Officer Jones (26 page)

The third house he saw was the one he had to have. It was one of the typical beach houses seen along the Carolina coastline. The realtor was surprised he would be so interested in a house on the less glamorous north shore. It wasn’t so much where it was, but who’s home it was near.

The man now known as Kyle Jones first made contact with his new neighbor Judge Raymond Buford while walking alone on the tranquil beach, two days after he purchased his home. Buford was standoffish at first. But when he hinted at his true intent, Buford became friendlier.

During his intensive research, he’d uncovered a secret that the macho, Civil War loving judge went to great lengths to keep from the world—that his vacation home on Ocracoke was purchased to pursue the company of young men, away from the watchful eyes of his wife and colleagues.

The timing was perfect, as Buford had just come off a breakup with a police officer named Ron Culver. He earned the judge’s trust, to the point that he revealed his role in a cover-up of a crime so revolting that Benson vowed to bring all involved to justice. And when he did, the date of the crime would be marked each year by future generations, as a reminder that good will always prevail over evil in the end. And a warning to those who choose to prey on the innocent.

The date was October 10.

Chapter 61

Outer Banks, North Carolina

October 3—present

For the fifteen-gazillionth time since I left Charleston, I called Christina. This time she picked up.

“This better be good,” she answered.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Is this a booty call?”

“If you don’t tell me where you were I’m gonna kick your booty out on the street.”

She sighed. “I was at the library studying, and had my cell off. I have a big test tomorrow … can you get to the point?”

“I need you to find out every bit of information you can on a Grady Benson. All I know about him is he worked for the Arizona Cardinals in the mid-nineties, and he had a relationship with a player named Leonard Harris. I also need anything you can find that connects him with Jones—so far, I know they were in the Air Force together.”

“Who is this guy?” Christina asked, suddenly interested—the future reporter in her shining through.

“He killed my brother.”

“I thought that Jones dude killed your brother?”

“I was wrong.”

A long silence came from her end of the line. “Christina?”

Silence

“Christina?”

“Sorry, I had to pick myself off the floor. It must be early because I thought I heard JP Warner say he was wrong.”

“Just get me the information and call me on the cell ASAP!”

“And where exactly would I be calling?” she asked

“I’m heading to North Carolina to pick up Carter.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot you two Neanderthals are still on your
JP is a Jealous Idiot
tour. You should print up some T-shirts.”

“I don’t have time for this. Just get me the information,” I thought I got in the last word.

But Christina was smart enough to realize being a pushover in this situation might lead to more early morning calls. She was going to make me work for it. “I always thought you were just a typical pissed off old guy, JP. But now I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“How much stuff you have bottled up inside you. Just tell Gwen you love her and get it over with. The whole overprotective, stalking, passive-aggressive thing you’re trying to pull off is not big with the ladies.”

This time she got the last word by hanging up on me. She was getting better at this.

Chapter 62

I continued to drive through the wee hours of the morning. My mind had been on Benson since I’d left Charleston, but now my thoughts were only with Gwen. Our last contact was on Saturday night when she claimed to be out on the lake with him. I got no answer all day Sunday. I would have called in the FBI, CIA, and military to locate her, but I’d burned too many bridges to expect a helping hand. And Carter—her supposed bodyguard—was employing his usual communication avoidance tactics. He was really starting to piss me off.

I entered the Outer Banks at just after five in the morning. The sun began to rise over the Atlantic, cutting through the morning fog. My stomach growled; still craving the Mama Jasper’s dinner that I’d missed out on. I drove straight to Sloopy Joe’s, which was where I was supposed to meet Carter in about fourteen hours. But with my Grady Benson discovery, the game plan changed.

I purchased a copy of the
Ocracoker
from a metal box outside, before “walking the plank” to enter. Once inside, I took a seat in a corner booth and opened my paper. The front page featured a story on the still-unsolved murder of Senator Craig Kingsbury. It might have been the biggest story in the Outer Banks since the Wright Brothers’ first flight. I was just glad that there were no stories about an unidentified woman being fished out of the lake.

I ordered a plate of pancakes and did some people-watching, while plotting my next move. I eavesdropped on a group of older men in the booth beside me who were talking proudly about what they deemed a safer time—World War II. But my mind kept returning to the present. I worried for Gwen’s safety, and cursed Carter under my breath.

The ring of my phone interrupted my thoughts.

“Oh my god, JP!” Christina screamed from the other end. “I have his military file in front of me, which includes his official photo. Jones is Benson!”

“How about telling me something I don’t know,” I replied with disinterest. But truth be told, I was impressed that she was able to get his file. I had come up empty with my military sources.

“Grady Benson is forty-two years old. Born and raised in a suburb of San Diego. He’s an only child. Following high school he joined the Air Force, and flew bombing missions during the first Gulf War. About this time, his father took a job with Boeing in the Seattle area. His parents were killed … can you guess how?”

Nothing new, except he was a few years older than I thought. “Let me take a wild stab—drunk driving?”

“Well done, JP. As strange as it is to say, that’s the good news. The bad news is the driver was a juvenile, so his records are sealed.”

“Whoever he was, I’ll bet he’s dead. Keep working to see if you can get a name. What was the date of the accident?” I asked to strange stares and whispers. Now the breakfast crowd was eavesdropping on me.

I could hear Christina typing away. “I know it was 1989, let me check on the month.” She quickly found it. “July 4.”

I tried to locate a pattern. Leeds was killed on the Fourth of July, but Noah was September. It was still not a connected dot.

“When was Leonard Harris killed?”

Christina continued providing information, “According to an article I found, he gave Benson credit for turning his life around, calling him his spiritual adviser. His death was ruled an accident due to carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“That so-called turnaround in his life was necessary because Harris hit two Arizona State students while under the influence of alcohol, killing them. Do you still think it was an accident?”

“Leonard Harris died on July 4, 1996. People sure seem to be accident prone on Independence Day.”

“Was Benson present when Harris died?”

“I’m a college student with access to my landlord’s computer, and a couple of data networks, not an intelligence officer.”

“When life gives you lemons…”

“Ask for the salt and tequila.”

“What I really need to know is when did Benson become Jones, and is there a real Kyle Jones out there who’s had his identity stolen?”

Christina emailed a copy of the Air Force photos to my phone. I saw why Kyle Jones would be the perfect target for Benson. They had similar looks and backgrounds. My best guess was they met in the Air Force, and Christina soon confirmed my theory.

“Benson and Jones were together at a couple of stops along the way, and flew together in the Gulf War. Their last stop together in the military was at Luke Air Force Base in Arizona, where they were stationed for a couple of years. After being discharged, Jones became a police officer in the neighboring town of Gilbert and rented a house on Ash Street.”

“I know all about Jones,” I said impatiently. “I need more about Benson. And is there any way to connect them besides their military service?”

“I’m looking at some phone and electric bills from the late 90s. Guess who also lived in the house on Ash?”

I smiled. “Benson.”

“And they say you are washed up.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”

“When did they move out?”

“Neither of them was the owner of the home, so I assume they were renting. The owner’s name was Joseph Brock, he sold the house back in 2003. The final bills from either Benson or Jones—electric, phone, cable—connected to the Ash residence was June of 1998. Coincidentally, Kyle Jones bought a house on Ocracoke Island in North Carolina later that same month.”

“Have you found any record of Grady Benson after he moved out?”

“He’s totally off the grid, so unless he is living Unabomber-style up in parts unknown, my guess is Benson stole Jones’ identity, and then got rid of the real Kyle Jones,” Christina said, but then thought for a moment. “Or do you think they are working in tandem?”

I’d never thought about that possibility. Jones did seem to be everywhere, and moved with the speed of two men. But I chose to concentrate on what we did know.

We now had visual proof that Benson was Jones, and could make a reasonable assumption that Real Jones was no longer, but had no proof of such. It was also confirmed that Benson’s parents were killed by a drunk driver, which would provide his motive. A nice start, but there were many more questions, and to answer them I would have to follow the Murray philosophy—return to the beginning of the story to figure out the ending.

Chapter 63

I loaded the Humvee onto the Hatteras Dock ferry for the forty-minute trip to Ocracoke. The morning looked brilliant, but out on the choppy water a brisk wind was knifing through me. The warm sunlight on my face was the lone thing keeping it bearable. I caught my reflection in the window of a neighboring vehicle, and I barely recognized myself—I looked like I hadn’t slept in a month. But there was no time to rest until I got to Gwen.

I tried to reach her again and was surprised that she answered this time. I’d become so used to getting the voice-mail that it caught me off guard.

“Where have you been? Didn’t you get my messages?”

“Hello to you, too. Yes, I got all fifty of them. But yesterday was Sunday, JP. I know you wouldn’t know anything about this, since you worked for GNZ, where the assistants have assistants, but I’m the whole show at the
Gazette
. I write it, edit it, and on Sunday’s I
deliver it
.”

“I was worried about you, so sue me. You said you’d call me back when I talked to you Saturday night. I hadn’t heard from you in thirty-six hours. And what the hell were you thinking going out on the lake with that monster!?”

“I couldn’t talk, JP. I was in the middle of getting proposed to.”

Stephen Dubois appeared in my head, mocking me. My stomach sank. That, or it was just seasickness. Either way, I suddenly didn’t feel well.

“Did you accept?” I tried to mask my feelings with a joke.

I’m sure she was tempted to tell me she had, but I think she felt the urgency in my voice. “I told him I wasn’t ready and he didn’t take it well. He got all bent out of shape and we returned to Rockfield that night. Haven’t heard from him since.”

“I’m not sure you need to follow Jones anymore. I figured out who he is, and his motivation. The next step is to find evidence to put him away.”

“Are you going to let me in on this or are you going to try to out scoop me, as usual?”

She obviously hadn’t checked the latest mark on my personal growth chart. “I can’t go into the details right now. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back to Rockfield. In the meantime, research a man named Grady Benson. Be sure to take a look at his Air Force photo, I’ll email it to you.”

“Have you left Charleston yet?”

“I’m in Ocracoke to pick up Carter. We should be home early tomorrow.”

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or that I never think straight when I’m talking to Gwen. But it wasn’t until I heard the deathly silence from her end that I knew I made a major oops.

“What is Carter doing in Ocracoke?” she finally asked.

I got the feeling that she had a pretty good idea what the answer was. Just because she had the evidence didn’t mean she didn’t want to hear a confession.

“Well … um … well…”

“I thought we were going to trust each other … like partners. I can’t believe you sent your bodyguard to spy on me!”

“The only person who can’t be trusted is Jones.”

“You’re the one with trust issues, JP!”

“I was worried about you.”

“The only person you were worried about was yourself.”

Click.

I couldn’t help but to smile. Not only was I relieved that she was safe, but it was nice to know I could still get under her skin after all these years.

The ferry arrived on Ocracoke exactly forty minutes after it left the Hatteras dock. I then drove the Humvee onto the sandy roads of NC-12—my injured leg throbbed with pain and I felt a little naked without my cane. The initial adrenaline of the Grady Benson discovery had worn off and I now stood at the crossroads where hope and reality collided.

I used the lighthouse to guide me to the village. That’s where most of the island life resided, so I was sure I’d find Carter there. He was genetically programmed to search out a crowd.

I searched bars, restaurants, stores, and beaches—no sign of him.

I continued to search in vain for hours, before deciding to go right to the source—Jones/Benson’s house on the island. I called Christina and followed her directions to a remote sandy road on the north shore of Silver Lake.