Sean didn’t have a lot of sympathy for his ex-girlfriend. She’d lied to him for years. She never told him she was pregnant. When she first asked for help in finding Jesse, she didn’t even tell him that Jesse was his son—he knew it only after he saw the boy’s photo. Jesse looked just like Sean. Hair a little lighter, skin tone a bit darker, but Jesse had the same deep-blue eyes that Sean and Kane shared. She couldn’t deny it then. Still, forgiveness was hard, because Sean had missed out on the first twelve years of his son’s life, and then lost him again to witness protection for a year. It was only now that he could finally have a relationship with his only child.
“Maybe I should just ask her.”
“Or not.”
“She won’t lie to me again.”
“I wish I had your confidence in everything, Rogan.”
“It’s my gut, Dean. She feels guilty for keeping Jesse from me, she won’t lie to me. She’ll justify it, but she won’t lie.”
“Your call.”
“And Spade?”
“You’re still going with this?”
What could he say? He wanted to take him down, but Dean was right. If Sean’s fingers were anywhere near a sting, Spade could use Sean’s personal involvement against him. Sean didn’t want to risk never seeing Jesse again.
“Just … please watch him closely, Dean. You’re the fucking smartest cop I’ve ever known. If you think something is up, you’ll do something about it.”
Dean sighed. “Sean—look. I can’t talk to you about Spade or anything that we’re working on. But I’ll take your warning to heart, okay? Let me handle this. I’m going to pretend this call was solely personal. Sonia is doing great, thanks for asking.”
“Give her a kiss for me.”
Sean hung up and called Madison before he could change his mind. She answered on the second ring.
“Sean?”
“Hi, Madison.”
“Is Jesse okay?”
“Of course. We’ve been having a blast.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“I’m not home.”
“You left him home alone? After everything he’s been through?” Her voice rose in pitch.
“He’s with Kane.”
“Oh.”
Sean could hear her biting her nails. “Madison, Jesse is great and I’ll bring him home two weeks from Sunday, just like I promised.”
“I know. I just miss him. A lot.”
“You talk to him almost every day.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“No, it’s not—and I’m glad you recognize that, Madison.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I’m sorry?”
“I don’t want to fight, Madison.” His heart wouldn’t be in it. “I know you’re sorry.”
“Okay. Good.”
“Did you hire a private investigator to check up on Jesse?”
“No, why would I?”
“Because you don’t trust me.”
“Trust you? What has that got to do with anything?”
She sounded confused, and Sean didn’t think she had any knowledge of the tail. But it was harder knowing whether someone was lying if you weren’t face-to-face.
“Someone followed me yesterday. I thought maybe you’d hired a PI to, I don’t know, catch me doing something or whatever. I don’t know how you think, I just know you weren’t happy about Jesse wanting to spend so much time with me.”
“Someone followed you? Who? Why?”
“I’ll find out.”
“Is Jesse okay?”
“I told you he was.”
“Maybe I should come out there.”
Odd. She didn’t ask Sean to send Jesse back, but she wanted to come to San Antonio?
“Go right ahead, but you’re not staying at the house. This is my time with Jesse, and I’m spending every available minute with him.”
“I know. I get it, Sean, and I really am sorry.”
This time, she sounded sincere.
“I’ll have Jesse call you tonight.”
“Thanks.”
He ended the call as he drove into his neighborhood.
Madison was a good liar, but he didn’t think she was lying about hiring a PI. How could he be sure?
And of course that didn’t mean that Carson Spade didn’t hire someone. Men like Spade had a lot of shady friends.
Sean would get to the bottom of it, and if Spade was behind it he would skewer him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The bar where Charlie and Paul had their confrontation was well outside the city, in a rural area in the adjoining county. The jukebox blared country music with a twang, and the patrons wore faded jeans, cowboy hats, and T-shirts. At three on a Thursday afternoon it wasn’t crowded—a dozen people drinking beer, playing darts, or shooting the breeze. And as was the case at many neighborhood bars, the bar stools held old-timers. Half the patrons openly carried guns, but Texas was an open-carry state. They needed to be licensed, but it wasn’t a crime, and neither Lucy nor Leo was here to cause problems for the bartender or the patrons.
“You’re here about that guy,” the bartender said after Leo showed his badge. He had a cut on his forehead that was healing, but it would likely scar.
“You’re Jim Crouch?”
“Yep.”
“Do you have a minute?”
“Sure. Want a beer?”
“I wish,” Leo said. “Still on duty.”
“Have a seat. Coke? Water? On the house.”
“A couple waters would be nice, thanks,” Leo said.
He and Lucy sat at one end of the bar. Jim put two cold mugs with filtered ice water in front of them. “I saw the news. You’re following up, right, because that guy caused a fight the other week.” He pointed to his head. “I wouldn’t have pressed charges, but the guy was off his meds. I needed to file the complaint or I would have had to pay for the hospital myself, and my insurance company needed the police reports. And I wouldn’t have gone to the hospital at all, but he whacked me good and I saw stars for hours.”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Leo said. “First, had you ever seen Mr. McMahon or his friend before?”
“Nope, they’d never been in here. That was another thing—sure, we get strangers in here now and again, but most everyone is a regular. Some people come in most days, others once or twice a month, but I know nearly everybody who walks through that door. Happy hour starts at three because most of my people start work before dawn, come here on their way home. I close down at eleven during the week, stay open as late as people want on the weekends. This was a Friday, the last Friday of the month, which is always busy—a lot of folks get paid on Friday. So it was crowded and they were talking at the table right there.” He gestured to a small square table in the narrow space between the end of the bar and the emergency exit.
“It’s a private little corner, not much room to maneuver, they were minding their own business, or so I thought,” Crouch said. “McMahon had a beer, but he didn’t even finish it. The other guy—I found out later his name was Paul—he had a couple shots, he was definitely drowning something, ya know? And then Paul gets up to leave and stumbles. McMahon jumps up and grabs him. I thought he was grabbing him to take his keys or something. I didn’t think he was drunk, but hell, he had three shots and a beer and he wasn’t a big guy. Lightweight. But then McMahon hits him. Right cross to the jaw, wham. Paul goes down. I got over there, told them to take it outside. Paul gets up, pushes McMahon, and McMahon hits him again. The guy just lost it. I stepped in and he walloped me. I wasn’t expecting it—I’ve broken up a lot of fights in my day, never been hit like that. I hit my head on the bar, couldn’t catch myself in time, and one of my regulars called the cops. Fortunately, we get a few of the deputies here after shift, they know me, they came fast and broke it up—some of my guys came to my defense, so it got to be a real brawl.”
“Did you hear what McMahon and Grey were talking about?” Leo asked.
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“Not really. It was busy, and it was just me and Sugar running the bar because my other girl called in sick.” He rolled his eyes as if he didn’t believe she’d been sick. He called over to one of the guys at the bar, “Hey, Dog, did you hear what those two guys fighting the other week were talking about? You were sitting right next to them.”
An old man—he had to be in his seventies—wearing a VIETNAM VETERAN baseball cap shrugged. “Not really. They were hush-hush.”
Lucy asked, “You remember the fight?”
“Yep, my mind is all here. Oh—well, you know, that reminds me. They were talking about something that the big guy forgot. And the little guy said it wasn’t important. That’s what set the big guy off. He said something like, ‘It’s important, why won’t you help me?’ Or something like that.” He sipped his beer.
More of the same, Lucy thought. Charlie McMahon was trying to remember something and he couldn’t, and it bothered him. More than bothered him.
“How long were they here?” Leo asked Crouch.
“McMahon came in first, ordered his beer. The other guy, Paul, came in maybe twenty minutes later. I can’t say for certain because it was busy, but something like that. Oh, and Paul paid for all the bar damages. The judge at the arraignment said that McMahon would have to pay restitution. Then on Monday, that guy Paul Grey came in with a check and said he wanted to pay, that it wasn’t the big guy’s fault.”
That was interesting. Lucy asked, “Did he say anything else?”
“No—just that he wanted to cover it, the check was for five thousand dollars. I told him that was too much, I didn’t think the damage would cost more than two thou, tops, but he said to keep it.” He paused. “I wouldn’t have, you know. I made a copy of the check so I have his address, I would have sent him the difference.”
Lucy believed the guy. He had that vibe about him, that his honor was important.
“What was his mood? His demeanor?”
“Sad. Like his dog had died. He was quiet—I got the impression that he’s just a quiet guy—but he said not to hold it against Charlie. I said something like I hope they work it out, and he just shook his head and walked out.”
“Monday? A week ago?”
“No, this Monday.”
“What time?” Leo asked.
“Seven, or thereabouts. Not later than seven.”
Dog piped up from his stool. “Quarter to seven. I looked at my watch. And remember, I said you should give us all a round on the house.”
“And I did, didn’t I?”
“All ten of us,” Dog laughed. “Mondays are fucking slow. Excuse my French, pretty lady,” he added to Lucy with a wink.
Lucy smiled back, the harmless old man humoring her more than insulting her.
“Leo,” she said quietly, “that would be after his scheduled meeting.”
Leo said to Jim, “When Paul Grey came in, was he alone? Did he meet with anyone?”
“No. Didn’t order a drink or anything. Just walked in, waited at the end of the bar until I came over, and gave me the check. Is something wrong?”
Leo said, “Paul Grey was killed Monday night. You may have been the last person to see him alive.”
The last person, Lucy thought, except his killer.
* * *
“Can you be late?” Leo asked Lucy.
“Late?”
“It’s nearly five. Julie Peters sent a message to both Tia and me to meet her at the morgue, but we won’t get back to headquarters until after six or so.”
“That’s fine,” Lucy said. She sent Sean a message that she would be home by seven. “Sean is having fun with Jesse, he barely notices when I’m late.”
“What’s your take about what happened at the bar?” Leo asked Lucy as he drove through rush-hour traffic.
“The fight? It shows that McMahon had the potential to be violent, but that it was targeted. Hitting the bartender wasn’t the intention, hitting Paul was. Yet Paul seemed to think the fight was his fault, even though he didn’t throw a punch. Paying for the damages—that was surprising. But more surprising is that he went back there on Monday.”
“After his five thirty meeting with C. R. Do you have any information about McMahon’s assistant Roth?”
Lucy scanned her messages. “Nothing yet.”
“Paul lies to his wife, leaves work early, meets—we presume—McMahon’s old assistant, pays off McMahon’s debt at the bar, and then … what?”
“Maybe he felt bad for his friend. Thought that something was seriously wrong with him and didn’t want the pressure of the debt on him.” But as Lucy said it, she didn’t believe it. Maybe if he paid actual damages—but paying more than twice what the bartender said the damages were? That was … odd. And his demeanor was sad? Why sad?
“But where did he go after?” Leo asked. “You know, that bar is remote—way out in southeast Guadalupe County. I’m going to contact the sheriff over there and have them double down looking for Grey’s vehicle.”
Leo got on the phone, and Lucy read the text message from Sean.
I’m making spaghetti we’ll eat at 7:30. Kane’s here. Nate’s coming by. I’ll save you a plate. Love you.
She smiled. She loved Sean’s spaghetti sauce. It had been the first thing he’d cooked for her.
Because they were in the middle of rush hour, it took them nearly an hour to arrive at the morgue. Tia was already there. They traded information—Tia didn’t have much, but April Forsyth was certain the man in the grainy photo was the same guy who’d left the coffeehouse right before McMahon took hostages. “She said it was his build and clothes more than anything. She’s willing to work with a sketch artist, and her dad is bringing her down tomorrow afternoon, so I called in our best guy. But I’m not holding out hope. It sounds like you had a far more productive day.”
“More questions than answers,” Lucy said, “but we’re making progress. We know that Paul Grey was alive at six forty-five on Monday. Hopefully Julie has more information.”
They walked in, put on protective shoes and gloves, and were led back to the main autopsy room. Julie Peters stood between two bodies covered with sheets talking to a tall, dark, and handsome man in a lab coat.
“The gang’s all here,” she said sarcastically. “Took you long enough.” Before Lucy could respond, Julie continued. “This is Dr. Dominic Moreno with the university. Brain expert. Moreno, FBI Agents Lucy Kincaid and Leo Proctor, and Detective Tia Mancini. They’re probably the only cops I like.”
He smiled warmly and nodded. “You certainly caught a most fascinating case,” Dr. Moreno said in a deep, well-modulated voice. Julie looked at Lucy with an expression that said, See what I mean?
Lucy gave her a nod and focused on Moreno.
“How so?” Tia asked.
“I’ve already sent Mr. McMahon’s brain to my lab, but Julie thought I should explain what we found during the autopsy.”
“A tumor?” Leo said, sounding hopeful.
“No, there was no sign of a tumor, but there was another anomaly. Something I have never seen before—either professionally or in medical journals. I need to do more tests, and we’ve requested some very specific blood tests, in addition to the standard toxicology screens.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Doc,” Tia said.
“The preliminary report indicated that McMahon was complaining that he couldn’t remember something important. He acted paranoid, possible paranoid schizophrenic. One sign of schizophrenia is a loss of gray matter in adults. I didn’t see this in McMahon. However, an MRI showed that the nerves leading from his hippocampus—which is sort of like the control room for long-term memories—were damaged.”
“How could that happen? A brain injury?” Lucy asked. “Blunt force?”
“There was no sign of a previous concussion—and it would have to be a severe trauma to the back of the skull to result in this kind of deep tissue damage. No sign of any trauma whatsoever. I’ve ordered several hormone tests. It
’s just a theory at this point until I get these tests back, and it could take a week or longer before I have any answers.”
“What’s your theory?” Leo asked.
Moreno hesitated. “I can’t say this with any authority. And I need to study the brain further, get the tests back, consult with my colleagues. I was serious when I said I have never encountered anything like this. If I can’t find an external cause, it could be genetic—and then I would want his children to come in for an MRI.”
“Okay, off the record then,” Tia said, just as curious as the rest of them.
Moreno frowned, glanced at Julie. “Don’t look at me, Dom. I told you they’d want to know what we think.”
He sighed.
“We understand,” Lucy said. “This is just a theory.”
Dr. Moreno said, “First, the hippocampus isn’t the only place memories are stored. Long-term memories are stored all over the brain, and the hippocampus helps pull together those memories into recollections. Such as seeing a friend from high school ten years later at a grocery store. You don’t expect to see that person, you recognize them but don’t know why. Your brain sends signals from different parts until you recall exactly how you know the person. But if you saw that same person at a high school reunion, you wouldn’t have to ‘think’ about it, because you expect to see your high school friends at a high school event, even years later.
“There is far more we don’t know about the brain and how it works than we do know. We know that the amagydala, for example, controls core emotions like rage and love. We know that memories need nerves to travel back and forth within the brain. Based on the MRI, McMahon’s nerves had severe damage. He may have experienced debilitating headaches, as bad as the worst migraine you’ve ever had. His memories could have been gone as a result of this nerve damage.”
“Like amnesia?” Tia asked.
“In a way. I listened to the audio file of the negotiations, and there were a few things that caught my attention. He sounded paranoid, but the key point was that he didn’t remember. We’ve all had that happen to us, and it’s irritating, right? When we know we should know something, but can’t put it together. A word on the tip of our tongue. A person we recognize but don’t remember why. I think that process of trying to recall information physically pained him. Fingers-on-a-chalkboard irritation, but where the pain is real and long lasting. This inability to recollect something he deemed important turned into a form of paranoia. They. They killed him. He bonded with you, Agent Proctor. The way he spoke. He feared that anyone who sought out the answers like his friend Paul would die.”
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