A Welcome Grave (14 page)

She seemed twenty years older than me, and I wasn’t feeling particularly young. Her face was pale, with dark circles under her eyes, and her expression was the weary look of someone who’s been lost for a very long time and has given up on ever making sense of the map.

“You didn’t see him.”

“No.”

“What did he sound like?” she said, and her voice had a hard edge.

The question surprised me, but I answered it without hesitation. “Like an evil son of a bitch, Karen.”

She didn’t say anything to that, just turned and wandered out into the living room as if I weren’t even in the house. After a pause, I followed her. She
watched me as I sat down, but her eyes were unfocused, distant. They stayed that way while I told her the rest of it, providing as near to a word-for-word account as I could manage. I came pretty close, too. It hadn’t been the sort of incident that fades from memory overnight.

When I was finished, she was sitting quietly. She hadn’t interrupted once, hadn’t visibly reacted. This wasn’t the Karen I knew. She’d never been able to internalize her emotions well, and I remembered that while we were together I’d thought that quality would’ve made her a bad cop—unable to stay distanced and unable to bluff.

“Is there anyone who has been pressuring you for money? Any unsettled debts?”

She shook her head.

“No.” “No one’s made contact with you about the murder?”

“The only
contact
I’ve had came in the form of two police officers showing up at my door to tell me Alex was gone.”

“Your husband was looking into turning assets to cash just before he was killed. Looking to generate big money, and do it fast. Why?”

“The police told you that?”

“Not directly. But I think the money is important. Liquidating assets just before he was killed could suggest extortion.”

“I know. And some of it is missing.”

“What?”

“According to the police. I didn’t even know. But the police have looked, and they say there’s fifty thousand dollars missing.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all that they told me about.”

Fifty grand, gone. Jefferson trying to free up even more cash. A menacing presence back in his life, reminding him of old sins. Whatever Jefferson had done, it must have been serious. The fifty grand hadn’t made a dent in his debt, apparently. Neither had his life.

“We’ll start with a phone call,” I said.

“Who are you going to call?”

“Nobody. But this all began with a phone call, and we need to find out when it happened. You told me that the one night your husband talked to you about what was happening, he made a comment about getting a call at two in the morning.”

She nodded. “He said he knew it was either going to be a wrong number or it would change his life.”

“Right. And last night the bastard who attacked me made a similar comment. He said that Matt Jefferson called your husband for help and that he—the guy who attacked me—paid the price. He said he paid it for five years.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“I didn’t expect you would. But you should be able to get phone records. You’re the spouse, after all—I think they’ll have to honor that request. If we get those records, if we go back and find this phone call that came in the middle of the night five years ago and changed your husband’s life, we’ll have a starting point. A day on the calendar, if nothing else.”

“We won’t need to make a request.”

“No?”

“Alex almost never used the house phone, just his cell phone. He had some weird hangup with that.”

It was easier to trace and tap landline calls. To be concerned with something like that was the essence of the corrupt. I was interested but didn’t comment.

“We’ll still need the records, though.”

“The cell phones have detailed billing. He saved all the bills.”

“You can go back five years or more?”

“I’d be stunned if I can’t, but let me check.”

“Please do. It’s a place to start, and without the phone call, I don’t seem to have one.”

“Two days ago you didn’t want one,” she said. “Two days ago you wanted to get far, far away from it all.”

“Uh-huh. Then I changed my mind. Credit for that goes to the guy who killed your husband, though.”

She gazed at me through those flat eyes she’d seemingly developed overnight. “Well, I hope he gets all the credit that’s due to him.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s the goal.”

I
t took an hour to put together the possibilities. Alex Jefferson didn’t receive many phone calls in the early hours of the morning, but there were a few. Karen was right: The bills were detailed, and they went back eight years. I found three early-morning calls in the previous month’s bill and recorded all the numbers. One was from an 812 area code, which I recognized now as belonging to southern Indiana. That had been the first call from his son in many years. The other two calls were local numbers, and I noted them and moved on.

I’d gone through five years when I got another hit. On July fifth, Alex Jefferson received a call on his cell phone at 1:36
A.M
., again from a number with an 812 area code. The call had lasted eleven minutes. The next call on the record, this one outgoing, had been placed at 1:52
A.M
., to a number with an area code from northeastern Ohio, between Cleveland and Pennsylvania, the Ashtabula area.

I went through the rest of the bills, just because they were there, and found five additional calls that had come in around one or two in the morning. While I recorded each number, I wasn’t optimistic that they would matter. What was interesting, though, was the prevalence of calls from that 812 number.

“Would you have an address book or a phone list around somewhere?” I asked Karen. “Anything that would show old numbers?”

“A Rolodex in the office.”

I wrote the 812 number down and handed it to her. “See if you can find this. I think it belonged to his son at one point.”

Five minutes later she returned with confirmation. “The Rolodex says that was Matt’s cell phone number. I just tried to call it, and I got some woman who had no idea who Matt was.”

“I bet he stopped using it several years ago. The last number he called from is different. All I needed to know was that it belonged to him at one time.”

“So you’re getting somewhere?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve got a list of numbers and call times that I can check out. It’s something to do. There are other places to look, too, and I’ll be working on them soon.” I paused and then added, “Hopefully, with some assistance.”

Joe was on his way out of the house when I pulled into his driveway. He was wearing jeans and that big parka again, holding his car keys in his hand. He stopped walking as I put the window down and glanced in at me.

“Bad timing, LP. I’m on my way to physical therapy.”

“Skip it,” I said.

He tilted his head and peered in the car, looking at me with surprise. “What?”

I turned to face him, making sure he could see my black eye and battered lip as I shut off the engine. “I need you for a minute, Joe. Is that okay?”

He managed a nod. “Sure. I guess we better go inside.”

We went in and sat in the kitchen. Or I sat, at least. He poured himself a glass of water, drank a little, and then leaned against the counter.

“Well,” he said. “What’s up?”

I told him what was up. He didn’t say a word. Just stood there and drank his water and refilled the glass once. I was in a chair at the little kitchen table, everything in the room so damn neat and ordered and so . . .
Joe
. When I was finished with the story, I met his eyes.

“I’m starting to drown in it a little bit, Joe. I’m starting to feel a little over-matched. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should be good with all this, be all collected and focused and calm about it, everything that you’d be if you were in my shoes. But, damn it, I’m used to working with a partner. Used to working with
you
. Then this shit keeps stacking up, and I’ve got cops talking about murder charges, and guys putting bags over my head and guns against my skull, and I turn around and look in my corner for you, and you’re not there.” I softened my voice, leaned back in my chair. “I don’t see you there, at least.”

He stared at me, no clear emotion on his face, and then he finished the rest of his water and set the glass aside. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry to hear you say that. But you have to admit, I didn’t know about most of this until five minutes ago.”

“Right,” I said. “Because you haven’t been around. Don’t misunderstand me—you getting healthy is the most important thing. But did you have to go so far away to get healthy?”

“I’ve been right here.”

“Did you have to go so far away to get healthy?” I repeated, and after a pause, he nodded, getting it this time.

“All right,” he said. “That’s fair enough.”

It was quiet for a moment.

“I’m not blaming you for anything,” I said. “Shit, Joe, you took those bullets for me. Because of me. If I can realize that and somehow be pissed at you for all of this, then I’m pretty damn self-absorbed. I’m just saying that . . .”

“What?”

“That I could use you right now. That I need some help. Okay? I need some help.”

He ran a hand through his gray hair and nodded. “Then I’ll help. Of course I’ll help. Damn, LP, you had to know that.”

“I did. I do. But you have to understand the kind of distance you’ve been keeping lately. It’s my fault that you’re gone—”

“It’s not your fault.”

“The hell it’s not. It’s absolutely my fault, and I understand that. But do you think that makes it easy for me to approach you, ask you when you’re going to come back?”

Something changed in his eyes then. Something a stranger or casual acquaintance wouldn’t pick up on, but that I couldn’t help but notice after years of working so closely with him.

“Are you coming back, Joe?”

He picked up the empty glass and rinsed it. Rinsed water out of a glass with more water, then set it back down as if he’d accomplished something.

“Look,” he said, “the issue of the day is what’s happening with Karen. Right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Then let’s get focused on that, LP. You aren’t going to need to worry about having a partner if they send you to prison.” He paused, then smiled slightly. “On second thought, maybe having a partner is exactly what you
will
need to worry about if they send you to prison.”

I was laughing then, and so was he, and it felt damn good. Shit, when was the last time Joe and I had laughed over anything? I couldn’t think of it. We laughed about the prospect of me in prison, a real howler of a subject, and then he pulled up a chair and sat down across from me, resting his bad arm on the edge of the table.

“So what have you got? Other than a beat-to-shit face, what have you got?”

“A vague reference to an old sin, a list of late-night phone calls, a missing fifty grand, and that’s it. Had a photograph of the murder victim, but not anymore.”

He frowned. “I don’t like your decision on that one. You could have guessed that, I’m sure. That’s
evidence
, LP.”

“Same word I used to motivate myself when I burned it.”

He sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, we aren’t going to accomplish much if we stay in this kitchen, are we? Better get down to the office.”

I looked at the clock. “How long was the therapy session supposed to go?”

“An hour.”

“Would they let you start late if you told them you got held up with something important?”

He shrugged. “Probably.”

“Then go to your physical therapy,” I said. He started to shake his head, but I held up my hand. “Joe, go to it. I said you getting healthy is the most important thing, and I meant that. But come on by the office when you’re done. Come on by, and give me a hand.”

He hesitated before nodding. We left the kitchen and walked outside. I paused at the door to my truck, and he slowed down and looked back at me. I said, “Thank you,” just as he said, “I’m sorry,” and then we both just nodded at each other. I climbed in my truck and started the engine, then drove to the office, feeling better than I had in a long time.

Good enough that I could almost forget about the question he’d left unanswered.

I’d been in the office for fifteen minutes before Targent and Daly showed up. All I’d accomplished so far was to boot up the computer and crack the windows, let a little of the Indian summer day bleed into the room. I heard their steps on the stairs as I settled back into my chair behind the desk, and for a moment I thought it was Joe, deciding to pass on therapy after all and get an early start on this. Then someone knocked on the door, and I had a bad feeling I knew my visitors.

I pulled the door open, and Targent greeted me with a cheerful smile.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Perry.”

They came inside. Daly was carrying a black leather bag, and he walked past me and sat on one of the old stadium chairs that occupy the center of our office, relics from Cleveland Municipal Stadium. Targent came in, too, but he stayed on his feet.