She moved to Susan and took her hand, covering it with both of her own.
“I’m so sorry.”
Susan looked confused.
“I’m Detective Joe Frye, Miami PD.”
“What are you doing here?” Susan asked, pulling her hands away.
Louis came forward. “Joe’s handling the homicides in Miami,” he said.
“But what are you doing here now?” Susan asked, her voice starting to tremble.
“We have no news on Benjamin,” Joe said quickly. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you that right off. But we do have a suspect.”
“You know who took Benjamin?”
“We know one of them,” Joe said.
Susan’s eyes dropped to the file folder in Louis’s hand. She held out her hand and he gave it to her. She looked at it for a long time, flipping through the pages.
“Do you know him?” Joe asked Susan.
She looked up. “No, why?”
“Louis told me you were an attorney here. Ellis was convicted in Collier County, but has had trouble here as well. I was wondering if you ever had any legal dealings with him or heard the name?”
“No, I’ve never heard the name or seen this man.” Susan handed the folder back to Joe and let out a tired sigh. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Joe smiled. “I’d like that.”
Susan disappeared into the kitchen. Joe started to take off her jacket and Louis helped her, hanging it on a coat tree near the front door. When he looked back, she was looking through Ellis’s file, her fingertip at her lips.
She was wearing faded black jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. The jeans were slightly baggy on her long legs, drawn in around her small waist by a heavy black belt with a silver buckle. Her sweater fit her like a swimmer’s wet-suit, taut across her breasts and broad shoulders. She wore no jewelry except for a large gold man’s watch, hanging loose on her slender wrist.
“Sir,” Jewell said, nodding toward the door. “Chief’s here.”
Jewell held the door open, and Chief Wainwright hustled through it, throwing off water like a dog. He had a piece of paper in one hand and with the other he started to unzip his jacket. His hand paused halfway down, his eyes fixed on Joe. But Louis knew it wasn’t the black turtleneck tight over her breasts as much as the gold shield that hung against them.
“Who are you?” Wainwright asked.
Joe’s shoulders straightened and she came forward, hand out. Wainwright did not take it. She kept it out long enough to make sure both Louis and Jewell noticed, then withdrew it, wrapping her long fingers along the edge of the folder.
“Detective Frye, Miami PD.”
“And you’re here why?”
Louis thought about intervening but was sure Joe wouldn’t want him to. Or even need him to.
“Chasing a suspect,” Joe said. “Same one as you, one Byron Ellis.”
Wainwright did a lousy job of hiding his surprise that Joe already knew the name.
Joe didn’t wait. “Can I see last night’s scene?” she asked.
Wainwright turned. “Nope, ’fraid not”
“Why not?”
“It’s not finished being processed.”
“Can I see Ellis’s car?”
“It’s not finished being processed either.”
Joe drew back, a little muscle twitching in her jaw. She inhaled thinly. “Is there anything I can see, Chief?”
“Your way home,” Wainwright said.
Joe took another breath, the gold shield rising and falling against her sweater.
Susan came from the kitchen, carrying a tray of coffee cups. She walked with a stiffness Louis had come to recognize as anger, and he suddenly realized just how insane and cruel this conversation must have seemed to her. He wanted to apologize for both of them, but Susan spoke first.
“Detective Frye isn’t going home,” Susan said. “She came all the way over here to give us a name. And that’s more than any of you have managed to get.”
Wainwright’s face reddened as Susan handed him a cup of coffee. “Mrs. Outlaw, we had the name. We had the name last night.”
Susan didn’t seem to care. She passed out the rest of the coffee mugs then sat down on the sofa.
Joe waited a moment, then went and sat next to Susan, taking her mug of coffee with her. Wainwright was talking in a low voice to Jewell. Louis walked to Joe, but didn’t sit down.
“We have something else, too,” Louis said. “Austin Outlaw’s alive. He was hiding.”
Joe almost choked on her coffee. She wiped her lips with her fingers then looked up at Louis.
“But the boy wasn’t with him?” Joe asked.
Louis shook his head.
“Where is Austin now?” Joe asked.
Wainwright looked at his watch. “They’ll be moving him from the hospital about now.”
“To where?”
“The jail. For his own safety.”
Joe set her coffee mug on the tabl
e and looked at Wainwright. “Why not bring him back here?” she asked.
“And get him killed?” Wainwright asked.
“No,” Joe said, drawing out the word. “I think your six thousand cops out there could probably keep that from happening. That wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“Then what did you have in mind?” Wainwright asked.
“I think we need to talk to him.”
Wainwright set his cup on the mantel. “We spent half the damn night talking to him. The man knows nothing. At least nothing he’s willing to tell.”
“I’d still like to talk to him.”
“About what?”
“His business, Chief. Don’t you think that might just have something to do with all this?”
Louis was watching Susan. She was listening intently, her arms crossed, her face like stone.
“We know he runs a shitty-ass import business,” Wainwright said.
“It’s what he imports, Chief,” Joe said.
Wainwright wasn’t going to bite again. This time he waited, watching her. Joe glanced at Susan as if checking to see if she was ready to hear more.
“Your husband didn’t import lamps and baskets,” Joe said to Susan. “He imported people.”
“What?” Louis said.
“Pacific Imports is an agency that brings workers in from Micronesia. They contract with various kinds of companies to supply them labor. The companies pay for transportation over here and for setting up the workers in housing in exchange for them remaining in their employment for a specified length of time.”
Susan stared at Joe, her eyes snapping. “I knew he was low,” she said, “but I didn’t think even he was capable of something like this.”
“It’s perfectly legal,” Joe said.
“So was slavery,” Louis said.
With a quick shove off the sofa, Susan stood up. She walked slowly to the front window. Louis thought about going to her, but there was something in the stiffness of her back that kept him where he was.
Wainwright took a breath deep enough to strain his buttons. “So what do you think is going on here?”
“You asking me?” Joe said.
“Yeah, I’m asking you.”
“I think Austin Outlaw was supposed to bring something different this trip, something someone wanted very much,” Joe said. “And either he failed to deliver it or double-crossed his buyer somehow.”
“Drugs?” Louis asked.
“That’s my guess,” Joe said.
“Austin wouldn’t do drugs,” Susan said softly.
She sounded like a parent in denial whose kid had just been hauled off to detention. She must have sensed they didn’t believe her, because she came toward them.
“His brother died of drugs at fifteen,” she said, looking from Joe to Louis. “He just wouldn’t do that.”
Joe stood up. “Well, they want something from him.” She looked to Wainwright. “I’d like to ask him a few questions.”
“We got people who can talk to him, Miss Frye,” Wainwright said. “Why don’t you give Officer Jewell here what you have on this Pacific Imports and —-”
“I don’t think so,” Joe said calmly. “I think we can both talk to him, don’t you?”
Wainwright’s voice was just as calm. “We got a missing kid and a triple homicide here. Every agency in the county is on this case. Thanks for your offer, but I think we can handle it.”
Joe looked down at the coffee table and shook her head. “Dear God, save me from the penis wars.”
Louis was close enough to hear it but Wainwright was heading back toward the door, his radio crackling. Louis heard something about an address, but his gaze was on Susan. She was staring at Wainwright, incredulous at his refusal to accept Joe’s help.
Louis was disgusted, too, but now was not the time to take a stand. They had all had a rough forty-eight hours, and Susan was barely holding it together. A blowout here would only make matters worse.
Louis watched as Susan walked over to Joe. She leaned close and whispered something.
“We got a possible address on Byron Ellis,” Wainwright said, taking his jacket back from Jewell. He slipped it on and faced Joe and Susan.
“It was a pleasure, Miss Frye,” Wainwright said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t accommodate you this trip. Maybe next time.”
Joe moved away from Susan, coming toward the door.
“Chief, I have a double homicide of my own back in Miami. I have every reason to believe Austin Outlaw may know something about it.”
“So?”
“If you don’t allow me access now, I’ll get a material witness order and take Outlaw back to Miami.”
Wainwright’s eyes shot to Susan then back to Joe, who was now in his face.
“I’ll fight it” he said.
“And more people will die while you try,” Joe said.
Wainwright’s brows came down hard over his eyes, and for several seconds he stood perfectly still. Then he turned, waving his hand.
“All right for crissakes. Go have your talk.”
Wainwright zipped his jacket and left. Jewell put out a hand to prevent the door from slamming.
Joe reached for her jacket. “Anyone coming with me to the jail?”
“Give me a minute,” Susan said, disappearing into the hallway.
Louis looked at Joe, hoping she would say something to put Susan off, delay the inevitable explosion between Susan and Austin, but Joe didn’t seem concerned.
“Joe, letting her see Austin right now is not a good idea,” Louis said.
Her eyes swung to Louis. “She’s desperate for information, Louis. This man lost her son. She has every right to confront him.”
“I just want to —-”
“Protect her?”
“Maybe.”
“What makes you think she needs you to protect her? Or even wants you to?”
The bedroom door opened and Susan reappeared. She was wearing jeans, an old red sweater, and was struggling to get her arms into a black jacket. Her hair was still frayed but pulled back with a red barrette and her face was scrubbed. She seemed different. Her movements were quicker, sharper. Her jaw was set, and her eyes had a spark of...what? Anger? Purpose?
She stopped in front of Joe and Louis, pulling up the zipper on the jacket. “Let’s go.”
Joe stepped back to let her pass. Susan went outside and Louis leaned back into the room to look at the bookshelves near the TV.
“What are you looking for?” Joe asked.
“Making sure Susan didn’t take this with her,” Louis said, picking up Susan’s revolver.
CHAPTER 20
The interview room was very small, not really meant to hold three people. It smelled of sweat with an undernote of something foul, as if the desperation of the legions of losers who had sat in here had somehow permeated the drab green wall paint.
Joe and Susan had taken the chairs at the metal table. Louis wedged himself near the door. None of them had spoken since the cop had put them in here, telling them that the jail staff was in the middle of a medical emergency with another prisoner and it would be a while before Austin was available.
Available. Like they needed an appointment to see the weasel.
Louis raised the Styrofoam cup to his lips and took a drink of the stale coffee. He felt the urge to pace but there wasn’t enough room. There was only the table, two chairs, and a mirror on the interior wall, one-way glass, Louis knew. A small speaker was mounted on the wall near the door.
Joe had pulled her notebook out and was asking Susan questions. When had she last seen Austin before this visit? How much did she know about his import business? Did she know his Miami partner?
Susan sat stiff in her chair, hands folded, intent on answering Joe’s questions. She shifted now and then, her emotions jumping between frustration and anger as she realized she knew so little about her ex-husband. Sometimes she would look away from Joe, struggling for answers, for some tiny shred of informati
on about her past, a past that might somehow shed light on the horrible present.
Joe glanced up at Louis then closed her notebook, sitting back in her chair. She stretched a long leg out to the side and draped her arm over the back of the chair.
“Tell me what he was like thirteen years ago,” Joe said to Susan.
Susan’s eyes flicked up to Louis then she looked away, pushing her hair from her face. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Maybe nothing,” Joe said. “But it might trigger a memory. Maybe there’s something he wrote or said, something he put in a letter or postcard.”
Susan’s shoulders seemed to relax, and she drew in a long breath as she took her first step back.
“We met at a New Year’s Eve party in nineteen seventy- five,” she said in a near whisper. “I was almost twenty. He was twenty-five.”
Joe was quiet, letting Susan fill the pause.
“He wore this beautiful black suit and gold cufflinks, and he had a tiny diamond earring in one ear.” Susan looked up at Joe. “I had never dated a man who wore an earring before. I thought men who wore earrings were all...”
Susan fell silent
“Gay?” Joe asked.
Susan gave her a small smile but it quickly disappeared as she nodded.
“Now cops wear earrings in their off time,” Joe said.
“Not many,” Louis said.
Joe placed her long fingers over Susan’s clasped hands. “The suit got you?”
Susan sighed. “I guess so. I fell for a suit. That and his...his personality. He was everything I wasn’t. He had this sparkle about him that I think people hoped would rub off on them.” She paused, pulling her hands from Joe’s and dropping them to her lap. “I guess that’s what I hoped, too.”
Louis wanted to look away from them, but there was nothing to stare at but the green walls.
Girl talk. A strange moment of female intimacy that Louis didn’t understand or didn’t even want to know about. Somewhere in his brain he flashed on an image of his older sister, Yolanda, and her best friend whose name escaped him, a large girl with stiff, pointy braids and bright red lipstick. It was summer, on a porch, and they were talking about Nate Broosher. Louis was six years old, hiding just inside the screen door.
