Fragmented (2 page)

“So?”

“Look familiar?” The matchbook was unique. The cover depicted an airbrush painting of a naked woman in a seductive pose. The words “Black and Brown Club,
Budapest
,
Hungary
” were stenciled across the naked woman’s legs. “Not something you would find in every household.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the fire investigators found it outside on your lawn. Didn’t you tell Detective Iverson earlier that you had traveled to
Budapest
after graduating from high school?”

“That was years ago. Thousands of people travel there.”

“Yes,” Jack remarked. “Thousands. But it was
your
house that burned down.” Jack looked down at the plastic bag, studying the small item it held. “And this box of matches started it all.” Jack tossed the bag back on the table.

Cooper sat up straight, his stare sharpened. “It’s not mine.”

“Crime Scene Investigators were able to lift prints from the box. Did you know we can lift prints from a paper surface? It’s the oil that allows us to get them. From your fingers.” Jack lifted a hand, flashing five fingers at Cooper.

“Why are you doing this? I told you the truth, I couldn’t sleep, I went downstairs and poured myself a drink and turned on the TV. I fell asleep and woke to the fire. The fire that killed my family. The fire killed them. Not me.
”

Jack slid closer to Cooper.

Iverson followed Jack’s lead and leaned in, giving Cooper little room to move. He took out his pen, knowing he needed to document whatever Cooper had to say, verbatim.

Jack let the moment settle. He had Cooper’s attention. “I know what you did.”

Cooper’s face wrinkled. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you fell asleep in front of the TV?”

Cooper leaned forward, his face inches from Jack’s. “That’s what I said, Goddammit!”

You sit there very long?”

“I said I couldn’t sleep.”

“What was on?”

“What?”

“What were you watching?”

Cooper froze. He slowly fell back into his chair; his eyelids formed half-moons but his stare never left Jack’s. “I want a lawyer.
”

“They burned to death, Mr. Cooper. You trapped them inside your house and let them burn. What kind of animal are you?”

Cooper turned away, averting his face from Jack’s accusations. His anger drained from his expression, now taking on the rigidity of stone.

Jack stood up and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. He reached under Cooper’s left arm and yanked him up, hard. Iverson made his way around to the other side, keeping Cooper from falling over.

Jack Paris ratcheted the cuff tightly on Cooper’s wrists, enough to make Cooper wince. Cooper’s head dipped toward the table, the air in his lungs slowly escaping through his nostrils.

“You were right, Mr. Cooper,” Jack said. “Two for one.”

As he heard Jack say the words, Iverson saw darkness build in Cooper’s eyes. Cooper was never the victim; he was the predator.

Iverson got on his radio and within seconds two uniforms entered the room. They led Cooper out the door to a holding cell down the hall. Jack gathered up his things, dropping papers into open folders. Iverson leaned against the table, staring at the empty chair where Cooper sat and thinking how quickly things had turned.

“Why do you think he did it?”

Jack shrugged. “I can’t say.”

“Geez, Jack. You’re accusing a man of killing his family.”

Jack raised an eyebrow and gave Iverson a quiet stare. “Maybe she knew something he didn’t want others to find out about.”

“Are you telling me he couldn’t think of a better way to keep things quiet?”

“Jeff,” Jack replied. “There’s only one way for two people to keep a secret.”

“How’s that?”

“One kills the other.”

“What are you, the dark side of a lounge act?”

Jack didn’t offer a reply, just continued collecting his papers.

Jeff Iverson began tapping his pen on the top of his notebook, wondering how Cooper could think killing was a rational answer to his problems—let alone his own family. “You think that’s it? A secret?”

2

Five Years Later

Butte County
,
California

Monday –
7:15 a.m.

“It was
the damnedest thing,” Paul Baker said to his secretary, Rose, after pushing away from his desk at the Diamond County Bank.

“What was?” Rose asked, not really focused on the conversation, but rather sifting through a handful of loan files.

Baker paused a moment, thinking about the past fifteen minutes.

“Did you see his eyes?”

Rose murmured something, her attention still attached to the stacks of files cradled in her arms.

“I said did you notice his eyes?”

Rose finally stopped sifting and looked over at Baker. “Eyes? What about them?”

Baker thought for a beat, trying to formulate his jumbled, maybe irrational thoughts to describe what he was feeling, but couldn’t come up with the right words.

Rose placed the folders on Baker’s desk, and gave a curious look as she pulled back one of the chairs and sat down.

“What?” she asked.

“The customer you just brought over, Hampton Carter.”

Rose paused a moment, wondering where Baker was going with his remark.

“Strange bird, don’t you think?” he said.

Rose shrugged.

“He reminds me of that guy, from that movie,
Fargo
.” Baker made a motion, circling his hands around his eyes.

Rose raised an eyebrow. “You mean Steve Buscemi?”

Baker tapped the top of his desk like he was dotting an i. “That’s the one.”

Rose nodded and smiled, looking like she was pleased with herself, guessing correctly on the first try. “What about him?”

Baker began to describe the short meeting he just had with the walk-in customer. “It just didn’t feel right.”

Baker was recently appointed the position of senior loan officer. His job was to evaluate all loans and—more importantly—the people asking for them. He had to determine not only their ability to repay but the willingness to do so.

Hampton Carter had been his first walk-in of the day, just some guy looking for a small loan. Rose had brought Carter over to his desk where he stood still for a moment, allowing Baker the opportunity to give him a good look-over. He was average in height, slender, wearing a blue-gray windbreaker, dark slacks. His hair was blond and short, combed straight back with gel that Baker could smell, even from a distance. But it was Carter’s eyes that drew Baker’s attention. His pupils were pinpoint, like periods on a page. And steely. Even when Carter smiled his greeting, his eyes betrayed a contradictory meaning, almost predacious.

Carter nodded and maneuvered himself between two large chairs that were in front of Baker’s Rosewood desk. They spoke briefly, Carter telling Baker he was interested in a car loan for his wife but Baker found it odd the man wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Baker started explaining the requirements for the loan, all the while, Carter gazed straight and steady as if watching a movie.

“Are you married?” Carter asked.

The question caught Baker by surprise.

“Yes,” he answered but then hesitated, not feeling inclined to elaborate. His voice stumbled before refocusing back on the loan.

Carter smiled.

Baker handed Carter a loan application, along with a handful of glossy bank brochures. “Mr. Carter, do you have an account with us?
”

“No,” was Carter’s reply. One word. Baker wondered why a person wanting money from a bank where he was not a customer didn’t offer more of an explanation.

Baker slid a small card forward. An information card. With a pencil, Baker pointed at a string of lines needing to be filled in: home address, telephone number, Social Security number. Throughout his entire instruction, Carter never looked down at the card, his stare locked on Baker.

“Children?” Carter asked.

Baker paused, confused. “Excuse me?”

“Children? Do you have any children?”

Baker backed his chair away from his desk. Without realizing it, he felt the need to put some distance between him and Carter.

“Yes. A daughter,” Baker answered as he offered Carter the pencil. Trying to be polite, he asked, “How about you?”

Carter kept his smile but didn’t respond. He simply took the pencil and started writing. He kept pausing, erasing and re-writing, as if he didn’t know his own personal information. After a minute, Carter said, “Would you mind if I took the forms home, so that my wife could help me out?”

“That’s fine.” Baker reached out, retrieved the old information card, and placed it on the corner of his desk. He added a new one to the application forms, dropped both into a large yellow envelope, and handed it over.

“Here’s a clean set,” he said to Carter. He held them out but Carter’s attention was elsewhere, focused on a framed photograph prominently displayed on Baker’s desk. A portrait of his family
.

Carter turned his head and looked at Baker. A smile stretched across his lips. “What’s her name?”

Baker straightened up in his seat, feeling the hair on his neck tingle. “Who?” Baker knew who he was referring to; he just didn’t want to answer.

“I assume the lovely girl in the photo is your daughter?”

For the second time during this short meeting, Baker hesitated, but felt forced to respond. “Yes.”

A long silence followed as Carter waited for an answer to his original question.

“Jessica,” Baker finally said. “That’s my daughter, Jessica.”

Carter grinned, exposing a set of bright white teeth. He picked up the framed portrait, gazing deep into the picture, and repeated her name: “Jessica.”

Baker started feeling flush, hot and cold rushing through his body at the same time. He felt anxious but didn’t really know why. One thing Baker was certain of: he didn’t appreciate Carter’s interest in his daughter and he wanted him to leave. “She’s home with the flu.” Baker pulled the picture from Carter’s hand and returned it to its place. It was an uncomfortable moment as Baker stuck out a hand, thanking Carter for coming while shoving the envelope at him with his other. “Come back soon,” he said but didn’t really mean it.

Carter accepted the handshake and took the packet. He didn’t speak, maintaining his smile before turning and walking away, out the lobby doors.

“We get a lot of crazies,” Rose said after listening to Baker describe his meet with Carter.

Baker nodded, wondering if he was just being paranoid. He rested his hands on top of his desk and felt the coolness of the large plate glass. Fog formed around his fingers. He lifted his hands and realized his palms were sweaty. He pulled a tissue from his desk drawer and wiped his hands dry. That’s when he noticed they were trembling. Why? He met strange people all the time in this line of work.

Baker caught sight of Carter’s old information card and gave it one last look. What he had filled out was barely legible.

“Crazies,” he said to himself.

Rose had stepped away for a second but returned with another file folder, sticking it out for him to take. Consumed in his thoughts, Baker didn’t even notice the folder.

“Are you okay?” Rose asked.