The Devil's Snare: a Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 4) (8 page)

“Just grab me the bag,” she said. “I’ll take my chances.” Her tone, and the expression held on the face that uttered the statement, was unmistakable.
 

Bo raised his hands in surrender. “Just looking out for your best interests,” he said. He limped away. He came back a few minutes later, hands empty and the look of confidence erased. “It’s gone. The bag. It’s not in my safe.”

“Show me,” Nikkie said, then walked directly towards Bo.

He turned and led Crown and Nikkie through his living room and into the adjacent room. He pointed to the desk, telling them that was where he found the near-empty bag the morning after the fire. He then pulled open a closet door, gingerly kneeled down and began spinning the two-inch wide dial on the front of a three-foot-wide by four-foot-tall safe. Inside were two pistols; a Smith and Wesson Bodyguard .380 and a Sig P-250. A quick glance told Nikkie the 250 was chambered for .40 caliber ammunition. “Surprised the police haven’t confiscated your weapons,” Nikkie said.

“Yeah, well,” Bo said, scratching his head, “they took my registered ones. These actually belong to a buddy of mine. His wife won’t allow guns in the house since their baby was born. I store them here for him.”

“The authorities didn’t search this safe?” Nikkie asked. “I have to believe they had a search warrant for all the contents of your home.”

“They did have a warrant and they did search this safe. Had to give them the combination. The guns were put there just last night.”

Beyond the two pistols, the safe was crammed with several boxes of ammunition—ranging from .380 to .45 caliber—several folders, each stuffed neatly with documents, a tin box, several USB thumb drives and a roll of cash, bound together tightly with three thick rubber bands.”

“That seems like a lot of cash,” Crown said. “Drug money?”

“Emergency funds, mom,” Bo said. “Jeez mom, what do you think I am, a dealer or something?”

Crown said, “Honestly Bo, I don’t know what you are anymore.” There was that tone again. That silent, suggestive, accusing tone that mothers seem to have mastered. It was laden with guilt, needing to be either accepted or denied. Bo’s expression told Crown and Nikkie he had chosen to accept the guilt.

Bo turned his attention back to the safe and opened the tin box. “I keep whatever stuff I have in here,” he said. He pulled out the tin box, showed Crown and Nikkie that besides a razor blade and a tightly rolled $100 bill, the box was empty. “It’s gone and since I’ve been either in jail or under the watchful eye of either my dad or mom since I got home, you can’t think that I did anything with it.”

“You were probably in a lot of pain after sitting on the knife. Think you could have put the bag someplace else in a hurry?”

Bo said, “Nikkie, I could be having a heart attack and I’d still know enough to hide anything I don’t want anyone to see in my safe. It’s gone. Someone took it.”

“Who else knows the combination for the safe,” Nikkie asked.

“Hell if I know,” Bo said. “My dad bought the safe for me, so he may know. A few guys at the department maybe. Not sure but it’s not worth much to me if I gave the combination out to everyone in town.”

“So, at most, would, say, three people besides you know the combination?”

“At most. Maybe four. Could be five but I highly doubt I’d give it out to five people.”

“Plus the police you gave the combination to,” Crown added.

Nikkie pulled out her notebook again, flipped it open and asked Bo for the names of those he believed might know the combination. After rattling off five names, he said, “You know, that whole pen and paper thing might be giving the wrong impression to people.”

Nikkie closed the notebook, slid it back into her laptop bag, looked at Bo and said, “Come again?”

“You’re too young to be a notebook girl. Makes you look old fashioned. As the expression goes, ‘there’s an app for that.’”

Nikkie stared at Bo, again wondering how someone facing so much potential trouble could display such a carefree attitude. He had just discovered that someone (possibly) broke into his safe and removed a bag of cocaine that may have provided a clue and lead to his exoneration. But instead of being angry, disappointed, or at least confused, he chose instead to employ his probably tried and true approach of flirting.

“I use what works, not what people think I should use. Let’s get going. We’re wasting time.”

“A woman who takes charge,” Bo said from the corner of his mouth and in his best John Wayne sounding voice. He tipped an imaginary hat to Nikkie, smiled, winked and softly said, “I like that.”

“I still don’t think having my blood tested for cocaine will help my case at all.” Bo had been quiet for most of the twelve mile ride from his house to the Retrax Clinical Lab but as Nikkie pulled into the small parking lot, Bo’s nerves fueled his voice box. “Seriously, let’s say they find coke in my blood, that won’t help me remember doing it, just that I did it. If they don’t find any, then someone with a hungry nose got into my stash and had a party. That just means I have three problems: One, I’m facing twenty to life for arson and manslaughter, two, I can’t remember anything that I could use to prove I didn’t start the fire, and three, someone who knows my safe’s combination stole around five hundred dollars of supply from me.”

Nikkie pulled her 2015 Nissan Altima into a parking spot, pressed the “Off” button on the dash, then turned to Bo. “Bo, I’m not asking this to judge, but, how long have you been using?”

“Using?” Bo said, followed by a brief but hearty laugh. “Now you sound like either an addict yourself or some bullshit, useless drug counselor.”

“How long have you been snorting cocaine up your nose?” Nikkie said. “That better?”

“Three years. Maybe a little longer. Got into it when I started working at my job. My sales manager was an amazing salesman, a great manager and addicted to probably six different drugs. He got me to try it when he did a ride-along day with me.”

“A what?”

“Ride-along day. It’s when a sales manager spends the day with a rep visiting accounts. Anyway, he and I made two or three sales calls, got nothing going and the appointment I had scheduled for one in the afternoon called to cancel. My manager—his name was Tom—says to me, ‘Bo, you have a decision to make.’ I was thinking he was going to blast me for screwing up one of the cold calls I made or for not confirming the appointment before we left for the day. Instead, he said I had to decide whether I wanted to keep making cold calls or go have a drink. I knew Tom liked to drink and the thought of spending the rest of the work day knocking on doors wasn’t appealing, so I said, ‘Let’s have a drink.’ One drink turned into six or seven and seven drinks turned into me and him snorting a bunch of lines.
 

“It’s not true that you get addicted to coke after your first line. That may be true with heroin, you know, shoot up once and you can’t wait till you can shoot up again? Anyway, that was first time I snorted coke. Probably did it one or twice a month since that first time. I did start using more often about a year ago, so I stopped for six straight months.”

“But you obviously started again,” Nikkie said.

“Had a party a few months back. A guy from town showed up, brought a heavy bag to share, and, viola, here I am today, accused of a crime I honestly can’t remember if I did or not and getting ready to walk into a clinic, have a needle jabbed into my arm to have my blood tested to see if I had more fun the night of the fire than I remember.”

It was the first time Nikkie heard Bo admit there was a chance that he was guilty. “You admit that to your father?” she asked.

“Admit what? About me using coke?”

“That you’re not as certain about your innocence as you’ve been saying.”

“I didn’t start that fire,” Bo snapped. “I can’t remember shit about that night, but I remember how I feel about Brian Mack. I would never do anything to hurt him.”

“Yet, you said you honestly can’t remember if you’re guilty or not. Listen, I’m not asking you to spill your soul here. But if you remember something you’re not telling me, no matter how small or unimportant you think it may be, you need to tell me.”

Bo held his gaze on Nikkie. To Nikkie, he had the look of someone who needed to tell someone something, but had no idea how to tell it. He started to shake his head, then paused. He dropped his head and began looking at his folded hands on his lap. “I didn’t start that fire,” he began. “But I keep getting these flashes of memory about watching Mack’s house burn. But then I get the feeling that I wasn’t watching it burn but was outside his house before the fire got going. Like I was driving by in my car. One second, I see myself standing in the backyard as the fire starts to rip, the next second, I’m driving somewhere. I have no idea which memory is real, or if either one of them is real. But they both can’t be real. I couldn’t have been in Mack’s backyard and driving past his house at the same time.”

“That’s not the only memory you’ve been recalling, is it?”

Bo turned to face Nikkie and smiled. As he smiled, Nikkie began thinking that Bo’s smile was certainly the type that charmed plenty of women’s pants off. But she knew it wasn’t Bo’s normal smile. His normal smile would have his eyes adding their own bit of magic to the package. This smile was nothing but lips revealing very white teeth. “I like you, Nikkie. You’re obviously hot, but I think you have a good head on your shoulders, too.”

“Brains and boobs, right?” Nikkie said.

“You said it, not me. But, yeah.” Bo turned his body to face Nikkie.

“Let me give you a bit of advice,” Nikkie said as she unbelted her seatbelt. “Telling a woman she’s hot and has a good head on her shoulders is as much of a turn-on as saying she reminds you of your mother.” She opened her door, then paused, turned back towards Bo, and said, “You do that a lot, don’t you?”

“Do what? Test the waters with attractive women?”

“No. You jump into full flirt mode whenever you get nervous. You flirted with me in your home twice this morning, both times right during a stressful conversation.”

“Ever think I may actually be attracted to you?”

“Possible,” she said. “But that’s not it. You’re keeping something from me. Something besides your conflicting memories. Here’s my advice to you, do with it what you will. You and me, ain’t gonna happen. So, either drop the high school flirting act and tell me the truth, or keep up with the games, keep your secrets and probably end up someone’s plaything in the state pen. Your choice.”

Nikkie was at the front desk speaking with the receptionist when Bo walked into the office. She turned, pointed to an empty chair in the corner of the waiting room, then walked towards the door.
 

“I need your mother to do something for me,” she said. “You going to be okay with the procedure or do you need me to hold your hand?”

Bo’s first reaction was to suggest that Nikkie hold a different part of his anatomy, but caught himself and said he’d be fine without her.

After leaving a message for Crown, who hadn’t answered her cell phone, Nikkie walked back into the lab office and sat in an uncomfortable blue, molded plastic chair. In the waiting room with her was a correction officer sitting beside a shackled hispanic-looking man. The prisoner seemed intensely nervous about something. Nikkie wondered if the prisoner—who looked like he’d been behind bars a long time and had spent most of his imprisoned time lifting weights—was nervous about what the lab technician would find floating around his bloodstream or about having to face a needle. Nikkie’s father, whom she always believed was the strongest, bravest man in the world, would regress back to being a four-year old whenever his doctor ordered blood tests.

She waited until the nervous prisoner was called to the blood-letting room, returned after surviving his ordeal and left the building before she inquired about Bo with the receptionist.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, “we won’t have the results back for several hours. We’ll call as soon as we are finished and have the results.”

“Actually,” Nikkie said, “I’m just wondering how much longer Mr. Randall will be?”

The receptionist’s face scrunched into the look a confused person wears. She raised a thin finger, and said, “Hold one sec.” Nikkie watched the receptionist disappear into the back office. She was gone less than a minute before returning. “There seems to be some confusion here,” the receptionist said. “You’re looking for Mr. Boregard Randall?”

“Yes. I checked him in no more than twenty minutes ago.”

“Thought so. Thought you dropped him off then left. I saw you walk outside and, honestly, didn’t notice that you had walked back inside.”

“Can you tell me where Mr. Randall is, please?” Nikkie said, sensing Bo had left the building.

“He chose not to have his blood drawn. Said he was feeling queasy. He practically ran out through the back door when the phlebotomist pulled the needle out of the cabinet.

“Show me the back door,” Nikkie said.

“I’m sorry, but HIPPA regulations prevent…”

Nikkie spun around, bolted out the front door. She ran around the small office building and found what she assumed to be the only back door to the lab. Bo was gone and nowhere to be seen.

“Son of a bitch.”

She pulled out her cell phone, dialed Crown’s number again.
 

“What the hell do you want?” Crown said. “I’m busy.”

“Glad you’re in such a good mood, Crown. Bo took off. Slipped out the back of the lab after pretending he’s afraid of needles. I have no idea where he went to.”

There was a long, pregnant pause on the line.

“Crown? You still there?”

Crown spoke in a low, quiet voice. Her tone sounded like that of someone facing a horrible truth, as if a possibility they had denied seeing was suddenly and forcefully shoved in front of their face. “Did you try his cell phone?”

“He told us he lost his cell phone the night of the fire. Not sure if he bought a replacement yet.” Nikkie said.
 

“I don’t like this, Nikkie,” Crown finally said. “Something is going on with my son that I don’t understand.”