by Mike Knowles
“He might pick up.”
Scopes snorted and took a seat at a desk out of earshot. He put his feet up and spoke loud enough for Jones to hear. “This enough room for proper confidentiality?”
Jones turned one of the frames. “Maybe you should make your own call to your wife and ask her why none of the kids look like you.”
Scopes barked a laugh. “Not my desk. Not even my precinct.” An empty cup on the desk caught his eye and he put his feet back on the floor. “I’m going to hit up the coffee machine, so you can have a little more privacy.” He used air quotes for the word privacy just in case his tone didn’t properly convey his distaste. “Tell your lawyer I said good morning, and don’t think I’m bringing you back any coffee.”
Jones dialled Ruth’s number. She had told him that Peter would be waiting for his call. He hoped she had been telling the truth.
29
Dan Pembleton was at the precinct by six. The lawyer looked exactly like a television actor playing a high-priced attorney. His body had the build of the university rower he had once been, and his hair had just the right amount of grey to look wise without appearing old. The locks on his briefcase popped loudly, and Pembleton removed a yellow legal pad from inside. He closed the case and put it on the floor before he took a seat in the plastic chair opposite Jones. Pembleton dipped a tanned hand into the inner pocket of his suit and took out an expensive looking pen. He turned the pen, wrote the date at the top of the page, and then finally looked at Jones.
“It’s good to have friends in high places,” he said.
Peter had answered the call from the station, and after he had listened to what Jones had to say, he woke Ruth. “I only have the one.”
“Lucky for you that one friend is the only person who could get me out of bed before the sun came up.”
Jones answered every question Pembleton asked. He went through what had happened at the motel and then made Jones go through it again. He didn’t ask how a damaged motel room related to one of the richest women in the city, but he was interested in why a homicide detective had been the one to interview him. Jones told Pembleton just enough, but he never mentioned Adam. That story was for Ruth first. Pembleton knew Jones was holding back information and he was not happy about it. Jones sat through a serious lecture fueled by the lawyer’s frustration from the early morning wake-up call, but he kept his mouth shut. When Pembleton was done blowing off steam, he told Jones to sit tight and let him handle things.
At eleven, Jones was in front of a judge and at eleven forty-five, he was in the parking lot standing next to Pembleton’s Bentley, talking to the lawyer through the driver side window.
“How much did you have to offer the motel to drop the charges?”
Pembleton didn’t look up from his phone. “Enough to renovate the whole place.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Not really. That place is a shithole. I expensed the shoes I was wearing when I went over there. I wouldn’t even bring them into my car after I set foot in that place.” Pembleton turned the rear-view mirror so that he could check his hair. “That your kind of place, Jones?”
“I was trying to lay low,” Jones said.
“Because of that detective?”
Jones nodded.
“I would say you accomplished your goal then because there is absolutely no way you could have gone lower.” A melodious chime rang and Pembleton took a moment to glance at his phone. He looked back at Jones and gave him his full thousand-dollar-an-hour attention. “I spoke to that detective. He was a serious customer. I know I said it once, but I am going to say it again, so pay attention. You were holding back with me and that was stupid. I can’t defend you if you’re treating me like the enemy. That cop likes you for something and he’s a homicide detective, so it can’t be anything good.”
Pembleton waited for Jones to give him the standard “I’m innocent” rap. One well-groomed eyebrow arched when he realized it wasn’t coming. He picked up his phone and quickly opened an app. After a few quick swipes with his index finger, Pembleton said, “I want you at my office tomorrow at four. I think we have more to discuss, and I want to be prepared to do something about that cop who wants to arrest you so badly.” He typed the appointment into his phone and then looked at Jones. “I mean four in the afternoon. I don’t care if it is a favour to Ruth Verne. I won’t be coming to save you this early again.”
“Thanks, Dan.”
He pointed at Jones. “Tomorrow at four. Got it? The only reason it’s not today is because Ruth told me she wanted to talk with you first.”
Jones nodded and Pembleton gave the phone a final glance before putting the Bentley in gear.
“Can I get a lift?”
Pembleton put on a pair of sunglasses and looked at Jones with a smile on his face. “A call from Ruth Verne gets you a lawyer, not an Uber. Stay out of trouble and don’t forget about tomorrow.” The Bentley purred as it began to accelerate away from Jones. “And good luck with Ruth.”
30
Jones booked an Uber to get him back to the motel and then dialled the same number he had called from the police station. Peter answered faster this time, and Jones wondered if he had been sitting beside the phone ever since he put it down.
“Verne residence.”
“I’m out, Peter.”
Peter went quiet and Jones heard a faint sniff through the receiver. “I will tell her that you are on your way.”
The Uber showed up two minutes early, and Jones was glad that the driver wasn’t interested in talking. When they got to the motel, Jones saw the driver double-check the destination. When he looked over his shoulder and said, “We’re here,” Jones could see from the look on his face that he wondered why anyone would want to be.
Pembleton hadn’t been kidding about the payoff because the motel manager actually smiled and waved to Jones when he saw him get out of the Uber. Jones picked up the Jeep and drove home to eat, shower, and change. Twenty minutes later, he was back on the road two days early for his end-of-the-month appointment.
Ruth Verne lived in a house that Jones thought of as a mansion, but that was only because he didn’t know a word for something bigger. Jones had been to the house more than seventy times, and he had only set foot in two rooms—the living room and Adam’s room. On his first visit, Ruth had interviewed Jones in the living room. After Jones had agreed to take her case, she forced herself to allow Jones to go through Adam’s things. The room had already been scoured countless times by the police, but that had been years before, and the fresh invasion stung. Jones could see the pain on her face as she led him to the room and he heard it in her heavy footsteps when she walked away. Jones was careful, and respectful, but he was also thorough. When he was finished, he eased the door shut and then sat down on the hallway floor with Ruth while she cried. That first time in Adam’s room was his last; every visit that followed took place in the living room. The space was large and bookcases surrounded the furniture like guards at the ready. Jones had walked the perimeter of the room many times while he waited for Ruth, and he found that the rarest books in her collection were those with creaseless spines. Ruth said she had stopped sleeping after Adam disappeared, and the onslaught of TV reporters and seemingly around-the-clock discussion of Adam’s disappearance had left her with a distaste for television, so she read anything she could get her hands on.
Jones was buzzed through the gates and he found Peter waiting for him at the door. The butler led Jones to the living room without a word or a look over his shoulder. Ruth was seated in a chocolate brown leather chair. The chair was positioned in the corner of the room next to a bookcase and a window. Jones knew that the chair was where she spent most of her nights, reading and watching the street. The chair was old and the leather soft and creased. Ruth had a habit of tracing the lines running across the arm with her finger whenever she sat in the chair. Toda
y, her hands were folded white-knuckle tight in her lap. Peter stopped next to the chair and quietly asked Ruth if there was anything she would like. Ruth shook her head without taking her eyes off Jones.
After Peter left, Ruth said, “You look like shit.”
Canada may have been her home, but Trinidad had never left her voice. Jones walked to the desk on the other side of the room and retraced his steps holding an antique wooden chair. He placed the chair across from Ruth and gently reintroduced it to his weight. The chair creaked loudly, but it shut up once Jones was seated.
Ruth, in a plain black t-shirt and faded jeans that hugged her legs, ran a hand through her white hair. Her hair was healthy and it defied gravity, like the plumage of an exotic bird.
She took off her red round-framed glasses and used her shirt to dry the tears that had fallen on the lenses. When she put the glasses back on, she took another look at Jones and said, “You really do look like shit.”
Jones nodded.
Ruth took a deep breath. The air made a loud noise as it entered her nose and she held it there like a diver refusing to surface. Eventually, Jones heard a loud reluctant exhale. “Peter told me that you know everything.”
Jones nodded again.
“You found him?”
Ruth was smart enough to know that good news wouldn’t show up like this, but she was hopeful. The sound of the hope in her voice made Jones wince: he knew he’d be the one to put an end to it.
“I’m sorry—”
Ruth put her face into her hands and began to weep. Sound lurched out from somewhere deep inside her. The noise had no harmony or soft notes. It was the bellow of a great beast left caged for so long that it had forgotten what it was and called only for an end. Peter heard the sound and came rushing into the room. Ruth rose to meet him and their bodies collided hard enough to force the breath from Peter’s lungs. Jones turned his head from the pair; witnessing their moment of intimacy made him feel like an interloper.
Jones shifted in his chair and Ruth’s back went rigid at the sound. She dragged her face away from Peter’s chest and aimed two red eyes at Jones. “I want to know—I want to know what happened.”
Peter said, “Ruth—”
Jones had never heard the man ever call her anything but Ms. Verne. Witnessing the pair grieve in front of him dissected their relationship and exposed the parts they kept most private. Jones felt the shame of his intrusion in the pit of his stomach.
“No,” Ruth said. She placed an hand on Peter’s chest and slowly pushed him back. “I need to know.”
Peter nodded and stepped back. He slowly extended his hands and lifted the glasses off her face. “I will make you some tea.”
Ruth used her sleeve to dry her eyes. “Only if tea means rum.”
“I mean tea.” Peter looked at Jones and then back at Ruth. “Rum will come later.”
After he left, Jones said, “Ruth—”
She waved her hand and cut him off. “Save it. I know you’re sorry.” Her chin quivered and her voice faltered. Ruth looked at the wall and cleared her throat. When she looked back at Jones, her chin was steady and her eyes were wet. “Tell me who murdered my son.”
“His name was Kevin McGregor.”
Ruth turned her head and cried into her fist. Jones waited as her sobs became less intense and her formidable will took over again. When Ruth looked at Jones again, she said, “Kevin McGregor.” Jones watched Ruth sift through years of police reports and newspaper articles in her head. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“He wasn’t in any of the reports and his name wasn’t in the news until recently.”
“Recently?”
Jones ignored the question. “He was never a person of interest.”
“Then who was he? How did he—”
“He was a building inspector for the city,” Jones said.
“Building inspector?”
“He met Adam when you were building the pool house in the backyard. There were some issues with permits and McGregor showed up on your property three times.” Jones paused for a second and then he said, “Officially.”
“Officially?”
“He talked to Adam the first two times he was in your yard. Just a hey and a high-five. After that, he made it a point to check the job site when he could. He would watch Adam from his van. On his third official visit, he spoke with Adam about a tree house after he saw him trying to nail a board into a tree to make a ladder rung.”
“I remember that,” Ruth said. “He got a tick on his leg when he was back there. I panicked. I had never seen one before. I was sure that he was going to get Lyme disease, or an infection. I told him he wasn’t allowed to go back there anymore. It was—”
“‘Too dangerous,’” Jones said. “That was what Adam told Kevin McGregor.”
“He told him about that?” Ruth’s jaw hung slack. “Why would he tell him about that?”
“He wanted a tree house and he was mad that his mother had said no.”
Ruth shook her head. “No, no. The pool house and backyard renovations were finished months before Adam was taken. It couldn’t be this person. No, you’re wrong.” The prospect of Jones being wrong about what had happened to Adam made Ruth sound relieved and a little manic.
Jones hated ruining the tiny sliver of hope she had created for herself. “You’re right, your renovations ended months before Adam was taken. Other people in the neighbourhood started their own renos after your yard made the life and style section of the paper. Your contractor did similar work at two of your neighbours’ houses. Both projects required—”
“Permits,” Ruth said.
Jones nodded. “The permits gave Kevin a reason to be around. To the contractors, he was a nuisance; to Adam, he was a safe adult with an official truck, an ID badge, and a bunch of tools that he said he would let Adam use.”
“He never told me about any of this.”
“He wouldn’t have. Kevin convinced Adam that it should be a secret. Adam told him what he wanted his tree house to look like and Kevin said he would draw up plans. They made a deal to build it together when no one was around.”
Ruth was horrified. “They made plans. He never told me. He never told me any of this. Peter, did you know?”
Jones looked over his shoulder and saw Peter standing in the doorway with a tray in his hands. He slowly shook his head and Ruth began to cry.
“How could no one know, Peter?”
Peter rushed to Ruth and set the tray down before taking her hands. He began to apologize over and over again while Ruth cried. Eventually, she pulled away from him and said, “I’m okay.”
It was not convincing and Peter didn’t budge.
“I am,” Ruth said. “Let me go. I need to hear all of it.”
“Are you sure?”
Ruth squeezed Peter’s hand. “I am.”
Peter nodded and stood. He smoothed his clothes and then poured two mugs of tea. He added milk to Jones’, the way he liked it, and placed a mug on the table next to Ruth before passing Jones his. Peter stood, collected the tray, and left the room without another word.
No one touched the tea.
“Get on with it.” She knew that the story was nearing its end; that everything was nearing the end.
“Kevin showed up one day when no one was on-site working. He had been planning it for a while. He told Adam that he had drawn up some blueprints for the tree house and that he had them in his van.”
“Did he have the plans?”
The question surprised Jones, and he had to think about what Kevin had told him when he was on his knees with a gun to his head. “I don’t know.”
“Adam hated it when people lied to him. He always saw the best in people, and it hurt him when they disappointed him.” Ruth shook her head and looked out the window. “God, I sound so stupid.”
>
“No, you don’t,” Jones said.
“What happened next?”
“Adam got into the back of the van with Kevin.”
Ruth sniffed and Jones paused. She was staring at the window, but she sensed Jones looking at her. She nodded her head and Jones kept talking. “Adam said he wanted to get out. Kevin said no.”
Ruth began to cry.
“Kevin said no, and then Adam began to yell for help.”
“What did he say?”
Jones knew who Adam had called for in the small cramped space twenty feet from his front lawn, but he said, “I don’t know.”
Ruth nodded.
“Kevin was worried someone would hear Adam, so he covered his mouth. Adam panicked and they fought. Kevin—killed Adam.”
Ruth shook her head and wiped her eyes. She looked at Jones and spoke through bared teeth. “Goddamn you. Do your job and tell me exactly what happened to my son.”
“He strangled him in the back of his van,” Jones said. “He strangled him and then he panicked. His first instinct was to drive away, but then he got scared that someone might have seen his van across from your place. He was terrified that he was going to get pulled over with Adam’s body in the back of his van, so he drove home and put the van in his garage. Then he wrapped Adam’s body in a plastic sheet and carried his body down to his cold cellar.”
Ruth tilted her head and stared at Jones, trying to comprehend what he had just told her. “Cold cellar?”
Jones nodded. “He placed Adam’s body against the far end and put up a brick wall so that no one would ever be able to find him.”
Ruth was horrified. “Adam has been cold and alone in the dark for all these years?” She stood. “No. Not for a second more. Take me to him.”
Jones stayed in his chair. “He isn’t there, Ruth. Not anymore.”
“What? You said that he bricked Adam inside the cold cellar.” Ruth’s eyes were wild with fear. “Where is he? Where is my son?”
“His body is at the morgue,” Jones said. “The police found him.”