Network of Deceit

by Tom Threadgill

  The two had been sitting at the lazy river’s edge when she killed him. Neither wanted sand in their suits, so they dragged empty inner tubes to shore and sat in them. Shoving the boy into the water was easy.

  In the end, it all came down to greed. The girl manipulated those around her to get what she wanted. In a way, her confession did the same thing by reducing the murder charge.

  “Why Mighty Mouse?” Mama asked. “Was there a reason she chose that name?”

  “Yeah. Guess what else used to be in New Rochelle? An animation studio. That’s where Mighty Mouse came to be. Oh, and her parents, both still very much alive, worked there. She grew up surrounded by artwork from the place.”

  “What about the dog?” Wylie asked.

  “I told her,” Amara said. “When she finished her confession, I told her Dexter would be going to a no-kill shelter unless someone took him first. No way he was living with me and Larry.”

  “So you lied to her,” Mama said. Not in an accusing way. No judgment as far as she could tell. Not even surprise. Just facts.

  “I did what needed to be done.” The line had moved, but not much. Not once she added the Coleman family into the equation. Haley Bronson’s desires were irrelevant compared to those whose lives she’d ruined. And no one needed to know she’d called the shelter twice and confirmed Dexter had already been adopted. Good luck to whoever took the beast.

  Wylie held up his coffee cup. “Congratulations on solving your first case.”

  Amara raised hers in response. “Solving isn’t the same thing as a conviction but thanks.”

  “True,” he said. “But sometimes it’s all you get. What’s the rest of your day look like?”

  “Going to see the Colemans after lunch. Let them know Haley confessed.”

  “I thought you were off today,” Mama said. “You should be relaxing. Can’t someone else do it?”

  “They could,” Amara said. “But this belongs to me.”

  Zachary Coleman’s parents and grandmother sat on the leather sofa facing Amara. None of them seemed nervous or anxious. Simply tired. Like the weight that pressed on them was the new norm and nothing could take it away. Would her news that their son had been killed change the burden?

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” she said. “I have an update on Zachary’s death. If any of you don’t feel up to hearing it . . .”

  “We’re okay,” Mr. Coleman said. He touched his mother’s hand. “Mama, you okay?”

  Eugenia Coleman raised her chin. “I’m ready.”

  Zachary’s mother made eye contact and nodded.

  “We’ve made an arrest,” Amara said. “One of your son’s friends has confessed to the killing.”

  The grandmother buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Didn’t sound like tears of relief. No closure here.

  Mr. Coleman rocked back and forth for a moment. “Can you tell us which one?”

  “Haley, um, Bricker. I’m sorry I can’t give you more information than that now.” They’d get the details soon enough. Their son was a criminal. Bad choices led to his death.

  She stood and tugged her jacket straighter. “If I can help . . .” No point in finishing the sentence. She couldn’t help. She’d done her job. Now it was time for others to take over. Three teenagers would work their way through the criminal justice system. Four families had been forever tainted by their actions. None as much as the Colemans.

  Would any of them visit Zachary’s grave every month?

  She pulled into the first parking lot she saw and called Sanchez to let him know she’d spoken with the Colemans. The SAPD would issue a press release later that day or in the morning. The Cannonball Water Park could expect questions from the media at any point after that.

  For nearly half an hour, she sat in her car and rotated the phone in her hand. No joy came from closing the investigation. Solving a murder. Satisfaction maybe. But no joy.

  How could there be when the inevitable next case waited for her? A day, a week, a month. Sooner or later, her name would arrive back at the top of the list and someone would die.

  She flipped open the phone and dialed. “Starsky? I need to go out tonight.”

  “Thought you might,” he said. “Can we meet at your apartment? And is it okay if I bring a friend?”

  A trio of live oaks in the rear corner of the park provided the shade for dinner. Burgers for the people, collard greens with a touch of banana for the lizard.

  Starsky wiped ketchup from his chin and pointed to Larry. “He likes his cage. Told me so.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Amara used her napkin to dab at the new mustard stain on her shorts. “What else did he tell you?”

  “Not a thing. Larry is a lizard of few words.”

  She snorted, coughed hard several times, and gulped down her drink. “Don’t do that. Not while I’m eating.”

  “Just wanted to hear you laugh.” He took a huge bite. “Always makes my day better.”

  “Glad I could help.” She closed the wrapper around the remaining half of her burger. “I expected to like it more. Homicide.”

  He nodded and stared at Larry for a moment. “The job can suck, Amara. We’re always too late. We see things we can’t unsee. The worst of what people can do.” He draped his arm around her. “Not everyone is cut out for it.”

  She glanced at him.

  “You are,” he said. “Know how I know? No excitement. No yearning for your next case. No celebrating.”

  She placed her hand on his knee. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “Did you just say yearning?”

  This time, he laughed. “Our secret, okay?”

  “I don’t know if I can date a guy who talks like that.”

  “You breaking up with me?”

  She tilted her head upward and kissed him lightly. “Figure it out, Detective Peckham.”

  58

  Amara spent the better part of Friday morning getting her smartphone back and her paperwork finished. With her comp time caught up and no unsolved cases in her file, the LT was most likely going to assign her to ride along with another detective. The odds of it being Rutledge were slim unless he’d followed through on his threat and asked to train her.

  Every time Segura walked out of his office, she cringed at her card table and tried to shrink her profile. Fear of the unknown was usually far worse than the reality that awaited. Usually.

  Her cell rang and she answered quickly. No sense drawing attention. “Amara Alvarez,” she said. Detective Alvarez sounded too snooty. Homicide, Alvarez sounded too TV-ish. Maybe drop the Amara though. Go with Alvarez. Simple. Efficient.

  “This is Gregory Griffin in CSI. Wanted to let you know we processed the cash you found at the Coleman house. Total came to $34,608.”

  “Really? Thought it would be more.” Like nearly thirty-five thousand wasn’t a ton of money to her.

  “Lots of ones and fives. Can’t ever tell by looking.”

  “Guess not. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “There’s more. Might want to come by and pick up the report. You’ll need it.”

  “Will do.” Extra to add to the ever-expanding file. “Wait. There’s more? What?”

  “The bundles were secured in plastic wrap. We ran it for prints and found two sets. Zachary Coleman’s, of course. No surprise there.”

  She squeezed the phone. “Who else?”

  “Got to be a relative. Eugenia Lamore Coleman. Ran the prints through the state and got a hit on the teacher database.”

  Zachary’s grandmother? Uh-uh. No way. “You’re sure about that?”

  “I’m paid to be sure,” he said. “Her prints were found as much as the victim’s.”

  “I’ll be there in a few.” Her afternoon just got a whole lot busier.

  Amara stood to the side of the front door and knocked hard. After several moments, the deadbolt clicked and Eugenia Coleman blinked into the bright afternoon sunlight.

  “Detecti
ve? I was taking a nap. Is everything all right?”

  “No, ma’am.” She handed a folded piece of paper to the elderly woman and gestured to the uniformed officers behind her. “This is a search warrant. We need to take a look inside.”

  The woman scanned the document. “I don’t understand.”

  “Please have a seat on your couch there,” Amara said.

  “Of course. May I fix myself some tea first?”

  “No, ma’am. It’d be best if you did as I asked.” She turned to the closest cop. “Check the kitchen cabinets closely.”

  The woman shuffled to the sofa and sank onto the end. “Zachary was a good boy.”

  Amara sat across from her and remained silent as the cops went about their business. The warrant gave them the right to inspect all areas of the tiny home. If there was anything here to connect the woman to criminal activity, they’d find it.

  Ms. Coleman shoved a pillow behind her back. “Nearly twenty-two years now.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Since my husband died.” She shifted on the sofa. “You’d think in that time I’d find someone else. Never did. Don’t get me wrong. I loved that man, but twenty-two years.”

  “Long time,” Amara said.

  “So you can understand why Zachary was so special to me. Someone I could love.” She smiled. “Kids are nice enough. Grandkids though. They’re something special.”

  “Back here!” The cop in the rear bedroom.

  The officer in the kitchen walked over and stood by the front door.

  “Be right back,” Amara said. “Ms. Coleman, please wait here.”

  The short hallway led past the woman’s bedroom, the lone bathroom, and a second bedroom. Inside that, stacked floor to ceiling in places, were various electronic devices. All appeared new and unopened. Phones, laptops, drones, even a few huge TVs. Every gadget released in the last couple of years. She checked some of the items and each had Eugenia Coleman’s name and address on the shipping label.

  So this was where the cash came from. Zachary must have bought it online with his digital currency and had it shipped here. Then he or she sold it and turned pretend money into real dollars. No banks involved. All nice and untraceable. A perfect setup right until the boy paid with his life.

  And his grandmother knew. Had to. Maybe not the depth of the crime or the danger involved. But that she was helping her grandson do something illegal? One hundred percent. She knew.

  Proving the boy had been murdered made things worse for the woman. A simple overdose could be explained away. Those happened all the time. Tragic for the family. But knowing that you might have played a hand in it? Intentional or not, that had to be a pain that drilled into your soul. What would the justice system do to her that was any worse than what she’d done to herself?

  She walked back to the living room and stood in front of Eugenia Coleman.

  “Zachary was a good boy,” the woman said again.

  Amara pulled the Miranda card from her pocket and began to read.

  Epilogue

  “Alvarez,” Lieutenant Segura said. “In my office. Now.”

  She followed him and stood in front of his desk. Monday morning, her first day back to work since Eugenia Coleman’s arrest. Too soon for a new case. This was it. Her assignment to shadow another detective.

  “Got something for you.” He held up a piece of paper. “The requisition for your desk. Finally made it to the top of the stack.” He scribbled his signature across the bottom and slid the document over for her to take a peek.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He grumbled something and held out his hand for her to pass it back.

  She stared at the paper for a nanosecond, then tore it in half and dropped it in the trash. “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I kind of like where I am now. Just get me a file cabinet and I’ll be—”

  “Out.” He stabbed his unlit cigar toward the door. “Out of my sight.”

  She gritted her teeth to prevent the smile that wanted to erupt. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Wait. Almost forgot.” His smile outshone anything she might have attempted. “You’re with Rutledge until further notice.”

  1

  Thirty seconds.

  If they were still arguing, she’d call the cops then. Let the professionals deal with them.

  Amara Alvarez leaned her athletic frame outside the diner’s booth to get in the man’s line of sight. He glanced up and she shot her best death stare his way. Clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, the works.

  No effect. The man and woman continued their argument or breakup or whatever was happening. He bounced between whispers and shouts. She alternated between screaming and sobbing.

  The couple, both appearing to be Hispanic and around thirty years old, had been at it for nearly an hour. Of all the restaurants in San Antonio, did they have to come here? Today? Her initial empathy toward the pair had faded a long time ago. Most folks would’ve recognized the impact of their outbursts on others. Not these two.

  As a result, Amara’s mood had risen to level-ten irritation. Her Saturday morning ritual of a quiet meal at the Breakfast Bodega was ruined, thanks to them. Was it so much to ask? That people keep their personal matters personal?

  Ronnie, the heavyset weekend manager of the diner, had stopped by their table twice with little impact on the theatrics. Most of the other customers had shoveled their meals into Styrofoam containers and fled the scene. Not Amara. This wasn’t her first battle of wills.

  The red second hand on the wall clock hit the 12. She grabbed her phone, sighed, and laid it back on the table. Five more minutes. If they were still going, she’d call the police then.

  Her heart leaped as a metallic bang echoed throughout the area. Something in the kitchen, dropped or thrown, clattered a few more times, followed by muffled shouting, which may or may not have been sprinkled with a few choice expletives. The door from back there flung open and Ronnie made a beeline for her, his face steaming. An image of herself as a matador sprang to mind and she shook her head as he sat opposite her.

  “Uh-uh,” she said. “Don’t come over here with that attitude.”

  He gestured over his shoulder at the contentious couple. “They’re killing our business. You going to sit there and do nothing?”

  She raised her phone. “Getting ready to call the cops.”

  “You are a cop.”

  Yeah, and she mostly loved the job. But her Saturday plans didn’t include arbitrating personal conflicts. Armed robbery, home break-in, even a shoplifter couldn’t ruin her day off. But this was asking too much for too little. She shrugged and bit into a thick piece of bacon. “A little overcooked today. Tell Ruby there’s a difference between crispy and charcoal.”

  He slapped his hands together into a praying position. “Please? I’ll bring out some fresh pancakes for you. And the meal’s on the house this morning.”

  She leaned to the side and studied the couple. The woman wept while the man held her hand across the table.

  “You know the rules,” Amara said. “Can’t take anything free. I’ll leave the usual and you can do what you want with it. Give it to Ruby for bacon-cooking lessons.”

  “Deal,” he said. “Just go now, before we lose more business.”

  “Next time, call the cops.” She tapped her elbow on the weapon in her belt holster and walked to the couple’s table. “Everything okay here?”

  The man glared at her before turning his attention back to the woman across from him. “Sorry. My wife’s a little emotional this morning.”

  Yeah? Well, me too. She focused on his spouse. Her dark shoulder-length hair had faint traces of blonde highlights, and bright red lipstick expanded her full lips. Swollen bags under her eyes added to the pudginess of her face. “Ma’am, everything okay?”

  “No, it’s not.” Tears trickled down her face and she pulled her hand from her partner’s, then dabbed her cheeks with a napkin.

  The man straightened. “Now, honey, let’
s not—”

  Amara held up her hand. “Let her talk.”

  The corners of his mouth dropped, and he shifted his body to face the newcomer. “Who do you—”

  “Detective Amara Alvarez. San Antonio PD.” She showed her ID. “I don’t know what’s going on here and, honestly, don’t need to know. As long as I’m certain your wife’s not in any danger, I’ll let you get back to your breakfast. But you have to keep the noise down.”

  “In danger?” the woman said. “From who?”

  Amara tilted her head toward the husband. “From him.”

  The woman’s mouth hung open and she blinked several times. “What? No. I mean . . . no. Why would you think that?”

  “Police, remember?”

  The woman cleared her throat and sipped her water to compose herself, then slid over and patted the seat. “Would you mind sitting for a moment, Officer? I’m Marisa Reyes and he’s my husband, Enzo.”

  “Detective. And I really don’t want to get involved unless this is a police matter.”

  Mr. Reyes crumpled his napkin and deep wrinkles lined his forehead. “It’s not.”

  His wife’s shoulders spasmed as another wave of hysterics neared. “How can you say that? Of course it is.”

  “Honey, you have to let it go.”

  “Do I?” The woman’s voice shook. “You sure let it go in a hurry, didn’t you?”

  Amara’s shoulders sagged, and she sat and angled herself toward Mrs. Reyes. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “She got a text this morning,” the husband said, “and it has her all stressed out. I told her to ignore it. Either a prank or wrong number. Not worth getting all worked up over.”