He looks around the room. “I’m…kinda working right now.”
“I know. You have the Khourys, right?”
“Yeah.” He looks at Meadow. “And a guest.”
“Short pink hair? Full of opinions? Likes to get in everyone’s business?”
Keller has to chuckle. “That’s the one.”
“That’s Meadow. Not her real name, but whatever. Go easy on her. She’s a good kid, and she’s Ben’s best friend.” She pauses. “I really need you to get Francis, Jack.”
“I know.” He looks at the clock. “Three o’clock, right?”
“Plenty of time for you to figure something out.”
“Right.” His voice softens. “You okay?”
“Yeah. This sucks, but what are you gonna do?”
“What you’ve got to do. See you later?”
“Yeah. See you later.”
Keller breaks the connection.
“How’s Ben?” Meadow asks.
Keller looks at her. She may be annoying, but Marie says she’s Ben’s best friend, and there’s no denying the concern in her eyes. “He’s under arrest right now. But his mom’s with him.” He looks over at Alia, standing wide eyed with her hand over her mouth. It occurs to him that “under arrest” are truly terrifying words where she’s from. “He’s going to be okay,” he says. “Really.” He only wishes he believes it. “Look,” he says, “I need to go pick up Frank at school. Marie’s going to be there for a while. You guys will need to come with me.”
Alia frowns. “Will there be room in the truck?”
“I guess we’ll have to make room,” Keller says.
SIXTY-FIVE
The conference room is tiny, and there are banker’s boxes of files from an upcoming drug-murder trial stacked along the wall, but it’s got the privacy Gray asked for. They’d initially led her to one of the empty interrogation rooms, but she’d taken one look at the camera high in the corner of the room and shaken her head. Fletcher had given in to her air of authority and the weight provided by the organization on the card.
Homeland Security. Even seventeen years after the terrorist attacks on New York and Washington, it’s a name to take seriously. And if the case of that burned body in that vehicle has a terrorist angle, everyone’s life is about to get a lot more complicated.
“So, ma’am,” Fletcher says as they take their seats. “You were asking about unsolved homicides of people not from here. As it happens, we do have one.”
She nods. “White male? Approximately thirty-five years old?”
“Hard to tell, ma’am. The body was badly burned. We think an accelerant may have been used.”
For the first time, the woman shows emotion. She closes her eyes as if in pain. It only lasts a moment before she opens them again and her face regains the bland mask she’s been wearing since she came in.
“If it’s any consolation,” Cameron says, “we believe he was dead when the body was burned.”
“Slight consolation,” she says. Fletcher can’t tell what emotion, if any, truly lies behind the words. She sighs. “In any case, I believe he may have been an agent of ours. Someone working under me. Before he lost contact, he was working here under the name of Ted Wilson.”
“And now this Wilson’s disappeared.”
“Yes.” She takes a piece of paper out of her handbag and pushes it across the table. “These are people who had contact with Mr. Wilson. Before his disappearance. One in particular seemed to have had a strong disagreement with him. The person who witnessed it is the first name on the paper.”
Fletcher picks it up. “I know her. She’s a waitress at Webster’s diner.”
Gray nods. “This person later showed up at Wilson’s hotel, asking after him. The second name was the employee who talked to him.”
Fletcher turns to Cameron. “Reggie Allgood.”
Cameron nods. It’s a familiar name to the both of them. The sketchy little hotel’s had its share of crimes, mostly drugs and prostitution, and Reggie’s usually the one reporting them. “And the third name, I suppose, is our suspect.” He squints slightly as he reads the name. “Jack Keller.”
SIXTY-SIX
“So where’s the parent?” the gray-haired magistrate asks from behind his plate-glass window.
Marie realizes that since she’s still wearing her SRO shirt, he thinks she’s one of the charging officers. “I’m his mother.”
“Huh.” The magistrate turns to the young deputy on the other side of Ben. “Deputy Childress, anything you want to tell me about this?”
Childress shakes his head. “No, sir. Gun’s been confiscated, and they just lifted the lockdown. I don’t have any problem with releasing the young man to his mother.”
“Thank you,” Marie says to him in a low voice. The magistrate peers at Ben through his thick glasses, then shakes his head. “I don’t know. Bringing a gun to school’s pretty dangerous. He oughta know better, especially with his mother bein’ an SRO and all.”
Marie keeps her voice level. “I can assure you, Your Honor, this isn’t going to happen again. Is it, Ben?”
Ben looks down, his shoulders tensing, and Marie’s afraid he’s going to say something stupid. But he looks back up and simply says, “No, sir. I made a mistake. I’d like to go home now.”
“What about the boy’s father?”
Marie feels a flash of irritation. If Ben had been standing there with his father, would the man be asked if mother was at home? “He’s passed away, sir.”
The magistrate doesn’t answer right away. Marie realizes he’s stretching the moment out, trying to scare Ben. She’s seen it dozens of times in her law enforcement career, someone standing beside her, facing an official who had the power to change their lives and who’s toying with them, just for the joy of watching them sweat. She’s never had a problem with it before. They’re just defendants, after all. If they didn’t have it coming, she never would have arrested them. Now it’s her son standing at that line painted on the concrete floor of the booking room, and she’s seeing things in a new light.
“Okay,” the magistrate says, and bends to start hunting and pecking on his keyboard. “Custody release to a parent or other responsible adult. Court date’s May twenty-ninth for first appearance.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Marie says.
The paperwork done, Childress walks them out of booking and to the street. She turns to him. “Thanks for the help in there.”
He smiles. “Not a problem. Call it professional courtesy.” His face turns serious. “We got the word on someone taking a shot at you and your family. I want you to know we’re beating the bushes for this Ochs guy. We can’t let that kind of shit—sorry, that kind of stuff slide.” He looks at Ben. “Doesn’t mean you can go after him yourself, understand. We can’t let that slide, either.”
Ben nods, looking down. “No, sir.”
Childress smiles. “Not that I might not do exactly the same thing if someone took a shot at my mama.” He pats Ben on the shoulder. “But let us handle it, okay, buddy?”
Ben nods again. He doesn’t speak or look up.
Childress looks annoyed at the lack of response for a moment, then smiles at Marie. “You have a good day, Officer.”
She nods. “You, too.” She turns to her son. “Come on, Ben.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
There are a lot of things Ben Jones expects on the ride home. Silence isn’t one of them. It hurts more than screaming. When they arrive back at his house, his mother gets out, goes to the trunk, and gets out his backpack—minus, of course, the pistol inside. She hands it to him without a word.
“Mom,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”
Her face is like stone. “Go inside. Go to your room. And if you have any other weapons in there, I’d really like it if you brought them to me.”
“I don’t,” he says. “I swear it.” The safety razor blade he keeps in the bottom
of his father’s old shaving kit under the bathroom sink isn’t a weapon. Not exactly. More like his final escape hatch. His mother looks as if she’s about to say something else, but at that moment, a large black pickup truck pulls into the drive. Ben frowns as he sees Jack Keller behind the wheel. But the frown vanishes as the door opens and his little brother squirms out from behind the driver’s seat. Francis runs toward him, his backpack falling to the ground behind him, and Ben stoops to receive the smaller boy into his arms. “Hey, buddy.”
“I heard you were in trouble,” Francis mumbles into his shoulder. “I was worried.”
“I’m fine, Frank,” Ben says. “It’s okay.” He straightens up and sees Meadow standing a few feet away, arms folded across her chest, her eyes wide and filled with tears. He knows he should be furious at her for turning him in. He should have something cutting to say. But at that moment, he needs his best friend. “Hey,” he says.
That’s all it takes. She rushes to him, arms wide, and embraces him. Francis, momentarily crushed between them, squeaks in protest. Meadow breaks the hug and steps back, her hands still on his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Ben. I really am. I just didn’t want you to do something stupid.”
“I know.” All of the anger, the righteous desire for vengeance, seems to drain away like an outgoing tide. “It’s okay.” He holds out his arms, and this time, Francis has time to duck out of the way before they hug. Neither of them notices Alia Khoury, who’s gotten out of the truck and is standing a few feet away, hands at her sides, looking down at the pavement.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Jack Keller, however, does notice. He steps over to Alia. “Come on. This is a family thing. Let’s get you home.” Without speaking, the girl turns and walks back toward the truck, shoulders slumped. Keller looks over at Marie. “Can she stay with you?” He jerks his chin at Meadow, who’s still engaged in intense conversation with Ben.
Marie nods. Francis is already wrapped around her legs, seeking comfort.
“I’ll call you later,” Keller says, and walks to his truck. Alia’s inside, looking out the passenger window.
Bassim is in the backseat, trying to offer encouragement, and exhibiting more loyalty than comfort. “To hell with that guy,” he’s saying. “He’s not worth it.”
“Bassim,” she says wearily. “Please shut up.”
For once, the boy takes direction.
They drive back toward the Khoury house in silence. When they pull into the driveway, there’s a vehicle parked there, an unmarked SUV with windows tinted darker than allowed for civilians. The two men slouching against the car aren’t dressed in any kind of uniform, but from the cheap suits and the way they look at him as he pulls up, they can’t be anything but cops. He looks more closely at the SUV. He can just make out the sheriff’s department logo and decals that blend into the dark paint job. He’s heard about these ghost cars that law enforcement has been using more and more, but this is the first one he’s seen.
“Jack.” Alia’s leaning forward to see out the front. “Who are those men?”
“Police,” Keller replies. “Go on in the house. I’ll deal with this.”
SIXTY-NINE
“This the place?” Tench is behind the wheel again, Waller in the seat beside him with the binoculars. They’re cruising slowly by the little stone house across the field from an old church.
“Records check says it is.” Waller gives the place a quick once-over as Tench drives by, then speeds up. “Doesn’t look like there’s anyone home.”
“So how do we handle this?” Tench says. “Lay up and wait for this Keller to get off duty and come home?”
Waller looks out the window and taps on the frame of the open car window as he thinks it over.
“Maybe leave him a surprise for when he comes home?” Tench suggests.
Waller looks over at his partner. “That’s not a bad idea. But it’s going to require some improvisation.”
Tench grins. “That’s another one of the things we’re good at, isn’t it?”
“Pull in,” Waller says. “Let me get a quick look at the set up. Doors, windows, stuff like that.”
Tench frowns. “We don’t want to get seen there.”
“Won’t be too long,” Waller reassures him. He reaches into the glove box and pulls out a flat leather case. He holds it in his lap as Tench pulls into the short driveway of Keller’s house. “Keep the motor running,” he orders as he slips out the door.
The old locks yield to the picks in his case within a moment, and Waller slips inside. The front door leads to a shallow foyer with a flagstone floor and coat pegs protruding from one wall. Waller steps through into a living space with a worn couch and easy chair. He turns and looks back at the front door. The interior wall is faced with the same stone as the outside of the cottage. An explosion in that tiny space will do horrific damage. Waller knows instinctively what they need to do. He doesn’t bother locking the door behind him as he trots back out to the truck where Tench is waiting impatiently. “I got it,” he says as he reaches for the small duffel bag they’ve stowed behind the driver’s seat. “Drive. Come back and pick me up in fifteen minutes.”
“You sure? What if Keller gets back in the meantime?”
Waller grins and pulls a Walther pistol out of the bag. “Then I take care of the problem sooner rather than later. And call you for a faster pickup. Now go.”
SEVENTY
“Fletch,” Lauch Cameron says as they wait, “you got the same funny feeling about this as I do?”
Fletcher shakes his head. “What am I, a mind reader?”
“Come on. Admit it. This is a little too good to be true, don’t you think? We got a mystery, some lady shows up, says, ‘Here ya go,’ then leaves?” Cameron spits into the grass by the driveway. “It’s weird. Ain’t you the one who says look for the weird stuff?”
“Yeah. This is hinky as all get out. But the leads that lady gave us panned out.” Fletcher holds up a fist, extends his index finger. “One, Keller did have an argument with that Wilson guy. Rachel at the diner confirmed it.” His middle finger joins the pointer. “Two. Reggie says a guy fitting Keller’s description showed up at the motel looking for him.” He raises his ring finger. “Three. We do a quick check and find that this Keller guy has a felony record, plus some interesting history, including a number of homicides no one could seem to make stick.” He extends his pinky. “Four. We find a dead guy…”
“Who may or may not be this Ted Wilson…”
“But who turns up about the time this Wilson guy goes missing…”
“According to this lady we never met before. I dunno, Fletch. I just have this feeling we’re gettin’ steered. And I don’t like it.”
Fletcher shrugs. “All we’re doing is asking some questions. Following some leads. We’ll see what shakes out.”
“I guess.” Cameron straightens up. “Here he comes.”
The truck pulls up and sits for a moment, engine still running. They can see the man whose record and prior mug shots they’ve been examining looking out at them from the driver’s seat. Then the motor dies and the man gets out. He’s tall, lean, and to Cameron’s practiced eye, as tense as a steel spring. Maybe there’s something to this after all, he thinks. Innocent people usually aren’t this tense around the police. A pretty teenage girl in a headscarf gets out on the passenger side, followed by a skinny boy with a prominent beak of a nose and a shock of curly black hair. They stand on the other side of the truck from Cameron and Fletcher until Keller says something to them in a low voice. They hesitate, then walk toward the house.
Keller steps forward. “Can I help you fellows?”
Fletcher speaks up. “Jackson Keller?”
Keller nods. “That’s me. And you are?”
Fletcher puts on an easy smile. “Detective Sergeant Brock Fletcher.” He gestures back at Cameron. “This is Sergeant Cameron.” Fletcher offers a handshake.
Keller says
nothing. He doesn’t take the offered hand, doesn’t attempt to ask what’s going on. His face is totally blank. It’s as if he’s become a hole in the space of the driveway. Cameron finds it a little unnerving.
Fletcher clears his throat. “Have you got a minute? We’re investigating a—”
“No.” The word is so flat and decisive that it stuns Fletcher into silence. Cameron’s never seen his partner shut down so abruptly before. Usually, even the guilty are eager to talk to them, if only to spin out some easily disproved bullshit that will eventually lead to their downfall. Cameron wonders if they may have chanced upon the only smart criminal in the world.
Fletcher’s smile vanishes. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean, no. I’m not speaking to you. Not without a lawyer.”
Fletcher puts his hands out. The smile’s back, a little more forced this time. “Whoa, Mr. Keller. What’s all this talk about lawyers? No one’s getting charged with anything here.”
“Good.” Keller starts toward the house. “Sorry. I’ve got work to do.”
Fletcher loses the smile again. “What work?”
“Babysitting.”
Cameron sees his partner’s mouth set in a hard line. “So. You mind if we search your vehicle?”
Keller stops and turns back toward him. “What?”
“I said, do we have consent to search your vehicle?”
Keller’s eyes narrow. “Am I under arrest?”
“No, sir,” Fletcher replies in the same frosty tone. “But we’re conducting a missing persons investigation. And you’re obstructing it.”
“I’m not obstructing anything.”
“You’re being evasive.” Cameron can already hear the words of the incident report: Subject was evasive and defensive. Reporting Officer decided to conduct vehicle search for officer safety. It might not pass muster with the US Supreme Court, but it would almost certainly pass the scrutiny of an elected judge who didn’t want to lose the support of law enforcement in the next election. Cameron’s still ambivalent about it. But when his partner says, “Lauch. Search the vehicle,” Cameron goes, because it’s his partner asking. He goes through the passenger compartment, checking the glove box and under the seats. Every few seconds, he steals a look to make sure Keller’s not going to try something. He isn’t. He’s standing there, hands by his sides, staring at Fletcher.
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