Chapter 29 #2
Tean frowned again at that. “I suppose that’s further confirmation that he’s not who he claims to be, not that we needed it. Did you find anything in the bathroom besides the condoms?”
“Nope.”
“Then I suppose this was a dead end.”
“Nah, we’re just getting started. Remember how to check the baseboards?”
Tean groaned. “But this is a hotel room.”
“Okay. You can start with the lamps.”
“What about them?”
“Check the bulbs. See if the base comes apart. Figure out if there’s any way to hide something inside them.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Evidence for why he would murder Gerald.”
“We don’t know that he murdered Gerald. Remember, someone else killed Tafton.”
“Sure, babe.”
While Tean inspected the lamps—with such disapproval and disappointment that Jem was surprised the lamps didn’t fall apart when he looked at them—Jem went to work on the dresser.
He pulled out each drawer. He checked the undersides.
He ran his hands along the runners, picking up the faint grease on the metal and finding nothing.
He shifted the dresser out from against the wall.
He stuck his head into the opening where one of the drawers used to be.
The scraping sound of metal made Jem wiggle out of the dresser.
Tean was unscrewing one part of the lamp from another. A surprisingly boyish grin flashed, and he used the back of his hand to resettle his glasses. “It comes apart.”
“Good job, babe.”
Next, Jem checked the pictures. He pulled them down and checked behind them. He patted the backing paper; it crinkled and rustled, but he didn’t feel anything out of place.
“I’m going to check the bathroom again.”
The addie was starting to land. His heart was beating faster. He was warm, and he flapped the sweatshirt to get some air on his skin. Something about the light seemed different, which meant his eyes were doing something weird.
When he stood on the toilet to wiggle the fan casing, he got a rush. For a moment, he rode the high. And then he started seeing black spots, and he grabbed the shower rod and had to wait it out.
He was careful when he left the bathroom, but everything seemed fine. His head was clear—finally. He was awake. It was like he’d been sleepwalking, and he’d just now opened his eyes.
Tean was reassembling the lamp. With what sounded like genuine disappointment, he said, “Nothing.”
“It was a good try, babe,” Jem said absently. He dropped onto the mattress again, considering the room. He was talking to himself when he said, “Where’d you put it, motherfucker?”
“I suppose that depends on what you think he has,” Tean said.
Jem’s memory of the night before got cloudy around the time he’d left the chalet—something about falling into the tree well and almost dying had screwed with his head.
What had happened? He’d stepped into the bedroom at the back of Tafton’s chalet.
He’d turned on the lights. He’d seen Stephen in the mirror—
“What if he wasn’t planting evidence?” Jem said. “What if he was trying to find something?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. What would Tafton have that he’d want?”
Tean shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t think Tafton had anything to do with it, aside from being a victim. He was someone who was easy to frame.”
There had been something, staring at Stephen in the mirror, seeing him reflected back.
Jem almost had it.
And then he said, “Fuck me sideways and call me Dolly,” and scrambled over to the fireplace.
Like the one in Jem and Tean’s hotel room, it was gas. The pilot light flickered greenish-blue. A faint layer of dust lay on the grate. More dust lay on top of the logs—
Except where they’d been brushed clear.
Say, because someone had braced himself there with one hand.
Jem twisted around and squirmed backward. He bumped his head on the grate, swore, and reached back—partially to steady himself, partially to keep from bashing his own head in. He grabbed one of the logs and used it to guide himself.
And there, above him, was a packet of plastic-wrapped documents.
He ripped the packet free, tape crinkling as it pulled away from the chimney, and wiggled clear of the fireplace. Tossing the documents to Tean, he said, “What do they say?”
Tean flinched, but he caught the plastic-wrapped bundle. He opened it, pulled out the documents, and scanned them.
“What does it say?” Jem asked. “What does it say?”
“Just a minute,” Tean said. But almost immediately, he said, “This is a bank statement. The account is for something called Salvation Coaching, LLC.” He frowned.
“That’s not the name of his company, though.
On the website, it was Fitzpatrick Spiritual Coaching.
” Turning back to the document, he said, “There are deposits here—they match the payments that Sawyer was telling us about. Different amounts for each person. Five hundred. A thousand. My gosh, someone paid six thousand dollars last month.”
“Tafton and Nora,” Jem said. “Or Mommy and Daddy.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Tean said. “The account balance is zero because everything gets transferred out. There’s a transfer here—it goes to an account ending one-six-five-one. And then two other transfers go out the same day. These two are for the same amount, but they go to different accounts.”
It was starting to take shape. Jem could see the outline of it.
Tean flipped to the next document. “Another bank statement, but this one is for Heart2Heart Solutions, LLC. The account number ends in one-six-five-one, and the transfer is right here. This statement goes back several months.” He flipped through the pages.
“The same amount of money gets transferred every month. Is it a payment? Or is this some sort of investment account?”
“It’s a game,” Jem said. He laughed. “Holy shit. They’re running a game on him.”
“On whom? What game?”
“On Gerald. I mean, they were. Until he got killed.”
Tean smoothed the pages across his knee. “Stephen always collected the money.”
“Gerald wanted him to handle the money, right?” Jem couldn’t stop grinning. “He preferred it. That way, Gerald could be the spiritual one and act like he wasn’t bilking people out of their hard-earned cash.”
“But Stephen started charging more,” Tean said. “And he kept the difference for himself.”
“Not for himself. For himself and somebody else.” Jem grabbed the first document, the one Tean had already looked at, and indicated the two matching transfers. “He’s splitting the take with somebody.”
Tean stared at the page. He was biting his lip, and those bushy eyebrows were drawn together. He ran his hand blindly over the pages on his knee again and said, “Who?”
“That’s the million-dollar question,” Jem said. “We find that out, and we know who killed Gerald.”
The rap of knuckles on wood made Jem glance over.
Stephen stood in the doorway. He slouched against the jamb, arms folded across his chest. “You’ve got something that belongs to me,” he said and stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him, and the lock set itself with a click. “I want it back now.”