Beyond Belief

by Roy Johansen

  “You're talking about the money.”

  “You're keeping that program afloat.”

  “I make several endowments to the university. The parapsychology program just happens to be one.”

  “You're aware of the fact that a lot of the people at the university just wish the program would go away.”

  “Of course.” Ness chuckled. “Many people in my own companies wish it would go away too. But I think it's important to study the paranormal in a scientific manner. You should appreciate that, Mr. Bailey. So much of the evidence is purely anecdotal. If my endowment can help advance our knowledge in the field, then it's worth it.”

  “Does it frustrate you that the program has yet to find one verifiable occurrence of paranormal activity?”

  “What about Jesse Randall?”

  Could Ness see the tension in his face? How? “I'm still working on that,” Joe said.

  “And they have a medium who shows promise, don't they?”

  “Suzanne Morrison. I'm seeing her again soon, so I wouldn't get your hopes up.”

  “I see.” He paused. “I really wanted to speak to you about Robert Nelson. It's tragic what happened to him, but there's an irregularity that I felt you should be made aware of.”

  “What is it?”

  “I have an auditor who looks after my endowments and sees that the money isn't being spent frivolously. A few months ago we discovered that a substantial amount of the program's funds was being granted to a family in Cartersville.”

  “Why?”

  “I asked Nelson that very question, and after a few weak lies he finally admitted it had all been a mistake. I threatened to pull his funding and have him brought up on charges, but he personally paid back the money into the program's budget.”

  “Did he ever explain how it had happened?”

  “No. My investigator did some preliminary investigation into the family. There's nothing remarkable about them, and they've had no apparent experience with the paranormal.”

  Joe remembered the $25,000 that Howe had found in Nelson's house. “You think maybe it was a scam? Maybe he was using them to funnel money back to himself?”

  “It certainly appeared that way. Especially since he had no trouble coming up with the money to put back into the coffers.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “One hundred and sixty thousand dollars.”

  Joe wrinkled his brow. “Not exactly the kind of money a college professor would have handy. Although he did have a nice house.”

  “Inherited from his parents,” Ness said. “It was all he could do to keep up with the property taxes.”

  “He told you this?”

  “You think I didn't have him thoroughly checked out?”

  “How silly of me.”

  “We carefully scrutinized all of the program's other financial dealings, and this was the only irregularity.”

  “Tell me something. How much control did you have over the test sessions?”

  “None, really. I'm always interested in their progress, but I have other things to keep me busy.”

  Joe pulled out a small photo of the red-haired man, printed from one of the Jesse Randall session tapes. “Does this man work for you, Mr. Ness?”

  Ness glanced at the photo. “No.”

  “Have you seen him before?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “I'm trying to find out. He had input on some of the Jesse Randall tests, but no one seems to know who he is. He and Nelson were pretty secretive about his identity.”

  “Hmm. Interesting. I wonder, Detective, if you wouldn't mind giving me that photograph. I assume you have another.”

  Joe put the photo back into his pocket. “I would mind. Why do you want it?”

  Ness scratched his beard. “I thought I could help. I do have a fair amount of resources at my disposal, and it would be an honor to assist you.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Ness looked through the tinted side windows. “Ah, here we are. Back at your headquarters.” He handed Joe a typed index card. “This is the address of the family in Cartersville. It may turn out to be nothing, but you never know.”

  “You never know.”

  Ness opened the door for him. “It was wonderful to finally meet you, Mr. Bailey. It's not every day that one gets to meet a real-life Spirit Basher.”

  “Or a real-life billionaire.”

  Joe stepped onto the sidewalk, and he could still hear Ness chuckling as the door swung shut and the RV pulled away.

  “I'm already on it, Bailey. And I didn't need a visit from Roland Ness to tip me off.” Howe leaned back in his desk chair.

  Arrogant prick.

  “And what do you have?” Joe asked.

  Howe spoke just loud enough for the detectives at the neighboring desks to hear the seasoned homicide cop enlightening the greenhorn. “I talked to the university finance office, and they confirmed there had apparently been an error, and that Nelson had paid them back in cash. But there was no record of the money ever entering any bank account of his.”

  “You think this family may have slipped it back to him under the table?”

  “Possible.”

  “Have you checked the family out?”

  Howe picked up a yellow Post-it note and squinted at his scribbling. “Ted and Crystal Rawlings. He steam-cleans carpets for a living, she's currently unemployed. They had a teenage daughter who died of appendicitis last year. Their house is a rental, and they have about twenty months left to pay on their Ford Explorer.”

  “Have you spoken to them?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let's go.”

  “Whoa there. I said I'm on it.”

  “We're on it. Cartersville is only an hour's drive. In about fifteen seconds I'll be on my way there. Are you with me or not?”

  Howe glanced at the detectives at the nearby desks, giving them a can-you-believe-this-guy? look. He grabbed his badge and keys from the candy wrapper-cluttered desktop. “Sure. Carl Crimestop-per's got himself a lead. I don't want to miss this.”

  Joe had been to Cartersville only once in his life, when his high school basketball team had advanced to the state playoffs. They had lost the game, and for years the mere thought of Cartersville conjured up images of the torrent of paper cups and empty Skoal containers that had been hurled at him and his teammates as they made the sad trek back to the bus. Joe looked at the Budweiser plant as he and Howe drove past, thinking that a lot of those rotten kids were now probably working inside, stirring yeast and cleaning ten-thousand-gallon beer vats.

  They found the Rawlings house, a modest ranch-style home in a small subdivision called Bayonet Arms. The name was a nod to the area's Civil War history, but to Joe it still seemed as odd as a neighborhood called Machine-Gun Estates or Grenade-Launcher Villas.

  He rapped on the front door, and the sound of barking dogs echoed through the house. After a moment, a frail woman in her late thirties answered the door. “Yes?”

  Joe smiled. “Crystal Rawlings?”

  “Yes?”

  He flashed his badge. “I'm Detective Joe Bailey. This is Detective Mark Howe. We're with the Atlanta Police Department, and we'd like to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”

  Her face flushed. “The house is a mess. I wish you'd called first.”

  Howe stepped forward. “Ms. Rawlings, you don't have to worry about that. I can see already that you have a very nice home, and we just want to ask you a few questions. Okay?”

  Joe was impressed. Howe actually knew how to hide his pricklike tendencies.

  She managed a weak smile and opened the door. “Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you.”

  The house smelled of dog, and the couch and carpeting were covered with at least three different colors of canine hair.

  She gestured to the couch. “Please sit down.”

  “No, thank you,” Howe said. He fired off the first question: “Ho
w did you know Dr. Robert Nelson?”

  Her eyes widened. She couldn't have looked guiltier. “Who?” she asked.

  Howe smiled. “Let's skip this part, where you pretend you didn't know him and I insist you did, okay? If your memory needs refreshing, he's the guy who gave you a hundred and sixty thousand dollars and then ended up impaled up near the ceiling of his study. That Robert Nelson.”

  Her eyes darted around the room as if searching for a convenient escape hatch. “Maybe you should talk to my husband. He'll be home any minute.”

  “We'll be happy to talk to him, but we'd like to talk to you first.”

  Joe leaned forward. “What was the money for, Ms. Rawlings? Why did Dr. Nelson give it to you?”

  She bit her lip and looked at the floor. “It came from the school, not from him.”

  “But he authorized it,” Joe said.

  “Yes.” She took several deep breaths. “It was for a project.”

  “What project?”

  “I can't talk about that.”

  “Can't or won't?”

  “It was a condition of our agreement.”

  “An agreement between you and Robert Nelson?”

  She nodded.

  Howe was getting more annoyed by the minute. “Then why doesn't anyone else in his department know anything about it? This is not the way his program was run. Would you like to continue this conversation at the station? Because I think—”

  Joe cut him off. “We're investigating a murder, Ms. Rawlings. I think that pretty much supersedes any agreement you may have had with the late Dr. Nelson.”

  She crossed her arms in front of her. “I—I gave my word. I can't go against that.”

  “This is important,” Joe said. “I guarantee you it's more important than anything that happened between him and your family.”

  She shot a glance at the end table, where there were two framed photographs. A slightly plump teenage girl was in both shots.

  “Is that your daughter?” Joe softly asked.

  Crystal didn't reply.

  “I know you lost her last year. I'm sorry.”

  She began to tremble. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

  “Ms. Rawlings … are you okay?”

  She nodded, but her trembling continued.

  “Is there anything you would like to tell us?”

  She looked up. “I didn't do anything wrong, I promise.”

  “Then talk to us,” Joe said.

  The front door swung open, and a lanky middle-aged man walked into the house. He stared at Joe and Howe. “What's goin’ on here?”

  Joe and Howe turned to face him. “We're with the Atlanta Police Department,” Joe said. “Are you Ted Rawlings?”

  Crystal didn't look at her husband. “They want to know about Dr. Nelson,” she half whispered. “They know about the money.”

  Ted glared at them. “So what?”

  “So maybe you should be a little more cooperative,” Howe said. “I'm sure the IRS would be interested in all that money. Even if you gave it back to Nelson, you could still be on the hook to the government for tens of thousands of dollars.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Rawlings said. “We didn't give it back. We're declarin’ every cent and payin’ whatever we owe.”

  Joe frowned. “You didn't give the money back to Dr. Nelson?”

  “Hell, no. Why would we do that?”

  Joe exchanged a startled glance with Howe.

  “I'm not sayin’ another word to you fellas,” Ted said, moving closer to his wife. “We did nothin’ wrong.”

  “Then what could possibly be the harm in telling us about your relationship with Dr. Nelson?”

  Ted gestured toward the open door. “This conversation is over. If you want to arrest us, go ahead. Otherwise, get out.”

  Joe nodded and gave Crystal his card. “We don't need to go that far today. Talk about it and give us a call. If we don't hear from you soon, we'll be back.” He turned to Ted. “We might even have to visit you at your workplace.”

  “Don't threaten me,” Ted said. “It doesn't matter where you turn up. My answer is gonna be the same.”

  “Have a good evening,” Joe said.

  Howe strode ahead of him out of the house. Joe paused when he reached the door. Ted Rawlings was still staring at him, but Crystal didn't seem to be aware of any of them.

  She was still staring at the pictures of her daughter.

  “Where in the hell did Robert Nelson get a hundred and sixty thousand dollars?”

  It was Joe and Howe's main topic of conversation all the way back from Cartersville. They compared notes on what they had each uncovered so far, and Joe was impressed with Howe's attention to detail. Howe had an answer for almost every question, and he rattled off the pertinent facts, figures, and dates as if they were his own vital statistics. But when Joe showed him the photo of the red-haired man, Howe was stumped. Nobody seemed to know who the guy was.

  They drove to Blues Junction, a dark, smoky club near the Underground Atlanta shopping and entertainment center. Howe had discovered it was one of Nelson's favorite hangouts. They flashed a photo around to the staff, and although a few did recognize Nelson, they couldn't recall anything notable about him.

  Joe and Howe sat at a booth, almost shouting over the R&B group wailing on the stage.

  “The money still bugs me,” Howe said. “I tell you, we did a full financial rundown on him. He didn't have that kind of money.”

  “He got it from somewhere,” Joe said.

  “In cash. He must have found it under a rock someplace, because it didn't move through any account he had.”

  “But why would he have given a hundred and sixty thousand dollars of his program's money to the Rawlingses, then, when discovered, scrounge up the money from someplace else and repay it?”

  Howe shrugged. “You're the one who works with those nuts. What super-secret study could those people have been fooling around with?”

  “So secret that even Nelson's coworkers didn't know what it was? Like you told the lady, they don't work that way.”

  They sat quietly as the crowd applauded a guitar player's frantic riff.

  Howe suddenly leaned closer. “Bailey, let me see the picture of the red-haired guy.”

  “Sure.” Joe pulled the print out of his breast pocket and slapped it on the table between them.

  Howe glanced at it. “Interesting.”

  “Interesting why?”

  “If this was a hangout of Nelson's, he may have brought that guy here. Maybe the guy liked it.”

  “Yeah?”

  Howe smiled and took a swig of his beer. “Because right now he's standing at the bar.”

  Joe turned and followed Howe's gaze. Christ. It was him. The red-haired man who had sat in on Jesse Randall's sessions. He was sipping a drink and swaying to the music.

  “How do you want to play this?” Howe asked.

  “I'm going to talk to him.”

  Howe slid out of the booth. “I'll cover the door.”

  “Good.”

  Joe turned back around. Red was staring right at him. Shit.

  The man put down his drink and stepped away. Joe moved through the club, pushing past the happy-hour throngs who had wedged themselves onto the tiny dance floor. The man's fiery red hair appeared and disappeared through the crowd. He was heading toward the door.

  Joe moved under the row of recessed blue lights near the bar. Where in the hell was Howe?

  A woman screamed. Activity rippled around the door.

  Joe reached into his jacket and gripped the handle of his revolver. He shouldered his way through the crowd and saw Howe on the floor.

  “Give him room!” Joe yelled.

  The crowd backed away only slightly as Joe crouched next to his partner. Howe's eyes fluttered.

  “What happened?”

  “I'm okay,” Howe rasped. He pointed to the door. “Go!”

  Joe could hear the bartender on the phone to 911. He jumped t
o his feet and ran out the door. It was dark outside, still and quiet.

  A motorcycle kick-started in the lot next door. Joe turned as it roared over a small concrete barrier and hit the sidewalk. It was coming right for him.

  He threw himself over the hood of a parked car. He rolled over it as the motorcycle's left handlebar clipped the passenger-side mirror. He yanked out his gun as he hit the pavement.

  The bike whipped into a narrow alleyway, its ear-splitting roar reverberating off the tall brick buildings. Within seconds Joe could hear it racing down West Peachtree Street.

  He instinctively turned toward his car, then stopped.

  Who was he kidding? By the time he got on the road, Red and his motorcycle would have turned off West Peachtree and disappeared into one of the dark, anonymous corners of the city. Dammit.

  “Are you okay?”

  Howe had shuffled out of the club, his jacket off and tie loosened.

  “Fine. What happened to you?”

  “Jesus, he's good. The bastard chopped me across the throat and hit me in the solar plexus. I went down like a rock.”

  “Don't feel bad. He almost decorated my face with his tire tread.”

  Howe chuckled as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one out. “Well, either you're on to something, Bailey, or our red-haired friend really doesn't want it known that he likes blues music.”

  Why can't we take the elevator?” Nikki asked as she and Joe started down the stairs to the atrium of their building. It was 8:15 A.M., and they were beginning their morning school-and-work run.

  “Exercise is good for us. Plus the elevator's been acting up. I don't want you using it for a while.” He hadn't told her about the accident the other night, explaining his bandaged fingers away with an offhand comment about getting them caught in the elevator doors. But he didn't want her riding the elevator until he had an idea how—

  Wait a minute. He glanced back at the shaft. Maybe he did have an idea.

  “Daddy?”

  Not now. He'd look into it later. “Yeah?”

  “I want to take judo lessons.”

  “Judo? What happened to ballet?”

  “Judo's better.”

  “It won't get you in The Nutcracker.”