Chapter 30
C arla had been in a high snit ever since her unwelcome visitors had left the clinic. She’d snapped at patients as they’d filled out admission forms, asking the inevitable dozens of questions. She’d been short with coworkers, even the one who’d covered the desk for her while she was fending off Detective Bowie’s bothersome questions.
Now, on her way home from work, she had been stopped at a railroad crossing for a freight train that had to be the longest in railroad history. As she watched the cars roll past at a snail’s pace, she cursed that damned TV show. Its broadcast tomorrow night was going to resurrect the rabid curiosity over Crissy’s disappearance that had lingered like a stench for months following it.
The crime itself, along with her outspokenness against the police department’s failure to solve it, had given her a celebrity status she’d neither anticipated nor desired. After several months of dodging reporters and curious stares, she’d changed jobs and moved away from the mobile home park where memorials left for Crissy had turned into a soggy, unsightly trash heap. Her goal had been to escape the public eye, fade into obscurity, and eventually attain anonymity.
Now that Crisis Point episode would stir it all up, and she would become an object of curiosity and speculation again. She could kick herself for agreeing to give an interview. But she had, and she couldn’t undo it.
Even Beth Collins, who was one of their own, had said her attempts to halt its airing had been in vain. Of course, her concern was the episode’s inaccuracy and how it was going to ruin careers and trash reputations.
Well, good. Carla didn’t give a fig. Let it besmear Max Longren’s legacy. Let it—
She slammed on the brakes at that thought. She rewound and replayed what had just occurred to her, and by the time the caboose rattled across her field of vision, she had concocted a plan for retribution that would serve them all right.
As soon as she crossed the railroad tracks, she pulled onto the shoulder of the road and reached for her phone.
An inch of bourbon was in the glass John carried over to the table where Beth sat leaning forward from the seat of her chair, staring into the monitor of her laptop. He set the glass down on the table. “Take a sip.”
“What are we drinking to?”
“Molly’s getting home safely.”
“All well?”
“Except for having to go to dinner with the stupid loser. If the word stepdad is spoken, she can’t promise not to gag.”
Beth smiled at that and took a sip of whiskey. “Hmm, nice. Thanks.”
She handed the whiskey back to him, and he used the glass to motion toward her monitor. The audio had been muted, so he couldn’t hear what the suave narrator of Crisis Point was saying. “Is that the episode? I haven’t gotten around to watching it yet.”
“We just came out of the first commercial break. Tom Barker is about to be introduced.”
“This ought to be good.” John sat down in the chair beside her.
She turned up the audio, and they sat through two minutes of Barker’s self-congratulations. “Nauseating,” she said. “Had enough?”
“More than enough.”
She paused the video. “There’s so much wrong with this, John, and I don’t know what else to do to try to keep it off the air.”
“I’m at a loss, too. About your problem. About mine. We’ve got all this new information, but so far it’s done us no good. We’re no closer to identifying the unsub than when we started.”
“Maybe everyone is right and I’m wrong,” she said. “There is no bogeyman with a Luna fetish waiting for tomorrow night’s moon. Not that I’m wishing there is, but—”
“ If there is, we will have missed him.”
“I can’t bear to think that.”
“Me neither.”
“We’ve only alerted three law enforcement departments to the blood moon angle. How many are there?”
“Departments? Agencies?” John chuffed. “Hundreds if you stay within Mississippi and Louisiana. Add Texas, and you’ve got thousands. And we don’t even know that he’s regional.”
“Could we issue a bulletin of some kind that would go to those agencies?”
“Official channels are closed to me now. And even if they weren’t, who would we tell them to be on the lookout for?” He raised his eyebrows. “He could be a pip-squeak or a pro wrestler. A family man or a hermit who lives in a cave and dances in body paint around his campfire.
“We’ve got nothing, Beth. Not even solid reputations to give us some believability.” He pointed to her. “You’re being given credit for producing a true crime episode that you now claim isn’t true.” He pointed to his own chest. “I’m a cop, known for the chip on his shoulder, who’s been fired and has an arrest warrant out for him. A bulletin from us would be immediately tossed.”
She rubbed her temples with the fingers of both hands, then pushed them up into her hair. “Then what do we do?”
“Well, whatever else I do, I’m going after Barker. If I’m going to jail anyway, I first want to do him as much damage as possible.”
“Earlier today, you dismissed taking all this to the DA. Maybe you should reconsider.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll play the prosecutor. You be me.”
She nodded and sat up straighter. “Lieutenant Barker and Frank Gray caused Billy Oliver’s death.”
“How do you know this?”
“I just do.”
“Did they tie up the bedsheet?”
“No, but—”
“He hanged himself, Detective Bowie. You were there. You saw. You cut him down.”
Beth wet her lips. “Isabel Sanchez has agreed to testify to what took place before that. Her account is compelling.”
“But speculative. In a court of law, under cross-examination, her testimony wouldn’t hold water.”
“What about the note?” Beth said. “It could have forensic evidence that would prove who wrote it.”
“What if it proved that Billy wrote it?”
“He would have been under duress.”
“Most confessions are written under duress.” John held his hands out at his sides. “It would go something like that.”
On the muted monitor, Barker was waxing eloquent, actually grinning into the camera. John said, “And even if, by divine intervention, the two of them were convicted and given life without parole for Billy, we still don’t know who took Crissy and what he did with her.”
“You’re way too hard on yourself, John. How could I have ever thought that you don’t give a damn?”
“When I walked into that bar, I didn’t. You had me pegged.” He looked into her eyes, saw the anxiety there. “A better question would be how I could have dragged you into this.”
Before she could respond, her burner phone rang. She looked down and gasped, “Oh my God, it’s Brady.” She answered quickly. “Winston? Thank you for calling me. Hold on a sec. Don’t hang up.” She pressed the phone against her chest. “This is going to take a lot of explaining. I’ll go into the bedroom.”
“Go!”
She scampered into the bedroom and shut the door. He finished the whiskey in one stinging gulp, then carried the glass into the kitchen, where Mutt joined him, looking hopeful. “Sorry, buddy. I didn’t realize it was past your suppertime.”
He was filling the food bowl when the phone he used for Mitch jingled. Clumsily, he set the bowl on the floor, spilling half the contents, before he rushed over to grab the phone. “I’m here.”
“You sound out of breath. Did I catch you postcoital?”
I wish. “I spilled a bowl of dog food. What’s going on?”
“I was tailed this morning. Lost the asshole, but it put me on guard. I packed Angela up and sent her to Lafayette to stay with her parents until I give her the all-clear.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. Beth and I were followed today, too. It’s also possible that Barker had someone watching Molly.”
“Jesus.”
“That’s unconfirmed, but I don’t put anything past him.” He gave Mitch a capsulated rundown of their day, which included the contentious encounter with Carla Mellin. “She’s still a viper.”
“Are y’all okay?”
“For the present. Beth and I are back at the camp. Molly is with her mom and soon-to-be stepdad.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard right. Roslyn is getting married. To hear Molly tell it, they deserve each other.”
“Poor kid.” Mitch sighed. “Well, my news is better than yours. The dark web moles came through with some familiar handles.”
“They did?”
“Even better, they know who they belong to, and some are regional. Regional-ish. The boys isolated those for you. I’ll text them. Understand that your guy may be a whole lot deeper than the people behind these names.”
“But this is a starting point. Thank you, Mitch. The moles, too. I’ll buy them all a beer soon. If I’m not in jail.”
“John.” Mitch paused strategically. “You mind my asking how you’re figuring all this is gonna play out?”
“Beth and I have been discussing possible outcomes. None positive.”
“’Fraid of that. How is she?”
“Feeling the strain, but she hasn’t caved.”
“And the two of you…?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
“Oh, that’s a definite yes.” He chuckled, but then sobered. “I have the next two days off. Angela’s gone. If you get in a bind, I’m a call away.”
“Thanks, but I hate to involve you any further.”
“I was involved from the start. Barker screwed me over, too, don’t forget. You’re not the only one who feels rotten about that fuckin’ travesty of an investigation.”
They said their goodbyes. Seconds later, John received a text with a long list of social media handles. He saw immediately that most related in some clever or quirky way to a faction of the paranormal.
He texted a copy of the list to his counterparts in the other three cities and gave them a brief explanation of what they were. He didn’t disclose how he’d obtained them.
Mutt, who’d cleaned not only his bowl but also the floor, ambled over to be let out. John was closing the door behind him when one of his phones rang. It was the detective in Jackson. “Did you get my text?” John asked.
“Just now. I had my phone in my hand to call you. The guy we looked at years ago?”
“The wagger with the alibi?”
“I went to see him today. He acted squishy, you know?”
“I know squishy.”
“He got even squishier when I asked if he had any tattoos.”
John’s heart became a drumbeat, and it lasted for the next several minutes while the detective talked. John was signing off with him when he heard the bedroom door opening. He turned and gave Beth a smile and a thumbs-up.
The other detective was saying, “At first I thought you were a little nuts and that this blood moon stuff was horseshit. Thanks, Bowie. You’ve made our cold case hot.”
“Send me everything you have on the guy and keep me posted. I’ll do the same.” He ended the call, dropped the phone, and pumped the air above his head with his fist. “That was Roberts. Their person of interest has a red crescent moon tattoo on his shoulder. They have him in custody.”
He picked up his phone again and began composing a text message to Morris and Cougar while continuing to bring Beth up to date. “And that’s not all. Mitch and dark web moles came through.” He told her that news. “What I thought we’d do is—”
It wasn’t until then that he realized she wasn’t reacting with the enthusiasm these developments warranted. “Sorry,” he said. “What about Brady? How’d he react when you told him he’s about to commit career suicide?”
“He fired me.”
John looked at her, aghast. “He fired you?”
She dropped down into the chair in front of her laptop. “On the spot. Effective immediately. Although he is being gracious enough to leave Max’s and my names in the credits.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Brady certainly was. Richard has been appointed to clean all personal belongings out of my office and send them to my apartment unless I specify another address.”
John dragged his hand down his face. “I don’t even know him, and I want to use a pair of pliers to rip off his balls.”
“If you knew him, you’d want to even more.”
“How could he discount all the debunked facts in that episode?”
“He didn’t even give me a chance to tell him about them! I didn’t get a word in edgewise. He didn’t hear anything I said because he was too preoccupied with giving me the heave-ho. Of course, because I’m a member of the old regime, he’s been waiting for a valid excuse to usher me out. Carla Mellin gave him one, and it’s a dilly.”
“Carla?”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She called him this afternoon, and got put through because of her ‘moving contribution to the episode.’ Which I know is hogwash. Half the questions put to her, she refused to answer.
“Today, however, she was apparently more talkative. Brady advised me not to bother asking for a letter of recommendation, because even my late, great mentor wouldn’t have endorsed a lunatic .”
John cursed. “She used that line?”
“She did, with elaboration. In short, she told him that I’m trying to sabotage tomorrow night’s program because of my belief in the supernatural powers of a blood moon. I’ve been to see her twice, both times harassing her with questions about the occult, numerology, astrology, tattoos symbolic of Roman goddesses, and the like. I’ve tried to draw a connection between the mystic world and her daughter’s disappearance, which is not only untrue but insulting.
“And my partner in all this madness? None other than John Bowie, the bungling detective. With whom, she suspects, I’m being intimate.” She glanced up at him self-consciously before continuing.
“Initially you had blamed the corruption within the PD for your failure to find her daughter. Now I have brainwashed you into believing this mysticism nonsense.” She pulled at a loose thread on the sleeve of her t-shirt. “The funny thing—”
“This is character assassination, Beth. There’s nothing funny about it.”
“The funny thing,” she repeated with emphasis, “is that when it’s laid out like that, everything Carla told him is true. I can’t defend myself or I’ll appear even more deranged than she described.”
“But why did she do it?”
“Why else? Retribution. She resented that we turned her tragedy into ‘entertainment for couch potatoes,’ remember?”
He tugged at his lower lip. “I don’t know. Her animosity, especially toward you, still seems excessive. Why doesn’t she turn some of it onto Tom Barker? She’s got more reason to hate him than anyone affiliated with Crisis Point .”
“She gets her vengeance on him in her interview. When you watch it, you’ll see. She questions both his competence and integrity. Not straight out, but she plants seeds of doubt, and dislike for him, in viewers’ minds.”
“Has he seen the episode yet?”
“I doubt it. Episodes are kept under wraps before they air. I have the Mellin one only because I was working on it.”
“When Barker does see it, he may go after her.”
“In what way?”
“Hell if I know and hazard to guess.” He straddled his chair backward to face her and reached across to caress her cheek. Softly, he asked, “Any chance in hell of Brady cancelling the episode?”
“No. When he paused to take a breath, I tried to impress upon him how disastrous it was going to be if he aired it tomorrow night. He laughed and suggested I burn some incense to the moon goddess to ward off evil spirits.” She laughed lightly. “That’s not a bad idea. It certainly couldn’t hurt. Do you have any incense around?”
Her knew her attempted humor was part of the brave front she was putting up. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her doubtfully.
She said, “Honestly, I’m fine. With or without Carla’s interference, it would have happened eventually.” She took a deep breath. “You were about to tell me what you thought we should do next.”
“Right. Professor Wallace. We could send him that list of handles, see if he recognizes any from the sites he’s lurked on.”
“Maybe if one has popped up on several different sites, he would have noticed and remembered.”
“That was my thinking. Why don’t you call and explain? If he agrees, I’ll text him the list. But if he asks how we came by it, tell him it’s classified.”
“Is it?”
“It is as far as I’m concerned.”
Beth placed the call, and the professor answered immediately.
Feeling optimistic that he would agree to help, John forwarded the list to him immediately. No sooner had he sent that text than a call came in on another of his phones.
His ex’s name was in the readout. “Christ. She’s all I need.” He answered with, “I hear that congratulations are in order.”
“Don’t play cute with me, John. I want you to bring Molly home. Now .”