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

by James, Harper

  Jesús Narvaez would have known about the adoption as well as everything else.

  Evan slammed the heel of his hand into the steering wheel, hit the horn by accident. An elderly couple walking past jumped at the sudden noise, glared at him. He gave them a sideways grin and they turned away, muttering to each other. He was tempted to hit it again. Narvaez could have told him everything he’d managed to find out for himself, but he chose not to. Was it simply out of spite, an old man’s determination to not help anybody in any way connected to Frank Hanna—irrespective of the positive outcomes that might result?

  Or was there some other reason he was being so obstructive?

  It didn’t actually matter why, the end result was the same. He was at a dead end. The only chance he had—and it was very slim—was if the adoptive parents liked the name Margarita gave her baby and didn’t change it. He could then search for births of children with that name—and hope it wasn’t José or Juan. Before he even started down that road, he needed to find out what name Margarita gave the child.

  He was back to Jesús Narvaez, a man who was fast becoming his nemesis.

  Chapter 14

  IT WASN’T NARVAEZ WHO opened the door when Evan knocked. It was an old woman, easily in her late eighties or early nineties. She was small and stooped, her face a network of wrinkles. Her hair was still black, a wig or out of a bottle, a vanity not usually seen in elderly Latino women. She squinted up at Evan and one of the things that had been nagging at the back of his mind was answered. She was Narvaez’ mother, Margarita’s mother. When Narvaez said we, he was referring to his mother and himself.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name’s Evan Buckley—’

  ‘You were here before. I found your card. Edwin Buckley. Jesús was very annoyed after you left. You shouldn’t upset him like that. His heart is not good.’

  Evan felt like laughing. He wanted to ask her whether she meant he had a heart condition or he was merely bad-hearted.

  ‘What do you want?’

  She said it in that I’m almost dead, I can say what I like way, that made him look forward to getting old himself, getting to that age when it seemed there was no need for pleasantries, you could be as rude or abrupt as you liked.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Speak up, I can’t stand here talking all day.’

  She leaned closer to him and peered up into his face with cataract-clouded eyes. A flash of surprise crossed her face. For a moment she looked as if she was going to reach out and touch him, see if he was real. She shook her head, her hand going to her throat, touching the silver crucifix she wore around her neck. It was the first time anyone had used a gesture to ward off evil towards him. It unsettled him for reasons he couldn’t explain. Perhaps she had a premonition of his next statement.

  ‘I wanted to talk about Margarita’s baby.’

  Her mouth opened as if to speak. No words came, something passing behind her eyes. The hand that had dropped from her neck a moment ago was instantly back again, her bony fingers seeking the comfort of the crucifix.

  She went to speak again but the moment was interrupted by the sound of somebody behind her, then the voice of Jesús Narvaez.

  ‘Mamá, I’ve told you not to answer the door. Who is it?’

  The faraway look in her eyes was instantly gone, irritation in its place.

  ‘Don’t treat me like a child, Jesús.’

  He came into view, caught sight of Evan on the doorstep.

  ‘Oh. It’s you again. I told you last—’

  ‘He says he wants to talk about Francisco Javier.’

  It went very quiet. On the outside at least. On the inside, Evan’s heart was anything but quiet. He imagined Narvaez was experiencing some equally strong emotion at his mother’s careless words. Certainly not the elation he felt as he moved one step closer to his goal. They stared at each other, the old woman’s gaze flicking from one to the other.

  ‘What’s wrong with you two? Cat got your tongues?’

  There was a fast burst of Spanish from Narvaez, too fast for Evan to catch, although there was one word he recognized: idiota. Narvaez’ mother’s eyes bulged and she responded with more of the same, the irritation in her voice clear, even if the words meant nothing. She paused to catch her breath, then let fly another flood of angry words.

  The exchange went back and forth, the pitch of their voices rising, Narvaez’ face hardening—and there hadn’t been much in the way of friendliness to begin with. Once again, the words were too fast for Evan apart from one English word—or name—standing out in the middle of all the Spanish: Hanna. And even if Evan hadn’t recognized the name, he would have picked up on the additional venom with which it was spoken.

  Narvaez hadn’t put on his dark glasses this time and Evan watched as his good eye turned as lifeless as the glass one. Then, after a lengthy tirade from his mother, he turned on his heel and disappeared back to where he’d come from, as if he’d been sent to his room for being naughty. His mother watched him go, then turned back to Evan. The look on her face said, I might be ninety, but you don’t mess with me.

  Evan could believe it, almost felt sorry for Jesús. However, if he thought she was about to open up to him, now that she had dealt with her son, he was very mistaken. She took hold of his arm with her cold, overknuckled fingers in that old person death grip, her hand chilling him, surprising him with her strength.

  ‘Why are you doing this to us?’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Digging up all this ...’

  For a moment she was at a loss for words. She let go his arm, clasped her crucifix again, her eyes moist.

  ‘All these memories. After so many years.’

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘All for that evil man.’

  ‘He’s not—’

  ‘He can rot in hell.’

  He gave up trying to say anything. What would be, would be. Or, as she would say, que sera, sera. She would either volunteer the information or he would get no information at all. No amount of cajoling from him would make a blind bit of difference. She nodded to herself. He hoped she was weighing up arguments on either side. She might just have been deciding on whether to have the TV Salisbury steak or the chicken pie for dinner.

  ‘You tricked me.’

  She wagged her bony finger in his face, a gesture that made him feel an unwelcome bond with Jesús. Was he about to be sent to his room as well?

  ‘If you were an honest man, I would tell you what you want to know. But you tricked me.’

  He wanted to protest, he hadn’t tricked anyone, she’d let slip the name on her own.

  He’d have been wasting his breath. The door was already shut in his face. At least he had a first name, two in fact. Francisco Javier.

  Chapter 15

  EVAN CHECKED HIS WATCH. If he was quick, he could make it back to the Register-Recorder’s Office before it closed. He jogged back down the walkway, pushed through the gate to the street and stopped dead. He wouldn’t be going anywhere fast tonight.

  On the other side of the street, a police cruiser was parked behind his rental car, its blue and red lights flashing, irritating other drivers. Two uniformed officers, one male, one female, stood by Evan’s car, as well as a small crowd of onlookers. Whatever the problem was, he was tempted to duck back into Narvaez’ apartment complex and wait until it blew over.

  ‘Is this your car, sir?’ the female officer said. Her name badge said Ortega.

  ‘It’s a rental, but yes.’

  ‘Have you done something to annoy somebody, Mr ...’

  ‘Buckley. Evan Buckley.’

  There was a hint of a smirk on officer Ortega’s lips as she made a note of his name. Evan stared in dismay at what was left of his windshield. It had been completely caved in. Two thoughts immediately flashed through his mind. Thank God he’d left the Corvette at Charlotte’s. That was the upside. The downside was he hadn’t taken out any insurance with the rental company. He never did, thought it
was a rip-off. He doubted this would be covered even if he had.

  ‘And does this belong to you, sir?’ Ortega’s partner said.

  He had an identical, barely-concealed smirk on his face as he lifted the sledgehammer that was lying across the hood of Evan’s car. He held it out as if Evan needed a closer look, it might be the one he always carried in the trunk, it might not.

  ‘No.’

  What he didn’t say was that if he’d asked a different question, like do you know who it belongs to? he’d have got a very different answer, a very positive yes. Because there was a specific message behind the implement used to destroy his windshield.

  However, it wasn’t the damage to his car, or the sledgehammer that was causing their unprofessional amusement. He doubted they routinely laughed at acts of vandalism.

  Officer Ortega dug around in a canvas pouch on her belt, found a pair of blue latex gloves and pulled one of them on. Now it was Evan’s turn to smirk at the distaste evident on her face.

  ‘And what about this, sir?’

  She stretched her arm to full length, leaned over the hood and carefully picked up a large, dead fish by its tail. Her partner grinned openly, a ripple of laughter went through the small crowd watching.

  ‘Is it a bass?’

  ‘I didn’t ask you if you know what kind of fish it is, sir. I asked if it belongs to you?’

  Evan shook his head, having great difficulty keeping his face under control, despite the damage to his car and the implications.

  ‘Nope. I’ll keep it if you don’t want it.’

  ‘I’ll have it,’ somebody from the crowd called.

  Whatever fish it was, it had been dead a long time. The smell was awful. It was obvious Ortega wished she had longer arms. She was also failing to see the funny side of things now.

  ‘Do you have any idea who did this,’ Ortega said.

  ‘No,’ Evan lied.

  She dropped the fish back on the hood. The impact dislodged a bubble of gas caught in the fish’s gut, making its mouth open. A small piece of paper fluttered out, riding the wave of fetid gas.

  Evan didn’t need to read it to know what it most likely said. Ortega picked it up gingerly and unfolded it.

  ‘0-7-1-2,’ she read aloud and looked at Evan.

  ‘It’s not my birthday.’

  ‘Does it mean anything to you?’

  ‘No,’ he lied for the second time.

  Ortega nodded in a have-it-your-way manner and put the note on the fish’s body where it stuck to the slime. She carefully pulled off her glove, rolling it over her hand so that it was inside-out. She found a plastic bag and dropped it in, sealed it tight and stuffed the lot back in the pouch.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know who did this?’

  He shrugged. Beats me.

  ‘In that case, there’s not a lot we can do for you. You have a nice day.’

  The two cops went back to their cruiser and drove off. Most of the small crowd drifted away, a few stragglers staying behind in case there was more excitement to come.

  It had happened within the last ten minutes. He’d only been standing on Narvaez’ doorstep five minutes at most. He glanced around to see if he could catch sight of a familiar face hiding nearby, enjoying himself. There was nobody.

  ‘Anybody see anything?’ he asked the remaining onlookers.

  Nobody said anything for a minute and then a young black guy stepped forward. Evan did his best to put a hopeful look on his face when he saw the heavy eyeglasses the guy wore, tried to ignore the greasy fingerprints he could see from six feet away.

  ‘Yeah, man, I saw it.’ He grinned suddenly and tried to bite down on it. ‘Sorry man, it’s not funny.’

  ‘No, it is. I’d laugh if it wasn’t my car. Did you get a good look at him?’

  ‘Hey Rodney, you didn’t see shit,’ a voice from the crowd called out.

  Evan looked, couldn’t see who’d said it.

  Rodney shrugged.

  ‘He’s white.’

  The implication was clear. All white people looked the same to him. Evan got out his phone and found the photo he’d taken of Floyd Gray. He held it out.

  ‘Is that him?’

  Rodney rocked his head from side to side, squinted at the phone. His black eyes swam around beneath several inches of prescription glass.

  ‘Could be.’

  Then another skinny white guy stepped forward, his pants puckered out where his ass should have been.

  ‘Here, let me take a look. Rodney can’t see shit.’

  Rodney didn’t deny it and the second guy held out his hand, a cigarette between his first and second fingers.

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Abso-fucking-lutely. Mean looking mother. I wouldn’t mess with him.’

  ‘You want that fish?’ Rodney said.

  His friend looked at him, his mouth hanging open, although Evan reckoned it stayed that way most of the time.

  ‘Shit Rodney, you can’t eat that.’

  Rodney gave him a big, toothy grin.

  ‘Ain’t gonna eat it.’

  His friend stared at him a few moments and then grinned back, nodding, some form of communication passing between them. Evan didn’t want to think about the plans they had for it.

  ‘Take it.’

  Rodney picked up the fish, still grinning.

  ‘Man, that is slimy. Jus’ like—’

  ‘You want the secret message?’ the friend said.

  Evan shook his head as the guy pulled the slip of paper away from the slime.

  ‘What is that shit, some kind of code?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You want that?’

  He pointed towards the sledgehammer, his face lit up like a kid at Christmas.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll keep that.’

  Evan didn’t know what plans they had for the fish, it couldn’t be too bad. But he didn’t want to assist in the commissioning of a crime by letting them have the sledgehammer.

  The guy’s face dropped for a moment, then recovered its feral grin when he looked at Rodney holding the fish, its mouth gaping.

  ‘Hey Rodney, I hope you ain’t thinking of—’

  Rodney’s arm cut through the air towards his friend’s head and the fish flew out of his grip, bounced on the trunk of the car parked in front of Evan and ended up in the gutter. The two young men leapt after it.

  ‘You take care now man, he’s one mean mother,’ the friend called over his shoulder as the two of them ran off down the street.

  ***

  THERE WAS NO WAY he could drive the car unless he knocked the windshield all the way out and that would only fill the interior with little cubes of glass. The rental company would charge him for vacuuming them out. He called a tow truck and sat in the car to wait, put the sledgehammer in the passenger footwell.

  Floyd Gray, acting on behalf of Carl Hendricks, had sent a number of very unsubtle messages. The use of the sledgehammer, for one. It was efficient, but that wasn’t the only reason. He picked it up again and studied the well-used head. Were those faint traces of brick dust? It looked the same as the sledgehammer Carl Hendricks forced him at gunpoint to use—to break through into the basement chamber where he’d buried Daniel and Robbie Clayton. And where he planned to bury Evan along with them. The message was clear.

  The dead fish was pure Hollywood, notorious as a mafia message—you’ll be sleeping with the fishes unless you heed the warning. Except there was no warning, nothing to heed.

  Which is where the message on the note came in. 0712—the date Sarah disappeared. It was becoming Hendricks’ signature, in case Evan couldn’t work out who was behind it all.

  Together, the three parts made up one message, delivered from Carl Hendricks to him. Sarah slept with the fishes, buried in an underground chamber, the same as the one Evan discovered. It was the same message as Hendricks had sent by email.

  Nobody found the second level.

&nb
sp; The only difference was the style of delivery had developed. It didn’t mean it was any more or less true. It just brought closer the day when he would go out to Hendricks’ farm and try to find some answers.

  It also raised the question of just how far Hendricks and Gray were prepared to take things. You didn’t have to be a genius to know the answer to that. It was just a question of how long they left him twisting in the wind first.

  Chapter 16

  NEXT MORNING EVAN HEADED back to the Register-Recorder’s Office in an identical rental Honda. He told the rental office it was a random act of vandalism and they didn’t care, just took a couple hundred bucks off him and handed him a new set of keys.

  Pulling into the lot at the Register-Recorder’s Office, he reckoned he must be eligible for his own parking spot, he was here so often, or perhaps a key to the executive washroom. The one thing he wasn’t entitled to was any civility from the clerk. He didn’t suppose even the Mayor got that.

  He was wrong.

  As he approached the desk, she looked up and smiled at him. It took him by surprise. He wasn’t sure how to react, couldn’t imagine what could have caused such a sea change in attitude. He got an inkling as she got closer to her side of the counter. She was wearing makeup today. Surely that couldn’t be for him. And she was wearing her name badge today, proudly displayed on what looked like a new blouse.

  ‘Hi Stella.’

  She smiled some more. It was a nice smile, lit up her whole face. She should do it more often.

  ‘Can’t keep away, eh?’

  He put on his best aw-shucks grin, the one Guillory would slap if he ever tried it on her. Stella lapped it up.

  ‘What have you got for me today?’

  She made it sound like where are you taking me tonight? Yesterday, she’d managed to make it sound like what are you bothering me with?

  ‘Same as yesterday, actually—’

  ‘Births from 1965 and 1966?’