Paternity Case

by Gregory Ashe

  “We both did.”

  “Bing, with a convenient scapegoat, burns down the house in Chicago. They have to move. They come here. Home. Where he’s got a golden reputation. Where he knows people. Where his father’s the sheriff.”

  “A fresh start,” Hazard agreed, “and an added layer of protection.”

  “But the same problems started up again. Hadley had a boyfriend.” Somers’s mouth quirked into a grin. “Two of them, actually. They were close. They might have learned the truth. So the question is, why didn’t he go through with his old plan? Why not just hire someone to scare them off? Hell, his dad’s the sheriff—he could have scared them off without hiring anyone. What was different?”

  “Daisy told us. She didn’t know it, but she told us. Remember she said that Bing walked in on them. She was very clear about that. Bing said they weren’t doing anything wrong, but she said he walked in on them. And Dusty told us what they were doing.”

  “Sweet Christ,” Somers said. “Dusty kept saying how horrible it turned out, but I just imagined—I mean, I thought they just couldn’t make it work. But Bing walking in on them, Jesus, they’re lucky he didn’t kill them.”

  “I think he wanted to. He certainly wouldn’t have minded.” Hazard paused. “I hadn’t considered this before, but I think you’re right: he saw Hadley as his. Finding out that someone else—anyone else—was having sex with her must have driven Bing crazy.”

  “He threatened her,” Somers said. “He raped her. He beat her. And he put down a hard rule: no more boys. She had to cut it off with Frank and Dusty. That’s why she went so cold on them. She was scared of her dad, and she had to prove she was toeing the line.”

  “I talked to Dusty. After I left your house, I called him. I knew I’d missed something, and I wanted to find out what it was. Dusty told me. At the party at your parents’ house, Bing confronted Dusty while Frank was in the bathroom. It was a physical altercation; he ripped off the chain, and that’s why we found it outside. Dusty told me that Bing threatened Frank. He said that he could make some very bad things happen to Frank. That’s why Bing used the bag, I think. He took it to the party, made sure people saw it, made sure everyone thought Stillwell was carrying it and that there was a gun inside, and then he took it with him when he left. If anyone saw it, he was hoping it would lead us to Frank and Dusty. I think Bing must have made those same threats to Hadley. I think that’s how he got Hadley to call it off with them. And I think that’s why Hadley turned on them.”

  Somers arched a perfect blond eyebrow. “She was protecting them?”

  “Trying to.”

  “Damn.”

  “So Bing walks in on them. He’s insane with rage. He has to hurt somebody, and he hurts Hadley. He—” Somers hesitated. “He rapes her. He’s not careful. And he gets her pregnant.” Again, Somers hesitated. “But did he know?”

  With a shrug, Hazard shook his head.

  “She’s pregnant,” Somers said, speaking like a man stringing beads and finally seeing a pattern. “She’s scared, but not just for herself. That changes things. She decides she needs help, and she contacts Dusty. She’s going to tell him. She’s going to ask for his help. Running away, I think, because she talked about leaving. But her parents control her phone. No. Wait.” His eyes shot up to Hazard’s. “That wasn’t her phone. It was a new number, Dusty told us that.”

  “Yes. That part I haven’t worked out yet. I assume she bought the phone on her own, but I’m not sure how she got the money. Bing lied, remember? He tried to claim the phone was hers. Daisy wasn’t quite fast enough; she didn’t recognize it.”

  “So Bing didn’t know about the new phone. And that means he didn’t know about the phone call to Dusty. Why does he decide to kill her?” Somers raised a hand, stopping Hazard from answering. Those blue eyes, the color of Cancun waters, so beautiful that they stopped Hazard’s heart like Superman stopping a train—and God help anybody still riding that train—narrowed in concentration. They were darker when he concentrated. A darker blue, the deep blue of when you swam below the warm waters. He was so beautiful, Hazard thought, and he knew it was a crazy thought, knew he was crazy for still thinking things like that, but it was the truth: Somers was just so beautiful. And smart. And intuitive. And talented. And funny. And annoying as hell, but God, was it insane that Hazard even loved that, even loved that goddamn annoying streak that ran a mile wide through Somers?

  Somers spoke, interrupting Hazard’s thoughts. “Because she was pregnant. Somehow he found out, and he knew that he couldn’t keep it hidden any longer. He had to get rid of her. And he—are you ok?”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re flushed.”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  “I’ll get a nurse. Your face looks like it’s on fire.”

  “Somers, sit down. We’re not finished. And if you leave, Nico’s going to come back in here, and I don’t think I can—” Hazard broke off the speech. He wasn’t sure what he’d been about to say, but he knew his face suddenly felt a hell of a lot hotter.

  “Yeah,” Somers said, sinking back into his chair, as smug as if he’d just gotten a hole in one and trying—honest-to-God trying, which only made it worse—not to show it. “If you’re all right.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because your face—”

  “Anyway,” Hazard said gruffly, “you’re right. At least, I think you’re right. He knew she was pregnant and decided to eliminate her. Frank and Dusty were his backup plan.”

  “He was trying to frame Hadley. That’s why it seemed so similar to what had happened in Chicago. But we never could figure out who sent those emails. His plan didn’t work; we didn’t lock onto Hadley as a suspect.”

  “Because of the phone. That was what Bing didn’t count on. He didn’t know she had a second phone. When she was killed, he expected us to find her phone. When we took it to him, he would have used his parental access to unlock it. We would have found emails from Hadley to Stillwell. We might have even found something more incriminating—a draft asking Stillwell to bring a gun, or a picture of your parents’ house, something like that. But it all went to crap, and instead, we started looking at everyone.”

  For a long moment, Somers was silent. Emotion tightened his features. “So my father was—what? Collateral damage?”

  “Probably.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “I said probably.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” Somers blew out a breath. “Am I pissed that I went at this from the wrong angle? Sure. I focused too much on my father. I get that now. Hell, I don’t even know if I could do it differently even if I wanted to. It was too personal. But what I’m saying is that it was stupid to shoot him. He’s too high profile. It drew too much attention.”

  “I don’t know,” Hazard said. “If it hadn’t been you—if you hadn’t pushed on this, if it hadn’t been personal—he might have gotten away with it. The case would have looked closed. Stillwell was dead.” Hazard frowned. “I still don’t know how he managed that. Did you see Bing somewhere near the phone? Somehow he used Hadley’s phone to call Lender. That doesn’t make sense, though.” Hazard shifted in the bed. “Damn it. I thought I had all this.”

  Thought creased Somers’s forehead, but he didn’t speak.

  “What?” Hazard asked.

  Somers shook his head. “I don’t know. Smartphones stay unlocked for a certain amount of time. Maybe he grabbed it while it was still unlocked.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Bing got lucky.”

  “In a lot of ways. But not lucky enough.”

  “No, I mean with the shooting.”

  “I don’t think so,” Hazard said. “He planned the whole thing carefully. He broke into your parents’ house and rigged the breaker box; he taught shop, remember, and he knew that kind of stuff. Then, the night of the party, Stillwell showed up—naked and high and singing. Your dad and the others woul
d have thrown him out, except Bing shouted that Stillwell had a gun. That was worrisome enough that they held onto him and called you. Bing had the gun in that Victoria’s Secret bag. It looked a lot like a bag that Santa might carry. Nobody really doubted that Stillwell was carrying it because it matched his Santa Claus hat. Bing probably hadn’t expected us to show up, but he was prepared anyway: he had a set of handcuff keys.” Hazard touched fingertips to the bandage around his head, and even that faint vibration sent shockwaves through his skull. “Either from his dad, most likely, or that he bought online. When Bing was ready, he uncuffed Stillwell, gave him the gun, and hurried back to the party.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean, though. Think about it: Bing made it back to the party. He must have told Stillwell to wait because Stillwell didn’t come out immediately. But Stillwell was also high as a kite. His brain was fried. When he got to the party, he—he was slow. He didn’t know what to do. His first shot was way too high, and then he fired at Hadley, but it was only luck that he actually hit her. Jesus, five of the bullets went into my father.”

  Hazard couldn’t help it. In spite of the ache in his head, in spite of his usual reserve, a smirk stretched his mouth.

  “What?” Somers said.

  Hazard shrugged.

  “You’re going to play it coy all of the sudden? Bullshit. What am I missing?”

  “You just said it. You said all the facts you need.”

  Somers thought, his brow tightening. After a moment, he added, “This coy business is really annoying.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  “You’re being an asshole.”

  “Stillwell had a revolver. A Ruger GP100.”

  For another moment, confusion clouded Somers’s gaze. Then he said, “That’s too many shots. That’s seven rounds. One into the ornament. Five into my father. One into Hadley. I knew something was off.”

  “Bing was very careful: he made sure both guns were loaded with the same cartridges. Unless we ran a ballistics comparison, we never would have known they were fired from separate guns.” Hazard paused, “Technically, we still need to do that comparison; everything I’ve got is theoretical. It was a brilliant switch, and it would have worked if things had gone as Bing hoped. Stillwell probably wasn’t supposed to fire overhead. If he hadn’t hit that ornament, and if glass hadn’t gone everywhere, people might not have remembered the first shot. Hell, I might not have remembered it if we hadn’t found the casing in the trash. Six casings in the evidence lockup, plus one that someone tried to hide. Seven shots fired.”

  Somers pursed his lips, still thinking. “So there were two guns. And that doesn’t make any sense. The risk was enormous; why would Bing orchestrate such a complicated murder and then still end up being the one who shot Hadley?”

  “He’s insane. Totally irrational. And besides, nobody caught in a firefight is going to count the shots.”

  “Nobody except you,” Somers said, but he softened the words with a smile. “I don’t think that’s it, though. At least, not entirely—I think it was more than that. Hadley was his, right? And Bing was all about ownership. About control. You heard Daisy: he had her followed just because he wanted to. This was part of the same way of thinking. He wanted Hadley dead. He didn’t want to go to prison for it. But he had to do it himself.”

  Hazard thought back to his last encounter with Bing: to the force of the man’s words, to the insistence in his voice, to the overwhelming sense of control that Bing had exerted. It hadn’t worked. Hazard was past that part of his life. He’d done that shit with Alec already. But still—he repressed a shiver as he remembered the look on Bing’s face.

  “That’s it, then,” Somers said.

  “You think there’s more?”

  “No. I wish we had some answers. Why did Bing call Lender, for example? And why did Lender do what he asked? Where’d the second phone come from?”

  “Unless we can link Bing to Hadley’s phone—unless someone actually saw him placing that call—we’re out of luck. All we have right now is a strange call to Lender from a dead girl’s phone. It’s weird. It’s weird enough that Cravens might even do something about it. But it’s not enough to make Lender talk.” Hazard let out a frustrated breath. “That’s if Swinney will even take our side. You saw her: she’s a mess.”

  Somers opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the door swung open. Nico stepped inside. In one hand, an envelope dangled; in the other, he held a sheet of paper. Even through the paper, Hazard could see the letters that had been cut and pasted onto the page.

  “What is that?” Hazard demanded.

  “What? Oh. Some guy handed it to me.”

  “Some guy? Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what he looked like?” Somers asked.

  Nico, flushing, kept his gaze on Hazard. “He was just a guy. An older guy, I guess. He had a ballcap on. He didn’t even stop. Shoved this into my hands as he walked past.”

  “And you opened it?” Hazard scooted towards the edge of the bed. “Let me see it. What does it?”

  “Stop,” Somers said, directing a stern glance at Hazard—stern enough, anyway, to keep Hazard in bed. Then, snatching the letter from Nico, Somers read over it.

  “Hey,” Nico said, reaching for the letter. “Give that back. That’s not yours. I had it. John-Henry—Emery, make him give it back.”

  Somers ignored him; the only concession he made to Nico’s demands was to turn away when Nico reached for the paper, putting it slightly out of reach. As Somers read, his face colored, and he muttered a swear under his breath.

  “What is it?” Hazard said.

  “It’s about you,” Nico said, making another attempt to grab the letter. “It’s—Jesus, John-Henry give it back.”

  “It’s nothing,” Somers said.

  “Like hell,” Hazard said.

  “I’m telling you it’s nothing.” Somers folded it carefully and set it down on the chair next to him.

  “Either you give it to me, or I’ll get out of this bed and take it.”

  Blowing out a breath, Somers ran a hand through his hair. “You’re recovering. We’ll deal with it—”

  “Like hell,” Hazard repeated, holding out a hand.

  Somers, a grimace plastered on his face, passed over the paper.

  “It’s about you,” Nico repeated, but Hazard barely heard him. For a moment, Hazard didn’t hear anything.

  Pasted to the page, letters cut out of magazines and newspapers spelled out five simple words: Leave before word gets around. That was it. Five words. And below, two more: Jonas Cassidy.

  “What is this?” Hazard said.

  “Blackmail,” Somers said. “Somebody wants you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “This is the mayor. He threatened you once, remember? He was talking about you, back in St. Louis, and those were his words. Those were his mother-fucking words: word gets around. Remember?”

  “Who gave this to you?”

  “I said I don’t know,” Nico snapped. “And who’s Jonas Cassidy? And what are you talking about, blackmail? What happened in St. Louis? What does it mean, leave?”

  “You’ve got to remember something besides a ballcap. How old? Hair? Clothes? How did he walk?”

  “I said I don’t know. What do you want me to do? Make something up?”

  “Was he breathing?” Somers asked with that bastard grin he kept sharp for moments like this. “That’d be nice to—”

  “Get out,” Nico said. “Just get the fuck out. Everything was going fine until you showed up.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Yeah. You’re damn right you didn’t do anything. You let him,” Nico gestured at Hazard, “do everything. You aren’t there. You’re never there. He gets shot. He gets beaten within
an inch of his life. He gets his skull cracked. And where are you? Drinking mimosas with the good old boys from high school. That’s where you are. Drunk off your ass because that’s what you are, a worthless drunk. You think I don’t know? You think people don’t talk? You think everybody isn’t laughing at you behind your back while your wife—”

  “That’s enough,” Hazard said. He didn’t even remember getting out of bed, but he was standing now—standing on legs like old sponges, but standing.

  “He—” Nico began.

  “Enough.”

  Hazard turned. Somers’s face was white. He still had that bastard grin, and it still looked sharp enough to cut. Sharp enough, anyway, to cut through all the bullshit. And Somers’s face, underneath the pallor, said it all: this is what you get. This, this kind of behavior, this is what you get when you date a child.

  He didn’t say it. He hadn’t said a word. He didn’t need to; it was all in that damn smirk.

  “I’m sorry,” Hazard began.

  “No. No, at least he said it to my face. I’ll just—I’ll go.” Somers moved towards the door, every motion languid and fluid, like he’d just gotten up from sunbathing. He stopped and looked back and spoke to Nico. “I’m sorry. About letting him get hurt, I’m really sorry.”

  And then he looked at Hazard. Just a glance really. And to anybody else, to the whole world, he would have looked wounded, like a whipped dog. But those eyes said differently. Those eyes were the eyes of a man who’s called a coin in the air and won—not just once, but ten times running.

  AFTER THE TALK WITH HAZARD, Somers drove. Nowhere in particular; he just needed to be out and moving. He found himself laughing from time to time, as fragments of the conversation worked their way into his memory. Laughing at Nico’s anger, mostly. Sure, he was pretty. Beyond pretty, if Somers were honest—the kid was gorgeous, all that shaggy dark hair, his toasted skin, the whole package, pun only slightly intended.