The Right Call (22 page)

Chapter 25

Stedman
pushed open the door to his side of the duplex his grandmother was renting to him for a fraction of what he would pay elsewhere. He took off his work boots and socks, walked barefoot to the kitchen, and tossed his keys on the table. He reached in the refrigerator, which was empty except for leftover Chinese takeout and his last can of beer. He popped the top of the can and took a big gulp, Thursday’s conversation with Grant at Rambo’s playing over and over like a stuck CD.

It seemed obvious that Grant intended for Tal Davison’s death to send a message to his big-shot father. But why did Grant—or whomever he was conspiring with—decide to shoot indiscriminately, knowing innocent people could be hit? And why go after Drew Langley? What did his death have to do with anything? And why the phony deal to make sure Stedman’s fingerprints were on the gun—unless he was trying to pull something? But what? And why?

The hype over the funerals had to be pressuring the cops to make an arrest. What if the anonymous person who turned in the gun decided to tell the police whose prints were on it? Grant told him he had nothing to worry about as long as he kept his mouth shut. But how could he believe a guy who tricked him? What if he
was
being set up? Was he going to sit back like a dupe and let it happen?

He leaned against the sink and looked out the kitchen window, hoping his grandmother would not pick now to come over. He chugged the beer and crushed the can. How could he have gotten himself mixed up in this? He was ashamed that he’d ever agreed to kill a man. But he didn’t do it. Was he even capable of it? Hadn’t he followed Tal Davison for blocks, cowering behind the steering wheel, unable to get up his nerve? He was not going to be somebody’s scapegoat for four murders!

There must be something he could do to protect himself. He glanced up at the clock. Grant would be playing poker tonight. Maybe it was time to start searching for whatever it was Grant
wasn’t
telling him.

Ethan stood out in the backyard of his uncle Richard and aunt Becca’s house, his hands in his pockets, and looked out beyond the giant oaks to the silhouette of the Great Smoky Mountains that dominated the evening sky. He could almost feel Drew’s heartbeat beneath his feet, hear his voice in the breeze. They had stood together on this very spot a hundred times. How could he be gone?

A warm hand touched his back.

“How’re you doing?” Tom Langley asked.

“I’m pretty empty, Dad. How about you?”

“That about covers it. Sure you don’t want something to eat? The church women brought enough to feed an army, but it’s been sitting out awhile and the girls want to get it in the refrigerator.”

“Thanks. But I’m really not hungry.”

“The funeral was nice.”

“Very. But I’m disgusted with Uncle Ralph for not at least sending flowers.”

“You’ve got enough on your plate without worrying about that situation.”

Ethan looked into his dad’s face, which bore Richard’s gentleness and Ralph’s determination. “I’m the only nephew now. It feels weird.”

“I know, son. I’m so sorry.”

Ethan’s eyes brimmed with tears, and the Great Smoky Mountains became a blurred mass of gray, like the inkblots pictured in his psychology textbooks. “I can’t imagine my life without Drew.”

“You two were inseparable. I can only imagine how hard this is for you.”

“Why did it have to end like
this,
Dad? I mean, why couldn’t Drew have died trying to save someone’s life? I hate it that people will remember him as a murder victim—a statistic.”

“His family won’t.”

“I doubt Vanessa will ever be able to think of Drew any other way.”

His dad looked at him knowingly. “Then we’ll just have to tell her about the Drew we knew and loved. But you’re the psych major. I don’t need to tell you how to handle things.” He popped Ethan with his knuckle. “ So … you really like this young lady. I can tell.”

“I do—a lot.”

“Is it serious?”

“I’d like it to be.” Ethan exhaled. “All I planned to do this summer, besides work for Uncle Ralph, was enjoy Vanessa’s company—and Carter’s—and see where that would take us.”

“Good. Sounds promising.”

“Come on, Dad. Drew’s murder didn’t exactly set the mood for romance.”

Tom put his hands on Ethan’s shoulders. “Listen to me: True love can bloom in any season. It’s the hardiest living thing on the face of the earth.”

“Yeah, if grief doesn’t kill it.”

“It won’t unless you let it. Drew died, Ethan. You didn’t. As long as you’re still breathing, you’ve got a future to plan for. And if it were me, I sure wouldn’t let that beautiful young woman slip through my fingers.”

“I feel guilty even thinking about my own happiness right now.”

“That’ll pass. You can’t just stop living because Drew was taken from us.”

Stedman drove down Main until he was out of downtown, then turned right on Robin Road and left on Bluebird. He drove slowly past the dark green bungalow at 520 and didn’t see lights on or Grant’s Explorer in the driveway. Poker games were held in the back room at Rambo’s and typically went on until the wee hours of the morning.

Stedman drove one block over and parked along the curb under a big shade tree, relieved when the moon disappeared behind the clouds. He waited until he was sure no one was in sight, then got out, grabbed a bag out of the bed of his truck, and moved stealthily in the dark through the side yard, toward the alley.

A frenzied dog yapped somewhere nearby. That’s all he needed. He slipped surreptitiously behind what appeared to be a detached garage, then crossed the alley to the privacy fence behind Grant’s house. He released the latch on the heavy wood gate and pushed—relieved when it opened with no resistance.

The lights came on next door, and then the back porch light. Stedman ducked down behind a large garbage can and didn’t breathe. He heard a woman’s voice, but the thumping of his heart was so loud he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Suddenly this seemed like a bad idea.

Stedman sat on his heels, considering what he was about to do and the consequences if it backfired. What choice did he have? Grant wasn’t volunteering any information.

The porch light went out. The dog stopped barking. Stedman’s pulse quickened.

Okay, lady. Go back to bed and let me do what I came to do.

He waited for a solid minute, then zipped across the yard to Grant’s back door. It was locked. Stedman took a hammer out of his bag and tapped the window until it broke, then reached inside and slid the bolt lock. The door opened. He was in!

Ethan sat on the glider with Vanessa on the back porch at the Jessups’, listening to the crickets, glad to be away from friends, neighbors, and strangers expressing their condolences. The earthy scent of the night air was soothing, and he hated the thought of leaving.

He squeezed Vanessa’s hand. “I should probably go and let you get some rest. Carter will be up with the sun.”

“Emily will help me. Stay a little longer. It’s so nice just sitting with you. It’s the only peaceful thing about this day.”

“Okay. I was just trying to be sensitive. I’m in no hurry to leave. It’s great being out here with you.”

“Not exactly the way we planned the summer, is it?”

Ethan blinked the stinging from his eyes. “I still can’t believe Drew’s gone. I keep expecting him to walk through that door.”

“I know. I just want to erase the murder scene from my mind and remember how he looked before.” Vanessa leaned her head on his shoulder. “I wish I could have been with you today. It was a real drag having Rachel Howell following me around.”

“Well, I’m glad she did. And I’m glad you’ve agreed to stay home until your mom gets the shooter. I think it’s a wise precaution.”

“I don’t know how long I can stand it. Being stuck at home makes me crazy. You know how I was last summer.”

“Carter will keep you busy during the day.” Ethan stroked her cheek. “And I’ll come over in the evenings.”

“I know Mom will figure out who’s doing this. She always does. I just hope it doesn’t take all summer.”

“She’s got her work cut out for her. I’ve racked my brain, trying to figure out why someone would want Drew dead. I knew him better than anyone, and I’m totally baffled.”

Stedman closed the back door at Grant’s and let his eyes adjust to his pitch-black surroundings and his body to the refrigerated air.

He groped his way through the kitchen and dining room and found the living room. He pulled the drapes, took his flashlight out of his bag, and moved the beam of light slowly around the room. Grant’s place was tasteless. The guy didn’t even have pictures on the walls.

“Okay, where’s your computer?” he mumbled. “Everybody has one.”

Stedman went back to the kitchen and searched for a desk. Nothing. He walked down the hall and stood in the doorway of a bedroom crammed with boxes and assorted junk. He moved on to a larger bedroom and spotted a laptop on a desk in the corner. He pulled out the chair and sat.

He rubbed his hands together. “Here we go.”

He turned on the computer and when it finally booted up, he saw that it had been set to ask for an account password. Why would Grant do that unless he had something to hide?

Stedman typed in the word
Grant
and was denied access. He typed in the word
lucky,
but that was rejected too.
Poker
didn’t work either. He tried dozens of words that made sense to him—all rejected.

He put his elbows on the desk and combed his hands through his hair. What now? He took a huge risk coming here. Failure was not an option.

Should he just take the laptop with him? What if Grant figured out he broke in and stole it? What if he called the cops and used the incident to accuse Stedman of the shootings? All they’d have to do is compare his fingerprints with those on the gun. It’s not as though he had an alibi.

Stedman sat for a moment and summoned all the determination he had. How hard could it be to figure out the password for this stupid computer?

He typed in every word related to poker he could think of and was rejected, then on a whim typed in
poker face
—and bingo!