When Fall Fades (The Girl Next Door Series Book 1) (17 page)

Sal pinched his lips to keep himself together. Shaking his head, he shrugged. “No reason.”

Archer coughed to cover his laugh as the glasses went down again. “Nice work, Wayne. As your guys are combing through, have them keep a look out for some specifics—the captain in charge—Reamus, any other names from the battalion portrayed unfavorably, Frank Snyder, and anything pertaining to Westwick’s family or his finances. That’ll be all for now.” As soon as Archer and Sal found themselves behind the elevator doors they both unleashed the delayed laughter, riling more hilarity with additional good-natured impersonations of their more curious coworkers until Archer’s sides hurt.

Schooling their expressions when the doors opened on their floor, they found John and Sarah Westwick poised at the receptionist’s desk. The clean-cut Docker’s ad model in his early sixties and his homemaker wife, decked out in a Jackie Kennedy inspired suit and a clichéd strand of pearls, followed Archer and Sal into the conference room and settled across the table.

“First, we would like to offer our condolences on the loss of your father.” Archer spoke with sincerity, attempting to establish a comfortable atmosphere for the grieving family.

John Westwick nodded, his distinguished grays glinting against the florescent lights. “It sure has been a shock, but we appreciate it.” Reaching over, he covered his wife’s hand.

The simple affectionate act sent Archer’s scattered brain to Sadieland. He’d touched her hand last night. Such a common, benign gesture that shouldn’t have registered on his radar, except with Sadie common became extraordinary. 

“Any news on the investigation? We are anxious to put this all behind us so Pop can rest in peace.”

“I understand, Mr. Westwick, and we are doing everything we can. When was the last time you spoke with your father?”

“About two weeks before I received a call about his passing, so about three weeks ago now. Wow, it doesn’t seem like that long. I remember because he had called and left a couple messages on my cell. I was at a medical conference in Arizona and called him from the airport when I was on my way home.”

“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were a doctor.” Archer looked over his notes and chided himself for misaddressing the man.

Sadie could have been a doctor—
Stop it, Hayes.

“It’s no problem. You can just call me John if you like.” The man was the picture of composure. They both were. Even their posture was immaculate.

“Okay John, what type of medicine do you practice?”

“I have a family practice just outside Chicago in Schaumburg, Illinois.”

If he was a doctor, he’d have access to drugs. “Do you have in your office, or currently have access to, any anesthetic types of drugs?”

John’s thick brow twisted, the tendons in his neck pronounced as he swallowed. “Well, I’m not an anesthesiologist but on rare occasion I might have use for a mild anesthetic. If we have any, it’s been a while since I’ve used it. I’d have to ask my staff.”

A sudden unease buzzed in the air. Something had him riled so Archer hung back, letting the tension germinate.

His eyes shifted from Archer to Sal and back. “What’s this about?”

Archer slid a notepad across the table. “John, could you please write down the name and number of your office manager?”

John stared at the notepad, making no effort to reach for the pen. Sarah squeezed her husband’s hand in support.

After John signed with his right hand, Sal grabbed the sheet and exited the room to make the call while Archer continued with his questioning.

“John, the killer injected an anesthetic into your father’s neck. We believe that that injection resulted in his death.”

“You think I killed my own father?” John gritted out with tightly reined violence.

Archer kept his voice even. “You’re not on trial here, John. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this. I have to consider everyone until I can prove otherwise. I hope you understand. It’s protocol.”

Sarah patted her husband’s hand in a calming gesture. “Honey, he’s just doing his job. We don’t have anything to hide.”

John nodded and a sigh settled his tense shoulders. “Sorry, I’m just trying to wrap my brain around all this.”

Archer knew he needed to tread lightly. If they lawyered up he might not get anything useful. “I know this is frustrating but can anyone account for your whereabouts between four and eight the morning your father was killed?”

“I was at home in bed with my wife.” John growled

They could always track credit card transactions for the day and other things if need be, so Archer figured he should steer clear of antagonizing the man, for now. “Were you aware of your father’s medical condition?”

“You mean the high blood pressure and the asthma?” His puzzlement seemed genuine.

There were several aspects of Archer’s job he didn’t care for. Delivering bad news was at the top of that list. “Your father was diagnosed with stage four adenocarcinoma of the liver. He was dying.”

John shook his head. “No. He never even drank—he would have told me. I would have been here to help, I—” His voice fractured and he shook his head again, not bothering to continue.

“I’m very sorry.” Archer lifted the carafe in the center of the table, poured two glasses of water, and slid them in front of the Westwicks, giving John a few moments to collect himself. “That is part of the reason why this case is so baffling. Not only was your father in advanced years, but he wouldn’t have lived much longer with this diagnosis. This is not information that would have been impossible to come by with the right motivation.”

John sipped from the glass of water, cleared his throat and drilled holes into Archer’s eyes with his hardened stare. “What can I do? What do you need to know about him?”

Sarah’s dainty voice cut in, petting her husband’s arm to soothe the visibly tensed muscles. “Despite the distance, John and Charlie were very close.”

Hmm
. His reaction to the sickness was more telling than when Archer had implied his involvement in murder. Interesting. “Well for starters, did you know of any enemies your father had?”

“You mean from the war? Reamus and his son … James, with the threats.”

“You know about your father’s time in the war?” This Archer wasn’t expecting. The shroud of secrecy with the journals hinted that the history had been well contained.

“When I was a little kid he used to tell me stories about this hero who found the greatest treasure, and who battled the enemy with intelligence instead of physical strength. When I got older I started asking questions about what had been real and what had been fiction. That’s when he told me about the problems with the combat planes and what he did to try and stop it.”

John sighed, his thumb smoothed over his wife’s hand. “He named me John after his brother who died. All those years he carried the blame for someone else’s mistakes. “Do I think Reamus is capable of killing my dad?” He nodded, fury building behind his muddy-brown eyes. “He killed my uncle and ten other soldiers without an ounce of remorse. In my opinion, if a man can do that he’s capable of anything.”

The interview continued until Sal poked his head back in and nodded. “That should be all for now. Thank you so much for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch.” Archer stood and shook both of their hands before showing them to the elevator.

They had stepped inside but John held the door open. “We’ll be in town for a few more days. Let me know if there is anything else we can do to help.”

Archer nodded, waited for the doors to close, and then immediately sought out Sal. “So?”

Sal swiveled around in his chair. “I spoke with the office manager who was a real
pill
.” He waited. “Ha! Pill, get it?”

Archer motioned in a circle urging Sal to get on with it.

“So then, I called in a favor to Judge Harlow, who by the way, totally has the hots for me—thinks I look like Enrique Iglesias.” With a bounce of his eyebrows, Sal gave a proud grin. “Girlfriend issued me a warrant. Chicago field office is sending someone over to collect samples for the lab to compare.” Sal’s voice turned serious. “You really think he did it?”

Reviewing his initial impressions of John Westwick, Archer wasn’t sold. John seemed to genuinely care for his father. He was staid but he also had a volatile fuse on his anger with the right provocation. “If I were a bettin’ man … he didn’t do it. But you never know.”

“What do you mean, you
always
know.”

“You want some advice, Sal? Don’t get cocky. The second you start thinking you have all the answers is exactly when you don’t. Cocky agents get distracted, make mistakes, and most of those mistakes aren’t ones you wanna have to live with.”

Sal’s ever present smirk tweaked into a grim line. The next hard lesson forming on Archer’s tongue dried up. The look on Sal’s face conceding that Archer had scared the rookie enough for one day.

“You’ve gotta get ready to question Stink Eye, and I’ve got the grandson. Meet me in my office when you’re done, and we’ll go over what we learn.”

With a silent nod of agreement they went their separate ways.   

Mulling over John Westwick’s responses, Archer jotted some notes about things he wanted to compare with Charlie’s grandson.

His eyes were heavy, his breathing even and slow making it hard to concentrate on anything but the need to recuperate from last night’s Sadie-induced sleep strike. Just when he felt his head dip there was a knock on his office door. Yet another reminder why he needed to steer clear of the gorgeous blonde distraction. Career hazard.

“Agent Hayes, I have an Evan Westwick here to see you.”

“You can show him in, thanks Sandy.” Another rare smile threatened when he caught himself thinking about Sal’s color commentary on Sandy’s crazy cat pictures. All the inside jokes were starting to make Archer feel like … he belonged. He’d been putting up barriers for so long he didn’t know how to deal with that.

  A young, yuppy-looking man entered Archer’s office and extended his hand. His hair was neatly combed and styled, his skin fair. He was fit but the whole presentation said one thing. Pampered.

A pungent vapor of some expensive cologne trailed on a gust of air so poisoned it numbed Archer’s taste buds.

“Evan Westwick,” he announced as he gripped Archer’s hand with an assertive shake.

“Special Agent Hayes.” He motioned for Evan to sit.

Unbuttoning the white linen sports coat he had over a powder blue Polo, Evan flipped the tails back with a grand sweeping gesture before settling into the chair and propping an ankle over his knee.

“Thanks for coming by, I’ll try not to take too much of your time.”

An obnoxious techno ring tone sounded from Evan’s pocket. “Ah, the love of my life. Never go anywhere without it.”

It took Archer a second to note the
it
so lovingly referenced was the very fancy, seemingly gold-plated iPhone and
not
the person calling. “Can’t even be out of town for a few days without work hassling me. Everyone wants a piece.” He laughed a laugh that said “What can I say, I’m kind of a big deal.” And then took his time sending off a message before cramming the thing back in the too-tight pocket of his designer jeans.

Archer bit the inside of his cheek to curb his intense and immediate dislike of the man. “What is it you do, Mr. Westwick?”

“I’m a financial broker. I basically tell rich people where to invest their money.”

“Difficult market right now with the economy being the way it is.”

“Nah, the rich are still rich and want to keep it that way.”

“I see. Well, I’m sorry about your grandfather. It must have been hard for you to hear of him passing that way.”

“Yeah.” Evan frowned, then grimaced, like he was trying hard to look sad but couldn’t find the emotion. “Poor old gramps. This whole thing is just crazy. Have you caught the guy that did this?”

“Not yet, that’s why I have you here—to ask you questions that might help us catch the killer.”

“Right.”

“Now before we start, can you tell me where you were the morning your grandfather was killed?”

He snorted. “What, like I’m a suspect?”

“It’s a standard question, Mr. Westwick, I hope you understand.” If this kid threw a hissy fit and stormed out, could Archer detain him? Probably not legally but the image of Evan Westwick in a holding cell held a certain appeal.

“Pfff, I know.” Wriggling his phone from the shrink-wrapped denim, Evan made a display of checking his calendar. “Umm, last weekend I was in New York. You can check with the airline, and I have receipts from a business dinner with a client from the night before. And my wife will vouch for me.”

Archer scrawled some information on his notepad. Evan recrossed his legs, laced his fingers over his knee. He looked confident, but Archer could sense his nerves brewing. “Were you and your grandfather close?”

“Very.” His foot jittered.

“Did you talk often?”

“As often as we could. Work keeps me
really
busy.”

“We’ve established that. When was the last time you spoke with him?”

“Not that long ago.” He batted the comment away. “Honestly, I can’t remember exactly when it was.”

Archer nodded. “Your father told us that you haven’t spoken to your grandfather in three years. He said you were busy with work and that you two drifted apart after your family moved to the Chicago area.”

“Right, well …” Blood filled his cheeks. “W—We used to be close when I was a kid and stuff.”

Evan started to squirm, and even though it was probably unnecessary, Archer was enjoying himself. He jotted a few more things down.