Bone on Bone:

by Julia Keller

  “And he’s still on the lam.” Jake let out a frustrated sigh. “Okay, well—then how about another employee, since Alex Banville’s out of the picture? Guy like Foley must have a slew of low-level losers who do his dirty work. Tyler Topping can’t be his only flunky. Even if Foley didn’t specifically send the shooter, anybody who worked for him would’ve been in Brett Topping’s file. Ergo—they’d have a reason to want Topping gone. And to get that file.”

  “‘Ergo’?” Bell looked amused.

  “Had a lot of free time lately. Been reading.”

  “Good. It’ll keep you out of trouble. So—you’re right. If it wasn’t Foley, then it could’ve been anybody on his payroll.”

  “But it’s got to be Foley,” Jake said.

  “Hard to argue against it. Who else had reason to be angry at Brett Topping?”

  Jake pondered the question. “Anybody who made less money than he did. Topping drove an Escalade, right? Nice ride.”

  “If he’d been another kind of person, I might agree,” Bell answered. “But by all accounts—and from what I remember—he was a decent, likable guy. Low-key. Personable. Not some arrogant asshole. The Escalade was his only real indulgence.”

  “How about that house?”

  Bell shook her head. “I still don’t see it. I don’t buy some jealous person happening to come by on a Friday night, gun in hand, to shoot Topping. And then to go tear up his house—and not take any valuables.”

  Jake groaned. “So—Foley.” He smacked a hand on the tabletop, making the whole thing shimmy precariously. “I hate it when we end up right where we started,” he declared. “Just hate it.”

  “Better than spinning our wheels all night long.” The words were out before Bell could catch herself. “God, Jake, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Forget it,” he said, interrupting her. “But with your permission, now I will have that beer. You sure you won’t join me?”

  Bell’s cell rang.

  “It’s Rhonda,” she said, eyeing the caller ID.

  She listened. Jake waited politely to get his Rolling Rock out of the fridge until she was off the phone.

  When Bell clicked off the call three minutes later, she was tempted to indulge as well.

  Because the case they’d assumed would be wrapped up the moment they tracked down Deke Foley had just blown wide open.

  Yes, Deke Foley had been found.

  But he could not have murdered Brett Topping.

  * * *

  “What the hell?”

  Jake’s voice sounded more angry than interrogative. So angry that he forgot all about his Rolling Rock.

  He hadn’t been privy to Rhonda’s explanation over the phone, and so when Bell set down her cell and relayed the news to him—Deke Foley had an absolutely airtight alibi—he glared at her and sputtered his response.

  “It’s true,” Bell said.

  “Come on! That rat bastard’s pulling something. Alibi? Come on. Either he paid somebody to lie for him or he—”

  “No. No, Jake. He didn’t do it.”

  Bell abruptly rose from her chair. The chair was so spindly that the force of her motion knocked it sideways. It bounced twice on the cheap yellow linoleum.

  Jake didn’t notice. He was still seething.

  “So you tell me,” he demanded, pointing a finger at her, “and you tell me right now.” He had to keep moving that finger because Bell was pacing now, back and forth, back and forth. It only took two and a half steps to get from one end of the kitchen to the other, but she still found the activity satisfying. “Tell me how a drug dealer who knew Brett Topping had been keeping a file on him—a file that could mess up his whole danged operation—and who had threatened Topping—somehow takes himself out of the running as a suspect when Topping turns up shot to death in his own driveway?”

  “Okay,” Bell said. “I’ll tell you.”

  And she proceeded to repeat to Jake the information Rhonda had just imparted to her:

  On the afternoon of Topping’s death—six hours before the murder—Deke Foley lost control of his car on a stretch of interstate in Bulger County, three counties away from Raythune. His vehicle struck a tree at a high rate of speed. He had no ID. The car had stolen plates. So nobody knew who he was. Suffering from a traumatic brain injury as well as multiple fractures and significant blood loss, he had been unconscious since the accident.

  He had awakened a few hours ago and was finally able to mumble his name to hospital authorities. They notified local law enforcement.

  At which point an alert Bulger County deputy had recalled the bulletin from the Raythune County Sheriff’s Department. The one that asked for cooperation in apprehending a murder suspect named Deke Foley.

  “Damn,” Jake said. Throughout Bell’s story he had gradually settled down.

  “Yeah.”

  “So if Foley didn’t kill Topping and ransack the house, then who did?”

  “You’re half-right.”

  “Huh?”

  “Foley didn’t kill Topping. But he did ransack the house. Only he did it before the murder was committed,” Bell said.

  “What?”

  “Foley showed up at the house that afternoon. Ellie Topping had already left for Charleston. And Tyler was in Bretherton County. So nobody was home. Foley tossed the place, but he didn’t find the file. His plan was to come back later that night—after his trip to Bulger County. He had a big drug deal going on over there. When he came back, he’d confront Topping. Force him to give up the file.”

  “But he never made it back.”

  “Right. He didn’t.”

  “So how do you know it was him who broke in that afternoon?” Jake asked.

  “Once he regained consciousness this morning, Foley admitted it.” Bell picked up her chair. She sat it back down again at the dinette. “As I recall from my conversation with Rhonda just now, Foley’s exact quote to the Bulger County deputy was, ‘Yeah, I tore up that damned fancy house, but I sure as hell didn’t off the guy. I’m a drug dealer. I ain’t no murderer.’”

  Jake shook his head. “Sorry we offended his tender sensibilities by accusing him,” he said. “Selling narcotics that ruin lives and destroy families and cause a shitload of misery—yep. Killing somebody—nope.” He made a snorting sound. “Time to break out the halos for that boy.”

  Bell went back to her legal pad. She tore off the top sheet and wadded it up into a ball. She flipped it at Jake.

  “Think fast,” she said.

  He caught it in one hand and then side-armed it into the trash can, banking it off the side of the refrigerator.

  “What’s next?” he said.

  “What’s next is starting over.”

  He groaned. “I’m listening.”

  “Okay. So Foley didn’t kill Brett Topping. And he didn’t break into the bank a few hours later, either, to keep searching for the file. Because at the time, he was flat on his back and hooked up to a ventilator. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved somehow. Foley obviously knows more than he’s saying.”

  “How do we find out? Even if we got ourselves over to the Bulger County Hospital, Foley’s not going to tell us a damned thing.” Jake’s smile was grim. “In fact, more than likely he’ll tell us to go screw ourselves.”

  “You’re right. But he might be a little more forthcoming with one of his colleagues.”

  “I still don’t see how we could—”

  “Where’d I leave my purse? I need to get a business card out of my billfold.”

  * * *

  “Hi, Glenna. It’s Bell Elkins.” Having punched the number into her cell, Bell slipped the business card back into the slot where she’d kept it since her last conversation with the night nursing supervisor at Evening Street Clinic.

  “Bell! Oh, my goodness—so great to hear your voice. How are you?”

  “I’m doing well. Thanks. And listen, Glenna—I’d love to catch up, but I’m pressed for time right now. I need your help.”
/>
  “Sure.”

  “Do you know anybody who works in the ICU of Bulger County Hospital? A nursing school colleague, maybe? Anybody?”

  “Oh, yeah. This is a small region. The nurses and doctors all pretty much know each other. The head of ICU over there is an old friend of mine. Sheila Baugh. You want her number?”

  “I’d be much obliged. Oh—and how’d your granddaughter do? At the pageant in Charleston?”

  Pride gleamed in Glenna’s voice. “She was wonderful! Came in second place. First in the talent competition. You ought to see that child twirl a baton. Poetry in motion. Okay—got the number right here. Sheila will do whatever she can for you. Good gal. Be sure and tell her you’re a friend of mine.”

  “I will.”

  “And stop in and say hello sometime, okay? You know where to find me.”

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, Bell had what she needed.

  Jake had watched her work, listening to her side of calls, both outgoing and incoming. He’d craved a beer but stuck to a bottle of water—and got one for her, too, from the fridge—because he wanted to stay as sharp as she was.

  “Let me finish making my notes so I can call Rhonda,” Bell said, “and then we’ll talk.”

  He waited. A few minutes later, Bell put down her pen. She rubbed her eyes. Finished off her water bottle.

  “Okay,” she said. “First—Shelia Baugh really came through. You heard me ask her to hang out in Foley’s room if he started to make any phone calls. And he did. When she called me back just now, she gave me a full report. Now, if I was a prosecutor—I couldn’t use it. It’s hearsay. And Foley hasn’t had a Miranda warning. But I’m not a prosecutor anymore. So I can run with it.”

  “Is this where I talk about silver linings? Or making lemonade out of lemons?” Jake said, a puckish grin on his face. “You lose your job—but it frees you up to solve this case?”

  “No, this is not where you talk about that,” Bell said, “unless you want another paper-wad missile aimed at your head. Anyway—Foley called one of his thugs. Shelia made that assumption based on how Foley talked. Like a boss. He praised the person he was talking to. Best she could tell from Foley’s side of the conversation, Foley was going over details with the person. Mentioned the fact that he’d contacted him before his car accident, complaining that the file wasn’t in the Topping house. His search that afternoon had turned up bupkis. So apparently Foley’s employee showed some initiative. Took matters into his own hands. Went to the bank the next morning, put a gun to the janitor’s head, forced her to open the door. Searched the office for the file. All without having to deal with the bank’s security system.”

  “So who was it? Who did Foley call?”

  “Don’t know. There was no way for the nurse to tell. Foley never used the guy’s name.”

  “But at least we know your theory was right—somebody was working with Foley. And that somebody went to the bank and kept searching for the file,” Jake said.

  “Yeah.”

  “How about the murder? Did Foley talk about that in his call?”

  Bell shook her head. “He was about to, Sheila thinks, when he got interrupted. Tech came in the room to take him for his MRI. That was it.”

  “Damn those pesky life-saving procedures,” Jake muttered.

  “Yeah.”

  “And then you called Sandy Banville. Anything useful there?”

  “She sounded terribly upset. Really agitated. Semi-hysterical. When I told her how sorry I was about Alex, she started sobbing.”

  “I was kind of surprised,” Jake said, “that you didn’t push her harder about covering up his drug addiction.”

  “Why would I? Rhonda had already done plenty of pushing. I called Rhonda last night, relaying Nick’s information about Alex. She made an appointment with the Banvilles for first thing this morning. She texted me on my way over here. She talked to Sandy and Rex for several hours. And Alex’s sister, Sara.”

  “Anything useful?”

  “Rhonda’s not sure yet. Still going through her interview notes. They claim Alex never would’ve worked for a man like Foley, but—who knows? They also hid his drug addiction. Or at least Sandy did. Rhonda doesn’t think Rex even knew. He travels a lot for his business. Seemed out of the family loop, Rhonda said. He was just devastated by the news of Alex’s addiction. Sandy, it turns out, has been the point person on hiding their son’s troubles. Took it all on herself.” Bell moved her neck back and forth, and then around in a circle, working out the kinks. “I didn’t want to echo the same line of questioning that Rhonda had used. Sandy would be expecting that. Anyway, by the time I called her, not mentioning Alex’s problem was the better strategy.”

  “Because…?” Jake asked dubiously.

  “Because she kept waiting for me to. Incredible stress. By the end of the call, she was barely coherent.”

  He nodded.

  “How about your third call?” he asked. “That guy you were talking to—from what you were asking him, he’s like an ATF agent, right?”

  “He is. Frank Martz. I knew him back in D.C. Long time ago. We were pretty close.”

  Jake waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Oh, stop,” Bell said. She rolled her eyes. “But—okay, yeah. There was something between us. But I wasn’t divorced yet, and then once I was—well, I was leaving. No point to it.” She shook her head, changing the subject. “Now that we know Foley wasn’t the shooter, we can start trying to figure out who was. I asked Frank to check his records from shooting ranges in the area. See who signed up for handgun lessons over the past several months. If any familiar names pop up, he’ll call.”

  “The government tracks that?”

  “The government tracks everything, Jake.”

  He nodded sheepishly. “Okay. I’m a naïve dope.”

  “That’s okay. You’ll wise up one of these days.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Later that afternoon, Ellie sat in the doll room and waited for the sun to work its magic. She needed some magic.

  That noise.

  She knew it well. It meant someone was coming up the stairs.

  Why wouldn’t they leave her alone? All she wanted was to be by herself—here in the only place where she could feel any peace. Here in the place that knew the worst about her but that embraced her still. The place that would always forgive her.

  But someone was interrupting her. She was never safe anymore.

  A knock on the door.

  “Ma’am?”

  The door opened. She saw a big brown hat. Flat-brimmed, with a thin gold braid around the crown. A brown uniform.

  “Ma’am, I’m Sheriff Harrison. We spoke on the night your husband was killed. I’m sorry to just barge in like this, but we rang the front doorbell and waited for a long time. Then we reached your son over at Jake Oakes’s house. Tyler told us that you come up here a lot. And that sometimes you can’t hear the doorbell.”

  She stared at the intruder.

  “Ma’am?” the sheriff repeated.

  Now, at last, Ellie reacted. Since Brett’s death she had had a delayed reaction to everything, as if her brain was operating in a different time zone from the one her body occupied.

  “Yes. Yes, all right. Fine.”

  “I have some information,” the sheriff said. She looked around the small room, at the books arranged so carefully on the shelves, the round table, the window with its neat white trim. Sunlight touched each of those items like a friendly little pat on the head. “I’d like to speak with you. We could stay up here or maybe go down to the living room where you might be more comfort—”

  “Here’s fine.”

  Harrison shifted her feet. “Okay.” She took off her hat, wedging it up into her right armpit. “As you know, we’ve been working under the assumption that Deke Foley was responsible for your husband’s murder. He needed to find the file your husband kept. We speculated that he confronted your husband in the driveway
and—when your husband wouldn’t agree to give him the file, well—”

  “He shot him.” Did they think she wouldn’t say it, couldn’t say it? Saying it didn’t matter. Brett was still gone, either way.

  “Right. And then ransacked your house. Looking for the file.”

  “Well, isn’t that what happened?”

  “No. Deke Foley could not have done it.”

  “What?”

  “He was in the hospital. Three counties away.”

  Ellie shook her head, blinking rapidly in confusion. “But my house—who tore it up?”

  “Foley. He did that in the afternoon, after you had left for Charleston. Looking for the file your husband told him about. When he didn’t find it, he planned to come back later—but he never got the chance. A big tree over in Bulger County—and Foley’s habit of driving at a high rate of speed on dangerous curves, after drinking a fifth of Jack—made sure of that.”

  Ellie was stunned. She was so still, for so long, that the sheriff was slightly afraid to rouse her. But she had to.

  “Mrs. Topping, are you all right?”

  “So who killed Brett?” she said, her voice rising. “Who did it?”

  “We’ve actually had a confession. Late this afternoon.”

  “A confession? Oh, my God—who—”

  “Your neighbor. Sandy Banville.”

  Ellie uttered a short gasp. “What? How—but why?”

  “She holds you and Brett responsible for Alex’s addiction. That’s what she told us. She just keeps repeating, over and over again, that Tyler introduced Alex to drugs. Her son was a good boy. The best. And then Tyler got hold of him.”

  “Tyler didn’t—”

  “Sometimes people have to have somebody else to blame, Mrs. Topping. It’s the only way they can go on.” Harrison shifted her hat to her other armpit. “She told us that she’d been waiting for the opportunity to assault either you or your husband. To make you pay. She wanted you to hurt as badly as she was hurting.”

  “But we were hurting. Tyler had ruined our lives. Good God, we were devas—”

  “Sandy Banville doesn’t see it like that. She said you and Brett escaped any real pain. Because Tyler was … ordinary. Not special, like Alex. So your loss was less than hers. Far, far less.” Harrison waited for Ellie to speak. When she didn’t, the sheriff continued. “On the night of the murder, Brett came home first. And so he was the target. Sandy watched him pull into your driveway. Something took hold of her. An anger that was worse than any anger she’d ever felt. An uncontrollable grief. Somebody had to pay. Somebody, she said, had to answer for what had happened to Alex. You and Brett were responsible for bringing Tyler into the world. And so—she crossed the street and she did it. She murdered your husband.”