by Vivian Barz
CHAPTER 13
Eric knew when he was fighting a losing battle. He’d honed his skills on that front during his divorce from the adulterous Maggie and the subsequent estrangement from his wife-stealing brother, Jim. As he’d learned during that very dark, very trying period of his life, sometimes, for the sake of your own sanity, you’ve just got to say to hell with it, cut your losses, and pack it in.
In his current situation, however, it was dogged optimism—or was it stubbornness?—that was stopping him from walking out the door, despite the frustration he was feeling. Part of this had to do with him being there on behalf of a person who was unable to speak for himself. Strange as it was, sometimes fighting another’s battle was easier than fighting his own.
Officer Kravitz, who Eric was finally speaking with after a two-hour wait, could not have cared less about Eric’s unsolicited theories about a crime authorities had already deemed solved. He had a stack of files on his desk about a foot thick, and every so often his eyes would drift to it, followed by a despondent shake of the head. He didn’t seem to be doing it consciously, yet the young officer couldn’t have made it clearer that he had far better things to do—actual work.
Eric began by quickly outlining the exchange between Bryan and him in his office, opting to leave Jake out of the narrative to skirt further complication. He finished with, “So, as I already said, he maintained his innocence throughout our conversation.”
“A criminal maintaining innocence. Imagine that,” Kravitz said dryly. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that he’s being framed.”
Though exasperated, Eric kept a neutral expression pasted on his face. “Well, no, not exactly—”
“Back up a second,” Kravitz interrupted. “You had a fugitive in your office who held you hostage with a firearm. Did you report the incident?”
Eric shifted in his seat. Oh, you idiot! he thought, fighting the urge to bring a hand up and smack himself hard across the forehead. How had it not dawned on him to conceal this detail?
It hadn’t dawned on him, he realized, because to do such a thing would have been impossible, since the timeline simply wouldn’t have made sense. Bryan wouldn’t have been in his office professing his innocence unless a murder had been committed. And Officer Kravitz here, while harried, did not seem stupid. Had Eric spun a different narrative, the officer would’ve realized that things weren’t adding up—and once an officer of the law caught a witness in a lie, the remainder of anything they said fell on deaf ears.
“I’m reporting the incident right now,” Eric said weakly. He was still debating whether he wanted to reveal that he’d spoken with an agent of the FBI about the matter, since he was fairly certain Susan had left it up to him to make contact with local police and had not done any reporting of her own.
The officer frowned. “A little late for that, isn’t it? You ever think that if maybe you’d contacted the authorities like you should have done, this McDougal guy might not have gone and jumped off a building?”
Eric felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “I’ve been thinking that since I heard of Bryan’s death. The only difference is that I don’t believe he killed himself. I think his suicide was staged—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Kravitz said, putting his hands up to silence Eric. He leaned back in his chair and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Look, Mr. Evans, I don’t know why you’re so invested in this case, but I’m sure in your own way you’re trying to do what you think is helpful. I understand that you’ve assisted law enforcement in the past, and that’s the only reason I’m not busting you for obstruction.” His eyes traveled to the towering stack of files. “That, and I don’t have time to fill out any more paperwork. I have enough as it is.”
“I understand that; however—”
Kravitz put up a hand to silence Eric once more. Eric clamped his lips shut, not wanting to press his luck by antagonizing the officer. “I get that you think Bryan McDougal’s death was staged, but let me tell you something that wasn’t: he was a sex offender. He’s even on the national registry, which is why I’m telling you. This is not privileged information; it’s public knowledge that he had a history of not being able to keep it in his pants.”
Eric folded his arms across his chest. “Could you tell me the nature of that offense?”
“Sure I could, if I had the time to look it up. But I don’t,” Kravitz said, shaking his head. Eric opened his mouth to interject, and the officer cut him off. “Look, the victim’s family believes their daughter’s killer is dead, and public opinion is also that justice has been served. Here at the station, we also believe there’s one less bad guy on the street. So, I can’t justify some flimsy attempt to exonerate a registered sex offender because you have what boils down to a hunch, especially not when there are other victims who are also in need of justice.” He aimed his chin at the files pointedly. “Do you have any proof that substantiates your claim that the suicide was staged?”
“Actually, yes,” Eric said, pulling out his cell phone. He brought up the photo he’d taken of the drag marks on the concrete blockade. He handed the phone to the officer, regretting it immediately.
Kravitz glanced at the photo and shrugged. “Want to tell me what I’m looking at?”
In the photo, the drag marks looked like nothing more than smudges of dirt. Even Eric could see that. “There,” he said, trying not to sound like the crackpot he felt like. He enlarged the photo on the screen, though he wasn’t expecting to change the officer’s mind. “That’s where he was dragged over.”
“Right.” The officer handed the phone back to Eric. He checked the time on his watch. “Have you got anything else?”
Eric didn’t bother mentioning that he’d seen Bryan’s spirit in the back seat of his vehicle. Officer Kravitz didn’t seem the type to invest too much confidence in psychic visions. He shook his head.
Kravitz got to his feet. He opened the door for Eric and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. It was time to leave. “I’m afraid we’re out of time. There are others waiting to speak with me.”
Eric wasn’t convinced that Kravitz was telling the truth about there being other people in the waiting room vying for his time, but it wasn’t as if he had any grounds to argue. He quickly rose and walked out the door. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d spent two hours of his day waiting just to waste another ten minutes of his breath speaking with a man who’d already decided not to hear him out before he’d even opened his mouth.
“Oh, and Mr. Evans?” the officer called as he was making his way down the hall. “Next time a fugitive contacts you, remember, it’s your civic duty to report it.”
CHAPTER 14
Jake hadn’t realized what a large portion of his life had previously been taken up by his band until the hours, nights, and weekends had started to free up, creating a black hole in his schedule where good times and love had once resided. He was lonely tonight, antsy and uncomfortable in his own skin. He didn’t feel like himself, but that was nothing new.
It wasn’t just the excess of free time that had gotten him down. It was that he longed for his lost friends and their camaraderie. With Madison, who’d been like a sister to him, he missed the good-natured banter they’d shared; with Chuck, it was the easy silences they immersed themselves in, sitting side by side in the van whenever they’d hit the road. He craved the comfort that only long-term friendship could provide, their inside jokes, the awareness that his history was contained within them, and they in him.
Jake was now the owner of a vintage houseboat that he planned to dock in Sausalito. However, it would be some time before he could move in, as the quaint little vessel required a few repairs to get it water ready. He’d rented himself a minuscule studio apartment near campus to live in during the meantime. It was about three hundred square feet and devoid of a kitchen. He stored his food in a bright-orange mini SMEG refrigerator, the one indulgence he’d allowed himself for the pad; besides his violin and computer,
it was the priciest item in the place.
Based solely on how Jake lived, one would never guess that his bank account boasted a high seven figures, thanks to a familial inheritance he’d received a few years back. Having lived at home with his parents until recently, he had no furniture to speak of, which was just fine by him—he was commitment-phobic nearly to a fault and had the restless soul of a nomad. Also, less to move, he’d figured. He slept in a sleeping bag on an air mattress and kept his clothes in an old hand-me-down suitcase that he used as a makeshift dresser. Meals were cooked on a hot plate, and dishes were washed in the sink in the bathroom, which was the only other room the place offered. He showered almost directly over the toilet. But the view was great, and he considered it good practice for living on the boat, which would seem downright palatial by comparison.
View and fancy fridge aside, tonight he felt as if he’d been locked in the trunk of a car. The lack of space was suffocating, the walls closing in around him like an unwanted embrace from a greasy stranger. So was his grief, which often appeared ghostlike out of thin air, haunting him until he was good and terrified about spending his whole life living, and then dying, alone. The grief would eventually fade away as slyly as it had appeared, but not without taking a piece of his happiness with it.
He needed to get out.
Before he could change his mind, he grabbed his wallet, coat, and keys and strode out the door. He chose Salty’s as his hangout by default, since it was the closest watering hole within walking distance. Once inside, he asked for a beer and then added a shot of tequila to the order, his logic being: in for a penny, in for a pound.
He had a look around the bar while he was waiting for his drinks, finding that he was already getting annoyed by the crowd, who seemed outrageously young for the setting. Or could it be that he was the one who was outrageously old? Deep down, he knew the answer.
The group of boys—and that’s how he thought of them, as boys—nearest him was particularly irksome, with their boy-band looks and phony laughter, which they’d make a show of erupting into every couple of minutes. They came from money—that much was obvious—and there wasn’t a shred of individuality among them. They dressed the same, laughed the same, and even had the same haircuts, as if one of them was planning on committing a heinous crime and needed decoys in his proximity so as to later trip up witnesses in a police lineup. It was him . . . no, maybe it was him . . . um, now I’m not so sure. Jake snorted to himself at the thought, and a few of the boys looked over at him curiously.
Jake opened his mouth to tell the busybodies exactly what they could do with their side-eyed glances, but then the bartender distracted him by returning with his drinks. Jake threw back the tequila as soon as it was set before him and immediately ordered another. “You know what, make it two,” he grunted, and then he went about finishing his beer, trying to ignore the increasing rowdiness of the bar patrons. When had humans become so obnoxious? He’d encountered endless idiots while touring with his band, but he couldn’t remember a time when bar goers had been this insufferable.
He was in a ratty mood, which might have had something to do with it. Few things in this world were more antagonizing to a depressed person than other people’s joy. The crowd’s laughter felt passive-aggressive, aimed at him as a reminder of his own unhappiness.
Oh, how he missed the lifestyle being in the band had provided.
His social life back then had been centered mainly on playing shows, and he’d been greatly disappointed by how many of his so-called friends had vanished along with his fame. Near the end of their touring, Augustine Grifters had garnered themselves a fair bit of notoriety, and their popularity had only increased once word of Chuck’s and Madison’s murders had spread. Initially, he’d appreciated the support from all the fans who’d reached out to him from around the world to offer their condolences. Over time, however, it started to seem as if that was all they wanted to talk about; the band’s music became less important than the tragedy that had ended them. But then the story had become old news, and then no news at all. Everyone, it seemed, had moved on.
Everyone but Jake.
What he missed more than the friendships, albeit superficial, was female companionship. He’d met the majority of his girlfriends and lovers after shows, and lately he’d been finding the well of eligible bachelorettes running dry without the conversational opener of him having just played at his disposal. Despite his outgoing front, he was shy to ask women out on dates. As he imagined to be the case with most men, there was a hidden part of him that always feared they’d laugh in his face, which in his eyes would be far worse than any old punch. Rejection left far bigger scars than any physical assault could.
In the course of his angry ruminations, Jake had managed to get himself rather drunk. Surely all those empty shot glasses on the bar had not been consumed by him alone? He glared at the pseudo–boy band, incensed that they’d been setting their empties in front of him, and was not too startled when he saw that they were already looking his way. Guys like them never seemed to grasp that openly staring at a little person—at anyone, for that matter—was outrageously rude. They quickly looked away in unison, which only piqued his anger. Had they been laughing at him, making him the butt of their mean-spirited little-boy jokes?
Moments later, they broke apart, and a member from the group approached. “We going to have a problem, Skippy?” Jake sneered, causing the boy to stop in his tracks, his head jerking back. He seemed genuinely stunned. Wounded, even.
Wow, what an actor, Jake thought, unimpressed.
“Me?” the boy asked, pointing a finger at his own chest. “No. God, no.”
“What do you want? As you can see, I’m busy here.”
The boy nodded to his friend, who Jake saw was over by the jukebox. He squeezed his eyes shut as Madison’s soulful voice and the strumming of a violin—his violin—filled the air. They’d put on “Until the Next,” the second song of the Augustine Grifters’ album Painted Boneyard. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from screaming.
The boy held out his hand for Jake to shake, quickly lowering it when the gesture was not reciprocated. “I just wanted to tell you that I—all of us—are huge fans of yours! We weren’t sure it was you, but it is, right? It’s such an honor to meet—”
“What the fuck are you thinking?” Jake hissed, and the kid’s mouth fell open. He slid off the barstool, so that he was facing him. “You think I want to hear my dead friend singing?”
“I . . . uh, no. I’m sorry. We thought—”
“You thought what? That you’d be a huge dipshit and get in my face? Well, now I’m going to get in yours.” Jake shoved the kid with all his might, emasculated when he saw that the force had hardly moved him.
The kid looked around uncomfortably. They now had the attention of everyone in the bar, which had fallen pin-drop silent. Without any background chatter, the song had reached deafening proportions.
“ . . . wanted to say I loved you . . . ,” Madison crooned. “But instead I said so long . . .”
“Come on, man—we didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to buy you a drink,” the kid said.
Jake shoved him once more. “I can buy my own drinks. I have money. What are all you looking at?” he yelled childishly at the rubberneckers. Shove. Shove. “Come on, motherfucker! Hit me! I dare you!”
“Come on, man—calm down. I’m not going to hit you,” the boy said quietly. “You’re like half my size.”
Jake tripped over the stool’s leg as he launched his attack. Adding insult to injury, the kid offered his hand to help get him back on his feet. Jake swatted him away and then shoved an uninvolved onlooker he could have sworn laughed when he’d fallen. He hadn’t.
The man glanced down at him with a handsome face that was as sympathetic as it was unperturbed. “Let’s get you some fresh air, buddy.” He hooked an arm around Jake’s back and led him from the bar. In an interaction Jake would later not remembe
r, he gave the man his address, which the man then gave to a taxi driver, who, after a bit of convincing (and a twenty-dollar bill), was willing to drive Jake three blocks home.
Inside his apartment, Jake seized his violin and ran the bow across the strings violently, creating a sound that was reminiscent of an agonized woman screaming. He took a few deep breaths and tried again, nearly snapping his bow in half from the pressure he applied. He was only at it for a second or two before he was overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. He cast his violin aside and ran into the bathroom, where he heaved the contents of his stomach into the toilet.
Once he finished, he flopped down on his air mattress. While he’d expelled his dinner, his anger remained, as if it had burrowed itself into his bones and had become a permanent part of him. He extracted his cell from the back pocket of his jeans and made a call to Eric. He felt both angered and relieved when it went to voice mail.
“You maaaaaay be my bossssss at schooool, but you sure as shiiiiiiit don’t own me,” he slurred into the phone. “I’m a grown man, you hear meeeee? I don’t need your permisssssssion to live my life! If I wanna drink, I drink! If I wanna prooooovvve Bryan’s innocent, I will!” There was more he wanted to say, but his guts had other plans for him.
CHAPTER 15
Jake’s cell phone alarm might as well have been a bullhorn. He cupped his skull as he frantically patted his bed—well, air mattress—in search of the offending object. Finally, finally, he located it, and the room went blissfully silent. Had he been hit by a train last night? It certainly felt like it. How had he even gotten home?
He frowned and sat up with a start when he saw that he’d gotten a text from Eric that simply read: WTF????? His frown deepened as his brain conjured snatches of the voice mail he’d left for his friend—something about him being a grown man . . . and him not being the boss? He slapped a hand across his forehead and fell back on his air mattress with a groan. He couldn’t stomach a call to Eric just yet. He was ashamed of himself and already wondering how he was ever going to be able to look him in the eye again.