Detective Jack Stratton Box Set

by Christopher Greyson

  Jack gently took her arms and pulled her tightly to him. She exhaled sharply, but kept her eyes closed. Jack lowered his face until he could feel her breath on his mouth. “Thank you for telling me about him,” he said. “My grandmother also told me some things about him. She told me what Steven said to her about the breakup.” Jack held Kristine tightly as he felt a tremble race through her. “Now, don’t think, okay? Just open your eyes.”

  Kristine opened her eyes and gasped. Tears once again formed, but Jack pulled her tighter. He stared into her eyes. “Tell me you’re sorry for breaking my heart.”

  Her lip trembled. “I’m so sorry, Steven. Please forgive me.”

  He smiled and whispered, “I know you’re sorry. All is forgiven, east from west. Now close your eyes again.”

  She let her arms slip around his waist. Jack cradled her and watched the pattern of the clouds sweep across the floor. He comforted her until he felt her start to straighten. Then he kissed her on the forehead and slipped away.

  24

  CHAT

  When Jack went down to join Replacement, she didn’t even look up. “Back already?”

  Already? I’ve been upstairs for two hours.

  “You find out anything about Terry Watkins?” he asked.

  “Super-scumbag. He left guidance counseling after five years. Went into real estate. He’s been sued four or five times. Married. No kids, which is a great thing because he’s on a whole bunch of dating sites.”

  “How’d you get all that?” Jack walked around to look at the monitor.

  Replacement’s fingers were a blur as she typed. “I’d have even more if it wasn’t for this prehistoric paperweight.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Smithfield. It’s—”

  “Two towns over.” Kristine smiled as she walked into the room.

  Jack searched her eyes. She mouthed Thank you and leaned against the desk. The computer beeped and a window popped up. HELLO appeared on the screen.

  Replacement groaned. “Oh, snap.”

  “What?”

  “He’s online.”

  “Who?”

  “Terry Watkins.”

  “How do you know that? Is he typing to you?” Jack’s voice was clipped.

  “He sent me a chat. I didn’t think he’d respond so soon.”

  “Respond? You contacted him?”

  “We need to ask him questions, right?”

  “Why don’t you ever ask me first?”

  Replacement shrugged. “You weren’t here.”

  “Jack, it’s okay.” Kristine walked over to the other side of Replacement.

  “Okay? The last time she sent someone an email, I got hit by a car.”

  Kristine let out a little laugh before she realized that he wasn’t kidding.

  “Well, we did want to contact him.” Kristine looked at the screen, and her mouth flopped open. “Wait. Why is my picture in the chat window?”

  “I had to make a profile,” Replacement answered.

  “And you used my picture?”

  “It was the only one I had on this computer.”

  HELLO? PATTY? popped up in the window.

  “What do I say to him?” Replacement looked at Jack.

  “Patty? Did you say you’re Patty Cole?”

  “Who else was I going to say I am?”

  “You used my picture and pretended to be Patty?” Kristine said in disbelief. “You should have asked me first.”

  Jack groaned. “Just say hello back,” he instructed.

  Replacement typed HI.

  After a moment, the response appeared. IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME. HOW YOU BEEN?

  “Can I say wonderful?” Replacement asked Jack.

  “No. She’s in an institution.”

  “He doesn’t know that,” Replacement countered.

  Kristine leaned forward. “Type OK. Keep him guessing. Guys like mystery.”

  “Actually, we don’t.” Jack shook his head.

  Replacement typed OK, and Watkins quickly came back: YOU LOOK GREAT. I’M HEADING TO WORK. R U IN THE AREA?

  Replacement’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

  “Say yes,” Kristine said.

  “No, say no,” Jack said. “If you say yes—”

  Replacement typed YES.

  Jack’s hands shot up. “What the heck?”

  “It was two votes to one,” Replacement said.

  “This isn’t a democracy.”

  “Actually,” Kristine said with a grin, “it’s my computer, so it’s a matriarchy.”

  GREAT. I’LL CHAT WITH YOU TONIGHT.

  The computer beeped, and the window flashed.

  “He’s gone.”

  “What did you do that for?” Jack snapped.

  “Obviously, I’m trying to help. We want to talk to him, don’t we? So we go undercover.”

  “Do you know how much planning goes into an undercover operation? You have no idea what a can of worms you’ve just opened! We should have gone over what to say, when, how—” He broke off in sheer frustration, and also because Replacement looked completely deflated.

  Kristine patted Replacement’s back. “Well, now we’ve found him. I’ll leave the computer on so we can check for messages.”

  Replacement frowned. “Yeah, if you think this ancient artifact can last the day without melting through the floor.”

  Kristine rolled her eyes. “I’ll call you if he reaches out.”

  25

  Patty’s Special Day

  Jack had doubled back twice to see whether anyone was following them again. It was almost eleven when the Impala stopped in front of the run-down ranch house. Peeling paint hung like scabs all over it, and of the four windows in the front, only one still had shutters, and they were broken. This was where his mother had lived when she knew Steven . . .

  “Are you okay with this?” Replacement cast a worried look Jack’s way.

  “I’m fine. You’ve heard what people have said about him. I don’t have high expectations.”

  “You shouldn’t.” She sounded angry.

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “What are you not telling me?”

  “I just . . . I was talking to Kristine about Patty . . . There was a rumor around town.” She looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. “Well, it was more than a rumor. Kristine knows this woman who works at the police station. When Patty was twelve . . . It was sexual abuse. Patty’s mother reported it. She said it was Patty’s father.”

  Jack’s stomach dropped. “Did anything come from it?”

  “There was an investigation, but . . . no. And when Patty’s mother died, Patty was eventually returned to her father.”

  “She changed somehow, in middle school, after her mom died,” Terry Martinez had said.

  Jack got out of the car, slammed the door, and marched across the yard. Replacement hurried after him. Jack pounded on the door, and to his disgust, paint chips fluttered to his feet. Instinctively, he moved Replacement slightly behind him and waited, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  More knocking. More paint. Jack wondered what the man would look like who’d abused his teenage daughter years ago and now apparently had sunk so low he was just taping cardboard up whenever a pane of glass fell out of the door.

  Jack heard shuffling and grumbling and finally the door opened a crack.

  “What?” An old man glared and blinked through the partly open door. Thick gray hair sat atop a heavily wrinkled, embittered face. He shielded his yellow eyes with his hand and stared out suspiciously.

  “Mr. Cole? I have a few—” Jack caught the slamming door and held it in place.

  “You’re a cop. Get lost,” Cole snarled. His lips drew back to reveal browned teeth.

  “I’m not here officially,” Jack fumed, holding up a fifty-dollar bill. “A few questions, ten minutes. Another fifty when we’re done.”

  The old man licked his lips as if he were looking at a steak. He snatched the bill out of Jack
’s hand and slammed the door again, but Jack smiled at Replacement. They were in.

  A chain rattled, and the door flew open. Jack’s smile disappeared quickly. Mr. Cole was Jack’s height but slightly stooped over. His old clothes flapped around him like a scarecrow’s rags. He leered at Replacement. “Why, hello, sweetie.” She coughed and made a face as a musty smell seeped across the threshold.

  “Don’t talk to her,” Jack said.

  “Who do you think you are, you—”

  “Part of the payment,” Jack growled, stepping forward till the old man backed up.

  Mr. Cole turned and shuffled into a living room. It was sunny outside, and the light was on, but it was still dark inside. Dusty curtains obscured the windows. A small TV sat in one corner with a worn chair in front of it. A couch covered in clothes and assorted trash was against the far wall.

  “What the hell do you want?” The old man plopped himself down in the filthy armchair.

  “I’m here to ask some questions about Patricia.”

  “Patricia?” There was a complete lack of recognition on the old man’s face.

  Jack seethed. “Your daughter.”

  “Patty?” Mr. Cole spat out the word. “That tramp took off years ago. Haven’t seen her. Don’t care.”

  Replacement started to step forward, but Jack grabbed her arm.

  “She’s a feisty one.” The lecherous grin appeared again. “Is Patty dead? Did she leave me something?” Mr. Cole started to stand up.

  “Sit back down and look only at me,” Jack snapped.

  Mr. Cole’s face contorted in anger. He started to say something, but shut his mouth when Jack took two steps forward.

  “Did Patty ever talk about a boy . . . a young man named Steven?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know that? Why would she tell me crap?”

  “Did she ever bring anyone”—Jack looked around the decrepit house with disgust—“here?”

  “She wasn’t allowed to have anyone over. Ever. It would just cause problems.”

  “You never knew any of her friends? You don’t know anything about her?” Jack’s words crackled.

  “Spoiled little witch like her mother. After she died, Patty ran off.”

  “Gee. Wonder why,” Replacement said drily.

  “Shut your hole, you—”

  Jack lunged forward and grabbed the arms of the chair, his face inches away from Mr. Cole, who leaned back, terrified.

  “Do you know anything, old man?”

  “No. No.” He shook his head.

  “Then you don’t get the other fifty,” Jack spat. He shoved the chair and started to walk out.

  “Wait. If it means so much to ya, I got some of her stuff. It’s in her bedroom. Down the hall, on the left. You can take a look—long as I get the fifty.”

  Jack peered down the dark hallway. “Stay right there,” he growled at Cole, then took Replacement by the hand. “And you, stay near me.”

  “Are you kidding? I want to climb on your back.”

  Jack strode down the hall to the door on the left. He pushed it open and the hinges groaned in protest. Inside, a small bedframe with no mattress sat against the far wall. Two sawhorses, old paint cans, and some plywood took up most of the rest of the room, and the floor was littered with trash. But it didn’t smell like the rest of the house, and it was obvious that this had once been a girl’s bedroom. Yellowed posters of musicians and actors, icons of Patty Cole’s youth, still clung to the walls.

  With Replacement uncharacteristically quiet and dutifully staying at his side, Jack moved to the bureau. Faded stickers covered the front, but there were only some old tools inside—nothing that would help them.

  The closet was another story. The door had been removed and was leaning at an angle against the back of the closet. Jack picked it up and set it next to the plywood stack so he could get at the two cardboard boxes inside. They weren’t sealed, but their covers were folded to keep them closed.

  The first contained stuffed animals. The second one looked like just schoolbooks. He closed them back up, and handed the first one to Replacement.

  “This one’s the lightest,” he said. “Take it straight to the car.”

  “We can just take it?”

  “Yes, we can.”

  Jack grabbed the other box and headed back to the living room. The old man stood up from his chair. “Don’t bring that shi—”

  “Shut up,” Jack barked.

  Jack held the front door open for Replacement, who walked out to the car with her box.

  “You can’t take anything,” Mr. Cole yelled.

  “Keep moving,” Jack told Replacement. He shut the door behind her, set his box down, and returned to the living room, stoked with fury.

  Mr. Cole took a step back. “Fine. Just take it. Take it.”

  “Do you know what you did to her?” Jack growled. “People said she was a good kid. You started it. What you did to her—”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “You’re the one who’s lying!” Jack took another step forward.

  The old man scuttled over to his chair and sat down. “So what if I did?” he spat. “The statute of limitations is long gone. No one believed it then, either.” He pulled out a mangled tissue, coughed, and spat into it, then stuffed it back in his pocket. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m as good as dead. I got liver cancer. Doctors tell me I got a month or two. They want me in a hospice. Do you think I’m scared of going to jail?”

  Jack pinned Cole in his chair and leaned down to drill his words into the man’s face. “Oh, you’re not going to jail, old man, and I’m not going to kill you . . . today. I’m going to come back, though. I’m going to come back on Patty’s special day. Do you remember what day that is? Do you remember how she loved that day every year? And when I come back, on Patty’s special day, I’m going to take a piece of you for her.”

  He threw the second fifty on the floor, grabbed the box, and walked out, breathing deeply, trying to get the stench out of his mouth and nose.

  He popped the trunk and tossed the boxes in, then slid behind the wheel and sat for a minute thinking.

  “What did you threaten him with?” Replacement finally asked.

  “To come back and cut off a piece of him.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I won’t. But he doesn’t know that.”

  “He could call the cops.”

  “I doubt it. He’s a scumbag. Scumbags don’t call the cops when they get threatened. It’ll take a while to take hold anyway.”

  “What will?”

  “What I said. Did you see the way he smiled when he thought his own daughter was dead but might have left him some money? Did you see that? I want him to hurt. I want him to remember Patty.”

  Jack gripped the steering wheel.. “He didn’t even remember her name right away. He didn’t know anything about her. I told him I was coming back on Patty’s special day. He won’t remember any special day, but he’ll lie awake at night, trying to remember. He’ll go over every conversation he ever had with Patty. I hope it drives him crazy, trying to figure out when it is. I hope it makes him remember her, and I hope it causes him endless pain.”

  26

  Just Wondering

  Jack and Replacement waited outside Jeff Franklin’s apartment building, munching on the sandwiches they’d picked up at a country store along the way.

  “Do you think he knows anything?” Replacement asked.

  “He wrote all the articles. Sometimes reporters get information they can’t print, but it’s still good information.”

  A small blue electric car rounded the bend and parked in front of the building. Jack and Replacement hopped out of their car. The reporter shut his door and watched them as they approached.

  He was a small, thin man, almost as short as Replacement. His head was bald on top and gray on the sides. With his round glasses, white T-shirt, jeans, and open blue blazer, Jack would have thought he was a college profe
ssor.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked.

  “I hope so. My name is Jack Stratton, and I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Jeff smiled. “I’m the one who usually says that.” He shook Jack’s outstretched hand. “Your girlfriend?”

  Jack shook his head. “This is Alice. I was wondering—”

  “Please, come on in. We might as well be comfortable.” Jeff led them inside. His apartment was small but cheerful, brightly lit and extremely clean. Light tan carpeting stretched everywhere, and a tiled kitchen was in the back.

  “Please.” He gestured to the couch. “What do you want to know?”

  Jack and Replacement sat. “I’m doing some research about the Steven Ritter case,” Jack said.

  “The boy killed at Buckmaster? Are you a writer?”

  “I’m interested in the case. It’s more of a personal pursuit.”

  “Oh, you’re a crime enthusiast. Like my sister. Her focus is the Long River Killer. She went out to Boulder and everything.” Jeff walked into the kitchen, and the sound of clinking glasses could be heard. “I’m mostly retired now, but I wrote most of the main articles on the Steven Ritter case,” he called back. “It was never solved. Shame, really.”

  “Did you personally talk to the people involved?”

  Jeff returned, carrying a tray with three glasses and a pitcher. “I interviewed everyone. Most twice. It was the biggest story the town ever had. Iced tea?”

  “Yes, please,” Replacement said. “Did anyone stand out?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “To be honest, there was extremely little information to go on.”

  “I read all your articles,” Jack said, and Jeff smiled broadly. “And I just have a couple of questions. What’s your personal view of the case?”

  Jeff took a sip of his iced tea. He nodded his head as if he was thinking about the question, but Jack got the feeling that Jeff had long ago come to a conclusion about the case and was dying to share it. “Well, Steven Ritter was a Boy Scout. Literally.” He turned his hands out. “No dirt on him. No enemies. Believe me, I turned over every rock. Zilch. It’s a true mystery. No enemies, and no one saw anything.”