A Welcome Grave (8 page)

“He did.”

“Says the gentleman from Ohio,” Brewer said good-naturedly. “But, unfortunately, the gentleman from Ohio was the only person present. So if we say—just for the sake of argument—that he could be lying . . . well, that’s trouble. Because if he did happen to be lying, I’m looking at a homicide.”

“You’re not.”

“Gun wasn’t in the dead man’s hand.”

“It fell out when he fell forward. You worked any suicides before?” When he nodded, I said, “Then you know that you often find the gun beside the body. The instantaneous rigor grips happen, but they aren’t the rule.”

He didn’t say anything, just stood there and looked at me.

“Check his thumb,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Check his thumb for a hammer imprint. The gun was a revolver, and he cocked it right before he fired. I know, because I heard it. Then he died damn fast. No slow process on that one. The hammer spur impressions could still be on the thumb. That happens when circulation stops abruptly.”

“That’s a fine idea.” Brewer cleared his throat and spat into the bushes beside us. “I’ll be sure that the thumbs are checked, Mr. Perry.”

“Great.”

“It’s a strange thing,” he said for the third time and shook his head. “Now, Mr. Perry, as I said, I’m going to need to get that written statement.”

“Uh-huh.”

“When was it that you were planning to head back to Ohio?”

“The plan was for tonight.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Oh, I’m afraid that’s not going to work.”

“I’ve told you everything I can possibly tell you, and I’ll give you the written statement. If you need me for anything further, you’ll have my telephone number.”

He made a face, as if he were getting ready to break some bad news and didn’t relish the task. That was a joke, though—he was enjoying it just fine.

“I’m in a position where I could really embarrass myself here,” he said. “I mean, sure, you say it was a suicide. But right now, until I’ve done a little more investigation, that’s all I’ve got to rely on. Make me look awful bad if I cut you loose only to have my evidence team tell me it looks like you killed the guy. Then we’ve got to go find your ass, and I’ve got to deal with a bunch of cops in Ohio who are going to shake their heads at me, whisper to each other about this moron in Indiana who let a killer walk right out of his county.”

He looked at me with flat eyes. “I hate to have people whisper about me.”

I met his gaze. “You’ve got my statement. Unless you’re arresting me, I’m going to go home.” Home, suddenly, was sounding very nice, indeed.

“Push comes to shove, eh?” Brewer said.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep you here. At least for a few hours, while we get this straightened out.”

“You arresting me for murder?”

He shook his head. “I’m considering this an equivocal death investigation, Mr. Perry. Suicide’s an option, as is murder. As is, I suppose, an accidental shooting. That’d be the gamut, right? Anyhow, I’m going to have to look at it from a few directions, make sure—”

“I get the idea. But if you intend to keep me here overnight, you’re going to have to arrest me for something. And I don’t think you’ve got probable cause to say I killed that guy, Brewer.”

He smiled sadly and nodded, as if I’d beaten him on that point.

“That private eye license of yours,” he said, “is from what state?”

Shit. I saw where this was going now and shook my head.

“Well?”

“It’s from Ohio.”

“Oops. That’s no good. Because we’re in Indiana. And that dead guy out there? He’s in Indiana. And here you are, conducting an investigation in Indiana, without an Indiana license? My, my. I hate to say this, Mr. Perry, but that sounds like a crime.”

“Not the kind you go to jail for.”

This time the smile showed his teeth. “It’ll do for a night.”

T
he jail in Brown County was brand-new. The kid deputy provided this information after Brewer assigned him to the task of transporting me. When he got the news, the kid blanched noticeably, no doubt believing I was going to jail for offing the guy in the gazebo, and thinking about the few minutes he’d spent alone with me before Brewer had arrived. Once we were in the car, he kept glancing nervously in his rearview mirror, as if he thought a master criminal like me might somehow slip off the grate that protected the front seat and strangle him with my handcuffs. Maybe five minutes and fifty nervous glances into the ride, he decided he’d talk to me. Could be I’d pass on the chance to kill him if he was friendly enough, just thump him on the head with his own gun and steal his car. That was how the kinder master criminals did it.

“Pretty fancy, really,” he said of the jail. “A lot nicer than the old one. We got all electronic locks now, more space, everything high-tech.”

“And to think, I was worried about finding a place to stay tonight.”

“It’s a nice place. For a jail.”

“Lowest rates in town, I’m sure.”

He kept up the stream of nervous chatter for the whole ride while I sat back and watched the dark countryside roll by. I wondered when I would make it back to Cleveland. Brewer seemed like a hardass, the type who would keep me as long as he could, but unless they were stupid enough to actually charge me
with murder, that wouldn’t be beyond morning. Karen would have the news long before I made it back. They’d probably call her tonight, as I’d been helpful enough to provide Brewer with next-of-kin information for the corpse. After all, I’d been hired to facilitate a notification of death, and Matthew Jefferson had already heard of his father’s murder. Hate to think I was getting paid for nothing.

I leaned back into the seat, ignoring the deputy, who was now telling me something about the perimeter security at the new jail, subtly trying to discourage me from attempting to break out of the place. Hopefully, when Brewer talked to Karen, it would loosen him up a bit. She’d support the story I had told him. Between that and the lack of physical evidence to suggest a homicide, he’d have to cut me loose in the morning. Son of a bitch probably would give me a fine for operating without a license in Indiana, though. That would be relayed to the Ohio licensing board, which would then fine me as well. Terrific.

It took them half an hour to book me into the jail. I was allowed to keep my clothes, but I had to give up my belt so I couldn’t hang myself. They took me back into the bowels of the building through several heavy steel doors that shut with loud, hollow clangs. Doors in jails always make me think of hatches in a submarine—there’s a sense of finality when they slam shut behind you.

I was alone in my cell, which was a plus, but there was a drunken hillbilly across from me who wanted to talk about my crimes, see what I was in for.

“Moonshining,” I said, and then I rolled over on the bunk and put my back to him. Sometime in the hours before I fell asleep, it occurred to me that Amy had missed a hell of a trip.

Brewer came for me early the next morning, probably running on no sleep, the way a good cop always seems to be. Brewer struck me as a good cop, just temporarily misguided.

“Sleep well?” he said as the jailer let me out of the cell and they led me through a series of doors and into a small conference room. It had shackles attached to the walls, sure, but was a conference room just the same.

“Are we done with this stupidity yet?” I answered. “Because I’d really like to be northbound sometime before noon.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry.”

The jailer left, and then it was just Brewer and me. He’d changed clothes, was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt now, cop casual. His face was covered with
a day’s growth of beard, though, so he hadn’t taken much time at home before rolling back out for the second round with me.

“I’ve done a little research,” he said. “Sounds like you were a pretty good cop. You’ve had some big-deal cases as a PI, too. That’s good. Makes your witness testimony a little more reliable.”

“Don’t you wish you’d been nicer now?”

He tapped a pencil on the table in front of him. “Thing that makes me curious, though? Is why a smart detective like you would neglect to mention some damn interesting things during that witness testimony. Things like your arrest for assaulting the dead guy’s father. Things like the romantic relationship you had with the dead guy’s stepmother.”

“Too many irrelevant details can make a statement murky.”

“You think this is a game where we sit around and trade wise-ass remarks?”

“It’s shaping up like that.”

“Not anymore.” He leaned forward. “Yeah, I’d say you neglected to mention some pretty damn interesting things last night, Mr. Perry. You told me you were here to tell Jefferson his father was dead.”

“I was.”

“You didn’t mention that you were also here to tell him he was inheriting many millions.”

“That’s family business. I’m not interested in sharing anyone else’s financial details, Brewer.”

“Of course you’re not. Now, let’s review what you told me last night, shall we?” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and glanced at it. “You told me, and repeated this several times, that Matthew Jefferson already knew his father was dead. That this was, in fact, the first thing he said to you when you encountered him.”

“That’s right.”

Brewer slapped the notebook down. “Now, if he knew his father was dead, it would stand to reason that he could also imagine he had just become a very wealthy man. Odd motivation for a suicide, don’t you think?”

“He’d been estranged from his father. Could be he had no idea he was getting any money. Maybe that was part of his emotional problem. Not only had he lost his father, he’d lost a fortune.”

“If he’d been estranged from his father, as you also indicated last night, then why had he received three phone calls from the man in the last few weeks?”

I leaned back in my chair and looked at him. He wasn’t bluffing; I could tell
that from his face. If he’d called a judge at home and gotten an order for the phone records, he could have had them easily enough by this morning.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Brewer said, watching me.

“I suppose.” I kept my voice neutral. It was more than interesting, but I didn’t want Brewer to think I cared. Hell, did I even
want
to care? Right now I just wanted to make my way through about three more locked doors and into the parking lot.

“And the money?” Brewer said. “Those millions that were supposed to go to the son? Well, now that the son is dead, it appears that money goes right back to the widow. The same widow to whom you were once engaged.”

He spread his hands and pushed away from the table. “You know, if I were the paranoid sort, I’d be seriously questioning whether I could believe your description of what happened, Mr. Perry.”

“I hadn’t seen Karen Jefferson in years, Brewer. Call the Cleveland Police Department, ask around. Trust me, they would have checked our relationship out pretty thoroughly after her husband was murdered.”

“I will indeed be on the phone with Cleveland. But right now I’ve got you to deal with. And I want to know why in the hell you would have taken this job. Or—and this is the really interesting question—why in the hell you would have been
asked
to take this job. You and this woman break off an engagement, you beat the shit out of her future husband and lapse into years of silence with her. Then the husband gets murdered and suddenly you’re a friend of the family?”

“I’m not a friend of the family. I’m a guy who’s doing a job.”

“Notification of death, that was your job?”

“I had to find him, too. Nobody knew where he was.”

“Except his father.”

I shrugged.

“Yeah,” Brewer said. “The father knew where the son lived, because he’d been in contact with the son. Or somebody from that house in Pepper Pike had been. And if the father has been talking to the son, well, shit, doesn’t it seem odd he wouldn’t have mentioned that to his wife? ‘Hey, hon, remember that kid I lost track of for a few years? Well, the boy’s living in Indiana now, works at an apple orchard . . . ’”

We sat in silence and traded stares for a few minutes, Brewer tapping that pencil off the table again.

“Last night you told me the dead guy had been estranged from his father, and that turned out to be untrue. Today you tell me you’ve been estranged
from the soon-to-be-rich widow. I wonder if that’s true? I’m just thinking out loud, is all.”

“As flattered as I am to be included in your thought process, I’d really like to be on my way.”

“Like I said, don’t be in such a hurry.”

I stood up. “Release me or charge me with something, Brewer. Something a little better than operating without an Indiana PI license. Or get me an attorney and a telephone so I can start making calls to the media about how you’re holding me without charges.”

He sat there and looked at me, neither friendly nor unfriendly, just thoughtful. “You think we’re all a bunch of hicks, don’t you? Think I’m some redneck cop without a clue, bored of busting up meth labs in barns?”

“No, I don’t, Brewer. I actually think—had been thinking, at least—that you’re probably a pretty good cop. Pretty smart. But I hate to see a good cop and a smart man waste his time.”