Damage (19 page)

"Was it Pritchard?"

"You mean Detective Pritchard?"
 

The wisecrack passed his lips before he could stop it. Redmond shifted forward in his seat. One of his meaty hands came to rest on the edge of the table. "Was it?"

"It's possible," Ray said. "Like I said, I don't recall exactly who might have mentioned it."

Redmond flipped his notepad back a page and read over some notes. The cold room went deathly quiet as Ray waited for him to restart the conversation.

"Tell me about Jacob Veitch," the sheriff asked.
 

Ray decided not to bother correcting him. He wondered if Billy had informed Redmond about their suspicions regarding Jake's involvement with the murder of Evan Wallace, or maybe some other evidence was found to place Jake at the scene. Either way, if the sheriff was expecting Ray to implicate his friend, Ray didn't feel like making it easy on him.

"What about him?" he asked.

"You know him well?"

"Yes. We grew up together."

"Did Deputy Merrill know him well?"

"Yes. They pledged the same fraternity at college."

Redmond read from his notepad. "Jacob Robert Veitch. Arrested twice for DUI, once for assault, several warnings for public intoxication, and one arrest for breaking and entering."

"Simple assault," Ray clarified. "And that got dismissed, as did the breaking and entering."

"History of violence and a proclivity for entering dwellings that don't belong to him," Redmond said, raising his baggy eyes to meet Ray's. "Sounds like a man of interest to me. Did you see him Sunday night?"

"No," Ray said.

"He slept at your apartment," Redmond said. "Your neighbor said he broke in through a window."

"He did, but not until Monday morning, after I left to come here to go on rounds with Billy. I mean, Deputy Merrill."

"You haven't asked me why I'm asking you about your friend Jake," Redmond said. "That tells me you think maybe he did something to warrant my attention. What might that something be?"

Struck by the sheriff's sensible reasoning, Ray decided to stop drawing out the inevitable.

"Okay, look," Ray started. "For starters, a lot has happened since we found Evan Wallace and his wife. I just told Billy today we should have talked to you already, but he's taken Jake's suicide pretty hard. He wasn't exactly in a mood to listen to reason. But I'm telling you, whatever Jake did, he wasn't in his right mind when he did it. He'd been drinking round the clock for five straight days..."

"And there was heroine in his system the night he died," Redmond added.

Ray's head dropped and he groaned. "Well, that's a first, even for him. You clearly suspect Jake had something to do with murdering Evan Wallace and trying to kill his wife. I hate to think of him being involved in anything so brutal, but I happen to agree with you. His hands were cut up from broken glass, just like mine, from that shattered window at their estate. And Billy said he found Jake's old pocket knife under a piece of furniture in the living room. I guess you'll want to search my apartment for evidence he might have left there, too?"

"In good time," Redmond said.

"Billy told me Jake had been ranting about getting back at Evan Wallace for..." He stopped when the sheriff raised his hand.

"I know why your friend Jake went to the Wallace's house," Redmond said. "What I want to know is why you were there."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're asking," Ray said. "It was a ride along. We've done them plenty of times."

Redmond's hound dog head wagged slowly from side to side.

Ray laughed nervously. "What are you shaking your head for? It was a ride along."

"Not one I approved," Redmond said. "And they all require my approval. So, if you didn't have my approval, then you had no business being in that squad car with Deputy Merrill, and you certainly had no business traipsing around that crime scene. I have to wonder what your purpose was in being there that day. What arrangement did you have with Deputy Merrill?"

"I was riding along with him to write a feature article for the Citizen-Gazette about a day in the life of a sheriff's deputy. That's the only arrangement we had. I even told you about it at the groundbreaking."

Redmond shook his head again.
 

"You can shake your head all you want," Ray said, getting heated. "I don't make a habit of jumping into police cars at six in the morning for shits and giggles. Billy called me late last week to set it up. I assumed you knew about it."

"Bad assumption," Redmond growled. "Why did he want you there?"

"To write... a story... for the paper," Ray said haltingly.

"How well do you know Deputy Merrill?" Redmond asked.

"That's a stupid question," Ray said. "We're cousins! We grew up a couple miles apart from each other."

"You trust him?"

"What kind of..."

"If he needed help, you'd help him?"

"Of course I would," Ray said. Redmond had him flustered.
 

"Then tell me where he is," Redmond demanded.

Ray cocked his head and struggled to comprehend the question. Why was he suddenly asking all these questions about Billy? What did he mean, tell me where he is?
 
This wasn't supposed to be about Billy. It was supposed to be about Jake, and Evan Wallace, and Correen Wallace. How could Billy possible figure into the scenario other than as the first man on the scene?

"What are you talking about?" Ray said.

"Deputy Merrill should have been here two hours ago for the start of his shift," Redmond said, leaning forward. "Where is he?"

"He was at the funeral, then he left," Ray offered. "I have no idea where he is now."

"Why did he bring you with him on Monday?"

"I... I told you already! To write a story for..."

"Where is he?"

Ray let out a nervous laugh in his exasperation. "I don't know what you want from me."

"Is he at his house?"

"How the hell should I know? Call his fucking house and ask his wife."

Before Ray realized what was happening, Redmond gripped the edge of the table with both hands and shoved it with tremendous force into Ray's ribcage, knocking the breath out of him in a sudden burst. He doubled over, almost hitting his chin on the table. The camera fell to the floor. A compartment sprung open and batteries scattered across the white linoleum. Gasping for air and clutching his ribs, Ray watched the sheriff stand and walk around to him. Redmond propped himself on a corner of the table.

"You need to watch your tone of voice, Raymond," Redmond purred. "It could rub a man the wrong way."

Ray waited anxiously and still, in fear of another attack. Instead, Redmond continued talking softly to him.

"This is an ugly game. You either joined it by your own choosing, or you got roped into it. Whichever is the case doesn't much matter to me. You're in it now and you are not abiding by the rules. I'm a simple man, Raymond. When I ask you a simple question, I expect you to give me a simple answer." Redmond hovered over Ray. "Where is my deputy?"

"I don't know," Ray quickly answered.

"When did you see him last?"

"At the funeral home this morning. He left by himself short before twelve." Ray watched Redmond closely just in case one of the man's meaty hands should suddenly take flight in his direction.

"Why did he bring you with him on Monday morning?"

Whatever answer it was Redmond wanted, Ray wished he could have given it, but he had no option other than to stick with the truth.

"I swear," he said with forced sincerity, "Billy said you gave permission for me to go."

He waited for something to happen. A slap. Having the chair kicked out from under him. Any number of possibilities came to mind. After several seconds, Redmond backed away and lumbered around to his end of the table where he collected his notepad and the paper bag. Without another word to Ray, he opened the door.

"Dean," Redmond said to Deputy Greevey, who had been waiting obediently outside the room. "Keep an eye on our friend here for a few minutes." He leaned close to Greevey and whispered something to him, then headed off down the hallway.

Greevey entered the room, closing the door behind him. His stupid, toothy grin cut his face in half as he walked slowly toward Ray. From his pants pocket, Greevey pulled a pair of thin leather gloves into which he began to wriggle his long fingers. Ray watched intently, the vague notion of calling out for help taking shape with each step Greevey took. When the deputy was within a few feet, there was a knock at the door. It opened and Detective Pritchard walked in.

"Sheriff Redmond said he wants to see you, Deputy Greevey," Pritchard announced. He pointed at Ray. "He told me to keep an eye on him for you until you get back."

"I just talked to the sheriff," Greevey said, confusion apparent in his voice and on his face.

"Well, I guess that makes you special, because he wants to talk to you again," Pritchard said. "He just passed me in the hallway on the way to the elevator and told me he wants you to meet him in his office immediately."

Greevey looked at Ray, then back at Pritchard, clearly frustrated at the interruption. "Why?"

"You seriously think he's going to tell me?" Pritchard laughed.

Greevey huffed loudly and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Pritchard cracked it open and peeked out. When the ding of an elevator sounded in the corridor, Pritchard shut the door and turned to face Ray.

"Let's go," the detective ordered.

"What?" Ray mumbled.

Pritchard marched over and pulled him up by the arm. "Gather your shit and get your ass in gear. You've got about two minutes before that moron comes back and we're both dead men."

Ray snapped out of his daze and sprung into action. He plucked the camera off the floor and followed Pritchard along the corridor in the opposite direction from which he had come to the interrogation room. After a few hasty turns and a half flight of stairs down, they exited into the back parking lot. Weaving between marked patrol cars, Ray close on his heels, Pritchard pressed a button on his key fob that unlocked the doors of a black Camry parked in the farthest row from the building. Ray stopped in front of the car.

"You've been following me?"

"No shit, Sherlock," Pritchard said. "Quit standing there gawking and get in!"

Wednesday, Part IV

They were five miles from the sheriff's department, on the outskirts of Whitlock, before either of them said anything. He spent those first minutes warily eying the detective and peering through the back window to check if they were being followed. Leaving Whitlock with no pursuer in sight made him feel marginally more safe.

"What happened back there?" Ray said as Pritchard merged the Camry with traffic heading south on Highway 31. "I don't understand anything that just happened."

"You can't even hazard a guess?" Pritchard asked.

No immediate answer presented itself. The spreading tenderness in his ribs and the adrenalin still flushing from his system kept Ray from focusing too long on any one thought.

"I guess Redmond thinks I'm somehow involved with the death of Evan Wallace," he said. "He said he didn't give permission for me to ride along with Billy on Monday, which makes my being there look suspicious."

"Why were you there, Raymond?" Pritchard asked.

"Billy called me last Thursday and asked me to come with him!" Ray said, piqued at being asked the same question Redmond kept throwing at him.

"And you went," Pritchard said in a tone of disbelief.

"Why wouldn't I?"

Pritchard shook his head. "What else did the sheriff want to know?

"He kept asking where Billy was. 'Where is he? Where is he?' How the hell am I supposed to know? He's been at the hospital once or twice, checking up on Correen Wallace, and the last time I saw him he was turning our friend's funeral into a cage match. For all I know, he went home to rest up for the next round."

"Did he say why he was looking for Deputy Merrill?" Pritchard asked.

Ray thought back to the conversation in the interrogation room. The entire experience had been so surreal, it was like trying to remember details from a dream. "He said Billy didn't show up for his shift today. He kept asking me where he was and if I would help Billy if he was in trouble. He started asking me about Jake..."

"Your friend that committed suicide?"

"Right," Ray said. "I thought that's why he wanted to talk to me in the first place, about whether or not Jake had anything to do with what happened to the Wallaces. But just when we were getting into it, out of nowhere he starts asking about Billy. I don't get it. So Billy's a few hours late for work. Jake might have killed a man and tried to give his wife a flying lesson, and he's more concerned about what time Billy punches the clock?"

"Jake doesn't concern him," Pritchard said. "Your friend was out there Sunday night, there's no mistaking that, but I highly doubt he killed Evan Wallace."

"But the broken glass, the mud, his pocket knife," Ray pointed out. "I'm sure his finger prints are all over their house."

"They are," Pritchard said. "And there's probably gunpowder residue on his hands, and strands of Wallace's hair on his shirt, and all kinds of additional evidence to tie him to the crime."

"Billy said he was out of his mind, ranting about getting even with Wallace for not giving him some job at the new country club they're putting up at Lonesome Pines," Ray said.

"They just had the groundbreaking on Sunday," Pritchard said.

"I know. I was there."

"Then you know they haven't even begun construction," Pritchard said. "Those kinds of communities take months to build, sometimes years. You really think Evan Wallace's first priority is going to be staffing a non-existent clubhouse to serve a community that hasn't even been built yet?"

That made sense, Ray thought. Jake hadn't said anything to Ray about applying for a job at Lonesome Pines, and Jake told Ray everything, even the things he didn't want to hear about. In the midst of all the drama of the past few days, it hadn't occurred to him he would have known about a job interview if there had been one. If anything, Jake was happy tending bar at Marco's.