Storm Gathering (8 page)

There. His CD and VHS collection. Usually in a neat pile—nearly the only thing neat in his entire house—it was pushed sideways, leaning against the side of the stereo casing.

The photo album under his coffee table that was always open to a picture of him and his mother and father on vacation in the Bahamas was now open to an old photo of him and Aaron at a baseball game, chummy arms around each other.

Mick glanced at the entryway tile and bent over for a closer look. There—light brown footprints. From the mud. He followed the prints back to the kitchen. On the kitchen tile, the prints were barely visible, but he could feel them with his fingertips. Nothing else seemed out of order.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he was panting like he’d just finished practice. The after-rain humidity crowded his lungs. Opening a cabinet, he grabbed a glass, slamming it to the counter from sheer adrenaline.

He swung open the refrigerator door and snatched the orange juice container. Mick held it up and stared at it. Completely empty. Somebody drank his orange juice? Clenching his jaw, he threw the container across the room.

Whoever had been here wanted to make sure Mick knew it.

Stomping down the hall , Mick flipped the dead bolt on the front door, then went to the bathroom. He threw off his robe and stepped into the shower. His skin stung as the ice-cold water hit it.

He didn’t care. Right now his blood was running cold anyway.

Sammy Earle sighed. A long, exhausting, indifferent sigh. His secretary, JoAnne, stared at him from the doorway of his office. “Did you hear me? You’re late?”

“I heard you,” Sammy said, pushing three pieces of Juicy Fruit into his mouth. He was trying to quit smoking. Trying for five years. He’d stopped drinking and using pot, so the other vice didn’t seem so urgent. Except he couldn’t run a mile anymore. There had been a day when he could run ten. “You keep yapping like a dog and you’re going to turn into one.”

JoAnne’s heavily lined eyes lit with surprise, and she scowled at him as she turned on her heel and left.

If JoAnne could manage an ounce of class, Sammy would probably give her a bit more respect. But her bright pink fingernails and her bobby-pinned bushel of hair did little to make her the least bit attractive. He supposed she dressed trashy to offset her other physical disasters, but it ended up creating a package straight out of the ’80s. The woman still wore leggings under her fluffy skirts and hoop earrings that nearly touched her shoulders. Sammy wanted to pin a sign to her forehead that read Wake Up! It’s 1995!

Sammy grabbed his briefcase and jacket, smoothing out his hair and trying to pull the crease out of his tie. He didn’t feel like defending a rapist today. He hardly ever did.

“Even lowlifes need defense. It’s part of being American,” his father had once told him. Ambulance Chaser Al was what they called his dad. He died when one of his own defendants shot him to death outside the courtroom.

Sammy did indeed defend lowlifes. Rich and famous lowlifes, though, who paid him a lot of money to try to reverse the mistakes they made when they thought nobody was watching.

Sammy stood by the window of his office and studied the McDonald’s Monopoly game he’d been playing. It was laid out neatly on a small table in front of him, all the game pieces he’d won in their proper places. He was not a gambling man. But there were no risks here—other than a fact that eating at the fast-food chain could indeed be an intestinal risk in and of itself—and occasionally it came with certain perks like free fries or a sundae.

“You’re late!” JoAnne called again from her desk around the corner. “Judge Greer hates your guts. Why do you egg him on by being late all the time?”

Sammy smiled.
Because Judge Greer hates my guts, that’s why.

He walked out of his office without regard to JoAnne, who was apparently wanting some sort of thank-you for her persistence. Kellan Johannsen was his defendant today. Famous sports star, womanizer, rich kid who didn’t know what to do with all he had. For the right price, Sammy was supposed to wash the blood from his hands.

He was the antibacterial soap of the stars. Today he would march into the courtroom with a particular, practiced posture—the one that said, “You’re targeting him because he’s rich and famous.” Then he’d make the woman out to be some sort of high-priced prostitute. And then he’d lift Kellan high up the moral ladder and make everyone doubt their first instincts about the man.

In the elevator, he cleaned the grime underneath his fingernails. The tangible grime anyway.

By 8:30 a.m. Aaron had finished the last of the paperwork from yesterday. Normally Jarrod would do most of it, but Aaron wanted to make sure it was done right. Across from him, Jarrod was on the phone and taking notes.

His stomach grumbled. Jenny had come over early and brought him bagels on her way to work. He’d taken a couple of bites to satisfy her but thrown the rest away when she left.

The hot coffee seemed to be eating away at his stomach lining. Acid burned at his esophagus. He was about to get up for a glass of water when Jarrod hung up the phone.

“That was the airport police,” Jarrod said, handing him the paper. “This is the name of the passenger that went nuts Tuesday.”

Aaron took the paper.
Timothy R. Marcus. From Grapevine.

“Said they released him a couple of hours after the incident. Guess the guy was drunk.”

“Any charges?”

“They’re not sure yet. He didn’t do too much except yell. Bad mannered and impatient.”

“Do we know what his business was in LA?”

“Job interview. Dinner with some bigwig that was going to make him a millionaire. Left on a flight the next afternoon.”

Aaron said, “Okay, let me fill his address out here, and then you can take this information over to Lieutenant Crawford.”

Jarrod groaned. “Do I have to?”

“Just set it on his desk. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“The guy creeps me out. Always humming that stupid song.”

“Keep your voice down,” Aaron said, shooting him a look. “Just roll with him. Stay out of his way.”

“If everyone hates him so much, why is he still here?” Jarrod asked.

“He’s good at what he does.”

“Is it true he marks stuff with his blood?”

“It’s probably a crazy rumor.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem with him like everyone else does.”

Aaron looked up at Jarrod’s expectant eyes. The kid probably wouldn’t understand why. “Look, the problem with this place is ego. Everyone wants to be in charge; everyone wants to one-up the next guy. That sort of thing doesn’t bother me. I figure when it’s my time to shine, God will let me know.”

Jarrod was grinning with half his mouth. “What does that mean?”

Aaron shook his head. “It means that I don’t always have to be number one.” By the perplexed look on Jarrod’s face, he knew there was no comprehension.

“Aaron.”

Aaron turned around to his name being called. Standing in the doorway of his office was Captain Bellows. Aaron stood. “Yes, sir?”

“Need to see you for a second.” The captain disappeared into his own office. Inside, he asked Aaron to shut the door. “Thanks for coming in, Aaron.”

“Sure.” Aaron sat down. “Let me guess. You want me to stay out of the way.”

Fred Bellows’s deep-set eyes reflected an equal measure of compassion and staunchness. Tall and husky, Bellows was as good a boss as anybody could ask for, but he was always driven by ambitions that on occasion contradicted each other. He said he’d retire next year, but he’d been saying that for eight years.

After a mild heart attack last year, Bellows had finally taken Aaron up on his many invitations to visit his church. He and his wife, Gladys, had come three times.

“It’s my Catholic upbringing,” he’d told Aaron as an excuse for why he couldn’t return to the “protestant” church.

Aaron pointed out a great Catholic church three miles from the captain’s house. And that was the end of it.

Fred folded his fingers and rested his hands on his small potbelly. “Chief thought it best.”

Chief Sandy Howard, formally from Detroit, was a Navy Seal back in the ’70s and ran the department like a drill sergeant from one of his academy days. But Aaron respected him.

“I understand. It’ll be cleared up soon. Mick, I mean.”

Fred’s thick lips pursed in thought. “Doesn’t have an alibi.”

“I know.” Aaron fiddled with the metal on his belt. “They’re certain it is a kidnapping?”

“Evidence looks that way.”

“Mick didn’t do this,” Aaron said. “I want you to know that. I don’t know what Crawford and his team are going to do here, but I’m telling you Mick is not the person responsible if this woman was indeed kidnapped.”

“I know this is tough,” Fred said, staring at his desk. He looked up at Aaron. “It’s a criminal investigation now. So I just want you to be aware of that.”

“Are they going to arrest Mick?”

“Can’t say.”

“Or won’t say?”

Fred sighed and leaned forward on his desk. “Aaron, just make sure that Mick doesn’t do anything stupid. That’s the only control you have in this situation. He could make things a whole lot worse for himself. You and I both know that. Tell that kid to sit and do nothing.”

Aaron bit his lip. He knew one thing for sure. He had no control over Mick and never had. If Mick did something foolish, things would get risky for him very quickly. As if they weren’t risky enough already.

“Since Homicide will be handling this, your duties will resume as normal. How’s Jarrod working out for you, by the way?” Fred smiled, trying to shift the conversation to small talk.

Aaron obliged. “He’s okay. Has a lot of impressions of the world that will quickly be skewed.”

“Well, he’s got a good man to teach him. This is a tough life, ain’t it?”

Aaron nodded and stood. “Anything else, Captain?”

“No. I’ll keep you updated as I can.”

But Aaron saw in his eyes that any information he was going to get would be after decisions had already been made. Aaron felt his stomach churn but managed a courteous smile.

Down the hall, he noticed a group of officers gathered in front of the television.

Jarrod looked around as Aaron approached. “It’s breaking news this morning,” Jarrod said.

The officers, eyes averting, parted so Aaron could see the TV, just as a boxed picture of Mick coaching football came up next to the news anchor’s face.

“They’re calling him a person of interest,” the coifed woman said into the camera.

Mick’s sleep had been fitful at best. He woke unusually early, tangled in his covers, and knocked over a glass on his bedside table. When he finally managed to get out of bed, he went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face three times before one eye would pry open. He ran a toothbrush over his teeth and gargled with mouthwash before going to the kitchen, hoping to find at least a couple of eggs. The clock read 10:12 a.m.

A knock at the front door chased the grogginess away.

Mick made his way to the door. “Who is it?”

“Aaron. Let me in.”

“Go away!”

“Mick, let me in. Now.”

Mick cracked open the door. Aaron was in uniform. Mick had always thought he looked good in it. As if he needed anything else stoic about him. “Is this official police business?”

Aaron shoved past him and into the house, looking around before turning back to him. “No. I’m officially off the case. And it’s officially a homicide investigation, if you didn’t know that already.”

“So what’s going on? Are they coming to arrest me this morning? Should I change into something else?” Mick pointed to his pajama bottoms.

Aaron followed Mick into the kitchen, where Mick poured a glass of milk without sniffing the container first. One sip and he spit it into the sink, dumping the rest down the drain.

“I hope you know this isn’t a joke.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“I just want to talk, Mick. I want to get as much information from you as I can.”

“You’re not on the case. What does it matter?”

“Because I’m on the police force still, and the more I know, the more I can help you.”

Mick leaned against the cabinets and studied his brother, aware that his own defensiveness tended to blind him to his brother’s intentions. Aaron’s normally intense eyes did seem less so. The disapproving look that often crossed Aaron’s expression was replaced by concern.

“You need to get a lawyer,” Aaron said.

Mick tried not to flinch.

“I don’t know if they’re going to make an arrest, but you need to be prepared if they do.”

“I’m not getting a lawyer. It’ll only make me look guilty. You already think I’m guilty.”