Thomas Prescott Superpack (34 page)

“Uh, yes sir.
We lease land from you.”

“Seventy-five acres.
Yes, I know. Your daddy was late on his payment this year. If he has another bad crop, you lose the land.”

This irritated Harold.
He wasn’t sure if it was because he had just saved this man’s daughter and the man was talking about the money his father owed him or because his father hadn’t told him about their financial woes. And here Harold was abandoning his father when he truly needed him on the farm and stealing his truck to do it. A wave of emotion flooded Harold. He nearly began to cry. He looked at his shoes to try and hide his tears.

The man said, “Now, I’m gonna ask you one last time.
What did you do to my girl?”

“He saved me.”

Both Harold and the man looked at the girl. She locked eyes with Harold, unblinking.

Harold’s eyes welled with tears as he smiled at the perfect form.

But then he was struck again by the man.
A fierce blow. The man pushed and shoved him. He was yelling, “Get off my property, boy. Get. Get! Before I have you arrested.”

Harold stumbled and fell.
Arrested? But didn’t he just learn that he had saved the girl? Harold pushed himself to his feet. He felt the tears streaming from his eyes. Why? Why was this man doing this to him? What had he done?

He pushed himself off the ground and started running.
He gave one last look back at the house. The man threw a rock at him and continued to yell. He could see the girl in the doorway. Her eyes still locked on his. She lifted an arm from around her mother’s neck and gave a slight wave.

The woman wrinkled her nose, turned, and walked inside.

Now I was off the bench, pacing in front of the small lake.
I desperately wanted to find a time machine, go back to 1942, and kick the living shit out of this guy.

Harold watched me silently.
Finally, he asked, “Are you okay?’

“Yeah.”
But, I wasn’t.

I’d had a similar experience with a girl’s father.
He wouldn’t let her date me because I was a cop. I still thought about her on occasion. But not as often as I thought about shooting her father in the kneecap.

I asked, “So what did you do?”

He shrugged. “What could I do? I ran to my truck. Drove to the train station and joined the army a day later.”

I leaned my head back and sighed.
Then I turned and looked at Harold. He’d gone back to feeding the ducks. He threw a large piece of bread and two ducks jabbed at each other until the bigger of the two choked down the large chunk. Harold shook his head and laughed.

Chapter 14

By noon on Wednesday, I had the better part of the upstairs painted. I took a break at one and ate some lunch. PB and J, some Cheetos, a strawberry Fruit Roll Up, three Oreos (Double Stuffed, of course), and a tall glass of milk. The perfect combination of protein, carbohydrates, partially hydrogenated vegetables oils, fruit pectin, Red Dye #4, and processed sugar to fuel my second leg of painting.

I’d just started back in—I was finishing up the trim work in Lacy’s room—when I heard a rather loud and highly annoying series of wind chimes.
It took me a moment to register that it was the doorbell. Oh, how quickly we forget.

I walked out of Lacy’s room and across the hall to the guest bedroom.
There was a window with white Venetian blinds, and I pushed one of the runners down with my finger. Droplets of water raced down the cold window, embossed over another gray Seattle afternoon. I didn’t see a car parked in the slippery drive or one parked on the street.

The chimes settled in for their encore and I decided to wait them out.
(Your average person will give up after two rings.) The chimes ended and I waited to see who walked down the drive. Nobody. The chimes came back on stage a third time. And then a fourth. I waited for the fifth set to mask my steps, then crept down the stairs and tiptoed to the door. I peered through the peephole but it was black. Some shrewd individual had a finger over the lens. It was evident we were dealing with a pro here.

I pulled the door open.

Erica Frost was wearing faded blue jeans and a white hooded sweatshirt.
Her hair was tucked behind her ears, and she could easily have passed for a student at one of the nearby colleges. I wasn’t exactly sure why Erica Frost was standing on my doorstep. Was her visit personal or professional in nature? I had a feeling it was a combination of the two.

 
Erica decided to clear this little matter up. She smiled and said, “You’ll never guess who I got a call from yesterday.”

“Ronald Reagan?”

She cut her eyes at me.

“Too soon?”

She shook her head and said, “Adam Gray’s lawyer.”

I attempted to keep a straight face while I pondered this.
It’d never dawned on me Adam Gray would have a lawyer. I mean, they say that a man who represents himself has a fool for a client, but when you’re the best criminal defense lawyer on the planet, you might want to do just that. And where exactly do lawyers go when they’re in need of a lawyer? Do they just mosey on down the hall and knock on a buddy’s door.
Hey, Chuck, howareya? How’s that Murphy case going? Good, good. You see Berda got kicked off Biggest Loser last night? Yeah, she half-assed her last-chance workout. At least that’s what Jillian said. Hey, listen, I sort of killed my wife. Do you think you could represent me?

I shook from my reverie and asked, “Why?
Are you in some legal trouble?”

“No, I am not in any legal trouble. Actually, a man dropped in on Adam yesterday.
Apparently, this man impersonated an FBI agent, asked some extremely sensitive questions, and was escorted out by security.”

That sounded like a fair assessment, although I didn’t recall being escorted out.
I said, “And you’re telling me this because?”

“Because the man described fit your description.”

“What? Devilishly handsome, charming to no end, and clever like an otter?”

She rolled her eyes.
“Actually, the secretary described the man as looking—,” she looked down at the pad in her hand and read, “Sort of like Matthew McConaughey, but after a horrible car accident.”

Burn.

“I know that guy. He lives in Sarasota. Happy hunting.”

“Actually, I think it was you.”

I put my hand to my chest.
“Me?”

“You.”

“Why would I visit Adam Green?”

“Adam
Gray
.”

“Right.
Why would I visit Adam Gray?”

“Boredom.
Curiosity. I don’t know. Maybe you just wanted to see the guy for yourself. Maybe you saw the guy on TV and he pissed you off and you wanted to kick the shit out of him. I have no idea.”

This, of course, was true on all counts.
On that note, I said, “I saw you on TV.”

Erica reluctantly let me switch the subject to her.
“Did you now?”

“You know the camera adds ten pounds.”

She looked herself up and down and said, “Are you trying to tell me I looked fat?”

“I didn’t say you looked fat.
I’m just saying skip a meal every once in awhile.”

She didn’t respond.
In fact, she just stood there, no doubt, visualizing kicking my testicles into my throat.

I did some damage control, “Who knows?
It might have just been the lens. Maybe it was a fisheye.”

I should reiterate that Erica Frost didn’t have an ounce of fat on her.
I don’t make a habit of calling fat people fat. They know they’re fat. And they know I know they’re fat.

But, if you’re wondering why I was acting like such an unconscionable prick, let me explain.
I was falling for Erica Frost, plain and simple. That ship had left the pier a long time ago. This scared me. This scared me more than all the death I’d come across in my lifetime. My brain, which I fully understand is slightly less evolved than your average primates, was screaming at me to push her away. And that’s what I was doing.

Erica took a deep breath and said, “Well, I should get going here.
I have to go throw up my lunch.”

She took a couple steps backwards, then turned and said, “As for what I said earlier, we’d appreciate if you stopped harassing our suspects.
It’s making it hard for us to conduct our investigation. Plus, Adam Gray isn’t the guy to mess with. He’s threatened a lawsuit. Against us and against
you
.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about, but thanks for the heads up.”

She started down the drive. I stared upward at the ceiling for a couple seconds. I tend to do this before I do—or say—something incredibly foolish. This time would be no different. Erica was halfway to her car when I yelled, “What are you doing the rest of the afternoon?”

She stopped and turned around.
“You mean after I go run ten miles, weigh myself thirty times, and order a bottle of
TrimSpa
?”

I was starting to get the impression Erica Frost was sensitive about her weight.
Maybe she’d been a porker in high school. Maybe she had a shirt that read,
Fatties Never Forget
. I said, “You looked beautiful.”

She cocked her head.

I reiterated. “On TV. You looked beautiful.”

Something weird happened to Erica’s mouth.
Like she was trying to fight down a smile. I’ve only called a handful of women beautiful in my day, and nothing bad had ever come of it. At least in the short-term. Long-term was a completely different story. Lots of grief in the long-term. In fact, if I had access to a time machine I would have traveled back ten seconds and shot myself in the face.

Erica stood, her hands on her hips, weighing the pros and cons of forgiving Mr. Thomas Prescott.
She took her hands off her hips. Forgiven.

She said, “Why?
What do you have in mind?”

I had a couple things in mind.
But I was a class act. Well, not a class act, but an act of some sort. “Do you want to stick around and help me paint?”

She puffed out her cheeks and looked at the ground.
From my recollection, women do this before
they
do or say something incredibly foolish. This time would be no different.

Chapter 15

I outfitted Erica in one of my dad’s old shirts, then set her up with a roller and a paint tray. After about a minute of silent painting, I asked, “So where did you grow up?”

“Michigan.
Just outside East Lansing.”

“And how was that?”

“All right, I guess. Normal. Whatever you want to call it.”

“What do your parents do?”

“Dad is a professor at Michigan State. Mom teaches preschool.”

“What does your dad teach?”

“Shakespeare.”

“Ah.
The Beard.”

“Bard.”

“I thought it was
Beard
.”

“No.
Shakespeare had a beard, but he was referred to as the Bard.”

“I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree on this one.”

She exhaled deeply, then said, “So, try growing up with William Shakespeare as a third parent. Gets a little old after a while. My dad read me
Macbeth
for the first time when I was two.”

Woe is thee.

She recited: “He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.”

Tell me about it.

“
Hamlet
?”

“
King Lear
.”

“Which is the one with Mel Gibson and Danny Glover?”

She rolled her eyes at me for some reason and said, “How bout you? Where did you grow up?”

I did a three-sixty and said, “You’re looking at it.”

“Right.”

“Actually, I can’t believe this place is still standing.
There used to be a few other homes not far from here, but they all slid into the water.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She raised her eyebrows and I said, “I think we’re safe.”

She didn’t look like she believed me. After grasping the nearest doorframe to confirm the house wasn’t moving, she asked, “And how was your childhood?”

“No complaints.”
At least from my end.

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“One sister. Lacy.”

“
And
. . . ” She did a rolling motion with her free hand.

“And . . . she’s a girl.”

“I figured as much.”

“She was an accident, although my mother would never admit to it.
They had her when I was eight.”

“So she’s what, thirty-five?”

Zing. “Actually she’s forty-two. I exfoliate.”

She laughed and said, “Really, she’s what, twenty-three?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Is she here?
In Washington, I mean?”

“She’s working at an art gallery in France.”

I bragged about her painting, told a couple Lacy anecdotes, and played Thomas Prescott M.D. for ten solid minutes. I explained what multiple sclerosis is, what it does, how Lacy was diagnosed, and how the disease is treated. I finished with, “The last time I talked to her, she said she was thinking about staying in France.”

I think Erica detected the angst in my voice.
She asked, “And if she does decide to stay, what then?”

This could have been a fishing question.
Maybe someone looking into the future. Maybe someone doing some long-term planning. Maybe this was someone who wanted to stop writing her five-year plans in pencil. Then again, maybe it was nothing.

“I’ll move to France.” And I would.

“Really?”

“Sure.
Compared to the French, I come across as a nice guy.”

She laughed.

Time to change the subject. “How bout you? Any siblings?”

“Two brothers.”

“
And
…” I accompanied this with the
please tell me more
head bob.

She smiled.
“One a year younger and one three years older. Paul, the younger one, is Mr. Outdoors. Rock-climbing, kayaking, hiking, camping, skiing. He’s saving up to climb Everest. I love him to death.”

“And the older one?”

“James is your typical firstborn. Thinks he has all the answers. Let’s just say we don’t see eye to eye. I haven’t talked to him in more than five years.”

Evidently, Erica was good at holding grudges.
Two demerits. “What about your parents? How often do you talk to them?”

She cringed.
“Three times a year. Like clockwork. Christmas, Easter, and on my birthday. I haven’t been back to Michigan in three years.” She switched things back to me. “What about you? When’s the last time you saw your folks?”

“A little over eight years.”

“Eight years? Is there a riff between you?”

“If you can count a pulse as a riff.”

She turned. All the color had drained from her face, her gigantic faux pas sinking in. 

“My parents died in a plane crash eight years ago.”

“I’m sorry. I mean, I should have known. I mean, this is their house and all. Oh, my God.”

“It’s okay.”
I went on to narrate the last couple hours of my parents’ life. Rolling Stones concert in California. Coming back in my dad’s company jet. Engine failure. Crash landing in the Sierra Nevadas. No survivors.

“After the funeral Lacy and I both left.
Lacy had just graduated from high school and was headed to Temple. And I didn’t have a job, seeing as I was ‘let go’ from the force. A week after the funeral we looked at each other, packed up, and left. Three days later we were sharing a two-bedroom loft in Philadelphia.”

“How did you keep busy?”

“A guy I went to college with was a lieutenant in Philly. He found out I was living in town and asked me for my input on a case every so often. Then he started coming to me with every case. Then I started taking three-, sometimes ten-day contracts. Couple serial killers, couple cold cases. The Feds got wind of some of my triumphs and next thing I know, I’ve gone from working with angry Italians to working with tight-assed, tight-lipped, WASPs.”

“So it was basically the blind following the deaf, dumb, and blind.”

“More or less.”

She cocked her head to the side and said, “That’s why your name sounds familiar.
Weren’t you involved in that case up in Maine about a year ago? The MAINEiac, I think they were calling him.”

“If by
involved
you mean
was
shot and nearly killed by
, then yeah, I guess you could say I was involved.”

She raised her eyebrows.

I pulled the collar of my shirt down to expose my left shoulder.
A patch of dimpled scar tissue there resembled the bottom of a cork. I said, “Another one just like him on my right thigh.”

“No wonder you retired.”

I wasn’t sure if she was being sincere or goading me. With this small break in the conversation, Erica dipped her roller and started on a new section.
Then she said over her shoulder, “So, you ever been married?”

Only a matter of time.

“Nope.
I got close once.” She, of course, ended up in thirty pieces with her eyes nailed to a wall. It would have been a messy wedding. I kept this to myself. “It didn’t work out. She said I was premature.”

“Are you sure you don’t mean
immature
?”

“That too.”

She shook her head and laughed. It was gut-wrenchingly cute.

“How bout you.
You ever get hitched?”

“Nope.”

“Ever come close?”

She shook her head and I said, “Clock’s ticking.”

“You’re worse than my mother.”

We hit a conversation standstill, so I started in a new direction. “How bout you bring me up to speed on the Ellen Gray case.”

She didn’t respond. She just continued painting. After about ten furtive glances and five or six applications of paint to her roller, she gave. She turned and said, “You know, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

I was tempted to point out she was yet to tell me anything, but I didn’t want our first fight to be over semantics.
  

She took a deep breath and said, “We’re picking him up tomorrow.”

I assumed she was referring to Adam Gray. “Tomorrow?”

She nodded and said, “Ethan is at the courthouse getting an arrest warrant as we speak.”

“What changed?” Last I’d heard—which was directly from the lion’s mouth—they didn’t have anything to hold him on, least of all charge him with murder.

“We found Adam Gray’s yacht.”

“You found the
Habeas Corpo
—”

Erica froze. “How did you know the name of his yacht?”

I took a deep breath and said, “I was flipping through
Forbes
magazine and they had a write-up about him. They mentioned the yacht.” What I failed to mention was that I was flipping through the magazine while sitting in Adam Gray’s waiting room, just before I broke into his office and later interrogated him. I should also mention that I was toying with the idea of telling Erica about the blood I’d found on the underside of the cushions, but it would appear they already had enough against him. Not to mention that this information would place me in Gray’s office. I kept quiet.

Erica eyed me but appeared to buy it.

She continued, “We’d searched practically every shipyard, port, and slip this side of the Everglades, but Gray’s yacht was MIA.
Then yesterday we get a call from a guy in Edmonds. He’d been on vacation for the last three weeks. Comes home and finds a yacht tied up to his dock. He takes a quick peek and notices a couple puddles of pink water on the deck that could have been blood. So he called the cops.”

I remember Adam saying something about having a house somewhere in Edmonds.
I wondered if Erica was working with the same information packet as me. I said, “I read somewhere that Gray has a place up that way.”

“Just three houses from where we found the boat.”

“You guys didn’t think to check that area?”

“We checked his property, of course, and we did a spot check on a couple neighbors.
Somehow it slipped through the cracks.”

“So you got a warrant?”

“We didn’t need a warrant because the blood was in plain view.”

“Let me guess, you found a gun?”

She smiled. “A recently fired .32.”

“And the blood?”

“The DNA on the deck was inconclusive. Something to do with the saltwater. But it was female and type AB.”

AB was the rarest blood type.
This wasn’t nearly as concrete as DNA evidence, but it was enough so a judge would allow it to be entered as evidence.

She was holding back and I gave her a look.
She said, “We found traces of Ellen Gray’s blood on a washcloth in the galley.”

This, of course, was conclusive.

“What about prints?”

“Adam Gray’s prints were on the gun.”

“What about the boat?”

“We lifted three sets. Two male, Adam Gray’s and one of his clients.”

This would corroborate Gray’s alibi for the day Ellen went missing.
“Who was the third?”

“Not sure, but they were female. They weren’t from Ellen Gray and they weren’t in the system.”

So, Adam
did
have a woman on the side.

Erica said, “We had some of our computer geeks hack into his navigational system.
Records everywhere the boat goes on GPS.”

“Let me guess.
Adam took a late-night trip into the Puget Sound leading up to Thanksgiving.”

“Four days before, actually.”

That would make it Sunday. When if you believed Adam, and I was starting to have my doubts that I did, he had been drugged and his keys stolen. I couldn’t comment on this, being that I had never met Adam Gray.

Erica went on. “He took the yacht out at 11:25
P.M.
drove about 70 miles out to the middle of the Sound, stopped for exactly two minutes, then drove the boat to where we found it in Edmonds at 3:17
A.M.
”

A textbook timeline for the disposal of a body.

On paper, this was what you call an
airtight case
. Although, if this had been my case, I would have been contemplating the following questions: Why would Adam Gray—who is an absolute perfectionist—plan such a sloppy murder? Why hide the gun when you can just throw it overboard? Why not wear gloves and risk leaving fingerprints? Why leave the bloody cloth in the galley? And why leave the yacht tied three houses from a property you own? Adam Gray didn’t get to where he was by making mistakes. But, according to Erica, he made four. Four biggies. You make four mistakes in a big court case and you’re toast. End up with your client strapped to a chair with a needle in his arm.