"Don't get your hopes up," Brisbane said. "The kid's been practically catatonic since we brought him in. Won't talk to anyone, not even his parents."
"You never know," Gage said. "I might surprise you. I'm a master conversationalist."
They stepped into a hall of bare concrete with a high barred window at the end and a security camera mounted inconspicuously above the window. The air was warm, almost balmy, and smelled of damp concrete. Gage hadn't been in the city lockup more than a handful of times over the years, and he was always surprised to find how much warmer it was inside. Soaked to the core as he was, the feeling wasn't unwelcome. There were five jail cells, all on the right, and all but the first and last were dark. A heavily tattooed man occupied the first cell, eyeing them like a caged tiger.
The last cell appeared empty—a rumpled cot in the corner, some comic books by the toilet. Gage was going to ask Brisbane if it was some kind of joke when he finally spotted Jeremiah sitting on the bed, head bowed. His plain gray T-shirt, camouflaging him against the concrete wall, may have had a fair amount to do with his being hard to spot, but his stillness, so statue-like it was inhuman, probably played a bigger part. Gage couldn't help but stare. It was mesmerizing, really.
"Hey, guy," Gage said.
Jeremiah didn't even glance in his direction. Not even a twitch of his eyebrow. There was something sadly profound about it, sadder than if he had broken down and sobbed.
"Hey, kid," Brisbane said, "wake up. Got a visitor here. Your mom okayed it. You want to join us for a minute?"
If Jeremiah was even breathing, Gage couldn't see it. Down the hall, the occupant of the first cell snickered. Other than a faint hum of an air duct somewhere beyond the ceiling tiles, there were no other sounds.
"Been like this since we brought him in," Brisbane explained. "Dad and Mom couldn't do nothing about it. You should have seen Arne. He was practically screaming in the kid's face. Nothing. It's like he's checked out. Maybe overwhelmed by guilt. I don't know. Some part of his brain is just gone."
"You know," Gage said, "Jeremiah is sitting right there. He can hear you."
"You think? I'm not so sure. Hey kid, you in there? Come on, talk to us?" Brisbane leaned between the bars. "Kid! Come on, man, you want to talk to Mr. Private Investigator here or what? He's probably the only friend you got!"
"All right," Gage said.
"What? Just trying to help you out."
"You can help me out by leaving us alone."
"Not going to happen."
"I plan to just be with him for a while. It could be a long wait."
"Fine, I got all day."
Gage shrugged and settled himself on the floor, easing himself down with the cane. He crossed his legs and tried to get comfortable, though the surprising coldness of the floor, his wet clothes, and his throbbing knee made any real comfort out of the question. Even this got no reaction from Jeremiah.
"You're serious?" Brisbane said.
"I could use the rest," Gage explained.
"This ain't no senior home, pal."
"Really? This smooth floor is perfect for shuffleboard."
Gage looked up to see if Brisbane was amused. He wasn't. It was hard to tell if Brisbane had ever been amused. The facial muscles used to show a smile were probably so derelict at this point that even if Brisbane was amused, he wouldn't be able to show it.
"I can wait as long as you," Brisbane said.
"Fine."
"The only reason this is happening at all is because even after being advised of his rights, the kid hasn't asked for a lawyer. And the parents haven't seemed all that concerned either. You know why that is? It's because everybody knows he's guilty. The kid knows he's guilty. Look at him. You think he'd act that way if he was innocent? No way."
Gage had to suppress the desire to whack Brisbane in the knees. "How about just five minutes alone?"
"No way."
"Fine. Have it your way."
So they waited. As expected, it was a long wait. Five minutes passed, but they felt more like ten. Ten minutes passed, and they felt more like fifty. Jeremiah didn't move, not even to scratch his nose. Brisbane made a couple of remarks, something about a heavy caseload this year, another about the drunk tourists really being out in force, but he stopped when Gage, emulating the kid, didn't respond. He may not have been able to sit as still as Jeremiah—there were too many little aches and pains throughout his body to tolerate it for long—but he did his best.
"All right, for Christ's sake," Brisbane said finally. "I'll give you your five minutes. I have to take a dump anyway."
"Enjoy the experience," Gage said.
"No funny stuff while I'm gone."
"Not even my Abbott and Costello routine?"
With a roll of his eyes, Brisbane left. Despite Brisbane's bravado, Gage got the sense that he may not have been one hundred percent certain that Jeremiah Cooper was guilty. Gage had never been a cop, but he certainly knew that gnawing feeling when the facts of a case just didn't add up to the conclusion, no matter how obvious that conclusion seemed to be.
"We don't have long before our pal comes back," Gage said. "You have something to tell me, you should do it now."
Any hope that Brisbane's presence had been the chief reason Jeremiah was pulling the silent treatment were dashed. Even a Tibetan monk, meditating with the weight of the world on his shoulders, would have been jealous of how supremely still Jeremiah was.
"You do any acting in high school?" Gage asked. "No? I bet you would have been terrific. Better yet, a mime. That's just real impressive, sitting as still as you are. Or how about those folks in the big cities? The living statues? Doubt they have a living-statue major at BBCC, though. Probably not a lot of call for it here. Maybe down at Berkeley, though. You think of transferring to another school? When we get you out of this place, I think you should consider it."
There was something, the barest hint of a reaction, the tiniest flutter of his eyelid, not really even noticeable on a conscious level, but Gage was sure he'd seen it.
"I know you didn't do this," Gage said.
Now there really was something. The kid frowned—not a frown by the usual standards, but a downward tuck of the corners of his mouth nonetheless.
"But I've got to prove it," Gage said. "I admit, there's a hell of a lot of evidence pointing to you as Connor's killer. This town is pretty much ready to string you up. I might be your only hope, the only one who really believes you're innocent. I need your help."
Jeremiah looked at him—or not quite at him, more of a sideways glance, staring at a spot somewhere between the two of them, but definitely turning in his direction. Now they were really getting somewhere.
"Who did it, Jeremiah?" Gage asked. "Do you know? If you know, tell me, and it will make my job a lot easier."
"You're wrong," Jeremiah said. His voice had the scratchy quality expected from someone who hadn't spoken in days. "You're wrong about me."
"Oh?" Gage said.
"I did this. I'm guilty."
"No way."
"I—I shot him."
Gage shook his head. "I take back what I said. You're a terrible actor."
"I'm not acting."
"Good to know. Who really did this?"
Jeremiah returned to his sacred mission of drilling holes in the floor with his eyes. But he wasn't quite as still anymore. Gage had broken through the kid's composure.
"Okay, I'll play along," Gage said. "Let's say you did do it. Why'd you shoot him?"
No answer.
"Pretty nasty business, shooting him in the back of the head like that," Gage said. "Probably didn't even see it coming. And yet, the way he was sitting, he had to know who it was. Somebody he was comfortable with, otherwise he wouldn't have turned his back, don't you think? Sure, that could have been you. You two were pretty close, I hear. Maybe you were hanging out in his room, he insulted you somehow, made a flippant comment about Spock's big ears or something, and you decided to show him who
really knew Star Trek. You just knew this day would come, which is why you had your dad's revolver on you. You were waiting for it. Waiting for him to insult Spock one more time ..."
"Stop," Jeremiah said. His eyes were big and bright, his jaw trembling.
"Or was it Doctor Who? Help me out here. I'm not as up on all the science-fiction shows as you."
Jeremiah shook his head.
"But it wasn't that, was it?" Gage said. He briefly considered whether to push into more dangerous territory and decided he really had no other choice. "Okay, we're still going with you being the shooter here. What are other theories? How about this? You were in love with Connor, but he didn't love you back. You wanted a sexual relationship, and he wouldn't reciprocate, said he didn't see you that way."
This finally got the kind of reaction Gage had been hoping for: the kid leapt off his cot and sprang like a wild animal toward the bars.
"Fuck you!" he screamed. "You don't know anything! You don't know anything at all!"
Gage got to his feet, taking his time. Partly this was to give Jeremiah a chance to calm down, but mostly it was the pretzel knots of pain springing up in all kinds of places. There were days when Gage felt like a young man, despite his bad knee, but this wasn't one of them. When he was finally upright, he leaned in close to the bars and dropped his voice to a whisper.
"Help me out then," he said. "I can't help you unless I know more. Do you know who did it? Do you know why?"
The boy's lips parted a crack, and Gage knew it was right there, the answer. It was close enough to reach out and snatch it, but then Jeremiah shook his head. The fire in his eyes flared one last time, a final surge, then it was gone. His shoulders slumped, and once again he was this frail wisp of a kid who'd lost what little will he'd had before all this madness had started. When he spoke, it was in a dull, emotionless monotone.
"I did it," he said, nodding. "Go get the cops. I confess. I did it."
"Jeremiah—"
"I confess," he said.
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care. I'm confessing. I have to."
"What do you mean, you have to?"
"I confess."
"Jer—"
"I confess, I confess, I confess …"
The kid went on repeating it like a mantra, no matter what Gage said, no matter how much he pleaded with Jeremiah to really think about what he was doing. He went on until Brisbane returned, then he repeated it to Brisbane's face, with even stronger conviction. The glee on the cop's face sickened Gage. He wanted to punch him. He would have punched him, if he hadn't been too depressed to summon the effort.
Even then, as Gage felt the world closing its door on Jeremiah Cooper, he believed more than ever that the kid was innocent.
Chapter 14
On his way back to the house, Gage picked up a couple of turkey subs, thinking Zoe might have a late lunch with him. When he got there, he found a note saying she was at the bookstore doing some training with Alex, and, if it was okay with him, that she planned to spend the night at the Turret House to look after the cats. If it was okay with him? It was a nice gesture, but he knew she didn't really mean it. She wasn't asking for permission, and really, he didn't expect her to any longer. Not that he ever had.
Unlike most times, Gage was in no mood to be alone. He wanted to commiserate about his failures with someone. Since his first two choices were out, that left the pretty lady staying at the Inn at Sapphire Head.
The steady downpour had turned into a sporadic drizzle by the time he pulled into the inn's parking lot. The gray sky bowed low like a tarp stretched taut by the water cupped in its canvas. Ducking through the tunnel that separated the parking lot from the inn, under the highway, Gage was hit by a blast of cool, salty air with enough force that he would have lost his balance if not for his cane.
In the lobby, which was decorated in green marble and a low-nap purple carpet, a middle-age man dressed in khaki pants and an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt was asking when the next shuttle to the casino was expected to arrive. A woman, probably the man's wife, waited patiently at the white couches near the floor-to-ceiling windows, taking in the expansive view of the beach and the ocean. Gage punched the button for the elevator and spent the waiting time taking in the view himself.
He could go down there. Skip right past the pretty lady's room on the first floor and walk a few miles on the wet sand. It would be a good way to clear his mind. Maybe he'd find a few seashells, a sand dollar or two.
But why? What was he trying to avoid? He was just enlisting Karen's help on the case, that was all. When the elevator opened, he stepped inside and punched the button for the first floor. He was alone except for the many reflections of himself cascading through the mirrors, and each of those reflections looked tired and beaten, a middle-age man with thinning brown hair made slick by the rain, leather jacket and jeans rumpled as if he'd slept in them. He should hop the bus to the casino, join that old couple for an afternoon of fun in the blinking lights. That vacant stare of his was the kind of thing that he saw when he occasionally hit the poker tables. Most gamblers, he'd found, had already lost before they'd begun to play.
There he went again, trying to think of a way to avoid seeing Karen. She was young, attractive, and obviously interested. On top of that, she was whip-smart. What was the problem? Well, he knew what the problem was. There was Jeremiah in jail, Zoe dealing with her friend's death, and Alex struggling to keep it together while Eve underwent treatment for breast cancer. There was no room for anyone else, especially an FBI agent who, no matter how attractive, was obviously dealing with some issues of her own.
Dating her would just be like gambling with all the odds stacked against him. He was bound to lose before he even began.
Yet when she opened the door, it didn't help matters at all that she answered it wearing a gray Lycra tank top, hardly more than a sports bra, and black exercise shorts that showed off her lean and muscular legs. Or that her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, revealing her swanlike neck.
Her face was flushed and slick with sweat. She even smiled, as if she was happy to see him. Since most of the time he'd spent in her company, she'd acted as if they were on their way to a funeral, the smile caught him off guard. It really wasn't fair, that smile. She was so attractive as is, a man barely had a chance to keep his wits about him in her presence. When she deployed that smile, there was no hope.
"Oh," she said, winded, "you didn't call ahead."
"Yeah, I'm not so good with the calling thing," he said.
"Having a phone would help."
"Would it?"
"So I'm told." She mopped at her face with a white towel. A strand of hair stuck to the side of her face. "I just got back from the hotel gym. You mind waiting while I get cleaned up?"
"I can come back some other time," Gage said, nodding toward the elevator. "I was just in the neighborhood. Thought I'd say hello."
"In the neighborhood," she said.
"Right."
With a roll of her eyes, she grabbed his arm and pulled him into her room, closing the door before he could offer to wait upstairs. Not prepared for it, he stumbled on his bad knee, falling into her. There was the bump of bodies and somehow, when he managed to right himself, he had his hand cupped over her right breast. It was only there a second, but it was a long second, long enough to feel the smoothness of the Lycra, the warmth of her body, the firmness of her flesh. Like a boy who accidentally touched the stove, he yanked his hand away.
"Sorry," he said.
"Sure you are," she said. "Nice way to use the whole cane business to cop a feel. Bet you use that one a lot."
"It was an accident! It's never happened before. Oh wait. Maybe one other time. In this hotel, actually. But it was an accident, too, I swear!"
"If it happens twice in a row, it's not an accident," she said. "It's a pattern."
"Well, I'm not doing it consciously."
"I'm not sure that's better."
; They were standing close enough that he could see how much her eyes were dilated, close enough that he could smell the sweat on her—and it wasn't an entirely unpleasant smell. It was time to change the subject, and fast. "Do you have a laptop? With Internet access?"
"Why?" she said. "You want to look at naked ladies on the Internet?"
"I want to research something."
"Something related to female anatomy?"
"Wow," Gage said. "You really are relentless, aren't you?"
"You just grabbed my breast, and you say I'm relentless? Come on, I'll get my iPad for you."
It was on the nightstand next to the bed, in a case that looked a like old parchment. As he held it in his hands, she leaned close, typing in a password and activating the screen. He felt the heat coming off her in waves. A bead of sweat trickled from her temple down to her cheek. She swiped her fingers across the screen, tapped an icon, and brought up an Internet browser. The way her hands moved, with such deftness and purpose, was like a miniature ballet.
"Judging by the look on your face," she said, "I take it you haven't used one of these before."
"I've played around with Alex's iPhone," Gage said. "But this is amazing."
"Rethinking your approach to technology?"
"Not in the slightest."
She laughed. This was a good laugh, the laugh of someone who'd forgotten to be self-conscious. He'd always been a sucker for a woman's laugh. As she laughed, he became mesmerized by her lips again. He noticed the slight residue of lipstick, a color of pink that nearly matched her lips, as if she wanted to wear lipstick but didn't want anyone to know. He noticed the chewed-up skin on the lower lip, where she obviously bit when she was nervous. He noticed the sheen of sweat under her nose.
She noticed him noticing, and, whether on purpose or not, leaned a bit closer. He felt her breath on his neck.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
The Lovely Wicked Rain: An Oregon Coast Mystery (Garrison Gage Series) Page 13