The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets)

by James, Harper

‘Not her, you idiot. Him!’

  He jabbed the screen so hard, the monitor rocked back on its stand. Evan panned across onto the man’s face, now clearly identifiable. Stanton slumped back into his chair, all the color gone from his face.

  ‘You bastard,’ he hissed at the screen, his fingers digging into the leatherette arms of the visitor’s chair, the tendons standing out on the backs of his hands. ‘You cock-sucking bastard.’

  It wasn’t the time to point out he had that the wrong way around.

  ‘You recognize him?’

  ‘Recognize him?’ he screamed, slamming his fist down onto the table. ‘You could say that. I have to look at his oh-so-pretty face eight hours a day, every day of my life. That’—he jabbed his finger at the screen again—‘is my bastard of a business partner. Hugh McIntyre.’

  Evan didn’t say anything, waited for him to go on. Stanton was lost in his thoughts.

  ‘It all makes sense now. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.’

  Evan had learned from bitter experience to stay silent and wait for Stanton. People lash out blindly when they’re hurting. A badly chosen word, an inappropriate tone of voice or even the wrong emphasis could end up with the overwrought client turning on him.

  ‘I suppose you’ve got more photos? That bastard and my wife. Every gory detail.’

  Evan nodded and put his hand back on the mouse to move on.

  ‘I don’t want to see them,’ Stanton said quickly, leaning back and holding up his hand as if he could simply push it all away. ‘I know what you said. But I’ve seen enough. I don’t need any more proof. It all fits together now.’

  ‘No problem. I’ve copied them onto a thumb drive. In case you need them as evidence.’

  Evan pushed the thumb drive across the desk. Stanton stared at it like he was being offered a radioactive dog turd. Evan couldn’t stop the thought crossing his mind that he could have stopped after the first photo in the parking lot. No need to kick down the motel door. No need to get chased down the street by a guy who wanted to rip his head off. No need to give a guy who looked like an advertisement for steroids a reason to come looking for him with a baseball bat.

  ‘What happened when you took the photos of them . . .’

  Stanton couldn’t finish the sentence. He coughed and made some meaningless gesture with his hand. For a second Evan thought he was going to make a circle with his index finger and thumb and poke the other finger in and out.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  It wasn’t a question he was expecting.

  Stanton shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. I thought I knew the bastard, but it seems I don’t. Just curious what he did.’

  ‘He pulled on his pants and chased me down the street, screaming and threatening to kill me.’

  Stanton cocked his head and frowned.

  ‘You were on foot?’

  ‘No, I was in my car.’

  The creases on Stanton’s forehead got deeper.

  ‘I kept slowing down to make him think he was going to get me. At one point I stamped on the brakes and he crashed into the car and ended up on his ass. He chased the car for half a mile like a rabid dog until it finally clicked or he ran out of steam. I’m not sure which.’

  Stanton’s mouth curled into a smile as he listened, turned into a grin and then he burst out laughing. Evan couldn’t help himself and laughed with him, the tensions of the evening riding out with it. Stanton leaned down and opened his briefcase, came back up with a bottle of scotch, a question on his face.

  ‘I had a feeling I’d need this tonight. I was planning on taking it home, but here seems as good a place as any, if that’s okay by you?’

  Evan got a couple of glasses, put them on the desk.

  ‘So long as you don’t tell anyone—I’m supposed to be the one who keeps that in the bottom drawer. I’d get disbarred.’

  Stanton poured them both a couple of fingers and pushed one across the table. Evan regarded it a lot more favorably than Stanton had viewed the toxic thumb drive.

  ‘I wish I’d been there,’ Stanton said, knocking his drink back in one and lining the glass up for a refill. ‘I’d have reversed back over the bastard.’

  Evan pictured it, reversing at the exhausted McIntyre as he panted for breath, the look on his face changing from fury to disbelief to panic.

  ‘I wish I had. He got a good look at my license plate.’

  ‘Uh-oh. Rather you than me. He’s got a very short fuse. And he’s never heard of forgive and forget.’

  Stanton finished his second drink and appeared to be in no hurry to get going. Not that he had much left to go home to. What the hell, Evan thought, nodding at the offer of a third drink, I haven’t got anywhere to go either.

  When Evan finally called him a taxi a couple of hours later, the bottle was empty and they’d moved on to Evan and Kevin. Their respective problems didn’t seem nearly so bad either. Even so, Evan made sure Kevin took the thumb drive with him. Things would be very different in the cold, unforgiving light of morning. And a hangover would only make it worse. Then he got out the sleeping bag he kept for emergencies and got as comfortable as he could on the floor.

  Chapter 3

  EVAN WAS DRAGGED FROM his fitful sleep by someone hammering on his office door. Inside his head someone with a jackhammer was bouncing off the sides of his skull and now somebody was doing their best to break his door down. His first reaction was that the guy from the motel, Hugh McIntyre, had found him already, but that wasn’t remotely possible.

  He crawled out of his sleeping bag and slowly stood up. He put out a hand to steady himself. He felt like he was still drunk. Kicking the sleeping bag into the corner he crossed to the door.

  ‘Who is it? What do you want?’

  ‘Police. Open up.’

  That wasn’t the answer he was expecting. Perhaps the motel manager had reported the damage to his door and McIntyre had given them his license number. He unlocked the door and looked out at the two people standing in the corridor.

  There was a short, fat man in front and a taller woman half hidden behind him. The one in front looked him up and down. Evan was acutely aware of his crumpled clothing and the stale smell of whisky and sweat that wafted out from the room. On cue, Fatso sniffed suspiciously at the air.

  ‘Evan Buckley?’ he asked

  ‘Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can invite us in to start with, unless you want everyone in the building to listen in.’

  ‘Sorry. Of course. Come in.’

  He stepped aside to let them squeeze past. He saw the empty whisky bottle and two glasses still on the desk at about the same time they did. It wasn’t a large office, so they couldn’t miss his sleeping bag lying in the corner either, looking very much like someone had just crawled out of it.

  ‘Nice professional setup you’ve got here,’ the short one said and wrinkled his nose. ‘Mind if I open the window; let in a bit of fresh air?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Had a party in here last night, did you? Been sleeping it off?’

  ‘Do you mind telling me what this is about, Officer . . .’

  ‘Detective Ryder.’ More like Detective Donut, Evan thought. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions, Mr Buckley.’

  ‘Sure, go ahead, why not.’

  ‘Do you know Mr Kevin Stanton?’

  That was the second surprise in less than five minutes. Faint alarm bells went off in Evan’s head.

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘We’ll get to that in a minute. Can you tell us what your relationship is with Mr Stanton?’

  ‘He’s a client.’

  ‘A client.’

  He managed to make it sound like something to be ashamed of.

  ‘And what exactly do you do for your client, Mr Stanton?’ Ryder said, flashing a cold smile at Evan.

  ‘Why do I get the impression you know all the answers before you ask the questions?’

  ‘Just answer the question p
lease.’

  ‘Actually, that’s between me and Mr Stanton.’

  Ryder gave him a long-suffering look but didn’t press it. Seeing as he knew the answer anyway, he didn’t need to.

  ‘Okay. Can you tell us when the last time you saw him was?’

  ‘Last night. Here, in my office.’ He pointed to the glasses on the desk. ‘If you want to dust one of those glasses you keep staring at so disapprovingly, you’ll find it’s covered with his fingerprints.

  ‘So, you were having a party, were you? Do you do that with all your clients?’

  ‘Not a party, just a few drinks. And Stanton brought the whisky with him.’

  ‘I’m sure he did.’ The detective made a show of sniffing the air. ‘More than a few as well by the look—and smell—of things.’

  Evan sighed wearily at the relentless jibes. His head was pounding, that was punishment enough. He didn’t need any of this.

  ‘Is this going anywhere, Detective?’

  ‘Not for Mr Stanton it isn’t. I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Stanton committed suicide last night.’

  Evan took a step backwards as if he’d been slapped and dropped heavily into his chair. He was suddenly very cold. He shook his head in disbelief. It couldn’t be true. Stanton hadn’t been suicidal when he went home. Something must have happened at home. Ryder was saying something else, his mouth turned down in disgust.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’

  ‘I said, it appears Mr Stanton had spent the evening drinking heavily. We now know that at least some of that was done here with you.’ There was more than a hint of accusation in his voice. ‘He then seems to have gone home where he spent some time looking at pornographic images on his computer.’

  Evan groaned inwardly. He didn’t want to hear what was coming.

  ‘Not just the everyday porn your average Joe can get off the internet, either. Bespoke, you could call it. Pictures of his own loving wife being screwed stupid by another man.’ It was a full-blown accusation now. ‘And when he’d had enough of that, he went out to the garage and hung himself from a rafter.’

  He shouted the hung himself, and then paused to allow time for the full, dreadful implications of his words to sink in.

  ‘Which is where his wife found him this morning. Luckily for us, she became hysterical and ran straight to the neighbors. She was so distressed, poor thing, she didn’t think to go into his study and remove the evidence that pointed to her starring role in this sorry little tale.’

  Evan sat there completely dumbfounded, unable to think clearly, although one thought was all too clear—he should never have given Stanton the thumb drive with the photos.

  ‘It was also in his study that we found your business card,’ Ryder continued. He managed to make business card sound dirty too, as if it was one of the ones you used to see pinned up in public phone booths. ‘And seeing as we’re detectives we sort of worked it out.’

  He held up his hand and flicked out a not very clean little finger that looked like a short, fat sausage.

  ‘One, here’s a depressed man who just hung himself after looking at pictures of his wife screwing around.’ He flicked out a second, sausage-like finger. ‘And two, what have we got here? Some low-rent P.I.’s business card. So, yes, Mr Buckley, we do already know the nature of the work that you did for Mr Stanton. Although how anyone can call what you do work is beyond me. I bet you even charge the poor saps for ruining their lives.’

  Flecks of spittle showered Evan as he spoke. Ryder stood in front of him, looking down at him in his chair, daring him to contradict his words. The look of disgust on his face made Evan want to punch it, but he had to keep his temper under control. They would’ve liked nothing better than an excuse to work him over and toss him into the cells. Ryder wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘That’s why we came down here to this shithole you call an office this morning. To get confirmation from the horse’s mouth—more like the horse’s ass if you ask me—and to see if you can provide any further information.’

  ‘I can tell you who the man in the photos with his wife is.’

  ‘We already know that,’ Ryder snapped. ‘You might be the lowest type of bottom feeder, but at least you know how to use a camera. We got his license plate from one of your pictures. We’ll be talking to Mr McIntyre shortly.’

  ‘I hope you give him as hard a time as you’ve given me.’

  It was out before he could stop it. He could have bitten his own tongue off.

  Ryder put his hands on his hips and snorted.

  ‘Hard time? Who are you kidding? I’ve called you a few names, that’s all. At least I don’t go around ruining people’s lives. Christ, haven’t you got any self-respect?’

  Evan wished he could have argued. But it sounded too much like the nagging head voices he lived with every day.

  ‘Are you sure it was suicide? He didn’t seem suicidal in the slightest when he left here.’

  ‘How the hell would you know? You were as drunk as he was,’ Ryder shouted, his face reddening. He cracked his knuckles loudly. ‘But to answer your question, there is absolutely no evidence whatsoever of foul play. The man topped himself’—he emphasized the words—‘because he couldn’t face life after looking at your pictures. I know it would make you feel a whole lot better if he hadn’t committed suicide, but he did.’

  Evan thought he’d finished, but he hadn’t.

  ‘And it’s your fault’—he jabbed his finger into Evan’s face—‘so you better start learning to live with it.’

  Evan tucked his hands under his legs to stop himself grabbing the finger in his face and snapping it at the knuckle.

  ‘Did he leave a note?’

  ‘Yeah, he left a note. His tramp of a wife threw it in the trash but we dug it out. It was torn but it wasn’t difficult to read seeing as it was only one word in nice big capital letters—BITC—we figured the rest out.’

  Ryder and his partner, who hadn’t said a word the whole time, turned to go. But Ryder just couldn’t let it go. He hesitated at the door.

  ‘I just can’t understand why anyone would want to spend their lives doing this shit.’ He made a sweeping arm gesture taking in the whole room. ‘Helping people ruin their lives day in day out. Why don’t you do something to help people for a change? Find missing kids or something worthwhile like that.’

  Something important snapped inside Evan. A sudden surge of heat flushed through his body, a rush of blood to his head making it feel like it was about to explode. Ryder had touched the rawest of nerves. He couldn’t stop himself. He leapt from the chair and lunged at Ryder, screaming into his face.

  ‘You sanctimonious bastard. You have no idea what you’re talking about. You know absolutely nothing about me.’

  Ryder’s partner stepped between them and put her hand on Evan’s chest. It was a strong hand and she was an athletic woman, broad in the shoulders, narrow in the waist. Her eyes held Evan’s.

  ‘That’s enough. Calm down now.’

  ‘Calm down! I’ve had to listen to this holier-than-thou, fat prick insult me from the moment he walked in and now he tells me I should spend my life doing something useful. He wouldn’t know what useful was if it bit him in the ass.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re getting so riled up about,’ Ryder said from behind his partner. ‘You do what you do, you gotta expect people to hate you.’

  ‘Do either of you two idiots know the first thing about me? My name doesn’t ring any bells? Come on, you’re the great detectives.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Ryder said again. ‘Why the hell would we know anything about a lowlife like you unless this isn’t the first time you pushed a guy over the edge.’

  Evan lunged again, but Ryder’s partner pushed him back.

  ‘Five years ago. Sarah Buckley. My wife. Disappeared off the face of the planet. Ring any bells yet?’

  Ryder looked at him like he was talking in a foreign language. There was a faint
glimmer of recognition in his partner’s eyes.

  ‘I seem to remember something about that. Didn’t you cause a big scene down at the precinct? Punched the Captain. Got arrested?’

  Evan ignored her.

  ‘Well, allow me to refresh your memories a little. One day, out of the blue, she disappeared without trace. I reported her missing. You lot were about as much use as a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest. But what was worse was you didn’t give a damn either. Back then I was a journalist, I had a good job, but I couldn’t stand just sitting around waiting for lazy idiots like him’—he jabbed a finger at Ryder—‘with their heads up their asses doing sweet F.A.’

  ‘You better watch your mouth, Buckley,’ Ryder said. But Evan was too far gone to stop now.

  ‘Or what, you fat bastard? Or what?’ He was screaming now, a red mist engulfing him. ‘I packed in my real job so that I could start doing yours. And no, I didn’t find her, but at least I tried, which is more than you did. And I’m still trying, and I’ll keep on trying.’

  He paused to gulp air into his heaving lungs. His chest shook against the other detective’s hand.

  ‘So, when some useless tub of lard comes in here and spends ten minutes being abusive before he tells me to do something useful with my life, I get a little uptight.’ He spat the last word into Ryder’s face over his partner’s shoulder and pushed harder into the hand on his chest.

  ‘On top of all that I still have to pay the bills, and that means I have to do whatever my clients pay me to do, however distasteful the sainted Detective Ryder might find it. It’s called the real world, and you should go there some time. See how you get on without a badge to hide behind.’

  He sagged visibly, the outburst draining him completely. Ryder’s partner saw the fury had gone and dropped her hand from Evan’s chest.

  ‘Okay, okay, we’re going to leave now. If you can think of anything that might be useful, or you just want to talk, give me a call. The name’s Guillory.’ She gave Evan her card and they left.

  ***

  AFTER THEY’D GONE Evan sat down at his desk and rested his head in his hands. It was like a terrible nightmare, but he wouldn’t be waking up from it any time soon. This was his life now. He didn’t like the things Ryder had said but he couldn’t fault the logic. Sure, it was Stanton’s wife and McIntyre who were the root cause of it all, but it was his photographs that pushed the man over the edge.