A Deeper Darkness (18 page)

Sam looked up at her.

“You know why they’re coming to the funeral, don’t you?”

“To pay their respects.”

“To try and catch Xander. They think he’ll show. Fletcher thinks he’s the killer.”

Susan was tired. So tired. She didn’t want to think about this anymore. She just wanted a few moments alone to think about Eddie before she had to say goodbye forever.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Georgetown
Detective Darren Fletcher

Fletcher sat in the car for a moment and processed the conversation he’d just had with Susan Donovan. What stood out to him was her very innocuous statement that Allan Culpepper had been Donovan’s commander. That he’d commanded all of the men in the picture. Why hadn’t Culpepper bothered to mention that before? Or even Rod Deter? And why wasn’t it in the DOD files Felicia had procured for him? It was a big piece of information to leave out of the conversation, and pushed Culpepper right onto Fletcher’s list of possible suspects, despite the proven fact that the man was in Iraq during the murders. Paperwork could be faked, altered, falsified. And the people at Raptor had the technological know-how to do just that.

Fletcher had to locate Alexander Whitfield. Whitfield was involved, no question. And now that he knew Whitfield knew Culpepper, the possibilities were endless. He pulled out the card Culpepper had given him and rang the man.

Culpepper answered almost immediately.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Colonel. But something’s come up. Do you know a man named Alexander Whitfield?”

“Yes, of course. Great soldier. Very capable. Good friends with Donovan, as I recall.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

“No. It’s been years. Heard he went out in the woods somewhere, and didn’t come back. Sometimes war does that to a man. The regular world doesn’t make sense anymore… .”

“Is there any reason he might hold a grudge against Raptor? Or against you?”

Culpepper was quiet for a moment. “Not that I know of. But anything’s possible. Are you saying…? Do you think he’s responsible? Could I be in danger?”

“Like you said, anything’s possible. I know you’re leaving the country tomorrow, but I’d be extra careful with my security if I were you.”

“Understood.”

“Good. One last question. Could Donovan have had a separate phone that was issued to him through Raptor, outside of his BlackBerry?”

“Not issued through Raptor, no. We give them the BlackBerry, and a laptop, it’s all paid for, but that’s it. Now, our overseas operators have satellite phones, and if he were ever traveling outside the U.S., he’d be issued one. But he hasn’t been traveling outside our borders lately. We keep the electronics on a tight leash, as you can imagine. The Pentagon would be pissed if we let something like that slide.”

They shared a strained laugh. “I can imagine. Okay. There is one last thing.”

“Anything, son.”

Son
. Disarming. Personal.

“You didn’t mention that you’d commanded Donovan overseas.”

There was a beat pause. “I thought you knew that already. It’s not a secret.”

“I see. And the rest of the men from the unit? They were all your soldiers, correct?”

“My soldiers. Yes, they were. We were like a family—and even though many of us had gone our separate ways, they all feel like sons to me. So you can imagine how upset I am at their senseless loss. Will that be all, Detective?”

“I’m sorry to have to share this news with you over the phone, but we’ve found William Everett’s body. He appears to have committed suicide.”

“Oh, dear God. Another?”

“Yes, sir. My condolences.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone, and Fletcher waited a few moments before speaking again.

“Colonel? I’m sorry, but I need to go. Again, please accept my deepest condolences on your loss.”

“Yes. Thank you. Please, if you find anything…”

Fletcher could swear he heard tears in the old soldier’s voice. He didn’t know why that felt wrong, somehow.

“Of course,” Fletcher replied, and hung up. He called Hart next, told him the developments and asked him to come back in. Hart didn’t mind. He said he’d meet him in an hour downtown.

Fletcher made a few calls, initiated some checks on Culpepper’s background, but still had some time to kill. And he was right around the corner from the Croswell crime scene.

That whole thing seemed hinky to him. The 9-1-1 call on Croswell’s murder was done anonymously, from a prepaid cell phone. Croswell’s cell phone also had a call from a blocked number, at 6:50 p.m. on the day of his death. And Donovan had received a call, too. If Fletcher was a betting man, he’d say the same disposable phone made all three calls, but it was going to take time to prove that theory.

And so far, they’d been unable to tie Croswell to the Emerson house. Calls to Mrs. Emerson had yielded exactly squat. She’d never heard of Harold Croswell. She was horrified that a murder had happened in her house, was winging her way home to deal with the crime scene cleaners and the rest of the craziness that ensued. She was being incredibly cooperative. Fletcher’s instincts said she was telling the truth.

So why there? What was so important about that house?

Someone must have known that it stood empty.

Yesterday, when Fletcher and Hart had recanvassed the neighborhood where Harold Croswell was murdered, there were more people gone than home. Maybe at this time of day, there’d be a few folks around who might have seen something.

It only took five minutes to drive to the scene of the second murder.

The sun was going to set shortly. Pink clouds edged in gold billowed through the sky, and the street was bathed in a rosy glow. Children played on the sidewalks. Parents stood in front of the town houses, keeping a close eye on them while catching up with the neighbors. It was a cozy little scene, one that immediately became curious. Stares followed him as his car rolled down the street. By now, everyone who lived nearby knew that a murder had been committed just a few houses away. It had to be unnerving. He was counting on that to loosen some tongues.

He pulled up in front of a knot of people two houses away from the Emerson place.

A slightly overweight man with a noticeable monk spot walked over to the car as Fletcher exited the vehicle.

“Oh, good, you’re here. That was quick.”

“Detective Darren Fletcher, Metro Homicide. There’s a problem?”

“Uh, yeah? We called about Roy.”

Roy?

“I’m sorry, sir. I was coming to the neighborhood on another matter. What seems to be the issue?”

The man pointed across the street. Fletcher recognized the house—he and Hart had talked to the woman the morning of the Croswell murder. Oh…that’s right. He searched his memory for the name, but the neighbor jumped in and gave it to him.

“Roy Lyons. He’s camped out on poor Maggie’s porch. Roaring drunk, from the looks of it, and he keeps yelling at the door. We told him she wasn’t there, but he won’t listen.
This
has happened before.” The tone of righteous indignation almost made Fletcher smile. Almost.

“Well, let me go talk to him and see what his problem is. Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Certainly.” The man turned back to his friends, and they all watched Fletcher walk across the street. He could feel their eyes on him.

Fletch could smell Lyons from five feet away. He reeked of old booze and damp cigarettes. Sweat mingled with the miasma. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. He had the look of a former athlete gone to seed.

“Mr. Lyons? Is there something I can help you with?”

The man’s eyes rolled Fletcher’s way. He didn’t move from his slump. His words were slurry. “Get the bitch to open the door, that’s what.”

Fletcher pulled out his badge. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step off the porch. Can you come down here so we can talk for a moment?”

“I ain’t going nowhere. I gotta talk to Maggie.”

“The neighbors say she isn’t there.”

“They always say that. She’s there. I saw the cake on the table. The brat had a birthday. I can’t believe she lets my sons near that bastard.”

Fletcher felt a moment’s alarm. He remembered Maggie Lyons now. Lawyer. Said her husband was a deadbeat, and her kid was having a birthday. But that was three days ago.

“Near who, sir?”

“Jennifer Jill.”
He sneered the words, the anger in his voice palpable. “I ain’t paying jack shit for that brat. It ain’t mine. Bitch cheated on me. Wants to go to law school, she says. Wants me to pay for it. Raise the brat. Fuck that shit.”

The logic of the very inebriated was sometimes hard to follow. Fletcher tried again. “Mr. Lyons, could I ask for you to start at the beginning? I’m afraid I don’t have the background information on your ex-wife.”

Lyons closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. They were still relatively unfocused, and his words were even more slurred.

“Fine. It’s a short enough story.
I
was here taking care of our family. Our house. Keeping the roof over our heads.
She
came back knocked up. Simple as that. I divorce
her
sorry ass, can prove adultery, but
she
gets the kids. And they make
me
pay
her
. I told ’em, hell no. I ain’t paying for some other dude’s kid. So they garnishee my wages. Now I’m out of my money, and I’m about to be out of a job. I need to talk to her, make her see reason. I can’t pay for my own apartment.”

Fletcher felt comfortable enough to take his hand off his weapon, and leaned against the porch. The man was blindingly drunk, enough to fall if he stood, and Fletcher was reasonably confident that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. He’d had enough practice with drunks to recognize one about to keel over. And this was interesting information. A less threatening stance might yield more.

“Sir, could you be more specific? Mrs. Lyons returned home from where?”

“Afghanistan, dumb ass. She’s rolling in dough, gets that military pension and shit.”

Fletcher’s mouth dropped open.

“Your wife was in Afghanistan?”

“Yeah. She was in charge of present…present…presenting… ’Scuse me.” Lyons pulled himself to a semistanding position and vomited over the side of the porch. Fletcher pulled the collar of his shirt over his nose in disgust. Good grief.

When he’d finished, Lyons straightened and held on to the railing for balance. “So you shee, I need to get in and talk to her. She’s rolling in dough, and I got nothing. And she needs to know I ain’t paying jack for that brat.”

And with that last valiant proclamation, Lyons’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went down in a heap on the porch. Passed out cold.

Fletcher checked his pulse, put a cushion from the chair under his head and knocked on the door.

“Mrs. Lyons? Metro Police. Open the door. It’s safe.”

Nothing. Crickets. Literally.

The people down the street were watching him with interest now.

He tried the door. Not surprisingly, it was locked. He reached down and felt for Lyons’s pulse, found it strong and steady. The man wasn’t in immediate danger, then. He called in to dispatch, explained what was happening, asked that an ambulance be sent to the address to cart off Roy Lyons, and a backup patrol officer, then walked around to the rear of the house.

There was a nice garden back here, with a pretty little deck covered in potted plants. He walked up on the deck, peered into the kitchen and witnessed exactly what Roy Lyons had alleged: four plates on the table, surrounding a half-eaten birthday cake.

Except Fletcher knew that cake was three days old.

Exigent circumstances. He used a branch to break the glass pane near the knob and opened the French door from the inside. He didn’t smell anything noticeable, which slowed his heart rate only the slightest bit. He made a pass through the house. Prayed he wasn’t going to find Maggie Lyons and her three kids lying dead in their rooms.

They weren’t. The house was clear. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. He chose anger. It looked like someone had left in a hurry. Probably right after they’d rolled away.

“Son of a bitch!”

Fletcher went back out on the deck and kicked the potted plant closest to the door. What an idiot he was. Maggie Lyons had lied right to his face, and he’d seen it. He’d seen her flinch when he mentioned Harold Croswell’s name, even as she denied ever hearing of the man. Damn it. He’d even made himself a note to check her out, then gotten dragged off in a different direction. Now, three days later, he finds out she was in Afghanistan, too? No way that was a coincidence.

He returned to the front of the house. The ambulance was coming down the street. Fletcher caught the eye of the man he’d been talking to when he first arrived, signaled for him to come over. Monk Spot hurried to him, happy to be of service now that the situation had gotten more interesting.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Frank Wright.”

“Mr. Wright, you said you told Roy Lyons Maggie wasn’t home, is that right? You knew that definitively?”
Wright, right. Is that right, Mr. Wright?
Good grief, he was starting to sound like Dr. Seuss.

“Yes, sir. She and the kids left the same day you were here for the murder across the way. Like she was taking them to school, but they had bags. Bags bigger than what the kids normally carried. They were brown. Looked military. And her little girl was crying.”