by Erik Carter
Jonathan Fair, why did you do it?
How many more robberies were planned?
Mr. Melbourne, how did you apprehend Fair?
Dale didn’t respond. Neither did Fair.
It took them two full minutes just to make it through the crowd and into the building.
After processing Jonathan Fair, Dale now found himself alone. He scratched at the beard for a moment before making himself stop. He’d sweated a lot during the chase, and now the stupid thing was itching like crazy again. The adhesive felt almost tingly against his skin.
He made his way to the third floor, where he would meet up with the rest of the task force. He had eschewed the elevator in favor of the stairs. Dale did so as often as was reasonably possible for a little boost of exercise during his day. It was also helpful at times like this when a moment of solitude was difficult to come by but desperately needed.
He reached the third-floor landing, paused for just a moment, and pushed through the door.
The hallway was crowded with cops and other officials, and they burst into applause when they saw him. He heard his temporary name again.
Good job, Melbourne!
Well done.
Melbourne, you son of a bitch!
At the back of the hallway, clapping loudest, were Beau Lawton and Eliseo Delacruz.
But Dale didn’t see Yorke.
He stepped into the crowd. As he had with the mob of people outside the building, Dale felt strangers’ hands all over him again—slapping him on the back, patting his shoulders.
From behind a couple tall men, Yorke appeared. She stepped toward him and looked up from the floor. Dale stopped.
“Congratulations,” she said quietly with a half smile.
In the rush of excitement capturing Jonathan Fair, Dale had failed to yet consider how it would affect Yorke and her quest to upgrade her status from that of a screwup. He tried to come up with something consoling to say, but before he could, two more people pushed through the crowd and approached them—Delacruz and Lawton.
“We sure do owe you a debt of gratitude,” Delacruz said and cast his eyes at Yorke mid-sentence.
She looked away.
“Just doin’ my job,” Dale said, trying to downplay it as much as he could for Yorke’s sake. He turned his attention to Lawton. “I understand that congratulations are in order for you as well. Your raids went well, I hear.”
“Couldn’t have gone better,” Lawton said with a million-dollar smile. “With the two families going at each other, all we had to do was position ourselves at all the known establishments.”
“The city appreciates you capturing Jonathan Fair,” Delacruz said to Dale. “But we need more. We’re greedy like that.”
He handed Dale a folder.
Dale looked from the folder to Lawton, gave him a mischievous grin. “So you guys trust my ‘silly history research’ now?”
Lawton laughed. “You’ve proven yourself.”
Dale opened the folder. Inside were Lee Kimble’s records from Napa State Hospital.
“We need you to figure out what Jonathan Fair was planning with this guy,” Delacruz said, pointing to the photo of Kimble that sat on the top of the papers within the folder. “Then we need you to catch him.”
Dale and Yorke sat at a table in an interrogation room. They were side-by-side, and opposite them was Jonathan Fair.
Jonathan Fair...
It wasn’t quite real to Dale yet. So much had been made of Jonathan Fair’s escape. And now he’d been caught.
And Dale had been the one to do it.
Though Dale had a bit of a reputation as an arrogant bastard, it was mostly in good fun—and mostly about his devilish good looks. In regards to things of substance, Dale did his darndest to remain humble. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride from being the person who brought in Jonathan Fair—because he also couldn’t help but get caught up a bit in the hubbub. Dale had such a strong personality that he almost never succumbed to the fleeting fancies of popular consciousness. While there were plenty of people claiming to be unique in this “Me Decade” of the 1970s, Dale was truly an individual. And yet he’d still found himself getting swept into the excitement of the Jonathan Fair chase.
So he would savor his bit of celebrity—hidden as it might be under the moniker of “Tim Melbourne”—for just a moment or two. And he would do it internally.
He couldn’t let Yorke see it.
The stress of the Jonathan Fair capture—and the fact that it had been Yorke’s temporary partner and not herself who brought the man in—was written all over her face.
The room was small with white walls, a flickering panel of fluorescent lights in the ceiling, and a plain cement floor. Fair had his arms crossed on the table. His hands were unrestrained, as Dale had thought it was more than safe to remove the guy’s handcuffs. Jonathan Fair wasn’t a threat.
More importantly, neither was Felix Lyons.
“Are we speaking with Felix right now?” Dale said.
Fair gave him a confused look. “Naturally.”
Yorke leaned toward him. “May we speak to Jonathan?”
“Who?”
“Jonathan. The other man in your head.”
Fair looked over at Dale and then back to Yorke. “Are you mad, woman?”
Yorke bristled.
Dale cut in before Yorke could respond, speaking in a calm, even voice. “Felix, we understand you were working with Lee Kimble. How did you two know each other?”
“I know no one of that name,” Fair said. His voice was very proper, formal, old-fashioned. “The man who was assisting me went by Jones.”
“First name?” Yorke said.
“He claimed it was Tom, but I believe he was being untruthful about that.”
Dale looked at Yorke. “Tom Jones… Like the singer. What do you think of that?”
“Coincidence…?”
“Or mockery. We know Kimble’s been using Fair, so I’m guessing he’s been a jackass to him the whole time. We already saw him shouting at him.” He turned back to Fair. “How did your partnership with Tom Jones work?”
“I would not label it as a partnership. Not in the slightest.”
“Why’s that?” Yorke said.
“Because my mission is to get the truth out, and Jones said he could help. He was never meant to be more than an assistant. At first, he was finding locations with connections to Abe Ruef, but soon it was evident that he was more concerned with this Alfonsi character he kept mentioning. He claimed that the two of them—Ruef and Alfonsi—are connected. And I realized that he was attempting to mutiny my mission. He was trying to take it over for his own means.”
“And how did you meet Mr. Jones?” Dale said. “How long have you two known each other?”
Fair looked away, puzzled. “Well, isn’t that curious now. I… I do not know.”
Dale and Yorke stood in the opposite room, looking through the backside of the two-way mirror at Fair, who was alone at the table in the interrogation room.
“Kimble was using Felix to attack Angelo Alfonsi. But we also know that Felix robbed an Alfonsi bank months before he met Kimble at the mental hospital. Which means somehow Felix was already starting down the path of confusing Alfonsi for Ruef, and Kimble took full advantage of it,” Dale said. “The real question is why is Kimble attacking the Alfonsis? You told me that you and Beau were together during Kimble’s arrest and trial for the Red Riding Hood case. Did Beau ever say anything about Kimble that could shed some light?”
“Nothing connecting Kimble and the Alfonsis. But he used to tell me that if something bad ever happened to him, to make sure that Kimble hadn’t broken out of the hospital,” she said with a smile. “He said that jokingly, of course, but it seemed eerie to me when Kimble actually did break out.”
She laughed.
Dale wasn’t laughing, though. Something felt too prophetic about that sentiment.
“But Kimble was a child-killer,” Dale sa
id. “What would Beau have to fear?”
“It weirded him out, having been such good friends with the guy—then finding out he’d been friends with a psycho.”
“Maybe Beau was more than just ‘weirded out.’ Maybe he was trying to warn you about Kimble.” Dale pointed to the window, toward Fair. “If we’re going to find out what Kimble’s next move is, we need to talk to Jonathan not to Felix.”
“And how the hell are we gonna do that?”
Dale knew exactly how they were going to do it.
“We need to find the one person who can get through to him. We need to bring in the sister.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
There was the clatter of dishes, and Jane awoke with a jolt.
Where was she?
The smell of coffee. People surrounded her. Clanging plates and bowls, silverware. Daylight through the window. Traffic beyond.
She was in a coffee shop. A small, busy place. Blue-collar.
She remembered. She’d come here after the madness in Chinatown. After seeing her brother. And his not recognizing her. She’d needed something warm to drink. Something to calm her nerves.
All around her there was a feeling of excitement, much more so than one would normally find in a coffee shop in the late afternoon. And Jane knew why. They were discussing her brother, his capture. The story had spread already. She heard John’s name through dozens of voices interspersed through the sounds of spoons and smoker coughs and laughter.
Jonathan Fair. Jonathan Fair.
The waitress walked up to her. She had a funny look on her face. “You all right, ma’am?”
The waitress must have seen that Jane had nodded off. Humiliating. Jane wondered how many other people in the coffee shop had noticed.
Jane smiled. “I’m fine. Thanks. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Happens to the best of us,” the waitress said and walked off.
Jane wrapped her hands around the coffee mug on the table in front of her and took a sip. It was still piping hot. She hadn’t been asleep long.
She scanned the shop for a clock. There was one on the wall behind the counter.
5:03.
She thought this through. She’d arrived at the shop at about twenty till. She couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes.
Good.
There was a small, color TV mounted high on the wall beside the clock. The evening news was playing. A photo of her brother showed on the screen. She couldn’t hear over the noise of the coffee shop, so she snaked her way through the tables and went to the counter. She sat on a stool beside a large man in a red flannel shirt and trucker cap who gave her the eye. She ignored him.
The image of her brother was replaced by footage of a blonde woman in a polo shirt standing on the steps of the San Francisco Hall of Justice. Text appeared on the bottom of the screen, and it read:
LIVE
DEPUTY U.S. MARSHAL HANNA YORKE
“This is a direct plea to Jane Logan,” the woman said.
Another still image appeared on the screen.
It was a photo of Jane.
Younger days. College. Jane still had her natural hair color, reddish-brown.
“As you’ve surely heard, Miss Logan, your brother has been apprehended. We need you to come in. We understand that you’ve been in seclusion for some time, but you’re the only one who can help us get through to Jonathan.”
Jane’s image disappeared, replaced by Yorke again.
“Please come to the San Francisco Hall of Justice. Time is of the essence.”
Footage of Yorke was replaced by the news desk. Two anchors. A man and a woman. The man spoke.
“Believe it or not, there is other news besides the Jonathan Fair capture in San Francisco today. This morning, the mayor’s office…”
He continued with the story as Jane walked back to her table, keeping her eyes forward, wondering if anyone had seen past her new hair color and recognized her from the news report.
They wanted her to come in. To meet with the police. If she did so, she’d risk exposing herself to her father. He would certainly have men monitoring the activities at the Hall of Justice. It would also be the first time in seven years that she’d be admitting to anyone that she was Jane Fair—that she was anyone other than Jane Logan, a woman who had grown up in California and moved to Kansas to become a school counselor.
Could she do it?
One thing was certain—she couldn’t stay in the coffee shop. She threw a couple dollars on the table and rushed out.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Marco stood with his brother in his father’s office. He was happy and proud to be invited to such an important and exclusive meeting, but his conscience wasn’t letting him enjoy it.
Papà stood behind his desk, facing large windows that were framed by long, velvet drapes, and he looked out upon the lush estate beyond. His hands were clasped behind his back. He hadn’t spoken for nearly a full minute.
Marco and Matt exchanged a look.
Marco’s stomach was in knots. He began to sweat. He knew this was all his fault.
Because of the plan he’d enacted.
Finally Papà turned back around. He looked at Matt.
“How many men were killed?”
“Five,” Matt said gravely. “All within an hour of each other.”
Papà slowly took in a breath and released it. “First, Beau Lawton’s raids captured thirty men. And now Big Paul killed five more. Boys, this…” He paused. “This is the greatest test this family has ever faced. To this point, our rivalry with the Fairs has remained as cordial as can be expected. But now… Now Big Paul has turned this into a war. And we have to destroy him. So—”
Marco couldn’t take it anymore.
“Papà, this is my fault.”
Papà’s lips parted. “What?”
Marco became lightheaded. He didn’t think he could get the words out. He felt like a child, working up the courage to admit a transgression.
But he forced the words out.
“Papà… It was me. I hired El Vacío.”
Beside him, Matt gasped.
Papà’s face grew pale. For only a moment. Then his green eyes went dark.
“What?”
Marco’s mouth shook as he tried to form more words. “I… I thought if I hired him to kill Jonathan Fair it would show you what I’m capable of. To take out the guy everyone’s looking for. Big Paul’s son. I thought… you’d be proud of me.”
Papà sprang from behind the desk. His arm swung at Marco’s head and cracked his ear. A flash of pain, a loud pop, and then ringing. Loud and total ringing. Marco fell into the chair behind him and landed on the hardwood floor.
He looked up. Papà’s face was red, screaming. Marco couldn’t hear his words. Only the ringing. Matt was holding Papà back as he thrashed toward Marco.
Marco got to his knees—his legs shaking badly—then back onto his feet. He took a half step back, kept his arms up, ready to shield himself.
Papà’s initial rage had slightly subsided, but Matt still kept a restrictive hand on his shoulder.
Marco’s hearing faded back in. “…and you can’t imagine the damage you’ve brought to this family, this entire goddamn city, you stupid shit!”
Matt eased Papà back. His father took several deep breaths grabbed his glass of wine from the desk and downed it. He slammed it down, and the stem snapped. The glass rolled off the desk, shattering on the floor.
Papà took a couple more breaths as he stared at Marco.
Marco’s ear burned, and he felt defeated. Small. Childish. Embarrassed. Yet he also felt a bit of betrayal. This was supposed to be his moment of redemption, after all. His chance to shine. But he knew that he had to obey his father in this situation. Marco had never seen him this angry. Marco needed to heed every single word his father said.
“You’ve gotten our family into this predicament, Marco,” Papà said. “And you’re going to get us out o
f it.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jane pushed her way past the last of the people and through the doors of the Hall of Justice. The experience was more jarring than she’d thought it would be. So many people. Crazy people with signs, wearing costumes. And reporters. They were still shouting her name—her old name—as the doors closed.
Jane Fair!
Miss Fair!
She took a deep breath as she entered the lobby. A man and a woman approached. The man was dressed in a pair of Levi’s with a light brown, button-up shirt. Very handsome with a beard. The woman was blonde and tall, muscly yet pretty. It was the woman from the newscast, the one who had summoned her here.
“Thank you for coming,” the man said. He pointed to the crowd, still swarming behind the glass doors. “I hope they were gentler with you than they were with me. Grabbed me all over. I still feel violated. I’m a gentleman, after all. Sheesh.”
Jane laughed. She liked the guy already. Most people would try to disarm a tense situation by offering a styrofoam cup of cheap coffee or reciting a platitude. But he just came right in with cheesy jokes. He also had a voice that was commanding but reassuring.
“I’ll survive,” she said with a smile.
The man extended a hand. “I’m Tim Melbourne with the FBI. This is my associate, Hanna Yorke, U.S. Marshals.”
After Jane shook their hands, Melbourne continued.
“We’ll go upstairs now and see your brother. I hope it’s not too shocking for you.”
But it was a shock, seeing John on the other side of the glass. After all those months.
Jane stood at the backside of a two-way mirror with Melbourne and Yorke and looked at her brother, sitting alone at a table in a stark white interrogation room.
He stared forward, a blank expression on his face. His skin looked pale, unhealthy. His shaggy hair was dull and frazzled. And his eyes were tired… and disturbed. Even confused. It broke Jane’s heart.