American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) (5 page)

Dylan had been asking for a lawyer since Vermont. In his efforts to not speak first, it was usually a parting comment to an officer’s back. He was never given any indication that they heard him or that a lawyer was on the way. He was a victim; he shouldn’t need a lawyer, but he did.

Shortly after Agent Smith left the interrogation room, a woman arrived. She walked in reading from a folder and carrying a briefcase overflowing with papers and cords.

“I’m Elaine, your state-appointed attorney,” she said. “I have some paperwork here for you to sign before we get started.” The short, slightly unkempt woman slid a thin folder across the table to Dylan.

“Did they do that to you?” Elaine wrinkled her nose and gestured toward Dylan’s face.

“Yeah, the FBI guy who just left smashed my face on the table and screamed at me,” Dylan answered.

Elaine jotted a note onto a legal pad and rose from her seat. She disappeared through the door. Less than a minute later she returned with a handful of paper towels and a plastic bottle of water.

“We’ll figure this out next,” she said.

Dylan awkwardly wet the paper towels and dabbed at the blood he could feel on his upper lip. He had no idea what it looked like or if he was making any progress.

Once he was done cleaning himself, Elaine said: “Sign here, here, and here. Print your name here, and initial there, and there.”

It was difficult to sign with the handcuffs securing his wrists to the table. He was careful to read each document before signing them. They were basic contracts explaining confidentiality and his need to share information with her. There was nothing significant, and most importantly, no false confession.

“Thank you,” Elaine said, and then she got right down to business. “Here’s what’s going to happen. In about forty minutes, they will bring you to a courtroom and indict you for murder. How are you going to plead?”

“Innocent, because I am. Don’t they need evidence to indict me?” Dylan asked.

“They will present their evidence to the judge, who will decide if it is enough to hand down the indictment. You have a bit of a lucky draw today, the judge is older and has traditionally been a stickler for a strong case,” Elaine explained.

“So my drug screens came back negative and the tests for gun powder were negative. I’m not using and I haven’t fired a gun recently, so what evidence do they have that I shot someone?” Dylan’s voice rose above a conversational level.

“How do you know your blood tests came back negative?” The lawyer began reading documents in a second, thicker folder.

Dylan suddenly found himself pleading with Elaine. “Because I haven’t done drugs in six years, four months, and twenty-five days. It’s been even longer than that since I fired a gun.”

No one had listened to him since this whole ordeal began. He needed just one person to take a minute and look at things objectively. In theory, that was Elaine’s job, and hopefully she would do it well.

“So what’s your theory on why they like you for the murder?” Elaine asked. She never looked up from the papers.

“I assume they found my dog with the dead cop. They checked his tags and found my name. When they went to my address, I wasn’t there. After pulling my record and seeing that I had a history of drug use, minor theft and some time in jail, they assumed I did it and ran,” Dylan said. “I didn’t do it and I didn’t run. I was kidnapped.” He worked to keep the story short and his voice under control.

“Kidnapped?” The lawyer looked up from the papers, clearly confused.

“Yes. The guy who shot the cop was also shot but not that bad. He had a gun on me and threatened to kill me if I didn’t drive him away.” Dylan felt a glimmer of hope.

“So you helped him,” she said, stating a fact.

“No! He had just killed a cop; he would have killed me if I didn’t do what he said. Check the car! There is blood in the back seat. There must be fingerprints in the back that match the prints in the front. My prints are only around the driver’s seat.” He couldn’t believe he was losing her.

Elaine shuffled papers and scanned a few of them.

“They found your prints on the steering wheel, ignitions, driver’s door…” She trailed off.

“Any other prints?” Dylan asked.

Elaine continued to read. “Yeah, lots of them, but no other hits in the database. No prints at all in the back seat.”

“So blood but no prints? He must have been wearing gloves,” he exclaimed, as if he solved a huge mystery.

“Okay. The blood on your clothes matches the blood in the back seat. There was no blood from the officer found on any of your things. How did you get the shooter’s—err, kidnapper’s—blood on you?” Elaine asked.

“I had to help him up. He was shot in the hip and I picked him up from the front, under the arms, while his gun poked me in the chest,” Dylan explained. Hope was fading.

Elaine went back to the yellow legal pad where she had written her earlier note. She scribbled furiously and, even though it was upside down, Dylan considered the print unreadable. After consulting a few different pages in the folder, she wrote a long paragraph, read it, and then made some corrections.

“So they have no way to tie me to the cop, no murder weapon, and no motive. How could they possibly indict me?” Dylan was worried that his hopes for justice would be dashed.

“Fine. They don’t have anything to place you at the scene of the crime. Based on their evidence, your only crime is not being available to explain why your dog was found licking a dead officer’s face.” She made a few circles on the legal pad.

“Plus I’ve been in custody for almost two days. They need to shit or get off the pot.” He was tired of being in limbo.

Elaine rose to her feet and stepped toward the door. She paused, looked back, and asked: “What did the kidnapper look like?”

“Completely average and unremarkable,” Dylan said, and relayed what little he knew about the killer. “Five-ten to six-two, between one-ninety and two-fifty, brownish blonde hair, and no visible marks or tattoos. The only weird thing I can think of is that he was wearing a suit, tie and everything, in the woods at six-thirty on a Saturday morning.”

“Thanks. See you in a bit.” The door closed and Elaine was gone.

The lawyer’s definition of “a bit” and Dylan’s were not the same. It had to have been an hour or more before she returned. She wore an awkward half-smile when she reentered the interrogation room.

“Good news, they’re letting you go,” Elaine said, sharing the reason behind her smile. “They still like you for killing the cop, or at least accessory to murder, but they don’t have enough evidence to be sure of an indictment.”

“And they never will. Thank you. Now if you can get them to undo my cuffs, I need to get home to my dog.” Dylan was relieved.

“Look,” Elaine said softly as she sat. “Since you are not being charged, I’m technically not your lawyer. I don’t know how you’re involved in this cop’s murder, but the circumstances and your history make it seem like you are. If you did it, I’m pretty sure you won’t get away with it. If you didn’t do it, then you might want to keep a low profile until it gets sorted out.”

“Thanks for the advice. For the record, again, I didn’t have anything to do with it. I haven’t gotten so much as a speeding ticket since I moved to New Hampshire, so I’m not too worried about watching my step,” Dylan insisted. He just wanted the cuffs off and to head home.

“Suspected cop killers don’t get a lot of leeway, and you have been under a lot of stress. If I may, go to a meeting, talk to someone about your cravings. If you slip and turn up in the system again soon, it will only add to your problems.” The lawyer’s face and tone conveyed her message clearly.

Dylan was lost and confused. “I think I’ll be fine, but thank you for the suggestion.”

Elaine shrugged her shoulders, stuffed the legal pad into her bag, and rose. At the door she stopped and turned to face Dylan.

“Did you get any idea at all what the killer was doing in Monson?” she asked.

“Based on the FBI guy’s questions and the papers I saw on the front seat, he was looking for a document called the ‘American Lease.’ By the way, how do I press charges against the FBI?” Dylan’s mind was jumping from the exhaustion and the euphoria of his pending freedom.

“Did he find it?” she asked.

“I don’t think so, but the FBI guy seemed to think it was possible he had it,” Dylan answered.

“I wouldn’t do anything vigilante, but keep your eye out for the guy who kidnapped you. If you can give the cops the real killer, they won’t like you for it anymore,” Elaine said, as if the idea were obvious.

“And pressing charges against the FBI?”

“That sounds like the opposite of laying low. I’m sure your nose hurts, but you look pretty tough. I’d let it go and be happy about your freedom.” She turned the doorknob and pulled it open.

“Do I have to stay local or anything?” Dylan called after her.

“You’re free, but boy, running away would sure make
me
think you’re guilty,” Elaine answered. “My advice is to sit tight and keep your eyes open.” She left and never looked back.

There had been no rush to process Dylan out of lock up. Paperwork was missing or incomplete, and they struggled to find his belongings, finally giving him a hodgepodge of things, some of which weren’t even his. Once they had their papers together, the officer in charge had been called away and was unavailable to sign off on his release.

Through it all, Dylan maintained a stoic demeanor. Pissing and moaning made pain last longer. He had learned that running sprints in hundred-degree heat.

When they finally ran out of ideas for delaying his release, they simply walked him out the front door. They offered no ride and no phone call. Dylan was miles from home with no phone and no car. Knowing that the county court would offer no sympathy, he simply put one foot in front of the other and started walking.

When he got to Main Street he thought about his options. The only phone number he knew from memory was that of his landlord, Eliza. He doubted that she would be willing to come pick him up after what she had learned about him. He could hitchhike, but even that would have to wait until he got further out from the center of the small city. A cab slowed and turned up a side street. Huh, a taxi service in Nashua? Dylan had never seen that before. Hopefully they would take him home. He went up the side street and was pleasantly surprised that the taxi stand was easy to identify and not far up the street.

A cab was available and the ride home wasn’t outrageously expensive. Dylan hoped this would be the start of better luck, but the driver spent most of the ride texting and Dylan again questioned his luck. If he had more energy, he would have said something to the man, but exhaustion allowed him to close his eyes and just breathe.

Once they got home, he had to run inside to get his wallet. The driver didn’t mind waiting; it wasn’t like there were fares standing at the next corner. After he paid the driver, relief washed over Dylan. He’d find Montana, give him a treat, and then sleep for a day.

A survey of the yard did not reveal the sleeping golden retriever he expected. For an instant Dylan feared that the animal control officer had taken him and there would be more police process to deal with before he could come home.

“Montana,” Dylan called optimistically.

It only took seconds for the dog to recognize the voice of his owner. A blond hulk appeared from behind the house and quickly triangulated where the call had come from. As soon as he locked in on Dylan, Montana ran toward him at full speed.

Montana slammed into Dylan’s body and licked his face. He fell backwards onto his butt and embraced the hundred-pound golden retriever.

He spoke quietly in to the dog’s fur. “Hey buddy, I missed you.”

After worrying about his own life and liberty, the only thing Dylan cared about was Montana. Now that Elaine had done her job and gotten him released from custody, he was free to worry about other things. Like where he was going to live, for starters.

“Hey Dylan,” Ryan said cautiously.

“Hi Ryan. Did you take care of Montana for me?” Dylan asked with a big smile.

The ten-year-old averted his eyes. “Mom says I’m not allowed to talk to you. She let me give Montana food and water, but she wouldn’t let him in the house,” he said. “Sorry, I tried, even lost my iPad for a day because I snuck him in once.” Ryan smiled weakly.

“Thanks for feeding him. He’s pretty wimpy, though. A few nights outside probably did him good.” Dylan felt bad for damaging the trust that had been put in him.

“Did you go to jail?” Ryan asked with awe.

“A long time ago I made some mistakes and yes, I did go to jail.” Dylan let his head drop.

“No, I mean like, yesterday? Are you coming home from being in jail?” the boy asked with even more amazement.

“Not really. I saw a bad guy do something and I was working with the police and some other people to figure out why the bad guy did it,” Dylan lied. Immediately, he regretted it.

“Ryan. Come inside right now,” Eliza called from the side door of the house.

“Awwww, but mom he was helping the police,” Ryan whined but he walked away from Dylan.

The landlord and mother passed her son about halfway between the door and her tenant. She was serious and rigid; this would not be a welcome home speech.

“I expect you to be gone before it gets dark. I
told you
there was a child in this house and I wouldn’t tolerate any funny business. He looks up to you so much. Why did you have to go and break his heart?” She searched his face for an answer.

“I’m sorry I lied to you about my past, but it has nothing to do with what happened,” he said. “I’m not a bad guy; I just have rotten luck.” Dylan hated excuses but it was the truth.

Dylan had always gotten along with Eliza. He was quiet and kept to himself for the most part. She was initially concerned about Montana, but once she realized that he almost never barked and Ryan could get the benefits of having a dog without the hassle of owning one, she had liked him a lot more.

In the past she’d accepted tenants who promised to do odd jobs for a hundred bucks off the rent. Most of them either nickel-and-dimed her with notes that they changed a light bulb or performed some other mundane task and wanted a steeper discount on their rent. When Dylan had floated the arrangement, she refused, and still he had done more handiwork around the property than anyone else in years.

When he wasn’t at work or doing small projects for her, he was tossing the football with Ryan. The two of them would be outside for hours at a time, playing catch, running routes, and diagraming plays. Ryan had grown from a clumsy little kid into an athletic boy under Dylan’s guidance.

In August, Ryan had begged to play football. Eliza had been comfortable rejecting the request immediately, but it had taken Dylan’s words and support to make Ryan understand and accept the ruling.

With Dylan, there were never empty bottles or cigarette butts in the yard. His truck was clean and his language was even cleaner.

Dylan shook his head at the injustice. A seven-year-old drug conviction felt like a bad reason to kick him out. Suspicion of murder was a fine reason, but he had just been cleared of that, sort of.

“So if I need a reference, would you be willing to give it without mentioning my past?” Dylan asked, hoping for a tiny remnant of good will.

“Do you have a place in mind?” Eliza asked in return. She suddenly sounded unsure of what she was going to do.

“Well, I was hoping you would give me a few days to find one. Me and Montana sleeping in the truck is a little rough.” Dylan rubbed his hand on the back of his head and down to his neck.

“It’s not the stuff from this weekend that bothers me. The lying is what I’m upset about. You should have told me you had a record and that you had paid your dues to society,” she answered.

“Would you have rented to me then if I had?” He knew the true answer.

“No. It’s just—” Eliza looked off to the street.

Dylan followed her gaze and watched a police car roll past. They hadn’t indicted him for murdering the cop, though it was lack of evidence that freed him. It was possible that they were still suspicious of him and they were around to catch Dylan if he slipped up.

“I can understand you wanting me gone. All I’m asking for is a few days. Please? I promise you, nothing will happen. I would never do anything to put Ryan or you in jeopardy.” He could sense her getting ready to cave.

“I don’t know,” Eliza said. She looked back at the house and froze.

Dylan turned to look with her. In the window was Ryan, holding a football. His head was leaned up against the glass and moisture on his cheeks glistened in the sun.

“You have until Saturday,” Eliza said suddenly. “If there is even a hint of trouble, you’re gone immediately and I’m calling the cops. Do you understand?” There was a tremor in her voice.

“Thank you,” Dylan choked out as tears welled in his eyes.

Eliza turned and began walking back toward the house. Before she got too far, Dylan thought of something from earlier in the day. “Eliza, you’ve lived in town for awhile right?” he asked to her back.

“Twenty-five years,” she answered, turning to face him.

“Have you ever heard about a lease or something buried in Monson?” Dylan asked.

“Is that why you’ve been walking in there everyday? Looking for a buried treasure?” Eliza laughed.

“No. Someone at the police station asked me about it today and I thought it was a trick to confuse me. The guy who kidnapped me had what looked like a map and some other weird documents in the car. Would the paperwork for some old town charter be worth killing for?” Dylan didn’t think that the lease was real or worth pursuing even if it was, but he liked it here and didn’t want to have to leave.

“Well, between you and me, the buried treasure idea was the brain child of a local marketing executive. In the late nineties, a developer wanted to build a few homes on the land and it would have interfered with this guy’s views and given him the worst thing you can have in New Hampshire.” She let her eyes drift back to history.

“What is the worst thing you can have in New Hampshire?” Dylan asked curiously.

“Neighbors you can see,” Eliza said. She filled out the story: “But anyway, he came up with this story about buried treasure and important colonial documents hidden somewhere in the boundary of the old town. He spun a good yarn and the locals who wanted to believe it never searched for much proof. The development was blocked and the town bought the land for short money and put it into conservation.”

“That makes more sense than a mysterious lease. Thanks.” Dylan let her leave and shuffled to his door.

He finished removing the yellow crime scene tape that had been across the door. Dylan feared that when he got the chance to really look, the inside would be in shambles. It was doubtful that the local and state police had been careful when going through searching for clues. Inside, he was surprised to see that stuff had clearly been moved but nothing was broken or even left in disarray.

Montana nudged past him and through the door. Without waiting for instruction, the dog trotted over to the couch and hopped up. He curled himself into a ball and lay down with his head on the arm.

Dylan closed the door behind him and barely made it to his bed before collapsing. Sleep came almost instantly.