Ice Shear (28 page)

Another hand squeeze. Next to me Jason's knee stilled.

Hale's leg pressed against mine. I was so used to working with Dave, I thought he was signaling me, but realized his touch was inadvertent. I shifted away into the TV that was wedged against the couch. I tried to stay still, not wanting to destroy their one nice thing.

Hale leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, filling up the space in the middle. “Tell us, Jason, did you give the key to Marty? Or did he steal it?”

“No, I told you already. I didn't even go in. I didn't give it to him. And he didn't get it away from me.” Another hand squeeze. “Even I'm not that incompetent.”

“So I'd be grateful,” Hale said, “if you could explain why we found your DNA all over the bloody boots and hat in the Dumpster this morning.”

“I don't . . . I throw a lot of stuff in that Dumpster.” Jason's cheeks stained red. “So the boots are definitely . . .?” He stopped as his father squeezed his hand.

His father was again moved to speak. “No way DNA from this morning. Lying.”

He was right. As police officers we could lie in the call of duty, although we couldn't withhold evidence. Hale was caught. The room went silent. “What Hale meant was the clothes. We found your DNA all over the clothes. Along with all the compounds that go into meth.” Greg Byrne squeezed Jason's hand through the whole statement.

“I'm going to remain silent, I think,” Jason said, and then more forcefully, “I choose to remain silent.”

“And you are not going to explain what happened to the key?” Hale said. “Or how those boots and hat got in there?”

Jason shook his head firmly, an emphatic no.

I flipped my notebook shut. “Call your mother, Jason, you're under arrest.”

“What?” He was up and out of his seat. “I've been nothing but nice during this whole thing.”

“Nice isn't what we want, Jason,” I said. “We want honest.”

Too many paths were leading back to Jason. He was in the middle of this in some way. The box and the key were too big to ignore, and he was in Marty's pocket.

Jason pulled his hand away from his father's and spoke directly to us. “Okay. Let me call my mother. Again.” The next words might have come directly out of Denise Byrne's mouth. “We hoped you'd be decent.”

He paced as he talked on the phone, the steady stream of words making it clear he was leaving a message rather than talking to a real person. I caught Greg Byrne watching me.

“Do you mind if I ask you again?” I said. “Are you sure you didn't fall asleep?”

“No sleep. I'm awake.” He paused. “It hurts.”

Hale approached the bed. “Are you in much pain, sir? Can we fetch you anything?”

“I am . . .”—Greg Byrne caught his breath—“used to work. Pharmacy. Used to live. Used to be dad.”

Jason finished his phone call and walked to the fireplace mantle, which was topped with twenty or thirty pill bottles, quickly scanned them, and grabbed one. He had been listening the whole time. He filled a cup from a plastic pitcher on the coffee table, leaving behind a water ring on the
Pharmacy Today
magazine.

Jason smiled as he shoved the pill into his father's mouth and moved a straw to his lips. “No more bendy ones.”

We heard the back door open. Denise Byrne didn't call in from the kitchen, but appeared in the doorway, bundled up in a coat, a hat, a pale blue scarf, and matching gloves. She moved to Jason and clutched him fiercely.

“Hi, Mom,” Jason said, quickly disentangling himself. Holding hands with his father was communication, but hugs from Mom were embarrassing.

“They need to take me in to the station,” he whispered.

Denise pushed her son behind her, and pointed a finger at me. “June, do you realize what a big mistake this is? My son has done nothing.”

I walked toward mother and son. Jason moved his mother aside, despite her protest, and I took his arm.

“We're going to have to handcuff you,” I said.

“What?!” Denise protested. “You are not arresting him.”

“Yes, we are. I think he intentionally omitted information about his whereabouts the night Ray Jelickson died—”

Denise put her hand to her chest.

“—and we have a strong suspicion that he was involved in a conspiracy to commit murder, either as an accomplice or something more. We're taking him in.” I spoke quickly to Jason. “You want to put your jacket on first?”

“Let me get it,” Hale said. Denise pointed in the direction of the kitchen. “Shouldn't you go, too?” she said to me. I refused, and she turned her back to me, her height and bulky coat creating a wall between me and Jason, with whom she had a whispered conversation.

“I'll be fine, Mom,” Jason said gently. His voice dropped more as Hale returned. “Dad gave me good advice, and remember, I didn't do anything. Neither did Marty, for that matter.”

“Jason, listen to me—”

“No, Mom. Listen to me. Get me a lawyer. In the meantime I'm going to follow Dad's advice to not rock the boat and to keep my mouth shut.”

“Jason, do you really think that's a good idea? I—”

“I do think it's a good idea. And I would suggest you do the same.”

Denise looked stunned, but closed her mouth. The room was silent. This far out of town there were few cars, and the snow and cold deadened the scrape of trees and the sounds of animals. I approached Jason, preparing to read him his rights, when Denise rushed me. She was taller and bigger, propelling herself past me to her husband. She heaved the table out of the way, pulled Greg forward, took his face in her hands, forced open his mouth, and reached in with one finger. She tugged out a pill, wet with saliva. Greg gasped, taking sharp wheezing breaths. His throat muscles were so weak and constricted that he hadn't been able to swallow, and the capsule had blocked off air to his lungs.

Jason's bravery was gone. “Oh, God, I'm sorry.”

Greg Byrne coughed softly. “No problem.”

Denise Byrne was furious. “No, it's a problem. These people come in here, and, and . . .” She threw up her hands. “I thought you, more than anyone, would understand, June. I did you favors.”

“I'm not sure if I ever got a chance to thank you for that,” I said, knowing I hadn't. Denise Byrne hadn't let me. “You saved my husband a lot of pain. Thank you.”

“Can't you show us the same consideration? Do you have to arrest my son?”

Hale seemed to expect some sort of response from me, some sort of outrage or anger at what Denise said. But I was a professional. This situation, so close to my own, wasn't mine.

I left Denise Byrne's accusation in the air, unanswered. I went up to Jason and rested my hand on his arm. “You ready to go?”

“Yes,” he said. He took his fleece-lined jean jacket from Hale. Once dressed, he leaned over and hugged his father.

“Sorry.”

“Nothing sorry.”

Jason straightened, holding his wrists in front of him.

“Turn around,” I said. I tightened his arms around his back, cuffing him, while Hale gave Denise Byrne the time line and our contact information. I guided Jason down the hallway, the two of us and Hale walking single file in order to work around the dusty motorized wheelchair that rested along one wall. We continued past the spotless kitchen, a pot of something delicious bubbling on the stove, metal canisters of sugar and flour on the counter, and a medication schedule written out neatly on graph paper taped to the cabinets, outlining the hour and amount of drugs that would need to be dispensed. It took up three doors.

“Jason, I'll call a lawyer,” Denise shouted over Hale's head. “He'll meet you there. Don't say anything until you see him.”

“Thanks, Mom. And remember to pull the chili off the burner in twenty minutes.” Jason stopped at the door of the mudroom, pulling me up short. He nodded at the switch next to the door. “Wanna hit that? We'll crack our heads open on the shoes otherwise.”

I flicked it on. The porch was a jumble of coats on pegs. Rock salt and two shovels were tucked in the corner, and a dozen pairs of shoes—a jumble of boots, sneakers, and slippers—were on the floor. On the wall, right at my eye line, hung a key caddy.

“You sure the key to the bin is missing?” I asked.

“Yes, I'm sure,” Jason said. “Those two sets of car keys are for the van. Then there are the ones for the Toyota, which was my dad's. We sold that a while ago. The next are for the Brouillettes' garage. They like me to go and turn the cars on and off when they're gone for a while, keep them running in the cold weather. Then those”—he nodded at a ring with three keys—“are the keys to the pharmacy door locks. Normally the Dumpster key is on there, too.”

“Denise,” I called, “do you have another set of keys to the pharmacy?”

“You going to seize our business, too?!”

I couldn't see her, but called out, beyond Hale, into the kitchen. “No, but I'm taking these into evidence, and didn't want to leave you in the lurch.” I pulled out an evidence bag, dropping them in.

“What's that last set of keys, there?” Hale asked Jason.

“That's for my locker at college. I'm taking a semester off, so we don't need that, either.”

I reached around him to open the door. Unlocked. “Let me go first,” I said, and checked for ice patches. Hale eased Jason down the steps and then pulled the door shut behind him. He jiggled the knob, checking if an outsider might have had access. The door gave way.

As we passed the Brouillettes', I glanced up at the house, dark except for one light upstairs: Danielle's long-empty room.

“Is Amanda Brouillette at home?” I asked.

“The Brouillettes are steering clear of their property since it's a hazardous waste site, from, well, you know.” Hale nodded toward Jason in the backseat.

“Oh.”

Then maybe it was a security system. The light winked out and was gone.

J
ASON'S LAWYER, A PERSONAL INJURY
shyster with an 800 number—promising on his billboard that he would represent people “For Free!!!!”—seemed unhappy that Jason had given us his name.

“Don't answer
anything
without me present. These people want nothing more than to hang the whole thing on you. Did they even read you your rights?”

Jason nodded, having taken to heart the order to remain silent.

The lawyer humphed, frowning at Hale and me. “Can I have a moment alone with my client?”

At this point, the station was running out of room for lawyers. Worse, we were running out of room for suspects.

Lorraine sent Chuck on his way with a wink and a “We'll be calling!” and processed Jelickson's paperwork slowly, per Dave. Van Schoon was discreetly impressing upon Lorraine that Jelickson's driver's license was in no way a counterfeit, but rather, Californian. He was used to doing deals in carpeted offices behind thick mahogany doors with people who spoke in reasonable tones, and seemed unmoored in this wide-open room. Finally, in the face of Lorraine's willful denseness—I had no idea she was such a spectacular actress—Van Schoon decided that discretion was impossible.

“You!” Van Schoon pointed at Dave, who was writing a message to me that read, “Do you think Van Schoon gets all blotchy when he gets mad?”

“Hmm?” Dave said.

“Are you going to enjoy the harassment suit that I'll be filing on behalf of my client?” Van Schoon said. “You hicks are obstructing things. Get that FBI agent out here.”

Lorraine, at the use of the word
hicks,
produced an emery board and began to file her nails. I could have kissed her.

“He's in a meeting,” I said, as seriously as I could manage. In reality, Hale was napping in his car until Marty got there.

My radio blasted. Pete talked loud, although not fast. He never talked fast.

“June. You got a situation. Those Merrimen? The biker guys? They're on the front steps of the police station.”

A predatory grin spread across Zeke Jelickson's face.

“And that wouldn't be a problem,” Pete added, “except the troopers need a parking spot to bring in your prisoner.”

That would knock the smile off Zeke's face fast enough.

“Bring him in the prisoner transport security entrance,” I said authoritatively as I marched to the back.

“The back door?” asked Pete. Linda Jelickson burst out laughing.

“Yeah. The back door.” I was trying to make our jail sound impressive, but our “prisoner transport security entrance” was little more than a steel-reinforced door. That said, the door had done a fine job for over a century, certainly better than the new jail across the river where there had been a recent break. There, some prisoners were “tussling” in the laundry when a misplaced punch perforated unreinforced drywall put up by a contractor trying to shave a few bucks off the costs. The gentlemen put aside their differences and pummeled their way out, resulting in a manhunt that ended when the prisoners were found in an off-season hunting shack, still within county limits.

“Finally,” Amanda Brouillette said, stepping away from her husband's cell bars. She hadn't been sitting vigil for her daughter, but for her husband.

I brushed past. “Not yet.”

“You let that criminal out and not me?” Brouillette protested. “I'm going to sue for wrongful arrest.”

Amanda Brouillette tried to bridge the gap between us. “There is no reason Jelickson, and Chuck, for that matter, should have been released before my husband.”

Dave shrugged. “Yeah, but they didn't get picked up with a gun that wasn't theirs.”

Brouillette sputtered. “That-that-that gun is mine.”

“You have a Lady Smith & Wesson?”

“Huh?” Brouillette recovered quickly. “That's my wife's gun. They must have been swapped in the safe. We have licenses for both.”