And now, as I stared out the pickup’s passenger side window, at the trees, scrub brush, and yellowing grass, I knew that somehow Matthew and I’d found each other. Against all odds, against all chances in the world, we’d been thrown together by fate, and we were going to be happy.
As ridiculous as that sounded, I just felt it in my bones, the way you can feel thunder rumbling in the darkness sometimes, or how old men complain about the cold getting into old wounds.
I squeezed his hand a little tighter, and he squeezed it right back. It was a comforting pressure as we slowly trekked down the miles and miles to see my Uncle Zeke.
If this had been two days prior, I would have been dreading every mile we chased down, the mile markers on the side of the highway just the universe telling me, “You’re getting closer to your doom, Becks. One more mile closer to the world ending, and you failing to help those you love.”
But not anymore. Not when I was with him. I might not have been able to do anything to stop the incessant inching in of chaos into my life, but with Matthew, I at least had someone to stand next to as I stood up to it.
And, to me, that’s what mattered the most.
Of course, then reality pushed itself to the forefront of my brain. “Come on, Rebecca,” reality seemed to say with the voice of my flighty mean girl students, “you’re just holding hands and getting dinner. What do you think’s going to happen? Some boy is going to fix all your problems? Did one chase the big bad wolf from your bedroom window? No, of course not. A crazy old lady with a shotgun did.”
Dammit, brain.
Just dammit.
But, then, he grasped my hand more tightly. And my brain finally figured out it needed to shut the hell up.
Chapter Nineteen – Matthew
There’s something about being in a prison visitor area, speaking over a wired phone and through tempered glass to a man you’d only known in one specific setting. Zeke Rogers looked so removed from his previous career as hardware store owner, that it took me a long moment to gather my thoughts.
Normally, he’d have been wearing a pearl snap shirt, his white hair gelled or pomaded back from his high, tan forehead. Instead, he was garbed in the orange uniform of a prisoner, someone trusted into the not-so-tender care of the state of Colorado. He’d been a free man practically all his life, but with one turn of events he’d ended up here, talking to the private investigator that was probably his only hope of making it home in less than five to seven years.
“Guess my girl got you signed on, then,” Zeke said with a solemn nod, the red phone pressed against his ear. “She not coming in with you?”
I shook my head. “Rebecca wanted to stay in the waiting area,” I said into the phone on my side of the glass. I glanced down at the yellow legal pad I’d brought in for note-taking, at the short list of questions I’d just driven over four hours to ask.
“Good. She don’t need to see me like this. Nothing quite like the color orange to make a man look pathetic.”
Or guilty, I mentally added. Not that he was guilty. I didn’t believe that for a second. But there was something to be said about the assumed lack of innocence that a man was bestowed with when he was locked up behind prison bars and forced to wear a jumpsuit.
“Lawyer tell you why I’m here?”
“Said you needed to ask me a bunch of questions. Background stuff. That about the right of it?”
“Just about.”
“Well, ask away, young man. Ask away, and I hope my answers are helpful.”
I went through, in detail, what we’d already done on his case, including imaging his home computer to see if he’d researched anything, and talking to both Derrick and Chief Beckett.
“My computer?” he asked, giving me a look like I was one queer duck.
“Look, Zeke, I’m going to be honest. I don’t think you did it, okay? Mainly because I don’t think you’d know how to do it. That little time-delayed device in the back of your shop? That’s not exactly an idea that just pops into your head. We need to put some doubt in the jury’s mind about the source of that device, and whether or not you could have done it.”
“So you’re searching my computer?”
“Well, if you had been researching arson, you don’t exactly strike me as the type to clear your search history.”
“My search history? What’s that?” Zeke asked, proving my point exactly.
“Your browser history. All the websites that you’ve gone to for the last year or so.”
“Computers save that shit?”
“Yeah. You didn’t know that?”
“Damn.”
“What do you mean?”
He furrowed his brows a little and sucked air through his top front teeth. “Yeah, about my browsing history, or whatever…”
“What is it, Zeke?”
He didn’t reply at first.
I frowned. “Zeke, if it’s something that’s going to affect the case, I need to know now. Is there something on the computer that the cops won’t like if they find it?”
“No, goddammit, ain’t nothing that’s going to screw up your damn case. Just, you know, don’t let Becks see my history, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”
I cleared my throat. The look in his eyes, one of fear and embarrassment gave me an idea of why he was nervous about us looking through his hard drive. I tried not to chuckle. “Big booty hoes or something?”
He twisted his mouth to the side. “Something. Not exactly that, but goddammit, what a man does in his spare time, well that’s my private, personal business.”
“Yeah,” I said, leaning back down to my legal pad, “I get it. So, let’s get to the case, shall we? Now that we’ve got your dirty laundry out in the open?”
“Well, I’m an open book. Let’s get started.”
“Tell me about the guy who came by your place a few weeks before it was burned. To start with, do you remember the date?”
He shook his head. “Not the exact one, no. Ain’t kept a diary or journal since I was a teenager.”
“No notes or anything?”
He shrugged. “Never thought I’d need. I pulled the shotgun on his ass, and he skated right out the door with both hands high in the air.”
“Can you tell me about him? Did you get a name?”
He pouted out his lips a little and shook his head. “Nah, no name.”
“What’d he look like?” I asked. I didn’t want to give him an idea of the description I’d gotten from Roy the night before at the Elk in case I tainted his memory. Instead, I wanted him to give it fully formed so I could put it down in my notes.
“Medium height, average build. Wearing a black coat, think it was wool or something. Shortish hair, combed back and greased–”
“Like yours?”
“No, shorter. Shaved on the sides all high and tight, like they did in the military.”
I nodded. “Go on.”
“Thin little lips, like a weasely little bastard. Big old gap in his teeth.”
I circled the last bit of description, which I’d been transcribing. “Got it. Go on.”
“That’s really about it, Matt. I mean, guy was only in the shop for a few minutes. Long enough to offer me his little insurance policy, and long enough for me to get pissed off and pull Betsy on him.”
“Betsy?”
“My shotty.”
“Right.” I made a note. Betsy = Shotgun. “Who else could have it out for you?”
He shrugged. “Not much else that I can think of. I mean, I’ve lived in the Rock damn near my whole life. Tried to be an honest person. You think someone else could have had a grudge?”
“Just trying to clear out any other possibilities or come up with any other leads. I spoke to Gilbert Beckett. He mentioned you and he used to be friends.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, “used to be. All that went by the wayside years ago, though. Man found Jesus after his sinning ways.”
“Told me you forced him into it, though. That k
ind of thing might stick with a man, even years later.”
“You really think Gil would be willing to risk burning down his town just to get back at me?” He laughed. “I don’t think so. Doesn’t sound like the Gil I know. Not now. He’s all wrapped up with his church, and ain’t got no designs on anything but making it in on Sunday. Can’t miss that potluck.”
“No one else, then?”
He shook his head. “Not off the top of my head. Reckon there could be someone, but if they had a personal beef with me it was from years ago, and Lord knows I ain’t aware of it.”
I tapped my pen against the legal pad, and looked at the description he’d given me of Reggie the Gap.
“That enough?” he asked after a long moment of me staring at the page.
“I think so. If you think of anything else, let your lawyer know. Frost Security is in touch with his office, and they’ll pass along any information you have.”
He nodded, a look of resignation coming over his face. “What chances do you reckon I have on coming out of this?”
“To be honest, I think we have a case here. The investigation by Sheriff Peak wasn’t thorough, and there were several stones he left unturned during the course of it, enough that we can muddy the water if it goes to trial.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Well, last thing I want is for this to go to trial. In my mind, it’s better for us to find the people that really did this to you, the people responsible for burning your store down. That way there’s no doubt as to your innocence or guilt. You put all this in front of a jury, and point to some shadowy figure as the culprit, you start to play with chances and lawyers and judges. And none of that can end up well. A good district attorney can run rings around you without you even knowing it, and the criminal justice system doesn’t exactly look out for the little guy. Then, of course, there’re the legal fees you’re going to be stuck with. And the longer it drags on, the more your lawyer gets out of you.”
He nodded along with me. “I see your point. It is better we don’t go to trial.”
“Exactly. Now all I need to do is prove you’re innocent.”
“That’s all?” he asked, a frown creasing his face. “Got any suspects?”
“One in particular. Gonna stop by and have a little chat with him on the way back to the Rock, in fact.”
“Sounds simple enough.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Simple.”
Boy, was I wrong.
Chapter Twenty – Rebecca
“How’d he look?” I asked as we got back out onto the highway, the concrete and wire monstrosity that imprisoned my godfather already in our rear view mirror.
“Good for wearing all orange,” he said. “Didn’t seem to have any bruises or anything like that, so I don’t think he’s getting into trouble. Most of the time, if you keep to yourself in there, others will leave you alone—particularly if you don’t have any gang tattoos or outside affiliations that might rub certain groups the wrong way. And he’s in there on a nonviolent crime, no children or anything involved. He should be fine till we can get him out.”
It was the “should be” part of his statement that worried me the most, though, as I sat in the passenger’s seat thinking about my godfather. Of all the parental figures in my life, he’d been the best, the strongest, the one who’d done the most right by me. The idea of him being confined to a prison cell, having his movements restricted like an animal, was just too much to contemplate.
Matthew’s hand enveloped mine and he squeezed gently. “He’s going to be fine,” he said quietly. “Promise.”
I reached up and brushed a tear from my eye as it made its way down my face. I hadn’t even realized I’d been misting up like that, but I was definitely in for the waterworks. I sniffled, wiping another tear from my eye.
We arrived in Durango a few hours later. “Need to make a stop while we’re in town. Shouldn’t take anymore than a few minutes.”
“Uh, sure,” I said. He hadn’t mentioned anything about running errands or anything like that on the way back. But it was his pickup we were in and who was I to object?
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re off the books on this one. Not charging you any extra for the time.”
A few miles into city limits, he pulled off the highway and took a turn that led us into one of the more down-at-the-heels, older part of town. It wasn’t rough, or anything, but you could tell that most of the buildings had been constructed back in the 60s or 70s, the concrete stained from snow melt and run-off, and years of normal use. We pulled over in front of a little restaurant, Joe’s Pizza and Pasta, and took a parking spot near the back. He backed into it so we were facing the front of the little dive Italian place.
“Thought you wanted to wait till after the case was finished before we had dinner together.”
He looked up at the darkened neon sign in the after noon light, and shook his head. “Yeah, sorry, not stopping for dinner.”
As he apologized, it dawned on me why we’d actually stopped. “This is one of the Florentino’s places, isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily one of their places,” he said as he dug his phone out of his pocket and brought up an app. “But one of their guys hangs out here. A man I need to speak to.”
“About Uncle Zeke?” I asked, looking past him at the screen. It looked like he was setting up some kind of recording. I’d used something similar when I was in school for recording lectures.
He nodded. “Same man went into the Elk a little while ago and approached Roy about buying a little insurance policy. Reach into that glove box for me?”
I opened up the glove box and reached inside. My hand closed around the grip of a handgun, a semi-automatic. My face blanched, all the color draining from my skin, as I immediately let go of it as if it was scalding hot.
“You okay?” he asked as he stuffed his phone away in his pocket.
“You’re going in there with a gun?” I asked, nearly hissing the last word.
“I’m fully licensed.”
A sick feeling filled the pit of my stomach as I shakily reached in again and passed him his handgun. It wasn’t that I disliked firearms or was afraid of them. I just didn’t like the idea of him walking into a Denver Mafia hangout, front or no front, with his gun. Carrying a gun somewhere says, to me at least, that you’re looking for trouble.
He clipped his gun holster to his belt. “Look, I just want to talk to these guys. That’s all. Feel them out, see if I like ‘em for the fire at your Uncle Zeke’s place. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“You don’t have to go in armed to do it. What if they don’t want to talk to you because of that gun on your hip? Have you thought about that?”
A look of doubt passed over his face for a moment like a cloud over the moon, a slight darkening that I wouldn’t have noticed before I’d already spent so much time with him. He shook his head. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Look, if you have a coat or something to cover it up, it would probably be okay. But walking in there like some cowboy with a gun on your hip? Would you want to talk to somebody like that? Or would you automatically think cop?”
He sighed. “No, you’re probably right.”
“So just leave it here. You don’t go in there waving a gun around–”
“–I wasn’t going to be waving it around–”
“–and you’ll have a better chance of uncovering something.”
“Fine, fine,” he said, reaching down to unclip his holster from his belt. “Fine. Have it your way.”
“Good,” I said as he handed it back to me and I stuffed it back into the glove box. “Now go have a nice, civil conversation with those bloodthirsty mobsters.”
“Ha, ha.”
As he climbed out of the truck and headed across the small lot to the front door, I couldn’t help but wonder if letting him go in there alone had been the best idea. This way, unfortunately, there weren’t any witnesses, anyone who could back up his claims
if anything happened.
Of course, this way, there wouldn’t be any witnesses if he did something. Mobsters weren’t exactly the kind to go report a crime.
But, all I wanted to know was, how long would it be before this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach would finally disappear? Or would it be there for as long as Uncle Zeke was in the penitentiary, and this man that I cared so much about was putting himself in harm’s way while trying to prove his innocence?
As Matthew pulled open the front doors of Joe’s Pizza and Pasta, I found myself whispering a little prayer for him to come back safe. I hadn’t ever been a praying person, or even a church-going one, but I whispered it anyway in the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, something that was bigger and more powerful than myself would hear my plea and keep him safe.
Because that’s all I had right now. Prayer and hope.
Chapter Twenty-one – Matthew
Man, I love the smell of a little Italian place, and Joe’s Pizza and Pasta had me from the moment I walked in the door. Just something about it smelled homey, warm, and welcoming. The staff always had a great smile, a warm bearing to them. All those different kinds of pasta sauces and pizzas cooking in the back, blending together into a savory bouquet as they filled the room. It’s great for a shifter, especially one that likes a good Italian marinara.
This was the kind of place I needed to remember for when I took Rebecca out for our date. Good food, decent prices on the wine. A real hole-in-the-wall joint that served a quality, authentic meal.
But, then, my nose began to smell the gun oil hidden just the below the surface, like an undercurrent of malice that needs no other introduction. I could smell it there, right there, beneath the wafting of freshly baked breadsticks loaded with garlic as they came out of the oven. Yeah, this place was a front for some kind of operation. There was no way there was just one firearm in here, either. There was more than one person in here packing heat.
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