Redirection

by Gregory Ashe

  “Let’s start over,” Jadon said. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

  Tucker watched the detectives for a moment. His eyes were sharp. “Someone tried to kill me.”

  “Is that right?” Cerise asked.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” He must have heard something in the silence because his voice rose. “I did not try to commit suicide.”

  “We’re trying to figure out what happened.” Jadon wore a tired smile. He looked tired all around, Shaw realized. The lines by his eyes. The drooping corners of his mouth. The patch he’d missed shaving, just below his jawline. “You’re telling us, right? You tell it how it happened.”

  “Someone tried to kill me.” Tucker set his jaw. After a moment, when no one challenged him, he relaxed a little. “There was a knock at the door. I went to answer it. I saw the food. I picked it up and I looked around because I thought it was a mistake. The guy was driving off. I went inside; I had this idea I was going to call and tell someone the food got delivered to the wrong house, but when I found the order stapled to the side of the bag, I saw the message from North.” His eyes slid to Shaw, and then he blinked rapidly and looked away. “I thought—we had this awful day yesterday, and I thought maybe he wanted to patch things up. I ate a little. There was this margarita.” He gave a bitter laugh. “I drank it pretty fast. Then I didn’t feel like eating, but I tried to make myself because I figured I’d put that margarita down too quickly. Then I really didn’t feel good. I thought I’d made myself sick. I got upstairs, got into the bathroom, and…” He folded the blanket back and forth. “That’s it, I guess.”

  “You were home all night?” Cerise asked.

  He flashed a guilty look at Shaw. “Not all night.”

  “What does that mean?” Jadon asked, and his voice didn’t sound quite as tired anymore.

  “I went to talk to North and Shaw. We argued. North left. Shaw and I talked—”

  “Just for a few minutes,” Shaw put in.

  “—just for a few minutes,” another of those twitchy, vanishing smiles, “and I went home. The food showed up not long after that. Like I said, I figured North was apologizing.”

  “What about the delivery driver?” Cerise asked.

  Shaking his head, Tucker played with the blanket again. “All I saw was the car driving away. And I didn’t get the license plate. I didn’t even think about getting it.”

  “What kind of car?” Jadon asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a car guy,” Shaw said.

  “Not really. I mean, I like my car, but North’s more into cars than I am. It was a sedan. Dark.” Frustration crossed his face. “I honestly don’t know. I mean, it was already heading out of sight, and it wasn’t under a streetlight.”

  “Blue? Black? Gray?” Jadon’s voice was even.

  “Brown?” Shaw asked.

  “Yeah, maybe. I mean, any of those. God, I’m such an idiot. I should have known North wasn’t apologizing.”

  “Have you had anything strange happen lately?” Cerise asked. “Phone calls? People around the house?”

  “Anything strange?” This time, the jittery grin looked manic. “Like being framed for murder? Like having someone turn my life upside down?”

  “Anything specific you’ve noticed.”

  “No. No, I’ve been too busy being drugged and thrown in jail and treated like a killer to notice anything else.”

  “Mr. Laguerre,” Jadon said, “we’ll need to take a look around your house, collect the remains of the meal, see if we can figure out what happened.”

  “Like if you find a vial of pills in my trash to prove this was a suicide attempt? No, thanks. I don’t want you poking around my house again. I haven’t even cleaned up from your last visit.”

  “If we need to, we’ll get a warrant. Based on what you’re telling us, this sounds like attempted murder. That’s a crime, and if we need the court to authorize a search so that we can start building a case against the killer, we will. But I hope you’ll see that this is in your best interest too. If someone wants you dead, I don’t think they’ll stop after one attempt.”

  Abruptly, Tucker tossed down the fold of blanket. He smoothed it with one hand. Then, looking up, he asked in a quiet voice, “What do you think, Shaw?”

  “I think you can trust Jadon and Cerise to do their jobs. They want to find out what’s going on like we do.”

  “So you don’t believe me either.”

  “No, I think I do.” Shaw hadn’t known he did; that conclusion had been swimming in the dark waters of his subconscious. “But this is about more than belief. This is about proof.”

  After a moment, Tucker nodded. “Can you spare me on the fingerprint powder? Nobody went inside.”

  “We’ll try,” Cerise said; the words sounded like the promise from a cable company.

  Tucker gave an unhappy laugh and nodded.

  The curtain jangled on its rings as North pushed his way into the treatment room, his cheeks flushed. “Your parents are on their way.”

  “Oh God. My mom’s going to need a fresh scrip of Valium. That was a joke. That was totally a joke.” He eyed North. “Damn, Mick. What happened to you?”

  “You’re not too pretty yourself, you know.”

  “Yeah, but I almost got murdered. What’s your excuse?”

  The curtain rings scraped along the rod again, and a short, dark-skinned woman stepped into the room. Her hair was in a neat bun, and she had a killer manicure—turquoise polish with tiny rhinestones lining the cuticle. The tag on her white coat said Khatri. She offered her name—in case any of them couldn’t read, said a voice in Shaw’s head that sounded a lot like North—and then examined Tucker’s chart.

  “You’re doing remarkably well for a man who’s had near-lethal doses of benzodiazepines twice in the last week.”

  “It was the same drug?” North asked.

  “A preliminary test shows flunitrazepam, yes. I understand that this is not from recreational use, so I’ll skip my usual lecture. Most of the drug had worked its way out of Mr. Laguerre’s system by the time he was found. We’ve given him a saline solution to help rehydrate him, and his breathing and heart rate are within normal ranges. Frankly, there’s not much more we can do for him, but I’d like—”

  “I want to go home,” Tucker said.

  “Be quiet,” North said. “Nobody cares what you want. Go on, Doctor.”

  “If there’s nothing more you can do, I want to go home. I’m just tired.” Tucker tried for a smile that didn’t land. “I didn’t sleep well last night, believe it or not.”

  “I was going to say,” Dr. Khatri said, “that we’d like to keep you overnight, Mr. Laguerre. Benzodiazepines affect your body in a lot of ways, and while our primary concern is depressed breathing—”

  “That’s the only kind of breathing I’ve been doing lately.”

  North shot him a furious, shut-the-fuck-up glare. Shaw touched North’s arm, and North took a deep breath.

  “—we’d still like to keep you for observation.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “Tucker, be quiet.”

  “I want to go home. If I’m fine, I’m going home.”

  The doctor was frowning. “I can’t make you stay, but I’ve told you my recommendation.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But I want to go home.”

  “He’s staying,” North said to the doctor.”

  “No, North—”

  “Give us a minute. He’s staying; just give us a few minutes.”

  Dr. Khatri’s face said she had plenty of better things to do. She returned the chart, excused herself, and promised to be back in a few minutes.

  As the curtain swung back into place behind her, North rounded on Tucker. “Are you out of your fucking mind? You’re staying here tonight. That’s final.”

  “No, I’m not. I spent the weeke
nd in jail. My home is a wreck. I got drugged and passed out on the bathroom floor. I’m not sleeping here, with the lights and the people and the smell. I’m going home to my bed. I’m sleeping in my bed, North!”

  “Great. Put yourself right back where the killer tried to get you last time. That’s smart, Tucker.”

  “I’m sure you’re very concerned.”

  “What the fuck does that mean? I’m the one telling you to stay—”

  “This is a hospital,” Cerise snapped, although her volume was barely more than a whisper. “North, if you can’t put a handle on it, take yourself outside.”

  “Mr. Laguerre, I know you’re not going to like hearing this,” Jadon shrugged, “but we’re going to be at your house tonight. We’ll need to process the scene. It’s already been almost a full day since someone made this attempt; we can’t sit around and wait.”

  “There,” North gestured viciously. “It’s settled.”

  “Then I’ll stay at a hotel,” Tucker said.

  “You’ll stay at a hotel?” North snapped his fingers in Tucker’s face. “Are you still roofied? Is your brain even working?”

  “Maybe your parents—” Shaw began.

  “No,” Tucker said. Then, softening his voice, he looked at Shaw. “I’m not putting them in danger.”

  “But you’ll sleep in a hotel,” North said.

  “It’s not any of your business, Mickey. I can sleep wherever I want to sleep.”

  North was silent for a moment. A tremor rippled in his jaw. “Remember the last time you went to a motel? Remember how well that worked out for you?”

  “He can stay with me,” Shaw said.

  “Stay the fuck out of this,” North snapped.

  “No, Shaw, I couldn’t—” Tucker tried.

  “He’s an important person in this case. My parents have an excellent security system. He needs someone who can keep an eye on him tonight, at least. It’s one night, North.”

  North spun and left. On his way out, he got tangled in the curtain, and for a moment, the only noise in the treatment room was the rings tinkling against the hang rod. Then North let out a savage breath, yanked the curtain out of his way, and disappeared down the hall.

  Chapter 19

  THE NIGHT SEEMED LIKE it wouldn’t end. North had to drive Tucker and Shaw to Shaw’s place. And then he had to check the house, every door, every window, every room, his nerves drawing tighter and tighter, tuned to a note that was just shy of snapping. And then he had to help Tucker up the stairs because Tucker felt wobbly. And then he had to stand in Shaw’s room, the poster-sized versions of the Vampire Diaries boys staring down at him, while Shaw went on and on. The words became white noise, a hiss, the way all the sounds of a job site—the trucks, the jackhammers, the nail guns, the compressors—got pushed to the back, and you didn’t even think about them anymore.

  He drove home. Pari had left a note saying the puppy was staying with her, and North told himself that was good because he was tired, but the house was too quiet. He showered. He slept. He woke, saw that it was seven, and slept again. Next time, it was nine, and he felt like he could see straight again, like the world was all clean lines and right angles, instead of the nightmare morass that he kept sinking into. He showered again. As he dressed, a clean gray tee and a fresh pair of jeans, he sent Shaw a text.

  By ten, he was parked in front of the Aldrichs’ home, and Shaw was getting into the car.

  “How are you?” Shaw asked.

  North studied the house, watching for any sign of Tucker.

  “Stop making that face,” Shaw said.

  North wrenched his gaze to the street. He rolled his eyes and shifted into drive.

  “Are you feeling any better?” Shaw asked.

  He was wearing a gray t-shirt that said GLADYS THE GROOVY MULE, and it showed a mule kicking a pencil-necked accountant right out of his sweater vest. Drawstring shorts and navy espadrilles rounded out the Shaw Aldrich collection that day. His legs were long and smooth and bronzed from summer. The inside of his thigh, where the drawstring shorts rode up, was white. The next time Shaw looked out the window, North adjusted himself.

  “North?”

  “Did he sneak into your room last night?”

  “What? No. Well, I mean, I slept in a chair in the guest room, actually, because I had to keep checking on him.”

  “Did he try to tup you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Did he want you to save him with your magic peen?”

  “Come on, North.”

  “Why not? We’re not together. You’re a free man. Do whatever you want. Take him back to your house. Play crotch jockeys. Doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “You know what? You always want to play the no-talking game. Let’s play that for a while.”

  What North didn’t understand, what scared him so badly that it was safer to be angry, was that he knew he was hurting Shaw and couldn’t seem to stop. “Did you at least get anything useful out of him before you two went to pound town?”

  “Yeah, I did.” Shaw’s color was high, and he turned quickly in the seat to face North. “He said the fight in that video, the recording we found, was about a three-way. He said he was angry because Rik had arranged for them to spend the night together, and then he walked in and a stranger was going down on Rik. That’s what the fight was about.”

  “He says.”

  “And I asked him about the subject line, ‘Blast from the past?’ and he had no idea what it might mean. He says he already told us everything he knows about why people might be mad at Rik. It’s all about recent stuff. ‘Blast from the past?’ didn’t mean anything to him, and he can’t remember anything from college that might explain why someone wanted to kill Rik.”

  “Except for the cheating. When he and Jean were separated. That’s a motive for Jean, as far as I’m concerned. And it makes a kind of sense with the video—someone walking in on Rik having an affair. That’s the blast from the past. Maybe she walked in on Rik back then, and when he started stepping out again, she decided she couldn’t put up with it anymore. After she killed him, she was so messed up that she OD’d. Accidentally or on purpose, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Maybe. It would fit with destroying the divorce papers. But she’s in a coma, so unless we find something incriminating, like video footage of the murder, we’re not going to get far in proving that she was behind all of this.”

  “There’s someone else we know who also had a major conflict with Rik in the past.”

  Shaw grimaced. “Will.”

  They drove to Ladue, to the house with the French country blue shutters and a teardrop driveway. The garage door was down. This time, North parked in the driveway instead of finding a place to wait and watch. He made his way to the door, Shaw trailing him, and knocked. Down the street, a young black guy—too young for the passel of kids he was supervising—was promising something called the Flying Spider as he loaded the rug rats into a minivan. North knocked again. The minivan started up, and the manny, or whatever he was, drove slowly to the intersection. Even with the van’s windows up, North could hear the kids screaming with what he hoped was excitement. He knocked a third time, and the door flew open.

  Will stood there. He wore only a pair of sheer modal trunks, barely long enough to pass his balls. He had some serious equipment going on down there, if the outline was to be believed. He also had killer abs and great shoulders. The glower on his face transformed into something else, amusement maybe, and North felt himself balancing on a knife’s edge between a blush and a smirk. He fell on the side of a smirk.

  “Late night?”

  “Come back later,” Will said with a mock frown. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “Close to eleven. Wake up your piece of ass and call them an Uber. We need to talk.”

  Shaking his head, Will said, “You guys are a serious pain in my neck.” But he backed up, and North
and Shaw trooped inside. The air conditioning froze the sweat on the back of North’s neck. The smell of something sweet and carbs-rich made his stomach grumble. Will was already leading the way to the kitchen. “Come on; I’m making pancakes.”

  North’s stomach made another noise. A very interested noise.

  “North, no,” Shaw whispered, clutching his sleeve.

  North tore himself free and headed after Will.

  “Maple syrup extraction is basically a sex crime. There’s all that penetrating and squirting and—North, slow down, I can’t walk that fast in these shoes.”

  In the kitchen, Will was pulling down plates. He set them on the island and returned to the stove, where a cast-iron griddle occupied two burners. He flipped the pancakes. Over his shoulder, he said, “Maple syrup is in the pantry. Warm it up, would you?”

  “Oh no,” Shaw said, “I was telling North the other day about the sexual politics of Big Maple, and—”

  “Powdered sugar?” North said. “And butter?”

  “Well.” The hesitation on Shaw’s face was painful. “If he already made the pancakes.”

  “You know he did.”

  “And they’d go to waste if we didn’t eat them.”

  “You know they will.”

  “And there are starving children all over the world. Did you know that? Not only in Africa, although people always say, ‘There are starving children in Africa,’ but right here in St. Louis—”

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “Yes,” Shaw blurted. Then, with an attempt at dignity, “On ethical grounds.”

  Will chuckled to himself as he collected the pancakes from the griddle.

  As they were settling down around the island, North and Shaw on stools, Will standing on the other side, North said, “You’re not going to wake up the lucky gal? Or the lucky guy?”

  The look on Will’s face wasn’t a smile. It was wry, self-mocking, and it was both a challenge and an invitation. He ate another bite of pancake. His lips were soft pink and closed gently around the fork. Only after he’d swallowed did he say, “Just me. Sorry for the disappointment.”