A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trust

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A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trust Page 25

by Reagan Keeter


  Beyond the Lincoln Belmont library, the street became residential, with old brick houses and small fenced yards. There was no one in front of him now but a homeless man pushing a shopping cart.

  Jacob was getting tired. He could feel the mark gaining on him. Eventually he crossed underneath the Belmont station. Not sure where to go but unable to run much farther, he heard a train rattling to a stop on the tracks overhead.

  That was his ticket out of this mess. His only chance. He broke to his left and ran across the street. A series of faces, cartoonish in proportion and color, had been painted onto the cement pillars supporting the tracks. He fished his metro card out of his pocket and fed it into the turnstile’s reader.

  If Jacob could have jumped over the turnstile, he would have. But Chicago turnstiles worked like revolving doors, with over eight vertical feet of rotating bars. The city had made sure that if you wanted to get through, you were going to pay.

  The reader rejected his card. He could feel the painted faces staring down at him, telling him he wouldn’t escape, not this time. He shook away the doubt and inserted the card again.

  His pursuer’s footsteps were getting louder, his winded voice shouting obscenities, telling Jacob to stay where he was, threating to kill him.

  As tempting as it was to look back, Jacob kept his eyes on the reader. A wasted second might be all it would take to lose his lead.

  This time the reader processed the metro card without issue. Jacob snatched it up and pushed into the turnstile. A hand grabbed his jacket and tugged, but his momentum kept him moving forward. As the turnstile rotated and the metal bars closed in behind him, the hand released.

  “You son of a bitch!” the man shouted.

  Jacob bolted up the stairs to the platform, taking them two at a time. The red, purple, and brown lines all came through this stop. He didn’t care which train was up there. He just wanted to make sure he was on it when it pulled away.

  The train’s doors were still open when he reached the top of the stairs. Jacob slipped through them right before they closed. The car wasn’t crowded—no surprise, considering the hour—and he took a seat by the window.

  He watched the stairs until they were out of sight. That was close. Was he getting sloppy? He replayed the theft in his mind. Hand to the chest, hand to the back pocket. An apology. No, he wasn’t. That was as good a lift as he had ever done. But this man had figured it out.

  He pulled the mark’s wallet out of his jacket. Inside, he found a stack of cash and counted it. Two hundred and thirty-two dollars. He slipped the money into his coat. Then he pulled out the only photo and pocketed it too. It was of the man and a much younger woman. She was draped over him in a loving way that, like so many wallet photos, reminded him of the relationship he wished to have.

  Jacob was about to close the wallet, ready to dump it in the trashcan at the next station, when he felt something on an inside pocket that caught his attention. He looked, slid out a key. It was for a safety deposit box, that much he could say for sure. His curiosity was piqued. People kept valuable things in safety deposit boxes. What bank did this key go to? Jacob could find that out as long as he had a name. He checked the man’s license. Christopher Bell. It sounded vaguely familiar. Perhaps it was just that the name was so ordinary.

  Well, he decided, even if he was going to forgo further pickpocketing for a while (and, after what had happened tonight, he meant it), there was no reason not to see what was in this man’s safety deposit box. Wouldn’t that, too, be justice?

  Liam Parker

  The next couple of days were a blur of comfort food and crap TV. Liam slept when he could, which wasn’t much, and cried when he needed to, which was often. He only left the condo for brief trips outside to walk Chloe and a stop at Petco for dog food. On the first of those walks, the concierge told Liam she was a nice-looking dog on the way out and said the kids are going to like her on the way back in.

  Liam figured the concierge was probably right and, with a weak smile, managed to say, “Thanks.”

  By Sunday morning, he was starting to feel a little better. He was still a long way from being okay, but he was finally ready for some company. He called David Hayes to see if they could meet for lunch.

  David said he could and suggested a restaurant called The Crown.

  Liam wasn’t surprised. It was David’s favorite place for a burger and a beer.

  Liam had met his business partner through his ex, and she had met David through his girlfriend, Alicia. The two women were regular volunteers at St. Ann’s Church on Tuesday nights. They’d bring in snacks, set up chairs, and help direct visitors to the various addiction meetings—AA, ACA, Al-Anon, and so on. They were a comforting presence to new and returning attendees, alike.

  Since their divorce, Catherine rarely showed Liam her good side. But he knew she still had one because she still volunteered.

  The Crown’s floor was covered in long sheets of gray porcelain tile. The tables were made of cherrywood and polished to a shine. Exposed filament lightbulbs hung from the ceiling at uneven heights.

  David was sitting near a window in the back. He was a tall man who looked tall even when seated. He was wearing gray slacks and a blue button-down. His suede jacket was draped over the back of the chair. With him looking down at his phone, Liam could see the bald spot forming on the top of his head and his large nose seemed especially pronounced.

  “Can you believe these assholes?” David said, without taking his eyes off the screen.

  “Who?”

  “The Tribune says next year the mayor’s going to put more meter maids on the street. He thinks it will bring in another four million in revenue. As if the city doesn’t tax us to hell and back already. I take it you’re feeling better?” He was referring to the message Liam had left the night of the murder. He still didn’t know what had happened.

  David tucked his phone into his pocket and finally looked across the table at Liam. His face contorted into an expression of surprise. Liam didn’t look like himself. He hadn’t shaved since Thursday, his hair was a mess, and he was wearing a pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt, which were well outside his usual attire.

  “You’re not sick, are you? What’s going on?”

  “It’s Elise.”

  “You guys broke up?”

  “She’s dead.”

  David leaned in, his lanky frame casting a shadow across the table. “Really?”

  Liam nodded.

  “What happened?”

  Before Liam could answer, a waitress came over. “Are you gentlemen ready to order?”

  Liam asked for a glass of water. He wasn’t in the mood to eat and alcohol didn’t seem like a good idea right now. David ordered the same burger and beer he always got from The Crown, a medium-rare slab of meat with onions and bacon and a Budweiser on draft.

  When the waitress was gone, Liam glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was within earshot and told him the story.

  “That’s awful,” David said, and, even though it sounded trite, it seemed to Liam perhaps the most honest thing he could say. It was awful. It would always be awful. Even when it hurt less.

  The waitress arrived with their drinks. From the look on her face, he thought she might have been eavesdropping, so after she’d left their table for the second time, he made sure to speak softer. “There’s one more thing. After Detective Wyatt was done questioning me, I asked if he thought Elise had been murdered. I just kinda got the feeling he was leaning that way. He said he didn’t know. That sounded a lot to me like a yes.”

  David considered this while he sipped from his beer. “If she was, I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “I hope so. I just can’t figure out why anyone would’ve done it. I’ve been running the scene through my head over and over. The place hadn’t been ransacked, so it wasn’t like it was some run-of-the-mill robbery, you know?”

  “I get it. Sometimes something like this—it’s hard to understand.�
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  “Do you think there was something going on? Something I didn’t know about? Detective Wyatt asked if anybody was mad at her. Do you think somebody could’ve been mad enough to kill her?”

  David sighed. “I don’t know.”

  Liam slumped further into his seat. He was merely asking David the same questions he’d asked himself. He needed to stop thinking about the murder, at least for a while, so he willed the conversation toward work-related matters, and didn’t even mind when David, following his lead, once again pitched his plans for their firm. He wanted to turn ConnectPlus into a full-fledged advertising agency. TV and radio spots, billboards and print ads. “We don’t have to limit ourselves to digital advertising,” David explained. “We could become a one-stop shop for all of our clients.”

  It was what he always said when pitching the idea. In response, Liam said what he was always said: “I don’t think that’s something I can deal with right now.”

  But this time, it was more true than ever.

  Liam Parker

  The next day, the department heads crowded into the conference room at ConnectPlus for their regular Monday meeting. Liam took his seat at one end of the table, David took his at the other.

  Liam’s secretary popped her head in to ask if anyone would like coffee or water before they got started. After she left, Liam pressed a button and the glass wall that separated the conference room from the rest of the office clouded over.

  The meeting was scheduled to last exactly an hour. It never went over and was not to be interrupted. Those were the rules. But not long after they started, while the director of IT was advising the team on a change to release dates, Liam’s secretary opened the door. “Mr. Parker, there’s someone here to see you.”

  Annoyed, Liam gestured to the department heads around the table. “I’m not sure now’s the best time, Maggie.”

  Maggie blushed, clasped her hands together, and looked down at her shoes. She scurried across the room and whispered in Liam’s ear, “It’s a cop.”

  It had to be Bash, Liam figured, renewed sadness clawing at his chest. He could only think of two reasons the detective would have come to his office. Either he’d found the killer or had more questions. (Whichever it was, the mere fact that he was here meant suicide was off the table.) Liam was, of course, hoping for the former. Knowing who had done it and why wouldn’t make her death any less painful, but at least it would take the mystery out of it.

  He stood up, trying not to let his emotion show on his face. He straightened out his jacket, buttoning it and pulling the cuffs of his shirt into place. “I won’t be long.”

  He followed Maggie to the lobby. Bash was standing in the middle of the room with his back to Liam, facing the windows. He had his hands in his pockets and appeared to be admiring the view. From those floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see clear across the city’s skyline. It was half the reason Liam had rented this place.

  “Detective Wyatt,” Liam said, to draw his attention.

  Bash turned around. “Do you have somewhere we can talk privately?”

  “Sure.” Liam led Bash to his office. The entire suite had been decorated by Midwest Design not long after Liam and David had signed a lease. It was how he and Ava had met. She’d done his office with an eye for grays and blacks. The large desk she’d selected dominated the space and was stained a color she’d called driftwood. A matching credenza had been placed by the door. Liam had art deco chairs for guests and an executive leather one for himself.

  “Do you mind if I close the door?” Bash said.

  “Be my guest.” Liam sat down behind that monster desk. Although he liked it, he didn’t like the distance it put between him and his guests. “How’s the investigation going?”

  Bash closed the door. “Mr. Parker, did you use Elise’s phone while you were in the apartment?”

  That seemed like a strange way to start the discussion. Liam couldn’t see the relevance. “No. Why?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Bash stared at Liam for a couple of seconds, as if he was giving Liam a chance to change his answer. Then he said, “Because we found your fingerprints on it.”

  Liam wasn’t surprised. His prints had been on file for twenty years. He, along with six others, had been arrested for a bar fight in college. Liam wasn’t involved, he wasn’t a fighter. But the police thought he was, and that was enough. He was slapped with a fine and community service. The whole thing was stupid. But facts were facts. He’d been arrested for fighting, his prints were on file, and, while he hadn’t used Elise’s phone, he had touched it.

  Liam could see how his answer might look less than honest, so he clarified. “I left my phone in the car and tried to use hers to call 911 when I found her body.”

  “According to our notes, the call came from your cell.”

  “Her phone was locked, and I didn’t know the code, so I went out to my car to get mine.”

  “Why didn’t you use the emergency button on the lock screen?”

  Liam didn’t remember seeing one, but if the detective said it was there, it must be. “I didn’t notice it.”

  Bash leaned against the credenza and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, you didn’t use her phone to delete your text messages.”

  Delete his text messages? The question was so absurd that it didn’t register at first. Once it did, Liam said, “What are you talking about?”

  “Mr. Parker, we know that there were messages deleted from her phone. We got a court order and had the records sent over from AT&T. Based on the texts you two exchanged that night, it sounds like you might have been having some problems.”

  To a degree, the detective was right. They had been having problems—or, at least one. But, even out of context, Liam didn’t see how Bash could read much into those messages. People “had to talk” every day. Still, that seemed to be what Bash was doing, and the whole conversation was quickly making Liam uneasy. “I just needed her to give me some space.”

  Arms still crossed over his chest, Bash drummed his fingers on his bicep. “It looks like the last message she sent you was thirty-two minutes before you called 911. Does that sound right?”

  “I guess.” Liam rolled his chair back a foot, putting a little more distance between him and the detective.

  “So, to recap, the door was unlocked when you arrived.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing was taken.”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “And there was only thirty-two minutes between the time of her last text to you and the time you called 911.” Bash was rapidly firing one thought after another.

  “I suppose,” Liam said, responding just as fast.

  “Your text messages were deleted.”

  “If you say so.”

  Bash pointed at Liam. “But you didn’t delete them.”

  “No.”

  The detective opened his palm. “Mr. Parker, do you mind if we take a look at your phone?”

  Liam pulled his phone out of his pocket, then hesitated. He realized handing it over might not be a good idea. To get into Ava’s at night, he had to request permission to play through an app she provided. He didn’t want the detective finding out about the gambling which, if he clicked on the app, he surely would. Besides, if Bash could twist a simple text message exchange into something suspect, what might he do with the rest of Liam’s life? “Do you have a warrant?”

  Bash let his arm fall to his side, and the silence that followed was uncomfortable.

  On the credenza, a small collection of first edition novels from Ray Bradbury and Phillip K. Dick were framed by a juniper bonsai tree and a model biplane made of metal and wire. The plane had come from the Chicago Arts Festival last year. Liam had taken his kids on a Sunday morning before the crowds settled in. His son Charlie, who was seven at the time, had said it would be perfect for his office and, even though his son had never seen his office, he was right.

 
The detective picked up the plane and spun the propeller with one finger, watching the blades rotate until they stopped. The whole thing irked Liam—Bash coming into his office, touching the plane his son had picked out for him, and all but outright accusing him of Elise’s murder.

  Bash put the plane back down and rocked off the credenza. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Parker.”

  “You know, if you’re thinking I killed her, you’re wrong.”

  Bash opened the door without a response of any sort. It was almost as if he hadn’t even heard Liam. Before leaving, however, he stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and said, “One more thing. Why did you tell the officers that night her last name is Whitman?”

  “What do you mean? It is Whitman.”

  “It’s Watson.” Bash stepped through the doorway. “Well, don’t worry. We’ll get it all sorted out.” Then, as he headed toward the lobby, he called out, “See you soon, Mr. Parker.”

  Liam Parker

  Bash left Liam worried and confused. The detective had all but outright accused him of murder. As if that weren’t enough, his visit had also raised questions Liam couldn’t answer. They swirled around in his head at an ever-faster rate. Why had Elise told him her last name was Whitman? And what had happened to his text messages? Had she deleted them or had the killer? He couldn’t imagine she would have deleted them, but he couldn’t imagine the killer would have either.

  None of it made any sense.

  The only thing he could say for sure was that he needed to hire a lawyer.

  He called the man who’d handled his divorce for a reference. After a brief exchange in which Liam summarized the situation, the lawyer gave him the name Patricia Harrison.

  “She’s a partner at Flores and Washington. Probably the best criminal attorney I know. She’ll be able to help you. Hold on. Let me get you the number.”

  “No need,” Liam said. He was already at his computer, typing the firm’s name into Google. A link for the Flores and Washington website came up right away. He ended the call with a “Thanks” and dialed the number at the top of the site.

 

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