Devils redemption, p.24
Devil's Redemption, page 24
“Shit,” she says. “Waste of good cake.” She cuts herself a slice as she glances at Anthony. “But at least we get to talk.”
“Page 286?”
She nods and takes a bite. “Fuck, I’m good.” She says louder than necessary, then lowers her voice. “I found a house in the Seventh Ward that belonged to a Marjorie Gibson who is deceased.”
“What?”
“The address is on page 286. She has a son named Gerald who has a rap sheet about as long as my arm, and another named Danny who is currently serving time for the murder of one Christian York. That’s thanks to my detective friend. What the fuck is going on, Isabelle?”
“Shit. He’s real.”
“And he is not a nice man.”
“No, his brother wasn’t nice either. Does he live at the house?”
“Last address was out in Vegas.”
“Vegas?”
She nods. “But it doesn’t mean he’s not here and just hasn’t changed his address.”
“The van?” I ask, not sure I want to know. Not at all.
“He owns a white van. What does it mean?”
“I’m not sure. If he’s out in Vegas, nothing. But if he’s not…” It means Jericho is telling the truth. At least some of it. And possibly that Julia isn’t. “Do you have your car here?” I ask, hating the idea even as I ask but unsure what else to do.
“My car?”
I nod.
“Out back.” Her eyes narrow. “And no, you’re not taking it to pay a visit to that shithead.”
“I’m not planning on visiting him if he’s even in town. I just want to see the house. See if the van is there.” See if it’s the same one.
“Isabelle, no.”
“I won’t have another chance like this. I can’t leave the house without Jericho. I can’t call you or anyone else. I can’t do anything without his permission.”
Megs swallows, glances at Anthony. “What about him?”
“Cake?”
She slips her hand into her pocket and takes out the keys. “This one will unlock the door at the end of the hall past the ladies room. You’ll see the car out back.” I close my hand over it, glance at Anthony who is smiling at something on his phone. I slip the keys into my purse and Megs quickly shoves her phone in there too. “You know the code. You’re just driving by, right?”
I nod.
“It should take you twenty minutes to get there. If I don’t hear from you in twenty, I’m sending cops to Gibson’s address.”
“No. I need more time.”
“Fine. Twenty-five. Then you’re straight back. Agreed?”
I nod, get to my feet. She closes her hand over mine. “Don’t do anything stupid, Isabelle. You hear me?”
I nod, smile and turn to Anthony. “Can you get the cake packed up? I need to use the lady’s room.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. St. James.”
“You may as well have a slice first,” Megs says and gets Anthony a slice, making him sit down as I slip through the door and toward the exit.
43
Isabelle
I understand why she named her car The Potato. It’s a clunky old Mustang and it sputters to life, hiccuping all the way, making me wonder if it’ll run at all. But then the rumbling settles and I shift to drive, the gear sticking momentarily.
The car itself is spotless even though the scent of gasoline permeates the interior. Megs loves the old thing. It was her father’s. It’s why she keeps it. He loved it too.
The Seventh Ward is not the best neighborhood. I know that. But during this time of day, I should be fine. I think about what I’m going to do when I get to the house where Gerald Gibson could be living. This is Danny’s brother. The man who tried to rape me. The man who killed Christian. Can I even do this?
I have to.
Because I have to know the truth about Julia. And if the van that tried to run me over is at the house, then it can’t be coincidence.
Carlton’s cause of death was not natural, I know that. And Jericho believes Julia is at the root of all of this. His death. The attack on me.
Possibly the attack that killed Christian.
The light a few blocks from Gerald Gibson’s house turns red. I stop, rub my face. Am I ready to know this? Am I ready to know that Julia, my cousin whom I trust, with whom I have a relationship, whose son I love, could have tried to hurt me? Could have had anything to do with Christian’s death? She explained it all so easily the other day and it makes sense that Carlton could have used her name and email address for the payment. But why would he leave a paper trail? That makes no sense. Why keep a record of your crime?
But it could be true, too, and Jericho is too angry to see it. With Matty being Carlton’s son, the inheritance is settled. Jericho must see red at that and Julia would become his natural target.
Someone honks their horn, startling me. The light has turned green. I take my foot off the brake and drive, looking at the street names. I’m a few blocks out and my anxiety grows as I drive slower than the speed limit, the car creeping along once I turn onto Marjorie Gibson’s street. I see the house at the far end. It’s nondescript, blends in with the others on this street, the houses worn down, a neighborhood forgotten. They’re all single-story homes with curtains pulled closed over windows. The cars parked along the street and on driveways are older, unloved models.
The driveway is empty. The house dark. It, too, looks empty. Like no one lives there. There’s a garage at the end of the driveway and the door seems to be stuck. I drive by slowly, peering toward it and although I’m too far to be sure I see there’s a vehicle inside. A truck or a van. And I can see it’s white.
At the end of the street, I make a U-turn and creep toward the house. I park Megs’s car and kill the engine. I sit inside for a long minute, my hands sweaty around the keys.
I just need to look at the van. I’ll recognize it. The day is a blur but there was one thing that I remember. And it’s distinct.
I check my watch. I have ten minutes before Megs calls the police, so I dig her phone out of my purse, punch in her code and dial the café. She answers on the first ring. I’m sure she’s been waiting.
“Hey,” she says.
“I just got to the house.”
“And you’re just doing a drive-by, remember?”
“I just need to see inside the garage.”
“Isabelle—”
“Has Anthony figured out I’m gone?”
“He thinks you have an upset stomach but honestly, he won’t buy it too much longer.”
“I’ll hurry. I just need to see, and the house looks empty. There’s no one here.”
“Please don’t make me regret this.”
I don’t have anything to say to that, so I disconnect the call. With clammy hands, I open the car door and step out. I tuck the keys into my purse, walking down the sidewalk toward the house. Lace curtains that may once have been nice hang in the windows and through them the rooms are dark. No one’s here. It’s fine.
But my heart still races. I’m scared. Scared of what I may find.
I look around the street, see the few pockets of people, hear the sounds from inside other houses. Televisions, a dryer knocking against something as it spins, a woman yelling for her child to get inside. Without hesitating, I turn to walk up the driveway as if I belong here.
The garage door is open to about mid-thigh. It’s set farther back than the house. I walk straight up the driveway and when I get closer, I bend to peer inside. My heart rate triples, sweat running down the back of my neck.
It’s a white van. But it doesn’t have to be the van that almost ran me over.
Except that there are too many coincidences here.
I slip under the open door into the garage. The smell of gasoline and stale cigarette smoke is strong here. I walk around the driver’s side of the car. The window is open, and I peer inside to see the mess of old food containers, a packet of cigarettes on the dashboard, the butts and ashes of old cigarettes in the ashtray.
But it’s not any of those things that make me hug my arms around myself. It’s what’s hanging from the rear-view mirror. It gives me a flashback to that day. That moment when I waved to Angelique and turned to find the van coming at me, tires bouncing up onto the sidewalk as if the driver lost control, except that he hadn’t. I’d seen his face. His eyes. I’d just blocked it all out.
He hadn’t lost control.
He’d been coming at me.
And the ratty teddy bear hanging by a noose from his neck on the rear-view mirror had been the most horrific sight. A child’s toy, something meant to give comfort, treated in such a way. I remember it bouncing, hitting the windshield.
I need to get out of here. Clutching my purse to myself when the strap slides off my shoulder, I dig for the keys as I exit the garage.
I haven’t even straightened when I crash into something hard. Rough hands close over my arms to still me. And when I look up, it’s like I’m staring right into Danny Gibson’s eyes. Even though that’s impossible.
I see the flat nothingness I still remember. That abyss of emptiness.
And just like that night, my throat goes dry, and I can’t make a sound. Not even a squeak to call for help. I’m powerless. Just like that night.
44
Jericho
“He inside?” I ask Zeke as I walk up the drive to Jones’s front door. He lives a little over an hour out of town. Zeke is standing in the open doorway. Jones is the coroner who performed the original autopsy on Carlton Bishop and signed off on the cremation of the body.
“In his office.”
The door closes behind us and two men stand guard as I walk in, Zeke falling into stride beside me.
“I guess he’s not happy about that,” I say as we reach the study. Zeke has a man out here too.
“No. Apparently we interrupted a trip to the Bahamas.” Zeke finally caught up with Jones last night just as he was to board a private flight. He’d all but vanished off the face of the earth the last couple of days and I wondered if he hadn’t met with some terrible end at Julia Bishop’s hand.
“Was he alone?”
Zeke nods and opens the office door. “Not very chatty though, are you, doc?” he asks as we walk in.
Abe Jones is sitting on a straight back chair that looks like it was brought in from the dining room. His wrists are cuffed to the legs on either side of him. At his back stands yet another guard. He keeps his gaze on the wall behind us. These soldiers we hire are paid well for both their proficiency and their discretion.
“Were the cuffs necessary?” I ask Zeke. He’s in his mid-forties from the looks of him and although he appears fit enough, I have no doubt Zeke could take him. He’d probably enjoy it. Not to mention the men with guns if he somehow got past my brother.
Zeke shrugs his shoulder. “Flight risk. Wasn’t taking a chance.”
I chuckle. “And the black eye?”
Zeke grins. “That’s for wasting my time and sending me all over the fucking city looking for him, isn’t that right, doc?” he asks that last part with exaggerated drama.
“I will report you to The Tribunal as soon as I’m freed of these restraints. I will require the full extent of the penalty for what you’ve done.”
I raise my eyebrows and glance at Zeke. “Thought you said he wasn’t chatty.”
“Maybe he’s coming around,” Zeke says. He moves to sit behind the man’s desk and starts to look through the drawers.
I sit on the end of the coffee table facing Mr. Jones. I take in his disheveled appearance. He’s not a member of IVI but he is on their payroll. He comes from a long line of coroners and over time IVI has made use of his family’s services.
“I doubt The Tribunal would hear your argument, but you’re welcome to try,” I say, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “Take those off,” I tell the guard, gesturing to the cuffs.
“Yes, sir,” he says while Zeke tsks behind me. I hear the squeaking of the chair as he rocks back and forth on it.
Once Jones is freed, he rubs his wrists and I see the shiny Rolex on one. It’s possible it costs more than all the furniture in here combined.
“New?” I ask, gesturing to it.
He smiles, rubs off a smudge of non-existent dirt, then nods.
“It’s very nice. A gift from Julia Bishop?”
His face loses some color. “She was very grateful to have had me perform the autopsy on Mr. Bishop so quickly.”
“I bet. And what did she pay you to sign off on the cremation certificate?”
His eyes grow wider and skip around the room, settling on the door.
“Please do not make me have to chase you,” I say. “It’s been a long couple of days.” I stand up, stretch my arms, crack my knuckles.
“Have kids?” Zeke asks. He’s found a laptop and is punching something onto the keyboard.
“No,” Jones says, then shifts his gaze to me as I move behind Zeke to look at the screen.
“Girlfriend? A pet?”
Jones shakes his head.
“A goldfish maybe?”
“No.”
Zeke turns his head, shaking it. “Make this quick and give me the password, will you?”
“Why do you need it?”
“Curious how much you got paid for claiming a man died of a heart attack when he very clearly did not,” Zeke says.
Jones’s mouth falls open, any remaining color on his face disappearing. “What are you talking about? Carlton Bishop’s cause of death was cardiac arrest. I wouldn’t have lied about that. I could lose my license. Or worse.”
“Password,” Zeke says. When he doesn’t answer, Zeke gestures to the guard who just uncuffed him. He fists a handful of Jones’s hair and tugs his head back at such an awkward angle, the chair falls away and his spine is bent in way that makes even me wince.
“Mexico2020,” he rushes to say.
“Any capitals?”
“M. Just the M.”
Zeke types it in and voila, we’re in. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Zeke asks and finds the banking app.
I walk toward Jones, pick up the chair and nod for the guard to sit him on it. He does but keeps one heavy hand on his shoulder.
“You’ve performed autopsies for The Society before. Your family has been providing the service for a long time.”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me about oleander.”
He looks at me, forehead furrowed, and I wonder about him. Wonder if he truly thought Bishop died of a heart attack.
“It’s a plant,” he says.
“And a…” I trail off, gesturing for him to fill in the blank.
“Poison.”
“Good. Working for IVI you’d know about those things.”
“There wasn’t evidence of any foul play,” he says. “Mr. Bishop’s heart gave out in the throes of a passionate event. There were witnesses. Multiple.”
“So I’ve heard but I’d rather not visualize it if you don’t mind.”
He grips the sides of the chair and waits for me to continue.
“There was only evidence of cardiac arrest. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Did you bother to look?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Did you bother, Doctor Jones?”
“I was told it would be best to move as quickly as possible and bury Mr. Bishop, considering how he died and the impact it would have on his son.”
“By whom?”
He draws his lips into a tight line and his gaze shifts away from me.
“By. Whom?”
“Ms. Bishop. Councilor Hildebrand agreed. There was no reason.”
“And who signed off on the cremation?”
He clears his throat. For a Sovereign Son’s body to be cremated, a Councilor and the coroner must both sign off. In this case, Hildebrand was said Councilor. Except I’ve seen his signature.
“Councilor Hildebrand,” he tries.
“So, if I were to ask the Councilor, he’d remember the event? He’s got a great memory I hear.”
He glances away, beads of sweat breaking across his forehead.
“Jericho,” Zeke calls out.
I leave the doctor and walk over to stand behind the desk. He points to a deposit in Jones’s bank account of $25,000 made from Carlton Bishop days after his death.
“Was Carlton Bishop very grateful for the service of the autopsy you conducted on his dead body or was it the speedy cremation?” I ask Jones.
“That was Ms. Bishop. She took over the account with her son being the heir but obviously so young.” Sweat rings are forming under his arms.
“And which was she more grateful for?”
He clears his throat. “I was told it would be better for the boy.”
I return to him, sit on the end of the coffee table again and get into his space. “Which was she more grateful for, Dr. Jones?” I ask, leaning close to him, letting him see how far I’m willing to go to extract his confession.
“She said she’d take care of Hildebrand’s signature after I signed off. She was going to see him anyway. I wanted to make a call, but it was late, and she insisted it had to be done.”
“And you felt it was fine to do after she deposited the money into your account?”
Now he swallows hard and sits very still as sweat runs down his temple.
I get to my feet, turn away to find Zeke watching, posture relaxed. He has a dark side, my brother, one he hides well. And the look on his face is the same as I’d seen on that grainy video in Austria. I give him a nod and he acknowledges the gesture. I then turn back to Jones who shifts his gaze from Zeke to me. I reach for his collar, haul him to his feet and slam him into the wall.
“You’ve wasted enough of our time. Running. Hiding like a fucking criminal. Booking a private plane to the Bahamas and making us come chasing after you. I’m going to give you a choice. One, answer the fucking question and we’ll be on our way or two, waste more of my time and I’ll have Hildebrand deal with you. I can tell you a Councilor will not take kindly to having their signature forged in an attempt to conceal evidence from The Tribunal. Which is it going to be?”
