If I Live

by Terri Blackstock

  “Yeah, Sergeant Mintz. A hated man. Had so many persons of interest I thought we’d never get to the bottom of it. Every member of his unit had said they wanted to kill him at some point.”

  “So how did you track all the evidence on each of the guys with motive?”

  I think back and recall the large whiteboards lined up on each wall of our office. “We had a different board for each person of interest, with everything we gathered about each one. Lines connecting, overlaps. Issues they’d had with him. That case was tough because we knew the kind of poison that was used to kill him, but being in a foreign country, we couldn’t get cooperation from business owners where the poison might have been bought. We even found the place we thought they probably got it, and they had security footage, but for a while we couldn’t get even that.”

  “But you did get it, right? Eventually?”

  “Finally, we did. Then the guy who we thought the video showed buying it wound up having an alibi. He was on a mission when the murder happened.” I walk to the longest wall in my apartment and envision setting up whiteboards in here. “It helped that it was all up there on the boards, and we could figure out which soldiers were tight, which ones might have teamed up to pull this off, which ones had an integrity deficit and might be drawn to others like them.”

  “Right,” Dex says. “I remember. Turned out there were two guys who had sociopathic tendencies.”

  “Yeah. There had been complaints from some of the others that they had shown unnecessary cruelty on some of their missions. We started tracking them and found out they were getting heroin from a local dealer. We searched their bunks and found some residue of the poison. We got both of them.”

  “And they were court-martialed?”

  “You bet they were. They’re still serving life sentences.”

  “So why don’t you have any whiteboards, man?”

  I sigh and drop down next to him on the couch. “I’ve thought of that, but I can’t have any of this out in plain sight. What if Keegan or Rollins drops by? I wouldn’t be able to hide it. The apartment’s not big enough. And if, God forbid, they figure out what I’m doing, they could raid the place and find the evidence easily.”

  “What if you made it something you could roll up? Only pull it out when you’re working on it? Like rolls of paper?”

  I stare at the wall again, trying to imagine if that could work. Actually, it could. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “You could take pictures of it too, send them to Casey so she could study it. It might help both of you figure out what else you need to get this over the finish line and get her name cleared.”

  I nod. I feel like I’m working handicapped, since most of what I’d normally do in an investigation can’t be done.

  “So how is her shoulder?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know. She isn’t taking calls.”

  “Hey, I did the best I could, but it’s not my best work.”

  “You did great.”

  Dex pushes up from the couch with his good hand, and points to me with his hook. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “To Office Depot. We’ll find something that can work. You need your tools, dude. You gotta get this done.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  We go to the office supply store and peruse the supplies I might be able to use for my board. I drop some rolls of white paper into my cart. Then I grab some different-colored markers.

  Dex limps up to me as I’m checking out. “That gonna work?”

  “Yeah. I can keep the papers rolled up when I’m not using them.”

  Dex grins. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so excited about office supplies, Pretty Boy.”

  He’s right. I can’t wait to get them home.

  Back in my apartment, I unroll the white paper in rows and tape them to my wall. When I’m done, my whole wall is covered with one massive worksheet. When I finish working on it each day, I can roll it up and take it with me, hidden in the trunk of my car, then quickly put it back up the next time I need to see it. Dex is a genius.

  I get to work with my notes and all the evidence we’ve found, all the people we’ve compiled evidence against, all those who’ve served as witnesses. I think better of putting up the names of Alvin Rossi and Gus Marlowe, who have been hiding from Keegan’s group, and instead I put the names of the cities where the retired cops are living now—Jackson and GR for Grand Rapids. If Keegan ever discovers my makeshift whiteboards, I don’t want them to be at risk.

  I work all day after Dex leaves, and into the night, making lists and connecting dots, circling overlaps. I print out pictures and Scotch tape them to the paper where I need them.

  Yes, it does give me a much clearer picture. I take snapshots of the wall and e-mail them to Casey. Then I turn my couch and coffee table to face that wall, and I sit there with my feet up and my hands behind my head, staring, my gaze darting from one clue to another.

  We need a smoking gun linking Keegan and Rollins to one of the murders. I look at the names of three people who have been murdered—Andy Cox, Brent Pace, Sara Meadows, at least. There has to be something somewhere. Until I find that, I can’t be assured that Keegan and Rollins will pay for those murders. They’ll only be charged with extortion and money laundering, and they may even skate on those. That’s just not enough.

  Armed with renewed purpose, I get to work, wedging my mind through the cracks that I see opening. Casey is depending on me. I will find something. I have to.

  But later that night, as I dip in and out of sleep—in that limbo where memories lie in wait like more IEDs—my mind reminds me why I will fail.

  A phone rings in some other place . . . my childhood home, which looks like a war zone.

  What has my mother done now?

  I take the call and throw on my clothes and then head out to help her since she said it was an emergency.

  Wishing I had at least brought along a cup of coffee, I drive toward where she waits.

  It’s always an emergency. I survived two IED explosions when most of my buddies came home in body bags, but my mother’s dramas are the dominant forces in my days.

  I turn a corner and see her. She’s driven her car into a ditch, and she’s staggering along the road in front of it, ranting on her phone. There’s a parking lot on the other side of the ditch, so I slow until I see the entrance and turn in. I park behind her ditched car, and her yelling into the phone continues as I get out of the car.

  “Mom!” I say, but she doesn’t hear me. “Mom!” I shout.

  She swings around, dropping her phone. She curses and goes after it, stepping into mud. “What took you so long?”

  “Are you hurt?” I ask.

  “Do I look hurt? Just help me get the car out so I can go home.”

  I stand on the other side of the ditch from her, looking helplessly at her car. The front end is smashed, the hood looks like it’s been folded in half. “It’s not drivable. We have to get a tow truck.” I look around. “Did you call the police? Was there another car involved?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, as vague as ever. “I’ll get in and you try shoving it from behind while I gun it.”

  I go back to the parking lot entrance and cross to her side of the ditch. She’s standing partially in the road. People are swerving into the other lane to keep from hitting her. “Mom, step onto the grass. Come on.”

  She wipes the mud from her phone onto her baggy jeans leg, then tries to make another call.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Your father!” she shouts, as if I’m the one who’s the problem here. “But he’s probably still passed out and won’t answer. He could get me out.”

  “Mom, nobody can get you out of here, least of all Dad. I’m calling a tow truck.”

  Her breath reeks as she leans toward me and screams, “I need that car, Dylan! Get it out of that ditch now! I don’t have money for a tow truck!”

  “Mom, lower your voice.”r />
  “If you’d get up out of that bed now and then and get a job I might have cash for a tow truck, but no, you got the PTSD and can’t do nothing, and I’m left holding the bag! No wonder they kicked you outta the army.”

  My jaw tightens, and I feel myself going rigid. Instant, white-hot rage. “I didn’t get kicked out. I was honorably discharged.”

  “Because you were a mental case!”

  “I’m not the one who just drove my car into a ditch,” I bite out. “Mom, go sit in my car and I’ll take care of this.”

  “Don’t you call the police!” she says. “I’m warning you, don’t do it!”

  I figure there’s no reason to call them since no one else was involved, so I watch her wobble to my car and finally get in on the driver’s side . . . like I would ever consider letting her drive me home after this.

  I do a quick Google search on my phone and find the name of a tow truck company. I call them and they tell me they’ll head this way.

  My mother has fallen asleep, her head against my headrest, her mouth hanging open. I’m going to have to wake her up to move her to the passenger seat, which I dread. She’ll scream at me all the way home.

  I lean back against my fender, waiting for the tow truck as her voice echoes through my brain. Mental case . . . kicked you out . . .

  The heaviness in my chest jolts me up, and I gasp for breath. I’m drenched with sweat. But relief eases through me as I orient back into my own place, where her drunken mantras can’t reach me.

  I’m not a mental case.

  I’m not going to fail.

  I’m also not alone. God is on the case with me, fighting this battle. As I cling to the image of his sword slashing the evil around me—and around Casey—I fall back to sleep and, this time, dream of victory.

  5

  DYLAN

  My alternate burner phone rings as I stare at my evidence board. I click it on. “Hey, man.”

  “Dude,” Dex says. “I was just reading the newspaper online, and you know how they update during the day when they have a new story?”

  “I guess,” I say, though I rarely go to the site to read the news online. I’m pretty much a paper kind of guy.

  “So they just put up a story about a guy they found murdered in town this morning. A German guy who owns a dry cleaners. Turns out he’s one of the business owners I saw Keegan talking to when I was following him.”

  I’m quiet for a moment, trying to absorb what he’s saying. “One of the guys you thought was an extortion victim?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I didn’t hear what they were saying, but I saw him go in and talk to the owner. I watched through the window. I saw the owner give him an envelope, and I could tell it was cash because Keegan seemed to be counting it. He was just one of many, but I remember him. Now he’s dead.”

  I get up from my perch on the arm of my couch. “Okay, good catch,” I say. “This could be something.”

  “They said he was found like three hours ago.”

  “Body could still be at the crime scene. I want to go see if I can get in.”

  “What if the dynamic duo are assigned to that case?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You want me to tail them some more?”

  I think about that for a moment. “I don’t know. They’ll probably be hypervigilant today, looking over their shoulders. Maybe today’s not the best day. Let me get back to you.”

  “All right. You know how to find me,” he says.

  I thank Dex and hang up, then I pace my floor, trying to think. I open my laptop and go to that online newspaper site and find the guy’s picture. I print it out and stick it to the paper on my wall, write “Extortion Victim.” I go to the stack on my kitchen table and look through it for the report Dex gave me about the people he thought might be extortion victims Keegan contacted on the days Dex was tailing him. I scan down the list and find the man who was just killed. I get the address of his business. “Good work, Dex,” I whisper, then grab my keys and head out.

  The police cars are still there when I get to the site, and the property is taped off, along with the street in front of the building. I park curbside as close to the crime scene as I can get and look at the surrounding businesses. There’s a sandwich shop across the street, a liquor store next to it. Next to the dry cleaners is an alteration shop.

  There’s a camera outside the sandwich shop that might have security video. I wouldn’t be able to get it, since I have no official connection to this case, but there are other ways to get information.

  I walk along the crime scene tape, then cross through the rubbernecking traffic to the sandwich shop. I go inside. It’s crowded with reporters sitting by the window, watching the activity across the street. There are no empty tables.

  I walk to the counter and check out the employees. There’s an older man who looks to be in a sour mood, but he has an air of gravitas, so I go to his end of the counter and lean over. “Excuse me,” I say. “You the owner?”

  “Yes,” he says. “The line is over there.”

  “No, I just need to ask you a few questions.”

  I show him my police credentials, and he comes closer. “I’ve already talked to the police. I don’t know anything. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “I’m not police,” I say, realizing that if he’s one of the extortion victims, he could have a sharp distrust of cops. “I’m a PI. I’m working with police on a related case, and I wondered if you could tell me if anyone has pulled the security video from your camera outside.”

  “Yes, they got it,” he says.

  “Could you tell me if it showed anything? What time Mr. Brauer got to work this morning? Anyone who might have gone there before it opened?”

  He looks from side to side, then shakes his head. “I didn’t look at it. I don’t know what they got.”

  I don’t really believe him. “What time did they take it?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “So he was found at seven thirty this morning. You’re open for breakfast, right? So you saw the activity and didn’t think about checking your video?”

  He’s sweating now, and he looks scared. “I didn’t think about it. Do you want to order something or not?”

  “Can you at least tell me what time Mr. Brauer usually comes to work?”

  “He gets there around six thirty every morning. Opens at seven.”

  “Did you see anyone going in there before he opened?”

  “No, I didn’t see anything.”

  “Did anyone come in here for breakfast who might have been over there?”

  “No, no one.”

  This man is irritating me. “You’re sure of that? You know for a fact that no one who came in here had anything to do with him? How would you know that?”

  “I know my customers.”

  I’m not going to get anything out of him. He must be afraid I’m one of Keegan’s henchmen and that if he reveals anything, it will result in his death too.

  “I’m busy,” he says. “Have a nice day.” He disappears to the back.

  I sigh and look around, hoping another employee might talk to me. I get in line and wait my turn. When I get to the front, I order a club sandwich. As I’m paying, I ask the girl, “So what’s going on over there?”

  She looks around, as if making sure her boss doesn’t hear her. “The owner of that dry cleaners was murdered,” she whispers. “Employees found him when they came in.” She leans toward me. “Shot. Scares me to death. I came in early this morning too. It could have been me.”

  “Was he shot inside or outside?”

  “Inside. They found him in his office. Execution style, is what I hear. He was a nice man too. Came in here for lunch every day. His poor wife.”

  “Has she been here since he was found?”

  “Yes, the police notified her and brought her down. It was horrible. I could hear her screaming all the way over here.”

  The wife. I have to talk to the wife. She would
know if he’d been threatened. If she knows about the extortion, then maybe she’d be willing to help me.

  “I’m scared to work here now,” she whispers. “What if the killer comes back?”

  She flits off to prepare my order, and I stand there with my back to the counter, looking through the plate glass to the cleaners across the street. When she brings me my bag, I take it and go out to the crime scene tape, where media people are clustered. I scan the uniformed officers, looking for someone I know. Finally I see a guy I went to school with. I didn’t even know he was a cop. I walk the perimeter of the tape.

  “Banks,” I say.

  He turns, sees me, and laughs out loud as he reaches for my hand. “Dylan! Great to see you, man.”

  “You too. You in a uniform. Who would’ve thought?”

  “I know, right? I heard you were in the FBI or something.”

  “The military version,” I say. “Army CID. But I’m out now. Discharged last year. I’m contracted to help the department on a case right now.”

  “Working solo, huh? Sounds nice.”

  “Can be. Were you the first responder on this case?”

  “No, I didn’t get here until later.” He lowers his voice. “Owner shot in the head, probably with a .38.”

  Keegan would carry a .38, like most cops. But he wouldn’t have used his department-issued weapon.

  “Any shell casings found?”

  “Not to my knowledge, but the CSIs are still working and I don’t know what they’ve got. I haven’t been inside.”

  “Does his family have any idea who did this?”

  “No, his wife was out-of-her-mind upset. Brutal.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Someone took her home.”

  I look around at all the activity. “Who are the detectives assigned to the case?” I ask him.

  “Stamps and Logan.”

  I think about that for a moment. Keegan would have manipulated the evidence to keep them from figuring out it was him . . . “So has Keegan been by? Rollins?”

  “Yeah, some of the other detectives have come by. Curiosity, I guess.”

  Boom. So Keegan made sure that any hair follicles, any sweat, any prints they found of his had a reason to be here.