The Scorekeeper

by Dustin Stevens

  “Actually, we know it is,” Reed said. “We were able to track the number back to a box that is currently being sold here.”

  This time, Bingham’s eyes went wide, matching the brows in displaying his astonishment.

  “Oh, my. I told my son I didn’t like the idea of having those things on the shelf, but he insisted...”

  “Mr. Bingham,” McMichaels said, “you folks have done nothing wrong. A lot of people use them as personal phones, especially in lower and middle-class communities. It saves them from having to take out a full plan on something they can’t afford.”

  “A lot of parents use them too,” Jacobs said. “That way they can monitor how much their kids are on them.”

  Appearing a touch placated by the explanations, Bingham allowed the top of his head to tip back.

  “Do you sell a lot of them here?” Reed asked.

  Shifting his attention to Reed, Bingham shook his head, “Very few.” Raising a hand, he motioned for them to follow him, heading back to the counter he’d been behind just a moment before.

  Using the same hand, he gestured to an assortment of things hanging from a pegboard behind the register. “This is where we keep things that are either a bit more valuable or that we aren’t supposed to let customers handle directly.”

  Spread across it was a variety of items, ranging from calling cards to digital cameras.

  Hanging in a vertical row through the center of it were a half-dozen burner phones, all encased in plastic. Small and square, they were gray, with a touchpad and screen no larger than an inch at the top.

  “We filled this row when they came in,” Bingham said. He pointed out four empty plastic hooks at the top and added, “That was three months ago, so as you can see, they haven’t exactly been flying out of here.”

  Just as it had many times throughout the evening, Reed’s core clenched tight, drawing inward from either side. Casting a glance at the pair of officers, he could see the same line of thought playing out across their faces.

  “And those have been the only four purchased?” Reed asked.

  “Yeah,” Bingham replied. “The box wasn’t very big, so we hung them all out. What you see here is what we have.”

  “I know it’s been a long time,” Reed said, “but any idea who might have bought them?”

  “I can tell you who bought a pair of them,” Bingham said, “because I was the one that sold them.

  “As for the others, I have a couple of part-time employees that help out up front, since I can’t stand being on my feet all day anymore. You’d have to ask if one of them remember anybody else.”

  Bypassing the second part of the statement, Reed zeroed in on the first part. On cue, his body responded in kind, his temperature rising slightly.

  This could be something, however slight. One tiny thing that had been overlooked, giving them a toehold they needed.

  “You say you sold two of them? Do you remember who the buyers were?” Reed asked.

  “Buyer, singular,” Bingham said. To punctuate the point, he held up a single thick finger. “And I remember it because the whole thing just seemed a little off. Not like he was doing anything suspicious – the guy was as nice as he could be.”

  “So?” Reed prompted, drawing the word out an extra syllable.

  Scrunching his features slightly, Bingham said, “There was just something about his look that struck me. He was wearing a coat and a ballcap, which was a little odd considering it was very warm that day, but the bigger thing was it looked like he was wearing makeup.

  “Like, a lot of makeup.”

  This time, it was Reed’s turn for his face to crinkle. “Makeup? What makes you say that?”

  Raising his chin to point toward the aisle behind them, Bingham said, “A fair chunk of our business comes from girls at the local high school coming in here and buying stuff their parents won’t let them have. Lipstick, mascara, you name it. We can barely keep it on the shelves. You get used to spotting it.”

  “And this guy was wearing that sort of thing?” Jacobs asked. “Like maybe he was a cross-dresser or something?”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Bingham said. “It wasn’t that kind of makeup, it was more like the stage kind.”

  “Pancake makeup,” Reed said.

  “Yeah,” Bingham replied, nodding slightly. “Like his skin tone wasn’t really his skin tone, if that makes any sense.”

  Having seen the recent scourge of political and entertainment personalities that employed such tactics, Reed knew exactly what he was referencing.

  “Any particular color?” Reed asked.

  “Not really,” Bingham said, his eyes narrowing as he thought about it. “Kind of tan, which again, didn’t seem to fit the whole hat-and-coat thing. Guy acted like he was petrified of the sun, but somehow had a perfect hardwood color going on.”

  Not sure what the description meant, or even how it might aid them, Reed nodded anyway. “Anything else? Anything distinctive?”

  Pressing his lips tight, Bingham thought on it another moment. “No, otherwise pretty standard white guy. Not too big or small, said thanks when he left.”

  Bit by bit, whatever hope Reed had harbored moments before seemed to flee from him. The description Bingham had just given was the sort of thing that might help them confirm identity after the fact, but it certainly wasn’t going to get them anywhere closer in the meantime.

  “How about cameras?” Reed asked. “Any chance you got the guy on video?”

  “No, sorry. We’ve never a problem, no reason to go to the expense.” Giving each an apologetic glance, he leaned forward, resting his palms on the glass counter before him. Pressing his weight against it, he thought in silence a moment before adding, “But I remember, he did pay with a credit card. Any chance that could help?”

  Chapter Forty

  After the third call to Paul Bingham, Reed had slid his phone into the middle console of his sedan. Seeing the man standing out front waiting as they arrived, he hadn’t thought to take it in with him, exiting and running out as soon as they parked.

  Upon thanking Bingham for his time and assistance, he and Billie returned to find that in their absence, his phone had gotten a fair bit of activity.

  At least, far more than it had any business receiving at such an hour.

  Ignoring everything forthe time being, Reed sat in the front seat and fed the information Bingham had just given him into a text message. Not wanting to interrupt Deke while he was still working on the 911 call, he fired it over along with the simple message:Can you take a look at this?

  Barely more than sent, a response came in.

  Almost done on the first part. Very interesting. Want it first or both at the same time?

  Reaching out, Reed turned over the engine, the vents expelling a puff of cool air into the car. The initial burst was mixed with dust and a bit of a funny odor, both disappearing quickly, the flow helping to abate the heat and anxiety crammed into the tiny space.

  Behind him, McMichaels’s headlights flipped on, the officers loaded and ready to go.

  Just outside his window, the long rows of lights within Bingham’s slowly clicked off, extinguished much quicker than they’d been brought to life.

  Not sure what Deke had meant by his previous message, Reed typed:Interesting gets top billing. Thanks.

  Once the message was sent, he backtracked out to his home screen, seeing small red flags indicating that he had two missed calls and an unread text message. Starting with the calls, he saw that one was from Earl, the other from Captain Grimes.

  Leaving the program open in the background, he flipped over to his text messages. Coming from Captain Grimes as well, it was typed in all capital letters, practically jumping off the screen, demanding his attention.

  TALKED TO EARL, GOT THROUGH TO MEHDI. GET BACK ASAP!!!

  The mere sight of the words managed to send a spasm of adrenaline through Reed, his eyes bugging slightly at the words. Opting against trying to call a
nybody back, he pushed the phone into the middle console.

  The tires let out a small squeal as he tore away from the curb, just a whiff of charred rubber finding his nose as he spun out away from Bingham’s. Making a U-turn in the middle of the street, he mashed the gas peddle down, Billie’s head disappearing behind him for an instant as the momentum shoved her against the rear seat.

  “Sorry, girl,” Reed said over a shoulder, putting the nose of the sedan down the middle of the street. Again running with the flashers on, he saw not a single car, opting against the sirens, knowing it would do more harm than good at such an hour.

  Just six minutes after leaving the drug store, Reed pulled to a stop in the same visitor stall that seemed to be his unofficial personal spot of late. Coming in at an angle, he was only nominally within the lines, his current state of mind putting him well beyond caring.

  Grabbing up his phone, he climbed from the car, Billie pouring out behind him without waiting for the rear door to be opened. Together they hopped up the trio of steps out front and headed for the door, reaching the threshold just as McMichaels’s truck entered the lot behind them.

  Waving a hand overhead, signaling for them to join, Reed burst through the door, he and Billie both trotting for Grimes’s office. Not bothering to so much as knock, they entered to find him behind his desk, again staring at his computer screen.

  And just as before, he did not appear pleased with what he was looking at.

  “Sorry,” Reed said, his voice a touch breathy after the run. “We were in Bingham’s, I didn’t get your message until we were done.”

  Pursing his lips slightly, Grimes kept his attention on the screen. “That just can’t be. How in the hell...?”

  The ball bearing returned to Reed’s stomach, simultaneously managing to draw him tighter and feel like it was about to drop from within him.

  “What?” he asked. Moving closer, he peered at the screen, squinting at the small font spread across it. “Paul Klauss? The guy with the print, right? From Della’s house?”

  Looking at the screen a moment longer, the white light reflected off his cheeks, Grimes said nothing. He merely sat and stared, trying to make sense of things, before shifting his focus over to Reed.

  “Paul Klauss. The guy with the print from Della Snow’s and the house in Grove City.”

  All of the air slid from Reed’s mouth as his jaw sagged. He blinked three times in succession, trying to clear his mind, to make sense of what Grimes had just said.

  “What?”

  “That’s why Earl called,” Grimes said. “They found another print, this one on the router. Said it was pretty much the exact same as last time, one whole side of a thumb and the upper loop.”

  Motioning to the screen before him, he said, “And just like last time, I ran it through the system, and up it came-“

  “As Paul Klauss,” Reed whispered.

  Leaning back in his seat, Grimes laced his fingers atop his stomach. “Yup.”

  “The very same Paul Klauss-“

  “Very same.”

  “And he’s been there-“

  “All night,” Grimes finished. “Every night for the last four months.”

  Pushing himself back a few inches, Reed said, “We’ve got to get into Franklin County and talk to this guy. I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but his prints have now shown up twice.”

  “Which is two more than can be called coincidence,” Grimes agreed. “And why I called in a favor. The deputy warden will be waiting at the door for you. Klauss is being pulled as we speak, will be in an interview room whenever you arrive.”

  Casting his gaze to the corner of the computer screen, Reed pinched his gaze slightly, staring at the clock in the corner of the screen. “Almost two a.m. Do I even want to know what favor we called in on this one?”

  “No,” Grimes said, “but suffice it to say, she wasn’t exactly pleased.”

  Picking up on the captain’s use of the pronoun she, Reed knew instantly that he was referring to Eleanor Brandt, Chief of Police for the entire CPD.

  A little over a year ago, Reed and Billie had solved a string of vicious murders in The Bottoms, in the process saving both Brandt and her nephew. At the start of the case, her opinion of them had been open loathing, a stance that softened only slightly in the aftermath.

  Saying she wasn’t exactly pleased was quite the understatement, though Reed was willing to let it go at the moment.

  Priorities and such.

  Behind him, he could hear McMichaels and Jacobs both enter, Billie shifting slightly by his side to keep everyone in her field of vision. Glancing back just enough to look their way, Reed said, “We got another fingerprint from the house in Grove City. Same damn one as before.”

  “The guy in prison?” Jacobs asked.

  “That’s him,” Reed replied. Turning back, he could hear McMichaels mutter something indecipherable, no doubt as befuddled as he was about what it could mean. “Any word from Greene or Gilchrist?”

  “Not yet,” Grimes said. “I can circle back with them when you head downtown.”

  “Please do,” Reed replied. Pausing, he raised his attention to the window across from him. Just like before, the disparity of light between indoor and out had turned the office into a punch bowl, rendering his only view a reflection of him and the others. Narrowing his eyes, he fought to process for a moment, trying to put things into order.

  “Bingham’s doesn’t have cameras,” he said, “but the guy remembered selling a pair of burners to someone just a couple weeks ago. Apparently, he was pretty odd looking, kind of stood out.”

  “Lot of odd-looking people around,” Grimes said, echoing Reed’s initial thought when Bingham had given the description.

  “Yeah, but this one paid by a credit card,” Reed said. “I sent the info over to Deke to see what he could do. Might be able to pull a billing address from it.”

  Without even saying it, Reed already knew that it could be nothing more than an additional layer to their day. One more site they had to visit, another cryptic message scrawled on the wall.

  Still, just like the previous one, it was an angle he had to follow up on.

  Finding Della Snow could depend on it.

  “Okay,” Grimes said, “any luck with the 911 call?”

  “Still working on it,” Reed said. “Texted and said it was interesting, whatever that means. Told him to hit me as soon as he knew.”

  Grunting softly, Grimes nodded.

  “And like I said in my text, I got ahold of Dr. Mehdi. She was on a plane that was delayed taking off and landed much later than expected. That’s why it kept going straight to voicemail each time we called her.”

  Feeling his eyebrows rise, Reed said, “You spoke to her? Is she on her way?”

  In the front of the building, the sound of the doors opening could be heard. Rising to all fours, Billie took a step forward, the din of thick heels clicking across a tile floor growing ever closer.

  “If I were to guess,” Grimes said, “I would say she’s already here.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Everything seemed to have faded beyond recognition for Della Snow. Whether it was the aching in her hands, the dehydration of the tears, hypothermia from the cold, or her body slipping into a semi-state from the depleted oxygen, she didn’t know. Couldn’t even force her mind to compute.

  Probably, it was some combination of all four, converging with the images that had been playing on a loop in her mind, forcing her far beyond any sort of processing ability.

  Adding in the extreme swings of emotion she’d endured, from the initial terror to the later anger and all that lay after it, her eyes had drifted closed, her breathing nothing more than shallow gasps.

  It wasn’t like there was a lot to see inside the darkened box anyway.

  Never in her life had she admitted her mother was right about anything. It had started as the basic back-and-forth that occurs between an only child and a single parent, ea
ch forced to take on roles far greater than either are equipped for.

  Over time, there can’t help but be a blurring of lines, a melding of one person into the other. Which in turn causes them to both consciously push away, acting in direct opposition for no other reason than to prove they can.

  Never had Della thought that’s why she did what she did, but now in retrospect, aided with the sort of hindsight that only the knowledge of impending finality can bring, she couldn’t argue it either.

  There were hundreds – thousands – of other schools she could have applied to. It wasn’t like the one she had chosen was anything exceptional. She could have stayed in Oregon and saved a lot of money. She could have chosen one of the coasts, someplace that had at least progressed beyond making the occasional racist comment in her direction.

  Hell, she could have even simply done it online, the options for getting a master’s degree in accounting endless.

  But she hadn’t.

  And now she was paying for it.

  In the moment, she had misconstrued her mother’s reaction. She had thought it was one of anger and selfishness, a response to making a choice she didn’t quite approve of. And as was so often the case, Della had felt like she had no choice but to act in defiance of it.

  Not until just moments before, having been forced to watch the scene play out time and again, did the truth of the matter really come to bear for Della. Her mother wasn’t trying to control her. She wasn’t attempting to impose her will or even her ambitions on her daughter.

  She was trying to keep her safe.

  She knew that the incident that had driven them from Columbus to begin with wasn’t over, that it would never be over. They might have fled across the country, might have even changed their names, but it would never truly end.

  The sort of thing that happened to them never did. It was gaslighting, the type of mental tripwire that was put in place, forever to be triggered by just the slightest of tremors.

  Why Della hadn’t been able to see that before didn’t really matter. Nor did the fact that it was the last conversation she’d ever had with her mother.