Tunnel Vision (18 page)

FORTY-ONE

Betty drove with the radio off but neither of them spoke because there was nothing to say. That they’d failed at the prison was an understatement, and what Betty couldn’t figure out was why in the hell either of them had ever thought just talking to Duke would be enough. Cops, trained detectives, had spent hours with him, and had come to the same conclusion as a jury of twelve. The most likely assessment of the situation was exactly what Van Endel had told her: Duke was guilty but had managed to drum up a following due to some irregularities in his prosecution. Betty knew instinctively there had to be many convicted felons who could concoct the same type of story.

“He hated us,” said June as they passed by Lansing. “I mean, he faked it well enough, but he was bored by our questions, he hated my voice and the way I looked, and he resented you for talking about things he didn’t want to discuss. I hate to say it, Betty, but I’m not sure this little trip is even worth including in our report. Mr. Evans is not going to give us a higher grade just because we made a convicted murderer dislike us.”

“It’s true that Duke didn’t tell us much we didn’t already know,” said Betty. “That said, we still have a few things to consider.”

“Like what?” June asked, and Betty was certain June really did sound as much like Mandy as Duke had insisted.
Was her voice really similar enough to terrify him?
Duke didn’t look like a man who scared easily, but that part of the interview had definitely not gone as Duke had planned. Unfortunately, the only result of his revulsion was that June had been unable to speak, and Betty had been forced to carry the interview by herself. Betty didn’t blame June for the odd turn of events, but it still hadn’t helped the situation any, especially with Betty so terrified over the identity fraud they were committing.

“First of all,” said Betty, “we need to remember that just because Duke didn’t know about a diary doesn’t mean there wasn’t one. It’s even possible Duke destroyed it himself. That seems even more possible if Mandy talked about him beating her in it.”

“You think he did that?”

“Beat her? Yeah, I definitely think so. Did he destroy the diary to cover it up? I don’t have a clue about that. I do know this isn’t the end, though. Mr. Evans told us this was going to be hard, and I think just because we had a little luck we forgot that. We can still search for Jason Lattrell, we can still go to the house, and we can keep looking around online.”

“So what now?”

“Now we go home,” said Betty. “I’ll e-mail Nickel so I can meet up with him Monday, and I can see if he wants to come check out the house with us.”

“That sounds OK,” said June. “It’s better than nothing, at least.”

“Yeah, beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I have a bit of a confession, Betty,” said June.

Betty turned to her friend, momentarily forgetting her place at the steering wheel. “What is it?”

“I don’t think Duke did it. I think he was a rotten man, and he’s still a rotten man, no matter how many famous friends he might have, but I don’t think he did it.”

“Neither do I.”

“You know what that means, though, right?”

Betty shook her head at the question. She really had no clue what June meant.

“That means the guy who killed Mandy is still out there somewhere. The guy who killed my aunt is still free, and I want to change that.”

“We’re going to find him, June,” said Betty. “I have no idea how, but we’re going to do it. Even if it takes us longer than some dumb project, or even longer than high school. We’re going to figure this out, and as soon as we do, we’re going to call the police.”

“We have to,” confirmed June. “We have to do it for her.”

FORTY-TWO

I told myself that by the time Paul called my pager I’d have the balls not to call him back. It would have been bad enough to just ignore the situation going on over there, but far worse to profit from it, regardless of my money troubles.

I am calling him back, though. My brain went on autopilot, and all of a sudden the phone is ringing and I’m holding it.

“Yeah? Hold on.” There’s deep breathing coming from the phone, and I hear Paul say, “Knock it off, girl. Damn.” I wait, let the silence grow between us, and then he says, “Yo, Nickel?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“I have to admit, my friends were pretty impressed, dude.”

I grimace. I shouldn’t be on the phone at all, I should never have lain down with this snake. I can still hang up the phone, but I’m not doing it.

“I’m glad,” I say, my voice feeling like it’s being controlled by a ventriloquist, but that would just let me off the hook. This is me compromising my morals, nothing more, and certainly nothing that can be blamed on anyone else.

“I bet you are, man,” says Paul. “Would have been bad for you if they hadn’t been. Best-case scenario, we wouldn’t have been able to work together. But worst-case, shit. We don’t need to talk about that.” I want to remind him there is no worst case, or even a best one, not unless I allow it to happen. Paul can’t find his own ass with both hands and a flashlight, much less find me in the webs of disinformation I leave lying around for just such an occasion. I don’t remind him, though.

“How much are you going to want?” I ask. “I’ve got fifteen pounds, all dry and ready to go.”

“I want it all.” There’s an edge to his voice now, no more joking around, apparently. “Every last bit of green you’ve got, and then I’d like to get on a sales schedule with you. This isn’t the last batch, right?”

“There’s always more coming,” I say, and it’s true. It’s going to take longer than he might like for me to get the next batch going, but that news can wait. “What were you thinking you’d be able to pay for fifteen?”

“I don’t know,” says Paul. “We’ll figure that out when the time comes. I mean, you know I can’t pay street for that weight.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not expecting that.”

“Well, don’t expect me to get anywhere close. Fifteen pounds is massive, and there’s a lot of people that are going to need to make money on down the line. What I’m saying is, don’t get greedy.”

Pulling the phone from my face, I take a deep breath, and then reply, “Nobody is getting greedy over here. I just want to sell some stuff, get my money, and then walk away to do it all again. It’s just business for me, plain and simple.”

“I feel the same way,” says Paul. “I’ll page you at seven, you call me back, we set up a drop. If we’re both cool, this will be as smooth as silk.” The phone goes dead and I stuff the burner into my pocket, then walk back out to the garage. All I can think of is the facedown woman in the kitchen, him calling the girl on his lap a bitch, and the little boy on the stairs. None of this feels good, and I have a bad feeling it might never feel right, not even when it’s been in the rearview mirror for a few months.

The tow-behind-a-bike children’s carrier I bought for twenty-five dollars from the yard sale I passed when I was leaving Paul’s is coming along nicely. I’ve already hung black sheets over the breathable mesh on the inside, and I’m planning on coating the inside layer of those in more of those ridiculously useful dryer sheets. It won’t exactly be stylish—my ratty bike and the trailer make for a particularly sad-looking combo—but the weed will fit inside just fine. Assuming everything goes well, so will the money.

The trailer affords me one other option as well: the idea of some sort of self-defense. Guys like Paul are typically pretty cowardly, but if he feels like he needs to impress someone, I have no doubt he’ll off me, good source of weed or not. That’s part of the game. As I look at the trailer, I think I can probably set up some measures, both on myself and in the vehicle, that will level the playing field a bit.

I’m not readying for war, at least I don’t think so, but there’s definitely a part of my mind that likes the idea of breaking some bones.

I give the trailer a final look and walk back into the house. There’s only a few hours to go, and if I’m lucky, Betty will e-mail soon so we can set up a time to meet. Even with all this other crap going on, I still want to hear from her about the prison and Duke. And truth be told, I just want to hear from her.

FORTY-THREE

The rest of the week was boring in comparison to sneaking into a prison, but that was to be expected. The moms were out of the house constantly, busy setting up for a show at Ophelia’s studio. On Sunday, Betty could have come along for the ride to help decorate, but she declined, a decision she regretted later when she realized she had nothing to do.

So the moms were out, June had to go to her dad’s house, and Nickel hadn’t returned her e-mail yet. The only person that was available was Jake. His texts had been picking up in frequency, and though Betty knew she had to stop brushing him off, she wasn’t sure what to say after so long.

Nickel was the person Betty wanted to talk to the most. She knew if anyone could put a positive spin on what little information she’d gleaned from Duke, it would be that odd boy—assuming Nickel even still had interest in her or the murder of Mandy Reasoner. Betty figured he would, though, even if this was the longest he’d taken to respond to one of her e-mails. She’d even kept the message short, the way he seemed to like.

Betty found herself staring at the pictures of Duke and Mandy—obsessive behavior at its worst—and couldn’t stop wondering what truths the still images were hiding, and how many of them would be lost forever.
You know something!
She could practically
see
the pictures screaming it at her, but there was no truth to be had there. Frustrated, confused, and bored out of her skull, Betty wandered down to the kitchen to find something to eat.

Returning to her room ten minutes later with a still-steaming bowl of ramen, Betty promised herself she was done being unproductive. The endless browsing and regurgitating of the same information over and over again had to stop, lest she descend into madness. The vow lasted as long as it took Betty to refresh her e-mail and see that Nickel’s silence had continued. Seconds later, she was back on the Free Duke site, skipping around between the timeline and the trial sections. There was nothing new to be seen there, but when Betty went back to her e-mail a few head-splitting moments later, there was a message from Nickel.

Betty was dying for something new, something that could move everything forward, and though what she got was curt, it was exactly what she needed: “I can meet you tomorrow. Same time, same place. N.”

Betty smiled as she closed the e-mail. It wasn’t much, but it meant that tomorrow would be different. She didn’t know for certain that Nickel could right the foundering ship their investigation had become, but she was sure that he could help them in some way or another.

With her sights set on the coming day, Betty clicked on Reddit and killed time.
At least here no one wants anything from me.
It was a welcome break from the pictures of Mandy and Duke, but it didn’t last. Their eyes kept haunting her as they cried out for vengeance and freedom, and Betty felt sick wondering if everyone else working to free Duke had found themselves in a similar position. All the investigators were stymied. They needed new evidence, but where was it going to come from in a case this cold?

Betty flipped back to e-mail and scrolled down until she found the message Andrea had forwarded her from Van Endel and clicked it open. The address beckoned her like a siren, and despite the cop’s request that she go no closer than the road, Betty knew she had to enter that house, and she had a pretty good idea of who would be willing to go with her.

June might go, but Nickel will be standing next to me with a crowbar.

There was an odd comfort in the thought.

FORTY-FOUR

The days are getting warmer, but the nights are still just as cold. Knowing that I’m too uncomfortable to fall asleep is small consolation for suffering outside, but at least I know I won’t miss anything.

Not that I really have to worry. The GPS I attached to Jack’s car will wake me up once he gets moving, but as it turns out the app on my phone is unnecessary. I’m awake as Jack leaves the house with a shadowy woman, and the two of them get in his car and take off.

I consider turning my bike around and tossing his house again now that I know he’s safely away from it, but I decide against it. That particular oyster hadn’t left me any pearls last time, and I don’t think tonight will be any different. Nope. I want to watch Jack in his element, drinking, with all the territorial responsibilities of a drunken American male with a woman on his arm.

My head’s telling me I’m wasting my time, that Jack is going to let me down. My gut tells a different tale, though, so here I am, pedaling in the cold. Claire’s suspicions agree with my gut’s. But then, how many ex-wives don’t believe their husbands capable of dire deeds? My gut and his ex might like Jack for the death of Mandy, but my head knows there’s nothing besides circumstantial evidence pointing toward him.

As it turns out, I really didn’t need the GPS. I haven’t reconned him at night yet, but I have my guesses about his habits, and they prove accurate. The closest bar on this end of town is the Shipwreck. Rolling into its unpaved lot, I see a few cars, all with varying body damage, and Jack’s Impala happens to be among them.

I park the bike at the back of the lot, do my thing with the chain, and then walk on over to the car. I should have done this at the house when quiet streets would have made for easier work, but my curiosity is killing me, and the car is beckoning me like a Detroit siren. Jack’s house didn’t stand a chance against my lockpick set, and neither will the Impala.

The tumblers roll like a bowling ball down a bumpered lane. There are a few slow spots, but I know I’m going to knock them all down. I’m inside in less than a minute.

Jack’s car isn’t the vehicle you’d expect a terrible husband, dangerous father, and possible murderer to drive. It’s more boring than his house. The home itself was a mess, but the man’s clothes were neat, the woodsheds out back had been well organized, and his projects well thought out to my eyes. And now here is his Impala, banged up but pretty much neat as a pin inside. Everything together does the opposite of setting off my warning bells. In fact, I’m downright calm. Jack’s just a guy out on a date, and his car doesn’t even have the typical stray fry to throw under the microscope.

I leave the vehicle after just a few minutes. I could’ve been more thorough, but cars keep pouring into the lot, and between their headlights and the door to the Shipwreck flashing open, I was having a hard time maintaining my calm.

It doesn’t matter. Jack isn’t hauling around rope and a buck knife, nor is the car covered in bloody handprints. The car is just that, a sedan owned by a lower-middle-class man, and nothing in it tells of anything else. I feel a little silly to have even fantasized it would, after all this time.

I’m not as disappointed as I ought to be, though, as I fade back into the darkness, slide into a small grove about a hundred feet from the parking lot, and flick on the night-vision monocular. I don’t know why I’m not more discouraged. Yes, Jack is everything a good prosecutor would have been happy to find if he hadn’t been handed a junkie’s confession to run with. He was a relation by marriage, so he had to have known of the girl at least, and there was just no way he’d made it to that point in his life without falling afoul of the law at least once or twice. He was way too angry not to have a record.

But none of that matters. Even if Jack had killed her, the police already had that confession, already had an easy bust.

This is the talking-to my head is giving my gut as I huddle behind my monocular in that stand of trees, but my gut’s ignoring it. It’s too intent on waiting for Jack to leave the bar.

And then Jack does leave the bar, and everything changes.

Jack’s only been in the Shipwreck with his date for a little over an hour, but the drinks must have been flowing pretty well, based on the lean they both carry into the parking lot. The woman stumbles, mutters something indecipherable, and then I can hear Jack ask her, “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

There’s laughter after that—from the woman, not Jack—and then he hauls off and smacks her. It looks like an open palm strike from where I’m sitting, but that doesn’t really matter if you connect well, and from the way she drops, I’d say Jack put his weight into it.

I’m moving across the span before I realize my legs are in motion. Jack is hurting her, and he’s going to hurt her again, and my thoughts are pitch black.

Jack beats my pace across the field, though, giving the woman one more wallop—softer this time, but still audible—just as she regains her feet and then telling her, “Get in the fucking car.”

I’m close then, close enough for him to see me if he’s looking, but I stop dead in my tracks as the two of them get in the car like nothing’s happened. There’s no way Jack should be driving, but the woman—what in the hell is she doing, getting in there with him? Hasn’t he just been beating on her?

This is obviously just another night out for these two.

It’s disgusting and sad, but nothing I can do anything about, so I’m turning away when I’m stopped by something about the shape of the woman’s head, or the way she moves as she checks the damage to her face in the mirror in the Impala’s sun visor.

I know her.

She’s my damn client.