Paternity Case

by Gregory Ashe

  “Because I was right.”

  Nico frowned, and then his eyes caught something outside the car and he nodded. The light had flipped to green. As Hazard eased forward, Nico said, “Are you sure?”

  “What? Yes. I don’t have the proof yet, but it’s the only way all the pieces fit together. And if he weren’t so hung up on—”

  “His own father being shot?”

  “It’s blinding him. It’s making him stupid.”

  “You didn’t exactly take it easy on him, Emery.”

  Hazard paused, negotiating the next turn more carefully. Ahead of them, Nico’s block had come into view: clean stucco, bright strands of Christmas lights on every storefront, the little brunch place on the corner swarming with college kids. “What does that mean?”

  “It means this is personal for John-Henry. His dad was shot. He’s a mess emotionally, and on top of that, he’s got a personal interest in solving this case. You might be right, but that doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s the only thing that should matter,” Hazard said. He drifted into an open parking spot outside Nico’s building. “We’ve got a job, and our job is to find who did this thing and put him away.”

  “Yeah,” Nico said with a droll smile, and he tapped the side of Hazard’s head with one finger. “You got it, Emery. Logic. Analysis. Evidence. Proof. Problem solved. Maybe that works for some people. For the rest of us, though, there’s a lot more happening. And it happens in here,” his hand drifted down to rest on Hazard’s chest, “and in here,” his hand drifted down to Hazard’s stomach.

  “What happened today wasn’t about Somers being hungry.”

  “Was that a joke?” Nico said, a smile tickling his lips.

  “Don’t start. You sound like him.”

  “He’s pissed. And he’s extra pissed because it sounds like he thought he’d just had his own crack in the case. Give him a day to cool off. And then work the case the way you always do. If you’re right, you’ll find what you need to prove it. Right?”

  “What he said about you—”

  “Come on, Emery. I’m not an idiot. I know I’m a lot younger than you. I know I’m attractive. I might even be out of your league,” he added with a smirk. “If those are the worst things that John-Henry can say about me, even when he’s mad as hell, then he’s a pretty decent guy.” The smile on Nico’s lips took on a sharp edge. “I could think of a lot meaner things to say about him.”

  “I owe him a busted nose.”

  “Why don’t you cut him some slack and settle for a black eye?”

  Hazard leaned across the console and kissed Nico. And then he kissed him again. And Nico’s hand wandered lower, and Hazard kissed him harder this time.

  “That was hot,” Nico breathed, his pupils blown as his hand groped between Hazard’s leg. “I don’t like violence, but that was hot.” Another kiss, and Nico’s attentions grew more confident, bolder as he worked Hazard’s zipper. “Fucking hot the way you knocked his fucking lights out for me.” His other hand tightened on the bandage, and Hazard winced.

  That broke the spell. “Darn,” Nico said, pulling back. “I, uh, I got a little carried away.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “You’re bleeding all over the place.”

  “It’s fine.” Hazard let heat leach into his voice. “Trust me.”

  “Let’s get you to the hospital. They need to stitch this back up. And we can talk about—”

  “Nico.” Hazard said, yanking on Nico’s shirt hard enough to pop every button. They pinged like pinballs as they struck the windshield. “No more talking.”

  They barely made it into the apartment before things really got serious.

  LIKE THE NIGHT BEFORE, THE SEX had been rougher than usual. Nico had clawed furrows into Hazard’s back, and Hazard winced as he shrugged into a shirt and did up the buttons. Rough, yes, but amazingly satisfying. Nico might be young, but he was definitely no baby. Especially not when he got that look in his eyes—

  Hazard pulled his thoughts away from the memory, and he dragged his attention away from Nico’s long-legged, sprawling nakedness. Nico had drifted into sleep; that hadn’t been Hazard’s plan, but it served his purposes nicely, and he took advantage of the opportunity to slip out of the bedroom. In the living area of Nico’s apartment, Hazard laced up his wingtips and dragged on his coat. His hand still throbbed, and he’d need to see the doctor eventually. But not yet. Not quite yet.

  Instead, he made his way down to the VW. Some of the shabby chalkiness was gone from the sky, and in the west, strips of robin’s egg showed through the clouds, like paint underneath a layer of old paper. The light, where it escaped the cloud cover, turned the afternoon golden. It even smudged away the black crust of the snow. Things looked brighter. Newer. Well, not the VW. The faded cherry paint didn’t look any newer. But the day—Hazard took a deep breath. It was hard to remember why he’d been so angry.

  As he got into the car and drove, Hazard decided that Nico had been right. At least, he’d been right in part. Arguing with Somers about the case wasn’t going to get them anywhere. Somers had already decided that this case was about his father. In some way that Hazard couldn’t fully understand, Somers had made the case personal—not only in the sense that his father was the victim but in the sense that solving the case had become some form of personal atonement for Somers. It was easier to see that, now that Nico had drawn the outlines for Hazard. Somers wanted to solve this case, needed to solve it, and he needed it to be about his father. He needed to save his father. Hazard could follow the idea. He could grasp, in a mechanical way, the underlying psychology of Somers’s obsession. But the emotional impact of it lay outside his reach. Somers was being an idiot. That was the short version.

  The problem, of course, was that they were running out of time. It had already been more than twenty-four hours since the shooting. In that time, Bing might have destroyed any remaining evidence. Already this would be a difficult case to prove. As Jeremiah had pointed out, Bing’s motive—as far as Hazard could tell—was utterly irrational. That was what had thrown Hazard off from the beginning. He had assumed—wrongly, it turned out—that this killing, because of the complicated planning behind it, had been driven by logic and reason—twisted, yes, evil, yes, but still rational.

  The truth, though, was far from it. It had come to him in Nico’s observation about Grace Elaine. The older woman’s obsession with Somers had opened a new possibility for Hazard. What if the murder had been driven by a poisonous combination of desire and jealousy? Grace Elaine no longer made a likely suspect; her emotional energies were entirely focused on Somers, and Hazard felt a minor pang for his partner now that he understood more fully Somers’s home life.

  In that light, it left only four possible suspects: the sheriff, Bing, and Frank and Dusty. All four of them had access to Stillwell. All four of them might have unlocked Stillwell and provided him with a handgun. But it was Bing. Hazard knew it was Bing. And Frank and Dusty had provided the most important information, although it only made sense in the context of Daisy’s long-winded complaints about Hadley’s behavior. Dusty—blushing, embarrassed to the point of tears, sweetly stupid Dusty—had given Bing a reason to kill his own daughter. And Dusty hadn’t realized it.

  But proving any of it depended on getting a warrant for Hadley’s phone, and getting that warrant required probable cause. In another place, Hazard might have been able to lay out the pieces of his case and get the support he needed. All the elements were there. The logic behind Hazard’s assumptions was sound.

  Wahredua, however, was a small town, and it still had a small-town mentality. It still had small-town royalty. The Binghams were among that royalty, and Hazard knew that the sheriff could bring to bear enough pressure to stall things indefinitely. No, Hazard knew that without solid proof, without physical proof, he wouldn’t have the leverage he needed to take this case any farther. So the first step, the only step, was to get tha
t proof.

  Sitting in the VW, he dialed, and Dusty answered.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Detective Hazard.”

  “Oh, yeah. Hi. Is everything ok? This isn’t about Frank’s mom, is it? Because if it is, I was messed up the other night. I didn’t know what I was saying. I got things all jumbled, you know?”

  “It’s not about Frank’s mom. You lied to me.”

  “What?”

  “About the necklace. You lied.”

  “Look, Frank was the one who was lying. He didn’t do anything. It was just like you said: I threw it outside. I was mad because of Hadley, and I took off the necklace and I threw it outside. That’s all, swear to God.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not. I swear I’m not.”

  “He said he’d hurt Frank, didn’t he?”

  Outside the VW, laughter drew Hazard’s attention. A young couple was walking down the sidewalk. The girl had stopped to fiddle with her boots. The boy was laughing, bending over to help her, and he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

  “Nobody said anything. I already told you. I got mad. It was just like you said, I swear to Christ, it was just—”

  “Dusty, I’m not going to let him do anything. Not to you. Not to Frank.”

  The couple had finished whatever they were doing. They were walking again. As they drew even with the car, the girl laced her fingers through the boy’s, and then they were past.

  “Please. Please don’t let him hurt Frank.”

  “I won’t, but I need you to tell me what happened. What did Mr. Bingham do?”

  “He followed us into the kitchen. Not right away. Hadley was already gone, and Frank went to the bathroom, and I was just standing there. And he grabbed me by the arm and shoved me outside. I should have done something, right? I should have yelled. Or pushed him. I’m a fucking jock, I mean, that’s about the only thing I’m good for. That’s what Frank always says. But I just, I don’t know. He was scary.”

  “He took you outside.”

  “By the heaters.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he knew what we’d been doing with Hadley. He said dads didn’t have to put up with that, not under their own roof. He said she was his little girl. He kept saying that. And I said she was old enough to make her own decisions. It was stupid.”

  “And?”

  “And he said if I ever came near his daughter again, he’d—he said he knew guys. Guys who’d been in prison. He said he knew where I lived. I said fuck off, and he said fine, he knew where Frank lived. And he said these guys, they didn’t mess around, and the things they’d do to Frank, he said they’d rape him. Until he died. That’s not how he said it, but that’s what he meant. He said they’d split him open. He said they’d see how much he could take before they tore his ass in half. He said—”

  “All right. All right, it’s going to be all right.”

  Crying came over the line. “He grabbed me by the collar. His fingers got tangled in the chain. I didn’t even realize it was gone until the next day, and by then I didn’t care.”

  “And you didn’t tell Frank.”

  “He’d just been through so much. He didn’t need to know.”

  “Until we came around. And then he thought you’d done something stupid. You were covering for Bingham. And Frank was covering for you.”

  “Do we have to move now? Do we have to go into witness protection? Because it’d be all right, you know? It’d be good for Frank. Get away from all this. From his mom. I can’t make him go, but it’d be good for him.”

  And nobody would have believed it, nobody, but Hazard’s eyes started to sting, and he blinked rapidly. “It’s going to be all right, Dusty. He’s not going to hurt you. Either of you. I’ve got to go, but I’m going to need you to come down to the station and go over this again. You and Frank.”

  “And then maybe witness protection? I’m asking for Frank. His mom, it’s not good here, you know?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Detective Hazard?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’d you say to him? To Frank, I mean. He cried about six hours straight last night. I thought it was a nervous breakdown. And when he fell asleep—“ Something like wonder came into Dusty’s voice. “He let me hold him. And today, today he’s a lot better. He hasn’t yelled at me. Not once.”

  “Sounds like he’s finally got his head on straight. Come down to the station, Dusty. Today, if you can.”

  He drove to the Binghams’ new house on its new road. In the crisp winter light, the house looked even more expensive, even more out of place in the quiet college town than it had before. Hazard parked. His stomach had become a hard knot. Walking up there, walking up to that door, knocking on it—it was going to be the lake all over again. He knew that in his gut. It was going to be the exact fucking same. Just like that summer day, Hazard was going to walk too far. He was going to walk out of reach of any safety or security. He was going to put himself within arm’s length of Bing again.

  Yanking on the door release, Hazard got out of the car. He set his phone to record and checked the .38 under his arm. Yes, he told himself. Yes, it would be the same in many ways. But he was different. Things would be different this time. He told himself that again as he shut the car door.

  But it didn’t change the knot in his stomach. It didn’t change the slight feeling of dissociation, as though he’d lost contact with everything below the knees. It didn’t make it any easier to climb the snow-covered drive. It didn’t make his hand any less heavy as he reached for the door. Jesus, he thought wildly, he’d been stupid to think anything was different, he’d been stupid to think anything had changed. It was going to be the exact same: Bing’s grip tight on his arm, the rocks slicing his knees, the total, utter helplessness.

  Before he could knock, the door swung open. Bing stood there, as though he’d been waiting for this moment, as though the last fifteen years had been running towards this moment on railroad tracks. Again, Hazard was struck by the changes to the man: still possessed of formidable good looks, Bing now wore deep marks of grief. Hazard wondered if he had been wrong. Was Somers right? Had Hazard made a mistake somewhere? This was the face of a rich man—a proud man—brought low by fate. It wasn’t the face of a man who had abused and then murdered his own daughter. It wasn’t the face of a monster.

  Except all the pieces fit, and Hazard trusted logic and reason and his own judgment. He did his best to firm up his voice and said, “Morning, Bing.”

  “Emery.”

  And that was the confirmation Hazard needed: the way Bing said his name. Not Detective. Not even Hazard. He had said Emery, and the way he had said it had been the same as fifteen years before. It had the same mixture of scorn, self-congratulation, and amusement that Hazard remembered from the rocky strip of beach on Lake Palmerston.

  “You want to come in,” Bing said, blocking the door with his body.

  “We need to talk.”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No, we don’t need to talk. You know me, Emery. We go way back.” Now listen. I’ve already played nice. I apologized, remember that? I looked you in the eyes like a man and I told you I was sorry. And when you came over here, when you wanted to swing your dick a little and show me I wasn’t the big man anymore, what’d I do? I rolled over. I spread my cheeks and I asked how you liked it and I did it all with a smile. You were up in my daughter’s room—my daughter’s room, you remember?—and even then I played nice. I didn’t go running to my daddy, and I could have done that. He would have given you your ass on a platter, but I didn’t because I wanted to make things right between us.”

  “This isn’t about us, Bing. This is about a murder. This is about your girl, and I need to talk to you. I’d like to come inside and do that.”

  “So that’s how you want to play it now.”

  �
��It’s just a conversation.”

  “So that’s how it is. You really think you have the biggest swinging dick in town. That’s how it is. I tried to be nice. I tried to put things right between us. I spread my fucking cheeks when you came over here to dick us around, and that still wasn’t enough for you. And now you’re back. What’re you going to do now? You want to get into it, is that it? You looking for a reason to have a go at me?”

  “You’re upset. I can understand that. But you need to understand that this is my job, and I’m doing it even if that means upsetting you and your father.”

  “I get it,” Bing said, his eyes narrowing as though in realization. “I get it. Jesus, now it’s plain as day.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “No. You know what we need?”

  Hazard fought the urge to lick his lips, to put his tail between his legs, to run. He ignored the question and said, “This is important, Bing. I’d like to ask you some questions about Friday night. Can I come inside?”

  “You know what we need?”

  “I’ll need to talk to—”

  “You’re not answering my question, faggot.” The word popped like thin ice.

  “I’ll need to talk to Daisy, too.” Hazard felt cool inside. Not cold, not frozen, but cool. He was still floating from the knees up, but he was cool. His hand wasn’t itching. He wasn’t even thinking about the .38, not at all. “We can either do this here, with some privacy, or we can do it down at the station.”

  “You’re not going to answer. Is that it? You’re going to keep talking. That’s what you want, you want to keep talking, but you won’t admit what this is: this is you long-dicking me, really giving it to me. This is payback, your mother-fucking payback. That’s pathetic.”

  Hazard waited.

  “All right,” Bing said. “You won’t answer? All right, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you what we need. Maybe we need some decency around this town. Maybe we need some goddamn morals. Maybe the public figures—” Bing’s hand came up, his finger jabbing towards Hazard’s chest and stopping short by a bare inch. “Maybe the cops should be an example. Maybe we don’t need them setting a bad example.”