Misery Loves Company (19 page)

Roy’s eyes narrowed. “Well, with an uncommon name like Roy, sure. Yeah. Sure.” He laughed.

Chris sighed. “Look, we can play games here. But, Roy, I looked up your record. You’re going to be in here for a long time for theft, not to mention cocaine possession. What harm will it do you now to tell me what you know about my partner’s death?”

Roy seemed to consider this. “What do you know about it? The death of this Jason character?”

“I know that for two years I thought it was a random killing. But the more I dig, the more I’m starting to understand that Jason was investigating something at the time he was killed. Something about boat thefts. And right before he was killed, he got a call on his cell phone from an untraceable phone. That number was the number on the piece of paper with your name on it.”

Roy pondered again. Then he said, “A boat theft ring, you say?”

“During that time our department was on the lookout for the possibility of boat thefts because of how many were being stolen from adjacent towns.” Chris put his hands on the table, flat against the cold metal, spreading his fingers
wide, gesturing, he hoped, in a way that showed Roy he really had no hidden agenda. “None were being stolen from Wissberry, though.”

Roy, for the first time, looked conflicted. “Sometimes, you know, you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what, Roy?”

“Who the good guy is.” Roy’s steely eyes softened. “Maybe I got confused. Maybe they’s all bad.” His eyes hardened again. “Yeah. Bad to the bone.”

“Who, Roy? I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Ain’t you one of ’em?”

“One of . . . ?”

Roy sat back in his chair, the chains around his wrists rattling against the table. “I went to church. You know that? I did. When I was a little runt, my grandmother took me a lot. Said it was so I could always tell right from wrong. She knew I was gonna have some kind of tough life. Church
 
—yes, that’s a good place to be. I went to the one down by the shore, the one by the lighthouse. It’s small. Pretty inside. Lots of stained glass and nice carpet.”

Chris knew the one. It was in Wissberry. He tried not to sigh, but he wasn’t sure where Roy was going with all this.

Roy looked lost in his thoughts. “I tell ya, I did my pot. I did. I’ll cop to that. I did my pot. But I never did crack. And never sold any drug. Believed that was wrong to sell the stuff. I took it myself but never gave it to nobody.”

“You’re saying you were wrongly convicted? That you
didn’t have cocaine in your possession when you were busted for theft?”

“It was planted on me.”

The sigh finally escaped. “Of course it was. Look, Roy, I’m not a lawyer. I can’t do anything to help you. I’m just trying to figure out what happened to my partner.” Chris looked him over and then started to stand. This wasn’t worth his time.

But Roy cleared his throat. “I made my peace with being in here because of what I did to your partner. Jason.”

Chris slowly sat back down. “Did you . . . ? Were you the one that . . . ?”

“Pulled the trigger? No, my man. That wasn’t me. But I know who did it. Yeah. I do know.”

Chris felt his heart drop and race at the same time. “Who?”

“You gotta understand something,” Roy said, lowering his voice. “Sometimes the killer ain’t the one that pulled the trigger. Do you get what I’m talking about?”

Chris nodded, though he wasn’t sure.

Roy’s voice was now at a whisper. “I always knew it. I did. I always knew that Jason was one of the good ones.”

“He was.”

Roy lowered his gaze. “This is gonna be more than you know how to take. And it’s probably gonna get me killed in here.” He looked around, his eyes darting nervously from one table to the next. “But my grandma taught me things. And maybe I’m gonna make my final stand right now.” He nodded. “Yeah. Make her real proud.”

Dinner was meatballs over spaghetti. Homemade, all of it. She’d been smelling it for two hours as he’d prepared the meal. Now he brought it on a tray to her room, complete with a cloth napkin and fresh Parmesan cheese.

“It looks wonderful, Patrick,” Jules said. “You’re quite the cook.”

He smiled slightly. “It’s nice to have someone to cook for. Quite boring to cook for oneself.” He started to leave.

“Won’t you join me?” she asked. “I hate eating alone. Breaking of the bread is to be shared. That’s what Jason always said, anyway. He was big on sharing meals with family and friends.”

Patrick looked surprised but left. Soon, however, before Jules had even sliced into the first meatball, he’d returned with a sturdy wooden TV tray. He unfolded it and put it in front of the corner chair. He left once again, then returned with his meal on its own tray.

They ate in silence for a while, like an old married couple. Jules tried to push the pain out of her mind. Her ankles throbbed and burned as the nerves in her skin were thawing. She’d take another ibuprofen soon, but right now she wanted to focus on him.

“I believe I figured it out,” she said into the resounding silence of the room.

He looked up as he continued to twirl pasta around his fork. “Figured what out?”

“Why the guy turned into a snitch. What led him to it.” Jules set down her fork. “See, he was one of those guys who wasn’t all good and wasn’t all bad. He still had a sense of right and wrong.”

“You believe in such things? Pure motives?”

“He wasn’t pure. He just wasn’t all bad.”

“So there’s a little bit of good in everyone.”

“I believe that. Yes.”

“What turns people bad, then?”

“All kinds of things. I couldn’t generalize such a thing.”

“But aren’t you good at that?”

“At what?”

“Generalizations?”

Jules eyed him as she ate her dinner. “I’m just sensing here, but I think you have something particular in mind.” She smiled at him.

He actually smiled back. “I usually do. But let’s get back to the character. So he turned into a snitch so that he could feel good about himself?”

“So he wouldn’t feel so
bad
about himself.” She laughed. “Sorry. Just messing with you. Still trying to find out if you have a sense of humor.”

He chuckled, looking as though he was thoroughly enjoying the company. “That’s one thing I really enjoyed about reading your work.”

“My work?”

“Isn’t it considered art? Blogs? Facebook posts? That tweety-bird thing?”

“Twitter.”

“Stupid name.” He wiped his mouth and winked. “You do have a nice sense of humor. Even after Jason died, you kept it, didn’t you?”

“I guess. Jason said it was the very first thing that attracted him to me.”

“I can see why.” Patrick finished his meal. “So that is what I am missing. The snitch needs to have a good heart.”

“No. Not like that. He needs to feel . . . a sense that he has good in him. He wants to do what is right, but he can’t pull himself away from the world he’s always known.”

Patrick nodded and stood. He left momentarily to carry out his tray. When he returned, he picked up the pages of the manuscript from the bed. “Very good. A lot accomplished. Now I must work. It is going to be a big day tomorrow.”

“Oh? More fun lost in the woods during a snowstorm?”

He looked at her ankles. “How is your pain?”

“Returning.”

“It will get much worse before it gets better. You need to keep that ibuprofen in your system. I would recommend something stronger.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll stick to the ibuprofen.”

“All right. Would you like something to read for the evening, since you must stay in bed?”

“I’d like a Patrick Reagan novel. One of the classics, please.”

He smiled the smile of a man completely flattered. “I don’t keep any of my books here. In fact, I don’t keep any of my
books anywhere. Once I am finished, I am finished. I never want to see it again.”

Jules felt genuinely disappointed. “I was really looking forward to a good read.”

Patrick paused, then left. After a few moments, he returned with a file folder in his hands. He approached the bed and handed it over.

“What’s this?”

“My very first novel. Never published.”

Jules stared at it in disbelief. “Really?”

“It’s a love story, if you can believe it. Once my first suspense was published, nobody wanted a love story from Patrick Reagan. But it is quite touching, if I do say so myself.” He stepped away. “Enjoy.”

Jules quickly popped two ibuprofens and opened the folder to the first page.

It was simply titled
Snow
.

“JIM. JIM! WAKE UP!”
Chris shook the Lt. Colonel as hard as he could, then tapped his cheeks. “Jim!”

The Lt. Colonel snarled and groaned. Cracking his eyes open, he grunted, “What? Get off me! Get!”

Chris backed up. “I need you to wake up! Now!”

The Lt. Colonel sat up on the couch where he’d crashed and then stood, trying to orient himself. After a moment, he went to the kitchen sink and splashed cold water on his face. Chris paced impatiently nearby.

The Lt. Colonel eyed him as he dried his face with paper towels. “What’s gotten into you? Did you find Juliet?”

Chris ran his fingers through his hair. “No. Not yet. But . . . but I think I solved Jason’s murder.”

The Lt. Colonel looked more awake now. “Jason’s murder? I thought they determined it was some thugs. That Jason was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That was the theory,” Chris said, still pacing. “But it never quite sat right with me. And then when I found evidence of Jason looking into these boat thefts, I decided there might be more to the story.”

“Is there?”

Chris nodded. “And he was right. It is more than I can take.”

The Lt. Colonel frowned. “You’re shaking like a leaf, son. Sit down. Over there. Before you pass out or something.”

Chris sat, burying his face in his hands, trying to figure out what he believed, if anything.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I traced a phone number to a guy named Roy Fletcher, who’s in prison. I believed it was Roy who called Jason the night he died. I just went to see Roy at the state prison.”

“And?”

“He told me the most unbelievable thing, Jim . . .” Chris’s voice quivered.

“Spit it out.”

“He said that he’d met Jason at a park one night when he was taking a walk. Jason sat down on a bench where Roy was eating a sandwich and started talking to him about God.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. The guy would talk to a tree stump if he thought he could convert it.”

“So the way Roy tells it, he starts confessing that he’s involved in some thefts and he’s feeling bad about it. The next thing he knows, he’s snitching to Jason, feeding him information about this theft ring. Jason was just about to go to the department with the information when . . .”

“Go on.”

“Roy said that then Jason stumbled onto something by accident. Jason hadn’t been able to figure out how and where they were hiding the boats. He found a warehouse full of them, just off the pass. You know the warehouse behind the boat factory that burned down in 2007?”

“They were hiding the boats in our town?”

“Yes. And then Jason figured out how.” Chris lowered his head, almost unable to say what needed to be said next. “Our department.”

“The police department?”

“They were accepting kickbacks for looking the other way. Roy came clean, told Jason he knew about the department’s involvement but had to make sure Jason was . . . good. He named Perry as the ringleader
 
—he wasn’t captain back then
 
—and named a couple of other guys. Roy didn’t know everyone but felt it was far-reaching.”

The Lt. Colonel’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “You’re telling me that our police department is corrupt? That we’ve got guys accepting payment to look the other way?”

“That’s what Roy said.”

“Is this Roy guy believable?”

“I don’t know why he would have reason to lie to me. He seemed genuinely . . . remorseful.”

“Remorseful for what?”

“He’s the one that led Jason out to the boat that night.”

“Why?”

Chris shook his head, two years of grief swallowing him whole.

“Chris?”

“Roy said because they got to him, heard he was snitching, and offered to pay him
 
—and spare his life
 
—if he’d do one little thing. Get Jason Belleno to that spot.” Chris pressed his lips together, trying to keep his emotions in check. “Roy swears he didn’t know they were going to kill him. He thought they might rough him up. Roy said he desperately needed the money, so . . .”

“The cops killed one of their own?”

“No. No, it was the guys involved in the theft ring. But you don’t have to pull the trigger to be guilty.”

The Lt. Colonel looked dismayed.

“Roy said shortly after Jason’s death, he was arrested for theft and cocaine possession, which he claims was planted on him by dirty cops wanting to silence anyone who might uncover the truth. He said they knew he’d be discredited with a drug conviction, and even if he spoke up, no one would take him seriously.”

The Lt. Colonel stood, rubbing his face. “I always knew those guys were crooked.” He scowled.

“I . . . I don’t even know what to do now.”

“You think this is related to Juliet’s disappearance?”

“I don’t know. I mean, Patrick Reagan was at the police department researching a book around this time, but I don’t know what one has to do with the other.”

“Come here. I want to show you something.”

Chris followed him over to the computer. The Lt. Colonel sat down, saying, “I was on Juliet’s computer today, trying to find something, anything that might lead us to her. I stumbled onto a file called ‘Writing’ and opened it. Inside was this.” He clicked the mouse and opened a file that popped onto the screen.

Chris felt himself gasp.

The Daring Life of Enoch Mandon by Blake Timble.

“What?”

Why would Jules have this manuscript on her computer? How could she, if it was such a closely guarded secret, according to the publisher?

Unless . . .

“She’s him,” Chris whispered.

“What? Who?”

“Jules. She’s Blake Timble.”

“Who is Blake
 
—?”

“She’s writing under a pen name. That’s the only way she could have this manuscript. She wrote it.”

The Lt. Colonel looked at the screen. “She
has
been writing.” He smiled. “She took my advice.”

A loud pounding at the door startled both men.

“You expecting anyone?” Chris asked.

The Lt. Colonel shook his head.

“Close that file,” Chris whispered.

He cautiously walked to the door, trying not to let paranoia get the best of him. The door had no peephole, so he just opened it.

Jeff Walker stood there, a contempt-filled smile on his face. “Downey. What are you doing here?”

“Checking up on Jules’s dad.”

Walker peeked around to look at the Lt. Colonel. “Interesting. Well, the captain is upset. I’ve been trying to hunt you down to warn you.”

“Upset about what?”

“That you’re out investigating this thing without his consent.”

“So he’s been following me. Or someone has.”

Walker didn’t blink. “Something like that. Look, kid, nothing against your ambitions to find this lady, but don’t double-cross the captain. Not good for the career.”

“And how, exactly, am I double-crossing the captain by trying to find Juliet Belleno?”

“He doesn’t like insubordination.”

“Right. This is all about me disobeying orders.”

The two men stared at each other. Chris didn’t back down against Walker’s glare.

“Look, it’s just one cop looking out after another, that’s all,” Walker finally said, backing up with a smirk on his face. “I mean, if we can’t trust each other, then who can we trust?”

“I appreciate your concern. I’ll keep your advice in mind.”

“You should.” He walked backward, pointing at the Lt. Colonel. “And keep that nut job off the streets.”

Walker drove away and Chris let out the breath he’d been holding.

The Lt. Colonel came up behind him. “What now?”

Chris turned back toward the computer. “I’m going to need a printout of that book.”

It began to rain, the cold, dreary rain that scrubs the soul of joy and hope. The sky had turned dark, and with the temperature dropping, the rain would turn to snow soon enough.

He’d taken the manuscript to Perks, trying to warm himself up with a hot drink while simultaneously cooling down his temper. If Roy Fletcher was to be believed, then not only was his department corrupt, but they’d also worked very hard to cover it up. For two years. Who could be believed now? Who could be trusted? Surely Maecoat wasn’t involved in this. But how could Chris know for sure? It was lie after lie after lie.

He found a corner booth away from the college crowd that finally got to take over Perks once the old folks went to bed. He tried to wipe the paranoia out of his mind and concentrate on what he was reading, flipping through the pages in an attempt to get the main idea. From what he could tell, it was the story of a war veteran who’d seen combat in two wars and turned to alcohol to cope with his grief. He had a wife and daughter at home, and he simultaneously destroyed
both relationships. There was no denying how this paralleled Jules’s life and the life of the Lt. Colonel. No wonder she wanted it published under a pen name. There were some emotionally brutal truths in the book.

On page 108, something caught Chris’s eye as he was speeding through the text.

The daughter, named Meg in the story, sat in a car on a cold winter evening, inside the garage of her home. The car was running. The garage door was down. And she was becoming sleepy.

Chris raced through the next few pages as the character slipped away, too filled with the grief of her dad’s alcoholism and her husband’s death.

Surely somebody comes and saves her.

But four pages later, Meg was dead in the car.

The next morning her father found her.

Chris sat back in the booth and swallowed the fear that was emerging. Was Jules planning on killing herself?

He hurried through the rest of the manuscript to find out what happened, his finger flying down the pages. The remainder of the story was about how the daughter had left her father a note, asking him to get his life right. She wanted him to have joy and peace and live out the rest of his days in happiness.

And by
The End
, the father found his way, even through the grief of his daughter’s death.

Chris held his head in his hands. What was this, some kind of final good-bye? A three-hundred-page suicide note?

Or was it just a work of fiction? Some way for Jules to cope with her grief?

His hands were shaking as he gathered up the pages and headed home, feeling as desperate as the characters in the book. He knew so much yet had so little power to do anything about it.

And he had to factor in the possibility that Roy Fletcher was lying, making it all up.

Then there was this possibility of the strangest kidnapping on the planet. How did everything connect?

It was nearly midnight when Chris arrived home. He covered the manuscript with his jacket and ran toward the porch, unable to avoid the soaking rain.

As he shook the rain off himself, he looked up to see that his front door was open. Just a crack.

He glanced toward the window. It looked like every light in the house was off. Which was strange, since Addy was scared of the dark and always had three or four lamps going even when she wasn’t home.

An unsettled feeling came over Chris. He ran back to his truck, threw the pages inside the box that held Jason’s files, and grabbed his gun. He couldn’t tell if Addy’s rental car was there. He let her park in the garage when she visited.

He listened carefully as he crept up on the porch but didn’t hear anything.

He used his elbow to open the door. With his left hand, he slowly reached for the light switch. He flipped it, but nothing happened.

Chris turned, keeping his gun pointed into the dark house, and looked through the trees. His neighbor’s lights were on and they always lost electricity together in a storm.

Moving inside, he let his eyes adjust as he searched for any sound or movement. Everything was quiet.

“Addy?” he called. “Addy?”

Then a noise. He couldn’t identify it. It sounded like a dog’s claws against a wooden floor. A tapping. A stomping?

A moaning.

“Addy!”

Chris raced through the house, knocking his shin against the coffee table and his hip against the couch. He slipped on the rug but managed to keep from falling.

“Addy?”

No reply. But as he reached the kitchen, he could see a shadowy figure in a chair that had been pulled away from the table. He carefully approached, listening for any other movement, any other sign that someone else was in the house.

As he got closer, he could see it was Addy, tied to the chair. Her eyes were wide with terror.

“Addy, Addy . . . hold on. I’ll get you untied. Hold on.” He opened the drawer that held a flashlight and scissors, then put the flashlight under his arm and tried to untie the knot that bound her hands behind her back and behind the chair. He tried the scissors, but they weren’t sharp enough to cut through.

He went around to face her and pulled the duct tape off
her mouth. She gasped for breath, and as he shone some light on her, he could see her left eye was swollen shut.

He cupped her face. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, tears rolling down her face. “Chris . . .”

“Okay. It’s okay. Stay calm. I’ve got to go get my knife.” It had the sharpest blade on it. It would cut through swiftly.