Boneyard (18 page)

His lip curled up as he grimaced at her. “Well now, that’s not very civil, is it?”

“It’s hot out here, Mr. Evans. And I’m getting tired of standing on your porch in my cheap shoes. Either we come in and you answer a few of our questions, or I make it my personal mission to overturn every stone in your life.” Kelly cocked her head to the side. “And by the looks of you, I’m guessing there’s a whole quarry to deal with.”

He stood defiant for another second, eyes darting across the lawn. Abruptly, he stepped to the side and swung the door open. Kelly breezed past, Monica following with satisfaction on her face.

The foyer was dark and cool. From it a hallway comprised of alternating blocks of black and white marble led past leafy ferns and artwork.

Kelly looked at it appraisingly. “There’s some nice stuff here. Of course you have the necessary papers of provenance, proving you acquired it all legally?”

He eased past them and shut a door on the left. “Somewhere,” he said airily.

Evans continued down the hall. Kelly stopped and opened the door he’d just shut. He stopped dead in his tracks, hands on his hips. “Excuse me, missy, what are you doing?”

“Looking for the bathroom,” she said with a small smile. The door had opened into a dining room. An ornate stainless-steel and glass table stood in stark contrast to the Colonial style of the house. Evans’s taste ran to postmodern, she noted; the rug was a plush interlay of black and white circles, the candlesticks were straight steel rods, the lighting fixtures were a mass of tangled black wire.

“Bathroom is down the hall,” he grumbled, pushing past her.

“Something you don’t want me to see in here, Mr. Evans? The Mapplethorpe, maybe?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know why you’d say that.”

Monica rolled her eyes. “Man, you must have stock in the bullshit factory.”

“Here’s the thing, Mr. Evans.” Kelly approached the photo and examined it closely. It showed a female bodybuilder in profile, flexing. A dark veil shadowed her features. “I have two dead boys, and I’m guessing they both knew you. This looks like the Mapplethorpe photo our first victim, Randy Jacobs, stole from Calvin Sommers. And I have a witness who saw you in the company of Jim Costello the night he died—making you the last person to see him alive. So I’ve got stolen artwork, drugs and arguments about money. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve pretty much made my case for me.”

“If you could prove any of that, you’d already have arrested me,” Evans responded sullenly. Kelly noticed his accent had evaporated. He now spoke in the hard flat tones of the Midwest.

“Honestly, Mr. Evans, I don’t have to. I could haul you down right now, lock you up for the long weekend—did I mention the air-conditioning is on the fritz at intake?—and as you said, your lawyer is unreachable. You and I would have a lot of time to get to know one another. But I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Kelly said.

Monica leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, smiling slightly.

“Why not?” he said after a moment.

“Because though you’re definitely a scumball, you don’t strike me as a killer. You’re the type that hates getting dirt under his nails,” Kelly said pointedly. “So we’re going to sit down and have a little chat about everything that happened the last time you saw Jim. And if I’m satisfied after that, you can get back to your siesta.” She pulled a steel chair with a black leather backrest out from the table and settled into it, then looked up at him and arched an eyebrow.

He shifted from foot to foot for a moment. All his calm had vanished; now he was a bundle of nervous energy. He twitched once, then started to pull out a chair opposite her. Kelly held up a hand before he sat down. “You know, now that I think of it, I’d just love a nice tall glass of iced tea. Doesn’t that sound good, Lieutenant?”

Monica nodded as she pulled out the chair next to Kelly. “That sure would hit the spot.”

“Would you mind, Mr. Evans?” Kelly tilted her head to the side and smiled sweetly, easing out of her shoes as she did so and digging her bare feet into the plush pile of the carpet. “What a gorgeous rug. Silk?”

Without answering, he spun and stormed out of the room.

“You are a bad, bad girl,” Monica said, shaking her head.

Kelly grinned back at her. “Hey, he’s getting what he deserves.”

“For the record—” Monica nodded toward her feet “—I like those shoes.

“Thanks.” Kelly wiggled her toes reflectively. “I got them on sale.”

Through red-rimmed eyes Calvin Sommers followed a fly’s progress as it idly circled a strip of sticky paper dangling from a corner of his cell. It lit on the ceiling next to the strip, rubbed its tiny legs together then took off again, bobbing closer and closer to the trap. It landed a second time, a third…on the eighth landing it ended up squarely on the paper. The yellow strip fluttered slightly, the fly’s exertions becoming progressively more feeble with each passing moment. As the movement stilled, Calvin squeezed his eyes shut and rolled over on his side to face the wall.

Jail had been exactly how he’d pictured it, back when his father threatened to send him there if he didn’t stop his nasty proclivities. His parents had painted a vivid picture, and it was all there: the toilet—your most intimate moments exposed; the scrawny pallet that passed for a mattress; the cinder-block walls. The heat was stifling. The deputy who had delivered his breakfast had mumbled something about broken air-conditioning. The pile of mice feces in the corner was a nice touch, he ruminated, something even he couldn’t have imagined.

Calvin had barely slept the night before, trapped in this Kafka-esque nightmare. He regretted every drug he’d ever taken, every boy he’d invited home. He’d sat there at the arraignment feeling the weight of all those eyes upon him—people who were convinced he’d done horrible things to a mere child. Consumed with guilt, Calvin had refused to allow his attorney to petition for bail. Jim was in the ground because of him, he reasoned. He deserved to be here, deserved to suffer every single day. As soon as he could, he’d accept a plea. He’d probably die in jail, he speculated, and wondered how it would go down. Would he be pummeled to death by scores of jeering inmates, or stabbed with a shiv as he stood in line at dinner?

Calvin kept going over that night in his head, again and again. In his mind’s eye he could see the small trail of blond fuzz over Jim’s upper lip, the way his shorts hung low to reveal the top of his hips. A tear trickled through his eyelids. He’d cared for the boy, in his own way. Why was it that everyone he cared for seemed determined to screw him over?

Jim had been so full of life, it seemed impossible that he was dead. And somehow, Calvin himself had done it. He was sure of it, deep in the recesses of his mind he caught fleeting glimpses of Jim’s dead eyes staring up at him. He had been curled up in the back seat of his car, it was pitch-black outside, and the radio was blaring some classic rock tune.

Suddenly, Calvin frowned and sat up. Why the hell had the radio been playing that? Jim only listened to modern bands, the names of which Calvin could never keep straight. And he only played jazz. Strange. Had there been someone else there? But who? Calvin closed his eyes and went over what he did remember. He’d been angry. He’d grabbed the gun, loaded it and gotten in his car. Drove directly to the horrible place Jim had taken him to once. That’s when he’d asked the boy to come stay with him, because the thought of his blond Adonis in that hovel was too unsettling.

But Jim hadn’t been there. Danny, the boy with the permanent sneer, said he’d already gone. It wasn’t until the little shit was staring down the barrel of the gun clasped in Calvin’s shaking hands that he’d given an address. He’d also offered a blow job or some drugs in exchange for not getting shot.

But had he accepted any drugs? Calvin shook his head, hard. He wouldn’t have done that, he’d been too angry and would have wanted to keep his head straight. Calvin strained to remember more details. He recalled more driving, then he’d parked outside a house with darkened windows and a long driveway—a large, white house, one of the new ones built to look old. He’d snuck up, glanced inside…and then his mind went blank, it was as though someone had erased every other memory from that night. Except for the flashes of him, and Jim, in the car…

Calvin leaned against the wall and drew his knees up to his chest, feet on the edge of the cot. For the first time since this whole nightmare began, he felt a rising certainty that he might be innocent, that he hadn’t murdered Jim in a drug-fueled rage. Like his lawyer had said, they hadn’t found any signs of a struggle—none of his skin or hair was under Jim’s nails. There was nothing other than Jim’s blood on his shirt. But, in his entire life, he’d never been able to hurt anyone—even that time he hit a deer with his car he’d wept for weeks afterward. Plus he rarely took any drugs other than pot, the few times he’d tried one of the pills the boys were always offering he’d ended up nauseous and paranoid. No, he’d been drugged, and it had not been voluntary.

Calvin’s jaw tightened with resolve, and he stood and marched to the cell door. “Hey!” he shouted, loud enough for the cop down the hall to hear him. “Get my lawyer, I need to talk to him.”

Doyle stormed down the hallway in a foul mood. He should’ve been on the deck of his boat right now, nice cold beer tucked into his hand. Hell, after the last few weeks he deserved it. He’d had that goddamn FBI bitch riding his ass until it was black-and-blue. Now they had the killer in custody, so there was no reason for him to be walking through the Berkshire State Police barracks. And yet here he was.

Doyle blew through a set of double doors, turned a corner, and nodded sharply for the guy inside the booth to buzz him in. He marched down the row and stopped in front of Sommers’s cell. Hands on his hips, he glared inside. “The fuck you want?” he snarled.

The irritating old faggot stared at him calmly, hands clasped in front of his crotch. “I’d like to see my lawyer.”

“It’s a holiday weekend, numb-nut, there’s not a lawyer in the world working.”

“I believe mine will, at the rate I’m paying him,” Sommers replied.

Doyle looked him up and down; this was a completely different person from the blubbering jerkoff they’d interviewed yesterday. All the panic and despair was gone, replaced by a preternatural calm. Doyle’s lips tightened. “Nothing says I have to get your lawyer just ’cause you asked for him,” he said, voice low.

“Maybe not, but I’d hate to file a complaint with the oversight board about the conditions here.” He pointed to the corner. “After all, with mice feces, you never know. I could say the Berkshire State Police knowingly exposed me to the hantavirus.”

Doyle tried to stare him down, but the guy wasn’t budging. After a moment, he spun on his heel and stalked back down the hall. As he passed the booth again and waited for the door to be buzzed open, he rapped against the glass. “Call that dickhead’s liar,” Doyle ordered, deliberately mispronouncing the word. He hated lawyers, didn’t understand how anyone could devote their careers to keeping scumbags out of jail. Hell, if he had his way the death penalty would not only be legal, it would be mandatory for all three-strikers.

Back at his desk Doyle threw himself into the chair and spun in a slow circle, rubbing his jaw with one hand. He’d just known this was too good to be true. In his gut he’d sensed that having a suspect in hand and the task force on the verge of being dismantled was too much to hope for. Now it looked like there was a wrench in the works. He ran a hand through his hair and chewed on the corner of his lip. It was nerve-racking, having those women always peering over his shoulder. Every day he showed up for work with his heart in his throat, convinced that they’d figured things out. These past few days he’d gotten a brief reprieve, but if Sommers got out of jail and they kept digging, it would only be a matter of time until he was discovered. He inhaled deeply, a trickle of sweat rolling down his face. He’d have to do everything in his power to prevent that from happening.

Eighteen

“You sure you don’t want to take a turn?” Zach asked, holding up the spatula.

Jake waved his hands in the air in protest. “Absolutely not. One thing I’ve learned in life, you never mess with another man’s grill.”

Zach flushed slightly, obviously pleased that Jake referred to him as a man. Kelly noted it and smiled.

“Don’t you burn mine, Beenie!” Monica called out from her post in a plastic lounge chair. “You know how I like it—”

“I know, I know. Knock off its horns and wipe its ass,” Zach retorted.

“You don’t say.” Jake raised an eyebrow. “Sounds to me like there’s a fellow Texan in the house.”

Monica raised her margarita in a toast. “Yessirree, Amarillo born and bred. Yourself?”

“Austin.”

“Ah, Moscow-on-the-Brazos.” Monica nodded her head in satisfaction. “Nice town. You know if I hadn’t met my husband, that’s where I was headed myself.”

“Really?” Jake grinned and crossed the lawn toward her.

Kelly watched as he settled into the chaise longue next to Monica and they compared notes on their Southwestern childhoods. She tilted a beer bottle to her lips and half closed her eyes. The heat of the day before had eased up. It was Sunday, and they were in Monica’s backyard grilling burgers. The lawn was dotted with patches of wildflowers, all shaded by overgrown elms. Kelly inhaled deeply, relishing the smell of roasting meat and freshly cut grass.

A screen door slammed and their heads all turned. Dr. Stuart stood awkwardly holding a casserole dish. He gestured behind him with a thumb. “No one answered the bell, and the door was open. I hope it’s okay that I came in.”

“Howie!” Monica squealed, vaulting off her chair and striding forward to meet him. “You made it!”

“I brought a vegan casserole.” He held up the platter. “I know everyone else probably eats meat, but I figured—”

“I’m sure it’s delicious.” Monica grabbed his arm and steered him toward the weathered red picnic table. “Here, let me grab you a drink. Beer or margarita?”

Kelly noticed that Zach was suddenly very focused on the sizzling burgers, a frown marring his features. She stepped forward and joined him. “Those look great. Can I help out?”