Pitch Black (16 page)

“Watch it. You’re letting your emotions cloud your vision of this situation.”

The rigidity drained from her and she pushed her hair from her face. “I know. I know.”

He brought up another subject that needed airing. “We also need to look at Colin Arbuckle’s accident. Where does it fit in all this?”

“I’ve been looking at that one myself,” she said. “Drowning his guilt in Budweiser you think?”

“Could be. Maybe he knew more than he admitted to when I questioned him. And maybe it’s pure coincidence.”

She raised a brow. “If you believe in coincidence, you’re the first investigator I’ve come across that does.”

“I don’t. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

The lull dragged on long enough that Gabe stood and said, “I suppose I should go.” He didn’t want to. He wanted to stay here and assure her everything was going to work out; that he believed her son without a doubt. But neither of those things was true.

She didn’t get up. But she didn’t rekindle the conversation either.

He’d made his way to the kitchen door when she said, “You know no one in this town is going to believe Ethan without Jordan or Kate admitting that Steve abused his stepson. I’ve seen what public opinion can do to pressure a DA and pollute a jury pool. I don’t want it happening to my son.”

“This isn’t about public opinion. It’s about evidence and facts—wherever they lead. Don’t underestimate me, Maddie. I might be a country boy, but I know how to do my job.”

She looked up at him. He wished she hadn’t. There was no trust in her eyes.

Chapter 16

M
ADISON WATCHED ETHAN walk into the high school from where she’d dropped him at the curb. She didn’t like what she saw. He’d fallen back into the closed-off, don’t-mess-with-me posture it had taken her two years to banish. As he passed, groups of girls leaned their heads together, their eyes casting skittish glances his way. A couple of guys gave him a wide berth at the doorway.

God, she hated this. All of the hurtful attitudes she had hoped were gone from his life forever had returned with a vengeance. She wanted to get out of the car and slap those gossiping girls silly, to grab those boys by the shoulders and shake them until their teeth rattled.

Of course, she didn’t. She gritted her teeth, put her car in gear, and headed to work.

Pausing at the glass door before entering the newspaper office, she saw Judy standing beside Jennifer the receptionist’s desk. When Madison pulled open the door, their conversation stopped abruptly and their guilty glances shot her way.

“Good morning, ladies,” Madison said brightly. “Don’t let me interrupt your conversation.” She walked on past.

From their blushed cheeks and startled looks, she realized she’d broken yet another ironclad Southern rule: When you catch someone gossiping about you, you go to great lengths to pretend you don’t have a clue.

Dear Lord, all of these social customs could suck the energy right out of a person.
And today she was far too stressed and tired to apply herself.

“Since you seem to be finished,” she said dryly, “Judy, I want you to cover everything having to do with Colin Arbuckle’s accident—interview the authorities, family, friends, whoever. And Jennifer, call Donnie and see if he went out and got any photos during the search and recovery.” Photographer Donnie Roudebush did freelance work for the paper, relying on his police scanner for hot scoops. “If not, have him go take some of the scene, preferably looking from the creek up toward the bridge. Oh, and call the family for a recent photo of Colin.”

Both women nodded. Judy followed Madison into her office. “I—I already interviewed the Arbuckles. . . . I figured . . . well, I mean . . . considering everything—”

“For goodness’ sake, spit it out, Judy.” Madison continued to put her tote beneath her desk and powered up her computer.

Judy looked as startled as if Madison had just poked her in the eye. Chalk up one more social gaffe by the resident Yankee.

After a moment of recovery, Judy said, “I assumed you wouldn’t want to be covering this . . . with the boys being so close and all.”

“Colin and Ethan weren’t close. But thank you for your consideration.” Madison could almost hear the
whoosh
as the cynicism passed directly over Judy’s head.

“Um, okay then.” She started to back toward the office door.

“And Judy”—Madison looked up from her desk—“stick with provable facts—no speculation. If there aren’t facts, say so, and that we’ll print details as we receive them from the sheriff’s department.”

“Of course.”

“Please close the door on your way out.”

As soon as the door latched, Madison slumped back in her chair and rubbed her temples. This was going to be one freakin’ long day.

After a moment, she dug out her PDA and looked up the number of the private investigator she’d used back in Philly. She’d never called upon his services for a personal matter. For some reason, doing so made her feel oddly vulnerable—in a way she didn’t care for at all.

But it had to be done. She had her hands full here and could hardly run all over creation digging up details. Plus, she’d gotten the feeling that time was going to be of the essence. This guy could do in a couple of days what might take her a week or more.

Once that call was completed, she closed off her personal life and escaped into her work, gearing up for her next article on teenage steroid use.

First she dug into today’s stack of mail. Not surprisingly, there were multiple letters to the editor slamming her for her continuing articles about local teens at risk. Reading one after the other, there didn’t seem to be anything new or different . . . until she reached the next to last letter in the pile.

If you’re interested in what a girlfriend has to say about steroid use, ask Shelly Mitthoeffer.

No signature. No return address.

Shelly Mitthoeffer—the girlfriend of the now-incarcerated brother of J.D. Henry.

Madison leaned back in her chair and smiled.
Thank you, Julia.

GABE HUNG UP
from talking to the forensic lab. He’d pleaded his case, stressing the age of the victim. Lucky for him, the technician he’d spoken to had teenage children of her own and promised to personally take care of processing the beer cans and get back to him about the fingerprints by Wednesday.

Now all he had to do was figure out who might have put their hands on those beer cans. With no suspect, there would be nothing to match.

The other pressing item on his agenda was to get some background on Steve McPherson and his stepson. Kate would be his last interview, after he’d gathered what he could from others who’d had contact with Steve and Jordan. That way perhaps he’d have enough leverage to get her to admit what was going on.

Bobby Gray was near the bottom of his list, too. He wanted less-partial views first; opinions that would give him guideposts through all of the conflicting emotional bias both Kate and Bobby were sure to have.

He decided to start with Jacob Roberts, the man who’d coached Little League alongside Steve McPherson.

Luckily, Jacob was easy to locate; he was a firefighter housed three blocks from Gabe’s own office. The unusual cool snap that had locked in for the past week had finally moved out. Gabe walked those three blocks in the warm sunshine.

When he arrived at the fire station, Jacob was cutting the scrap of front lawn around the flagpole. He shut off the mower when Gabe approached.

“What brings you by the firehouse, Gabe?” Jacob wiped his brow with his T-shirt sleeve.

“Can you take a break for a couple of minutes? I’d like to talk to you about Steve McPherson.”

Jacob looked puzzled. “Sure. Okay.” He led Gabe inside the open overhead door to the garage, then through a passage door into the living quarters of the station. “Something to drink?” He motioned Gabe toward a dining table surrounded by six chairs.

“No thanks.” He pulled out a chair and sat.

Jacob retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator and sat opposite Gabe. “Damn shame about the Arbuckle boy. I sure went out there hoping for a better outcome. He was a real good ballplayer.” He gave a sad shake of his head. “You find out who he was meeting?”

“Not yet. You hear any rumblings from your kids . . . who they suppose it could have been?”

“No. I’ve been talking to them, but then they’re very selective in the news they broadcast at home. They’re not gonna admit to me they know how to get beer.”

“I know it’s tough to parent kids these days,” Gabe said sympathetically.

“Yeah, it can be a real bitch—teenagers especially.” Jacob uncapped the bottle of water and took a swig. “So, what do you want to know about Steve?”

“I’m just looking for some input. You spent quite a bit of time with him and his stepson, Jordan, right?”

“Yeah. The kid didn’t play, but Steve brought him along—trying to get the boy up to speed; play in a few practice games.”

“How did Jordan act when he came along?”

Jacob gave a half-laugh. “Aw, you know kids. He spent most of his time moping around, not paying any attention to what was going on. Didn’t have a lick of interest in sports. Was real awkward around the other kids.”

“And how did Steve try to get around that?”

“The way most dads—and coaches—do; he pushed. Sometimes that’s what it takes to get a kid like that out of his shell. He tried to make Jordan feel like one of the team—yelled at him like he was anybody else when he screwed up. Which was pretty damn often.”

“Did you ever see him get physical with Jordan?”

Jacob sat up straighter in his chair. “Where are you heading with this, Gabe?”

“I’m just asking all of the questions that come to my mind, gathering facts. I’m trying to solve a murder here.”

“You
can’t
be serious.” Jacob shook his head. “That puny kid couldn’t have given Steve a good bruise, let alone murdered him. You’re lookin’ in the wrong place.”

“I didn’t say I thought Jordan killed Steve. I said I was asking questions. You have any ideas where I
should
be looking?”

Jacob leaned back in his chair, pushing the front legs off the floor. “Well, I don’t like to carry tales, especially unreliable ones I hear from teenagers.” He let the chair legs back down on the floor with a thump. Setting his forearms on the table, he looked Gabe in the eye. “But since you’re just gathering information, I’ll tell you what I heard from my kid.”

Gabe’s legs flexed, instinctively ready to launch himself into a run . . . away from something he was sure he didn’t want to hear. Only his rigid will kept him in the chair.

“Apparently there’s talk around school that Ethan Wade threatened some kids at the skate park some weeks back.”

“What’s that got to do with Steve and Jordan?” Had he sounded as neutral as he should? Or had his voice carried the edge he felt?

“He threatened those kids because they were giving Jordan Gray a hard time.” Jacob’s blue gaze sharpened and he tilted his head slightly. “My kid says if anybody messes with Jordan, that kid from up north is all over them.”

“Are you telling me you think Steve was hurting Jordan?”

“Can’t see it. But he could get pretty in-your-face with the kid. Maybe something happened up there that made the Wade kid think Jordan
might
be hurt. Long as you’re asking questions, it’s worth looking into.”

Gabe wished he could just stop asking questions.

MADISON CAUGHT SHELLY MITTHOEFFER
on the sidewalk outside the video store on her smoke break.

“Shelly?” she said as she approached.

“Yeah?” Shelly’s voice was rough and raspy; even though she couldn’t be more than nineteen, she and cigarettes had already had a long and intimate relationship.

“I’m Madison Wade. I’m working on some research about ster—”

“I read the paper.” She shifted her weight from one pencil-thin leg to the other.

“I was wondering if you had anything you’d like to share with me.”

She gave a coarse bark of laughter. “Seriously.” She pumped her thin arm. “I really look like I’m doping.”

Madison played along and offered a chuckle. “I was thinking more about your old boyfriend, the one in jail.”

Shelly put one arm across her midsection. Resting her other elbow on top of it, she held her cigarette to the side and flipped off the ash. “What about Jeffery?”

“He’s in jail because he assaulted you.”

She turned her head, giving Madison a view of her fragile profile. “Yeah, so? That was a long time ago.”

“Was he taking anabolic steroids?”

Shelly glanced through the front window of the video store. “Listen, I gotta get back to work.” She stubbed her cigarette out on the brick window ledge.

“I just want to find out who’s selling this crap so no more kids in this town die . . . and no more girlfriends get the shit beat out of them.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that.” The girl hurried back into the building, but didn’t turn away so quickly that Madison didn’t see what she was looking for.

Shelly knew. She knew who the supplier was. It was written all over her face.

Now Madison just had to figure out a way to get it out of her.

WHEN GABE RETURNED TO THE OFFICE
, there was a voice mail from the counselor at the high school requesting that he call as soon as possible.

He almost wished he hadn’t come back in. New problem; or another stick on the pile of old ones?

He dialed and then entered the counselor’s extension.

“This is Mrs. Whitfield.”

“Sheriff Wyatt, returning your call.”

“Oh, Sheriff, I’m so glad you got back to me so quickly. I’ve had several students in here today—you know, two student deaths like we’ve had have been really hard on our kids.”

“It’s hard on everyone in a community like ours. I’m sure you’ve had your hands full.”

“Yes, we have. And I don’t know if there’s anything to this, but two of my students came in with something I thought you should know. It’s about Colin Arbuckle and Ethan Wade. . . . ”