The Redemption Man

by James Carver

  “We’re expecting it to be emailed over midafternoon tomorrow. But I’ve booked in to head down there myself tomorrow lunchtime so I can talk it through with the coroner and follow up any other lines of inquiry the report throws up.”

  If the mayor looked a little surprised by Stevens’s mention of other lines of inquiry, Walker was borderline apoplectic.

  “What the hell do you mean, Greg?” snapped Walker. “What do think the report is going to ‘throw up’?”

  Greg gritted his teeth. Beneath the table his hands were balled up into fists. The lack of sleep and the darkening evening sky outside when he had gotten out of bed an hour ago were not helping him keep a straight head. He began to perspire.

  “Well, Chief,” started Stevens, “I want to see if the coroner’s report gives us anything else to go on, any other lines of inquiry that we might not have covered.”

  “You don’t think the homicide is related to the travelers?” asked Cutter very slowly and clearly as if he thought Stevens was intellectually deficient.

  “I’m not sure…well, actually, I think the evidence we have is circumstantial only. That’s not enough to hand the case over to Cleveland. In fact, I think it may turn out to be a very tough sell.”

  “An easier sell than we don’t fucking know, Greg.”

  “That’s why I’m holding out for something from the autopsy. Something better than circumstantial or ‘we don’t know.’” Walker was now openly looking at Stevens like he was a dead man walking. Which he was but not the way Walker had it down. The mayor wasn’t exactly skipping and smiling sweetly either.

  “I thought you had this under control, Caleb?” said Cutter. “That we had a definite position that I could give to the press this evening?”

  “We do. This is a Gypsy killing, and all other talk is fanciful and careless speculation.”

  “With all due respect, Caleb, that’s not the message your own goddamn deputy is giving out. I expected to come in here and be told this was settled.” Cutter turned his focus onto Stevens. “Greg, I could just overrule you and issue that press line anyway.”

  “You could, but it’s a big gamble. Issuing a press line you may have to go back on. That might turn out to be…embarrassing.”

  “Only if you’re looking to find empty leads and create a shitload of pointless police work,” yelled Walker.

  Stevens held firm. “I strongly suggest we hold back until the coroner’s report is in and we’ve exhausted other leads.”

  Cutter looked at Stevens, unable to hide his displeasure. He leaned forward and jabbed a finger at him. “Listen to me very carefully, Deputy, so you understand exactly what’s going on here. This is the highest-profile case we’ve had in all three of our careers, and it’s now about public confidence in this department and this mayor. The town’s already talking of nothing else, from the young moms in the fair-trade coffee shops to the pensioners watching the local news bulletins from dawn to dusk. This is as serious as it gets, so don’t even think about starting to suddenly play hotshot detective with a conscience at the expense of a homicide investigation and my fucking career. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes. But we can’t close this case before the autopsy…”

  “Yes, yes, Greg, the fucking autopsy…change the fucking record.” Cutter rubbed at his forehead and sat back in his chair. “Fine. We will wait for the autopsy, and I expect to be told tomorrow afternoon that, on the basis of the coroner’s report, we have a line of inquiry and it is the only line of inquiry and it is a line of inquiry that all of us—” Cutter eyed Stevens. “—all of us can live with. Caleb, have another meeting arranged with my assistant for tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, I’ll have to tell the press office to put that response on ice.”

  Cutter left and there was a terrible silence. Walker and Stevens stood. Walker approached Stevens purposefully and squared off with him. His face was red, and a vein running up under the sun-damaged skin on his forehead was raised and angry.

  “Well, you blew that you prick.”

  “I’m not convinced it’s the—”

  “I don’t give a fuck what you’re convinced of. I’m the fucking chief, and I don’t expect to be undermined by my own deputy in front of the fucking mayor. Do you understand?”

  “I was asked my opinion—”

  “I don’t give a fuck about your precious fucking opinion.” Walker moved forward and up into Stevens’s face, his hot, stale breath spreading into Stevens’s mouth and nose. “You picked a hell of a time to be a maverick, Greg.” Then Walker marched out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

  Well, thought Stevens, that could have gone worse.

  13

  Night had fallen on Halton Springs, and the highways, rooftops, cars, forests, and fields were covered by a thin residue of rainfall. Soft, gentle, but persistent rainfall. Out on the Logan Ranch, Miguel Alvarez was finishing off a draining thirteen-hour shift doing the shitwork: mopping the bunkhouse floor, changing oil and busted tires in the shop, hosing down the pulling room floor, cleaning the mud out of the drain. It was endless. A calf wasn’t able to suck on its mother, so his last job was to put the cow in the head catch to be milked so the calf could be fed. That last task done, he was hauling his tired ass to the end of the barn when he spotted a tall thin figure with a slight stoop at the entrance. The harsh barn lighting painted him yellow, making his features appear pale and washed-out and his eyes look like sharp, dark angular slits. He had his hands dropped by his denimed snake hips and stood with his feet a little apart.

  “Hello, Mr. Logan,” said Alvarez.

  “Alvarez. You done with that heifer?”

  “Yes, Mr. Logan.”

  “You changed the hay?”

  “Yes, Mr. Logan.”

  “The bunkhouse clean?”

  “Yes, Mr. Logan.”

  “Anything else you need to tell me?”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Logan.”

  “Anything happen today you want to tell me about?”

  “Nothing specific…” Alvarez walked up past Earl. “Good night, Mr. Logan.” Earl stopped him with a thin, long-fingered hand spread out on his chest. He felt a cold sting pass through his heart. Earl craned over him, looking down into Alvarez’s eyes like a parent to a child.

  “What did you say to the priest, Alvarez?”

  “Nothing. I told him nothing.”

  “You’re lying to me.”

  “No. I’m not. I swear.” Alvarez had heard many stories about Earl Logan’s brutality. He was breathing fast and shallow, and he felt terrified and trapped. Earl’s big, alien-like hand pressed into his chest and his small, dark eyes bore down on him.

  “I know you’re lying,” said Earl. “One of the guys was in the kitchen and overheard you talking to the priest, telling him about Ed.”

  “I just said he worked here. That’s all. Nothing more.”

  “Where are you from, Alvarez?”

  “Morelia. West…”

  “Yeah…a wetback. Packer and my brother brought you in; I didn’t. Seems I can’t help that, but I can teach you how things work on this ranch. Okay? I said, okay?”

  “Okay,” whispered Alvarez.

  “Okay,” said Earl and slowly took his hand away from Alvarez’s chest. Alvarez breathed out, and his body deflated. Suddenly there was an explosion in his stomach and he collapsed, first onto his knees on the barn floor, and then he sunk over, sprawling onto his side. Earl had planted a fist right in his guts.

  “We do not tell anyone about what goes on in this ranch. Okay?” Earl snarled.

  “Okay,” whimpered Alvarez as a sharp boot drove into his lower back, sending screaming pain shooting up the side of his body. He heard the heels of Earl’s boots clicking into the night. Then Alvarez curled into a ball and began to spasm and vomit onto the cold concrete floor.

  14

  Devlin had woken, as he usually did, at five hundred hours. He said his morning prayer from the Divine Office and prayed th
e Rosary, dwelling on the sorrowful mysteries. Then he cold showered, shaved, and dressed in his clerical collar and shirt.

  After he’d visited the Logan Ranch, Devlin had driven around until he found a suitably cheap place to stay called the Country Inn Motel that proclaimed “Hospitality Halton Springs Style.” The decor had been unrefreshed for some time. The cheap wooden furniture was chipped, the carpet looked dull with wear, and the flowery pattern on the bedspread was not Devlin’s style. But it was reasonably priced and clean. Then he had set off to the Sacred Heart in Springfield for Sunday-evening mass. Father Francis, an earnest and good man, had given the mass and read from the Book of Acts. The message of the homily was that God gives endlessly. That God showed no partiality. Where to begin with his personal struggle with that message, thought Devlin. Then he returned to the hotel and passed out on the bed.

  By the time he’d gotten into the Explorer in the motel parking lot, it was six thirty. The light rain that had fallen in the night had passed, but the town was still damp. Morning sun had just broken through, but it was still fresh rather than warm. Devlin pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket with an address taken from Ed’s GPS. The address was in downtown Columbus, an office on East Broad Street. Devlin left the hotel parking lot and headed east out of Halton, then south before turning onto a near gridlocked I-70 where he hit heavy morning traffic. After a grueling drive on the interstate, he came off on Cleveland Avenue and arrived in East Broad Street by nine o’clock.

  The offices at this address were definitely on the grand side. Four stories of clean granite with wreaths and other decorations reminiscent of Imperial Rome were sculpted into the stone facade. The plate by the large steel and glass entrance announced that these were the offices of “Trayder Stein and Associates. Financial and Legal Consultants.”

  Devlin walked into the lobby which was as pristine and as well-appointed as the exterior. The high walls were covered with gold and brown white-veined marble. There were low, round, dark wood tables placed here and there surrounded by white, low leather chairs with dark wood frames that matched the tables. Opposite the entrance, past the tables and chairs and next to the elevator, was a high reception desk. The desk was a curved white block that looked like a modern sculpture. Behind the desk stood a young man and woman who were immaculately turned out.

  Devlin’s cell buzzed. It was Stevens texting him to tell him to meet at Montgomery County Coroners for half past three. Devlin checked his watch, still only a little after nine—plenty of time. Then he heard the receptionists call out almost in unison, “Morning, Mr. Stein.”

  A man not far off Devlin’s height, just a little under, with a ponytail and wearing a double-breasted suit, a cowboy string tie, and carrying a leather briefcase, walked in. He reminded Devlin of Penn out of Penn and Teller, but less classy. Devlin saw an opening, and before Stein had reached the elevator, he had caught up and was walking side by side with him.

  “Mr. Stein?” Stein wheeled around and caught sight of Devlin alongside him. Before Stein could react, Devlin said, “I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr. Stein. I’m Father Devlin.” And in that moment, as cool and as self-possessed as Stein was, he gave away something to Devlin—a glimmer of recognition and surprise at the mention of Devlin’s name. But Devlin was so intent on making the contact with Stein that he didn’t quite catch it.

  “Hello, Father,” said Stein, quickly assuming an innocent and slightly confused expression.

  “Hi,” replied Devlin. “This is going to sound very strange, I know, but I’m looking for a friend of mine. Someone I’m having trouble locating, and I think his work might have taken him to your offices.”

  “Okay…well, I’m not going to be able to help you. A lot of people come here, and most of them I don’t even get to see.”

  “His name’s Ed James.”

  “No. Never heard that name,” Stein replied without hesitation. “You’re probably better off asking the receptionists. They’re the ones that see everyone come and go. Now, you’ll really have to excuse me, I have a meeting for nine which I’m already late for…”

  Stein was about to go when it caught up with Devlin—Stein’s first flicker of a reaction, a reaction so easy to dismiss as a product of one’s own imagination, but Devlin saw a flash of something important there.

  “Have we met before?” asked Devlin.

  “I’m sorry?” said Stein, his manner stiffening.

  “Something in your look…when I said my name… Sounds crazy, I know, but it was as if you knew me…or knew of me.”

  “No. I tell you what it is…” Stein blustered. “You look very much like a business associate of mine out of Michigan. Very handsome-looking guy too—you should be flattered.”

  “Well, I believed you right up until handsome,” said Devlin. Stein laughed a little unsurely. “Is he a priest too?” asked Devlin.

  “No, it’s more an aspect of your face than your”—Stein made a flourishing gesture with his hand—“garb. Anyhow, I do hope you find your friend.”

  “Oh, I will Mr. Stein. I will.” Devlin grabbed Stein’s free hand, placing it between his own, pressing firmly and looking directly at him. It made Stein deeply uncomfortable. “Thing about me,” continued Devlin, “is I don’t let go of things. Ever. It’s a flaw really. Always been the way, a motor that keeps on whirring inside me pushing me on, forcing me to ask questions, interrupt busy men in their own lobby. Anyway, you’ll definitely recognize me if we meet again.” He let Stein’s hand drop. “Tell your friend out of Minnesota he’s got a doppelganger.”

  “I will.” Stein turned to the elevator in haste; then he paused and turned back, calling after Devlin. “Except it’s Michigan, Father.”

  “Of course it is, Mr. Stein. Of course it is.”

  Stein exited the elevator, stormed down the corridor, and burst past his secretary, ignoring her greeting, and went straight into his office. He flung his leather case against the wood-paneled walls.

  “Bastard. Son of a bitch. Oh? He thinks he’s gonna spook me out? ‘If we meet again’?”

  Trayder fell into his cream swing chair and chewed at his manicured nails. The whole search for Ed James had stalled. He hadn’t managed to turn up a thing. And now this man Devlin that he’d paid good money to track had turned up on his doorstep unannounced. He took out his cell and ran through his contacts.

  Five hundred miles away in a Boston motel, Rick Bradley sat at a desk hunched over a pile of credit card statements and letters. They were a wad of Devlin’s personal paperwork that the two PIs had removed from the key safe at St. Jude’s. Bradley had been obsessively sifting through the documents since they’d checked into their rooms, looking for anything, any chink of light that might give a view of Devlin’s real self. His private self. At first, Bradley had been filled with the thrill of a voyeur. But now, after many hours of solitary, painstaking work, his resolve was beginning to wane.

  Otterman was laid out on the bed behind him playing Call of Duty on an iPad.

  “You know they serve the breakfast here on paper plates, Bradley?”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Bradley, barely paying attention.

  “Paper fucking plates. Like being at a children’s birthday party. I half expected a clown to turn up and start handing out candy.”

  Bradley was spooling through papers about to reply with another “Yeah, I know” when a chorus of “La Bamba” blared out and Bradley’s cell shook from side to side on the hotel comforter. Otterman cursed. Bradley reached over and picked the cell up, looked at the number, took a deep breath, and answered.

  “Hello, Mr. Stein?”

  “Okay. So here’s the latest,” said Stein. “I just got the priest ringing on my doorbell playing the concerned holy man, and I didn’t like it, not one fucking bit.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, spinning me a number about how he’s looking for Ed James. I have no idea how he got hold of my address, but I never, ever put myself in a position where someone e
lse knows more about me than I do about them. Listen, I liked what you two dug up on Devlin yesterday. It intrigued my client, and my client likes to be intrigued…”

  “That’s good news, Mr. Stein.”

  “So get me some more.”

  “Er…okay. Like what?”

  “I don’t know ‘like what’—like something we can use on him. Comprendes?” But Bradley wasn’t so sure he did “comprendes.”

  “Mr. Stein. It is just possible that there is nothing we can dig up on him.”

  “Bullshit, my friend. You and I both know there is nobody—nobody—in our long association that we haven’t been able to get the goods on. Everybody has something they don’t want entering the public arena. Maybe it’s a busty widow he got friendly with, maybe it’s a particularly alluring choirboy, or maybe there’s a hard drive somewhere with images on that would entail a lengthy prison sentence and great shame. He is a Catholic priest for crying out loud. You did good. Now I want you to do better. Come up with something that will wipe this guy out of our lives. For results on this, I’ll pay double.”

  “Right. Okay, Mr.—” Bradley began, but Stein had rung off, and Bradley put down the cell.

  “How’d it go?” asked Otterman.

  “You know, it wasn’t too bad. He almost sounded subdued. For Stein.”

  “What’s subdued mean?”

  “Never mind. He said we get double if we get something he can use on the priest.”

  “Double? Holy shit. He was impressed with what we did at the church, see? I told you it was the right thing to do. Course, if he had a computer… I know a guy who works in a computer repair shop in Columbus who make things appear on a person’s cell phone that would make your heart stop.”

  “No, Otterman. We need to turn up something more…robust.”

  “Well, short of bugging the guy’s confession, I don’t know how we’d do that.” Bradley’s eyes suddenly widened, and he swiveled around in his chair so quickly that Otterman actually looked up from playing Call of Duty.