by Layton Green
Bentley sent Lionel and the girl to rob the stash house that night, then informed on them behind their back. Bentley wanted Ronald to kill them so he could call the cops and have him arrested, even though he knew it probably wouldn’t stick.
“It’s easier to kill a rival drug dealer in prison than on the street,” Meredith said. “Your client is a chess player, Ari. He sacrificed a knight to kill a king.”
Later, when she replayed the conversation in her mind, Ari thought she had said something in response. But she could never remember what.
“Congratulations,” Meredith continued. “You’re now a pawn in Bentley’s private drug war.”
33
When Preach entered the station Thursday morning, he found Chief Higgins beckoning him into her office. As he settled into the chair across from her desk, she slapped down the morning’s edition of the local paper and jabbed a finger at the front page. He looked down to find a photo of himself standing on Claire’s doorstep on the night he had arrested her.
The camera had caught Claire in her white slip, reaching up to stroke his cheek in an intimate manner.
“Not a good look,” the chief said.
“No.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
Thinking back, he remembered seeing a news van, though he had no idea how they had arrived so fast. David’s case was the biggest news in Creekville, so they had probably trailed the police cars when they had pulled out of the station.
“She had just opened the door,” he said. “I grabbed her wrist and pulled it away. Obviously, this doesn’t show all of that.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“What can I say?” At this point, he was far more concerned about the damage the photo might do to his relationship with Ari. “Put me in front of a camera. I’ll set the record straight.”
“It’s not the public I’m worried about. You think she’s innocent, don’t you?” the chief said.
“I arrested her.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Preach fiddled with the yin-yang stress ball on her desk again, weighing his words. “I spent half the day yesterday looking through her phone and email.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
The chief folded her hands. “If she’s dealing, she has a burner. Maybe an email account we don’t know about yet.”
“All true.”
“What else did Nate give you?”
“He clammed up and asked for an attorney.”
“Which means he’s going for a deal.” When Preach tipped his head in affirmation, the chief continued, “And Claire’s extravagant expenses ?”
“Still unaccounted for. I’m planning to ask her about them today.” “She hasn’t lawyered up?” the chief said, surprised.
“She told Terry she doesn’t need a lawyer.”
“Why Terry? You haven’t seen her?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
Preach kept kneading the stress ball. “I don’t feel comfortable judging whether she’s lying. I’d rather trust the evidence.”
“So you believe her.”
“I don’t disbelieve her. There’s a big difference. And the consequences . . .” he sucked in a breath. “I don’t want to get this one wrong.”
“I should hope that’s always the case.” With her hands still clasped, the chief started tapping her forefingers against the backs of her palms. “Do you have another credible angle ?”
“Not right now,” he said slowly.
“We found her ledger, Joe. I would hate to think you’re not thinking clearly. She’s a striking woman, I’ll admit.”
“Don’t,” he said. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Make sure you are. I hate to do this, because I see us as partners and I don’t like to give orders to my partner. But I have to forbid you from digging deeper into this case for any suspect other than Claire. If you have leads to follow to cement her guilt, then fine. Otherwise, we have more cases to work.”
“Why don’t you give me a week—”
Her eyes flashed, and she jabbed her finger at the newspaper again.“Have you taken a good look at this? It sure doesn’t look to me like you’re about to arrest her. It looks like you’re about to—”
He rose, his face flushing. “Are we good here ?”
“I don’t know, are we ?”
He stood rigid in front of her, choking back what he wanted to say. “Joe ? If I find out you’re chasing this case, I’ll send you home.”
After his conversation with the chief, Preach headed down to the basement of the building housing the police station. He hadn’t planned to confront Claire so quickly, but he needed to know a few things.
Maybe she would answer, maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she was telling the truth, and maybe not.
But he needed to hear for himself.
Since the arrest, she had refused to answer any questions, sitting stone-faced through all attempts at interrogation by the other officers. What game was she playing ? Was she trying to manipulate him by not cooperating? Waiting to see him alone ?
In a low-ceilinged cell with white cement walls, he found her huddled on her side, her long hair splayed across the front of her cot. Even without makeup or a shower, her regal beauty transcended the cell.
This time, though, it failed to move him as it had before. In fact, it brought a sharp pang of longing for Ari, her earnest laugh and lack of guile, lying beside him in the hammock by the warmth of the fire.
He put a hand on the diamond-patterned cage that separated them. “Why haven’t you asked for an attorney?”
“I don’t need an attorney.” She pushed to a sitting position and leaned her back against the wall, her legs folded underneath her.
“Why not?”
“I just need you.”
“Don’t.”
She smiled softly. “I’m not talking about that. That was the other night, drunk and reckless. This is now, thinking of my son. I need you, Joe Everson, detective. The best cop in town. I need you to help my son.”
“What was the ledger for?”
“It wasn’t mine.”
“Whose was it ?”
“How should I know?”
“Maybe because it was in your house? Where did all the money come from, over the years ? The cars and vacations and country clubs ?” “Seriously? You haven’t figured that out yet? Good god, you are smitten.” As he glared at her, she waved a hand, careless, and said, “Men, Joe. Boyfriends. Lots of them. It’s how I gave my son the life I did.”
He blew out a breath. “I have to tell you, Claire. It doesn’t look good. You should get an attorney.”
“You still don’t get it. I. Don’t. Care. Anymore. Not about myself” “You should,” he said quietly. “He would want you to.”
Her jaw trembled, and she took a moment to compose herself. “There’s a poison that infects you when your child dies. Especially in a way like this. I don’t know if the poison’s going to drive me insane or kill me, but I do know I’m not getting any better.”
“You will, with time. I know it doesn’t seem that way. But you will.” “I don’t want to. We can’t get better if we don’t want to, can we ?” “Ask for an attorney, Claire.”
She stared in silence at the wall, refusing to talk further.
After lunch, Preach got the call he had been both dreading and yearning for.
Ari.
“Hi,” he said.
“I assume you’re off the case ?”
No icebreaker. No head games. Just an honest rebuke, delivered with an utter lack of emotion.
She had seen the photo.
“The chief wants me to see it through” he said.
A long silence. “At least tell me you know she’s guilty.”
“Ari, it wasn’t what it looked like. I opened the door to arrest her, and she reached up.”
“Wearing a slip, of course. To meet a detective.”
&nb
sp; “She lost a son. She doesn’t care anymore. The camera caught us in the wrong moment.”
“What an incredible coincidence.”
He felt defeated. “Listen, I know how it looks. I pulled her hand away as soon as she touched me.”
“I bet you did, since half the force was watching.”
“There’s nothing between us. I want to see you, Ari. Make it up in some way.”
“Do you think she’s innocent?”
“I . . .”
“Do you? Answer me.”
“Of killing her son? I honestly don’t know.”
“You don’t know? What do your instincts say?”
He swallowed, unable to lie to her. “My gut says she is.”
“Is what?”
“Innocent.”
“Oh my God. You found the ledger, Joe. And that’s just what’s in the news.”
“This isn’t about us. I still have to do my job.”
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
“Ari, let’s—”
“I can’t talk right now,” she said, with a quaver in her voice.
About to respond, he ended up lowering the phone instead, since the other end of the line had gone dead.
34
Twenty-four hours.
Nineteen phone calls.
Fifteen in-person interviews.
Nine cups of coffee with a dash of cream.
One tuna and egg sandwich choked down.
No new evidence.
As frazzled as he had ever been, devastated by the breakup with Ari but unable to dwell on it, running on two hours of sleep and fumes, Preach put his head in his hands and knew he had to give it up. He had to let the case go.
Even before their conversation in jail, Preach had realized Claire’s charm was all manufactured, and that Ari’s was all real. Claire was a user and would throw anyone under the bus—including him. But did she murder her own child?
He agreed with Ari that he should recuse himself. He agreed, based on logic, with the chief. Even his own gut instinct, which screamed that Claire was innocent, could no longer be trusted. He was too close to the case. He was in danger of suspension if the chief found out.
So what was he doing?
Was it a perverse sense of duty to a past that no longer existed?
Or was it something else ?
Maybe a way to prove to Ari, and to himself, that he hadn’t fallen under a siren’s spell?
He stood and paced his cubicle, scratching at the stubble on his cheeks. Nate had turned on his supplier awfully quickly. He had never asked for police protection. Was he not worried about blowback?
He was just a kid, though, behind the tough exterior. A scared and lonely kid.
And the ledger—why leave it in the house with that much heat around? Why hadn’t they found it during the first search? The assumption was that Claire had removed it after David’s death, knowing the police would search the house, and then replaced it. Yet she must have known they could search her house during her own arrest.
Or had she been so secure in her story—or in her hold over him— that she thought the arrest would never come?
The case against Claire fit. Preach had to admit that. It all fell nicely into place.
So why couldn’t he accept it ?
An email ping from his computer interrupted his thoughts. He leaned over and saw Ari’s name as the sender, causing his pulse to spike.
The message had nothing to do with their relationship. It was an update on her case, written in a very businesslike tone. She wanted him to know what had happened with Bentley and Ronald Jackson.
Ronald was dead? he thought. Killed in prison by an associate of Bentley? And Ari thinks Bentley might have orchestrated the whole maneuver, starting way back with the stash house murders?
He had never heard of anything like that. But he thought of someone else who was currently sitting in jail and who might have a connection to Bentley.
Someone the ruthless businessman and criminal might also want to silence.
Claire.
In need of a change of scenery, Preach migrated to Jimmy’s to fuel up again. The caffeine shakes had his fingers twitching and his mind racing. He debated telling the chief that Claire might have a ticking clock, then discarded the idea. One, the chief would probably send him home. Two, she would never buy such a theory without more proof. He wasn’t even sure he did.
Even if they decided to protect her, what else could they do? She had her own cell for the time being and was due to appear before the judge on Monday. Assuming she stayed in custody, she would probably languish in jail until trial.
Yet if Bentley truly had it in for Claire, if he thought she might cave, then nowhere was safe. The best thing Preach could do was find a link between David’s murder and the drug ring—if any existed—and go after Bentley himself.
Preach hunched in his seat in the corner and listened to the hum of a refrigerator stocked with cream sodas and local dairy products. The café was quieter than normal. Forcing his attention inward, he ran through the events of David’s last day for the thousandth time.
On the morning of October 1, the day before the murder, David and Brett had exchanged a series of hostile texts. Preach no longer believed Brett or Lisa Waverly had played a part in the murder. But the texts might have set the stage for David’s blowup with Claire.
David had gone to school. Nate Wilkinson had been suspended at this point. From the interviews Preach had conducted over the last twenty-four hours, talking to everyone who might have had contact with David, he did not think that David and Alana, Nate’s girlfriend, had interacted for some time.
After football practice, David had come home for dinner. He did some homework and then argued with Claire outside the house. Sharon Tisdale had heard the fight, which devolved into shouting.
David had been hurt and angry with his mother. Assuming Claire was orchestrating a drug ring, had her son known about it ? If so, had he threatened to tell the police? Had this led to the murder? If so, Preach guessed David had threatened to expose her before he left the house, giving Claire time to call for help. Said help had arrived before David had returned home, which afforded Claire time to ambush her son.
Preach sucked in a breath. If Claire had called for help, then that was premeditation.
In North Carolina, that could mean the death penalty.
Not that it mattered to him if she had really killed her son.
He ran a hand through his hair, stood with his coffee, and stepped outside to stretch his legs. The crisp air felt nice on his cheeks. An aroma of mulch and pine.
What else did he know?
According to Mackenzie Rathbun, David had gone to the restaurant in a distraught state. He tried and failed to convince her to leave with him. Preach had verified her story with the rest of the staff. It all checked out.
The next time anyone saw David was around midnight, when Sharon Tisdale claimed to have seen him—or someone with a similar profile—through a window. She had also seen a woman in the house, though Claire claimed she had taken an Ambien and didn’t remember seeing David again.
Could someone besides Claire have been in the house ? Either male or female ? If so, who ?
He couldn’t think of another theory that made sense.
As the chief said, Claire was the most likely suspect.
According to the timeline, David had arrived at the Courtyard to see Mackenzie around 11 p.m. He had stayed fifteen minutes at most. That left an hour or so of time unaccounted for. None of David’s friends knew anything about this time period. The most obvious conclusions were that he had driven around town by himself, distraught, or went home.
Preach paced back and forth on the wooden patio. Two kids licking Locopops had run outside to play, cavorting around a set of giant Legos.
Think, Joe.
He felt the case slipping away. He needed a new angle. Something outside the known evidence. If Claire was gui
lty, then no such angle existed. But if she wasn’t . . . then he was missing something.
Something big.
A thought hit him. About five years ago, on a case in Atlanta, one of his colleagues had uncovered a key piece of evidence in a rape case by looking through the other cases that had come in during the year preceding the rape. It turned out the rapist had been arrested for an armed burglary but had gotten off on a technicality. The burglar’s mug shot had been similar to the rape victim’s sketch and, while that evidence had not been admissible in court, a new investigation had led to an arrest.
It was a long shot, he knew. But Creekville was a small jurisdiction. He could knock out the case files in a few hours.
It was worth a try, at least.
Back to the station he went.
Compared to the mean streets of Atlanta, the crime log in Creekville was a joke. To start, he went back a month, searching all arrests. A few dozen DUIs, open container violations, domestic violence calls, trespassing, possession of marijuana. An A&B here and there. A few harder drug arrests in Carroll Street Homes. In fact, the majority of the rough stuff was associated with the trailer park.
But he already knew that.
Three months back, then six. Nothing struck a nerve. He tapped his pen on his desk and widened the search to complaints filed by private citizens. This was a real stretch and included everything from deer incursions to broken lawn ornaments to a report that Jimi Hendrix had stolen someone’s guitar for a show in an underground government bunker that housed aliens.
Moving right along.
After going back two months on the complaints, something caught his eye. A local documentary filmmaker named Alyssa Carson had reported a missing camera, a Canon EOS C100, worth over three thousand dollars. He read the whole complaint and then gripped the page. He couldn’t believe what he was reading.
Alyssa had also reported missing a silver cigarette lighter. One with a floral pattern on the sides. The value was listed as sentimental.