Deadly Web (20 page)

The telephone, however, was his trusted ally.

Ever since he had been promoted to detective, back in the nineties—oh, God, he was getting old—he’d realized that, with a little tenacity and a lot of what Hannah would call
chutzpa
, one could get very far with the telephone in hand. And now it was time to put his skills to good use.

It took a few phone calls to get to a lowly manager at
Tornado
, Dragonworld’s publisher. Jacob explained that he required the phone number of one of their players. The manager, curt and dismissive, told him there was no way in hell this would ever happen unless Jacob had a warrant.

Jacob assumed that, given time and persistence, he could probably get a warrant. But he didn’t plan on waiting that long. Instead he painted a picture to the manager. He explained that this was a murder investigation. He started talking about what the search warrant would allow the police to do. The word “confiscate” was used several times. He talked about the many servers they would have to check, the numerous computers they would have to take to the station.

Then he explained to the manager how long it took to get things back from the police. He told the manager about the evidence storage room and about form 67A, which a person needed to fill out in triplicate to retrieve his possessions after the police were done with them. He talked about the workload of the police and the amount of time it would take them to comb through all those servers.

The manager became a lot nicer. He asked Jacob to please hold. Jacob had no problem with holding.

The manager’s boss got on the phone. He was very impolite. He told Jacob to get a search warrant.

Murder investigation. Storage room. Form 67A in triplicates. Workload.

Jacob was told to please hold again.

This time a woman spoke to him. She sounded infinitely more polite than the earlier two, and in a very helpful mood. She asked what exactly he wanted. He explained about the murder, and about an unpleasant player named Lord Vaderon. She asked if this was the only thing he needed. Well, Jacob said, there might be a few more players they would want to talk to, no more than five or six. But it was one of Dragonworld’s players who’d been murdered, after all.

Terrible business, the woman said. So sad.

Yes, Jacob agreed. It was very sad. He was sure Tornado could show some goodwill and help the police catch their player’s murderer.

Would he want Lord Vaderon’s address as well, the woman asked sweetly, and Jacob said that if it wasn’t too much trouble, he would. He was put on hold. He grinned at Brian, who was staring at him in awe.

The hold music terminated unexpectedly just as Jacob began to enjoy it.

Would he also like a copy of the complaint? the woman wanted to know. Apparently Willow Hannigan had submitted a complaint regarding Lord Vaderon. Wasn’t that why Detective Jacob called?

Why, yes, that was exactly why. He would be happy to have a copy of the complaint.

He received the info by e-mail two minutes later.

Lord Vaderon’s player was named Tim Raffield. His address was in Haverhill, no more than an hour and a half by car from Dona Aliysa’s home.

Jacob read the complaint, stood up, grabbed his gun, and walked out with Mitchell in tow.

The complaint was for abusive language. There were three threats of rape, one of mutilation, five threats of murder.

And one of strangulation.

Jerome Piet sat in interrogation room one, looking as worried and anxious as people usually did when left alone in the police interrogation room. Hannah and Bernard had made sure to drop by his place unannounced early in the morning, explaining that they had some further questions for him. They said he should probably come with them. As expected, confused and bewildered, he had followed them obediently to their car.

They let him wait in the interrogation room for ten minutes, because some food simply tasted better when left to simmer a bit. Then they walked in, their faces serious. Usually during interrogation Hannah asked most of the questions and Bernard sat, imposing and scary. When the time was right, he’d pounce with a completely unrelated, accusatory question. This treatment, in their experience, got them pretty good results.

“Mr. Piet,” Hannah said. “We want to ask you a few more questions.”

“Please,” Jerome said, “call me Jerome.”

“Mr. Piet, can you please tell me who Annie Bardera is?”

“Annie?” Jerome looked completely bewildered. “She… we used to date a bit.”

“When did this relationship terminate?”

“Uh… just a few days ago.”

“Can you tell me her Twitter account name?”

“Not off the top of my head, but I can check my—”

“Is it Annie underscore B-A-R-D-R?”

“Maybe. I don’t—”

“And can you tell me who the Twitter account @youreugly12 belongs to?”

Jerome seemed suddenly pale. “No, I have no idea—”

“Did you know that the account @youreugly12 messaged Annie two days ago?”

Jerome’s face was twitching, the panic rising in his eyes. He turned to face Bernard, who sat there looking at him with dark, angry eyes. He turned back to Hannah. “No, how would I—”

“The messages called her fat, made fun of her stinking breath, and asked her about her zits. Does that ring a bell, Mr. Piet?”

“No! What does that have to do with Frank’s death?”

“Did you buy the drugs from Chad Grimes?” Bernard suddenly roared, thumping on the table.

“What? Who’s Chad Grimes?”

“The drug dealer in the pub! Did you buy the drugs from him?”

“I have no idea—”

“We know you and Frank bought X from Chad. Did you pay for the drugs? Chad Grimes shot at me yesterday, Mr. Piet. Did he shoot at me with a gun he bought with your money?”

Hannah could literally feel Bernard’s roar vibrate in the room.

“No! Frank bought the drugs! I don’t even use Ecstasy, I swear!” Jerome’s voice trembled.

Good. The meal was ready. Now they just had to serve it.

“But you did open that Twitter account,” Hannah said sharply. “And you did send those abusive messages.”

“I… yes, I did,” Jerome said, tears in his eyes. “It was Frank’s suggestion. He said it would make me feel better. Annie shattered my heart. I was completely devastated! I didn’t know what to do! And then Frank said that he had done this before, that it was the perfect way to get even, and to let go. So I… I opened a new Twitter account while I was in the pub, and I sent those messages.” He burst into tears, covering his face with his hands.

“And did it make you feel better?” Hannah asked coldly.

“No! I felt horrible! Annie is really obsessed about her weight; it was such a nasty thing to do! I called the next day and apologized. She hung up on me, which wasn’t surprising.”

“What did Frank say when you sent those messages?”

“He… he said that it was good for a first try. Then he asked if I had any nude images of Annie, or videos to upload to a porn site.”

Hannah snorted in disgust.

“He was kidding! He’d never suggest something like that seriously. He just wanted to cheer me up a bit, that’s all!”

“When you returned to the apartment,” Hannah said slowly, “what did you talk about?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we talked about Annie a bit. We drank a shot of tequila, talked a bit about women we’d like to have sex with… like celebrities and stuff… and then I left.”

“Did Frank at any point say he was going to tell Annie that it was you who sent the messages?”

“Of course not! Why would he do that?”

“Or perhaps you were worried that he might do that…”

“It never crossed my mind!”

“And then, Mr. Piet, perhaps you realized that if Frank was dead, Annie would never find out!”

“What? Are you insane?”

“Did you stab Frank, Mr. Piet?”

“No!”

“Stab him several times, then get rid of the knife?”

“No! There was someone who ran down the stairs—”

“Just so Annie would never find out about those tweets—”

“I called Annie the next day! You can ask her!” Jerome was crying loudly at this point, shaking like a leaf.

Hannah and Bernard glanced at each other.

“Would you like something to drink, Mr. Piet?” Bernard asked.

Jerome did not respond, just laid his head on the table and sobbed.

Hannah and Bernard got up.

“We’ll be right back, Jerome,” Hannah said, and they left the room.

“What do you think?” Bernard asked.

“He might be a really good actor,” Hannah shrugged. “But I don’t think so. We can call Annie Bardera and ask. He wouldn’t have told her about those tweets after he killed Frank.”

“Unless he felt like we might figure it out and wanted to cover his bases,” Bernard said. “Though it doesn’t sound likely. I’ll call Annie.”

“And I’ll call Petal,” Hannah said. “I’ll ask her if she encountered a knife she didn’t recognize, maybe send a patrolman to check her kitchen.”

The phone calls were quick. Annie had received a phone call from Jerome the day before, and he’d admitted to sending her the tweets. Petal hadn’t seen an unfamiliar knife, but she would check again. She’d gladly let a patrolman check her apartment… but what if he found some substances which weren’t exactly legal? Oh, he’d just look in the kitchen? Not in the living room? Then it wasn’t a problem at all, ha ha.

Bernard and Hannah returned to the interrogation room. Jerome seemed to have calmed down, though his eyes were red and he was sniffling heavily.

“Anything else you would like to tell us, Mr. Piet?” Hannah asked.

“I didn’t kill Frank,” Jerome muttered. “He was my friend.”

“I believe you, Jerome. Is there anything else?”

“Yeah. I just remembered. Frank told me that he kept feeling like someone was following him for the last couple of days.”

“He said that, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not just making that up now, because we were accusing you?”

“No! He really said that!”

“Why didn’t you mention that before?”

“I didn’t remember it before! He just said it offhandedly, while I was talking about Annie. I thought he was trying to change the subject.”

“And you didn’t ask him about it?”

“No. Do… do you think it was the guy who killed him?”

“We’ll check that out,” Bernard said. “Thank you, Mr. Piet.”

“Can I leave now?”

“Yes. You could have left at any time. We never detained you.”

“Oh.” Jerome got up. He walked to the door and pressed the handle, looking a bit surprised when the door opened. Then, without looking back, he marched out.

“Do you think Frank really said that?” Bernard said.

“He might have,” Hannah frowned. “That would explain the blue Ford that his sister saw. Who would be following him?”

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Perhaps Chad Grimes?” Hannah said.

“No, hang on…” Bernard said.

“Maybe Grimes wanted to know where he lived…”

Bernard shook his head, frowning, and then snapped his fingers. “Tarp!”

“Jenny Tarp’s husband?”

“Yeah! He said he ran into Frank in the restaurant by chance. How likely is that? And he also said he had hired a private detective.”

“So you think—”

“He had Frank followed! And whoever he hired to follow Frank told Tarp he was at that restaurant.”

“Let’s talk to Tarp,” Hannah said.

Chapter Seventeen

On the way to Tim Raffield’s home address, Jacob contacted the Haverhill police department and filled them in on the details. He asked if they could supply backup, since the suspect might be armed and dangerous. The dispatcher, her voice reminding him of a girl he used to date when he was a young patrol officer, promised to send someone over and to alert her supervisors.

Traffic was slow, and it took them two hours to get to the suspect’s house. Two cops waited for them on the street, outside their own patrol car. They introduced themselves as Officer Vargas and Officer Bert. Officer Vargas was a ridiculously tall Hispanic cop. Officer Bert was short and plump; his skin had an orange tinge to it, and his hair was short, black, and spiky. This made him look a bit as if Ernie from Sesame Street had grown up and joined the police.

Jacob found the thought hilarious. He was beginning to feel giddy and cheerful, as he always did when he knew he had found the guy.
Finding the guy
was his favorite part of the job.

Tim Raffield’s place was a nice house in the middle of a quiet suburban neighborhood, the kind in which people greeted each other in the morning while getting the paper, or chatted while trimming their hedges during the weekend. Tim’s own house wasn’t any different from the rest. The front lawn had been mowed recently; its color was green to the point of feeling artificial. The entrance was meticulously clean, and a mat with the word “Welcome” on it lay squarely on the porch.

Officer Bert circled the house and located the back door. He crouched in the yard, midway between the front and back doors, and unholstered his gun. Officer Vargas fell back as Mitchell and Jacob approached the front door. Jacob knocked on the door and called “Police!”

The door was opened within a few seconds by a middle-aged blonde woman with an oven mitt on her hand.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Does Tim Raffield live here, ma’am?” Jacob asked.

“Yes, can I ask—”

“Is he here right now?”

“Yes, he’s in his room,” she said, motioning behind her. “Can you please tell me—”

Jacob gently slipped by her, drawing his gun; Mitchell followed him. Officer Vargas entered the house and stayed with the woman, ensuring that she didn’t interfere or risk herself in any way.

The door the woman had motioned to was ajar. Jacob kicked it and yelled “Police! Put your hands…” His voice trailed off.