Chapter Nine — The First Body #2
Ronan's face hardened. Elliot stopped. The mistake hung between them. Lucas. Now two. He corrected himself.
“Two.”
Ronan stared a second longer. Then shook his head.
“See? This is exactly what I'm talking about.”
“What?”
“You're so fucking precise about everything that you sound insane.”
Elliot's irritation flashed.
“Being accurate isn't insane.”
“No. But correcting me because Lucas wasn't technically confirmed dead until forty minutes ago is fucking weird.”
Elliot said nothing. Ronan looked exhausted.
“I don't know what you want from me.”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Elliot stepped closer.
“You want me scared?”
“I want you to understand this is serious.”
“I understand.”
“Then act like it.”
The words landed harder this time. Elliot's expression emptied. Ronan saw it. Regret appeared immediately.
“Fuck.”
Elliot walked out.
“Elliot.”
He ignored him.
“Elliot.”
Ronan followed. Elliot entered his bedroom and opened the closet.
“Don't do this.”
“I'm getting dressed.”
“You know what I mean.”
Elliot pulled out black jeans. Ronan stood behind him.
“I don't need you reacting a specific way.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No.”
“Everyone does.”
Elliot turned. The sentence surprised both of them. Ronan frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Elliot looked at him. It would have been easy to lie. Instead, he said, “People decide what you should feel before they ask what you actually feel.” Ronan stayed quiet. Elliot continued.
“Mason dies, Claire thinks I'm too calm. Lucas disappears, you think I'm too interested. Police ask questions, I'm supposed to panic. If I don't, something's wrong with me.”
“I didn't say something was wrong with you.”
“You keep acting like there is.”
Ronan's face softened.
“I'm worried because I love you.”
Elliot froze. There it was. Same weapon. Different mouth. Ronan stepped closer.
“I don't give a shit whether you cry over Lucas. I care that cops keep coming back to you.”
Elliot looked away. Ronan touched the back of his neck.
“Let me worry.”
“I hate when you worry.”
“I know.”
“It's annoying.”
“Also know.”
Elliot exhaled.
“Fine.”
“Fine what?”
“Call your dad.”
Ronan smiled slightly.
“Good boy.”
Elliot looked at him.
“Careful.”
Ronan laughed. For a few seconds, everything felt normal again.
Then Elliot remembered his car. Thomas Vale's attorney was named Gregory Bell.
Elliot disliked him immediately. Not personally.
Gregory Bell seemed perfectly pleasant. That was the problem.
Pleasant lawyers felt like smiling sharks.
Bell arrived at the carriage house at 8:41 wearing an expensive navy suit and carrying a leather folio that probably cost more than Elliot's laptop.
He was in his fifties, silver-haired, cleanshaven, and had the unnerving habit of listening without interrupting. Ronan liked him immediately. Of course.
“You've spoken with Detective Vance twice?” Bell asked.
Elliot sat at the kitchen island.
“Yes.”
“First interaction?”
“Campus.”
“Second?”
“Station yesterday.”
“Voluntary?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone advise you that you were not free to leave?”
“No.”
“Did they request your phone?”
“No.”
“DNA?”
“No.”
“Vehicle?”
“Today.”
Bell nodded.
“Did Detective Vance explain why?”
“Comparative evidence.”
“What kind?”
“She wouldn't say.”
Bell looked toward Ronan.
“You attended the Halston party?”
“No.”
“Know either victim?”
“Mason barely. Lucas barely.”
“Dylan Price?”
Ronan's jaw tightened.
“Friend.”
Bell noticed. Interesting.
“Mr. Price is receiving considerable attention.”
“I know.”
“Have police questioned you about him?”
“No.”
Bell closed the folio.
“We'll go together.”
Elliot looked at him.
“That's it?”
“For now.”
“You don't want to ask whether I killed anybody?”
Ronan's head snapped toward him. Bell barely reacted.
“I generally avoid asking clients questions they haven't been accused of needing to answer.”
Elliot smiled. Maybe he liked him after all.
Bellweather Police headquarters looked disappointingly ordinary.
Brick building. Flagpole. Automatic doors.
Fluorescent lighting. Elliot had expected nothing else and still found the banality interesting.
Murder investigations happened in rooms with vending machines.
Detectives drank coffee from paper cups.
Evidence sat behind beige doors. People could disappear from the world and somehow bureaucracy still required laminated visitor badges.
Bell arrived in his own car. Ronan insisted on following Elliot.
That was irritating. Also reassuring. At 9:58, Elliot parked exactly where an officer directed him.
His car looked absurdly clean beneath the gray morning.
Dark blue sedan. Three years old. Nothing distinctive.
The officer wrote down the plate. Another photographed the exterior. Bell noticed Elliot watching.
“Let them work.”
“I am.”
Ronan stood beside him.
“Stop staring.”
Elliot glanced over.
“You both have control issues.”
Ronan snorted. Bell said nothing. Detective Vance appeared through the front doors. Dark coat. Hair tied back. No visible surprise at seeing the lawyer.
“Mr. Mercer.”
“Detective.”
Her attention shifted.
“Gregory Bell.”
They shook hands.
“Counsel?”
Bell nodded.
“For today's conversation.”
Vance looked toward Ronan.
“And Mr. Vale?”
“Emotional support,” Elliot said.
Ronan stared at him. Vance almost smiled. Almost.
“Inside.”
They followed. The interview room was different from yesterday.
Smaller. No window. Gray table bolted to the floor.
Four chairs. Elliot sat beside Bell. Ronan was told to wait outside.
He hated that. Elliot could tell from the look he gave Vance before the door closed.
Then there were three. Vance placed a folder on the table.
“Before we begin, Mr. Mercer, you're here voluntarily.”
“I understand.”
“You are free to leave.”
“Okay.”
Bell folded his hands. Vance opened the folder. A photograph appeared. Lucas. Not his body. Security footage. Bellweather Tap. Timestamp: 11:50 P.M. Lucas on the sidewalk. Dylan beside him. A third figure across the street. Dark clothes. Cap. Poor resolution. Elliot looked at it.
“You showed me this yesterday.”
“Yes.”
Vance placed another photograph beside it. Different camera. Same figure. Time: 12:03 A.M. Walking east.
“Recognize him?”
“No.”
Another photograph. 12:19 A.M. The figure farther east. Near a gas station. Another. 12:37 A.M. River district. Elliot's heartbeat changed. Not enough. Vance placed one final photograph down. A vehicle. Dark. Grainy. Partially obscured by rain. Elliot stared. Bell looked too. Vance spoke quietly.
“This vehicle entered the river access road at 12:44.”
Elliot said nothing.
“Exited at 1:31.”
Bell leaned closer. The photograph was terrible.
No plate. No clear make. Sedan. Dark. Hundreds like it.
Vance's eyes remained on Elliot. “Your car is a dark blue sedan.” Bell spoke before Elliot could.
“So are approximately several thousand vehicles in Middlesex County.” Vance nodded.
“Correct.” “Then what's the relevance?” “We're eliminating possibilities.” Bell sat back.
“Then eliminate.” Vance looked at Elliot again.
“Where were you Tuesday night between midnight and two?” “Home.” “Anyone confirm?” “Ronan.” “Was he awake?” Elliot remembered.
Tuesday night. Lucas. Home. Ronan working downstairs.
Elliot upstairs. Mostly. “He saw me.” “When?” “Before midnight.” “After?” Elliot paused.
Vance noticed. Of course. “I don't know.” “Did you leave the house?” “No.” “Use your car?” “No.” “Anyone else have access?” “Ronan.” Vance wrote something down.
“Did he use it?” “No.” “You're certain?” “Yes.” Bell watched Elliot now.
Not suspicious. Careful. Elliot hated having two people watching.
Vance turned another page. “Lucas Harper had your phone number.” Elliot's attention sharpened.
Bell spoke. “From what source?” “His phone.” Elliot frowned.
“I didn't know that.”
“You never gave it to him?”
“I might have.”
“Might?”
“We had mutual friends.”
“Did he ever contact you?”
“Not that I remember.”
Vance slid a printout across the table. One outgoing message. Lucas to Elliot. Three months earlier. you coming tonight? Elliot stared. Then remembered. A party. Claire had borrowed his phone after hers died. Or maybe Lucas had gotten the number from a group chat. It genuinely meant almost nothing.
“I don't remember this.”
“No response.”
“Then apparently I ignored him.”
Vance watched. Bell interrupted.
“If that's the entirety of their direct communication, we're stretching the definition of contact.”
Vance ignored him.
“Did Mason Kerr have your number?”
“Yes.”
“Any communication?”
“Group messages.”
“Direct?”
“Probably.”
Vance placed another page down. Mason. Two messages from six months earlier. A joke. An invitation. Nothing. Elliot nearly smiled. Vance saw enough of the impulse to ask, “Something funny?”
“No.”
“What?”
“I was thinking you probably know more about my social life than I do.”
Bell's expression tightened. Too flippant. Elliot knew immediately. Vance leaned back.
“Do you find this amusing?”
There. The expected response.
“No.”
“Then why smile?”
Elliot looked directly at her.
“Because I'm uncomfortable.”
Vance held his gaze. There it was. A better answer. Not necessarily true. Better. She closed the folder.
“Your vehicle will be examined externally and internally. No destructive testing. Your attorney can remain present.”
Bell nodded.
“What specifically are you seeking?”
“Trace evidence.”
“From?”
Vance looked at Elliot.
“We recovered material from Lucas Harper.”
The room became very quiet.
“What material?” Bell asked.
“I can't disclose that.”
“Then you don't get unrestricted access.”
“We have a warrant application prepared.”
Bell's jaw tightened. Vance continued calmly.
“You can make this easy or we can wait for the judge.”