“That’s why I’m here, Bo,” Nikkie said. “To find out exactly what happened.”
“My mom tells me you’re the smart one at the detective agency.”
Flashing a brief smile towards Crown, Nikkie said, “Derek Cole is one of the best, most dedicated private investigators I have ever known.”
“Then why isn’t he here?” Bo asked.
“He’s working in the field,” Nikkie responded.
Crown said, “He’s digging up dirt on your father. That should keep him busy for the rest of his life.”
“Why the hell is he investigating my dad? He had nothing to do with any of this.”
Nikkie was excellent at handling difficult situations. Over the next several minutes, she summarized the meeting she and Derek had with Bo’s father and explained that while neither she nor Derek suspected Louis Randall to have played a role in the arson, they were still curious why he was so quick to rush to working out a plea with the DA and not trying to find out if someone was indeed framing his son.
“I don’t suppose you met with the DA or the sheriff’s office?” Bo asked.
“They usually won’t meet with private investigators. So, no, we haven’t met with them.”
“Well, do you know all the evidence they have against me? I mean, shit, if it wasn’t me in this situation, I’d say I did the crime.”
“Let’s start there, okay? With the evidence they have pinning you to the arson. Tell me everything they have on you.”
It didn’t take Bo long to go over the key incriminating evidence. As he detailed the case against him, Nikkie noticed that Bo seemed to be utterly distant. Like he was recalling details about a book he had read several years ago. To Nikkie, Bo seemed totally lost. “You’re saying everything like it’s all foreign to you. Yet, and pardon me for saying this, every bit of evidence puts you in the perpetrator’s position. Every last thing.”
“That’s because I can’t remember anything about the whole night. I mean, I remember going out to dinner, drinking a few beers…”
“More than a few, Boregard. More than a few,” Crown interjected.
Displaying the first bit of emotion, Bo snapped at Crown, saying, “Let’s not start that again, mom. I drink, yes, so sue me.”
“Don’t take that tone with me,” Crown fired back. “You drink way too much. That’s what got you into this shit-mess in the first place.”
Nikkie raised her hands to calm Crown and Bo, and continued. “Okay, so all you can remember is going out to eat, drinking a few beers then waking up the next morning. Correct?”
“And sitting on a three-inch Buck knife. I remember that pretty fucking clearly.”
“The knife the police say you purchased and you taped to the inside of your couch?”
“The one and only,” Bo said. “Want to see the hole in my ass it left?”
“Not necessary.”
Over the next thirty minutes, Bo shared everything he could remember about the night of the fire, about his relationship with Brian Mack, the fire department and everything else he felt might, in some way, make sense of everything. He shared his theories, most of which were too bizarre for even him to give any credence to. But a few sparked Nikkie’s interest.
“So,” Nikkie started, “you admit to using cocaine on a very occasional basis and you’re certain that your most recent acquisition of cocaine should have lasted you several months?”
“I’m not proud of using the shit,” Bo said, throwing a sideways glance at Crown. “I’m far from being addicted to the stuff, so I really have no reason why I buy it and why I use it. But I know the last score I made should have lasted me through the summer and probably into fall.”
“But the bag of cocaine you say you kept in your office safe was not only laying out in full view on your desk, but was practically gone?” Nikkie confirmed.
“Hardly enough left for one line,” Bo said.
“Your last score? Enough for one line? Bo, you may not believe you’re an addict, but you sure as hell talk like one.” Crown knew her son had a problem with alcohol and she long suspected that beer proved to be a gateway drug for Bo. But hearing her only child talking casually about a drug as dangerous and as addictive as cocaine, was becoming more than she could handle. “That shit will mess with your mind, make you do things you normally would never do.” Crown stood, grabbed Bo by both shoulders, and said directly to his face, “You look me right in the eye and tell me if you did drugs the day of the fire? And God help you if you say you don’t remember. Tell me, Bo. Tell me the truth!” Her voice bordered on screaming.
While the words never came out of his mother’s mouth, her saying that cocaine can make people do things they normally wouldn’t, was the same as if she said she didn’t believe Bo was innocent. Tears began to cloud Bo’s vision. He twisted his body free from his mother’s grasp, wiped his eyes then slumped against the kitchen wall till he was sitting on the tiled floor. Sliding to the floor in the manner he did, reminded Bo of the knife wound and the continued pain. He winced in pain then twisted his body so that he was more leaning than sitting.
The fire that had burned a house practically to the ground and took the life of two people he knew and loved dearly, had only been extinguished less than two days ago. But, in those two days, Bo felt his life and everything he loved about it, was falling down a deep and dark hole. “I don’t know. I don’t think I did any, but, honestly, I don’t remember.”
“Cocaine stays in a body for two to four days,” Nikkie said, as calmly as she could. “Let’s get over to your doctor right now, have him or her draw your blood, and find out if you have any cocaine in your system.”
“Why?” Bo said, still sitting on the floor. “What the hell difference does it make if I did coke or didn’t?”
“Because if you didn’t use cocaine the night of the fire,” Nikkie said, standing up, closing the lid of her laptop and collecting her rental car keys, “then your story that someone is setting you up gains a whole lot more credibility.”
Bo struggled to return to his feet, vocalizing his discomfort with guttural gasps. When he felt steady on his feet, he said, “And by the way, not that it matters, but my doctor’s name is Amanda. Dr. Amanda Jefferson.”
“Well,” Crown said, “at least you have the good sense to see a woman doctor. At least something I taught you stuck with you.”
From inside his front pocket, Bo’s cell phone began to ring. He pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and said, “It’s dad. I’ll take this in my office. Be right with you.”
With that, he slid his finger across the phone’s screen, said, “Hey dad,” then his voice trailed off as he walked towards his home office. Once he closed the room’s door behind me, Crown and Nikkie could hear nothing from Bo’s end of the conversation.
“I raised him better than this, you know?” Crown said, her eyes fixed on Nikkie’s. “The drinking, the drugs, he got that shit from his father.”
“Louis uses drugs?” Nikkie asked, surprised.
“Can’t say for certain, but I know he’s big into his high-ass end scotch. Makes a big fucking deal of it, like his idiocy of spending forty dollars for a glass of alcohol proves his success in life. As for drug use? I wouldn’t be surprised. When we were first married, we didn’t have two dimes to rub together, but once his practice picked up, shit if he wouldn’t have gotten into cocaine for the prestige of it all.”
“Not much prestige in burning the lining of your nose, I’d believe. Not that I’m suggesting anything about Louis, but, it wouldn’t surprise me. He seemed a little wired when Derek and I met with him yesterday. He had trouble paying attention to our conversation. Eyes always darting back and forth.”
“That’s a habit he picked up after we were divorced,” Crown said. “Pissed me right off when he’d show more interest in some bimbo’s ass than whatever conversation he and I were discussing. Could be coke, I don’t know. I’m more leaning to his distraction just fitting in with his whole
ass-wipe persona.”
A few minutes after he had left the kitchen, Bo returned; his face brighter, his complexion ruddier. “Let’s get this over with. Time to pee in a cup,” he said quickly.
“Actually, Bo,” Nikkie said, “pretty sure it will be a blood test and not a pee-in-a-cup type of thing.”
“Then I guess I’m ready to bleed a little. Still not sure why this whole thing matters, but, at this point, I’ll do anything to clear my name.”
“One last thing,” Nikkie said. “You said that the baggie of cocaine you found on your desk was almost empty. Less than a line left, I think you said.”
Bo glanced at Crown who was glaring at him. He dropped his wide shoulders, hung his head a few inches lower and said, “Yeah, what about it?”
“Where’s the baggie now?”
Bo said, “I put it back in the safe. After I sat on that knife in my couch and called the sheriffs, I figured I’d better not leave it out for them to catch a glimpse of. Why do you ask?”
“Wouldn’t hurt to have it checked out. The bag, that is. If someone was dipping into it, they might have left some prints behind.”
Bo said, “You actually want me to take a bag of cocaine with me to the sheriff’s office so they can dust for prints? Not sure how that will turn out.”
Nikkie said, “Not what I was thinking. Derek has a friend, a police chief north of Albany. I’ll ask Derek to contact him, see if he’d do us a favor and check out the bag for prints.” Nikkie retrieved her Moleskine notebook, jotted down a reminder, then said, “Why don’t you grab the bag for me? I’ll hold on to it.”
“You know if you’re caught with it, you’ll need to hire my dad. Maybe we could be cell mates.” The way Bo said it gave Nikkie pause. Bo was handsome and certainly held himself with the confidence one would expect someone with his looks to possess. Nikkie held no doubts about Bo’s ability to do well in the romance department. She thought that he was the type that never struggled to have a date for any night of the week. The type whose bed supported two people more often than one. But he was also a client; a client facing some serious jail time, whose life as he once knew it, was, more than likely, finished. Yet his playfully suggested tone of voice and the promising look etched across his face belonged to a man more interested in filling a need or satisfying a desire than one facing twenty to life.
“Just grab me the bag,” she said. “I’ll take my chances.” Her tone, and the expression held on the face that uttered the statement, was unmistakable.
Bo raised his hands in surrender. “Just looking out for your best interests,” he said. He limped away. He came back a few minutes later, hands empty and the look of confidence erased. “It’s gone. The bag. It’s not in my safe.”
“Show me,” Nikkie said, then walked directly towards Bo.
He turned and led Crown and Nikkie through his living room and into the adjacent room. He pointed to the desk, telling them that was where he found the near-empty bag the morning after the fire. He then pulled open a closet door, gingerly kneeled down and began spinning the two-inch wide dial on the front of a three-foot-wide by four-foot-tall safe. Inside were two pistols; a Smith and Wesson Bodyguard .380 and a Sig P-250. A quick glance told Nikkie the 250 was chambered for .40 caliber ammunition. “Surprised the police haven’t confiscated your weapons,” Nikkie said.
“Yeah, well,” Bo said, scratching his head, “they took my registered ones. These actually belong to a buddy of mine. His wife won’t allow guns in the house since their baby was born. I store them here for him.”
“The authorities didn’t search this safe?” Nikkie asked. “I have to believe they had a search warrant for all the contents of your home.”
“They did have a warrant and they did search this safe. Had to give them the combination. The guns were put there just last night.”
Beyond the two pistols, the safe was crammed with several boxes of ammunition—ranging from .380 to .45 caliber—several folders, each stuffed neatly with documents, a tin box, several USB thumb drives and a roll of cash, bound together tightly with three thick rubber bands.”
“That seems like a lot of cash,” Crown said. “Drug money?”
“Emergency funds, mom,” Bo said. “Jeez mom, what do you think I am, a dealer or something?”
Crown said, “Honestly Bo, I don’t know what you are anymore.” There was that tone again. That silent, suggestive, accusing tone that mothers seem to have mastered. It was laden with guilt, needing to be either accepted or denied. Bo’s expression told Crown and Nikkie he had chosen to accept the guilt.
Bo turned his attention back to the safe and opened the tin box. “I keep whatever stuff I have in here,” he said. He pulled out the tin box, showed Crown and Nikkie that besides a razor blade and a tightly rolled $100 bill, the box was empty. “It’s gone and since I’ve been either in jail or under the watchful eye of either my dad or mom since I got home, you can’t think that I did anything with it.”
“You were probably in a lot of pain after sitting on the knife. Think you could have put the bag someplace else in a hurry?”
Bo said, “Nikkie, I could be having a heart attack and I’d still know enough to hide anything I don’t want anyone to see in my safe. It’s gone. Someone took it.”
“Who else knows the combination for the safe,” Nikkie asked.
“Hell if I know,” Bo said. “My dad bought the safe for me, so he may know. A few guys at the department maybe. Not sure but it’s not worth much to me if I gave the combination out to everyone in town.”
“So, at most, would, say, three people besides you know the combination?”
“At most. Maybe four. Could be five but I highly doubt I’d give it out to five people.”
“Plus the police you gave the combination to,” Crown added.
Nikkie pulled out her notebook again, flipped it open and asked Bo for the names of those he believed might know the combination. After rattling off five names, he said, “You know, that whole pen and paper thing might be giving the wrong impression to people.”
Nikkie closed the notebook, slid it back into her laptop bag, looked at Bo and said, “Come again?”
“You’re too young to be a notebook girl. Makes you look old fashioned. As the expression goes, ‘there’s an app for that.’”
Nikkie stared at Bo, again wondering how someone facing so much potential trouble could display such a carefree attitude. He had just discovered that someone (possibly) broke into his safe and removed a bag of cocaine that may have provided a clue and lead to his exoneration. But instead of being angry, disappointed, or at least confused, he chose instead to employ his probably tried and true approach of flirting.
“I use what works, not what people think I should use. Let’s get going. We’re wasting time.”
“A woman who takes charge,” Bo said from the corner of his mouth and in his best John Wayne sounding voice. He tipped an imaginary hat to Nikkie, smiled, winked and softly said, “I like that.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I still don’t think having my blood tested for cocaine will help my case at all.” Bo had been quiet for most of the twelve mile ride from his house to the Retrax Clinical Lab but as Nikkie pulled into the small parking lot, Bo’s nerves fueled his voice box. “Seriously, let’s say they find coke in my blood, that won’t help me remember doing it, just that I did it. If they don’t find any, then someone with a hungry nose got into my stash and had a party. That just means I have three problems: One, I’m facing twenty to life for arson and manslaughter, two, I can’t remember anything that I could use to prove I didn’t start the fire, and three, someone who knows my safe’s combination stole around five hundred dollars of supply from me.”
Nikkie pulled her 2015 Nissan Altima into a parking spot, pressed the “Off” button on the dash, then turned to Bo. “Bo, I’m not asking this to judge, but, how long have you been using?”
“Using?” Bo said, followed by a brief but hearty laugh. “Now
you sound like either an addict yourself or some bullshit, useless drug counselor.”
“How long have you been snorting cocaine up your nose?” Nikkie said. “That better?”
“Three years. Maybe a little longer. Got into it when I started working at my job. My sales manager was an amazing salesman, a great manager and addicted to probably six different drugs. He got me to try it when he did a ride-along day with me.”
“A what?”
“Ride-along day. It’s when a sales manager spends the day with a rep visiting accounts. Anyway, he and I made two or three sales calls, got nothing going and the appointment I had scheduled for one in the afternoon called to cancel. My manager—his name was Tom—says to me, ‘Bo, you have a decision to make.’ I was thinking he was going to blast me for screwing up one of the cold calls I made or for not confirming the appointment before we left for the day. Instead, he said I had to decide whether I wanted to keep making cold calls or go have a drink. I knew Tom liked to drink and the thought of spending the rest of the work day knocking on doors wasn’t appealing, so I said, ‘Let’s have a drink.’ One drink turned into six or seven and seven drinks turned into me and him snorting a bunch of lines.
“It’s not true that you get addicted to coke after your first line. That may be true with heroin, you know, shoot up once and you can’t wait till you can shoot up again? Anyway, that was first time I snorted coke. Probably did it one or twice a month since that first time. I did start using more often about a year ago, so I stopped for six straight months.”
“But you obviously started again,” Nikkie said.
“Had a party a few months back. A guy from town showed up, brought a heavy bag to share, and, viola, here I am today, accused of a crime I honestly can’t remember if I did or not and getting ready to walk into a clinic, have a needle jabbed into my arm to have my blood tested to see if I had more fun the night of the fire than I remember.”
It was the first time Nikkie heard Bo admit there was a chance that he was guilty. “You admit that to your father?” she asked.
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