by Jim Heskett
But Harry couldn’t find a single thing linking Kemba Wood to Lukas Maslow or the New Day Church of the Sinner. Even though they theoretically could have met nine years ago in Missouri, nothing suggested they did.
Harry moved on to the phone records, and the waters there seemed no less muddy. Until he landed on the phone call logs from the night Lukas Maslow had died.
According to the data, Kemba made four calls to his sister that night, and she made three calls to him. Kemba’s phone pinged the same cell tower each time, which suggested that he had stayed put at home, as he’d said.
One of the calls began ten minutes before Lukas had been killed and continued on for an hour after. Kemba’s sister was a crossing guard in Spokane, Washington. She had no criminal record and as far as Harry could tell, had never once even appeared in a courtroom. Squeaky clean. He found it hard to believe that Kemba could chat on the phone with her as he murdered a thief.
“Maybe he really was home all night, watching Netflix,” Harry said, sighing. He could have faked the cell phone tower data, possibly, but not without significant technical knowledge. Nothing in Kemba’s background suggested he had that sort of proficiency. To the best of Harry’s understanding, Kemba Wood had not left his home until the next morning.
All this indecision and backtracking had put a low-grade headache at the back of Harry’s noggin all day long.
But now, a knock came at his door. Harry barely heard it over the storm, but he clicked on his security feeds to bring them up on his main monitor. The warm rain made his front camera a little foggy, but Harry found himself looking at a tall and dark figure hovering on his porch.
Kemba. Here, standing in front of Harry’s front door.
His heart motored in his chest. He jumped up and grabbed his hunting knife, then bounded up the stairs, fueled by instinct. He stood at the top of the stairs for a second, the knife jittering in his hand. Adrenaline pumping through his system turned the world into a surreal version of itself, like a drug addict’s point-of-view in an after-school tv special.
Harry blinked a few times until sanity returned. With the sheathed knife in his pocket, Harry crossed the living room and pulled back the door. Only as he saw the door opening in front of him did he realize maybe he should have called Serena for backup first. Too late now.
Kemba stood there, soaking wet, rain dripping down his chin. Or, was some of that liquid made of tears? The big guy seemed upset, his face pulled into a picture of anguish. His lower lip quivered in time with his hiccuping breaths.
“Kemba? What are you doing here?”
The big guy opened his left palm, which contained a red, triangular object about the size of Harry’s thumb. It took him a second to realize it was a guitar pick.
“I found this,” Kemba said. “When I was cleaning up. I don’t play guitar, so I don’t know where this came from. It’s not mine, so I was wondering…”
“It’s okay, Kemba. What are you doing here??”
“Does it mean something? The pick?”
“Probably not, no. I didn’t see any guitars at the cabin, and there’s nothing to make me think he left it at your barbershop. It probably fell out of someone else’s pocket when pulling their wallet out to pay.”
Kemba’s head sank, and now Harry understood. This man wasn’t a threat. Harry’s initial impression of him as a gentle giant had not been changed, despite all the pieces of circumstantial evidence indicating something fishy under the surface. Kemba was incapable of killing, and Harry now fully believed it.
The man standing before Harry appeared to feel the same sort of helplessness and guilt everyone in his situation would. What Harry had assumed were furtive glances and guilty looks were nothing but human social anxiety.
Time to extend kindness, something Harry only now realized the barber hadn’t experienced since moving to town. “You’re drenched. Want to come in?”
The big guy shook his head as rain continued to stream down his face.
“I need to ask you something,” Harry said, “and I need you to be totally honest with me. Because you haven’t been totally honest with me, agreed?”
“Okay,” Kemba said, head still down.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were talking to your sister the night Lukas died? She could’ve provided an alibi for you.”
Now Kemba did look up. “I was a suspect?”
The hurt on Kemba’s face suggested he had never considered the possibility. Harry had to tread lightly here. “I’m just doing my job.”
Kemba eventually nodded and shoved the pick back into his pocket. “My sister and I have a… complicated relationship. I didn’t think it was important.”
“I understand. Is there anything else you haven’t told me? It’s time to put it all out there. Like I told you before, it’s impossible for me to do my job without all the facts.”
“If you know about Boo Boo, then you can probably find out the rest of it. You know about why I left the Dolphins.”
Harry nodded. “I know about the Underground Railroad, too.”
“Yeah,” Kemba said as he winced. “That whole saga. They made it seem like I was this criminal mastermind. I wasn’t even in charge of the whole damn thing. It started as selling term papers in the athletic dorm because I didn’t have money for shoes. I got a scholarship to Texas Tech, but that doesn’t help you buy all the clothes and toiletries and whatever you need. I was just trying to make money to get by, and it got out of hand. There’s not a lot else to say about it.”
“Thank you for telling me all that.”
“Feels like all my guts are all spilled out on your porch.”
Harry tried not to picture it. “I’m sorry you’ve had to dredge up all these ghosts from the past.”
“I feel terrible about that man getting killed. I want to do something.” Kemba made eye contact again, and Harry could see a deep burning there, lurking beneath the pain. “Can we keep going? Can we stay on and find out who murdered him?”
Harry extended a hand. “I plan to.”
Kemba looked at the hand for a moment, then shook it. As he did, Harry watched a small measure of light return to his face. “Thanks, Harry. You’re a good person.”
They stood for a couple more awkward seconds, rain falling, staring at each other. Harry bid him goodbye and the barber shoved hands into his pockets as he shuffled down the porch steps.
Harry then closed, locked the door behind him, and peeked through the window to the street. He stood there for a little while, watching rain fall on Kemba as he hurried down the sidewalk. A flood of various emotions and emotional leftovers raced up and down his body. He couldn’t believe he had actually grabbed a knife and run straight toward potential danger. Not a very Harry-like thing to do.
He closed his eyes and drew in a breath, letting his nerves settle.
And while Harry was standing there, he wasn’t watching his security camera feed. Because if he had been, he would’ve noticed the two occupants in the suspicious car crawling through his neighborhood.
24
The two men in the car weren’t well acquainted, and they were fine with that. One was from Texas and had only been working on the crew for a few days. The other was a local, and although he tried to use this fact as evidence he should be the leader of their duo, it hadn’t worked. They were effectively partners.
Their boss liked this sort of segmented approach, where his employees were kept in small cells, independent of each other. Thomas didn’t understand why, but he was paid to do things, not understand them. And since the pay on this job was nearly double any previous salary, Thomas had no trouble keeping his mouth shut.
Texan Thomas had told the other his name, but that man had not reciprocated. He told Thomas to refer to him as “Mr. Local,” which Thomas thought sounded creepy. But it made sense, because Mr. Local was from the area and Thomas the implant. He didn’t like that the “Mr.” made it seem like he was higher up on the food chain. As far as Thomas knew, th
ey were equals, even though the other guy had been here for longer.
As they drove through Harry’s neighborhood, they first saw the hulking barber standing on Harry’s front porch, and the Local pointed forward, telling Thomas to keep on driving past.
“Who was that?” Thomas asked.
The Local kept his eyes on the two on the porch until it appeared they hadn’t been spotted. “That’s the barber.”
“He looks familiar.”
Thomas tried to think of the last time he’d had a haircut. It had been a couple months ago, and his sister had done it for them in their parents’ home at the kitchen table. Thomas had definitely never had a haircut from that big guy. He’d remember something like that.
“Figured out who he is?”
Thomas pushed his brain as hard as he could, but no answer came. He shrugged.
“He used to play pro football.”
Thomas nodded knowingly. “Ahh, of course.”
The Local rolled his eyes at his partner’s sudden wisdom and insight. During one of their only conversations so far, Thomas and Mr. Local had discussed football, but now Thomas worried he’d lost his small amount of accumulated cred since he couldn’t figure out who the hell this guy was. It danced on the tip of his tongue, driving him crazy.
“Turn back around at the intersection.”
Thomas did as requested, and they creeped along until they could barely see Harry’s front porch. Harry and the barber Kemba stood there, in the rain, chatting as he became increasingly drenched like the climactic scene of a romantic drama. But Thomas didn’t think these two were confessing their love for all the world to hear. It seemed to be an intense conversation between two people who didn’t trust each other. But, at this distance, it was hard to see their facial expressions and impossible to judge their intent.
Thomas kept thinking about football, cycling through years of pro team player rosters to figure out the identity of the large man. He didn’t want to say anything to the Local about it, and he couldn’t pull out his phone to check, either, or he’d be exposed. So Thomas continued to sit and simulate a look communicating that he’d already figured it out.
“What do we do?” Thomas asked.
“Obviously, we’re not going to pay Harry a visit while that Black behemoth is standing on his front porch. I have no desire to wrestle a bear today. So we do a lap and then keep on driving if he’s still there.”
Green Bay Packers? Thomas thought.
The Local reached into the back seat and picked up his bag. “I know you’re new to us, but we have a rule: we don’t draw down unless we’ve all agreed first. Make sense?”
Thomas nodded, but he hadn’t heard anything the Local had said. He’d been considering the New York Giants and Cleveland Browns, but those weren’t right, either. Each time Thomas visualized a team’s uniform on the man, it seemed right. But they couldn’t all be right, could they?
“Robbie told me you were in a foot race with Harry Boukadakis today,” Thomas said.
The Local frowned. “Please don’t remind me about that. I was just in town to get a sandwich, and then he comes out of nowhere. I thought I was going to have a damn heart attack. Especially since his damn bodyguard mamacita shot me in the back of the calf already out in the holler. Running hurts like hell and I do not want to do that again.” The Local paused, then his mouth dropped open. “Wait… Robbie told you? How did he know?”
Thomas shrugged and Mr. Local ground his teeth together. “Great. That’s just great. Well, we either do this right, or we both suffer the consequences.”
Mr. Local removed his 9mm pistol and threaded a bulky noise suppressor on the end of it. His stubby fingers screwed the attachment on, then he hefted the gun a few times to test its weight.
Thomas snapped out of his meditation on football and looked at the weapon. “We were supposed to bring guns?”
“Uhh, yeah. You know what we’re here to do, right?”
“Sure,” Thomas said, even though he wasn’t sure at all. “I just didn’t know we’d need guns to do it.”
The Local sighed and handed over his backup pistol, a .38 Special. Before Thomas could take it, the Local pulled it back and eyed his partner. “I don’t have a silencer for that one and the neighbors on either side are home, so if you pull the trigger, we’re probably both going to jail. Got it?”
Tampa Bay Buccaneers? Thomas wondered.
“I got it,” Thomas said as he took the gun, checked the cylinder to make sure it was loaded, and then shoved it into his pocket. The gun felt cold there, pressing against his skin through his jeans. “I won’t pull the trigger unless it’s an emergency.”
As he finished talking, Harry and the barber shook hands, then the barber descended the steps and wandered off into the night. The glow of a single streetlamp near the intersection illuminated him as he shuffled through the rain.
Thomas pointed at the marching man, about to turn the corner to join the cross street. “Do we chase after him?”
The Local shook his head. “We’re here for the gumshoe. Nobody said anything about going after the barber, so we are going to treat him like he doesn’t exist.”
New England Patriots? Thomas thought.
“Okay, I guess I can get behind that. I’m not quite clear on how far were supposed to take this, though. Like, are we sending a message and we’re supposed to bust up all the dishes in his kitchen, or are we here to hogtie him and carry him out the back? Or is it something else? Nobody told me anything.”
Mr. Local now grunted in annoyance, but Thomas didn’t understand why. He couldn’t read minds, so how was he supposed to know? Either way, Thomas was quickly starting to dislike the Local, and he would definitely ask not to be paired with again after this.
“You follow my lead,” Local said. “You don’t do anything I don’t do and you don’t do anything first, got it?”
“I mean… yeah, I get it, but…”
“But nothing. Follow my lead.”
“Okay, whatever. Let’s get this party started,” Thomas said. “I got me a big dinner waiting at home.”
Mr. Local removed a pack of pantyhose from a bag and stretched one down over his face. He passed the other to Thomas.
“Let’s do this,” said the Local.
Miami Dolphins? Thomas thought.
25
After Kemba’s visit, Harry retreated to the kitchen to stow his knife and upgrade his grape soda to something a little stronger. Like the channels of rain that had drained off Kemba’s shoulders, now Harry’s opinions of the barber were shifting and changing, too.
Harry hadn’t been 100% convinced of Kemba’s guilt from the start. Now, that number hovered closer to 5%. And it’s not as if that actually helped Harry, because his lead suspect now had a solid alibi. Harry would reach out to “Boo Boo” to confirm, but he already had the data to prove it. It meant he could start using his office again, and maybe actually make use of his new bodyguard, since he was pretty sure now that Kemba wouldn’t stab him in the back… literally or figuratively.
Harry hunched down to scan through the bottles. Several of them had belonged to his mother. A couple of dusty ones in the back were his grandmother’s. Hunkered here now, Harry realized he was the third generation of Boukadakises to accept the role of steward of this home. This cutesy, creaky, drafty Americana-stuffed house that was one bad storm away from falling apart. And with his house back east sold, this was now Harry’s only residence. From one perspective, he felt like the descendent of a noble tasked with carrying on the tradition of a great household name. From the other perspective, he was the owner of a house that needed more in repairs and improvements than the house was worth. If it were a car, the mechanic would tell him it was totaled.
But this house was still his. In this very kitchen Harry’s mother had first told him about her cancer. It was where they had shared their last meal together.
“Miss you, Ma,” he whispered as he kneeled and pushed various bottles aside
to take stock of the cabinet.
As Harry selected a bottle of bourbon from the bottom shelf, a knock came at the door. He spun to check the surveillance monitor he’d put in the kitchen, except the spot on the kitchen counter was blank. Only an orphaned HDMI cable and power cord sat there, waiting for a monitor to call home. Then Harry remembered he had fully intended to put a backup surveillance monitor there, but the shipping had been delayed so he had canceled the order and forgotten all about it.
He didn’t know who was at the front door. But a moment of panic settled to a rumbling anxiety when he realized Kemba had probably forgotten something.
Harry strolled across the living room and pulled back the front door not to find a repeat visit from Kemba. Instead, he saw two grown white men at his door. The rain had abated somewhat, now drizzling from the angled rooftop over the porch, creating a thin waterfall around the front of his house.
Before he got a chance to study the two people standing in his doorway, a fist came flying over the threshold.
Harry felt the impact to his nose and his eyes instantly filled with tears. He lumbered backward a step and put a hand to his nose, already throbbing. A vibrant pulse thumped in his head, making it hard to hear anything for a full second.
The two in the doorway stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind them. No discussion, no permission, just advancing like a foreign invader. Harry wiped away the tears from his eyes to see the two of them standing there, both with guns drawn. Pointed down. Fingers hovering near triggers. They were roughly the same height and weight, same hair. Hard to tell them apart, honestly, especially with pantyhose smushing their faces as if they were pressed up against a glass window.
“Hello, Harry Boukadakis,” said the one on the left. He had a silenced 9mm pistol and a sneery snort of face, so Harry dubbed him Sneer. The one on the right with the .38 Special, Harry named Revolver.