Lie in Wait (27 page)

Jon seized the chance to get off his stool and pay his bill, having hardly touched his burger. He put a ten-­spot on the counter and began to stalk away; but the dirty hand clutched his wrist again and squeezed, twisted the skin.

“Don't you want to know who we have in common?” the stranger said.

Jon tried to prize his wrist free without making a scene, but the grip was like a talon.

“You should have helped me,” the stranger said. Then he grabbed Jon quickly by the hair and pulled Jon's ear down to his foul mouth and whispered a word and shoved Jon away.

Jon had fallen against the table behind him and staggered outside, where the hothouse humidity of the Virginia spring had nearly knocked him down.

Then he'd run, the word that had been whispered in his ear burning like a corrosive acid.

Jon blinked now as a knock came at his office door.

He stared at the door. Victor? No. Victor would not knock.

The knock came again. Louder.

“Mr. Merryfield. It's Detective Test. I know you are there and I've no intention of leaving.”

 

Chapter 68

T
EST TAPPED A
fingernail against a glass pane in Jon Merryfield's office as she stood at an expansive window beside his desk.

Merryfield had finally opened the door, looking blurry and distracted, and smelling of booze. He'd claimed to have fallen asleep at his desk; and though Test knew just how possible that scenario was, she did not believe it.

“Why did Victor Jenkins come to you?” Test said, looking out at the window. She turned to take in his reaction to her casual drop of Jenkins's name.

“Who?” Jon said.

“Brad's father. I saw him leaving as I parked and hurried to catch him, but was too slow.”

“Right,” Jon said. He was trying to pour himself a drink of bourbon but having trouble steadying his hand. Finally he set the bottle and glass down.

“So?” Test asked.

“He came to retain me.”

“For what?”

“For his son,” Jon said, his Adam's apple working.

“Even though the murder his son is charged with took place in your home?” Test said. What Merryfield was saying was preposterous. He had to know that. Of course he knew it. Which meant that the truth was either more preposterous, or damaging.

“He was desperate,” Jon said. “He's a desperate, pathetic man. I told him I was too close to the case. It was preposterous.”

“Of course it is,” Test said.

Merryfield tried again to pour a drink. He managed to just do it, though he splashed booze on the back of his hand.

“How did he handle it?” Test said.

“He was angry. He wanted more than what the public defender could offer. I'm not a defender. I prosecute. Except for my current case. And, honestly, there's no saving his son.”

“I guess not,” Test said.

He took a drink. “You don't sound so confident for a detective who's been working it.”

Test let the comment hang between them.

“Jenkins didn't mention anything about evidence, or proof he had discovered, about his boy?” she said.

“To me?”

“There's no one else here to put the question to, sir,” Test said.

“Not to me. He was grasping. To help his boy.”

“Except,” Test said.

“Except?” He drank, too quickly. The bourbon sloshing. The look he gave Test made her think his mind was sloshing too, with runaway thoughts.

“It's just so odd, him coming to you,” Test said.

Jon loosened his tie, trying not to pace, unable to refrain from it. “He doesn't know much about the law. How it really works. Few really do.”

“I do,” Test said. “I know.”

“I suppose,” Jon said, tapping his fingers on the rim of his glass, trying to covertly glance at his wristwatch. It was clear he wanted to get away from here; had someplace to go. Test wondered where he needed to be. She'd have thought he'd just want to flee, anywhere. But the glance at his watch made clear he intended to meet someone. Had he conspired all along? Was Brad in on this with him? Was that why Victor was here? Or, was, somehow, King involved? None of it made sense yet.

Jon finished his pacing and sat on the couch, his highball balanced on his knee.

“How's your wife?” Test said.

“Fine. Considering.”

“Awful, her finding Jessica.”

Jon finished his drink. Sucked on the inside of his cheek. “Some things you never get over.”

“I would figure such trying times would make it hard to recover,” Test said.

“Recover?”

“You were sick the whole week leading up to her being killed. Isn't that right?”

“Yes. Right. Of course.”

“You never went to the doctor for it though.”

Jon set the glass down.

“How would you know that?”

“It's my business to know.”

“Meeting with doctors is confidential without a subpoena.”

“
Not
if the meeting didn't take place. Then all I'd be asking is if you'd had an appointment at all, nothing private about it.”

“It was the flu, not cancer.” He shrugged.

“I did some digging.”

Test produced the CCTV image she'd printed out and set it on Jon's desk, tapped it with her fingers.

Jon did not look at it.

“You know what that is?” Test said.

Jon glimpsed at it. “I haven't the foggiest.”

“That's the dishwasher at the Village Fare. Drew Meyers.”

Jon rubbed his face and blinked at the photo. “I'll be.”

“Specifically,” Test said, “that's the dishwasher going into the men's room for his check of the bathrooms as he does hourly each night, to make sure they are clean.”

“Good for him.”

“That's of no interest to you?” Test said.

“Should it be?” He squared his shoulders.

“I'd think it would be. Since that photo was taken at six forty-­five, when you were supposedly sick in the bathroom of the restaurant.”

Jon smiled. “That's not possible.”

“It is possible. More than that, it's fact. That's the time he checks the restroom every night. And you weren't in there when he went in.”

“I was,” he said. He risked a nervous peek at his watch.

“We have a photo of you going in at six forty-­two. Then. Here. Just before Drew Meyers comes to clean, you leave the bathroom at six forty-­three, a minute after going in.”

“The CCTV must have the time wrong,” Jon said.

“It doesn't.”

Jon's Adam's apple stuck halfway through his swallow.

“According to my stopwatch,” Test said. “Your home is just a five-­minute walk from the Village Fare restaurant where you ate dinner.”

“What the hell are you implying?”

“I'm not implying anything. I'm demonstrating a fact through irrefutable video evidence, that you were not in the bathroom when you said you were.” Test took another photo out and slapped it on his desk. “This one, seconds after you left the bathroom the first time, shows you heading out the door at the end of the corridor that opens to the Dumpster out back. And here,” she slapped another photo down, “is one of you coming in fourteen minutes later. And, as you can see, or as I could see in photos I blew up, you came back in wiping sweat from your forehead, looking shaken and distraught. Perhaps you can tell me where you were,” Test said, “when you were supposed to be in the bathroom? And what you were doing, exactly.”

Jon stared at her, his eyes going as cold and dead as any she'd ever seen.

She had him.

Then, he smiled, and her stomach dropped.

“I was, if you need to know. Puking. I got sick in the bathroom and desperately needed some cold fresh air. So, I went outside. But I got sick again anyway. Hardly see how it matters where I vomited, do you?”

He poured himself another drink, this time without so much as a tremor in his hand, this time a double.

“I'm sorry you've wasted your time. Perhaps, you can tell me, where you thought I was and what you thought I was doing, exactly.” His tone was cordial, but he was mocking her. Making a fool of her by throwing her own words back in her face.

“I think you know,” she said.

“Well,” he said and finished his drink with a long, smooth, and practiced pull, “I'd kindly ask you to leave. I have a client to meet.”

“At this hour?”

“My career knows no civil hours. I'm sure you can relate.”

He went to the door and opened it.

“Good evening, Detective. Good luck.”

Test passed by him and strode across the front office. She stopped at the door to the stairway and looked back with her hand on the doorknob. “Just one more thing.”

“Yes?” he said, impatient. Dying to look at his watch.

“Do you know a Randy Clark?”

 

Chapter 69

T
EST WATCHED THE
entrance to Jon Merryfield's office building from her Peugeot parked down the street.

Merryfield had offered a reasonable answer for everything. And every answer he'd told her was possible. Even likely, in normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances.

He might have left the bathroom because he needed fresh air. He might have come back inside sweating and looking upset because he'd gotten sick out back. There was CCTV on the back door, but it only showed him coming out of the door and going back inside. Whatever he'd done had been off camera.

Perhaps he did have a client to see tonight. She had not asked who the client was because she knew he'd claim client confidentiality, and the only clients it could be, if true, were Gregory and Scott. He was meeting someone, she was convinced. But not a client. The look he had when he'd last eyed his watch was one of panic that did not come with running late. She wasn't buying the story of why Victor Jenkins visited him either. And then there was her mention of Randy Clark. Upon hearing the name, Jon Merryfield had been unable to stop his jaw from dropping, however briefly, as a look of horror passed over his face like a dark shadow.

Test would wait. When Merryfield came out, she'd follow. If he visited someone other than his Gregory Sergeant or Scott Goodale, she'd take him in for questioning. North would go nuclear on her. Until he saw the CCTV footage. Particularly the part she had not shown Merryfield. He was linked to the murder of Jessica Cumber, somehow. He'd either killed her or was an accomplice, or . . . What? Damn it. What could his motive possibly be? There was none, unless he'd had an affair with the girl. But neither his nor Jessica's phone or e-­mail or other computer records showed communication between the two. Still, Test knew: If she found the motive, she'd have Jon Merryfield.

She looked up. Merryfield was slipping out of his office building and sneaking across the street to his Land Rover. He started the vehicle and drove off quickly.

Test turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. In her earlier hurry to chase after Victor when she'd spied him coming out, she'd left the lights on.

The battery was dead.

 

Chapter 70

J
ON HURRIED FROM
his Land Rover into his home, slamming the front door behind him.

He leaned against the door, panting. Thoughts of the dead girl crowded his fevered mind as he rushed into the kitchen to check voice-­mail messages.

The same number came up five times. He dialed his voice mail. He could have checked the messages from his office or from his cell phone. But he did not want to leave a number that could be traced back to him. And he needed to delete the caller ID history.

The voice on the first message said: “Like the photo?”

He listened to the others:

“You did this to yourself.”

“You should have saved me.”

“There's no saving yourself now.”

“Killer.”

Jon erased all the messages and the caller ID history. Trembling like a china cup in an earthquake, he sat on the kitchen floor trying to catch his breath, trying to think. But his mind was a thorny maze of wild thoughts with no escape route. He told himself to concentrate. He knew what needed to be done.

How had the detective known of Randy?

Jon brought up the e-­mail on his phone.

Last chance. Meet me. Tonight. Same Place. 7 pm.

Agree to confess.

Or I go to the cops myself.

The time was 6:50
P.M.

The photo. The photo of Jon slipping out behind the Village Fare, date-­stamped just minutes before Jessica had been killed. The photo of him heading into the woods.

There was no way out.

Except one.

The sender had to be shut up, for good.

Jon climbed the stairs to the master bedroom three at a time. The house already smelled of place where nobody lived: musty, trapped, dead air. Cobwebs clung to a corner of the ceiling of the bedroom. Jon opened his work desk's hidden trick panel. Mouse droppings littered the bottom of the drawer. He took the only weapon he had left to stop the sender of the messages.

Jon brought up his e-­mail on his phone.

He typed in one sentence.

On my way.

And hit
SEND
.

O
UTSIDE, THE COLD
stung him. Winter had forced itself upon the world yet again, and was here to stay. Snow had settled, hiding the hard, sharp edges of the world under its soft whiteness.

The street was quiet. Jon hurried along the sidewalk.

He met no one.

He wanted to see Bethany, needed to explain himself, tell her everything.

He dialed the inn on his phone as he hurried. Nearly out of breath he asked Anna at the reception desk to put him through.

“She's not there,” Anna said.

“Where is she?” He walked into the Village Fare parking lot and headed toward the back of the place.

“Home,” Anna said.

“She isn't. I was just there.”

“Home to Connecticut.”

“Her father's?”

“She just said ‘home to Connecticut.' She left a message.” Anna paused. “She said she's not coming back.”

Jon stood in front of the woods behind the Village Fare. He had five minutes to get through them to the other side.

“You OK?” Anna said. “You sound horrible.”

“It's just sort of hit me, all at once.”

“You can't keep things at bay forever. Longer you do, worse it is when it catches up to you.”

“I gotta go,” he said.

“Call her, let her know you're all right.”

“I'm not all right, Anna.”

“You will be.”

“No,” he said, “I won't.”

He hung up and stared into the dark woods.