The touch of murder, p.24
The Touch of Murder, page 24
“I need to speak to Troy,” Freddie said, wondering if their appearance at this moment was a coincidence, or if they knew he was coming. “I need to speak to Troy, now.”
He continued walking, but one of the agents, a man with slick black hair tucked behind his ears and a unibrow, came forward, his hand moving from his armpit to out in front of him.
“Yeah, I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean you don’t think so?” Freddie took one step, and the man placed his outstretched hand against Freddie’s chest and shoved. This aggression was so unexpected that Freddie staggered, but he managed to remain on his feet.
“I need to speak to Agent Allison. Tell him it’s Detective Furlow.”
“I don’t care if you’re the goddamn Pope. Troy ain’t gonna speak to you.”
Freddie snarled.
“He knows? Doesn’t he? He knows I’m here.” Freddie pointed over the man’s shoulder at the building with the dirty door and the grease-smeared glass inlay. “He knows I’m fucking standing right here.”
“He ain’t gonna talk to you.” The lack of denial was as good as an explicit confirmation.
“Agent Allison! Get your ass out here!” Freddie yelled. “Get the fuck out here!”
The DEA Agents just watched, and the door behind them remained closed.
“You done?”
Freddie was not a violent person by nature. Never had been. But he felt the urge to lash out and punch the man with the unibrow. This urge was so great that Freddie actually stepped forward again. He didn’t know if he’d actually go as far as to throw a punch, and he would never find out.
Because the DEA Agent beat him to it. The blow might have only been delivered at fifty-percent strength, but it was solid enough that both hamburgers Freddie had just inhaled tried to claw their way back up his esophagus. He tried to swallow them back down, but they were persistent.
Freddie turned his head to the side and vomited. As he did, the DEA Agent who’d struck him stepped back, cursing, mumbling something about his shoes.
The other man came forward.
“Troy ain’t gonna talk to you,” he said in a low voice as Freddie continued to rid his stomach of processed meat and processed cheese. “But he’s got a message for you.”
Freddie raised his watery eyes.
“Troy wants you to know that you made a big mistake fucking with him. And if there’s one man you don’t want to fuck with, it’s Troy.”
“I didn’t—”
—fuck with him, Freddie tried to say, but his abdomen clenched and instead of words coming out of his mouth, it was more partially—mostly—digested food.
Kale this time.
Fuck, I hate kale.
***
Freddie spent the next hour getting himself cleaned up. He took a cold shower, examined the bruise that was already forming on his stomach—thankfully, no broken ribs—and then used his laptop to try to figure out why Dylan had been let go.
Nothing. There was nothing.
Why the fuck did you let him go?
Freddie decided that if he wasn’t going to get his answers from the DEA, then he was going to try the next best thing—he was going to go to the district where charges had actually been laid: Matheson.
As he made the twenty-minute drive to Matheson, his stomach began to revolt. Not because of the punch, but because it was empty. And no matter how much fast food he jammed into it, it just wouldn’t shut up.
“Hi, my name’s Detective Furlow from Greenham PD,” he said, putting on his best smile.
The secretary asked him if he had a meeting, and Freddie did his best tap dance routine to avoid the question directly.
“I’m here to talk to someone about the Dylan Hall case. I think the arresting officer was a…” Freddie feigned as if he was trying to recall the name.
The secretary filled in the blanks.
“Detective Tinkler. But he’s no longer with Matheson PD. Detective Dutton took that case over. He’s here if you want to speak to him?”
“That would be great, thanks.”
Freddie took a seat and waited.
And waited. And waited.
Close to an hour later, a portly man with doughy flesh and green eyes came out from a back room. He introduced himself as Detective Jake Dutton.
“What can I do for you, Detective Furlow?”
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
The corners of the man’s lips pulled downward, and he glanced around.
“Here is fine.”
This was not a good sign. Jake Dutton appeared conciliatory, but it was a front. The wait, the passive-aggressive denial to speak in confidence. Matheson PD and Greenham PD were usually on good terms. Which suggested that this wasn’t territorial but case specific.
Not a good sign at all.
“Sure, well, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I had a question about a case that you’re the lead on?”
“Which one might that be?” Another bad sign. The man’s demeanor suggested that he clearly knew which case Freddie was referring to.
“Dylan Hall. He was arrested for—”
“Possession with the intent to distribute, yeah, I know.” Detective Dutton’s voice hardened a little. “What about it?”
“I mean, the charges were dropped, and I was wondering why?”
Dutton dropped all pretense now.
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m not here to step on toes. I just want to know why. The thing is, Dylan Hall is a CI for us in Greenham.”
“You’ll be happy to have him back then.”
Freddie lifted his shoulders and held them next to his ears.
“Our relationship is complicated. As a favor, can you just let me know why the charges were dropped? Was there something wrong with the evidence?” He let his shoulders fall. “A witness get spooked? What?”
Jake Dutton squinted at him with his green eyes.
“I’m not trying to stir shit up, Detective,” Freddie implored. “It’s just, with Dylan’s history and—”
“It’s a closed case.”
This was going nowhere, and Freddie knew that he had to find some common ground if he wanted to get any answers.
“Let me guess, I bet it’s because that asshole DEA Agent Troy Allison with his big old bald head and cigarette-smoking ass came in and made you drop it, right?”
Dutton inspected Freddie even more closely.
“You know Agent Allison?” the man probed.
“I know that he’s an asshole. I know that when I asked his goons the same questions that I’m asking you now, they did this.” Freddie raised his shirt to show off the fist-shaped bruise.
Dutton winced.
“Fuck, sorry. And, yeah, he’s an asshole.” Common ground it was. “Get this, Allison serves me up this case, says it’s better if it goes through Matheson instead of the DEA, says it’s a slam dunk. And, I mean, it is, right? A career criminal and known addict caught with a kilo of smack? Easy. But he just sets me up, you know? Gives me the case and then suggests—naw, fuck it, he doesn’t suggest anything, he tells me to drop it. Makes me look like an idiot.”
“Did he tell you why?”
Officer Dutton chuckled dryly.
“Troy Allison isn’t much for words. He just said that there was something wrong with the seizure.”
Much like the food earlier that day, Freddie’s heart tried to rise in his throat. He was more successful in keeping this organ in check than the burgers.
“But did he—did he say why? Did he say what was wrong with the seizure?”
“Agent Allison is pretty tight-lipped.”
“I know, I know. I’m just wondering if—”
“Why are you busting my balls over this, Furlow?” Officer Dutton asked, his demeanor changing once more. “I’ve seen your partner on TV. You’ve got that big, high-profile serial killer case going on. Why do you care about Dylan Hall?”
Common ground or not, this was the end of the road and Freddie knew it.
“Nothing—no reason. Thanks.”
The DEA wasn’t going to help him, and Matheson PD only knew so much.
That meant that the only way to find out what the hell really happened with Dylan Hall was to ask the man himself.
Chapter 53
Cole refused to tell her anything over the phone. Veronica was mildly suspicious that this was just a ploy to see her in person, so she chose the meeting spot.
Daphne’s.
The eponymous woman greeted her with a bright smile and a hug. This may have been Sheriff Burns’ favorite spot for his afternoon coffee, but Veronica had adopted nicely as her own.
Not only was Daphne kind and caring, but her diner was the perfect place to discuss private matters in public. Safe, but also discreet.
Veronica’s plan was to arrive first, but she was surprised when Daphne directed her to the back, and she found Cole waiting. He spotted her immediately and waved her over.
Veronica was struck again by how handsome he was. Conventionally handsome, stolen directly from the pages of pretty much every romance novel: tall, dark, square jaw, well-dressed…
She didn’t regret her time with Cole. But if the man knew the real Veronica, she doubted he would feel the same way.
Because Cole was a kind, good person.
And she was not.
Veronica walked over to Cole, her jaw set.
Once a killer, always a killer.
“I’m not really sure how to greet you,” Cole admitted. He stood and performed an air-hug followed by an air-handshake and then an air-kiss.
Veronica felt a smile creep onto her lips.
“Hug is fine.”
They embraced, and Veronica felt the familiar tug of comfort and safety that had drawn her to him in the first place.
Did I push Cole away because I have stronger feelings for Steve? Or am I just drawn to chaos?
Like whether Veronica had chopped off her father’s finger or if he had played a prank on her, or if she’d put hot sauce or bleach in her mother’s ice cream, the answer was unknowable.
The two ex-lovers sat, and Daphne materialized. Veronica ordered a beer and Cole, even though he had a half-empty cup of coffee in front of him, went ahead and did the same.
Veronica was tempted to ask about the folder in front of Cole, but she resisted the urge and said nothing until Daphne returned with their drinks.
The beer was cold and crisp. She took two quick sips.
“That for me?” Veronica asked, nodding toward the folder.
Cole licked foam from his upper lip. For some reason, even though he had done the impossible, which definitely came at the expense of sleep, the man looked fresh. Fresh and alive.
“It is,” he said. Veronica reached for it, but Cole put his hand on the cover. “You don’t have to read it, though.”
Veronica raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t have to read it?”
Cole took another pull of his beer.
“You don’t have to read it. You might not want to.”
Veronica wasn’t much for games. She pulled the folder and Cole let it go. She didn’t open it, however.
“How’d you do it? How’d you get Dylan off the hook?”
Cole smiled but instead of answering he just glanced at the folder.
“Right. In here—it’s all in here, in the folder I shouldn’t read.”
“Look,” Cole said, becoming serious, “he’s out. Dylan’s a free man. That’s all that matters. It doesn’t matter what’s in the folder.”
“Just tell me this—if I read it, will I be inclined to arrest you?”
Cole gasped and brought the back of his hand to his forehead.
“How dare you. How dare you think so little of me.”
“Cole…”
“No, Veronica, I didn’t break the law. I mean—not… not in a way that would involve a homicide detective.”
“I also investigate burglaries,” Veronica reminded him.
“But not tech crimes, right?”
“No.”
“Phew. Then we’re fine.”
Veronica wasn’t sure whether Cole was joking or not.
She decided it was better not to know.
Or was it?
As they drank, Veronica considered her options. Not knowing what had happened to her as a child tormented her.
But would knowing help?
If she found out that she had chopped off her father’s finger and tried to poison her mother, would she be in a better place than she was now?
That was in the past. What was in the folder happened in the past.
And that was boring.
Or was it?
Cole smiled and sipped his beer.
“I tried calling you a bunch of times. I know that we left things—”
As if summoned by Cole’s very thoughts, Veronica’s phone started to ring. It was Court and she excused herself.
“I guess you’re screening your calls,” Veronica heard him say as she backed away from the booth.
“Court? What’s up?”
“Detective Shade, I’ve been digging into the Taylors, as you asked.”
“And? Did you find anything?”
“I think I did. Nothing on David Taylor, the kid’s father—he’s clean. No criminal record, nothing of the sort. But his brother? Alex Taylor? He has a pretty substantial rap sheet. You know how David said that his brother was just released? Alex Taylor was inside for possession of heroin.”
Veronica’s eyes went to Cole, then the folder. Her thoughts went to Dylan.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Anything else? Any connection to our victims?”
“Not that I could find.” Court sounded dejected. “Alex did have an arrest about six years ago for assault with a deadly weapon. He used a knife. Got into a tussle at a bar, and when somebody smashed a beer bottle and tried to stick him with it, he pulled out a knife. Cut the other man’s arm pretty deep, required fifteen stitches.”
“I dunno—it’s a far cry from dissecting someone’s lungs out and pulling them from their body,” Veronica remarked. “I just don’t—”
“Wait, wait, one more thing,” Court interrupted. “Sorry, almost forgot. This fucking case—oh, my bad. Didn’t mean to curse.”
“It’s okay, we’re all tired. What else you got?”
“Well, I thought it strange that David mentioned his brother but not his wife or the boy’s mom, so I looked into her. Max’s mother, LeeAnn Taylor, died six months ago. Car accident—some drunk crashed into her, and she died on the scene.”
“Sorry to hear that but—”
“Hold on—I got a copy of the memorial card that was handed out at her funeral. Now, I haven’t slept in—well, a long time, but I want your opinion on this. Tell me what you see, okay?”
Veronica’s patience was waning, but she owed it to Court to entertain him.
“Yeah, go ahead. Send it.”
A second later, Veronica’s phone pinged.
It took a second for the image to download and when it did, her heart leaped into her throat.
“Did you get it?” Court asked.
“Yeah,” Veronica answered dryly.
“And do you see—”
“Oh, I see it, Court. I fucking see it. Great work. Meet me at the Taylor house. Meet me at the Taylor house as soon as you can—no uniform, no squad car. Do not go inside and do not let them see you.”
“Alright. I’ll—”
Veronica hung up and walked back to the booth. Without saying a word to Cole, she grabbed her beer and downed it.
“Business calls?” he asked.
Veronica burped softly and placed the glass back down.
“Business calls,” she confirmed with a nod. “Thank you for helping Dylan. You know,” Veronica averted her eyes and smiled sadly, “I was wrong. You’re going to make one hell of a PI, Cole. And you’re an even better man.”
She grabbed the folder, still not allowing herself to look up.
“Veronica, it’s not too late. I still—”
“Thank you, Cole,” she said.
And then Veronica hurried out of Daphne’s, every step becoming more deliberate and determined than the last and any hint of sadness or loss soon melted away.
Chapter 54
It was dark by the time Dylan Hall finally returned to his shitty apartment. The entire time that Detective Freddie Furlow had been sitting in his car eating French fries and sucking down Pepsi, he expected the DEA to show up and ram his vehicle.
For Troy to jump out of the armored car, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and to shout, you made a big mistake fucking with me.
But the DEA never showed up and Dylan did.
Freddie slapped his hands together, sending salt falling to his lap like dandruff, and jumped out of his car.
“Dylan!” he hollered.
It had taken the gangly man some time to walk to his front door—he was staggering a little as if drunk or, more likely, high. But when Dylan heard his name being called, he sobered up and took up a defensive posture.
“What do you want?”
“I just have a few questions for you.”
Freddie stepped into the light, and Dylan craned his long, thin neck forward.
“Detective Fatso?” His face was like a caricature. “What the—where the fuck’s the rest of you?”
Freddie took the insult in his stride.
“Dropped it off at the shitter before I came here. Hey, let me ask you something?”
“Naw, I don’t think so.” Dylan backed up to his door and reached for the rusted handle. “Last time you were here, it didn’t end so good for me.”
Freddie wasn’t sure how to interpret this—was it an accusation?
He thought back to the night that he and Veronica had come here, and he’d left to take a piss.
Dylan was a criminal—he’d made some terrible decisions, mostly terrible decisions, all terrible decisions, and Freddie loathed him. He loathed Dylan for groping Veronica in the alley and for dealing drugs.
He deserved to be behind bars.
