The Angel of Death (20 page)

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Authors: Alane Ferguson

BOOK: The Angel of Death
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Out of the coroner of her eye she saw a shadow pass the Grand’s window.
Don’t come in here!
she thought. In ten more minutes she would be off her shift. The front section was empty, and there were only two families and a gaggle of old-timers in the back, ticketed and ready to go. Monica was already in the kitchen, preparing to take over, chatting with the Ukrainian cook while she waited. Cameryn hated to start a new table at the end of a shift. But sure enough, at that moment the bell on the door jingled, and she looked up to see not a customer but Justin, this time in Timberline boots and a blue flannel shirt. He carried a large manila folder in his hand.
“I’ve got news,” he said, waving the envelope through the air. “The fingerprints came back.” He walked to the bar but stopped, squinting at her. “You look different.”
Cameryn sighed as she folded her dishcloth. “Don’t start, Justin.”
“No, I meant it in a good way. You look . . . happy. Uncharacteristically happy.”
“Well,” she said, “I am.”
“Really.”
Justin raked back his hair, exposing a forehead that was almost a shade lighter than his cheeks. His feet had been planted far apart; she thought he looked more like a lumberjack than a deputy. “Is it because you’re with Kyle O’Neil?” he asked.
Not knowing what to say, she began to scrub the bar with her towel, the same section she had already wiped down. Finally, she answered, "News travels fast.”
"Then it’s true?”
More scrubbing. “Uh-huh.”
She raised her eyes. Justin’s brow had furrowed, and his lips had pressed thin.
“So when we were in Oakes’s home and I was trying to talk to you about . . .” The words seemed to die in his throat. “Was he the reason?”
Hesitant, she nodded. “Kyle and I—we have a lot in common,” Cameryn answered, folding the towel into a smaller and smaller square. She was not liking this conversation.
Justin stood rooted, not saying a word.
She tried again. “Kyle’s—he’s in my grade at school. We’re both seniors.”
Walking the last few feet, Justin didn’t stop until he was directly in front of her, his green-blue eyes intense. Cameryn had stopped folding the cloth because the square was as small as it could go. Her hand clutching the rag was completely still, as though the power from her arm had been shut off. She swallowed, realizing her mouth was very dry.
“Justin,” she began, “you and me—you know we’re better off as friends. We work together and things could get . . . the thing is, you can never have too many friends. Right?”
A beat, and then, “Right.”
She waited for him to say something more. He didn’t. “So if you think I’m right then why are you glaring at me?”
“I’m not glaring. I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that a true friend would ask you some hard questions. Like, what are you doing with this guy, Cammie? What do you really know about him?”
The good feeling inside her vanished like water into sand. “I know enough,” she snapped.
“Maybe. But you go from zero to a hundred with him in no time flat, and that’s not like you. Think back to when I asked you about Kyle the day we found Oakes’s body. You told me Kyle was a player.”
“No I didn’t! I did
not
say the word ‘player.’ I would never have said that about Kyle! And how can you know what’s ‘like me’ or what isn’t ‘like me’? You didn’t even know me before you moved to Silverton and how long has that been? Four months? What I do and who I do it with is none of your business!”
Stung, Justin turned away and lowered his head. For a moment it looked as though he was about to say something but then, apparently thinking better of it, he shook his head. “You know what?” he said. “You’re right. What you do is none of my business.”
Cameryn took a step back, unsure how to deal with this reversal. “I’m sorry, Justin. I didn’t mean all that. It’s just—”
“No, no, no, you’re right. About all of it. Sometimes I forget how new I am in this town. Anyway”—he let out a breath—“we should talk about the case. That’s actually the reason I came here.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve got some new information.” He glanced around the Grand. “Is now a good time, or do you want me to come back later?”
“No. Now is good.” She was uncomfortable with the intensity of his eyes, so she covered up by launching into motion. “But first, let me get you a Coke,” she said. “Or do you want something else?”
“Coke’s fine.”
While Justin slid onto a barstool, she poured two fountain drinks into glasses usually reserved for beer and set one in front of him. The foam bubbled up into a thick head but stopped just short of spilling over. She took a sip from her own glass and tried to pretend the conversation hadn’t happened. That was all they could do, really, as far as Cameryn was concerned. Act as if things were the same as before. Send it all underground.
“So,” she said, her voice artificially bright, “did you find out about the fingerprints?” She pointed to the folder with her glass. “Was it a match?”
Justin shifted gears, his internal movement mirrored on his face. His expression became more serious, as if he was suddenly aware of the families chatting twenty feet away. Leaning forward on his elbows, his hands high, he dropped the manila folder onto the polished wood.
“It’s a match,” he said softly. “Dwayne was in that bedroom. Prints were all over the headboard. They were on the nightstand and the dresser, too—all Dwayne’s.”
It took two seconds for Cameryn to process this. “So Kyle was right. They had a secret relationship.”
“That’s what the evidence seems to suggest,” Justin agreed. “But I think Kyle got the reason wrong. We all got it wrong.”
“I don’t understand. You have the phone calls, the prints, plus the fact he lied to you.”
“Dwayne wasn’t lying, exactly. He couldn’t admit what was really going on because of the rules of confidentiality. ”
“What do you mean? Last I checked, Dwayne was not a priest.”
Justin lowered his voice and leaned in even closer. “What I’m going to say next is for your ears only. I’m only telling you because you’re part of the case.”
At that moment, Monica hurried by. “You can leave now, Cammie! ” she called out cheerily. “You want me to clock you out?”
“Sure. Thanks!” Cameryn replied. When Monica left, Cameryn leaned closer. “I know better than to spill anything, Justin.” They were no more than four inches apart, so near his breath mingled with hers, heating the air between them. “What is it?” she whispered.
“Dwayne’s a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. So was Brad. They were in the organization together. They attended meetings up in Montrose so no one in Silverton would know. Dwayne was Brad’s sponsor.”
“His sponsor?”
“Dwayne didn’t want to tell me any of this the first time I interviewed him because of A.A.’s strict rules of privacy. They really live by a code.”
“Are you
serious
? ” It took a moment for Cameryn to take it in. “Mr. Oakes was an alcoholic? ” She pictured her teacher, perched on the edge of his desk, seeming to be without a care. He’d always been upbeat—joyful, really—as he shared his love of literature. Mr. Oakes told them the printed words were like fireflies, and if they could catch enough of them they’d light up their own worlds, and when he told them this great truth his eyes would light up, too. This was a man who so effectively hid his pain, whatever it might have been, that no one had caught on. The real secret, it seemed, was hidden in his life.
“That is so incredibly sad,” she finally said. “I had him for English and saw him every day in school, and I would never have guessed.”
“I went with Jacobs yesterday to interview Dwayne, and I told him about the match on the fingerprints. When Dwayne realized how serious it looked, he changed his tune and started talking. It turns out that Brad Oakes was an alcoholic who fell off the wagon when he found out his only sister died—his only living relative, killed in a car crash.
That’s
what Kyle saw in the alley that night. He saw Brad drunk.”
“So when Brad had his head on Dwayne’s shoulder—”
“Dwayne was trying to get him home. He carried Brad to his house and put him to bed, which explains the fingerprints. ”
“And you can’t tell how old a fingerprint is—”
“Exactly. A year-old fingerprint looks the same as one that’s less than a day.” Justin took a sip of his Coke, then set it down on a paper coaster Cameryn handed him.
She took a quick glance behind her to check her tables and saw Monica refreshing the water on the table with the kids. Relieved they couldn’t overhear, Cameryn huddled closer again as Justin went on.
“After Brad slipped, Dwayne said Brad called him all the time for support, trying to keep himself sober. He was afraid if people found out he was drinking they might take Scouting away from him. I said to Dwayne, ‘Why did you protect him when he was dead and it didn’t matter anymore?’ He told me that all Brad talked about was Scouting and teaching you kids. Dwayne didn’t want to hurt the legacy.”
“I’m assuming you checked all this out? With Alcoholics Anonymous?”
Justin sighed. He tapped the rim of his glass with his finger. “We’re in the process. It’s hard, because with A.A., everything’s secret. They’re not exactly a cooperative group.”
“So you can’t be sure of any of this.”
“Cameryn, I’m sure. I talked to the man. He’s devastated at the accusation, and he’s got a good alibi for the night Brad died.”
“Which is what?”
“He spent that night with his wife. They were trying to patch things up. I checked it out, and she was with him.”
Lost in thought, Cameryn bit the side of her thumb. “If it’s not Dwayne, we’re back to having nothing.”
“Worse than nothing,” Justin told her. “So far, we can’t make any connection fit. There was no motive to kill this man. Brad Oakes lived in this town for thirteen years, sober, kind, no problems with anyone. That leaves me with the most frightening scenario of all.” His eyes bored into hers. “This might have been a random murder.”
The thought scared her because she knew the challenge of finding someone who killed indiscriminately. Ninety-five percent of victims had a link to their killers, and part of forensics was to connect the dots back to the perpetrator. Boyfriend, neighbor, spouse, lover—those were the threads that law enforcement followed. But when there was no thread, no connection, the killer could slip away in anonymity. When the victim could be anyone, the killer could be anyone, too.
“Random killers almost never get caught,” she murmured.
“Exactly. We still don’t have a clue
how
the murder was done in the first place. We don’t understand the mechanism. The sheriff called in the Colorado Bureau of Investigation, and they’re reviewing the case now. You know what they told the sheriff?”
"What? ”
“They said it’s like some alien beamed him with a ray gun.”
So intense was her concentration that she didn’t notice the shape looming behind Justin’s forward-leaning figure. When she finally focused beyond Justin’s head she saw Kyle. His blond hair had been cut, almost buzzed, and stood straight up, stiff as spokes. His black snow-boarding coat was stretched tightly across his chest. Seeing him was enough to wake her from her trance.
“Kyle, you’re here!” she cried. For some reason she felt guilty. She sprang up and rounded the bar, holding out her arms. When he hugged her, his grip was iron.
“I was just talking to Justin about the case. There’s a lot going on. Not anything I can tell you,” she babbled, “but the case is just weird. So Justin was filling me in.”
“I can see that. Hello, Officer Crowley.” Kyle pulled one arm free from Cameryn and held it out to Justin. “Did you find out who’s responsible?”
“Not yet.” Justin’s voice was cool. “We’re still working on it.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”
“I will.” Justin stood and picked up the manila folder. “Well, I’d best be going. Thanks for the Coke, Cameryn. See you around.”
“See you.” She gave a tiny wave, and then he was gone, the bell on the door jingling behind him.
Kyle was scoping Cameryn’s face. His eyes looked darker than before, almost as if the gold had disappeared. “What was that all about?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Cameryn cried. “I was just working. He was talking to me about the case.”
“Are you sure that’s all?”
“Of course I’m sure!”
He put one palm on each of her cheeks and drew her close, resting his forehead against hers. His skin felt cool. “I can tell he likes you. I’m not sure I’m okay with him hanging around my girl.”
“Woman.” She felt the lightness return inside her, fizzing like Pop Rocks. “Kyle O’Neil, are you jealous?”
He gave her a slow grin.
“Well, are you?”

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