Chapter 14
B eth answered her phone.
“What room are you in?”
“Why?”
“I’m in the lobby. What room are you in?”
Beth considered hanging up on him. “You sound like you’re in a state.”
“I am. I’m unemployed. Now, for the love of God, what room—”
“Three oh seven.”
John clicked off.
She was in a state herself. She was furious at him for his refusal to help her, and even angrier over his kissing her like that, then, seeming that it had had no effect on him, sending her on her way.
Contending with both those disappointments, she hadn’t yet decided whether to stay or return to New York. Her roll-aboard stood unopened near the door where she’d left it when she’d come in. She stepped around it now to answer his knock. He came inside and squeezed past her and the suitcase. Neither said hello.
She shut the door. “What do you mean you’re unemployed?”
“Just that.”
“You got fired?”
“Yep.”
“Barker?”
“The one and only.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve never been better.” He squatted in front of the mini bar, took out a small bottle of bourbon, uncapped it, and raised it in a toast. “Cheers.” He drank half of it in one swallow.
“What happened?”
At some point he’d changed into office clothes, but he still had his rain slicker. He tossed it onto the bed, threw himself into the easy chair, and jerked at the knot of his necktie.
“It’s not what happened, past tense, that concerns me. It’s what will happen in the future. In the immediate future, I’m getting you out of here. If Barker put someone on my tail before he went to the hospital, they’ll assume we’re up here…” He glanced toward the bed and saluted it with the bottle of bourbon.
“He went to the hospital?”
“The ER. He doesn’t look so good, and I’m sure he’s in a lot of pain.”
She didn’t know what to make of any of this, but especially not his wholehearted belly laugh. Up till now, his laughs had been limited to chuffs, his humor always wry and cynical. This laugh came from deep down and sounded too wicked to have been caused only by the whiskey, which he finished in a gulp. He tossed the empty into the wastebasket, where it landed with a clatter.
Then she noticed that the knuckles of his right hand were blood-smeared. “What have you done, John?”
He sobered instantly. “What you wanted me to do all along. Bridges are burned. I’m committed to conducting the investigation that should have been.”
Before she could express her gladness to hear that, there was a knock on the door. “That’ll be Mitch. I called and gave him the room number.” He got up quickly and went to the door. “Hey, thanks, buddy.”
“I owed you a favor, remember? We’re square now.” He walked in and, looking past John, said to Beth, “Hi.”
She recognized him immediately. “You were in the bar.”
He gave her a thumbs-up.
His friendly smile was framed by a grubby mustache. She looked from him to John. “This is your friend Mitch?”
John gave a shrug that said yes.
“ Him? He’s your former partner who wouldn’t betray you under pain of death?”
“Wait,” the other man said as he held up a hand and turned to John. “Under pain of death?” He stroked his mustache. “I dunno know about that.”
John made a dismissive sound and asked, “Did that piece of shit pickup with the bullet holes belong to you?”
“No, but I’ve got another piece of shit that does. It’s right outside. Y’all ready?”
“Hold on!” Beth exclaimed. The two men turned toward her. “What… I… Slow down and tell me what is going on.”
“We don’t have time to go into it now,” John said.
“Time to go into what?”
He looked at her with frustration and impatience. “Beth, we don’t—”
She interrupted him. “‘I can’t help you. I won’t.’ That’s what you said—repeatedly—before you sent me packing. Now you bust in here, acting like your hair is on fire, and…” She ran out of breath. “Time to go into what ?”
His friend folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall as he’d done in the bar. “She’s entitled to an explanation. Take a minute. If we pick up a tail, I’ll lose him. No problem.”
John gave him a perturbed look, then came back to Beth. “I called Galveston PD and spoke with a Detective Gayle Morris who was lead investigator on the Larissa Whitmore case.”
He related what the detective had told him. “Those are the highlights. Bottom line, Barker knew all three of those women were abducted on nights with blood moons, same as Crissy. He sat on that information.”
Beth looked over at Mitch, who said, “We knew about the Galveston case, and it seemed a dead end. Never heard anything about the two from 2018, so nobody followed up.”
John said, “If Gayle Morris reached out when she learned about Crissy, I’m sure the departments in Jackson and Shreveport did, too. They would’ve been seeking a connection because both were still without a suspect. But if they contacted Barker, he didn’t act on it. He wanted to button up the Mellin case and get his promotion.”
Beth took a deep breath, blew it out, and asked, “What happens next?”
He took a step toward her. “I busted his face up, but that’s nothing. What happens from here is going to be implosive. God knows how it’ll turn out, but it’s not gonna be pretty. I’ll catch the backlash, and that’s fine. I kinda look forward to it.
“But, trust me, you want no part of it. Fly back to New York today. Convince the new producer to delay the broadcast of that episode. Warn him that if he airs it as scheduled, and the believed facts of the story turn out to be wrong, his show will lose all credibility, and his tenure will be the shortest in the history of the network. Mitch will drive you to New Orleans and put you on that four o’clock flight.”
“No way in hell.”
He looked down at the floor and swore viciously.
“Told ya,” Mitch muttered.
John shot him another dirty look.
“Listen,” Beth said to John, “I started all this when I contacted you. I’m not going to abandon you with a problem that originated with me.”
“You didn’t originate it. Barker did. And now he knows there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“I’m seeing this through.”
“It could cost you.”
“Or cost another victim her life.”
He scrubbed his face with his hands, then tried to stare her down. He looked over at Mitch, who merely shrugged. Then he came back to her. “All right. Never say I didn’t try.”
“Noted. Now, back to the immediate future.”
“We get out of sight. We relocate to the fishing camp and start digging through all my files as well as yours. All your research notes, every idea, theory, prediction you’ve ever entertained about there being a serial criminal with a moon fetish. If he exists, we’ve got less than forty-eight hours to identify and find him.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it. “Before you say yes, you need to understand that I’m untethered, unofficial, a free agent.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
Mitch said, “Means the shit’s about to hit the fan.”
On the elevator ride down, John explained to her Mitch’s work for the DEA. “It was sheer happenstance that we were in that bar at the same time.”
“What was your fistfight over?”
“Nothing. It was all for show. It made Mitch look like a badass to those creeps he’s trying to nail.”
“And John needed to blow off steam,” Mitch said.
She looked at John. “I had surrendered and left. You should have been relieved. Why did you need to blow off steam?”
Mitch snickered, but before he could respond, the elevator stopped on the ground floor. “I’ll bring the truck around and meet y’all at the exit on the north side. It’ll be a quick stop. Be ready to roll.”
“Security camera?” John asked.
“Partially obscured by a canopy.”
“What about your license plate?”
“Fogged out.”
“Good. Let’s do it.”
Mitch flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt and loped toward the lobby. John and Beth went in the opposite direction. They didn’t encounter anyone as they made their way past empty conference rooms and a small workout facility.
When they reached the specified door, John reached over and pulled up the hood of Beth’s jacket, then did the same with his slicker. Seconds later, Mitch arrived in a pickup truck that truly was a p.o.s.
He made quick work of stowing her roll-aboard in the bed of the truck and covering it with a tarp while John helped her into the cab, where there were only two seats. “Sorry,” he said. “You’ll have to sit on the console.”
“What about a seat belt?”
Mitch answered her question as he climbed in, engaged the gears, and took off. “Drug dealers don’t believe in them. Just hold on tight to John. You won’t mind, will you, John?”
“Just drive, Mitch.”
“What about your car?” Beth asked John.
He told her he was leaving it there at the hotel. “If I was being tailed from the department, which I suspect, he’ll have a long sit-in.”
Eye on the rearview mirror, Mitch drove out of the parking lot. “Where to first?”
“My house. I’ve got to get Mutt. I can’t leave the boat behind, either. We may need it later. Mutt and I will go by water and meet you two at the cabin.”
Beth said, “Why can’t I stay with you?”
“We’ll need provisions. Mitch will drive you.” He rattled off a list of food staples. “Don’t forget dog food.” He took two prepaid credit cards from his wallet and gave them to her. “Each has two hundred dollars on it.” Looking down at her feet, he said, “Buy yourself some socks, and a pair of stouter shoes, and anything else you can think of that you might need.”
“You make it sound like we’re preparing for a siege.”
In all earnestness, he said, “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
Tom’s wife’s main concern was that the facial disfigurement would be permanent.
When she’d arrived in the ER and saw his misshapen nose and the eggplant-colored bruises that rimmed his bloodshot eyes, she’d burst into tears. When he’d looked in the mirror, he’d almost started crying himself. Not just over his appearance, but over the unfairness of life.
John Bowie’s black eye had made him look rakish, dashing, dangerous, and sexy. It had contributed to his swagger. Peering over the wad of bandages holding his nose in place, Tom could barely see to walk, much less swagger. He was uglier than the ogre.
“The surgeon will fix it,” he’d told his weeping wife. Her boo-hooing had driven him to distraction until an injection for pain had finally kicked in and made him loopy enough to ignore her.
It was suggested by one of the ER doctors that he consider going to New Orleans for the surgery, but he hadn’t wanted to expend the time or effort. He’d entrusted himself to the local plastic surgeon.
He was at home now, and in bed. The anesthesia had worn off, but he had pills within reach on the nightstand. His wife fussed over him, but, behind her murmurs of sympathy, he sensed her misgiving that the defacement was temporary.
When his kids came into the bedroom, they were uncharacteristically subdued at the sight of him. They said all the expected sweet, nice things, but once they’d filed out into the hallway, he’d heard them gasping with laughter.
What ate at him was the probability that others also viewed him as a laughingstock. Subordinates who’d watched from the open doorway of his office as Bowie had unleashed his wrath were probably laughing up their sleeves and secretly high-fiving Bowie.
“Honey?”
“Go away.”
“It’s Frank Gray.”
“Tell him I’ll call him back.”
“He’s at the front door.”
Tom pried open his swollen eyes. “Send him in.”
The ogre tramped into the bedroom, took one look at Tom, and bellowed, “Christ on a cross.”
“Mr. Gray, please, your language,” Mrs. Barker whispered. “The children.”
“Sorry.”
“Get out,” Tom said to her. “Close the door.” She did as ordered.
Frank sat down in a rocking chair. Its joints groaned in protest. Smacking his chewing gum, he ran his ham-sized hands over the smooth arms of the chair. “Nice finish. Is it an antique?”
Never minding the children, Tom spat out a string of obscenities. “Antique? Who knows? Who cares? I want to know what’s happening!”
“Nothing. Bowie’s still there at the hotel. Has been all afternoon.”
“With her?”
“Duh. You owe my surveillance guy twenty bucks. He had to bribe the desk clerk. She hasn’t checked out. But even for fifty, he wouldn’t give out her room number.”
“You’re sure your guy followed the right car?”
“Hell yeah, I’m sure. He saw Bowie entering the lobby. Satisfied?”
“All right. I meant no offense. I feel like crap, is all.”
The ogre rocked back in the chair and planted his large feet on the floor to keep himself reclined. “You know, Tom, Bowie isn’t without admirers in our division. In fact, throughout the whole department. They don’t let on, because they don’t want to cross you and be subjected to the treatment he is. But they’re there.”
“You think I don’t know that? Are you trying to make a point here, Frank? If so, get to it.”
“Fine. I think Bowie added members to his cheering section today. Other detectives have asked for you to assign him to help them with tough cases. You’ve denied those requests and have kept him doing housecleaning and other chickenshit chores. He’s been wasted. In trying to bring him low, you’re the one who looks bad.”
In so many words, Bowie had said the same thing during their standoff yesterday morning. Hearing it again from an ally made him want to grind his teeth. But that made his nose throb. “Are you joining Bowie’s rah-rahs, Frank? Is that what this visit is about?”
“No, hell no. I despise the asshole. Just think of me as a little birdie in your ear whispering a warning. After today, when practically everyone who answers to you heard Bowie’s ugly accusations, the tide may turn. There may be more rumblings in the ranks.”
“I can squelch rumblings.”
“Sure, sure. But if the men upstairs in the carpeted offices get wind of them, and word leaks into city hall, etcetera, somebody may start examining your methods with the thoroughness of a proctologist. In which case, you’ll need all the friends you can get.” He let that settle, then smiled. “I came to tell you, you can count on me. I’ll always be at your back, on your side, Tom.”
“I know that. Don’t think I don’t—”
“Unless…” The ogre moved his feet, and the chair rocked forward so far that he was leaning over Tom. “Unless the heat around you gets too hot. And you start thinking—See, Tom, I know how your mind works.
“And you start thinking that you need a fall guy, someone to blame for your…” His meaty hand drew a spiral in the air. “Malpractice, mishandling… mismanagement… mis…” The hand stopped spiraling and landed like an anvil on Tom’s thigh. “Let’s call a spade a spade. Your misdeeds.”
Tom swallowed hard. The ogre smacked his chewing gum, then lifted his hand away from Tom’s leg and hauled himself out of the rocking chair. “Have a good night.”
Inside his pajamas, Tom had broken a cold sweat. He stopped the ogre at the door. “Listen, Frank, you have my loyalty, too. I would never throw you under the bus.”
Frank grinned. “Tom, where your future is concerned, I’m the bus.”