Saboteur: A Novel (15 page)

Chapter 32

Downy and Naomi walked hurriedly into Woody’s. The place was
empty and the morning crew could be heard still cleaning up from the night
before. They raced toward the back. He hit his contacts button for Clellon his
agent in London. From a real phone he could barely remember how to dial
overseas, so he simply hit zero for the operator. He figured you could still
make a collect call. Naomi sat nervously at the table. The night they had spent
before now seemed like a cruel dream. He couldn’t help but think the worst from
the bloodstain. The whole situation was too strange for words.

The phone rang on and on, but
finally a voice picked up.

“Dear boy a collect call you must
be lost in the jungle again. Is everything ok?”

“Clellon, thank God you answered!
I’m calling about Samara Patterson, she’s been taken I think by people
connected to Charlie somehow, to Nazim. They said I should call you and ask
about the pond? Can you please tell me what the hell is going on? What are they
talking about?”

There was a long silence on the
other end of the line.

“Clellon? Are you still there?”

“I am, Noah, came the voice
hesitantly, “I’m sorry, I’m a bit in shock. This is very bad news.”

“Where the hell is this pond and
why does Nazim think Charlie is still alive?”

Another long pause ensued.

“Dear god m’boy, I have no idea
what to say.”

“Clellon what do you know about all
this, please fucking just say something?”

“Noah, is Naomi with you?”

“Yes, she is.”

He looked out of the glass pane of
the booth and could see Naomi, who was now talking with someone near the bar.
They were looking at something together.

“You must get her out of there
immediately, get her far away from you.”

He looked again but couldn’t see
the man’s face. She turned and seemed to look in his direction, but then
suddenly ran out of the bar, the man following closely behind.

“Hold on!” he said throwing the
receiver down.

He chased after her, but as he ran
he could see papers strewn about the floor where she had stood. He stopped to
pick them up. He held in his hand a picture. It was of he and Samara in the
phone booth locked in a passionate kiss. He continued running franticly out the
door, but as he emerged someone knocked him to the ground. Then a swarm of men
were upon him. It took him a moment to realize who they were.

“You have the right to remain
silent, douchebag,” one of them said.

It was the detective from his office.

“Looks like I’m going to have to
pass on that coffee too,” he said, struggling to get the cuffs on. “Too bad, I
love a good cup of coffee.”

“What’s happening here?”

“You’re under arrest for the murder
of Samara Lee Patterson and two fucking cops
you
son
of a bitch.”

Naomi stood in the wings crying
uncontrollably as they pried the picture of he and Samara from Downy’s shaking
hands.

“Naomi!” he shouted imploringly.
“This is a mistake. I have to talk to Clellon. She’s still alive!”

“You’ll get your phone call
asshole. Calling the Pope won’t save your ass though.”

“Samara can’t be dead; the
kidnappers said she was at the pond.”

“Yeah we found her there already.
Did you guys go for a little midnight swim, professor? Kidnappers, huh? That’s
original.”

It was like a bad dream. He stopped
talking realizing no one was listening. The staff of the bar stood looking on
in confusion at the melee. Police cars were lined up around the block and as they
brought him to his feet he could see into Woody’s to the second floor balcony.
Smoke wafted down from above and a hazy figure stood in silhouette. Downy could
swear it was…but his mind was now too far gone and he simply went mute.

“Char…Charlie?” he muttered, before
being led away.

Part
Two

Chapter
I

Bob Tierney held what was perhaps the most triumphant press
conference of his career after the arrest of Professor Noah Downy, announcing
that the case against him was as air tight as they come, with mountains of
physical evidence, not to mention motive and a soon to be found murder weapon,
which had been taken from the college’s ancient weaponry collection. Accolades
rained down from every quarter on behalf of the two vanished policemen and of
course the beautiful college student Samara Lee Patterson, who’s lifeless, and
partially mutilated body was discovered by teens skinny-dipping in a nearby
pond on the night of her disappearance. In a rare move Tierney also announced
the reinstatement of Sergeant Joe Tackett, divulging that Tackett’s suspension
had all along only been a clever ruse to lure the killer into a false sense of
security, since the department had long suspected he was closely watching them.
Noticeably absent from the hat tips was any mention of Nick Sullivan, who now
sat idly outside the interrogation room drinking an almost cold coffee from
Donut Haven.

“Cheer up kid, I told you my days
are numbered here.”

He looked up to see Tackett with a
wide grin on his face.

“You’ll be Sergeant in no time and
good riddance to this place I say. I’ll leave the bottle of Jack in my desk for
you when I go.”

“I’m not leadership material.”

“Have it your way kid.”

“You should let the pros handle
this interrogation you know. This guy is a cold, calculating SOB. They’ll write
whole books about the fact that he used a goddamn Roman sword to slice up that
pretty little co-ed.”

“He’s asked to speak with me
actually. I’d rather not be here at all.”

“I know the feeling, man. It’s the
hunt that drives guys like us and now look at you--blue as hell. There’ll be
other cases.”

“It was good work you did,”
Sullivan said suddenly coming back to life.

“Not really. We still don’t know
who sent the photos. Probably someone tired of seeing him get away with it for
all these years. They’ll come forward I’m sure. I’m still looking into it.”

“Any word from the university?”

“Oh the teacher’s union is quiet on
this one actually, though as usual the goddamn academics are lining up from
here to Fresno to support the bastard. I spoke to his school dean and he says
Downy wouldn’t hurt anyone. Typical.”

“Yeah, no one ever believes anyone
they know is capable of this kind of shit.”

“Why do you think he wants to see
you?”

“I don’t know. We bonded a bit, I
guess when I interviewed him.”

“Well, enjoy. Maybe you’ll get an
honorable mention in the book. Hey, speaking of your fame, I was talking to
Shepard, he and I were wonder--can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

The Redneck Killer? How did you
find him? Really? I know you ain’t no supernatural phenom, that’s a crock. You
never said in your big TV interview about any lie detecting.”

He paused looking despondent.

“Milk.”

“Come again?”

“Margie Wells had been buying one
gallon of milk at Cut-Rate Supermarket since I was a kid, without fail. Her
son, who had a rape charge on him from a few years earlier, was supposedly out
of state, or so she claimed. On the day I ran into her at the market, she
bought two gallons. Found him in her basement that night with one of the girl’s
underwear.”

“No shit.”

“No shit.”

Rodriguez opened the door to the
interrogation room and yelled, “Next.”

“That guy is awfully cute and nice for a goddamn butcher
man. Tell you what, none of my teachers were like that.”

Sullivan raised his eyebrows in
seeming agreement. “None of your teachers used first century cutlery to
disembowel college girls either, did they?”

“Fucking A, right. Douche says he
will only talk to you, so get in there.”

“Yeah, so I heard.”

He walked into the room silently.
Noah Downy looked up from his cup of tea, still playing absentmindedly with the
tiny piece of paper at the end of the teabag. All the color was gone from his
youngish face and his eyes blazed hot with red. He’d been in the room now for
nearly 48 hours, but had steadfastly refused a lawyer.

“Hey man, the last time I saw you,
I told you I wanted to meet under better circumstances.
This
sure ain’t it,” he said sitting down.

“I didn’t kill Samara or those
cops. The other detective said you have a kind of sixth sense. What’s it
telling you?”

“Look man, the teachers’ union is
sending over a lawyer for you and if you want to avoid the chair I’d say my
sixth sense says do it.”

“Where’s my wife?”

“She’s here, but she doesn’t want
to speak to you just yet.”

“I wasn’t having sex with Samara.
That picture was just a childish mistake.”

“Oh yeah, how about this?” he said
throwing the pictures of Samara’s body onto the table.

Downy threw his hand over his
mouth. Tears raced down his cheeks.

“She was like a fucking daughter to
me,” he said bitterly, pushing the pictures away. Sullivan threw down the
picture from the phone booth.

“You always slip the tongue like
that to your daughters?”

“I don’t have any children, but
I--”

“Probably best.”

“Please put those away,” Downy said
grimacing. “You have absolutely no idea how it feels to see her like this. I
loved her like a daughter.”

“Is that why you dumped her in the
water?”

“My wife is only angry about the
picture. I could explain it to her if I had the chance.”

“Yeah, she was ready to talk
actually until her drug screen came back positive for Darvocet. Fifty
milligrams, which we also found in Samara’s system. You put it in their drinks,
I presume?” You’re lucky she isn’t dead too with a dose like that plus the
booze. But hey, at this point who’s counting? Is that so you could talk to
them? Explain things?”

“My wife takes those when we
travel, she hates flying.”

“Yeah, but she said she didn’t take
them that Friday night and you’re really the only one with access to her drugs
besides her, or so she says.”

“She lying too, she in on this
middle eastern kidnapping conspiracy boss?”

Downy looked up again from his tea.
“Why would I do a thing like this?”

“You can tell me or not, man; it
makes no difference really. That weapon you used is some medieval shit though,
I gotta admit, I didn’t necessarily have you pegged as the type.”

“The sword is part of a collection;
I never used it for anything but research.”

“Yeah, but the university says you
checked it out just last week, rather unexpectedly. Some timing.”

Downy went silent.

“Hey, maybe you don’t need a lawyer
after all. I mean you got an explanation for pretty much everything. Those cops
do have families though man; don’t you think they deserve some closure? Tell me
where their bodies are and you might even get some leniency.”

“Can I ask you to do one thing?” he
said ignoring the comment altogether.

“I don’t know. I’m a pretty busy
man, cleaning up after all your messes.”

“You have to contact my agent
Clellon Holmes in London, Wingate Publishing and ask him about Charlie
Patterson, about the pond; that’s where they said she was being kept. They said
she was still alive. I don’t know why they killed her.”

“Yeah right, Patterson, that’s the
dead guy you claim you saw when we arrested you. Somehow he’s involved in his
daughter’s murder too?”

“You know, I thought you were an
awfully good cop when we met before. If you really do have a sixth sense,
you’ll be able to tell that Clellon is lying. He knows something about all
this.” Downy leaned in in exasperation. “You can see for yourself, on my cell
phone, where they messaged me for Christ’s sake. Don’t you cops check evidence
at least?”

“Yeah, we checked it already.
That’s pretty clever, texting us from your office computer like that. The I.T.
geeks are still trying to figure out how you managed that trick, but I bet you
got a lackey is all. Same one who tried to get rid of these pics for you by
torching my first and only residence in California. Rude, man. Rude.”

Downy looked stricken.

“Still, hard to figure. You looked
happy as hell to me, man; but I guess for some people nothing is ever enough.”

“Clellon Holmes. Please. Do it for
a fellow Southerner who has no other hope of clearing his name.”

Sullivan frowned.

“The number is in my phone. Just
call him, I beg you. If you still think I’m full of shit after, you can just
let me rot in jail or fry or whatever…”

“That’s it then, you ain’t talkin?”

“Samara kissed me, not the other
way around. She thought her dad may have been involved with someone or possibly
even still ali--never mind,” he said bowing his head in seeming defeat.

He grabbed the pictures before
turning to leave.

“That’s not what she was wearing,”
Downy muttered almost imperceptibly.

“What’s that?” he said turning back
around.

“The night she disappeared, Samara
wasn’t wearing that outfit. She had on a black sweater with the shoulders cut
out.”

Sullivan simply nodded and walked
out without a word.

“How did it
go?” Tierney said suddenly appearing from nowhere, the way he always seemed to.

“Mum’s the word. Any news on that
murder weapon?”

“They’re dredging the pond still.
Look, Sullivan, you get high marks for initiative on this case. If you can
learn to be more disciplined, you could go a long way around here.”

“Thanks Bob.”

“Don’t ever fucking call me Bob,
ever you little shit.”

Sullivan walked away without a
word, already thinking about Tina from the Aero club.

Surely she could help him
decompress. He really did get down as hell after a case was solved. The chase
was over.

Tackett saw him on his way out.
“Any luck?”

“Negative.”

“Where you headed?”

“To the Aero Club.”

“Got it on the brain already, eh?”

He laughed. “See you tonight, ok?
Make coffee for three, not the shit from the fridge either.”

Sullivan walked past the evidence
room on his way out. There was only the late shift person still working. He
paused momentarily, but then walked on. Screw the bastard. He was tired of
police work, tired of pretty dead girls and bad professors.