by M. P. Cooley
Jason’s bravery was gone. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.”
Greg Byrne coughed softly. “No problem.”
Denise Byrne was furious. “No, it’s a problem. These people come in here, and, and . . .” She threw up her hands. “I thought you, more than anyone, would understand, June. I did you favors.”
“I’m not sure if I ever got a chance to thank you for that,” I said, knowing I hadn’t. Denise Byrne hadn’t let me. “You saved my husband a lot of pain. Thank you.”
“Can’t you show us the same consideration? Do you have to arrest my son?”
Hale seemed to expect some sort of response from me, some sort of outrage or anger at what Denise said. But I was a professional. This situation, so close to my own, wasn’t mine.
I left Denise Byrne’s accusation in the air, unanswered. I went up to Jason and rested my hand on his arm. “You ready to go?”
“Yes,” he said. He took his fleece-lined jean jacket from Hale. Once dressed, he leaned over and hugged his father.
“Sorry.”
“Nothing sorry.”
Jason straightened, holding his wrists in front of him.
“Turn around,” I said. I tightened his arms around his back, cuffing him, while Hale gave Denise Byrne the time line and our contact information. I guided Jason down the hallway, the two of us and Hale walking single file in order to work around the dusty motorized wheelchair that rested along one wall. We continued past the spotless kitchen, a pot of something delicious bubbling on the stove, metal canisters of sugar and flour on the counter, and a medication schedule written out neatly on graph paper taped to the cabinets, outlining the hour and amount of drugs that would need to be dispensed. It took up three doors.
“Jason, I’ll call a lawyer,” Denise shouted over Hale’s head. “He’ll meet you there. Don’t say anything until you see him.”
“Thanks, Mom. And remember to pull the chili off the burner in twenty minutes.” Jason stopped at the door of the mudroom, pulling me up short. He nodded at the switch next to the door. “Wanna hit that? We’ll crack our heads open on the shoes otherwise.”
I flicked it on. The porch was a jumble of coats on pegs. Rock salt and two shovels were tucked in the corner, and a dozen pairs of shoes—a jumble of boots, sneakers, and slippers—were on the floor. On the wall, right at my eye line, hung a key caddy.
“You sure the key to the bin is missing?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Jason said. “Those two sets of car keys are for the van. Then there are the ones for the Toyota, which was my dad’s. We sold that a while ago. The next are for the Brouillettes’ garage. They like me to go and turn the cars on and off when they’re gone for a while, keep them running in the cold weather. Then those”—he nodded at a ring with three keys—“are the keys to the pharmacy door locks. Normally the Dumpster key is on there, too.”
“Denise,” I called, “do you have another set of keys to the pharmacy?”
“You going to seize our business, too?!”
I couldn’t see her, but called out, beyond Hale, into the kitchen. “No, but I’m taking these into evidence, and didn’t want to leave you in the lurch.” I pulled out an evidence bag, dropping them in.
“What’s that last set of keys, there?” Hale asked Jason.
“That’s for my locker at college. I’m taking a semester off, so we don’t need that, either.”
I reached around him to open the door. Unlocked. “Let me go first,” I said, and checked for ice patches. Hale eased Jason down the steps and then pulled the door shut behind him. He jiggled the knob, checking if an outsider might have had access. The door gave way.
As we passed the Brouillettes’, I glanced up at the house, dark except for one light upstairs: Danielle’s long-empty room.
“Is Amanda Brouillette at home?” I asked.
“The Brouillettes are steering clear of their property since it’s a hazardous waste site, from, well, you know.” Hale nodded toward Jason in the backseat.
“Oh.”
Then maybe it was a security system. The light winked out and was gone.
CHAPTER 22
JASON’S LAWYER, A PERSONAL INJURY shyster with an 800 number—promising on his billboard that he would represent people “For Free!!!!”—seemed unhappy that Jason had given us his name.
“Don’t answer anything without me present. These people want nothing more than to hang the whole thing on you. Did they even read you your rights?”
Jason nodded, having taken to heart the order to remain silent.
The lawyer humphed, frowning at Hale and me. “Can I have a moment alone with my client?”
At this point, the station was running out of room for lawyers. Worse, we were running out of room for suspects.
Lorraine sent Chuck on his way with a wink and a “We’ll be calling!” and processed Jelickson’s paperwork slowly, per Dave. Van Schoon was discreetly impressing upon Lorraine that Jelickson’s driver’s license was in no way a counterfeit, but rather, Californian. He was used to doing deals in carpeted offices behind thick mahogany doors with people who spoke in reasonable tones, and seemed unmoored in this wide-open room. Finally, in the face of Lorraine’s willful denseness—I had no idea she was such a spectacular actress—Van Schoon decided that discretion was impossible.
“You!” Van Schoon pointed at Dave, who was writing a message to me that read, “Do you think Van Schoon gets all blotchy when he gets mad?”
“Hmm?” Dave said.
“Are you going to enjoy the harassment suit that I’ll be filing on behalf of my client?” Van Schoon said. “You hicks are obstructing things. Get that FBI agent out here.”
Lorraine, at the use of the word hicks, produced an emery board and began to file her nails. I could have kissed her.
“He’s in a meeting,” I said, as seriously as I could manage. In reality, Hale was napping in his car until Marty got there.
My radio blasted. Pete talked loud, although not fast. He never talked fast.
“June. You got a situation. Those Merrimen? The biker guys? They’re on the front steps of the police station.”
A predatory grin spread across Zeke Jelickson’s face.
“And that wouldn’t be a problem,” Pete added, “except the troopers need a parking spot to bring in your prisoner.”
That would knock the smile off Zeke’s face fast enough.
“Bring him in the prisoner transport security entrance,” I said authoritatively as I marched to the back.
“The back door?” asked Pete. Linda Jelickson burst out laughing.
“Yeah. The back door.” I was trying to make our jail sound impressive, but our “prisoner transport security entrance” was little more than a steel-reinforced door. That said, the door had done a fine job for over a century, certainly better than the new jail across the river where there had been a recent break. There, some prisoners were “tussling” in the laundry when a misplaced punch perforated unreinforced drywall put up by a contractor trying to shave a few bucks off the costs. The gentlemen put aside their differences and pummeled their way out, resulting in a manhunt that ended when the prisoners were found in an off-season hunting shack, still within county limits.
“Finally,” Amanda Brouillette said, stepping away from her husband’s cell bars. She hadn’t been sitting vigil for her daughter, but for her husband.
I brushed past. “Not yet.”
“You let that criminal out and not me?” Brouillette protested. “I’m going to sue for wrongful arrest.”
Amanda Brouillette tried to bridge the gap between us. “There is no reason Jelickson, and Chuck, for that matter, should have been released before my husband.”
Dave shrugged. “Yeah, but they didn’t get picked up with a gun that wasn’t theirs.”
Brouillette sputtered. “That-that-that gun is mine.”
“You have a Lady Smith & Wesson?”
“Huh?” Brouillette recovered quickly. “That’s my wife�
��s gun. They must have been swapped in the safe. We have licenses for both.”
“Which your lawyer’s explaining right now. You’ll no doubt be released soon, but you can bet that you’re going to lose your concealed carry permit tout de suite.” The last words were lost as the door groaned open. A state trooper waited on the other side, as casual as one could be in a military stance. “You need any help with the Merrimen?” the trooper asked as Dave scribbled his name on several pieces of paperwork. “New Hampshire says they’re pretty small time, and they don’t cross state lines that often.”
“They’re afraid of Vermont,” I said. “They might cross the border and have their choppers magically transformed into Volvos.”
He laughed. “Actually, I might be a little afraid of Vermont, too.”
The trooper craned so far forward his windburned neck extended out of his gray collar. The second he saw the congresswoman and her husband he snapped back, like a turtle into a shell.
“Here’s his property, his clothes.” He handed a bag to me. “His vehicle is at the trooper barracks near Potsdam, and will be transported tomorrow. Pictures of the whole thing from the chassis on up will be e-mailed shortly.”
We covered Marty’s head as he ducked out of the vehicle, and he kept his face tucked as he approached, chin touching his chest, arms cuffed behind him, dressed in orange scrubs. Crossing the threshold into the jail, he looked up and spotted the Brouillettes. He stopped for a moment, and then lunged. I dropped his clothes so I could grip him with both hands.
“You?” Marty cried. “I knew you killed her, you sick fuck.”
“Bastard!” Brouillette’s shoulder pressed against the bars as he jammed his finger at Marty. “I’m in here because of you, your family. You people foul everything you touch. You’re disgusting.”
Marty tried to break away, but Dave and I held him tight, letting him thrash until the fight left him.
“Marty, Brouillette was brawling in public. With your father,” Dave said. “Who is, by the way, out front.”
“Of course.” Marty shook his head and laughed bitterly at the ceiling. This close, I could see him swallow, choking. With nothing to slump against, he collapsed in on himself.
“C’mon, bucko,” Dave said, snagging up the bag of Marty’s property and pulling him along, Marty’s feet half sliding and half dragging against the blue-flecked linoleum.
“Marty,” the congresswoman called as we got to the squad room door, “why did you run? If you didn’t kill my daughter, Marty, why leave?”
“Ma’am,” he said, but didn’t turn around, “no offense, but you have no idea. They’ve got me tagged as some scumfuck, and if I even breathe wrong, they roll me up. I ran to get away from the cops, and my parents, and, no offense, to get away from you.”
Marty battered his way forward, an unstoppable force. He ran smack into an immovable object.
“Baby!” His mother threw her arms around him.
“Mom,” and he placed his forehead on her shoulder, like Lucy did when she was up past her bedtime.
Dave untwisted Linda from her son. “Ma’am, if you could give me some room.”
She let go. As she did, Jackie put Marty in a tight squeeze, locking his arms behind him.
One side of Marty’s mouth quirked down. “Uh, hi, Jackie.”
She pulled away, blushing. “We’re practically related.”
The only one who hadn’t rushed up for a family reunion was Zeke Jelickson, who lingered near the front entrance. He stared down his son. Marty wouldn’t play, looking at the fans bolted to the ceiling in the corners, the recycling bin next to Lorraine’s desk, and the line of doors; everywhere but his father. Zeke’s lawyer ended the staring contest—or the “not-staring” contest, in the case of Marty—when he handed Zeke his walking papers.
Zeke put out his leathery hand, pumping his lawyer’s pale one. “Nice work, Charles. Talk to you on next week’s conference call about that Chinese intellectual property thing.”
“You don’t want me to stay?” asked Van Schoon. “I was helping you out until a real criminal lawyer got here, but obviously the firm and I are more than happy to do the same for your son.”
“I’d appreciate that—”
“I decline!” Marty announced. “I’m not using the Abominations’ lawyer. I’m not taking anything from you, Zeke.”
Zeke leaned over, whispering something to the lawyer.
“You’re the boss,” Van Schoon said. The lawyer pulled out his card and gave it to Zeke. “It’s not public, but that number there is my cell.”
Zeke pocketed the card as the lawyer left.
“Linda. Jackie. We’re done.”
“Marty,” Linda Jelickson whispered, “we’ll post bail.”
“I don’t want you to bail me out,” Marty said, not unkindly.
“And he won’t get it, ma’am.” Dave handcuffed Marty to a chair. “He’s a flight risk. Officer Lyons here will process the paperwork.”
“Linda,” barked Zeke.
“Jesus, Zeke, I’ll be there in a minute!”
Zeke left. I began the paperwork, while Hale and Dave disappeared into the evidence room with Marty’s belongings. Marty answered my questions, giving his age, “Twenty-five,” and his full name, “Martin Fizzeller Jelickson.”
His mother was spelling out “Fizzeller” for me when Marty snarled, “Go, Mom. I don’t want you here.”
Linda Jelickson stepped back. “Okay, baby. You need a little time to sort this out in your head, to brood. I know my son.” She smiled sweetly and hissed: “Just don’t open your mouth between now and when you come to your senses.”
“Was Ray a brooder?” asked Jackie as Linda guided her to the door, one hand at the small of Jackie’s back. The doors swung closed behind them, and quiet reigned.
I breathed in the silence, waiting patiently for the computers to load the next screen. Finally I was able to enter the codes for the different charges. Petty larceny. Stealing of state property. Not murder, not yet.
“You want to make your phone call now?” I asked.
Marty rolled his eyes. “Who am I going to call? My dad’s lawyer?”
“A lawyer, sure, or I thought you might want to call your sponsor.”
Marty looked at the ground.
“No,” he said.
I was walking to the printer for the paperwork when Dave dragged me into Interview Two. A laptop was open on the table. Hale sat in front of it, clicking, again and again.
“Ta-da!” Dave said. “The crack team at the FBI was able to pull some digital photos out of Marty’s work computer.”
“Some special FBI decryption software?” I asked.
“Left in the recycle bin,” Hale said, not looking up. “The photos were sitting there waiting for us. The guys made us a copy.”
Hale clicked. The first two pictures were of Marty: one reading a Don DeLillo book on his couch, and another looking up from the same book with an arched brow, beckoning the person taking the picture to him with a sly smile. Hale clicked again.
Solo shots of Danielle followed. They captured her beauty, but more important, they captured her aliveness. In one, a twist of smoke from her cigarette traced the pathway her hand made when she was gesturing grandly toward Ray, who was doubled over with laughter.
The picture that followed looked familiar: Ray could be seen carrying huge beakers into a building. Painted on a wall behind him a pale hand curled around a red rose, now pink all these years later. I knew exactly where that photo was taken.
“How did he get copies of your surveillance shots?” I said to Hale.
“He didn’t,” Hale said.
“Different night?” Dave asked.
“No.” Hale looked angry. “Marty was there when we were there. I’ll be having a conversation with the agents on how, exactly, we missed him. At least we have proof that he was there the night Danielle was killed. Are we done?”
He clicked. The next shots were of Craig, Ray, and
Danielle: Danielle gesturing angrily at Craig, her iridescent red nails glinting dangerously close to his face; Ray and Craig giving each other a fist bump in front of Marty’s house, Danielle on the porch and almost out of the shot; Danielle and Craig hugging at the doorway, his face buried in her gold hair.
Finally Hale spoke: “Spy anything, June?”
I hesitated.
“What?” Hale twisted around, looking at me. “What’s your instinct?”
“I have an idea,” I said, appalled at what I was about to suggest. Dave frowned, but Hale smiled, like a shark tasting blood.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
CHAPTER 23
I SAT ACROSS THE TABLE FROM Marty in Interview Two. With his eyes focused on the wall over my shoulder I had all the time I wanted to take him in. He’d lost a little weight in the last few days, his features were sharper, more wolflike. If I didn’t know they weren’t blood, I would have sworn he was Zeke’s. Marty’s eyes darted around the wall: Danielle alive, Ray at the funeral, Ray in the bloody snow, Ray and Danielle kissing on the back porch, Danielle after her autopsy, pale and still, like a pearl covered with frost. Marty’s eyes shot back to Ray and Danielle kissing—it had been Dave’s idea to post that one—and then back to Danielle after her autopsy. Again, Danielle after her autopsy. Again, Danielle. Again.
I had felt excited as Dave and I led him to the room, my stomach knotting. I explained to Marty that with Phil Brouillette’s release in process and Jason being interviewed in Room One, he’d have to cool his heels.
“Jason?” he said. “For what?”
“An accessory to murder, guy,” Dave said. “The murder you committed.”
“I knew you guys couldn’t tell your ass from your elbows, but Jason? That’s fuckin’ idiotic.” As he ambled toward the room, Marty’s orange pants slipped down an inch, revealing his flat stomach and the slide of his hip bones. His hands cuffed, I hitched up the waistband.
“Hel-lo, Officer.” Marty winked at me, Danielle and Ray seemingly forgotten. “Trying to take advantage?”