Forever Man (12 page)

There was silence on the other end. Jack thought J.J. would finally fold. But his son surprised him.

“I want in. Whatever you’re doing, I want to be a part of it. I want to help.”

Great,
now
he gets ambitious. “I don’t need a partner.”

“Either you let me help, or I go to the cops with the photos. Not even
you
will be able to get yourself out of that one.”

The little shit was blackmailing him? He wanted to reach through the phone, grab a fistful neck, and choke the life out of him. But he couldn’t, not yet. J.J. had the photos. Or he’d seen them. But had anyone else?

“When I get home, we can talk. For now, let’s keep this between you and me.”

“Well…that’s another thing. Katie was here when I found them. I freaked a little, but I think I hid it. Then I made up an excuse to get her out of here.”

Jack exploded. “You went into a room where you’re not allowed, forced your way into a locked drawer, got into a locked box, and you didn’t have the presence of mind to do it alone? Jesus H. Christ, boy!”

Webber’s shoulders shook with silent laughter

“Oh sure,” J.J. said. “As if I knew what I’d find. Who thinks their dad’s a serial killer who keeps photos of his victims in a drawer?”

“I’m not—” Jack clamped down hard on his rising temper. “Never mind. This makes the girl a problem. I can’t count on her believing you, or keeping her mouth shut.”

“No,” said J.J.. “I won’t let you hurt her. That’s part of the deal. To keep
my
mouth shut.”

“Something will have to be done.”

“I don’t want her hurt,” J.J. repeated.

“Fine. She won’t be touched.”

J.J. hesitated. “Promise me.”

“What!” Jack shouted into the phone.

“Promise or go to jail.”

From across the table, Webber made a little “get on with it” gesture with his hand.

Gritting his teeth, Jack said. “I promise.”

“Great,” J.J. replied. “We can talk more when you get home.”

“Whatever,” Jack said, hanging up without saying goodbye. He threw the cell down on his desk in disgust and looked at Webber. “I suppose you pieced that together?”

Webber tapped his cigarette, and ashes floated like toxic snow onto the carpet. “You insisted on having those photos,” he said evenly. “You wanted proof that I could do what I said. But I’m starting to wonder if a little pud-puller like you had other reasons. Let me guess—your subscription to
Playboy
ran out?”  He stubbed out his cigarette on Jack’s desktop, mere inches from an ashtray.

Jack’s face grew warm. Webber’s comment had hit a little too close to the mark. “Don’t worry. I’ll get rid of them.”

“I told you to destroy them
immediately
after you’d seen them.”

“They won’t cause any more problems.”

Webber shot him a look that made the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stand straight. “I’ve put too much work into this little endeavor to have you screw it up. Do it again and you’ll find yourself cut out of our little deal.” His lip curled in one corner. “Or worse.”

Jack tried to swallow, but all he managed was a dry click. “I know you’re supposed to be some kind of von Kliner’s expert, but I don’t see how any of this helps Kevin.”

“It may not affect him,” Webber said. “But it does involve him.”

When Webber didn’t elaborate, Jack said, “Okay, you want to tell me how?”

Webber pursed his lips, then shrugged. “I’m here to prevent a man from doing a bad thing. This guy—name’s Bartholomew Owens—he’s a nasty character. Comes across as some kind of harmless old guy. He’s as harmless as a towel head with a truck full of nukes.” He paused to light another cigarette. “Owens is here to cause trouble, and I’m here to stop him.”

“So…this guy’s got something to do with Kevin?”

Nodding, Webber said, “I’m just waiting for word that he’s locked up in a jail cell. Then I’ll deal with him.”

“But you still haven’t told me—?”

“Later,” Webber said firmly.

Jack started to protest, but then felt something burn deep in his lungs. He broke into a series of violent, hacking coughs, brought up a thick gob of phlegm, and spat it into a tissue.

Webber peered at him. “You look rough.”

“I think it’s just a cold. I should be better in a couple days.” Though, honestly, he did feel pretty crappy: aches and pains, shivers, night sweats. After his lungs had settled down, Jack said, “The Morris girl. Does she have anything to do with Owens?” Is that why Webber had grabbed her? To keep her away from him?

Webber shook his head but said nothing.

Jack decided to push a little harder. He had a suspicion, brought on by the condition of the Cain boy’s body and the full moon. It was a bizarre thought, but bizarre was an excellent word to describe Darryl Webber. “The Cain boy wasn’t killed by an animal, was he? At least, not a
natural
animal.”

Webber gave him a flat, unfriendly stare and continued his silence.

“Fine,” Jack said, exasperated. “Have it your way. But if this doesn’t have anything to do with Kevin directly, why did you involve me?”

Webber leaned back in his chair. “I can’t finish this
without
you. You’re the most important man in Kinsey. You’ve got power, influence. Once I deal with Owens, you’ll be indispensable.” This time he tapped his cigarette ashes into the ashtray. “I assume you enjoyed the money I sent you?”

“Sure,” Jack answered. Ten grand was hard to pass up when you worked in a small burg like Kinsey. “But that’s a lot of money for information you could’ve gotten off the internet.”

“A piece never knows it is part of a puzzle until it’s put in its place.”

“Run that by me again. In English this time.”

Webber shrugged. “Help me finish what I need to do and, like I promised, your life will change in ways you can’t imagine.”

“It’d better,” Jack said, scowling. “I’m risking a lot on just your word.”

The man smiled. It looked false—a paper smile, like it had been fastened to his face with pins and tape. “Trust me.”

Jack thought back to the call from his son. “I can handle J.J.. But what about the girl? I promised she wouldn’t be hurt.”

“Don’t worry,” Webber said. “I’ll take care of her. Soon she’ll be too busy to wonder about anything. Besides, I think your chief needs another crisis to help keep her from looking our way.”

Jack peered closely at Webber. “What have you got in mind?”

Gently lifting himself out of his chair, Webber leaned in close to Jack, bracing himself on the desktop with his arms. He pushed his face close, so close that Jack could feel the scrape of the other man’s whiskers against his cheek, so close that Jack thought Webber might kiss him.

“That’s on a ‘need to know’ basis, Jack. And you don’t need to know.”

*   *   *

Izzy Morris sat at her desk, staring out her office window, trying to gather her thoughts. People strolled along the tree-shaded sidewalks of Asher Street, enjoying the cool fall weather and doing a little window shopping. Mrs. Lee had once again stopped to consider the clothes on display at Rose Dwight’s resale shop. A widow whose husband had died in the first Gulf War, Olivia Lee had never recovered from her loss. She constantly sought the perfect dress to wear when her long dead husband finally returned from Iraq. As the woman entered SecondHand Rose’s Resale Repository, Izzy finally understood Liv’s pain. And the shallow comfort of her denial.

Stanley had been admitted to the hospital in critical condition. While his heart had stabilized, he remained unconscious. The doctors were running tests and monitoring his condition. They were still uncertain as to what had happened or if it could happen again.

She had considered staying with him, but there wasn’t anything she could do there. She had a missing daughter and a person of interest in the case, so she’d decided to come back to the station. Finding Natalie was the best thing she could do for Stanley—and for herself.

Izzy picked up the file containing what little information she had on Bart Owens and scanned Sten Billick’s preliminary report.

With Owens’ consent, Sten had run the man’s fingerprints through the FBI’s National Crime Information Center. The search had come up empty. The man had no criminal record.

When asked for ID, Owens had produced an expired Tennessee driver’s license. A call to that state had also been a bust. Except for possibly driving without a valid license, Owens was clean in Tennessee. Then again, their DMV had also said that Owens didn’t have a car registered in their state. In fact, looking as far back as their on-line records go, he hadn't ever registered a car there. She’d known people who had a driver’s license but no car, except they usually lived in crowded cities like New York, Chicago, LA. But Nashville? She’d been there twice for police conferences. Everything was spaced well apart. That meant expensive taxi rides or a lot of walking.

Just to be thorough, Sten had searched Michigan’s LEIN system. Izzy wasn’t surprised when that came back negative, too.

She wanted a work history on this guy, but that would take more time. For now, she would use what was available.

Izzy didn’t like to follow instinct. She trusted routine, methodical police procedures. But she’d also be a fool if she didn’t trust her gut once in a while. This Owens guy was strange, and her gut told her that he was involved somehow.

It was time to talk to him. But first, she needed to do one thing. It might destroy her case against Owens, should there ever be one. But with Natalie missing, she was willing to take the chance.

She picked up the phone and contacted her dispatcher. “Aggie, who’s out on the road right now?”

Izzy Morris opened the gunmetal gray door and stepped inside the interview room. It was a small, pale yellow cinder-block enclosure with a two-way window in one wall. Twin fluorescent fixtures spilled harsh light from the ceiling. To Izzy, the stale air smelled of old guilt and denial.

Bart Owens sat in one of two metal folding chairs, his hands together on the scratched surface of a long wood table. He’d shed the jacket he had worn during the search. Now he was dressed in a Nashville Predators sweatshirt, his head bowed, his short, crinkly hair almost glinting under the room’s light.

His eyes were closed. Was he meditating? Praying? Sleeping?

On the far side of the table, Detective Sten Billick occupied the other chair. The tap-tapping of his pencil on a yellow legal pad meant that something was bothering him. Izzy could list five things off the top of her head that bothered her about this case. At least she wasn’t alone.

At one end of the table sat a cassette tape recorder, its wheels slowly spinning.

She moved to stand next to Sten. “Mind if we talk, Mr. Owens?

Owens opened his eyes. “I’m sorry about your husband. Is he going to be okay?”

Izzy waved aside his question. “Let’s talk about you. Detective Billick tells me you’re being evasive. That you’re not answering his questions.”

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” Owens said, one finger tracing vague patterns on the table top. “I simply don’t have the answers you want.”

Izzy said, “And you maintain that you had nothing to do with my daughter’s disappearance? Or Jimmy Cain’s death?”

“I don’t know where she is,” Owens said. “And I believe the boy was killed by an animal. That would rule me out, wouldn’t it?”

Sten cut smoothly into the interrogation. “For the sake of completeness, let’s go over the basics again. When did you arrive in town?”

Owens turned to Sten. “Friday evening.”

Picking up his notebook, Sten reviewed what he’d written. “You say you left Nashville early last Thursday. Arrived in Newberry on Friday afternoon by bus. However, you didn’t show up at the Lula until
Saturday
afternoon. Where were you between Friday afternoon and Saturday afternoon?”

“I walked to Kinsey. By the time I’d arrived, it was dark.”

“You walked all that way?” Sten said. “Why not take a taxi?”

“I needed the exercise,” Owens replied calmly.

“And where’d you spend Friday night?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Bullshit,” said Sten. “Where’d you stay?”

“It was a hotel. I don’t remember the name.”

“The same one you’re staying at now?”

“No.”

“How’d you pay for your room?”

“Cash.”

“Why didn’t you just charge it?” asked Sten.

“No credit card,” said Owens, gesturing to the reports sitting on the table. “But you already know that, Detective.”

Sten raised an eyebrow. From a stack of papers, he pulled out the credit report on Owens. No credit cards. No loans. No mortgages. No history of anything. He placed the paper in front of Owens.

“This isn’t possible,” Sten said, tapping the report with a finger.

Owens picked up the report, his eyes scanning it. “Everything looks correct to me.”

“I couldn’t even find a checking account. How do you pay your bills?”

Owens’ gaze shifted to Izzy. “I don’t see how any of this will help find your daughter.”

Izzy pointed to the report in his hands. “Just answer the question.”

“I like to pay cash,” Owens replied, sliding the paper across the table. “I’m quite sure that’s not illegal.”

“Mr. Owens,” Izzy said. “I know you’re not under arrest. That you’re here voluntarily. But look at it from our side. You’re new in town. You have an unusual history, which in this case means no history at all. And we found something of yours at the crime scene. You have to admit, it would make any cop suspicious.”

“I am who I am. All your reports are correct. And none of them points to me being a criminal.”

“No, not directly,” admitted Izzy. She was going to continue, but the door banged open. Aggie Ripley hurried into the room. She looked frazzled as she handed Izzy a piece of paper.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the dispatcher said. “But I thought you’d want to see this.” Then she left, closing the door behind her.

Izzy read the paper. The message told her all she needed to know.

Bart Owens had been lying the entire time.

She handed the paper to Sten. Then she leaned over and turned off the cassette recorder. Looking back at Owens, she said, “Before I came here, I sent a couple patrol cars over to the hotel where you’re staying. I know the manager, and she let Officers Hamilton and Manick into your room.”