Blood Betrayal (John Jordan Mysteries Book 14)

by Michael Lister

  “Swear it on the lives of your wife and children,” Merrill says, “’cause that’s what you doin’.”

  “I swear it on their lives, that’s the truth,” he says.

  I nod.

  Merrill moves out from behind Justice and sits in the seat beside him.

  I’m about to ask my next question when a Franklin County sheriff’s deputy knocks on the door. His gun is out and he actually taps the glass with it.

  I pull out my badge and hold it up as I walk toward the door.

  Reaching the door, I unlock it and hand him my badge.

  “Why is this door locked?” he asks. “Who’s in here?

  “We just wanted to talk to Mr. Wit—Winslow without being disturbed. I’m John Jordan. I’m with the Gulf County Sheriff’s department. With me is Merrill Monroe. He’s a licensed investigator. We both have weapons and permits.”

  “Step out here, Mr. Winslow, Mr. Monroe.”

  They do.

  Merrill is holding up his license and concealed carry permit.

  “Everything okay, Mr. Winslow? Your secretary was worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sure? You don’t seem it.”

  “I am.”

  “Mr. Jordan, are you on duty? Does our department know you’re here?”

  “I’m off duty.”

  “Okay. I don’t know what’s going on here, but here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna call your sheriff and confirm everything but I’m also gonna ask you to leave. This isn’t the way to do things—coming in armed and locking the door.”

  I nod. Now is not the time to reveal who Justin Winslow really is and this deputy is not the person to reveal it to.

  “Sorry for how this looks,” I say. “We’ll be happy to go. There’s no need to call my sheriff. Like I’ve said I’m off duty.”

  “There a reason you don’t want me callin’ the Gulf County Sheriff?”

  I shake my head. “No,” I lie. “Not at all.”

  35

  “What the hell were you thinkin’, John?” Reggie says.

  We’re in her office. Her door is closed.

  Reggie Summers, a true country girl, grew up in Wewa and after working security jobs in Central Florida and being Wewa’s chief of police for a short time, was appointed by the governor to finish out the term of Gulf County Sheriff when the previous sheriff was killed.

  She’s not only a great sheriff but a good person and friend. She’s the main reason I took this job and have enjoyed it so much.

  As soon as she spoke to the Franklin County Deputy she called me and told me to come to her office as fast as humanly possible.

  “You can’t go into another county and investigate without coordinating it with them. Was it about Daniel? Do you have a new lead? Why didn’t you tell me, let me call the Franklin County Sheriff?”

  Even seated behind her desk, you can tell Reggie is thick and solid, strong and calm. Tough yet feminine, she’s an attractive forty-something who rarely wears makeup or her hair in anything but a ponytail.

  I shake my head and frown. “Wasn’t about Daniel.”

  “Then what? Please tell me it’s a case Merrill’s workin’ and you just happened to be along for the ride.”

  “It’s a case he’s workin’,” I say. “But I’m workin’ it too.”

  “Unofficially? Privately? Why? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  Her green eyes are even more intense than usual, narrowed and focused.

  “Didn’t want to get you involved,” I say.

  “Well, I’m involved now. Is it because it’s in Franklin County? Somethin’ you stumbled on while looking for Daniel? Does it involve corrupt cops? Help me understand why you wouldn’t tell me.”

  “It’s actually a case from Bay County,” I say. “Just led us to Franklin—one of the suspects lives there now.”

  “Bay County? Why the secrecy? Why are you working on a Bay County case?”

  “It’s a Bay County case . . . that’s closed. The man serving time for the crime—eighteen years so far—is an inmate at Gulf. His aunt is a very old friend of mine. Asked me to look into it. I knew I couldn’t officially, knew what Bay County’s response would be, knew what your response would be.”

  “You’re damn right you did.”

  “So Merrill and Anna and I have been helping the aunt and stepsister and others look into it.”

  “Into a closed case in another county?”

  I nod.

  “What? Two jobs, a wife, two kids, an invalid, and searching for Daniel aren’t enough for you?”

  “I owed the aunt,” I say. “And I think he’s truly innocent. I was hoping to be able to prove it. Then I was going to bring it to you.”

  She shakes her head and lets out a long sigh. “What’s the case?”

  I tell her.

  “What’ve you got so far?”

  I take her through it.

  “Fuck,” she says. “Fuck.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Thing is, John, you’re not just the best investigator in this department,” she says. “You’re the best I’ve ever seen. By a long shot. But . . . it’s like basketball. You like basketball, don’t you?”

  “I used to.”

  “If you’re the greatest player in world—who is that right now? Lebron?”

  I nod.

  “If you’re Lebron and you have all this talent and skill and this amazing instrument, but you don’t play with and for your team, you lose. It’s not one on one. It’s not. You’re part of a department now. You can’t just do what you want. There’s a process, a chain of command, a way of playin’ ball.”

  “I know.”

  “Thing is . . . I knew this day was coming,” she says. “I knew there’d be a day you’d want to cowboy off and do something on your own. You’re too good and you’ve done too many private, unofficial investigations on your own over the years. I knew all that and I still took you on. And up until now you’ve been great—really and truly respectful and honoring of my position and authority. But this . . . and it doesn’t matter that Bay County may have gotten it wrong. Do you know how many innocent people are sitting in prisons all over the world right now because somebody got it wrong? You gonna investigate all those? As a Gulf County investigator? Maybe you need to be private like Merrill. Hell, maybe y’all need to work together to save the world. You’ll have some time to think about it . . . because you’ve left me no other choice but to suspend you. And damn you for doin’ that, ’cause you’re not just my best investigator, you’re my friend, and you’ve put me in a hell of a bad position.”

  “I’m truly sorry,” I say. “I certainly didn’t want to, and was trying not to.”

  “One week suspension without pay,” she says. “And this is how I want you to spend it—finish this damn case, ’cause I know you’re not about to stop workin’ on it now. But also spend it deciding if you want to be on this team or if you just want to play one on one. One on one is fun and easier and a better fit for certain types of personalities, but you can get a lot more done with a team. A lot more. You have more resources, more help, more everything. I don’t want to lose you. I hope you’ll decide to stay. I really do. But only if you intend to play team ball and listen to your coach, which, in this metaphor I’m beating to death, is me. Leave your gun and your badge and don’t use a single Gulf County Sheriff’s department resource while you’re on suspension. Don’t even say the name. Understand? And while you do that, the adults will continue keeping this place going, taking care of the citizens of this fine county and investigating the whereabouts of Daniel and looking out for each other. Bring me an answer in a week. Make sure you’re absolutely sure about it when you do.”

  36

  “I’m sorry,” I say to Anna.

  I have just told her what happened with Justice and Reggie and about getting suspended.

  We are sitting on an old church pew we sawed down to fit in our mud room, tal
king quietly so we don’t disturb Taylor or Sam, who are napping.

  “For what?”

  “Putting our family at risk,” I say. “I could’ve gotten fired. Still could. What if I had quit my job at the prison and then gotten suspended from the sheriff’s department?”

  “You didn’t,” she says. “You wouldn’t. You won’t. You have nothing to apologize for. For what? Trying to do something good for Ida? Trying to do right by an innocent man—a boy who was unjustly thrown into prison nearly twenty years ago? I’m all in on this too. Right beside you. Every step of the way. Don’t apologize and don’t stop. Finish this. What do you need?”

  I think about it for a moment.

  “You’re free,” she says. “You can do whatever you need to finish the investigation without worrying about any blowback on Reggie.”

  She’s right. I feel a lifting, a lightness—a freedom I haven’t felt in a while.

  “What will you do with all this newfound freedom?” she asks.

  “Start over,” I say, nodding slowly. “Go over everything again as if for the first time.”

  “Whatta you need?”

  “The case notes, a computer, and a quiet room.”

  “We’ve got all three,” she says, smiling at me in the way only she can.

  “Thank you.”

  “Just get in there and use this time and freedom like the gift it is. And take a nap while you’re at it.”

  On the rug on my library floor, the computer on one side, the case notes spread out on the other, I begin by doing a short breathing meditation, attempting to get back to beginner’s mind, to, as Rumi says, washing myself of myself, like melting snow.

  Start from the beginning. Re-examine everything. Question every assumption.

  Who’s lying? Who’s telling the truth? Forget everything but the actual evidence. What’s true? Is anything Justice said true? Anything at all? Is Qwon lying? Was he involved? Did he do it? Was Angel really killed and cremated? Is she even dead? What if she’s not? Where is she? Why would she fake her own death?

  I begin to read the case file, the notes, the witness statements, the interview transcripts.

  The truth is in here. Perceive it. The answers are in here. Listen.

  Before long I’m lying on the floor, the papers I was reading on my chest, my heavy eyes closing, my tired body and drowsy mind giving in, letting go, succumbing . . .

  When I wake later, I resume my reading, only this time with a much sharper mind, a much more open soul.

  Eventually, I put down the papers and just think about the case—about everything I’ve learned, heard, read.

  In a similar fashion to mindful mediation, I let the facts of the case float through my mind, trying not to stop the flow of any, just allowing them to come and go, come and go. I do this for a while, until two of them refuse to float on by, but instead cling—the disposal of Angel’s body and her car. Specifically the mileage log she kept, the miles the car traveled after her death.

  If I’m truly questioning everything, in a case without a body, I have to question whether Angel is even dead—something I’ve been doing this entire time, and do again now. As in the times when I’ve done it before, it leads me nowhere. There is no evidence that she’s still alive. None at all.

  If Angel is really dead, the second assumption I have to question is whether her remains were really cremated. Justice Witney has lied about so much—why not that? But if Angel’s body wasn’t cremated, where is it? Why hasn’t it been found by now?

  And that’s when it hits me. What if it has?

  How would her body have been found and we not know about it?

  Simple. If it hasn’t been identified, or if it has been wrongly identified.

  And that’s where Angel’s mileage log and the miles on her car after she disappeared come in.

  We had assumed that someone continued to use her car for the month or so between when she went missing and when it was discovered. But what if the car had been used just once for a longer trip instead of every day for shorter ones?

  As I find the case notes about Angel’s car, I call Kathryn.

  “What was Angel wearing the night she went missing?” I ask.

  She tells me then asks why.

  “Was she wearing any jewelry?”

  “A necklace that belonged to her grandmother—she never took it off—big hoop earrings and a ring with her birthstone in it. A moonstone. Why? Have you found her?”

  “Do you know if she had any distinguishing marks on her body?” I ask. “I could ask her parents or Qwon, but if you know, it’d be—”

  “She had a scar on the top of her left foot. It was from childhood. Can’t remember what happened. Just stands out because she wouldn’t wear sandals or flip-flops because she thought it was ugly. She had a birthmark that looked sort of like a shooting star on her right shoulder blade. She may have had others, that’s just what stands out at the moment. Did you find her or something?”

  “Just wanted the information in case I do.”

  “You think Justice lied about cremating her?” she asks.

  “I think he may have lied about everything,” I say. “By the way, we found him.”

  “What? You did?”

  “Talked to him for a little while but got interrupted. We’re keeping an eye on him and will talk to him again very soon.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “We’ll get together soon and I’ll let you know everything I have,” I say. “Let me finish running down what I’m working on right now. I’ll have Anna call you about coming over for dinner soon.”

  “Okay. Thanks. And thank you, John, for all you’re doing. I can’t tell you how much it means.”

  When I end the call, I look at the notes about Angel’s car and open the laptop.

  According to the notes Angel’s car had been driven nearly six hundred miles after she went missing.

  I bring up a map of Florida on the laptop and make a circle three hundred miles in every direction outward from the center of Panama City.

  If someone drove her car with her body in it and left her body somewhere and drove back, it couldn’t have been more than three hundred miles one way.

  Since Panama City is located on the Gulf of Mexico, there are only three directions a car can drive away from it—north, east, and west.

  I locate the cities around three hundred miles away in those directions—Biloxi, Mississippi to the west, Atlanta, Georgia to the north, and Jacksonville, Florida to the east—and start calling every jurisdiction from those cities back toward Panama City asking about unidentified late teen female victims with Angel’s identifiers.

  I start with my second home, Atlanta, and do one of the very things Reggie ordered me not to do—identify myself as a Gulf County sheriff’s investigator.

  After Atlanta, I call Biloxi, and then Jacksonville, figuring the outer limits of the six hundred mile round trip would be the safest, best place to begin.

  Each call takes a while, and all I get is an assurance that somebody will look into it and call me back. I make sure to give them my cellphone and not the office number, hoping this will never get back to Reggie or the department.

  37

  Anna and I are eating a late lunch together at the Corner Café, about to discuss possible wedding dates when the calls come.

  The first is from Atlanta—swing and a miss. The second from Biloxi is much the same—strike two. But Jacksonville is a solid hit—and may turn into a home run.

  The Jacksonville Sheriff’s department investigator who calls me back, Robert Van Pelt, is a thoughtful, soft-spoken older man.

  “I’ve been waiting for this call for eighteen years,” he says. “And you’re not going to believe this . . . but today is my last day on the job. You’ve given me the best retirement present anyone could.”

  “You’re giving me a gift too,” I say.

  Anna mouths Is it her?

  I nod.

  She pats my hand and mouth
s You’re a genius.

  I smile at her.

  “I’ve worried about that poor girl and her family for all these years,” Van Pelt is saying. “Can’t believe I finally . . . and on my last day with the force.”

  He sounds like he’s talking to himself so I just listen.

  “Knew she didn’t belong where she was found,” he says. “Clean girl like that.”

  “Where was she found?”

  “Old rundown hotel used mostly for prostitution,” he says. “We were called out to a lot of deaths, but only one to a girl who looked like this one—no sign of the toll that kind of life takes on them, no premature aging, no drug marks, no old wounds and excessive scars, had all her own teeth. This place was the worst of the worst—could rent a room by the week or the hour. Full of runaways, sex slaves, pimps and prostitutes, junkies, winos. This child didn’t belong there. No one does, but you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “What’s her name?” he asks.

  “The scars and birthmarks match?” I ask.

  “Yes they do,” he says. “And the necklace and hoop earrings. The moonstone ring was long gone and she’d been stripped naked, but everything else fits. We’ll have to get DNA or dental to be certain, but it’s her.”

  “Her name was Angel Diaz,” I say.

  “Angel Diaz,” he repeats in an airy, pensive voice. “And she’s from Panama City? I always wondered where she came from.”

  “Yes, sir. She was.”

  “Why didn’t y’all put her information out?” he asks. “Or check the databases. I input everything and I’ve been checking at least once a year all these years.”

  “Witness told the investigators the body had been cremated and they thought they had the guy who did it. Far as they were concerned, case was closed.”

  “Does this mean they got the wrong guy?”

  “It’s looking like it,” I say.

  “Do you know who did it or even exactly what happened to her?”

  “No, sir. Not yet. But I’m going to and I’ll let you know when I know, if you want me to.”