Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Alexandru
We are just passing Gazebo Park when flashing red and blue lights appear behind us.
“What the heck?” Harriet pulls the car to the side of the road. “It’s Maverick.”
This, of course, is no surprise. The male pines for Ms. Renfield. I do not like it.
“Let me handle this,” she says.
Officer Maverick Cooper saunters up to her side. “You two wanna exit the car?”
“Not particularly,” I say.
“Alexandru, please,” Ms. Renfield whispers beseechingly. “Pleeeease. I’m begging you. Be cool. Let’s just get out and chat.”
It is unlike me to comply with the petty demands of an unworthy male such as Maverick Cooper, but I find myself putting on my hat against the afternoon sun and walking around the car to take my place next to Ms. Renfield.
I position myself just slightly forward of her.
Close enough that Maverick’s gaze must include me whether he wishes it or not.
As usual, Officer Maverick Cooper is chomping on gum like a cow chewing the cud.
I fold my arms across my chest. “I hope you have a good reason for interfering with Ms. Renfield’s operation of her automobile. You know as well as I do that she operates an automobile well within the parameters of safety and legality.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
“Great!” Ms. Renfield puts in. “We’ve all established that I’m an awesome driver. What is this about?”
Maverick turns to her. “Imagine my surprise when I heard that you asked for the prison logs and interviewed not only Fern but Jerome Goodwin.” He chews harder. “I would hate to arrest you for obstruction of an investigation.”
“She requested the logs on my behalf,” I say.
“And why would that be?”
“A bit of bedtime reading.”
Maverick’s jaw tightens. “I’ll remind you: we’re in America here. We’ll jail a prince as readily as we’ll jail a Peeping Tom.”
“Exemplary,” I say.
“Do you have an actual charge for us, Maverick?” Ms. Renfield asks.
“That would be obstruction if you’re withholding evidence that might be material in this case. Right here’s your opportunity to come clean with any information you might have.”
I look over at Ms. Renfield, wondering if she sees the situation as clearly as I do. Maverick requested the logs as well. He and his fellow officers have interviewed Jerome and learned that we are a step ahead of them—by a day at least.
They probably found out about the secret book contract, too, but it’s unlikely they found out that Jerome was the one to find the loophole.
“If you must know, it seems that Jerome is writing a book on prison life,” I say.
A sprig of surprise from Ms. Renfield. Why would I reveal anything?
“Yes, we’ve heard all about the book,” Maverick says. “What else? You have a theory.”
“Me?” she says.
“Yeah, you,” Maverick says.
So he has nothing. Just flashing lights and the poorly veiled threats.
“A motorcycle gang member and a journalist,” he says, scrutinizing her face. “Let’s have it.”
He’s infatuated with her, so he would likely be able to interpret the look she wears now: eyes bright with private pleasure, a hint of smile she’s trying to suppress, head turned slightly so she regards you more from one eye than the other.
It’s a look with a little bit of mischief in it.
It’s a look that says she does not say all she knows.
I lean back against the car, confident Ms. Renfield can handle it.
“Well?” Maverick says.
“I’m wondering if Dooley even did the first crime,” she says.
Maverick’s gum-chewing slows. “That’s not a theory, that’s a hunch.”
“Her theory is implied,” I say. “If Dooley did not commit the first murder, somebody else did.”
“Still seems like a hunch to me. Anything else?”
Ms. Renfield shrugs. She and I exchange looks.
He’ll be getting nothing else.
“This is your last warning. Stay out of my investigation.”
Jerome Goodwin stands in his doorway. The shadows beneath his eyes have deepened; his heart races quick and desperate. Most interesting is the guilt coming off him in waves. He’s been ignoring Ms. Renfield’s texts, so we stopped by.
“How did you get into the building?” he demands.
“We need to speak with you,” I say.
“You can’t just come to my door like this.”
“Jerome, please.” The gentleness of Ms. Renfield’s tone seems to calm him or at least remind him they were once friends.
With a sigh he relents. He steps aside and lets us in.
Papers lie scattered across the desk, and a pizza box on the floor reeks of old cheese and meat. The curtains are drawn, sealing out the daylight. That I approve of.
“So what is this about?”
“We spoke with Dooley Brogan,” I say.
“And?”
Ms. Renfield watches Jerome with a mixture of hope and dread. “Dooley says you’re the reason he got out of prison.”
Jerome folds his arms in front of him, looking confused. “Well…I kind of can’t believe he told you that, being that he wanted it to stay secret so his good-for-nothing lawyer could take credit and…honestly, this is why you’re here? No offense, but I’m on like ten deadlines—”
“Jerome,” Ms. Renfield says softly. “Razor Johnny harassed your grandmother. Milo was stealing your work. Both your enemies. What’s going on?”
He blinks. The silence stretches tight, then he lets out a long hiss of a breath. “Well, yes. That hadn’t escaped my notice.”
“And?” she asks again.
He sinks onto the arm of his sofa. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“Tell us,” I say.
He looks up at me. “What’s going on is I’m freaking out. Yeah, my enemies are dying. By crossbow. Dooley says it wasn’t him. Well, I don’t know who else it could be.”
“But you found the loophole, the technicality that got him freed?” she asks.
“I found it going through his files, doing background. This really obvious sequential gap in the fingerprint files. I couldn’t believe nobody else had seen it, and I felt obligated to tell him and suggest he inform his lawyer.
I thought—” He breaks off, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“I thought I was doing a good thing. It was pretty obvious prosecutorial misconduct. He deserves to know, don’t you think? ”
“Of course he does,” Ms. Renfield says.
“He was released,” I prod.
“Yes.” The word comes out like a confession.
“And suddenly Razor Johnny turns up dead. And I thought, or more like hoped to high heaven that it was a coincidence. But then Milo...” He shakes his head.
“I’ve been terrified that Dooley is killing them to repay me.
Like some kind of twisted gesture. But at the same time, well, you’ve met Dooley.
This is the guy going around shooting people with a crossbow?
I don’t know what I’m supposed to think.
And maybe I should’ve gone to the cops by now, I don’t know… ”
“I would be freaked out, too,” Ms. Renfield says softly.
“I swear to you, I never asked for this. I never even hinted at it.” His pulse races. So much fear and guilt.
“Okay,” Ms. Renfield says.
“The police were here, and I told them about the book, but I didn’t say anything about finding the missing parts of the fingerprint files.
I didn’t think Dooley would go blabbing it.
He’s getting free legal service from the crap lawyer if we pretend the lawyer noticed it.
The guy deserves free legal service, considering, but now it all just looks suspicious, as if I wanted Dooley to do it, or at least I liked being the beneficiary of his murder spree.
And what if Dooley says I directed him? Like a quid pro quo? He could say that.”
Ms. Renfield sucks in a breath. “Right.”
“But how did Dooley even know about Milo stealing my stories?”
I lean in, interested, now. “You did not complain to Dooley about Milo?”
“No! Why would I? Our interviews were about prison life. And my feud with Milo was not at all public; I don’t want to be the griping journalist. I told maybe three people.
And I did confront him about it at Berky’s one day, but to any outsider, that would’ve looked like one journalist reminding another about ethics and professional courtesy. ”
“Was that the last time you saw Milo?” I ask.
Jerome widens his eyes. “Yes!”
I give him a hard look. “Dead or alive?”
“Alexandru!” Ms. Renfield scolds.
“It’s a simple clarification.”
“Wait.” Jerome looks puzzled, suddenly. “How did you two find out about Milo and me?”
Ms. Renfield shrugs. “You know me. Digger of data.”
“Yeah, right. Of course you’d find it.” He lets out a breath. “What am I gonna do?”
Ms. Renfield sets a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll figure this out. You’re not alone.”
“What if he did it as a thank-you, and the murders are on me, now?”
“The only person responsible for those murders is the one wielding the crossbow.” She hands him her electronic ledger. “How about you write down the names of those three people who knew you were angry with Milo. It might be helpful to figure out how that information traveled.”
With trembling hands, he starts typing in names. “I’m not sure if I’m getting everybody. I’ve been feeling so turned around. Do you think I should tell the police about my suspicions?”
“No,” I say.
“What? No, don’t listen to him. You should!” Ms. Renfield says.
“So…okay,” he says, confused. “Are you guys going to tell the police?”
“Certainly not,” I say. “We would do no such thing.”
“A hundred percent not telling them,” Ms. Renfield says. “That’s up to you. Maverick is interested in solving this crime the right way. If you didn’t do it, he’ll get to the bottom of things.”
I withhold comment.
Gratitude radiates from Jerome. “Thank you. Thank you so much. But I don’t get it. You’re investigating for fun?”
“Kinda,” Ms. Renfield says.
I give him a reassuring smile. “Incidentally, do you have an alibi for the time of Milo’s murder?”
“W-what?” Jerome says. “Me?”
Ms. Renfield shoots me a dark look. “He’s asking because of course the police will ask.”
Not why I’m asking.
“Oh, man.” Jerome blinks. “I don’t know… Do they have a time of death for Milo?”
“Two-thirty-five,” I inform him.
“Wow, that’s specific. Okay… I think I was here taking a nap.”
I raise my brows. Interesting.
“What?” he says, staring at me.
“Can anybody corroborate that?” Ms. Renfield asks.
Jerome is positively pale at this point. “Who can corroborate a nap or being home alone?”
“We need to go.” Ms. Renfield closes her hand around my arm and all but drags me out of there.
“Dude,” she says in a low voice as we move down the hall. “In what world is he a suspect?”
“This one,” I say simply. “I haven’t sensed that much guilt in a man since Roy the Red left his brother to hang in his stead.”
“Jerome feels guilty because he thinks he caused a murderer to get out of jail, and that murderer killed two people.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?!” She whirls to face me in the small lobby. Her cheeks are flushed with indignation, quite becoming on her.
I say, “He has no alibi, he has motive, and I couldn’t help but notice that he did not answer my question about the last time he saw Milo dead or alive.”
“It sounds like he saw him last at Berky’s,” she says.
“That’s when he saw him last alive.”
“He would’ve had to see him alive to kill him.”
“Not if he shot him in the back.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. I can’t even. And what’s up with you telling him not to go to the police? He absolutely has to, or he’ll just look guilty.”
“But what if he is guilty and the police decide to keep him?” I lean closer, letting my voice drop. “You forget our objective here, Ms. Renfield. We are finding a meal for me, and I must remind you: dinnertime approaches.”
“We still have eight days and he’s not the murderer.”
“Your certainty shows me you are not seeing clearly.”
“You are not draining Jerome.”
“Even if he ordered the killings? Even if he did the killing himself?”
“Let’s find the real culprit, how about that?” This she says in her very end-of-conversation way.
And I am more than fine to have that serve as the end of the conversation, though later that night as I listen to her huff around in her quarters, I have a strange, unsettled feeling about the whole thing.
As if I need to smooth things over with a Renfield.