The right call, p.19
The Right Call, page 19
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!
Stedman’s pulse raced so fast he felt light-headed. He clicked on to Windows Mail and saw six opened messages in the in-box. There was one new message. He clicked on to it: a personal note from Brett Wolski about a family barbecue.
Stedman went to the bottom and clicked on to the oldest message and started reading. He moved up and read another and then another. Most of the emails appeared to be exchanges between Grant and their poker buddies, but Stedman’s name wasn’t mentioned in any of them.
He went to the sent box and read a few emails and didn’t see anything interesting there either. Maybe Grant did all his scheming in person—the way he had done with Stedman—so there wouldn’t be any correspondence to link him to anyone.
Stedman clicked on to deleted mail and put it in alphabetical order, looking for familiar names. Grant had sent more emails to William Roseland than anyone else—a guy he worked with and who also played poker with them. Stedman started with the most recent and skimmed each of the emails to William, and none alluded to anything shady—and not a hint of conspiracy.
Stedman sighed. He pulled up Grant’s documents and read down the list. Most of what he saw appeared to be personal letters to credit card companies regarding his late pays. This guy’s life was less interesting than his. His eyes stopped on a folder titled SPECIAL PROJECT.
He clicked on. The folder contained only two documents. One was an email, dated May 1 of this year, addressed to Grant and a guy named Roy Dupontes from Win Davison. Win Davison? Grant was just a supervisor at Davison Technologies. What special project would he be working on for the CEO? Stedman clicked on the email and read it: Meet me in my office at 6:00 p.m. Delete this after reading. WD.
So why didn’t Grant delete it? Stedman opened the other document, a lengthy memo Grant sent to himself, and read every word, line by line. And then read it again.
He was suddenly hot all over and felt as if he were nailed to the chair, a wave of nausea threatening to deposit the contents of his stomach onto Grant’s keyboard. He had to get out of there. He had no business knowing any of this! But at least now he had some leverage.
He held the flashlight above the printer, then fumbled with the buttons and turned it on. He set it to print one copy and pushed the button.
The sound of a car door slamming sent a chill crawling up his spine. He turned off the flashlight and stepped over to the window, peering out between the blinds.
A police car was parked out front, and two officers were walking toward the house! The dog next door was yapping again, and he wondered if its owner had called the cops.
Stedman’s pulse raced. He reached for the copy and cringed when he saw an orange button flashing on the printer. A paper jam! That’s all he needed.
He tugged at the trapped paper and it tore. He stuffed the torn piece in his pocket, swearing under his breath, then grabbed his bag and groped his way through the inky blackness faster than he thought possible, slipping out the back door and through the gate. He crossed the alley and ran down the side yard toward his truck, hoping the cops hadn’t spotted him.
He shot out of the darkness into the warm glow of the streetlight and climbed in the front seat of his truck. He fumbled to get the keys in the ignition, sweat dripping down his temples, the pounding of his heart filling the silence. He was relieved when the truck started the first time.
Stedman pulled away from the curb, careful not to leave any tread marks on the pavement, keenly aware that if those involved in the cover-up figured out he knew, he was a dead man.
Chapter 26
Brill stumbled out to the kitchen, her silk pajamas feeling cool against her skin. She poured a cup of milk and put it in the microwave, then sat at the table in front of the bay window. She looked out into the moonlit night, surprised to see Ethan’s car parked out front.
She got up and walked into the dining room and peered out through the sheers on the French door. Vanessa and Ethan sat on the glider, her head on his shoulder, and appeared to be sound asleep. Poor things had an emotionally exhausting day. Should she wake them? Surely Ethan’s aunt and uncle would be worried.
Brill cracked the back door and spoke softly, “Vanessa, honey, wake up … Ethan …?”
Ethan stirred first and looked disoriented.
Vanessa stretched and then looked over at Brill, her eyes at half-mast.
“You two fell asleep.” Brill opened the door wider. “It’s almost midnight. I thought Ethan’s aunt and uncle might be worried.”
“I’m sorry. I meant to be out of here long before now.” Ethan yawned. “I’d better go. Aunt Gwen is probably walking the floor.” He kissed Vanessa’s cheek. “Don’t walk me to the car. I’ll call you tomorrow. Just get some sleep.”
“Okay.” Vanessa held his hand as he stood, and then he pulled her to her feet. “You can walk me to the stairs,” she said.
“All right. Good night, Brill. Thanks for waking me up.”
Brill gently grasped his forearm and gave it a squeeze. “Be good to yourself. You’ve been through the mill.”
“I will. I’m going to sleep in and go to late church.”
“Good.”
Brill went inside behind Vanessa and Ethan and then turned into the kitchen to let them say their good-byes in private.
She took her milk out of the microwave and sat again at the table, wide awake and wishing she had the case files at home so she could study them—not that she didn’t have every detail filed in her head.
She took a sip of warm milk just as the front door opened and closed. She looked out the window and watched Ethan walk to his car, his grief fueling her commitment to finding the shooter. But how many restless nights would pass between now and then?
Stedman locked the front door to his duplex and left the light off. He went into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator before remembering he was out of beer. He grabbed the Coke bottle he had filled with water and went over to the table and sat. He unscrewed the cap and took a drink. Was he shaking? He ought to be shaking. Grant was right. He’d had no idea what he was getting himself into.
Stedman took the small piece he tore off the memo out of his shirt pocket. Grant’s name was on it but nothing on front or back that made sense. Nothing incriminating.
He spat out a swear word and kicked the chair across from him with his foot. It fell backward and hit the floor. Grant would have found the paper jam by now and deleted the entire folder from the computer. What good was knowledge without proof? Stedman’s fingerprints were on the gun. If he went to the police, Grant Wolski, Roy Dupontes, and Win Davison would deny everything. He couldn’t prove otherwise. And until he could, there was no point involving the authorities in something that could blow up in his face.
He wadded up the paper and threw it across the room. Once Grant told the others that someone broke in and tried to print that memo, they would be sure to destroy any other evidence that might link them to this. And what price would Grant pay for not destroying the memo as instructed?
Stedman sat back in the chair, his shirt soaked with sweat, and took a gulp of water. Not only did he have to worry about being framed, but now he had to play dumb when Grant accused him of breaking into his house.
Ethan pushed open the front door at his uncle Ralph’s, his suit coat slung over his shoulder, not surprised to see his uncle sitting in his easy chair, eyes wide open.
“Come in, Ethan.”
“Sorry, I would’ve called,” Ethan said, “but I fell asleep, sitting on the back porch with Vanessa. Her mother just woke us up a few minutes ago.”
“Hey, it’s none of my business what you and Vanessa do.”
Ethan sat on the ottoman and looked Uncle Ralph in the eye. “As long as I’m living with you it is. But I wasn’t doing anything. That’s not how it is between us.”
“I’m not your conscience,” Ralph said. “I’m just your uncle. I love you, and I was worried. That’s all.”
“Did Mom and Dad call before they went back to Maryville?”
Ralph nodded. “Your dad said everything went as well as it could, under the circumstances.”
“The funeral was nice. I couldn’t believe how many people came.”
“If that was supposed to be a dig, don’t start.” Ralph cracked his knuckles. “I’ve already been down this road with Tom, and I refuse to feel guilty for not going. There’s no way Richard wanted me there.”
