A Welcome Grave (17 page)

“You said Matt called his dad because he took offense to the questioning,” Joe said. “What exactly did you mean?”

“Him being the only witness, I think maybe the police were more aggressive with the questions than he thought they should be. What I mean is, I think he felt—for a little while at least—like he was a suspect.”

“No kidding,” Joe said. “Like
he
was a suspect.”

Brooks saw where he was going and grinned. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Detective. The right guy went to jail. Check the case out yourself, but I’m pretty sure you’ll agree with the jury.”

“How well did you know the Jeffersons?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Casual acquaintance. My father knew them better.”

“What did you think of the two of them? Alex and his son?”

“Didn’t know them well enough to make any sort of a judgment, really. But it would appear they were ill-fated, don’t you think?”

W
e drove back down the winding road without seeing another car.

“And you wanted to give up on the phone call,” Joe said. “Go chasing Thor around the city, waiting to be killed.”

“The phone call was a good idea. I’m glad I thought of it.”

“Thought of it and then decided to forget it.”

“That’s why I need you around—to keep my own genius focused.”

He smiled and shook his head.

“It feels like something,” I said, “but it could be nothing.”

“What’s that?”

“All of this—the girl’s murder, the cops questioning Jefferson’s son.”

“Be a hell of a surprise to me if it’s not worth something. Jefferson and his murderer both referenced this phone call from the son. We trace the call back and find the kid was a murder witness? That matters.”

“Okay, but how? Sounds like this Doran guy was good for the crime. Hard evidence against him, a story filled with lies, and the kid putting him at the scene. Where does Alex Jefferson come into play there?”

“No way to know until we get into the old case, see what really happened. The obvious guess is that they set him up.”

“Looking at Jefferson’s kid as a murderer might be a bit overzealous.”

He shot me a quick glance before looking back up the road. “You’re the one
who told me the kid was front and center in this thing, and your boy from last night came with a grudge.”

“Indeed he did. But Doran’s still in prison. So scratch him from the list of grudge suspects, and who do you have left from this scenario?”

“Maybe the guy who came after Jefferson’s family is connected to Doran. A brother or a close friend or something.”

“Someone who cares about Doran enough to kill for him but is restrained enough to wait five years before moving into action?”

Joe sighed. “Okay, the time lag is a problem. Still, it’s something to consider.”

“And we’ll consider it. I’m just saying we don’t know much yet in the way of facts.”

“We should try to get in to see Doran. Most of the guys doing time for crimes they pretend not to be guilty of will talk to anyone looking at their case, let alone the guys who
really
aren’t guilty.”

“Not a bad idea.”

It was quiet for a minute, and then I looked over and saw that Joe was grinning.

“What?”

“Sign of the apocalypse,” he said.

“Huh?”

“You just cautioned
me
against getting overzealous. Told me to slow down, get some more facts.”

He was still laughing at that when we made it back to the highway.

We got back to the office just after five. Joe pulled into the lot and shut off the engine and reached for the door handle. He went across his body with his right arm, which told me that his left arm had to be aching from driving.

I’d just closed my own door when I heard another open and turned to see Targent climbing out of a Crown Victoria that was parked on the street just up from our building. He was talking on a cell phone, but he lifted his free hand in a congenial wave.

“Shit.” I pointed at Targent. “Doesn’t this guy have anybody else to talk to?”

Joe and I waited beside the car while Targent wrapped up his conversation, snapped his phone shut, and walked over to join us.

“Should we go upstairs?” he said.

“I don’t think so. You spend any more time in our office and I’m going to start charging you rent.”

He gave me a wan smile and nodded at Joe. “Mr. Pritchard. How you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Where you guys been?”

“Nowhere exciting,” Joe said. “Now I’d like to get some dinner. Didn’t have lunch, and I’m hungry.”

“I hear that. Hate to stand between a man and his stomach, too, so I won’t take up much of your time. I just thought I should drop by after my last conversation with Mrs. Jefferson. She indicated that you were now, um, investigating on her behalf?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“I’ll go ahead and tell you I’m not real enamored with that idea.”

“Didn’t figure you would be.”

“I’m torn on how to handle it. Part of me would like to cut you off at the knees, tell you this isn’t going to happen. Another part tells me it’s not worth fighting you.”

“Listen to that voice.”

Targent had his eyes on the ground and was using the fingers of his right hand to rotate the wedding ring on his left. That impenetrable calm surrounded him again. Even today, when I’d told him about the attack and admitted to not calling him when it had happened, he’d been cool, or at least he’d gotten the cool back quickly. In my experience the unflappable cops always made suspects the most uncomfortable, giving off the sense that they were a hundred chess moves ahead. Joe was one of that breed. I wasn’t close.

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just let you do your thing. We’ll stay out of each other’s way, right? Share information when we get it? A regular team.”

I stood and stared at him, wondering what he was really thinking, why he was here, going with the friendly act.

“Sure, Targent. We’ll do that. A team, like you said.”

He nodded. “That’s real good news. Damn neighborly offer on your part.”

“I thought so. Now are we done?”

“Well, not quite. I’m going to need another minute, I’m afraid. Got a call this afternoon from Lieutenant Brewer of the Indiana State Police. Man had a strange tale to share.”

Targent reached into his back pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. He took his time unfolding it, then smoothed it against his leg and handed it to me.

It was a booking sheet from the Brown County Jail, where I’d spent the night
on my visit. The photograph was of a middle-aged man with a poorly trimmed mustache, nobody I’d seen before, and the charge was interference. He’d been booked about six hours earlier.

“Stan Meyers.” I looked up at Targent. “This guy supposed to mean something to me?”

“You mean a lot to him, at least.”

“How?”

He took the booking sheet out of my hand, folded it, and slid it back into his pocket. “Mr. Meyers is a private detective in Indiana. Does that jog your memory?”

“Nope.”

“He was arrested yesterday. Tried to bribe a records clerk with the state police into releasing closed reports.” He paused a beat. “Reports concerning the Matt Jefferson death investigation.”

“Suicide,” I said.

“Death investigation. Results inconclusive as of the last time I spoke with Lieutenant Brewer.”

“Okay. I’ll give you that. What does this Meyers guy have to do with me?”

“Kind of surprised to hear you ask that question,” Targent said. “Considering you hired him.”

I didn’t issue an immediate denial. Maybe that made Targent think I’d admit to it; his eyes narrowed and he looked excited for a moment.

“You remember now?” he said. “Temporary amnesia fading away?”

“I didn’t hire this guy to do anything. I’ve never heard of him.”

“You have any proof that Lincoln hired him?” Joe said. “Or is everybody just taking his word for it because he seems so damn reliable?”

“Meyers named him immediately. Told Brewer and another detective that Perry called him the day after Matt Jefferson’s suicide and attempted to employ him to watch the investigation, monitor the cops.”

“So the answer to my question is—”

“Not yet. That’s the answer. No proof yet, but Brewer’s working on it.”

Targent turned from Joe back to me. “He said you stressed that his efforts be hidden from police, and when he heard that he declined. Said then you called back, repeated the request, and told him you’d put ten thousand cash in the mail if he just tried to get the latest reports. Old Mr. Meyers doesn’t sound like the finest of investigators; Brewer said he moonlights as a ten-dollar-an-hour security guard. So the ten grand convinced him, is what he said. That was
a bad decision, of course—the dumb bastard’s probably going to lose his license now.”

My throat had tightened around the most unpleasant of dry tickles, as if there were a blade of grass caught there.

“You know this is a lie,” I said. “You have to know that, Targent.”

He held his hands up, spread them wide. “You shouldn’t be telling
me
that, you should be telling Mr. Meyers. He’s convinced that he’s working on your behalf. Brewer wants you back down there. Says he’s going to throw the same charges at you. I cautioned him that with the cash payment, this may be tougher to prove than he realizes. I anticipated your, uh, brilliant defense of total denial. Warned him that you’re less than forthright, less than cooperative.”

“You have no evidence. Brewer has no evidence. You’ve got a secondhand account and ten grand in cash that could easily have come from Brewer himself.”

“They recovered the envelope. Postmarked in Cleveland.”

I was silent.

Targent smiled. “That concerns you?”

“Not really. I was just thinking that maybe you’re the one who mailed the cash.”

“Of course. You’re the conspiracy victim, right? Sorry if I keep forgetting that.”

“I don’t have ten grand to spare, trust me, Targent. You want to see my bank account history, go for it.”

“Ah, but Alex Jefferson had some cash, and fifty grand of it is missing. Cash withdrawal, not seen since.”

“So, what, you think he paid Lincoln to kill him?” Joe said. “Makes a lot of sense.”

Targent shook his head. “Remember that someone could be extorting the Jefferson family, Mr. Pritchard. Where’d that money go? Possibly to the person who laid on the pressure.”

“What pressure would Lincoln have to lay on?”

“I was hoping he’d explain that.”

“This is important,” I said. “If someone actually hired this guy, pretended to be me . . . that’s a pretty damn big deal, Targent, and finding out who it was will be—”

“Someone pretended to be you. That’s what you’re telling us.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t hire him, and if he’s serious in thinking that I did, what other option is there?”

“I suppose that’s it. Either someone’s pretending to be you, or you’re lying. Those are the options.”

“You can scratch the second one.”

“So what’s the point? Huh? Why pretend to be you? Why pay out ten thousand dollars to a PI when there’s no guarantee he’d even be caught? If he just snagged the reports and sent them on back to you—I’m sorry, back to your
imposter
—then what would have been accomplished?”

“I don’t know.”

He smiled at me and nodded. “Of course you don’t. Of course. I’m beginning to feel sorry for you, Perry. Because if you’re not lying to me, than you’re the most clueless son of a bitch I’ve ever seen. Makes my heart ache for you. But, being a kindhearted guy, I’m going to help you out. All those things you don’t understand? All those questions? I’m going to explain them. Every last one. I’m going to do that just for you.”

He nodded at Joe, then turned and moved for his car, walking briskly and whistling, the sound teasing the air between us.

Y
ou can stand on a riverbank and study the water and think it looks languid and warm, inviting even, well worth a try. Then you dive in, and things surprise you—the cold, the current, the snags underfoot.

That’s how I felt now. Karen’s request that I track down her dead husband’s son had been a safe enough thing to accept. All that money for such a routine task. Sure, there was a clear note of warning—I was on the police suspect list, no matter how far down. But I’d ignored that over a simple tenet I’d explained to people constantly when I was a cop: If you’ve done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear.