Beyond belief (15 page)

Crystal didn't reply.

“I know you lost her last year. I'm sorry.”

She began to tremble. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“Ms. Rawlings … are you okay?”

She nodded, but her trembling continued.

“Is there anything you would like to tell us?”

She looked up. “I didn't do anything wrong, I promise.”

“Then talk to us,” Joe said.

The front door swung open, and a lanky middle-aged man walked into the house. He stared at Joe and Howe. “What's goin’ on here?”

Joe and Howe turned to face him. “We're with the Atlanta Police Department,” Joe said. “Are you Ted Rawlings?”

Crystal didn't look at her husband. “They want to know about Dr. Nelson,” she half whispered. “They know about the money.”

Ted glared at them. “So what?”

“So maybe you should be a little more cooperative,” Howe said. “I'm sure the IRS would be interested in all that money. Even if you gave it back to Nelson, you could still be on the hook to the government for tens of thousands of dollars.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Rawlings said. “We didn't give it back. We're declarin’ every cent and payin’ whatever we owe.”

Joe frowned. “You didn't give the money back to Dr. Nelson?”

“Hell, no. Why would we do that?”

Joe exchanged a startled glance with Howe.

“I'm not sayin’ another word to you fellas,” Ted said, moving closer to his wife. “We did nothin’ wrong.”

“Then what could possibly be the harm in telling us about your relationship with Dr. Nelson?”

Ted gestured toward the open door. “This conversation is over. If you want to arrest us, go ahead. Otherwise, get out.”

Joe nodded and gave Crystal his card. “We don't need to go that far today. Talk about it and give us a call. If we don't hear from you soon, we'll be back.” He turned to Ted. “We might even have to visit you at your workplace.”

“Don't threaten me,” Ted said. “It doesn't matter where you turn up. My answer is gonna be the same.”

“Have a good evening,” Joe said.

Howe strode ahead of him out of the house. Joe paused when he reached the door. Ted Rawlings was still staring at him, but Crystal didn't seem to be aware of any of them.

She was still staring at the pictures of her daughter.

“Where in the hell did Robert Nelson get a hundred and sixty thousand dollars?”

It was Joe and Howe's main topic of conversation all the way back from Cartersville. They compared notes on what they had each uncovered so far, and Joe was impressed with Howe's attention to detail. Howe had an answer for almost every question, and he rattled off the pertinent facts, figures, and dates as if they were his own vital statistics. But when Joe showed him the photo of the red-haired man, Howe
was stumped. Nobody seemed to know who the guy was.

They drove to Blues Junction, a dark, smoky club near the Underground Atlanta shopping and entertainment center. Howe had discovered it was one of Nelson's favorite hangouts. They flashed a photo around to the staff, and although a few did recognize Nelson, they couldn't recall anything notable about him.

Joe and Howe sat at a booth, almost shouting over the R&B group wailing on the stage.

“The money still bugs me,” Howe said. “I tell you, we did a full financial rundown on him. He didn't have that kind of money.”

“He got it from somewhere,” Joe said.

“In cash. He must have found it under a rock someplace, because it didn't move through any account he had.”

“But why would he have given a hundred and sixty thousand dollars of his program's money to the Rawlingses, then, when discovered, scrounge up the money from someplace else and repay it?”

Howe shrugged. “You're the one who works with those nuts. What super-secret study could those people have been fooling around with?”

“So secret that even Nelson's coworkers didn't know what it was? Like you told the lady, they don't work that way.”

They sat quietly as the crowd applauded a guitar player's frantic riff.

Howe suddenly leaned closer. “Bailey, let me see the picture of the red-haired guy.”

“Sure.” Joe pulled the print out of his breast pocket and slapped it on the table between them.

Howe glanced at it. “Interesting.”

“Interesting why?”

“If this was a hangout of Nelson's, he may have brought that guy here. Maybe the guy liked it.”

“Yeah?”

Howe smiled and took a swig of his beer. “Because right now he's standing at the bar.”

Joe turned and followed Howe's gaze. Christ. It
was
him. The red-haired man who had sat in on Jesse Randall's sessions. He was sipping a drink and swaying to the music.

“How do you want to play this?” Howe asked.

“I'm going to talk to him.”

Howe slid out of the booth. “I'll cover the door.”

“Good.”

Joe turned back around. Red was staring right at him. Shit.

The man put down his drink and stepped away. Joe moved through the club, pushing past the happy-hour throngs who had wedged themselves onto the tiny dance floor. The man's fiery red hair appeared and disappeared through the crowd. He was heading toward the door.

Joe moved under the row of recessed blue lights near the bar. Where in the hell was Howe?

A woman screamed. Activity rippled around the door.

Joe reached into his jacket and gripped the handle of his revolver. He shouldered his way through the crowd and saw Howe on the floor.

“Give him room!” Joe yelled.

The crowd backed away only slightly as Joe crouched next to his partner. Howe's eyes fluttered.

“What happened?”

“I'm okay,” Howe rasped. He pointed to the door. “Go!”

Joe could hear the bartender on the phone to 911. He jumped to his feet and ran out the door. It was dark outside, still and quiet.

A motorcycle kick-started in the lot next door. Joe turned as it roared over a small concrete barrier and hit the sidewalk. It was coming right for him.

He threw himself over the hood of a parked car. He rolled over it as the motorcycle's left handlebar clipped the passenger-side mirror. He yanked out his gun as he hit the pavement.

The bike whipped into a narrow alleyway, its ear-splitting roar reverberating off the tall brick buildings. Within seconds Joe could hear it racing down West Peachtree Street.

He instinctively turned toward his car, then stopped.

Who was he kidding? By the time he got on the road, Red and his motorcycle would have turned off West Peachtree and disappeared into one of the dark, anonymous corners of the city. Dammit.

“Are you okay?”

Howe had shuffled out of the club, his jacket off and tie loosened.

“Fine. What happened to you?”

“Jesus, he's good. The bastard chopped me across the throat and hit me in the solar plexus. I went down like a rock.”

“Don't feel bad. He almost decorated my face with his tire tread.”

Howe chuckled as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped one out. “Well, either you're on to something, Bailey, or our red-haired friend
really
doesn't want it known that he likes blues music.”

W
hy can't we take the elevator?” Nikki asked as she and Joe started down the stairs to the atrium of their building. It was 8:15
A.M.
, and they were beginning their morning school-and-work run.

“Exercise is good for us. Plus the elevator's been acting up. I don't want you using it for a while.” He hadn't told her about the accident the other night, explaining his bandaged fingers away with an offhand comment about getting them caught in the elevator doors. But he didn't want her riding the elevator until he had an idea how—

Wait a minute. He glanced back at the shaft. Maybe he
did
have an idea.

“Daddy?”

Not now. He'd look into it later. “Yeah?”

“I want to take judo lessons.”

“Judo? What happened to ballet?”

“Judo's better.”

“It won't get you in
The Nutcracker.”

They walked through the atrium and she pulled
open the front door. “I don't want to do that anymore. I want to take judo.”

He gazed searchingly at her. It wasn't like Nikki to change her mind so quickly. “Why judo? Is somebody bothering you at school, honey?”

“I didn't say—”

A microphone was suddenly thrust in Joe's face. “Do you believe Jesse Randall's powers are responsible for the unexplained attempts on your life, Detective?”

Joe instinctively pulled Nikki closer. Half a dozen reporters. Three media trucks. What the hell was happening?

“Tell us about the elevator, Joe.”

Shit, Joe thought. Just what he needed.

“Are you afraid Jesse Randall might harm your daughter?”

“What does he mean?” Nikki whispered.

“Nothing, sweetheart.” Joe walked to his 4Runner at the curb and opened the passenger-side door. “Get in the car.”

“Daddy … ?”

“Please, honey.” He boosted her into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and turned toward the journalists. “Not in front of my kid, okay?”

A chunky female radio reporter held a small DAT recorder in Joe's face. “Can you explain the incidents in the Landwyn library and your elevator?”

He pushed the recorder away. “Accidents happen.”

A balding man with a thick mustache smiled. “Joe, my name's Gary Danton. I'm with
Nature Extreme.”

“And you admit it? So, how's the Loch Ness monster search going?”

“Not my beat.”

“Aw, too bad. Look, I know you're working on a piece slamming me and the professor for trying to hold Nelson accountable for his results.”

“Old news. What can you tell us about the attacks?”

Joe walked around to the driver-side door. “There have been no attacks. Who in the hell turned you people loose on me?”

“You know I can't reveal my sources.”

“Of course.
Nature Extreme
is a bastion of journalistic integrity.”

“Let's just say I heard it from someone a bit more open-minded than you.”

Who would have done this? Joe wondered. Other than—

“Kellner,” he said aloud. “He found out about this stuff and called you guys, right?”

“Let's get this straight,” Danton said, ignoring the question. “We have two new unexplained occurrences, both while Jesse Randall slept. The elevator technician can't explain what happened to you in your building, and the Landwyn library staff tells me that you even brought in your instruments to try to figure out what happened to you there. Any explanations?”

Joe opened the door. “Nothing I can discuss. Don't stir things up now. This case is crazy enough already.”

“Jesse Randall may be stirring things up,” Danton said slyly. “Do you fear for your life, Detective?”

Joe snorted and climbed behind the wheel of the 4Runner. As he pulled away from the curb, he could
see a few of the reporters scribbling in their notebooks. Damn. Whatever they were writing would probably be in the newspapers by the next morning.

Nikki spoke barely above a whisper. “What happened, Daddy?”

He flexed his bandaged fingers. “I told you about the elevator. It malfunctioned. And when I was at the library Saturday night, a few shelves fell over.”

“Toward you?”

Joe shrugged.

“How did it happen?”

“They just fell. Sometimes things like that happen.”

“Saturday was the day we went to see Jesse.”

“Don't read anything into it, honey.”

Nikki drew her jacket closer around her. “He was mad at you.”

“He and his mother came to see me yesterday. Everything's okay now.”

“Don't see him anymore, Daddy.”

“Nikki …”

“Please, don't.”

“Sweetheart, Jesse hasn't done anything. He didn't murder Dr. Nelson, and—”

“What if he did? What if his dreams caused it, just like everybody's saying? What if one of those dreams hurts you too?”

“You have to trust me, honey. I'll be all right.”

“But what if you're wrong?”

“I'm not wrong.”

Joe glanced at her. She was crying. Damn. He wanted to murder Kellner or whoever had tipped off those reporters. He pulled over to the side of the
road, unbuckled his seat belt, and leaned closer. “Don't be upset, sweetie. Everything will be okay. Believe me.”

“I do believe you. You never lie to me.” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Mommy's not really in jail, is she?”

He stared at her in bewilderment. “Where did
that
come from?”

“Amy and Monica said that Mommy's not really dead. They say we just tell people that because she's really in jail. Amy told me that lots of kids pretend that their mom or dad is dead because they're ashamed of them being in prison.”

Joe shook his head in disbelief. Hateful little brats. “No, honey. Mommy's gone. I was with her.”

Nikki gazed out the windshield. “That's what I thought. Amy and Monica never liked me. They're the liars, right, Daddy?”

“Right, honey.”

“I wanted to fight them, but they're bigger than I am.”

“Is that why you want judo lessons?”

She paused. “Yeah.”

“That's not the answer. If Mommy was in jail, believe me, nothing on earth would stop me from breaking her out. Right?”