Give Up the Dead

by Joe Clifford

  “Did he tell you how you’re supposed to help him? Assuming you can find him.”

  “That would be useful, wouldn’t it?”

  “Did he give you anything concrete?”

  “He said to look at Ethan’s other marriage and relationships.”

  “We already did that. He smacked them around. What else?”

  “Told me to be careful.” I saw I had a call coming in on the other line. “I gotta go.”

  I switched over to Turley, who asked me to come down to the station. My first reaction was this had to be about Tom, and if Turley wanted to see me in person, the news couldn’t be good.

  “No, it’s not about Tom,” Turley said. “There’s no change in his condition.”

  “Then why do you want to see me?”

  “Can you just come down here?” Turley whined. “Please. Make things easy for once?”

  “Should I call a lawyer?”

  “Jesus, Jay. No, you don’t need a lawyer. But I do need to talk to you.”

  “It’s a weekday morning, man. I have to get to work. Just because Tom is laid up doesn’t mean I get time off—”

  “Please.” That last please sounded so exhausted, exasperated, I gave in.

  Even I knew how hard it had to be dealing with me sometimes.

  Pulling into the Ashton PD parking lot, I spotted the long black, luxury car with Massachusetts plates. I didn’t know what the play was, why my presence was required, but this wasn’t shaking out in my favor, that much was for sure.

  Sitting in my truck, I watched Vin Biscoglio, or whatever his name was, exit precinct doors first. He shielded a slight, silver-haired man, equally well dressed in a gray suit beneath black overcoat. Far from the monster I’d conjured in my mind’s eye, the silver-haired man exuded class, elegance, like a latter-day Paul Newman. When you think domestic abuser, you didn’t picture this guy.

  I wasn’t surprised when Vin Biscoglio barely glanced in my direction, and I didn’t let it hurt my feelings that the slight, silver-haired man didn’t look at me at all. Whatever was going down, my day was about to get a whole lot worse.

  Biscoglio opened the back door, the man slipped behind tinted windows, and then both were gone. Leaving me with one question: What the fuck was Ethan Crowder doing in Ashton?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I NODDED HELLO to Claire, the receptionist, who waved with one hand and plucked the phone with the other. A moment later Sheriff Rob Turley emerged from the back.

  We shook hands with needless formality. Turley led me to a conference room where we each took opposite sides across a long, rectangular table. I’d been in this spot before. It reminded me of going down to the courthouse with Jenny, the day the divorce became final. A tape recorder sat between us. Turley pressed the red button.

  “What’s this about?” I said, recalling Crowder’s slow, deliberate stroll to his town car.

  “You’ve been investigating the disappearance of Ethan Crowder’s son, Phillip?”

  “Is that a question?”

  Turley hit pause. “I need a formal response.” Then record again. “Have you been investigating the disappearance of Ethan Crowder’s son? Yes or no?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Turley opened his folder, fanning chicken scratch notes. “I just met with Ethan Crowder, who maintains he solicited your help in the search for his son, Phillip. Is this true?”

  “What the fuck is all this ‘solicited’ shit, Turley? Why are you talking to me like you’re auditioning for a role on CSI?”

  “But you have been looking into Phillip Crowder’s whereabouts? I should point out, Jay, that conducting a private investigation without a license—”

  “Screw you, Turley. I’m not conducting jack, all right? And if I were working as a private investigator, that would entail getting paid, right? And I haven’t been paid a dime. So, no, I am not investigating the disappearance of Phillip Crowder or anyone else. I’m just trying to get Everything Under the Sun ready for when my boss wakes up.”

  “You’ve visited Rewrite Intervention facilities on several occasions—”

  “So fucking what?”

  “And I have it on good authority you’ve been out to Mrs. Crowder’s—Joanne’s—residence.”

  “Good authority?” I didn’t have time for this community theater horseshit. “Listen, I don’t know why you dragged me down here, but I have a job to get to. Our warehouse was broken into, remember? When I was assaulted in the dark? Shouldn’t you be out there trying to catch whoever did it?” I nodded at the empty space previously occupied by Vin Biscoglio and Ethan Crowder. “Where were they yesterday?”

  “You’re not suggesting that little old man beat you up?”

  “Nobody ‘beat me up.’ I got in my shots, too. And I’m not suggesting anything other than leave me alone.” I stopped. “What was the name of the guy with Crowder?”

  “Huh?”

  “The man with Crowder. What name did he give you?”

  “Vin Biscoglio. Why?”

  I thought a moment. “He show you an ID?”

  “No. That’s not SOP.” Turley turned off the recorder. “SOP stands for—”

  “I know what SOP stands for. I’m not a moron. I’ve watched cop movies.”

  I should’ve known better than to believe Bowman. Unless Vin Biscoglio was playing Turley, too. Wouldn’t be the first time an out-of-towner had their way with Mayberry’s finest.

  “Whatever fairy tale those two are spinning,” I said, “I want you to think long and hard about the last time you bought bullshit from a stranger.” I started to get up.

  Turley pointed to the chair. “We’re not finished yet.”

  “Why were those two up from Boston?”

  “I’m trying to tell you, Jay, if you’ll stop being a pain in my ass. Please. Sit back down and let me finish my report.”

  I dropped back in my seat.

  “Joanne Crowder’s body was found this morning.”

  “Where?”

  “Her garage.”

  “You don’t think I had anything to do with that—”

  “No,” Turley said, “of course not. Please relax. Give me a break, man, okay? I’m just trying to do my job. I need a statement.”

  “What happened?”

  “Suicide. Carbon monoxide. Hooked up a hose to the tailpipe, through the window.”

  I’d peeked in that garage. Seen the car. Didn’t see any hose. Or body. I hadn’t gone inside so I couldn’t be sure. Might’ve been slumped over. Had she been dead the whole time?

  “Was she found upright?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Joanne Crowder’s body. Was she found in an upright position, or had she slid to the floor?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did she leave a note?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  I recalled Ethan Crowder’s reaction outside, the blank expression. Which could have been numbness, a shutdown to avoid the pangs of loss. Or maybe he already knew and the bastard was one cold fish. Regardless of how unpleasant a marriage ends, however nasty a divorce gets, when there’s a child involved, you’d expect some reaction. We’re talking the mother of his only child.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Joanne,” I said.

  “Jay, I need to know where the boy is.”

  “How the fuck should I know? Vin Biscoglio, the man who you just talked to? He’s the one who told me Phillip was at Rewrite Interventions. Ask him. Where do you think I got that information? You know as much as I do.”

  “Mr. Crowder seems to think you know more than you’re letting on.”

  “He can think whatever he wants.”

  “The boy needs to know about his mother.”

  “Then you fucking call them.”

  “Rewrite Interventions doesn’t make it easy. Their methods invite unwanted scrutiny. They don’t trust the police.”

  “Kidnapping kids in the night? Pillowcases over their heads? Whisk
ed to secret locations in the back of a van? It’s funny. No one gave a shit about those kids until a rich fuck like Ethan Crowder was affected.”

  I didn’t mention Richard or Alison by name, or the fact that I had Alison’s cell number. I couldn’t care less about him, but I liked her, even if we didn’t see eye-to-eye on RI’s tactics. Despite Turley’s grandstanding and the loaded words I used to combat them, I knew Alison’s heart was in the right place. Their public profile was available to the Ashton PD, same as it had been to Fisher and me. Might take a little digging. I agreed Phillip needed to know about his mom, but I wasn’t doing Turley’s job for him. And I’d long ago resolved I wasn’t lifting a goddamn finger to help Ethan Crowder.

  “I’d think as a divorced father, you would—”

  “Don’t. Biscoglio already tried laying that guilt trip. My ex-wife and son have nothing to do with this. You can contact Rewrite same as me.”

  “You’re right. I have Alison and Richard Rodgers’ home address and business number. So does Middlesex PD. But you’ve been harassing them so much lately they’ve lawyered up, gone radio silent. They won’t talk to the authorities. And they don’t have to. Richard, in particular, does not seem very fond of you. We can’t get them to divulge whereabouts without a court order.”

  “Then get one. They’re not going to tell me either.”

  “When was the last time you visited Joanne’s home?”

  “Friday? Saturday?”

  “Be specific. It’s important, Jay.”

  “Saturday.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me?”

  “Like what?”

  “Did you look in the garage?”

  “Peeked in the window. That’s why I asked how her body was found. I didn’t see the top of anyone’s head. Biscoglio said he thought she was out of town. But he’s probably full of shit. Who found the body?”

  “Patrolman. Got a call from a neighbor. No one had seen Joanne for a few days. Sent a car out there. You know Coal Creek. It’s no-man’s land. Not Ashton’s jurisdiction.”

  I thought about that response, a peculiar detail hitting me. Neighbors worried because they hadn’t seen Joanne in a few days? More like a well-timed anonymous tip. The way houses spread out up there, I imagined entire seasons passed without glimpses of a neighbor. Crimson Peak was where you went when you didn’t want to be disturbed.

  “Have you been up to the house?” I asked.

  “Yes, I was up there.”

  “Footprints in the snow?”

  “Just the one set leading up to the garage door. What size boot do you wear?”

  “Hey, Frank Cannon, I told you I was up there. Knock off the movie-of-the-week horseshit. Coroner have a time of death?”

  “She’d been in that car for a while. At least a few days.”

  “What day was the last newspaper delivered?”

  “What newspaper?”

  “When I was there over the weekend, there were a bunch of financial newspapers that hadn’t been picked up. Blue plastic sticking out of the snow.”

  “I don’t recall seeing any newspapers.” Turley scratched his head. “Probably buried. We’ve had so many storms.”

  “Maybe.” Something wasn’t sitting right.

  Turley caught on. Sort of. “Right. Good point. Because then we’d know the last day Joanne left the house. I’ll have one of my men check into that.” He pointed his stubby finger. “You might have a future in investigations after all.”

  That wasn’t where I was going but whatever. Let Turley conduct his own investigation. I’d handle mine. With all the violent weather on that mountain, drift fluctuated. But some of the papers should still be visible. Unless they’d been picked up. There are plenty of ways to kill a person. Plenty of places to do it, too, leaving the body to be discovered an afterthought.

  Turley tried one last-ditch attempt. “Any additional information you’d like to share with me?” I knew he meant Alison’s personal cell. I folded my arms and leaned back.

  “With Joanne’s death,” he said, “Ethan will have his court order very soon.”

  “Works out well for him then that she’s dead.”

  “Careful. That’s a serious allegation.”

  “Try and remember that the next time you accuse someone of cutting a brake line. Or beating a man unconscious.”

  Turley glanced around the room, kneading the back of his thick steak neck, probing for deeper cuts in the police procedural handbook. But he’d exhausted options. Finally he said, “Thanks for coming in. Guess I’ll leave a message for the Rodgers through their website. Terrible way for a boy to find out about his mother.” He paused to catch my eye. “Or maybe you want to call. You know, the number you don’t have?”

  As I stood to leave, he said to hold on.

  “Let me return this to you.” He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. The list of items taken from the storage shed. “Nothing turned up in any of the pawnshops or furniture outlets. We’ll keep checking.”

  “Thanks,” I said, jamming the list in my jeans. I knew it was a dead end. Nothing was turning up.

  Fisher rang me as I was walking to my truck.

  “Where you at?”

  “Police station. Cops found Joanne Crowder’s body.”

  “Dead?”

  “Suicide. Supposedly.”

  “You think otherwise?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  Angry skies menaced miles away, storm front rolling in fast. Tentacles snaked over mountaintops, slithering like beasts on a bender. This was shaping up to be another bitch of a blizzard. I’d already slid out my Marlboro, cancer stick jammed in my piehole, hands cupped to block out gusting winds. A nicotine rush would help hash out possibilities. One set of footprints? If it wasn’t a suicide, there weren’t a whole lot of suspects. Had Bowman been trying to warn me? Or was this, too, part of the setup? Was I meant to find Phillip? Or lead the enemy straight to him?

  “Did you hear me, Porter?”

  “Huh?”

  “Stop daydreaming. I said I was able to hack into Tom’s e-mail.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing the morning of the crash.”

  “Maybe Charlie will have more luck—” I caught myself. Charlie wasn’t tracing phone calls anytime soon.

  “I did find an e-mail. Last-minute plea to hold the auction on Thanksgiving. Pretty desperate sounding. Think you might want to read this one.”

  “I know all about it. Keith Mortenson. Was in a rush to get out of town. Works down in Boston, accountant for Ethan Crowder. Too bizarre a coincidence, I agree.” Wish I’d taken my time to talk to him that night. Never even got a contact for the guy. Tom had that. I thought for a moment. “Hey, did Mortenson leave a number? I haven’t been able to track him down.” I’d tried leaving messages on his work phone. Nada.

  “Jay—”

  “At least I have an e-mail address now, which is better than nothing. Good work. Thanks, Fisher.”

  “The e-mail about the sale isn’t from Mortenson. It’s from the wife.”

  “Wife?” I didn’t know anything about Keith Mortenson’s wife, except that she lived in North Carolina, and wanted him home as soon as possible. E-mailing to set up her husband’s sales? Guess we knew who wore the pants in that family. “Okay. Give me the wife’s e-mail. At least she’ll be able to put me in touch with Keith.”

  “You’re not listening,” Fisher said. “Not Mortenson’s wife.”

  The cell reception started to cut out. “I can’t hear you, man.”

  “The e-mail,” Fisher shouted across the bad connection. “I mean Ethan Crowder’s wife.” He waited for me to catch up. “The email is from Joanne.”

  “What does it say?”

  “She asks for you to handle the sale. Personally. By name. Jay Porter.”

  “Me?” I didn’t know the woman . . .

  The paper Turley returned wadded up my ass. I pulled out the list of stolen items, written on t
he back a death certificate belonging to a foreign stranger. Maria Morales. Discovered in the pocket of a winter coat, a gift for overseeing a last-minute sale, moving tons of product for pennies on the dollar. Mother, father, place of birth, cause of death. Everything appeared in order, not that I knew what a Mexican death certificate was supposed to look like. Seemed officious enough. But something caught my eye. A second set of numbers. Lower left. Maybe it was the fresher ink, the unnatural shade of blue. Like the ten digits had been imprinted with a newer stamp, added after the fact. An abused wife calling out for help from beyond the grave.

  “Fisher?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s the area code for Wyoming?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I SPENT THE afternoon packing up the warehouse until it was too late to haul another load south. My head wasn’t in the right space anyway, consumed with why the dead woman, not Keith Mortenson, had been so adamant about holding an auction Thanksgiving night; a series of seemingly chance events suddenly turned calculated. Tom and I hadn’t been chosen at random. Our auction house had been selected for a reason, and now I knew what that reason was: me.

  Driving back to my place, I attempted to put it all together. At some point, Bowman and Biscoglio must’ve been charged with handling the wife. Monitoring, spying, bugging? Taxed with retrieving the death certificate dangled over Ethan’s head. But how did the rest of it work? Bowman goes down for his other crimes, and, what? Has a crisis of conscience and thinks of me? Considering all Bowman and I had been through, irony lurked in there somewhere. The sacrifice was tougher to swallow. Was Bowman getting soft in his old age? Of course when you don’t have all the facts—when all you have is conjecture and speculation—the best you can do is force a picture from the pieces you do have. Which leaves you with a potentially warped portrait. Was I guilty of wishful thinking? Self-fulfilling prophecy? I’d be the first to admit my theory stressed creativity. Unless someone returned my call from Wyoming and proved me right. I may never know why the wheels had been set in motion. But I was starting to get an idea of where this bus was headed. Because I was the one driving the damn thing.