A Welcome Grave lp-3

by Michael Koryta

  “Help the police out,” I echoed. “Do you remember this detective’s name?”

  “Robert Walker. He was retired from the Cleveland police. Well, maybe not retired, because he was a pretty young guy, but he’d stopped working for them.”

  I looked at Joe. “Know a Robert Walker?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me, neither. Mr. Heath, what did this man look like? I’m trying to place him. Joe and I worked with the Cleveland police, too. We should know him.”

  Jerry Heath turned to his wife with a frown. “He was, what would you say, maybe forty?”

  “Or younger. He was Italian, or very Italian-looking. A quiet man. He just listened and took notes, mostly.”

  “An Italian man named Walker,” Joe said, and glanced at me, one eyebrow raised.

  “Can I ask whether he was ever alone in your daughter’s room?” I said.

  Jerry Heath’s face went hard and curious, but his wife answered.

  “Yes, he was. The police had already searched it, but he wanted to take a look himself, make sure they’d done a thorough job. Wanted to know what they looked at, if they took pictures of anything or wrote down a, uh, what do you call it? An inventory. Said he wanted to be sure it was all being done by the book. I guess he was pretty experienced at that sort of thing.”

  “He was alone for this?”

  “Yes. Mr. Jefferson said he didn’t want to make us go through it again, you know, because it was so difficult to go in there and look at everything.”

  “Why do you ask about that? Whether he was alone?” Jerry Heath said.

  “Just trying to understand the situation,” Joe said.

  The phone rang, and Jerry Heath got to his feet and went into the kitchen and answered. He talked in low tones for a few minutes while Joe and I sat with his wife, waiting on his return. When he came back into the room, his face was dark with anger.

  “You fellas got about ten seconds to get the hell out of this house.”

  “Excuse me?” Joe said.

  “That was George Hilliard. The prosecutor. Told me he just got off the phone with the police back in Cleveland. Called to ask about you boys. They told him you’re working without police approval or even a client.”

  He turned from Joe to me, and jabbed his rough index finger at my chest. “And they said you are a suspect in a murder investigation.”

  “What?” Anne Heath stood up fast.

  “Somebody killed the same attorney that came in here, trying to help us. The one they’ve been asking about, Jefferson. Police said this guy’s trying to use Monica as a distraction. To use our daughter as a way to keep the police off his own back.”

  “That’s not true,” I said. “We’re trying to prove what really happened to your daughter, Mr. Heath. We think Andy Doran—”

  “I will go open this door for you, and you best walk through it with a spring in your step, mister. Because if you don’t, I will gladly throw your ass right through it. Now get out.”

  When we left, Anne Heath was crying.

  28

  Anger rode through me like water filling a hose as Joe drove us away. I had my cell phone out of my pocket before he cleared the driveway, dialed Targent’s number, and sat through the rings with my hand tight on the phone.

  “Who you calling?” Joe said, but I ignored him because Targent picked up.

  “Yeah, Perry?”

  “You’re pathetic,” I said. “I’m out here doing your job and you try to derail us like that? Tell those poor people that I’m using their daughter as a distraction?”

  “I told the prosecutor that you were a suspect, not the family.”

  “You knew how fast that information would be relayed.”

  “You’re damn right I did, and it should have been relayed, too. What you’re doing out there is nothing but a hindrance, Perry.”

  “Somebody should be investigating—”

  “Shut up. You call me to cry and bitch? That takes some balls considering I just spent an hour on the phone convincing Lieutenant Brewer not to push for an extradition order that would send you back to Indiana.”

  “No judge in the world would extradite me based on what he has, Targent. Don’t try to pass yourself off as my protector.”

  “I’m not your protector. Only reason I told him not to go for it is because you’re the centerpiece of a far more important investigation back here. Told him I needed some more time with you. And that evidence you questioned? It just changed, Perry. In a big way. If Brewer wants an extradition order, he’s going to get one.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You have half an hour to get back to your office. I’ll be waiting there. You don’t show, maybe I’ll reconsider what I told Brewer, arrest you myself and ship your ass back to Indiana.”

  “I’m an hour away, Targent.”

  “Well, then, I suggest you hustle.”

  Targent reached our office before we did. He was out of the car and sitting on a parking block behind the building with a bottle of water in hand, waiting. When Joe pulled into the lot, Targent didn’t get up, just sat there and drank his water and watched us get out of the car. Only when we were standing above him did he screw the cap back on the bottle and stand up, without a word of greeting.

  “What did Brewer tell you?” I said. “What’s the latest bullshit I’ve got to deal with, Targent?”

  “Inside.”

  We went inside the building and up the steps, and Joe unlocked the office door. Targent went in first and sat down across from my desk. I brushed past him and sat down, pulled up to the desk, and spread my hands.

  “Well?”

  “At my request, Brewer took the cash that was sent to the PI in Indiana and tested it for fingerprints. I wanted to see if he could pull one of Jefferson’s prints, prove conclusively that it was his money.”

  “I don’t care if it was his money, I didn’t send it.”

  “Well, we didn’t get one of his prints.”

  “Tough break.”

  “We got one of yours.”

  You hear people use the word “shocked” all the time. They were shocked to find out the ATM overcharged their account by fifty dollars, shocked to learn their purebred Shitzu was actually a mutt, shocked to discover HBO wasn’t included in their deluxe television package. Those people are full of shit. They’re surprised, not shocked. Shock is what you feel when you’re told something that can’t possibly be true, then assured that it is true. Shock is what you feel when a cop finds your fingerprint on money you never handled.

  “You’re lying,” I said. “Bluffing. Good effort, Targent. I’m not surprised to see that’s what you’ve fallen back on.”

  “I’ll have the computer image to show you. It’s not just one print. We’ve got three fingers, showing up on five bills. More that are smudged.”

  “They were planted.”

  “You can plant a fingerprint?”

  “Of course you can. There’s a way. Take something I’d handled, use tape or some shit, some chemical . . . that can happen, Targent.”

  I felt like a liar as I reached for the explanation, clumsy and inept, Targent watching me with raised eyebrows.

  “Really,” he said. “Well, I look forward to hearing your defense attorney find a forensic expert to explain it.”

  “I didn’t touch that money, Targent. I didn’t send it, and I didn’t touch it.”

  “Just like you didn’t know Thor?”

  “This is different.”

  “Sure it is. A different lie.”

  “I’m being set up. Can’t you at least consider that as a truth? See it as a possibility? I’ve come to you trying to explain that Andy Doran is the guy—”

  “That reminds me,” he said. “Your story about Donny Ward? I checked it out. Called him this morning. He denied every word of it. Said you showed up at his house trying to put words in his mouth. He asked you to leave.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “He’
s lying. Even though you have no proof of that, I’m supposed to believe it. But when I say you’re lying, and I do present proof, you remain in denial.”

  “I’ve got proof of what I told you about Doran. We talked to the victim’s family. Jefferson went into their house with someone he claimed was a retired cop. This guy sounds like the same person who visited Ward. The Heaths won’t lie about it, either. Unlike Ward, they have nothing to hide.”

  He sighed but waved me on with his hand. “All right. Tell me.”

  I explained more about the cop who had gone with Jefferson to see the Heaths, about the five-year reference from the man who’d attacked me and the way it matched up with Doran’s story, about the defense attorney who went to work with Jefferson. He actually took a notebook out and jotted down things as I talked. I was surprised. I’d expected nothing but that bored look, the wiseass skepticism he’d given off like a scent over the past few days.

  “Your understanding, then, or your belief, is that Alex Jefferson was responsible for the way things played out in Doran’s case,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Look at the situation, Targent. His son was the only witness to the murder, and then Jefferson swooped in and rigged the investigation. What do you think he was doing? I can’t imagine he’d ever met Doran before, or that girl. His only connection is through his son. Who conveniently disappeared from the community while all this was going down.”

  “You suggest that the son was more than a witness.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I suggest. The connection between Jefferson and this guy who visited Donny Ward is what we need to prove. Ward’s reluctant to talk to you. Fine. He’s scared of Doran, thinks he might be coming for him, the same way he did for Jefferson. I don’t blame him for that fear, and it’s the only thing that motivated him to talk to me. He thought I’d see Doran.”

  Targent nodded again and wrote some more in the notebook.

  “Go out and verify everything I’ve just told you,” I said. “It’ll hold up, Targent. I know you think it won’t, but it’s going to.”

  “Actually, I think it will.” He stopped scribbling and closed the notebook. He hadn’t shaved, and now he ran the back of his hand over the short stubble and looked at me. “What you’ve done here seems thorough. Seems solid, too. I mean, assuming the Heath couple tell me the same things they told you, well, this is pretty strong. And you’re right—it looks like the sort of thing that can be easily verified.”

  I didn’t like his tone, didn’t like the calm acceptance.

  “What else you got on your mind, Targent?”

  “Just that this is some damn fine detective work,” he said, “and fast. I mean, shit, Perry, you rolled this together in what, a couple days?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what got you started, exactly?”

  “The comment about paying the price for five years. I already told you that. The way Doran—or whoever the guy was—referred to the phone call.”

  “Hmm. Damn fast work.”

  “I get the feeling that’s not a genuine compliment, but I also don’t care as long as you take this seriously enough to check out.”

  “Oh, I’ll be looking into it.”

  “Good. Look into it and remove me from your investigation.”

  He frowned, tilting his head. “Well, that’s the problem. I can’t see why all this would remove you from the investigation.”

  “What are you talking about? If all this holds up with Doran—”

  “Then I’ll be adding him to the investigation. But removing you? Let’s take a step back, Perry. Remember what seems to have gotten this started. Someone was extorting Alex Jefferson, correct? Made some money from the endeavor and has since refocused on Jefferson’s widow. But what was that initial leverage? Tough to blackmail someone if you don’t hold some trump cards. If you haven’t uncovered a secret, some skeleton in the closet. And to really pull it off? To convince someone not only to play along but to play with big money? That takes a heavyweight secret. The sort of thing that can involve criminal activity, conspiracies, cover-ups. The sort of thing that you”—he tapped on his notebook—“just explained to me in such detail.”

  “You think I just looked into this months ago, of my own volition, and then decided to blackmail Jefferson?”

  “Somebody blackmailed Jefferson,” he said, “and so far, you’re the first person to produce even an idea of what the blackmail material might have been. Interestingly, you’re also the lead suspect. Your background lends itself to a deep investigation of the man’s life, to uncovering things that amateurs might not find.”

  “I haven’t had anything to do with Alex Jefferson since that night at his country club. It ended there, Targent. You have to believe that.”

  “Glad you brought that night up. I heard an interesting story the other day, from someone who was in the country club parking lot. Remember what you yelled at Jefferson that night, right before you swung on him?”

  “I yelled a few things.”

  “You know the one I mean.”

  I met Targent’s eyes. “I said I’d take his life apart.”

  “That’s what I heard. Now the question is, is that what you did?”

  Responses and rebuttals spun in my head, but I left them there. It wouldn’t do any good. Targent was locked on to me now. There was no dissuading him, not until we had somebody else in handcuffs who was ready to confess. Maybe not even then.

  “Targent,” Joe said, “are you completely ignoring the fact that Doran is out? Don’t you think the timing of that has significance?”

  “Yes, I think it does. It could mean he’s involved, or it could mean it gave somebody else an opportunity. If our killer was an intelligent guy, as intelligent as, say, Perry, he wouldn’t go through with it unless he felt he had a cover story. A fall guy. The sort of story, the sort of guy, that’s been presented today in the form of Andy Doran.”

  “So I’m still a murderer,” I said, “but now I’ve been promoted to both opportunistic and intelligent.”

  “Explain the fingerprint, Perry.”

  “I can’t. It had to have been planted.”

  “Five times. With three fingers.”

  “Maybe they stole money from me, I don’t know.”

  “Stole a few fifties, but you didn’t notice.”

  “I don’t know, Targent. All I can tell you is that I didn’t send money to that idiot in Indiana.”

  “But your fingerprints are on it.”

  “And Jefferson’s aren’t. You said that yourself. So you’ve got no proof—none—that the money is one and the same.”

  “I’m going to get it, though. You want to bet everything you’ve got on one sure thing, pick that one.”

  He was out of his chair, leaning on my desk, as aggressive as I’d ever seen him.

  “I will go down to Jefferson’s bank and stay there until I can prove it, Perry. I will drive those people out of their minds, make them show me every camera and every computer and every transaction record and serial number, and I will check and double-check and triple-check until I’ve got something that proves that was his money. You think that’s impossible? You’re kidding yourself. That money in Indiana was withdrawn by Alex Jefferson and given to you. I will prove it, and then I’ll come down here and put you in handcuffs. When that happens, Perry? You better start telling the truth. You’ve lied your way through it so far, but that road’s coming to an end. I’m sealing it off, understand?”

  “The irony,” I said, “is that you even believe you could recognize the truth if you found it.”

  He straightened up and moved back from my desk, his jaw set, and shot Joe a look as if daring him to step in. When Joe didn’t say anything, he turned back to me.

  “I’ll see you soon, Perry. If I were you, I’d spend the rest of the day finding a good defense attorney. Got a feeling you’re going to need one.”

  29

  A fingerprint is
a fascinating thing. A small speck of residue left behind at each touch, marking your identity as you move through the world. A fingerprint, like your identity, is unique. It belongs only to you.

  Mine was gone.

  My fingerprint and my identity. With one went the other, and now a police detective had walked into my office and informed me that they were gone, missing, out of my control.

  I had not touched that money. I had not sent it to an investigator in Indiana, had not handled, even seen it. But the facts—those irrefutable scientific facts—said that I had. The reality I knew had just been trumped. People are willing to believe words as the truth up to a point. That point, it seems, is when the facts—particularly those of hard science—dispute the words. Now all I had was the words. Targent had the facts.

  It was just Joe and me in the office again, behind our respective desks, angled to face one another, the appearance of the afternoon just like a thousand that had preceded it. None of them had ever felt like this, though.

  “You were right,” Joe said after a few minutes of silence had passed. “The money isn’t Jefferson’s. If it was, it would have his prints, not yours. I don’t know how they got the money, but—”

  “It’s his money.”

  He looked at me as if I’d confessed. “What?”

  “It’ll be his money, Joe. Targent will prove that. Maybe later today, maybe tomorrow. He’ll find a way. It’ll be Jefferson’s money, and I won’t be able to explain it. That’s how this is going.”

  “He doesn’t have as much as you think. Not as much as he thinks, either. That money isn’t connected to the murder in any direct way. It wasn’t recovered on Jefferson’s body, doesn’t have his blood on it. Even if they do find a way to show it was in that chunk he withdrew from the bank, that’s no proof of guilt in a murder.”

  “Sure,” I said, thinking that if Joe had suddenly become the office optimist, this thing was reaching dire straits, indeed.

  “How did they get the fingerprint?” he said.

  “I do the final money count each night in the gym. Touch a number of fifties. If they stole a few of those, or even one, and put it with the cash they had . . .”