The Love Killings (6 page)

CHAPTER 10

Rogers glanced at Matt, then walked around his desk and sat down.

“Close the door, Jones. Take a seat.”

Matt watched the special agent in charge empty the contents from a manila envelope onto his desk.

“Here’s the key to your car. The space number is on the tag. You’ll have to sign this form.” Rogers slid the sheet of paper over and handed Matt a pen. “You’re gonna need the access card Brown gave you last night to get through the gate at street level. You’ll use it again to open the security doors between the garage and the elevators.”

Matt sat back in his seat and watched Rogers slip the paper he’d just signed into a file folder. After setting the folder down, Rogers checked his credenza, spotted a blue three-ring binder, and picked it up.

“You can use the desk across from Brown’s in the Crisis Room. She’ll give you the password to the website. County detectives are keeping a murder book, which is online as well. Here’s a hard copy of what we’ve got so far. It’s up-to-date as of an hour ago.”

Matt took charge of the binder. “I met two agents in LA,” he said. “Jeff Kaplin and Steve Vega. I was wondering where they are.”

Rogers’s eyes rose from the desk and settled on his face. It was a hard look, a dead look that seemed out of place and came without warning.

“Listen, Jones. We need to get something straight. Okay?”

Matt nodded carefully. Something was wrong.

“Your background check,” Rogers said. “You passed, but I’m not sure why. Had it been up to me, you’d still be in LA, and you wouldn’t be wearing that badge.”

“What happened?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“The woman you call your mother, Julie Clemens. That was her maiden name, right?”

Matt nodded again, still confused, still trying to get a read on a man he barely knew.

“The special agent in Westwood found her death certificate, Jones, but couldn’t locate her birth certificate.”

“That would have been a long time ago. More than fifty years.”

Rogers’s eyes were still drilling him, still searching his face. “The woman you call your aunt, the woman who raised you. Abigail Clemens.”

“Aunt Abby.”

“The same thing is going on with her. We’ve got a death certificate, but no record of her birth. Their pasts aren’t documented, Jones. There’s no history or record that your mother and aunt even existed until they reached the age of twenty-one. We can’t say with any certainty that they were related to each other. We can’t find their parents’ names or anything that comes close to a family tree. On your father’s side, things get even worse. There are two hundred and eleven men in the United States who share your name, one of them quite famous. Have you ever heard of M. Trevor Jones, the New York banker?”

Matt paused a moment, then shook his head slowly. “No,” he said finally.

“Well, he hasn’t heard of you either,” Rogers said. “None of them have, at least the ones we’ve been able to reach. Are you still claiming that you don’t know who your father is?”

Claiming?

Matt became very still, not wanting to show anything on his face. When he spoke, his voice was low, but steady.

“I was a boy when he left. My mother was sick. I don’t understand where this is going.”

“Where it’s going, Jones, is that when I see loose ends like this in someone’s past, I begin to think I’m looking at bullshit. It’s got that vibe of being manufactured and overprocessed.”

“But what you’re talking about happened a long time ago. Records could have been destroyed or misplaced.”

Rogers flashed a mean smile. “Yeah, sure, Jones. Somehow everybody around you winds up getting misplaced. You know, I said those things about you at the briefing because I run this place and that’s what I was expected to say. But you’re Doyle’s project, not mine. I don’t want you here. From the very beginning I thought it was a bad idea. After reviewing your background check this morning, I don’t know who you are or where you came from, and I sure as hell don’t trust you. Do we understand each other, Jones?”

Matt didn’t say anything. He knew that if he spoke, the things he’d say would get him thrown off the case. He still wanted Baylor, no matter how difficult the circumstances might be.

“Do we understand each other?” Rogers repeated.

Matt got up from the chair with the murder book. “What do you want me to say?”

“That you’ll stay out of my way. That if you have anything to contribute, you’ll work through Brown. That if you screw up, you’ll go away.”

Matt gave Rogers a grim look and exhaled. The special agent noticed.

“The last thing I need is attitude, Jones, so wipe it off your face. As far as I’m concerned, your background check is a work in progress. I intend to keep digging until I find out what you’re hiding. Now take the murder book and get out of my office.”

Matt walked out of the room dazed and confused and trying to understand what just happened. His first impression of Wes Rogers, the image he’d formed when they met and shook hands, had been the wrong one. Wes Rogers, special agent in charge of the FBI’s field office in the City of Brotherly Love, was a shithead.

CHAPTER 11

Matt pulled himself together and tried to think it through. He knew full well that the shock he’d just endured had nothing to do with who Rogers turned out to be. It was more about the thoughts he’d dredged to the surface. The memories.

Matt entered the Crisis Room and spotted Brown seated at her desk, typing something on a laptop. Doyle seemed to have taken over the conference room. Matt could see him standing over the long table while leafing through an array of files and speaking with someone on the phone. A TV mounted to the wall at the head of the table was switched to CNN.

Matt crossed the room and sat down at the desk that had been paired off with Brown’s. When she looked at him, her eyes widened.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

She smiled at him. “Were you with Rogers?”

Matt noticed that the laptop on his desk had already been powered up. He could feel Brown’s eyes still on his face.

“What’s the password?” he said. “Rogers told me to ask.”

“You know, he’s not as bad as you might be thinking he is. He gives everybody a hard time. Once you get to know him, he’s a pretty good guy.”

“I’ll bet he is. You got that password?”

She flashed another sarcastic smile his way, then wrote a series of letters and numbers on a pad, ripped the sheet off, and pushed it over. Matt found the FBI’s website and logged in. Then he took a moment and tried to clear his mind and ignore what had just happened in Rogers’s office. It wasn’t easy, but he needed to catch up on the case as quickly as he could.

He found Dr. Baylor’s file, then clicked through the screens until he reached what was essentially a live, digital version of the chronological record in a murder book. When any member of the task force learned something new or had a thought or question that seemed relevant to the investigation, it was added to the record beside the time and date, then stamped with the agent’s electronic signature. For all intents and purposes, this area of the site worked like every other blog on the Internet. Everything about it was fluid, everything current, except in this case, everything was validated and a matter of record.

Matt skimmed through the timeline, surprised by the lack of progress that had been made over the past month and a half. He read through an entry made by Jeff Kaplin and realized that he and Steve Vega had just left New Orleans and were heading back to LA. A tip that Baylor had been staying at Le Pavillon Hotel in the French Quarter had proved fruitless. The doctor had covered his tracks, his trail ice-cold until the Strattons had been found murdered in their home.

A small window popped up on his screen, announcing that someone had posted a new message. Matt scrolled forward on the timeline and started reading. Apparently there was something wrong with the two slugs that struck Stratton’s wife and son. Although they had been found in soft tissue and recovered by the medical examiner, there were marks that the Bureau of Forensic Services in Montgomery County couldn’t account for. Close-up photographs of the slugs were included in the post, and Matt studied them carefully. Each slug appeared to have been lightly scratched all the way around. And there were gashes running lengthwise as if each bullet had hit a hard edge. The forensic scientist who examined the evidence and posted his findings had more than twenty years on the job. In spite of his experience, he had never seen anything like it before and was sending both slugs to the FBI’s Firearms and Toolmarks Unit at Quantico.

Matt looked up. Brown had left her desk, and he hadn’t noticed. He turned and saw her talking to Doyle in the conference room with the door closed. She was holding a file folder and showing him something inside.

Matt checked his watch. It was almost noon. He glanced at the murder book sitting on his desk and tried to clear his mind again. Concentrating on anything seemed difficult right now.

Wishing for a Marlboro and a cup of strong coffee, he reached inside his jacket and slipped a piece of nicotine gum into his mouth.

He could no longer block it out. No longer ignore the things Rogers had said to him in his office. At the time he had tried to keep cool and not let his thoughts and emotions show on his face. But now he was sitting here wondering why the FBI couldn’t find his mother’s and aunt’s birth certificates. Why their history had suddenly become so vague. It seemed odd, peculiar, even corrupt, and he didn’t know what to make of it. As much as he despised Rogers, he couldn’t fault him for being suspicious. Had Matt been wearing the special agent’s shoes, he would have said and done exactly the same thing.

There were holes in Matt’s past. And they stood out.

Although his early years had been tough, Matt used to be able to count on the fact that everything was at least self-evident and true. But all of that had burned up in Rogers’s office thirty minutes ago. As Rogers said himself, when he sees loose ends like this in someone’s past, he begins to think he’s looking at bullshit. It’s got that vibe of being manufactured and overprocessed.

Matt bit into the nicotine gum, feeling the drug rush through his head. When the wave subsided, he grabbed his leather jacket and walked out.

CHAPTER 12

The air had a raw feel to it, and Matt wished that he hadn’t left his down vest at the apartment. He headed south on Sixth Street, passing Independence Hall. When he reached Walnut Street at Washington Square, he made a right and started walking toward city hall. He was looking for a café. Something small and quiet where he could sip hot coffee and collect his thoughts. He had a vague impression of a place he’d been to in his teens and looked up and down the street. When his eyes landed on Rogers half a block ahead, he stepped to the side and stopped.

Rogers was speaking to someone on his cell phone and so distracted that he bumped into the man ahead of him. They were entering a sushi restaurant, but it didn’t seem like they were together. Matt waited until the special agent disappeared behind the glass door, then walked by without letting it get to him. Two blocks up he spotted the Walnut Street Theater, and everything started to become more familiar. Across the street he noticed a hospital. The building appeared new and had been set halfway into the block to accommodate a drive-up entrance and a work of sculpture that rose several stories into the air. As Matt took in the sculpture, he couldn’t help thinking how much it reminded him of Marcel Duchamp. The design of both the building and the sculpture, the mix of different materials and all the curved lines, was stunning.

Matt had forgotten that Philadelphia was different than other cities. It felt like Europe here. It looked like Europe. He could remember his aunt taking him to a van Gogh exhibition at the Museum of Art. They had just walked out and were standing at the top of the steps overlooking the city. She was younger then, all jazzed up after seeing so many paintings by one of her favorite artists. She was saying that what made this city different was its relationship to art. Art was everywhere here. Not just in the museums, but on every street.

Why couldn’t the FBI find her birth certificate?

Matt tried to shake it off, but the string of memories just kept pounding back one after the next. He crossed Broad Street and the Avenue of the Arts. A few blocks later he glanced around the corner and saw a brick building with awnings, sidewalk tables, and gas heaters. This was the place. Benny’s Café Blue.

Matt walked in, ordered a large cup of the house blend, and found an empty booth by the window. As he stirred sugar into the piping-hot brew, enjoying the sounds of people talking and laughing, he realized that the café had changed since his last visit. The place seemed brighter, cleaner, warmer than he remembered. The Formica tables had been replaced with beautifully grained woods, and logs were burning in the fireplace. Sipping through the steam, he sat back and gazed out the window. Across the street was a gym, and he could see a pair of young women working out on StairMasters. He took another sip of coffee, letting the hot java soothe his stomach. One of the women had just ended her workout and was wiping off the machine with a towel.

His eyes drifted down to the sidewalk, sorting through the people waiting for the light to change. And that’s when he spotted him. He was standing on the corner, staring back at him. The man with the ultra-pale skin. The man he’d seen on the plane and at the airport. His shadow.

Matt tried to keep cool, but heard the café go quiet and realized that he’d shifted over to automatic pilot; he’d drawn his gun and had already rocked back the slide. He pushed the door open and burst onto the street, his expression fierce and determined as he started sprinting. The man had his cell phone out, no doubt shooting video again. But now it was different. He seemed frightened. He turned away and started running.

Matt chased him down the street. When the man ducked into a dress shop, Matt reached out and got a piece of his jacket before he slipped away. The man was yelping and trying to flee through the racks of clothing. But he was too soft and too slow, and Matt lunged forward, tackling him to the floor.

He rolled the man over, stuffing the .45 into his mouth. The man started weeping and appeared to be panic-stricken. He was struggling to catch his breath. As the sales staff rushed behind the counter, a woman at the cash register reached for the phone. Then Matt held up his badge and shouted, “Police business. Put down that phone.”

She backed away, and Matt seized the man by his hair and banged his head on the floor. He felt a breeze behind his back and heard the door.

“Why are you following me?”

The man tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words out. Matt removed the gun from his mouth and jammed the muzzle into the side of his head.

“Why are you following me?” Matt repeated. “Give it up, or I’ll blow your head off right in front of these people.”

The man met his eyes, still trying to catch his breath. “I’m doing a story.”

Matt didn’t believe him. “A story,” he said in a voice filled with sarcasm. “A story about what?”

“You and your father. I think I know who he is. I’m gonna prove it.”

“Who are you?”

The man let out a sigh. “You’ve seen me on TV. I’m on every night.”

Matt shook his head. The woman by the register was staring at the man, and Matt could see recognition beginning to bloom in her eyes.

“That’s Ryan Day,” she said. “He’s the star of
Get Buzzed
. Oh my God. It’s Ryan Day.”

A thought flashed through Matt’s mind. He’d never watched the show, but had seen the commercials.
Get Buzzed
was a popular celebrity gossip program that followed the network news five nights a week. He looked the man over—he seemed familiar—then began patting him down just in case.

“How did you know I’d be on that plane?” he said.

“I got a tip. I took a chance, and you were there.”

“A tip from who?”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know. A voice left on my service. Is M. Trevor Jones your father?”

Matt clenched his jaw, but didn’t say anything. He found the man’s wallet and opened it to check his ID.

“Why are you afraid to answer the question, Jones? What are you hiding?”

The driver’s license confirmed his shadow’s identity. The man he’d tackled to the floor and almost shot was Ryan Day.

“I’m a reporter,” Day said as he thought it through. “But you didn’t know that. What did you think I was here to do?”

Matt remained quiet. He could see Day putting it together in his head.

“Your father’s trying to keep tabs on you, or is it something more than that?” Day’s eyes lit up. “My God. You thought I’d come to—who shot you in LA, Jones?”

Matt holstered his pistol. Day looked at someone behind him. When Matt turned, he saw a man with a video camera on his shoulder.

“You get it?” Day asked.

The man with the camera nodded. “I got everything. We’re still shooting.”

Matt stood up, then helped the gossip reporter to his feet. “Why me?” he said.

Day was flashing a big grin as well now and offered to shake Matt’s hand. “Why not you?” he said. “It’ll make a great story. Tonight’s segment will probably be pretty good, too. I guess I should thank you, Jones. No harm, no foul. My producer will pay for any damage you may have done here, so don’t worry about it. We still win.”

Matt shook Day’s hand, but only reluctantly, then started toward the door. He could hear Day calling after him.

“I know the reason why you’re here in Philly, Jones. After tonight, everybody’s gonna know.”

Matt yanked the door open and walked out into the blast of cold air. He was in trouble. He’d blown it. Now Rogers could act with a clear conscience. Matt would be thrown off the case and shipped back to LA. He hadn’t even made it through his first day.