What the River Knows (18 page)

“Meth’ll do that to you,” Horton observed. “This friend of the friend who might know the chick James is shacked up with is the only halfway decent lead he provided.” He turned to Bates. “Lab guys turn up anything yet?”

“A few prints that could be James’, another that looks like it could be a match for one at the scene. Few ounces of pot and some hash, couple rocks of meth. Enough to file charges, not enough to get any serious jail time.” Bates shook his head. “What a waste of potential.”

“Yeah, and a waste of our time if we don’t find anything that leads us to James or his accomplice.” Horton stretched and ran his fingers through his hair.

“You get any leads from the forensics on the Delia Enfield case?” Even absorbed as he was by this case, Delia’s was never far from Scott’s mind.

“Enfield?” Horton turned a blank face to Scott.

“Found nude by the river, throat slashed,” Fleming supplied. “It’s a priority as a capital murder case, but lab is down three techs.” She looked at Scott. “They are trying to ID the DNA to see if it matches your suspect.”

“He’s already admitted to having sex with her that day,” Bates offered. “And I really don’t think he had a window of opportunity.”

“What would help is if you can ID someone else’s DNA from her.” Delia’s memory nagged at him not to let her down.

“Lab has all the swabs taken from her body, plus the fibers the coroner got out of her hair and her skin.” Fleming glanced at Scott. “There’s just not a lot there to work with.”

“I know. Not much in the way of leads connected with this case.” Scott focused on the kid in the interrogation room, who had begun to scratch his forearms hard enough to make them bleed. “Shouldn’t we stop him?” He reached for the door, but Horton was already opening it.

“Looks like he’s goin’ to detox,” Horton muttered.

Chapter 37

Sauntering through the Dragon’s parking lot, dust puffing from each mincing step, Charlotte left the August night, still ninety-five degrees at ten-thirty, and went back to that April evening, when even the air was pregnant with expectation. It had been a Friday, a convention in town, so the tips should be great. Charlotte had donned a classy but short black pencil skirt, low-cut red satin blouse, her hardest-working push-up bra, and her pointiest stilettos. The memory of Devlyn’s harsh words had faded rapidly away; the best tips and most appreciation should come her way tonight.

Then the group of women had come in, their rosy faces and animated conversation suggesting that they had had a few drinks with dinner prior to arriving at the Dragon. When Charlotte brought their drinks back to the table, she served the blonde last.

“Here you go, sweetie,” she said in her gentlest voice as she set the margarita at the woman’s fingertips.

“Thanks.” The woman’s hand grazed hers as she reached for the drink and brought it to full lips that quivered slightly, as if holding back a sob. The blue eyes looked as enormous and sad as a Hummel figurine’s.

“Should I bring you another on my next pass this way?” Charlotte stood close to this woman, oblivious to the rest of the raucous crowd at the table, entranced by the melancholy emanating from her. Even in the low light, Charlotte could see the heart shape of the woman’s face, the full breasts sheathed in the business-like blouse, the long, slim legs peeping from under the table. This woman dressed to hide her sensuality, not enhance it like Charlotte did.

The woman looked up at her and their eyes locked again. Charlotte studied the color of those blue eyes, the line of her nose, the curve of her lips. “No, well, maybe.” The woman shrugged and swung toward her, tight gray skirt sliding up to mid-thigh. “Oh, sure, why not.”

Charlotte stood frozen for a moment, stunned by a familiar note in the carefully-modulated voice. She recovered. “I’ll have one here the moment you finish this one.”

The blonde’s lips curved in the hint of a smile, while Charlotte tried to hide her shock. “That may not be very long.” She lifted the glass to her mouth, tipping back her head to expose a soft, elegant neck. Charlotte forced herself to pay attention to the other women clamoring for refills, though her gaze remained on the blonde. The woman flashed Charlotte a smile and squared her shoulders as if the alcohol had started to flush away the sadness.

Chapter 38

“Yes, I remember, honey.” Scott stifled the sound of frustration he felt creeping into his voice. “I’ll be on my way by five o’clock and ten seconds.”

“Just don’t be late.” Rica didn’t even try to keep the snap out of her voice. “The gang will be waiting on us at six.”

Scott flipped shut his cell phone without responding. He knew she would hear the sarcasm if he said, “Yes, dear.”

“Marching orders from the boss?” Bates made his way past Scott’s desk with still another Styrofoam cup.

“She’s got this damned coffee klatch at the Pub with her co-workers she wants to subject me to tonight.” He scanned his report for errors. “Same place we were when the murders went down. Getting to be an every Friday night thing.”

Bates took a sip from the cup and frowned. “Doesn’t sound like it bodes well for an enjoyable evening.”

“Nope.” Scott watched as Bates poured the contents of the cup on the thriving peace lily beside his desk. “All but one of the ‘gang’ works together at the hospital. One of the husbands and me are the two non-medicals.” He turned back to the screen. “And that damned Dr. Ambrose…”

“What?” Bates froze in the act of sitting in his chair.

Scott shook his head. “Nothing, just talking to myself.”

“Okay.” Bates sat. “What do you think—”

“Bates, Aylward!” Captain Black stuck his head in the door. “Uniforms just picked up the main suspect in the Quick Shop murders.” He turned to head to interrogation. “Should be here in about five minutes.”

“Hot damn!” Scott rolled his chair back so fast it bounced off the wall behind him and nearly took out his knees as he trotted out the door. “I want a piece of this interrogation.”

****

Twenty minutes later, Scott texted Rica. “Not going to make it tonight. Questioning a suspect.” There. By texting, he didn’t have to listen to her either threaten or cajole. And staying to question James kept him away from the ugly meeting at the Pub. He felt sorry for Heather’s husband John. He didn’t wait to see if he got a text in response.

****

Scott flinched as Horton slammed his pen to the interrogation table. Thomas James merely tipped back his head and stared at the KBI agent walking toward the mirror that afforded Bates, Fleming, and Captain Black a view of the interrogation room. “What can I say, man? I didn’t do nothin’. Was home with my peeps playin’ HALO all afternoon and evenin’ the day that went down.” The exaggerated nonchalance said James had denied culpability before. Though having to leave his many body-piercing pieces of jewelry and the hat he usually wore cocked to the side with the jailer left him looking a bit less confident. And Scott could see sweat glistening below the thin mustache on James’ upper lip, even though the temperature in the room should have had him in goose bumps wearing nothing but a dirty wife-beater and baggy shorts.

Horton studied his own face in the mirror. He snorted and whirled to face James again. “Hell of a productive way for a thirty-five-year-old adult to be spending an entire day.”

James shrugged. “Relaxes me, man.”

Horton placed his hands on the table and leaned within six inches of James’ face. “So if you were home playing video games, how did your fingerprints get on the freezer the bodies were found in?”

“Dunno, man.” James looked directly into Horton’s eyes. “Maybe I helped a dude deliver some frozen pizzas there once.”

“Oh, really.” Horton leaned closer. “What delivery company?”

“Dunno, man. I just rides with my buds when they wants some company.”

“So you are not actually an employee of this delivery company?”

“Nope.”

“And I suppose your buds wouldn’t admit they were taking riders along against company policy, would they?”

“I wouldn’t ’spect them to.”

Horton stood up. “Well, Mr. James, unless one of these ‘buds’ comes forward to corroborate your story, you’ll be sitting in jail charged with first-degree robbery, kidnapping, and murder.”

“I’m innocent.”

“That’s what they all say.” Horton perched on the edge of the table. “Say, just for fun, that your alibi can’t be confirmed, so the only way you might get out of this is to let us know who else was with you, who might have actually pulled the trigger.” He leaned a little toward James. “Would you really want to fry—you know Kansas still has the electric chair—and let the real killer walk free when all you had to do was roll on him?”

“I’d sure as hell roll if I knew somethin’.” James nodded earnestly. “But I was home all afternoon.” He leaned back in his chair. “‘Sides, Kansas does lethal injection now.”

Horton stood up. “Sit here and think about your buds for a while.” He took a step for the door, and Scott rose from his seat. “Think about them playing HALO while you sit in a cold gray cell.”

They left James in the room. Horton’s shoulders sagged as soon as he closed the door to the interrogation room. “That’s one cold son of a bitch.” He ran his hand over his face.

Scott nodded. “In and out of local jail and state prison since he was fourteen. Robbery, assault, car theft, burglary, receiving stolen goods, meth. Like he has no conscience.”

Horton looked at Scott. “Jail was college to him.” He rolled his shoulders. “Just taught him how to take whatever he wanted easier.”

“Let’s just hope that the apartment and car search turn up something.” Scott looked up at Horton. “Like maybe one of those lottery tickets.”

Horton nodded and opened the door to the observation room. Fleming turned toward them. “Tough one,” she said. “Lab radioed they were bringing in some hoodies and shoes. And some scratched off lottery tickets.”

“If they’re the right tickets, they’ll be losing tickets for James.”

Horton shot him a look. “If we can prove someone else didn’t give them to him.”

“I don’t understand why he doesn’t give up his accomplice, lay the blame on him.”

Horton’s shoulders sagged. “Because even if we find the right lottery tickets in his apartment, or blood spatter on his shoes, or the murder weapon, it’s no proof he was there or pulled the trigger. If we don’t find the accomplice, he can lay any blame on him. It’s too far out from the murder to find gunpowder residue.” He looked through the window at James, still cool and calm. “And if we do find the accomplice, it devolves into a game of blaming each other. Convictions might be hard to come by without a shadow of a doubt on this one, and that’s what it takes.”

“Aylward,” Fleming called to him. “Lab got DNA results from the samples on your Enfield case.”

Scott snapped James’ file shut. “What did they find?”

“Some DNA matched the suspect you said admitted having sex with her. Then there was female DNA on the body, but it didn’t match anyone in the system. And another DNA sample with some anomalies. They’ll get back to studying that one when they have more time.”

Time
. That was what everyone wanted, but no one could buy.

Chapter 39

At nine o’clock, Scott pulled his cell phone from his pocket as he trotted across the parking lot. Rica answered on the fourth ring, just before it rolled to voice mail. “Hello, Scott.” Her voice, or what he could hear above the background din, sounded flat.

“Hey, honey.” He tried to hold on to the jubilation he felt that James was behind bars and evidence that could link him to the murder would be processed in the morning. “We finished with the suspect.”

“That’s great, Scott.” She offered no more comment, though he could hear lively conversation going on behind her words.

“Do you want me to join you after I shower?” He had reached his truck.

“Don’t bother, Scott.” He heard her take a drink of something. “We won’t be here much longer, and I’m sure you’re tired from your long day.”

He stopped with the key in his hand. “Okay, honey.” His fingers tightened on the keys. “Whatever you want.” He opened the door and sat in the truck with the door open, broiling with the temperature still in the nineties. What
did
she want? What would it take to put her in a good mood. He started the truck, flipping the air on max. A clean house? All his stuff picked up and put away? That was it. He’d rush home and finally sort through the magazines he’d left by the bed the day he found Delia’s body. And maybe when that was done, he’d organize the videos scattered around the entertainment center. And shower and have a drink waiting for her when she got home. She’d finally be proud of him.

****

“Scott!” Rica hissed the moment she stepped through the apartment door. “What on earth are you doing?”

He pulled his attention from the true-life mystery on the screen. “Huh?” Gradually, his mind came back from the crime that appeared about to be solved to his life. “I’m sorting through those papers you wanted me to sort.”

“I wanted you to sort them three weeks ago.” She jammed her keys back in her purse. “No, actually, I wanted you to sort them as you brought them into the house.” She took a step into the room. “But why do you have to scatter them all over the living room to sort them?”

He stopped to study his system. “That’s stuff I need to read before I pitch it, that pile is for recycling, that pile is to be shredded…”

“Never mind.” She threw up her hands. “It’s a good thing I told the gang I’d come up and see if you were asleep before I invited them in.” She turned toward the door. “It’s obvious I can’t bring them to a house looking like this.”

“I can put everything back in the box—”

“And then have you make this mess all over again? No, thank you.” She opened the door. “I’ll just tell them you were already in bed, and we’ll go to Heather and John’s.” At the threshold, she stopped. “And don’t wait up. I’ll just stay there tonight.”

“But—” Before he could protest, apologize or say good night, she was gone. He looked around the room. It really did look a mess, even though he knew there was a method to it. The mystery show ended, crime solved, and he had missed it. He reached for the remote, flipped the channel to the news, and grabbed the soda he’d been drinking. The first sip told him it had gone warm and flat. He glanced toward the kitchen. If he remembered correctly, there was some wheat beer in there with a smooth and soothing taste. He grabbed the papers meant for recycling, dumped them into a paper bag and wandered into the bedroom for the shredder. It made more sense to shred as he went along than to make a pile he could get confused with the other piles. He set up the shredder by the couch, and then went into the kitchen for the beer. He didn’t have to report to work tomorrow; he could work all night on organizing things, and then maybe Rica would forgive him. He opened the beer and swallowed a long pull. It went down easy.