Stiff Penalty (A Mattie Winston Mystery) (19 page)

W
e paraded up to the Ames’s front porch, Richmond and I in the lead, Hurley and Charlie bringing up the rear. Charlie already had the camera on and aimed at the front door. “I’ll shoot until we get inside, then you can take over,” she said to Hurley.

Wendy Ames scowled at us when she answered the door. “What are you doing here? Stanley said not to talk to you unless he is present, so if you need something you can call him.”

Richmond smiled, a predatory, self-satisfied smile that was kind of scary. “We aren’t here to talk to you; we’re here to conduct a search of your home.”

“You can’t search my house,” Wendy said, frowning. She had her cell phone in hand, and she started jabbing at the screen. “I’m calling Stanley.”

“Good,” Richmond said. “You can read him this.” He then stuck the search warrant in front of her face.

Wendy stopped poking at her phone and stared at the paper, letting the reality of it sink in. Ten seconds later, her face turned beet red, and she looked like steam was about to come out of her ears. It was easy to see where Jacob got it from. Richmond snatched the paper away and paraded past Wendy into the living room, the rest of us following.

Wendy’s house was smaller than Derrick’s, but the furnishings looked brand new, and the décor, as Blake had said, was decidedly modern, with lots of glass and chrome. I wondered how much of it had been paid for by Derrick and how much had been provided by Blake.

Richmond turned back to look at Wendy and said, “Where is Jacob’s room?”

Wendy still looked apoplectic, but she gathered her wits together and walked past Richmond down a hallway leading off the living room. She stopped at the last room on the right and knocked on the door. “Jacob?” she hollered.

There was no answer. She grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it, but it was locked.

“Jacob!” she yelled, sterner this time.

Still no answer.

Richmond gently pushed her aside and pounded on the door with his fist. “Jacob Ames, this is the police. Open up!”

Not a peep came from the other side of the door. Richmond looked at the knob, which had a small hole at its center, and then fished around in his pocket. He came out with a tiny Swiss Army knife, opened it to a small screwdriver, and stuck it in the hole. After maneuvering with it for a few seconds, we heard a
pop
, and Richmond turned the knob and opened the door.

There was no one in the room.

“Where is he?” Wendy asked, looking panicked.

Hurley and Charlie were shoulder to shoulder, filming everything we were doing, Hurley holding the camera and Charlie watching the screen along with him. They were practically cheek to cheek, and as Charlie passed me I shot eye daggers into the back of her head.

“Looks like he might have done another window trick,” Richmond said, nodding toward the window, which was open. Richmond then walked over to Jacob’s desk, which was covered with stuff: socks, an iPod, a boom box, a laptop, various personal hygiene items, some schoolbooks, notebooks, and several pieces of paper. There was also a smashed smartphone sitting off to one side. With a gloved hand, Richmond picked the phone up and showed it to Wendy.

“Is this Jacob’s?”

Wendy looked puzzled and shook her head. “Jacob’s phone is a flip model.”

Richmond held the mangled phone up to the camera, then turned it over to show that the battery was gone.

That’s when Wendy said, “That looks like Derrick’s phone.” The four of us exchanged looks, and Wendy didn’t miss it. “What does that mean?”

Richmond didn’t answer her. I grabbed an evidence bag from the scene kit I’d brought in from Hurley’s car, and Richmond dropped the phone into it. I then sealed and labeled the bag.

After sifting through the rest of the stuff on Jacob’s desk, Richmond went to the closet. He opened the door to reveal chaos: piles of clothes on the floor, a few items hanging askew from wire hangers, and a half dozen pairs of shoes. Right in the middle of the shoe pile was a pair of ASIC Gel Scout athletic shoes with blue trim and orange soles.

Richmond bent over, picked them up, and held them aloft for Hurley to film. On the inside of one of them was a scuff mark in the shape of the Nike swoosh. “Do these look familiar?” he said to Hurley.

Wendy looked even more panicked. “What do you mean? Why are you interested in Jacob’s shoes?”

Once again Richmond ignored her question, and I could tell Wendy was getting very frustrated. I opened up a bag for him to put the shoes into. Then I sealed and labeled it.

“Would somebody please tell me what’s going on?” Wendy pleaded.

“We need to find your son,” Richmond said. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

Wendy shook her head frantically. “I thought he was in his room.”

From the hallway, a meek voice said, “I think he went to Sean’s house.” We all turned and saw Jacob’s younger brother, Michael, standing there. “He goes over there all the time. He sneaks out through his window. They both do.”

Richmond took out his phone, called the station, and had officers dispatched to the Fitzpatrick house to look for Jacob. Wendy started to cry. Michael started to sob, and Hurley, seeing the younger boy’s obvious distress, lowered the camera. Charlie took hold of his arm and tried to raise it back up, but he shook her off and handed her the camera. Then he went over to Michael and knelt down in front of him.

“Don’t feel bad about telling on your brother,” Hurley said, placing his hands on Michael’s shoulders. “Jacob may be mad at you for a while, and he may say some mean things to you, but you did the right thing. I promise you that someday Jacob will understand and know that, and know that you did it because you love him, even if he doesn’t know that now. Okay?”

Michael nodded, staring into Hurley’s eyes.

This was a new, tender side of Hurley that I’d never seen before, and I wondered if his recent and rapid induction into fatherhood—twice—had anything to do with it.

“It’s important that you stay strong and tough, okay?” Hurley said.

Michael nodded, tears tracking down his cheeks. Hurley chucked him once under his chin, and Michael took that as his cue; he turned and ran from the room.

Richmond’s phone rang, and he answered it with a curt “Richmond.” He listened for a moment and then hung up. “They have Jacob and they’re taking him down to the station.” He looked over at a tearful Wendy. “Mrs. Ames, we have clear evidence that Jacob was not only at his father’s house at the time of death, but that he engaged in a scuffle with him. Derrick’s phone is missing, and if this phone turns out to be his, it confirms Jacob’s presence. We have other evidence as well, and I’ll be questioning him as soon as we get back to the station.”

“Oh my God,” Wendy gasped. She looked terrified, but then her face shifted, morphing into what I call the mother tiger face. “I’m going to call Stanley,” she said, poking at her cell phone. “I don’t want you to talk to Jacob until Stanley gets there. And I want to be there as well.”

Richmond started to respond, but Wendy’s call went through, and after saying, “Stanley, please help me! I think Jacob might have killed his father!” she scurried off, ranting into the phone at Stanley Barber the Third.

We spent nearly an hour going through Jacob’s room, confiscating his laptop, some clothes we found in his hamper—including a pair of stonewashed jeans with ragged, dirty hems that looked like the ones in the video—and a drawing we found under some other papers on the desk that showed two male figures, one stabbing the other in the chest, blood dripping down the victim’s shirt and pants onto the floor.

When we were done with the bedroom, we headed out to the main part of the house. Stanley arrived, but after he saw the search warrant, he pulled Wendy aside and did nothing to stop us. Clearly he was miffed, but most of his earlier bluff and bluster was gone. Wendy called a neighbor, who came over and picked Michael up. The kid didn’t want to leave, and he sobbed all the way out to the car. It broke my heart to watch him.

After collecting several jackets and a hoodie from the coat closet, items that Wendy identified as belonging to Jacob, Richmond looked over at Charlie and Hurley. The two of them had traded the camera back and forth, taking turns filming, but they had remained linked together like Siamese twins.

“Did you guys get everything?” Richmond asked.

“We certainly did,” Charlie said.

“Then I think we’re done here,” Richmond said. Wendy was sitting on her chrome-and-leather sofa beside Stanley. Her tears had dried, but she looked pale, frightened, and shell-shocked. “I’m sorry,” Richmond said to her.

Neither Wendy nor Stanley commented, or even looked our way, so we gathered up our evidence and left, with Wendy and Stanley prepared to follow and meet us at the station.

As Hurley and I walked back to his car, both of us looked glum. I suspect Hurley was bummed because he felt bad for little Michael and what was happening to the Ames family. For me it was that, and the idea that Hurley and Charlie would be cheek to cheek again soon, bonding over the footage that documented the ruination of the Ames family.

O
nce again we formed a caravan as we headed back to the station. As soon as Hurley and I were safely ensconced inside his car, away from other eyes and ears, he picked up our baby conversation where we left off.

“We should talk about names for the kid, don’t you think?” he said as he started the car and then sat waiting for Richmond and Charlie to take off. “Do you have any in mind?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it yet,” I said. “But I know one name that’s off the list for sure.”

“What’s that?”

“Mine. I wouldn’t want to put any kid of mine through what I went through trying to hide from my real name. I mean what the hell were my parents thinking when they saddled me with a moniker like Matterhorn?”

“It is a bit out there,” Hurley agreed. “Though I do like Mattie.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want the kid to have either of our names. It’s too confusing. He or she deserves his or her own unique name.”

“Not too unique,” Hurley said, pulling out behind Charlie’s car. “We need to be careful not to pick names that will be conducive to playground jibes and bullying. But I do like the idea of carrying on family names. What was your father’s name?”

“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter because I wouldn’t use it. He abandoned me as a child, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to reward that behavior by giving him a namesake.”

Hurley shot me a look. “You sound angry.”

“I am,” I said, feeling churlish. “This whole pregnancy thing has me thinking about family, and it makes me mad that my child will never know his grandfather. Though I suppose it’s just as well considering what a jerk he must be.”

“When you thought it was him who was following you, you were worried that you had killed him. So you must have some caring left in your heart for him.”

“He’s not in my life, so let’s drop the matter and move on, keeping in mind that we need to pick something that flows well.”

Hurley shot me a bemused smile. “Flows well?”

“Yeah, you know, the name needs to roll off the tongue easily and sound a little sophisticated and dignified. The syllables need to feel balanced. You don’t want Ebenezer Nebuchadnezzar Winston or Jack Sprat Winston. You want something like Susannah Marie Winston, or Richard Allen Winston.”

A brief silence followed that was palpable. “Winston?” Hurley said, his tone dark. “Why the hell would you use that last name?”

“It’s my last name.”

“No, it’s David’s last name. The kid isn’t his.” He shot me another look, this one suspicious. “You’re sure it’s not his, right?”

His doubt pissed me off. “Of course I am,” I snapped. “I told you I haven’t been with anyone else but you.”

“Then the kid should have my last name.”

“I get why you feel that way, Hurley, but that just makes things awkward because my last name will be different.”

“Not if you marry me.”

“Yeah, there’s a good reason to get married,” I scoffed. “And even if we did get married, what makes you think I’d take your last name?”

“Why wouldn’t you? Is there some reason you want to keep David’s last name? Is there something you aren’t telling me? Wait, is that why you don’t want to marry me, because you’re not over David yet?”

I let out a sigh of sorely tried patience. “Trust me, I’m long over David.”

“Then what’s the problem with changing your name?”

“It’s a moot point, Hurley. We aren’t getting married, so there’s no need to change my name.”

“If you think I’m going to let you slap your sleazy ex’s last name on any kid of mine, you are sorely mistaken.”

We rode in silence for a minute or two, a palpable tension between us, until I couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Look, I get why it would bother you if our kid doesn’t have your last name,” I said finally.

“He doesn’t have to have my last name. I just don’t want any kid of mine to have Winston for a last name. I don’t want him to have any connection to David.”

“Him? You seem very certain.”

“I am. And quit trying to change the subject.”

I sighed. I not only understood his objection to the name thing, I kind of agreed with him. “Okay,” I said, folding. “We’ll use your last name.”

Hurley shot me a hopeful look. “Does that mean you’ve changed your mind about getting married?”

“No.”

“So you’re going to keep the name Winston?”

“For now. I’ll think about it more later.”

“But the kid will have my last name?”

“Yes, I just said that,” I snapped, feeling irritable. “What do I have to do, put it in writing?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, when we fill out the birth certificate.”

“Fine. Now that we have the last name settled, we need to come up with two more,” I said, eager to move on. “Since you like the idea of using family names, what’s your middle name?”

“Decker. It was my mother’s maiden name.”

“Decker Hurley,” I said, trying it on for size. “I kind of like that.”

Hurley shook his head. “Not a chance. The kids will all be calling him Decker the pecker. Trust me, I know.”

“Oh. Right.” We satin silence for awhile, and then I asked him, “What’s your father’s name?”

“Peter,” he said with a shake of his head.

“I’m sensing a trend in your family.”

Hurley gave me a sly smile and wiggled his eyebrows, which allowed me to let out a breath of relief. Our normal camaraderie had been restored.

Then I had a brainstorm. “I have an idea,” I said. “What if we use our first names but reverse them? If it’s a boy—”

“It is.”

I rolled my eyes. “If it’s a boy we could call him Matthew, because some Matthews are called Matt or Matty. And if it’s a girl we can name her Stephanie, which is like a feminine version of Steven.”

Hurley pondered that for a few seconds and then slowly nodded. “That could work. I like both names. What about middle names?”

We had arrived at the police station, so I said, “Let’s think about that one for a while.”

It was time to stop discussing the creation of one family and witness the destruction of another.