by Gregory Ashe
“You two are major dicks.”
“Come on, it’s just part of being a cop. Bad relationships go with the job. Better to laugh about it than pull a long face every time it happens.” Before Somers could respond, Gross hurried to add in a low voice, “Hey, I hear there’s some big stuff in the works for you.”
Somers blinked. “What?”
“Yes, sir. Everybody’s already talking about it. I mean, I know it’s not official until it’s official, but for the record: I think you’re the right choice. Bring people together. Give the department a fresh face, some young blood. People will talk at first, but people always talk. You don’t listen to them. This stuff,” he jerked his thumb, presumably at Hazard, “this is behind you, and you just face forward until it all blows over.”
“Look, I really think—”
“I know, I know. Pretend I didn’t say anything. But hey, listen.” Gross glanced around. “Norman and I, we could pass that detective’s test. We’d crush it, you know. And you know we do good work, right? You think we do solid work, right?”
“Yeah, but listen—”
“Perfect,” Gross said, and then he mimed zipping his lips and strolled past Somers into the boathouse.
Shaking his head, Somers headed back up to the car. When he cleared the hill, he groaned.
Dulac was talking to Hazard.
“I know,” Hazard said, interrupting whatever Dulac had been saying.
“Yeah, well, you don’t act like you fucking know. You act like an entitled fucking prick, and you—”
“Stop talking,” Hazard said.
“No way, man. I’m not scared of you, and I’ve been wanting to say this for a long time. You treat him like—”
Hazard took a step; Dulac, for a guy who wasn’t scared, backed up really damn fast.
“Stop talking,” Hazard said a furious whisper that Somers still managed to catch.
This time, Dulac glanced over his shoulder. “Oh.”
“Well,” Somers said. “Thank God you’re both so subtle.”
“Hey,” Dulac said. “Bro, we were just—”
“No,” Somers said. “I can’t right now. I can’t handle either of you.”
“Unjust, dude. What did I do?”
“Where’s Josh?”
His whole face drawn with wounded innocence, Dulac pointed to the front porch, where Josh sat. He must have gone into the house long enough to get Dolly because she was puttering around the bushes, picking up rocks and turning them in her hands.
“Ok. Are you sure that’s Donna May Plenge?” Hazard produced a folded photograph; Somers scanned it and said, “She’s wearing the same clothes from this photograph.”
“Really?” Hazard said, taking the photograph and returning it to a pocket. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You don’t get to be a smartass today. We still need family to make an ID. Christ, that’s going to be awful. She’s been there a while.”
“This photograph was taken the day before Valentine’s.”
“So she’s been there, God, six weeks? Longer? I guess with the cold weather, that’s possible, but what a mess.”
Dulac frowned. “Pretty bad plan.”
Hazard grunted. “Nobody found her, did they? It worked well enough for this long.”
“Nobody except you, you mean.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, man, it’s true. Ride that fucking ego.”
“It’s not ego. It’s a fact. Nobody found her until I—”
“Ok, back to your corners,” Somers said. Pointing at Dulac, he said, “Call back to the station and see if anybody in the neighborhood reported a disturbance, suspicious behavior, anything, from the night of February 13th.”
Hazard held up three fingers.
“And the three days after,” Somers added. Then he turned on Hazard. “You’re going to take a walk with me. I’m going to call Cravens and see if she wants to hire you for this one. Even if she doesn’t, I need a report. Everything you’ve turned up in the investigation so far.”
“Make him type it up,” Dulac said.
“Will you go, please?”
“Make him use Comic Sans.”
“Gray!”
“He’s just saying that to piss me off,” Hazard said as Dulac retreated. “Even a little turd like him has to know there are only three acceptable fonts for reports: Garamond, Palatino, Romana . . .” He dried up under Somers’s gaze and rolled one huge shoulder. “Client confidentiality.”
“Then call your client and get authorized. Don’t tell her about the sister yet.”
While Hazard made the call, Somers contacted Cravens; after describing the case, including the involvement of one of Wahredua’s most prominent families and Hazard’s ongoing investigation, Cravens agreed to put Hazard on the job.
Somers was about to disconnect when Cravens broke in, her voice brittle, to say, “I don’t know why you’re bothering to ask me anyway.”
“Chief?”
“Oh, am I still chief? Funny. That’s not how I hear it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Somers said. “But if you think I went behind your back somehow—”
“Do you know something, Detective Somerset? I’m going to give you a piece of advice. One that I wish someone had given me. Are you ready for it?”
“Chief, somebody’s been talking about me.”
“You may want to write this down. That way you can savor the irony of it when you’re the one who has to make these kinds of decisions. Although,” her voice sharpened, “from what I hear, you may not want to work with Mr. Hazard in the future. Separations can make even a professional relationship almost unbearable.”
Somers didn’t speak into the silence that followed; a dog across the street was yapping, and the sound filled the empty, wiped-clean places in Somers’s head.
“Here’s my advice, John-Henry; enjoy it in good health. Whoever wants this job? They fucking deserve it.”
The call disconnected.
“What’s wrong?” Hazard said.
Somers shook his head.
“You look—” Hazard reached for him.
Somers wasn’t even sure why, but he jerked away. Hazard’s hand stilled in the air.
“Sorry,” Hazard said. “I forgot. Wouldn’t want to fuck up your perfect image. Not right before an election.”
The dog was still yapping. It echoed inside Somers’s head.
He had to fight to keep his voice even as he asked, “Did you talk to your client?”
“Yes. She told me I could share what I’d learned with the police if I thought it was necessary. She suspects something’s wrong.”
Sighing, Somers nodded. “Why don’t you fill me in while we wait for Dr. Boyer?”
They sat on a retaining wall; Hazard left twelve inches of empty air between them. He talked, the words neutral, professional, and controlled. Dulac joined them partway through the narration, and when Hazard had finished, Somers looked at Dulac.
“Nothing on the night of the thirteenth,” Dulac said. “On the fourteenth, a neighbor asked the police to send out someone to shoot the deer that kept coming into her yard. A woman called in a report of someone driving too loudly, whatever that means. Then on the fifteenth, a man complained about ‘trash kids’ coming over from The Oaks and vandalizing property. A broken window was the extent of it, but the patrol car did pick up a few kids and give them a talk. On the sixteenth, the head of the neighborhood watch called in suspicious activity. Turned out to be Mormons going door to door.” Dulac spread empty hands. “That’s it.”
“Maybe the loud car on the fourteenth,” Somers said, looking at Hazard.
Hazard had angled his body away again.
“Ok,” Somers said. “Let’s talk to Josh.”
“Good plan, bro,” Dulac said. “Solid plan.”
Somers looked at Hazard; the big man stood and star
ted walking up to the house, never once glancing in Somers’s direction.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MARCH 28
THURSDAY
4:12 PM
SOMERS PACED OUTSIDE the station’s interview room. Having a conversation with Josh hadn’t gone as planned; before they could sit down, Josh’s parents had appeared, flying into the house, shouting for them to stop, insisting on a lawyer. And, of course, the lawyer had taken time. Instead of using someone local, the Dobbs had insisted on a woman from Columbia, and then there had been a delay there. Finally, as time had ticked away, Somers had tried to get Melissa Hall in for an interview, but he’d met the same brick wall. Melissa, forewarned, had already lawyered up as well—the same lawyer as Josh Dobbs. What a coincidence.
And it wasn’t like Somers had been able to pass the time easily. He glanced across the bullpen and immediately wished he hadn’t. Hazard sat at Somers’s desk, face blank, his whole body framed like a wall to keep everybody out. Somers was responsible for that. Not just the way he had pulled back earlier, although that had been part of it. No, the truth was that Hazard still blamed him for this situation. It was unfair. It was untrue. It was a patent refusal to acknowledge that Hazard had had just as much say in the matter as Somers. But, in typical Hazard fashion, he had made up his mind, and the world would burn before he admitted he was wrong.
Somers’s other choice for conversation had been occupied in a heated exchange of text messages for almost two hours now. Twice, Somers had asked Dulac to do something—trivial stuff, sure, phone calls to the ME’s office, checking in with Norman and Gross. The first time, Dulac had ignored him and kept on texting. The second time, Dulac had put down the phone long enough to say, “Dude, my life is collapsing like a dying star. Have some fucking sense of proportion.”
When Somers let it drop, because it wasn’t worth the fight and because Somers could make the phone calls himself, Hazard had snorted.
That was it.
Just a snort.
But when Somers glanced over, Hazard was staring back at him from behind those walls, the expression a mixture of contempt and challenge.
So the wait, Somers decided, had not been easy. Or pleasant. Or fun.
The door to the interview room opened, and a big woman—built big and carrying the weight well, dressed impeccably in a black suit—stuck her head out of the room. Her bob of dark hair swung as she looked both ways and then fixed on Somers.
“Detective Somerset, Mr. Dobbs is willing to give you a few minutes.”
And then she disappeared back into the room.
“Willing to give you a few minutes,” Hazard said.
“Let it go,” Somers said. “Gray, come on.”
Dulac fumbled his phone. “Huh? Me? But—”
“No, Emery’s going to be in the observation room.”
“Like fuck,” Hazard said.
“You’re out of control today,” Somers said. “And, frankly, you’re being an asshole.”
“Listen very closely to me—” Hazard began.
“No, Ree. Listen to me. Everybody thinks we’re in the middle of a huge fight. Want to prove them right? Because you can bitch and moan and call me names all you want. We can have it out in public if you’re so fucking furious with me. And then you’re off this fucking case. Or you can be a professional, do the job, and tell me how much you hate me when we get home.”
Fury and, for an instant, pain mixed in Hazard’s face. Then the walls were back up, and he pushed past Somers, heading for the observation room. As he went, he shot back, “It’s not really your home anymore, though. Is it?”
Somers blew out a controlled breath; the alternative was tackling his fiancé and brawling like a couple of teenagers.
“Asshole,” Dulac said.
Somers shook his head.
“No, dude. He’s a major asshole. Look at how he treats you. You’re making this huge sacrifice for him, personally, like, really trying to make things work, and professionally, throwing him a rope for that jack-shit operation he’s got. He ought to treat you like you walk on water. Asshole. Grade A asshole. You deserve—”
“Finish that sentence,” Somers said, finally losing control of his breathing and rounding on Dulac. Whatever Dulac saw, it must have surprised him because Dulac took a faltering step back. “And we’ll go outside, and I’ll remind you not to talk bad about my fiancé.”
“Bro,” Dulac said.
“No more.”
Dulac’s eyebrows contracted. He finally managed to say, “I just want you to be happy, bro.”
“Enough, Gray.”
“Yeah, man. Ok. Are we cool?”
Somers swallowed a scream and headed toward the interview room.
“I just want us to be cool, man. That’s number one in my book.”
When they stepped into the interview, Josh was slumped at the table; the paper cup of water next to him looked untouched. The lawyer—Gensler—was tapping away at her phone, her dark eyes flicking up once at them before her attention went back to the screen.
“Since my client is not under arrest, he has no legal obligation to be here. My client wants it to be perfectly clear that he’s doing this only because he’s a good citizen and wants to help the police.”
Somers cleared his throat and sat at the table; Dulac hung back. Their rhythm had never really been as good as the flow between Somers and Hazard, but things with Dulac had gotten steadily better over the last seven months. Somers kept his posture casual, open—nonthreatening almost to the point of inviting. Josh buried his face in his elbow; Evie, who was three years old, still practiced the same move when she was upset.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Dobbs,” Somers said. “We’ll try not to keep you.”
“Which would have been easier,” Dulac muttered, “if you hadn’t dragged a lawyer down to the station.”
Gensler’s head shot up, but Josh was faster. “You think I wanted her? God, this is my parents’ idea.”
“Aww,” Dulac said.
“This is so fucked up,” Josh said, head swiveling, eyes wide. He was wearing a Cardinals jersey today, the button-up kind, and two buttons in the middle were done up wrong. “Oh man, this is so fucked up.”
“I want to be clear about a couple of things,” Somers said. “First, this interview is being recorded. Second, you are not currently a suspect or a person of interest in this case.” The latter half of that statement was a stretch, but the term had no legal standing. “If you become a suspect, we’ll pause the interview, read you your rights, and then you can confer with Ms. Gensler before we proceed.”
Gensler made a little noise in her throat; her thumbs never stopped moving.
“Yeah, whatever. I did not kill her. Ok? I loved Donna May. I didn’t—I couldn’t—” And then Josh Dobbs, with his fratty hair and his fratty hat and his fratty clothes, started to sob. “Oh my God,” he said through huge, racking tears. “Is it really her? Did you see—I mean, are you sure?”
Somers slid a box of tissues toward Josh. “This isn’t going to be an easy conversation, Josh. But it’s an important one. We don’t have confirmation of ID yet, but I’ll be honest with you: yes, it’s Donna May. She looks like she died some time ago.”
Josh started crying harder, fists pressed to his eyes.
“I know this is hard,” Somers said. “But we need to talk about some important things. We want to find the person who killed Donna May.”
Josh’s weeping slowed. He grabbed handfuls of tissues, wiping them in clumps across his face like nobody had ever taught him how to use them, and then he let them fall to the floor. “Somebody really killed her?”
“Come on,” Dulac muttered.
Josh’s chin came up; he glanced at Dulac and then at Somers.
“Let’s start by having you tell us about your relationship with Donna May.”
“I loved her.”
Dulac made a scoffing noise.
“We’re going to have to talk to Mr. Hazard about his movements over the last few days,” Somers said. “And we’ll discuss trespassing charges with your parents, of course. But right now, let’s stay on track. You and Donna May had a good relationship then?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, we’d fight. She’d pick up and disappear; sometimes she’d be gone a long time.”
“And you just waited at home with your knees together,” Dulac said. “Like a good little girl.”
“What the fuck is his problem?” Josh said, lurching out of his seat.
Gensler caught his arm without looking up from her phone. In a quiet voice, she said, “If the police continue to treat my client in such an aggressive way, I’ll be forced to advise him not to continue this interview.”
“No, I want to hear it from him,” Josh said, waving his free hand at Dulac. “He’s standing over there, saying shit, looking at me like—like—like I could have done—oh my God. I did not do this. I didn’t hurt Donna May. I haven’t even seen her since—” He went pale; then an ugly blush climbed his neck and cheeks in patches.
“Let’s talk about that night,” Somers said. “We’ve already heard from a few people, so it’s in your best interest to tell us everything.”
Josh did. His story matched everything Hazard had already presented to Somers and Dulac; the only thing Josh added was that the fight at the Maniacs bar had led to his arrest, and he’d been briefly jailed until his parents could post bail. Then the narrative picked up with what Hazard had told them: visiting Melissa, interrupted sex, a fight with Donna May, and then both of them leaving at the same time.