And he waited a bit longer.
The problem was, Andrew wasn’t sure how to proceed. Finally, he said, “I know you’re confident that Tyler’s guilty, and I can even see why you’d feel that way.”
“There are bloody fingerprints all over the house, Governor. I’d bet my pension they’re Tyler’s.”
“I hear you, but—”
Perhaps forgetting momentarily to whom he was speaking, Ramsey interrupted. “The prints are all over dresser drawers, which were pulled out, clothes in disarray, like he dug through them quickly, grabbing what he needed before he ran.”
“I’m not saying he didn’t run,” Andrew said. “Just that he didn’t kill Julie Davenport. Or Sally Graham.”
Ramsey seemed to be deciding how best to respond. Finally, he said, “I’m sure you understand that we can’t take your word for it, Governor.”
“I’m not asking you to. I guess I’m just asking . . .”
He trailed off. Ramsey waited.
“I’m asking for you to keep an open mind. It’s not easy, I know, but try. And if you find him—”
“When we find him,” he said, interrupting the governor a second time.
“Okay, when you find him . . . please take him in as easy as you can. He won’t fight you. He’s not the type, no matter what you believe. He’s a good young man, Detective, I promise you. And when this is all over, you’ll see that. I swear to God.”
Ramsey met his eyes for a moment. “I can only promise to keep an open mind, sir. And that whatever cops bring him in will act professionally and use the appropriate amount of force and no more.”
Andrew could only hope that was true. “Of course. Thank you.”
Ramsey nodded. “As I said, I have to check in with my partner. You’ll be available to answer a few questions when I come back out?”
“I’ll be here. I want Tyler brought back safely, same as you, Detective. If there’s anything I can tell you that will help with that, I’ll be glad to share it.”
Ramsey nodded, then turned and headed for the house.
Molly stepped close and leaned her head against Andrew’s shoulder. Neither said a word. They didn’t have to. They were thinking the same thing . . .
Wherever Tyler was, they hoped he was okay.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Henry hated to think about it. He had spent countless hours over the past eight years trying not to think about it. Some days he was even marginally successful. Other days . . . not so much. Those days he was unable to forget, even for a moment, that he had killed Dave Bingham.
It was an accident. A terrible accident.
And it was a long story with a lot of players and a lot of moving parts, a story he didn’t have time to think about now even if he had wanted to, which he never did. Still, even when he wasn’t thinking about it, he could never quite clear his mind of the story’s lowlights . . . of the fact that he accidentally shot Dave and let a local junkie—Kevin Austin—take the fall for it. He hadn’t meant to do either, not really, but to his horror, both things just sort of happened, and after a while, there was nothing he could do about either. Especially not after all these years. All he could do now . . . the important thing now . . . was to focus on helping Tyler. It wouldn’t be easy under the circumstances, but for Tyler, he’d do what he had to do.
Grady Austin offered Henry and Egan something to drink, and though it was after midnight, Henry had asked for coffee just so he could observe the man limping around the kitchen, performing the task of serving them, while Henry tried to determine whether it was possible for him to have killed Sally Graham. And watching him fuss with the coffee maker, take cups and saucers from the cabinets, and put sugar and creamer on the table, Henry determined that it wasn’t. Molly hadn’t mentioned the man she saw in the video walking with a limp, and it was hard to believe that someone with this profound a physical handicap could do what their mysterious caller had been doing. Austin could have hired someone, of course, but to engage the services of a person to accomplish something that required as much planning and effort to execute as what their blackmailer had been doing would no doubt be expensive. And judging by the appearance of Austin’s house and the way he lived, the guy wasn’t exactly rolling in money. But the look on his face when he’d first seen Henry at his door, and heard his name, and the fact that he’d said that Henry “wasn’t supposed” to find him, left no doubt that he was deeply involved in all of this.
Ever mindful of the clock, and the fact that Tyler was out there somewhere—on the run, alone, scared, and in danger—Henry continued his questioning, which had begun the moment Egan had joined them in the kitchen. The detective just sat and listened, content to let Henry take the lead even though he wasn’t exactly on the VSP payroll at the moment. But Egan knew enough to realize that he didn’t know nearly enough to ask the right questions.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Austin,” Henry said, “can you tell me how you hurt your leg?”
“Car accident a few years ago.”
Henry nodded and considered how best to phrase the next question so as to appear to know more than he did while still eliciting a substantive response.
“You seemed surprised to see me at your door,” he said as he added sugar to his coffee. “Surprised that we connected you to all of this, is the way I think you said it.”
“Yeah,” Austin said, lowering himself into a kitchen chair with a bit of effort because of his leg. “He said you wouldn’t.”
“Who said that? The man you hired?”
Austin nodded very slightly, confirming Henry’s theory.
“Is that who’s been calling us, Mr. Austin? Or was it you?”
“Wasn’t me.”
Henry believed him. “So who is he?”
Austin said nothing.
“Mr. Austin?”
Austin looked away. Shook his head.
“Mr. Austin, the man doing all of this, the man you hired, he’s hurt a lot of people.”
Still no response.
“Ruined a lot of lives,” Henry added.
“That was the point,” Austin finally snapped. “He was supposed to destroy lives. The way my Kevin’s was. And mine.”
Henry sat back hard in his chair, as though shoved in the chest by the raw emotion in the man’s voice. He took a breath. “I don’t want to hear about how your life was destroyed, Mr. Austin. Or your son’s.”
It was true. He really didn’t. Because it was Henry who had destroyed them. They didn’t know that, of course . . . no one but Henry did.
He glanced at Egan, who looked surprised at Austin’s near confession. The man was starting to make Henry’s story about Tyler’s innocence a bit easier to believe.
“Your son, Kevin, killed a man, Mr. Austin,” Egan said, joining the conversation.
“No, he didn’t. He was framed. By the person who really killed Dave Bingham.”
Almost unconsciously, Henry sat forward, his pulse kicking up a tick. The person who really killed Dave Bingham?
“And who was that?” Egan asked patiently.
“Zachary Barnes,” Austin said, and Henry sat back again, his pulse slowing a fraction. “His old man’s in the mob, they say. Connected somehow, anyway.” And once Austin started talking, he barely paused to take a breath. “Kevin was there that night, it’s true, in the Rutland Projects. That place . . . that hellhole . . . no one goes there for a good reason, not since they closed it all up, sent the residents off to look for someplace else to live. Nothing but drug dealers and gangbangers and hookers ever since. Thank God they’re tearing those goddamn buildings down. My Kevin, yeah, he was there that night. He went for drugs sometimes. I’m not proud of that, but there it is. Anyway, somehow he got mixed up with something.”
“And what was that?” Egan asked.
Henry sat and listened, a captive audience, as Austin filled in holes in the story Henry had been reluctantly retelling in his head over and over for years.
Austin shook his h
ead. “Kevin wouldn’t tell me exactly. But he and the Barnes kid knew each other. All my boy told me later was that he didn’t kill anyone, said it was really important that I believed him. They built a case against him, even without the goddamn murder weapon. Didn’t bother looking for anyone else,” he said with a glare at Henry. It was all Henry could do to keep from dropping his eyes. “Kevin pleaded not guilty and was all set for trial, but then his lawyer gave him a message from Clifton Barnes. Said if Kevin tried to hang it on his son, Zachary, then . . .”
“Then what, Mr. Austin?” Egan asked. “Let me guess: He’d have someone kill Kevin in jail? Before it even got to trial?”
Austin shook his head. “No. He’d have someone kill me. But if Kevin kept his mouth shut, played along and took the fall, he’d . . .”
“He’d what?”
“Barnes would take good care of . . . of me.”
“Of you?” Egan asked.
“He’d send me money.”
“Your son told you about this alleged threat?”
“Nothing alleged about it.”
Egan said, “So you’re saying that Clifton Barnes knew his son killed Dave Bingham, and he threatened you and your son, and offered to pay you off, to keep his kid out of trouble?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“And Kevin did what he asked? To protect you?”
“He did.”
Henry closed his eyes again. He hadn’t known any of this. It came as a shock. They had all been wrong about who had killed Dave Bingham, of course, but it said a lot about local junkie Kevin Austin that he would take the rap for a murder he didn’t commit in order to protect his father. This new piece of information caused Henry to feel a familiar stab of guilt and shame. If such wounds were physical, he’d have been a giant mass of scar tissue.
Austin continued. “The next day, Kevin changed his story and pleaded guilty. Confessed to killing that ex-cop, even though he didn’t do it. And his damn lawyer, the bastard, knew it wasn’t true because he’s the one who delivered Barnes’s message to Kevin. He just let it happen. Probably got paid a lot for that. I wasn’t too torn up to hear he drowned a year later when his fishing boat sank, I’ll tell you that. And for the record,” he added, looking at Henry, “your brother let it happen, too. Sure, he was the prosecutor, and it was his job, but he should’ve known something was wrong. He should’ve known it from the start. My boy was innocent, and your brother cared more about TV press conferences and sending Kevin to prison than knowing what really happened. I could say the same about you, too, Lieutenant Kane. And you know I’m right. I can see the guilt all over your face.”
Henry said nothing. What was there to say? So he kept his mouth shut and sat there burning with shame. He had to endure this. He had to understand everything that was going on if he wanted to help Tyler.
“Judge Jeffers was no better, either,” Austin said. “He didn’t care about the truth. Just wanted to get the trial over with and start the next one.” His voice had gotten shaky. He stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “So Kevin did what Barnes wanted, changed his plea to guilty and let them sentence him to twenty-five years in prison, just so I wouldn’t get hurt. So I’d be taken care of. And Zachary Barnes got off scot-free, paid for by his daddy’s threats and his daddy’s money and my son’s freedom . . . and, later, his life. Someone killed my boy in prison. Beat him to death like an animal because they didn’t like the way he was.”
Henry listened stoically, the only person in the room who knew what he’d done, who knew how grievous his sins were. He’d learned a while back that Kevin Austin had died in prison, but he hadn’t known how until Egan told him. How many times had he thought about turning himself in? About confessing? But every time he did, he came up with a reason not to. That was something he had to live with.
“And he went to prison for me,” Austin said. “I didn’t want that, but I couldn’t stop him. He confessed, and I couldn’t stop him. No one would listen to me. His lawyer wouldn’t meet with me. Your brother,” he said, looking Henry’s way again, “only cared about the publicity. Didn’t want to listen to what I had to say. The state attorney’s office got its confession, your brother held his final press conference, and that was that. End of story. I called your brother’s office and sent letters telling him that they got the wrong man, that they needed to look into the Barnes kid, but he ignored me. And Kevin went to prison. A month later, I got a cashier’s check in the mail. Twenty-five thousand dollars. And every six months, I got another one, fifty grand a year, all the way up until Kevin died. Never spent a dime of the money on myself, though. Just saved it up until . . .”
He trailed off. Egan finished for the older man, “Until you used it to hire whoever is behind all of this.”
Henry had to step in. He had no choice. Egan simply didn’t know enough of the facts. “Wesley Jurgens was your messenger, I’m guessing,” he said. He had represented Torrance from the start, last visiting him a year ago—around the same time he’d visited Lewis for the first time.
“Not my messenger.”
“The guy you hired then,” Henry said. “He had Jurgens communicate with Torrance and Lewis, get them on board?”
“Wasn’t hard to convince Gabriel. He’s the one that got me thinking about all this in the first place. After Kevin died, Gabriel contacted me and told me he thought he might be able to find the gun with Zachary Barnes’s fingerprints.”
Henry stiffened. The gun? In the confusion of that night, the struggle that led to his accidentally shooting Dave, the tangle of emotions he’d felt immediately afterward, Henry hadn’t realized until much later that he’d lost the unregistered gun he’d been carrying, the one that had killed his friend. After months passed, then years, he’d thought it lost for good.
“You all right?” Egan asked.
Henry realized both men were looking at him.
“I’m fine.” He looked at Austin and tried to keep his voice steady as he asked, “What about the gun?”
“Kevin had told Gabriel generally where he’d hidden it in those projects. He made Gabriel promise never to tell me, but after Kevin was killed, well . . . Gabriel wanted to set things straight. For Kevin.”
“Why the hell did Torrance care so much?” Egan asked.
Austin raised his chin, almost defiantly. “He and Kevin were close in prison.”
“They were lovers?”
“More than that. Kevin told me they were in love. When Kevin was killed, Gabriel was devastated. He knew Kevin wouldn’t have wanted Zachary Barnes brought into this, that he wanted to protect me, but after Kevin was gone and Gabriel told me about the gun, I didn’t give a thought about me. I wanted revenge, same as Gabriel did. The problem was that those projects are coming down soon.”
“And you guys were worried that the gun would be lost forever,” Henry said, “so Torrance had to get out earlier.”
“Like I said, he wouldn’t tell me where to look for it. He wanted to be the one to find it. That was real important to him. He insisted on being the one to avenge Kevin by destroying Zachary.”
“Along with everyone you hold responsible for what happened to your son,” Egan said.
“Not Kevin’s lawyer,” Austin said, “the son of a bitch. He was already dead.”
For a moment, Henry couldn’t catch his breath. It was all his fault. It started with his accidentally killing Dave Bingham, and his arresting Kevin Austin for the crime—though he hadn’t planned that . . . it just happened. Then Kevin dying in prison, and Grady Austin’s father hiring someone to exact his revenge. Henry was responsible for it all. Sally Graham and Julie Davenport. Everything was his fault.
Austin was still talking. “But all the others?” he said. He glared at Henry. “You. The damn judge. Your brother—”
Wait a second. Henry cut him off. “What the hell did Tyler have to do with any of this?”
Austin shook his head. “Not that brother. Your other one.”
“I r
epeat: what did Tyler have to do with this? Me, my brother Andrew, Judge Jeffers . . . I can almost understand. But Tyler?”
Austin looked away.
“How about Sally Graham, Mr. Austin?” Henry asked. “And Julie Davenport?” He knew that, of all people, he had no claim to the moral high ground here. But Tyler? He was innocent in every sense of the word. And not one but two blameless women?
Austin turned toward him, confusion in his eyes.
“Did you know he killed Julie tonight?” Henry asked. “Had you ever even heard of her? Her only crime was living in the house with my brother Tyler. Helping to take care of him. Yet the man you hired killed her tonight.”
Austin looked away again.
“Kane,” Egan said softly to Henry. “Maybe it’s time to read him his—”
“Too soon,” Henry replied quietly. He felt they were getting somewhere now. Austin was showing signs of weakening. “It’s just the three of us here right now, Egan. No need for Miranda yet.”
“I don’t want this going tits up because—”
“We’ll do it, just not yet. Not when we’re getting close.” He lowered his voice even more. Austin could probably still hear him, but the man was focusing on the black night beyond the window. “If it ever comes to it, it’ll be his word against ours as to when he heard his rights.”
Egan shook his head. “Man, for an IA cop, you play fast and loose with the rules.”
Henry turned toward Austin again. If he wanted answers, he had to continue to push the man despite his own culpability. “How about them, Mr. Austin? My brother Tyler? Sally Graham? Julie Davenport?”
“I didn’t know his plans for Tyler. Didn’t know he’d even be involved. And I didn’t know he was going to . . . you know, kill Sally Graham. Or the last one you mentioned, Julie . . .”
“Davenport.”
“I didn’t know about any of them. I just told him who I wanted to see punished. I left it to him to decide how to do it. He said there might be collateral damage, but . . .”
“Collateral damage?”
“I wanted you all punished. But I didn’t want you killed. Not you. Not the ones who did what you did to Kevin. No, I wanted you all alive, alive but miserable. I wanted you to lose what mattered most to you. I wanted your lives ruined like ours were. But I left it to him to decide how to do all that.”
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