Chapter 11
Clem
I don’t need to hear the words to know the kid’s not happy with me.
Tough.
Listening to Tessa lay out her fears the attack on her boy may have something to do with the murder of another teenager chilled me to the bone. I could see her reasoning for it and couldn’t stop churning it around in my head all night, imagining all kinds of possible scenarios.
By this morning I’d come to the conclusion, the only way to find out if I wasted most of my night thinking about Remi, instead of the toe-curling kiss his mother and I shared would be to get the kid to talk.
So after I finished the Mercedes and notified Merrick it was ready for pickup—leaving Manuel in charge of dealing with him—I headed upstairs.
My announcement we needed to have a serious chat about what happened to him was already not particularly well received.
“I’ve told everyone a million times; I fell off my bike. Why is everyone on my case about it?” he snarls, grabbing a throw pillow to cradle against his chest.
I take a seat on the edge of the coffee table across from him, and look him straight in the eye.
“Probably because it’s a bullshit story and everyone knows it. Your doctor, your mom, Chief Deputy Alexander, hell, even I know you made that crap up.”
His face registers shock, and I’m guessing no one has really called him out on it yet.
Of course, the kid was in the hospital and incapacitated, or I’m sure he would’ve been pushed harder.
But he’s no longer in the hospital now, and if he feels well enough to work on his truck—which he claimed when he got here—or to play video games on the PlayStation he brought over this morning, he sure as hell can handle an honest conversation.
But rather than fess up, he clams up, pressing his lips together so tightly they’re turning white.
“Look, Remi,” I try to appeal to him in a gentler tone. “People are concerned about you. I know your mom is. Can you blame her? She’s working on a murder case, a teenage boy who was not much older than you was killed. Did you know that?”
From his reaction, it’s obvious Tessa doesn’t bring her work home. He looks a little pale around the nose, but it doesn’t make him any less defiant.
“So? What does that have to do with me?”
But it’s all bluster; I catch the nervous nibble on his bottom lip. I scared him, and I should probably feel guilty, but I’d rather him scared and aware than oblivious and vulnerable.
“Maybe you should ask your mother that. In fact, maybe you should fess up about how you ended up here in the first place. It’s her job, not only as law enforcement, but as your parent, to protect you. How is she supposed to do that when she doesn’t have all the information?”
I give him a few moments to consider what I said, but when he doesn’t look like he’ll respond, I lean forward and add some pressure, “If you don’t, I will. You’ll leave me no choice.”
If I hadn’t grown supremely thick skin over the years, the glare he shoots me might’ve singed me. As it is, the cold silence he aims my way doesn’t affect me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not getting any pleasure from pissing the kid off, but I’ll take it if it means we keep him safe.
“We had a deal,” he fires at me.
I slowly nod, acknowledging him.
“Yes, we did, but that deal went out the window last Thursday night, when you got beaten up so badly I wasn’t sure whether you were gonna live or die.”
When he realizes his efforts at staring me down have little impact, he turns his head away.
“I’ll tell her tonight,” he concedes, mumbling.
Yeah…except, I’m not so sure he’ll find some way to get out of it or whether he’ll tell her everything.
I pull my phone from my pocket and start typing in a text.
He says he wants to tell you what happened, do you have any time now?
“What are you doing?”
“I’m just checking to see if your mom is around,” I inform him as I get to my feet and move to the stairs. “No time like the present.”
I hear a muttered, “Such fucking bullshit,” behind me, and stop on the top step.
“Thought you said you wanted to work on the Chevy,” I toss over my shoulder.
“I’ve got an hour and a half before my next customer shows up.
Enough time to take off the hood, and lube every damn bolt and screw holding that engine block down.
It’ll take a lot of prep work before we’re even ready to lift that engine out. ”
When I continue down the steps, I hear his footfalls behind me.
Smart kid.
“Boss, he insists on talking to you.”
I lift my head and look over Manuel’s shoulder to where Don Merrick is pacing outside my office.
“Why the fuck does he need to talk to me?”
“He wants us to send the bill to his office. I explained to him we require payment when the vehicle is collected, but he didn’t seem too happy about that response.”
I grab the rag I keep in my back pocket and wipe my hands.
“Fine. Can you give Remi a hand making sure the hoses are drained, while I deal with him?”
I jerk my chin at Merrick, and notice the man has stopped pacing and is blatantly looking in our direction.
“Sure thing, Boss.”
Behind me, I hear Manuel asking the boy how far he’s gotten, as I make my way over to my office.
“You wanted to talk to me? Is there a problem with your bill?”
“Yes, there is. I’ve always had my bills sent to my office,” he declares arrogantly.
“Not by me,” I point out.
“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffs. “I don’t see why not; the dealership always does.”
I shrug and flip my hands palms up. “Then perhaps it would’ve been a better option to take your vehicle there. I don’t accept delayed payment from anyone who walks in off the street. And, unless you’re perhaps a loyal customer in good standing, I won’t budge on that.”
“I’m hardly anyone. I’m the mayor of this town.”
“I’m aware, and I was able to slip the work on your Mercedes into my already busy schedule by merit of your importance to this town.
” I almost choke on those words, but they help me make my point.
“Just like the salary you take home is partly paid by my taxes—which I always pay on time, by the way—my salary, and that of my employees, is dependent on the timely payment for the work we deliver.”
Folding my arms over my chest, I watch as his mouth moves like a fish gasping for air, but he can’t seem to come up with a rebuttal. Finally, he retrieves his wallet from his pocket and snatches out a credit card he holds out to me.
“You do accept credit cards, don’t you? Or are you only able to handle cash?” he snipes.
I don’t react and slip the card from his fingers.
“This’ll work just fine.”
Tessa
Well, that was another waste of my time.
I spent the morning driving around the county, checking out a couple of abandoned warehouses and the shut-down manufacturing plant I just explored from one end to the other.
Rowan Harlow, the real estate agent who assisted me in finding my house, was able to help me identify empty buildings large enough to house what I would imagine a vehicle trafficking operation would require.
First thing this morning, I mapped out a route, filled my travel mug with Brenda’s sludge, and hit the road, hoping I’d get lucky.
Nothing.
These weren’t all the locations on the list Rowan made me, but they’re the ones I could do in one trip. The few others that are left are more spread out.
Things are moving so slowly on this case; I’m starting to worry leads and theories to explore may dry up.
Rick Althof was going to touch base with neighboring counties to see if they’ve had any trouble with high-end vehicle thefts, or seen any unusual traffic.
I’m doubtful much will come of that, but you never know. We’re looking for crumbs.
When I get behind the wheel, I grab my phone to see if I had any missed calls. I was hoping to hear from Steve Haynes, who said he’d drop in at Ryan’s school yesterday afternoon to talk to a few people. Maybe he’s come away with something useful.
Trying to solve a murder when you have three different jurisdictions involved is a challenge.
Cell reception is iffy once you get away from town, the signal tends to weave in and out, and where I am now I have none. Propping my phone in the cupholder, I back away from the empty plant and hit the road back to town.
Barely two minutes later, my phone pings with an incoming text.
Instead of parking in my regular spot, I drive clear across the parking lot and pull right up to the firehouse.
I’m getting out of my cruiser when a familiar figure comes stalking out of the open bay door and heads for a shiny Mercedes parked a few spots away. The man doesn’t even look my way, gets in, and peels away from the building.
“What’s up with our mayor?” I ask Clem, who is standing right inside, watching the Mercedes speed off.
He turns his eyes to me and smiles, stirring up a rusty flock of butterflies in my stomach.
Holy shitballs.
I knew the man had a nice smile, but after that kiss we shared last night, it feels like it holds a whole new meaning. I’ve got tingling happening in parts of my body which I thought for a long time were numb.
“He didn’t think he’d be required to pay, so he wasn’t happy.”
His response snaps me from my moment of silent sexual awakening.
“I haven’t had any direct dealings with the man yet, but I hear plenty of less-than-favorable things about him,” I volunteer, pulling my jacket closed against the cold breeze that started picking up.
“Cold?” he asks, noticing. “Step inside out of the wind.”
I do as he suggests and am immediately hit with a blast of warm air blowing down from an overhead heater. Guess that’s how they manage to still work with the bay door open, although I imagine once winter hits in earnest, they won’t be doing that anymore.
“You got my message,” he says, his gray eyes still smiling, even if his mouth isn’t.
“Yes, I’m sorry, I saw it coming in when I was driving, so instead of stopping to respond, I drove straight here.” I glance over his shoulder toward the stairs. “Is Remi upstairs?”
Clem shakes his head and points to the back of the shop at an old, beat-up pickup truck. I recognize my kid’s skinny bottom half hanging out of the engine compartment, with one of Clem’s mechanics hanging on to his legs to prevent him from toppling in.
“Oh boy,” I mumble under my breath.
I’m not so sure hanging upside down when you’re recovering from a concussion is recommended.
“Go have a look at his truck,” Clem suggests before adding, “And keep an open mind.”
An open mind is definitely required to see the appeal, but far be it from me to say anything derogatory about my son’s dream truck. As I make my way over, I catch sight of another mechanic working on a vehicle that is up on a lift. I return the young guy’s nod.
“That’s Kyle,” Clem rumbles behind me. “And hanging on to the kid is Manuel.”
The latter turns around as we approach.
“Remi, your mom’s here,” he announces, tapping his back.
There’s a brief delay before my son lifts his upper body from the engine compartment and straightens up. It’s clear he’s none too thrilled to see me, but I choose to ignore it.
“Nice truck.”
A grunt is my only answer. Yeah, definitely not happy, but that’s just too bad.
“Go wash up and meet us upstairs, kid,” Clem jumps in. “I’m gonna get your mom some coffee.”
Then he grabs my elbow and guides me toward the stairs.
“Since it’s after the noon hour, I assume cream and sugar are in order?” he asks as he drops a pod in the single cup coffee maker in his kitchen.
Funny, it didn’t really occur to me yesterday, but the space is nothing like I would’ve expected from a bachelor pad.
For one thing, it’s bright and open, as well as clean as a pin.
The modern kitchen and contemporary furniture throughout are not what I thought I’d find above an auto shop, however, it all suits Clem surprisingly well.
I smile at him for remembering. “Yes, please.”
Instead of sliding the mug of coffee across the counter, he walks it around to my side of the island and hands it to me. His fingers drag along mine.
Then he leans in, his breath brushing my ear as he whispers, “I wish I could kiss you right now.”
As if on cue, I hear Remi’s distinct footsteps coming up the stairs. For a skinny kid, he sure sounds like an elephant on the move. Clem instantly retreats back to the other side of the island and drops another pod in the coffee maker.
Remi shuffles in, doing everything not to look at me.
“Grab yourself a drink from the fridge, kid,” Clem instructs him.
It’s weird to see my son moving around this kitchen with some familiarity.
“Are you gonna stay?” Remi asks Clem.
“Up to your mom,” he returns.
“Stay.”
I’d already decided that on my way over, for several reasons. Having Clem there would force Remi to be completely honest with me, and also, going forward, he’d understand the adults in his life are on the same page.
But I also want him there for my sake. I was solo-parenting even before their father hightailed it out of their lives, and it would be nice to feel the support of someone else who genuinely seems to care.
“Clem caught me stealing.”
I wait for my son to add more to that statement, but apparently he’s done.
“Okay. I think I’m going to need a bit more information than that,” I prompt him sternly.
The little snot rolls his eyes, like he’s in any position to be annoyed right now. But I bite down an admonishment, because reacting to behavior will get me nowhere.
“I was taking parts off some cars in the back,” he adds.
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Money.”
“Who was gonna pay you for that?”
His eyes slide from me to Clem and then back down to the toes of his dirty sneakers.
“Some guy.”
“What’s his name?”
“Dunno.”
Getting frustrated with my child’s almost monosyllabic responses, I look over at Clem, whose eyes have an immediate calming effect on me.
“Well, how do you know him?”
“I don’t.”
I shake my head and bulge my eyes at Clem, exasperated.
“How’d you meet him?” Clem takes over.
“Online, I guess. I don’t remember.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Is he the one who attacked you?” I ask.
Remi drops his head on his arms on the counter and mumbles, “I don’t know, can we talk about this later? I have a headache.”
He’s evading and I know it, so in a last-ditch effort to get him to open up, I get my phone from my pocket and pull up the picture Ryan Wells’s mother supplied when she reported him missing. I hold the phone up to Remi.
“Have you seen this kid before?”
He slowly lifts his head and looks at the screen. I can instantly tell he recognizes the boy, and it is like a punch to my gut.
“Why?” he asks.
Not, who is it, but why.
As much as I want to protect my kids from the evil in this world, I’m not going to lie. Not when I need my son to understand the level of danger he may be playing with.
“Because Ryan Wells—that’s his name—is currently lying on a cold slab in our morgue, brutally murdered.”
His face goes chalk white.