She pulled two maps out of a drawer, one of the Metro system and one of Arlington. She spent a minute comparing them. “I think you should drive, it's not very close to the Metro stop. Or actually, maybe I should drive. Do you want me to go? You look really tired.”
When she that, I realized just how tired I was. I was running on adrenaline and when that ran out, I had a feeling I would drop. Still, that urgency I'd felt earlier was even more intense now. I had to keep going. “I am tired but I'm ok. Besides, what about Kevin? Can you leave him here alone?”
“He's old enough that he doesn't need a babysitter,” she said, although she didn't sound too sure.
“I'll be fine. Mrs. Flynn might be uncomfortable if two of us showed up,” I said. Chris showed me where Mrs. Flynn lived and how to find it on the map, and I set off to find my way through the confusing maze of DC streets, beltways, and highways.
Somehow, I managed to find Mrs. Flynn's home and it only took me an hour. She lived on an attractive, but crowded street with homes that looked like they'd been built during the post World War 2 boom in the Fifties. Large old tress lined the street and kept everything shaded. The lawns were immaculately groomed and the homes well cared for. I parked on the street in front of the address Mrs. Flynn had given me. Her home was a small cottage sized house, part brick and part white clapboard, with a chimney on each end. Enormous mums exploded with autumn color along the brick path that led to the door and against the foundation. Dark green ivy climbed its way up one chimney. It made an idyllic scene.
I walked up the path, breathing deeply the smell of fall, a pleasingly earthy scent. I knocked on the door and it was quickly answered by a small, plump woman wearing white cotton pants and a blowsy, emerald green top-Mrs. Flynn I presumed. I was surprised to see that she was older than I had expected. She had short curly brown hair, shot liberally with gray. Her round face was relatively smooth, but deep creases cut into the skin at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She looked like a woman who smiled often, but she wasn't smiling at the moment.
“Yes?” she asked cautiously, as if she suspected I was selling something.
“Mrs. Flynn? I'm Killian Kendall; we spoke on the phone?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! I didn't expect...”
“Someone so young?” I smiled my most winning smile. “I get that a lot.”
She smiled tentatively back at me and opened the screen door. “Please, come in,” she said.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Flynn,” I said as she led me into a comfortable living room, decorated with a comfortable mix of antiques and modern furniture. Knick-knacks covered every available surface, the evidence of a lifetime-photographs and souvenirs only family members knew the meaning behind. The pictures seemed to be of several different children. Over the fireplace, in a place of honor, was a huge portrait of Jesus. He wore a benign smile on his face but I had the creepiest feeling that his eyes were following me as I moved.
I sat down on an oversized arm chair positioned so that it was turned slightly away from the fireplace, that way I didn't have to look Jesus in the eye. Mrs. Flynn sat down on the sofa. I decided to start off with some easy questions to put her at ease.
“How many children do you have, Mrs. Flynn?”
“We had six, three boys and three girls. My husband and I were married for 40 years before he passed away.”
“I'm sorry for your loss,” I said.
“We had a good life together. He's in a better place now.”
I paused a moment at the nonchalance in her voice as she talked about the death of her husband. I couldn't imagine being that blasé about Micah dying and we hadn't been together anywhere near 40 years. “Where did Paul fit in?”
“He was the youngest. I always called him my surprise package. I was 40 when I found out I was expecting for the sixth time. My next youngest was almost 10 at the time. After five children, I knew what was happening as soon as the morning sickness started. I didn't even need to go to the doctor, but of course, I did. They assumed I'd want an abortion. It wasn't safe to have a baby at that age then, not like it is now. Women can have babies at almost any age now. Then, it was dangerous. I wouldn't even hear about an abortion, of course. It was never an option.”
“One of your sons lives with you now?”
“Yes, James. He's the youngest one after Paul. He moved in after his father passed away.”
“I understand that Paul was estranged from the family for a while, but that he reconciled with you after his father...passed away.”
“Yes, when he told us that he was...well, you know, his father said we couldn't accept that. Unless he was willing to get help, we couldn't have anything to do with him. Oh, how it broke my heart, but there was nothing I could do. My husband was the man of the house, he was an elder of the church, it was what he felt was right.”
“Did anyone from your family stay in touch with Paul?” I asked, horrified by the matter of fact way she spoke of the way they had turned their back on their own child.
“Not that I know of. As far as I know, my husband's funeral was the first time any of us had seen Paul in years.”
“And after the funeral, he began to visit you?”
“Yes. Always while James was at work. It was wonderful to see him again. He'd grown into such a handsome young man.” She cocked her head slightly to one side. “He looked a bit like you actually.” She stood up, went to the mantle over the fireplace, and picked up a small, silver-framed photograph. She brought it over and handed it to me.
“That's Paul,” she said.
It was funny to realize that this was the first time I had seen a photograph of him. I had been poking into his life and investigating his death for weeks now and never seen him. It had been taken years ago, the day of his high school graduation from the looks of it. He was wearing a blue robe and holding his mortarboard hat in his hands, posing in front of the ivy covered chimney. There was a certain surface resemblance between us. He was, as he'd been described, small and blonde. Beyond the superficial likeness, however, we really didn't look all that much alike. His face was shaped differently, his eyes smaller, his nose thinner and longer, and his ears larger. His hair was lighter than mine and straight. He wore glasses, while I wear contacts. He was cute in a quiet, unassuming way.
I handed the photo back to her and she replaced it on the mantle.
“Do you know who would have wanted to harm Paul?” I asked after she'd sat back down.
“No, I have no idea. I really didn't know much about his life. He never spoke much of personal things. I didn't even know what he did for a living until the newspaper articles came out with it. I don't know why they feel they have to smear that sort of thing all over the pages like a trashy novel.”
I felt my hopes take a nosedive. “Then you wouldn't know if he was seeing someone romantically?” I asked without much optimism.
“Actually, he was. He brought him to meet me once, a few months ago.” My heart sped up at her words. “I asked him if he had someone special in his life and he said yes. At first, it was enough to know that he was happy, but a mother wants to meet the person in their child's life, so I finally asked him to bring him on his next visit.”
“Can you tell me about him?”
“He was a very nice young man. He was tall with dark hair. It was very obvious, even to me, that he cared very much about Paul. I've thought of him often since Paul was killed, but I didn't know how to get in touch with him.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Of course, his name is Tom, Tom Jackson.”
It was all I could do not to crow in exaltation at those words. This could be the missing piece of the puzzle. I made my goodbyes to Mrs. Flynn, thanking her profusely for taking the time to speak to me. I made a beeline for my car when she let me out. I couldn't wait to call the detective.
Chapter 28
I flipped open my cell phone and dialed Chris before I'd even started the car.
“Can
you get me Detective Evans's phone number?” I asked as soon as she answered.
“Sure, hang on,” she said with no hesitation. I guess the excitement in my voice was obvious enough that she didn't even mention the fact that I had failed to say hello. She was back in a few seconds to give me the number. I thanked her, promised to explain later, and disconnected, only to dial the detective's number as soon as I got a signal.
“Hello?” he answered gruffly. I was pleased that Chris had given me a direct number and I didn't have to waste time with a receptionist.
“Detective Evans? This is Killian Kendall. We talked today about...”
“I know who you are, Kendall. I'm not senile. Can you please tell me why you are calling me on my direct line? Quickly now, before I hang up.”
“I just finished talking to Paul's mother and I found something out that I thought you might want to know.”
“Of course you did. And what will this information cost me?”
“You're so cynical, Detective.”
“I've worked with PI's for too long not to be. So what is it?”
“I need a phone number.”
“For who?”
“Paul's boyfriend.”
“We don't even know if he had one.”
“I do, and I know his name. And I'd be willing to bet his phone number is in that address book you have, and you've probably talked to him.”
“Spill.”
“Will you give me his number?”
“I don't owe you anything. If you don't tell me I'll have you arrested for obstructing justice.”
“You can't deny that I get results.”
“It must be your baby face, you inspire confidence.”
“Do we have a deal?”
“Deal.”
“The name is Tom Jackson.”
I heard the sound of paper shuffling and then there were a few seconds of silence.
“There's no Tom Jackson in the address book,” he said. I felt my heart drop. “But there is a TJ.” More rustling papers. “Damn, you are one lucky son of a bitch. We talked to him. His full name is Thomas Jackson. He claimed he was just an acquaintance of Flynn's and didn't really know him.”
“It's not luck. His number?”
The detective reluctantly read it off to me, then said, “We're going to have to question him again. I can't stop you from talking to him, but if you do talk to him before we do, don't spook him or it'll be your head.”
“I'll do what I can. Either way, I'll tell you everything I find out.”
“You'd better,” he said, and hung up.
I quickly dialed Tom Jackson's phone number and held my breath while it rang. It was answered on the fifth ring.
“Hello?” a male voice said.
“Tom Jackson?” I asked.
“Speaking.”
“This is Killian Kendall; I'm a private investigator looking into the death of Paul Flynn.”
There was a long silence. I allowed it to stretch out, determined not to be the one to break it. “I already told the police I didn't know Paul Flynn that well,” he said at last.
“I'm not the police. Mr. Jackson, I know you and Paul were lovers. I spoke to his mother. She said she'd met you.” Silence. “I'm trying to find Paul's killer. I think I know who it is but I need your help to catch him.” More silence. “Mr. Jackson?”
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you, face to face. I promise you, I don't mean you any harm.”
“Who hired you? Why are you investigating Paul's death?”
“I was hired by a friend of Paul's, his ex-lover.”
“Why would he care?”
“He still cared for Paul. He was very hurt when he found out he'd been murdered, and even more so when he found out that the police weren't pursuing this case with the fervor he expected.”
Tom Jackson snorted. “They're hardly pursuing it at all.”
“That's why he hired me.”
“You think you know who did this?”
“I have suspicions.”
“And you think I can help?”
“I'm hoping so.”
“Ok. I'll meet you. But it has to be somewhere public. For all I know, you could be the killer and you're afraid I know something so you're coming after me too.”
“Is that why you didn't talk to the police? You were afraid?”
“Wouldn't you be in my position?”
“I probably would be. Where can we meet?”
“I live in Annapolis. Can you meet me there in about an hour? I can give you directions to a restaurant I know where we can talk privately.”
“I don't really know the area that well. I'm in Arlington now; how long would that take me to get to Annapolis?”
“An hour should be plenty of time. You just get on 50 and follow it until you see the exit. It's well marked.” He gave me directions to the restaurant and we disconnected. I started the car and set off for Annapolis. I sure was doing a lot of driving around for this case.
The drive was simple if not exactly interesting. While I drove, I tried to keep my mind busy with trivia about the capital of Maryland to keep from falling asleep. Aside from being the capital, I knew it was also the home of the United States Naval Academy and one of the oldest schools in the country, St. John's College. It was even the Capital of the United States briefly. When I ran out of trivia, which didn't take long, I let my mind wander where it wanted. It slithered around various things-Amalie, Jake, Fenton Black, Tom Jackson-before finally settling on Paul. After seeing that picture of him, he'd suddenly become more real to me somehow. It was almost as if before I'd seen it he was just an abstract concept, a puzzle to unravel. He'd been Micah's Ex, the Escort, the Murder Victim. Now, he was simply a person. Someone who had loved and been loved. Someone gone forever. I had a sudden urge to cry, but fought off the tears. It wouldn't do to show up for my meeting with Tom Jackson with red-rimmed eyes and a case of the sniffles. It wouldn't be a very professional image.
I found the restaurant and parked in the tiny parking lot across the street. The restaurant was on the first floor of a small brick building, part of a block long stretch of two story brick edifices that could have easily dated back to the 19th Century. Farther along the street, I saw a couple antique stores, an art supply store, and a few more coffee shops and restaurants. It looked as if the second floors had been converted into apartments and I wondered if that was where Mr. Jackson lived. The wood trim on the buildings had been painted bright cheery colors and I thought it wouldn't be a bad place to live at all. The neighborhood had a bustling, cozy feel to it.
I walked in and looked around for a man sitting alone. It wasn't crowded and most of the people were there in pairs. I spotted one lone man sitting at a table off to one side. He was an attractive light-skinned black man in his early 30's, well-dressed with close-cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. I approached his table cautiously, unsure if this was the man I'd come to meet or not.
“Tom Jackson?” I asked in a low voice. He looked up and surprise registered on his face.
“Are you the detective?” he asked.
“Private Investigator. My name is Killian Kendall.” I held out a hand for him to shake, which he did somewhat hesitantly.
“I expected-,” he began, but cut himself off.
“Someone older?” I finished. “I get that a lot, but I can assure you, Mr. Jackson, I know what I'm doing.”
“Call me TJ,” he said. He had a soft, lyrical voice that sounded as if it would lend itself well to jazz. “I didn't mean to insult you. I realized as I was saying it that it was a stupid thing to say. I don't even know how old you are.”
“I'm almost as young as I look, but that's not important. I appreciate your talking to me.”
“It's the least I could do.”
“I don't want to take up a lot of your time, so I'm going to jump right in. You and Paul were dating?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
His grief was painfully obvious; it rolled off of him like physical waves, washing over me and bringing those earlier tears back to the surface. I wondered why I could feel his pain so clearly and decided it must have just been because I was so tired. Before meeting him, I'd half wondered if my suspicions about Black could be wrong and the boyfriend might not be the killer. Having met him now, I no longer thought that. Every ounce of my intuition said he was innocent and had loved Paul very much. I hated to continue to dredge up these painful memories, but knew I had to.
The Truth of Yesterday Page 42
