Running from the Dead Read online

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Scopes let the bottle slip through his fingers until the neck was in his hand. Jones glanced at the bottle; it didn’t have any beer left in it, but it was full of violent intent. A minute ago, Jones had been sure the cop was just playing bad cop, but now he wasn’t so sure. The cop grinned at the look. He liked Jones looking at the bottle and wondering about his intentions. It kept him off balance.

  “You will be at the station to meet with me and my partner. There, you will give us an official statement as to your whereabouts on the date and time in question. Should you again clam up, or, worse, should you decide to skip the meeting, I will arrest you.”

  “For what?”

  “I’ll think of something.” Scopes tapped Jones’ shoulder with the base of the bottle. “It’s easier than you think. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to watch the end of the match with my new friends.”

  Jones watched as the men in the garage noticed the cop coming back toward them. They communicated their discomfort with body language that Jones had no trouble deciphering. Kumail met Jones’ eyes for a split second as Scopes passed him, and then he turned and followed the cop into the garage. Behind his back, Kumail jabbed his finger in the direction of Jones’ house.

  Jones did as he was told and walked away.

  18

  Jones put on a pot of coffee and brought the hot mug out onto the deck. It was just after a quarter past eleven and most of the houses he could see were dark. Jones’ body wanted sleep, but his mind was nowhere ready to shut down; the coffee would sync the two. Scopes had waited for Jones to come home because the detective knew something, but he didn’t know enough. He had wanted to rattle Jones a little bit. Jones understood the desire; that was what he had wanted to do with Kevin McGregor. It was a good tactic, and Scopes was one hell of an interrogator, but the confrontation on the sidewalk didn’t work: Jones had a shelf-life of less than a week before his freedom expired—a terse conversation with a cop wasn’t going to spook him.

  Jones drank some of the coffee and spent a minute pondering the taste in his mouth. He didn’t know if he could taste the hints of citrus and cocoa that the bag said were there, but there was something he liked about the beans. The night air was cold and it found its way down his neck, but the warmth in his belly kept it from digging any deeper.

  The cold air on his skin and caffeine in his blood chased his exhaustion away and allowed Jones to focus on the question that had been nagging him since he left Kumail and his friends in the garage with the interloper—how had Scopes found him so quickly? There hadn’t been enough time for forensics to turn up anything that would link Jones to the murder. That meant Scopes’ had someone do his homework for him.

  “The old man,” Jones said.

  Jones had started his investigation into the disappearance of Adam Verne by going over copies of the case files. Ruth was the kind of rich and powerful figure that was usually only found in movies. Ruth expended a few of the countless favours owed to her to get everything the police had on the disappearance of her son. The Adam Verne case had little in the way of physical evidence; without any science to go on, the detectives directed their efforts toward anyone who had crossed paths with Adam or his mother in the preceding six months. Jones understood the logic; the stats pegged the abductor as someone in the family’s orbit. There was a hint of desperation in the heavy-handed approach detailed in the interview notes. The lead detectives put a spotlight on a gardener after they discovered several previous arrests for public indecency. The notes gave some context on the arrests; apparently, the gardener had been caught having sex with another man in a park late at night. There was never any mention of the sex being non-consensual or with anyone underage, but the detectives clearly thought the gardener was a person of interest. Even after his alibi checked out, the cops refused to rule him out.

  Once he had gone over the material, Jones sought out the detectives. His efforts were not appreciated; one of the cops took a swing at him, the other refused to answer with anything other than yes or no. With no way past the detective’s gold shields, Jones was forced to get Ruth involved. She made a call to the chief of police and Jones was granted another opportunity to speak with the two men who led the investigation into Adam’s disappearance. Ruth’s influence was not a balm that soothed the bruised egos of the two detectives. The cops were just as pissed the second time they saw Jones, but they did as they were told and played ball.

  “There was nothing to go on,” a detective named Doyle said. “The kid was there one minute and gone the next. We had nowhere to go.”

  “Why the interest in the gardener?” Jones said.

  Doyle’s shoulders tensed. “What, you think it was because he was gay?”

  “Crossed my mind,” Jones said.

  Doyle took a drag on his cigarette. “You meet the gardener?”

  “I’ve just seen the case file.”

  “There’s something off about him,” Doyle said. “I can’t explain it, but I felt it. I was never interested in who he slept with. I was more interested in his job. The guy spent a lot of time around the house. Stands to reason if anyone could sneak a kid off the property, it would be him.”

  “He had an alibi,” Jones said.

  Doyle shrugged. “He could have killed him and hid the body somewhere on the property. You ever seen that place?”

  Jones nodded.

  “You think a guy who spent all day there couldn’t find a place to stash a small body?”

  Jones thought about it and then shook his head. “The alibi was too solid. The timing wouldn’t work.”

  Doyle snorted.

  Jones met with Doyle’s partner, Tom Fontana, and got nothing more than yeahs and nos for the cup of coffee he bought the detective. Jones considered it a step up from the punch he got the last time they had met.

  After he spoke with the detectives, Jones tracked down every suspect and every person mentioned in the case file. When Jones met with Ruth to tell her that he had spent almost a year going through the case and had nothing to show for it, he expected to be fired. Instead, Ruth nodded and said, “Keep digging. My son is out there and someone knows something.”

  The press came next. Jones met with every major reporter who had written an article on the abduction. The journalists were chattier than the police, and Jones found he didn’t have to work hard to get information from them; he attributed that to Ruth. Ruth owned a large interest in one of the major papers and she had used her position to keep articles about her son running. It didn’t take long for the reporters to figure out who Jones was working for; after that they were happy to share. Print was dying and Ruth Verne’s good books was a good place to be. Jones picked up names and insights that weren’t in the police files and he ran every single lead down. Jones wound up with nothing to show for another year of work.

  Again, Ruth accepted Jones’ report with a nod. The lack of progress did nothing to dissuade her. “So you know where everyone else has looked. Look where they haven’t. He’s out there, Samuel. Find him.”

  Jones spent years chasing Adam. It was his job whenever he wasn’t on a job. Ruth paid him a flat fee every month and she never asked for anything but a face-to-face meeting on the last Friday of the month. At the meetings, Jones would tell Ruth what he had learned or what he still needed to find out. During each meeting, Ruth sat erect in an antique chair that didn’t look at all comfortable and listened. Ruth had the bearing of an Egyptian queen and Jones had always instinctively felt compelled to use his manners around her. She never demanded control over the investigation or Jones’ efforts. Ruth listened and then she asked questions. The questions were intelligent and they were often seeking colour or context. Ruth wanted to know how Jones felt about the people he had met and what his instincts told him.

  After Jones had finished telling Ruth what he learned, her butler, Peter, would bring coffee for Jones a
nd dark rum for Ruth. She drank it every time they met. Ruth never offered Jones the spirit. The drink was a ritual and something deeply personal. Ruth did not speak a word when the glass was in her hands. She drank the rum in three long sips and exhaled loudly as she put the glass down on the tray Peter left behind.

  Ruth concluded each meeting by rising from her chair to meet Jones in the centre of the space that separated them. She would clasp his hands in hers, and Jones marvelled at the strength of her grip every single time. Ruth would pull him close and speak the same words with breath that smelled of rum. “My heart is lost, Samuel. Find it and bring it back to me.”

  Jones spent years looking where the police and the press had not. His search eventually brought him to Kevin McGregor.

  McGregor’s name had come up in some old paperwork Jones had been working his way through. Jones had not come across the name before in the police records or press files, so he ran it against the databases he subscribed to. Kevin McGregor had lived at the same address for twenty-six years and worked as a city building inspector for thirty. He didn’t have any debt collectors after him, and there weren’t any warrants out for his arrest. The databases didn’t paint much of a picture, so Jones made a few calls to the contractors who had completed projects on Ruth’s home around the time of Adam’s disappearance and something strange happened. Everyone remembered Kevin McGregor. The recollections of the project managers were all similar: they said McGregor had a habit of showing up unannounced and more often than most other building inspectors. They also said he was a huge pain in the ass. McGregor made a habit of thoroughly checking everything, and he was quick to shut things down for even the smallest infraction.

  Jones wanted to know more about Kevin McGregor, not because the man set off any alarm bells in his head, but because he was someone who no one else had spoken to over the course of the investigation. Jones called the city first, and after several attempts he found out that McGregor was visiting job sites all day. Jones did his best to get the location out of the woman who had answered the building inspection office phone, but she was a hardened city employee with a healthy immunity to guile. Jones hung up the phone, checked his watch, and saw that it was well after lunch. He decided to drive out to McGregor’s neighbourhood and start asking around about him. He figured he could get some information about the man before he knocked on his front door after he got home that afternoon.

  Kevin McGregor was in his early fifties and he lived alone in a bungalow close to the part of Greektown known as the Danforth. The home was pre-war and in the kind of impeccable condition you would expect from a man who spent his days finding faults in other people’s work. The people who lived on either side of Kevin McGregor were happy to talk with Jones, but the old man who lived across the street preferred to ask the questions. The first one was out of his mouth before Jones had finished knocking.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Jones lowered the hand that had been prepped for a third knock and extended it in the form of a handshake. The old man ignored the open palm, but he did shoot a glance at Jones’ other arm.

  “I saw you at the neighbours, but you skipped the house across the street before going to the next. That means you’re not a salesman. So, who the hell are you?”

  The nosey old man was short legged and barrel chested. The thin undershirt he wore tucked into his wrinkled pants exposed spindly arms and thick white body hair. The man’s oversized head matched his body and gave him the wild look of a great ape; he would have been intimidating if he weren’t so short.

  “I’m a reporter, sir.”

  “Show me your press credentials.”

  “Freelance,” Jones said. The lie spilled out of his mouth quickly, the way all good lies do.

  “And you’re interested in Kevin?”

  Jones shook his head. “I already spoke with Mr. McGregor. It’s his story after all.”

  “What story?”

  “He contacted me about building inspectors shaking down people who have added to their homes without the proper permits.” Jones leaned in closer as if he were sharing a secret. “Apparently, there is a group of inspectors using images stored on Google Earth to compare properties to their current appearance. They are able to see where decks, sheds, and pools have been put in without the proper paperwork. They approach the homeowners and take cash for looking the other way. For example, let’s say you put in a shed—”

  “I know how blackmail works.”

  Jones stepped back. “Good to know. Any chance a building inspector has approached you or your family about additions you might have made to your home?”

  “No.”

  Jones nodded and made a production of looking at the house across the street. When he looked back at the old man, he saw that he was definitely not making a new friend. Signs of annoyance were written across the dinner-plate-sized face.

  “Can I ask you one more question?”

  The old man rolled his eyes. “I thought you’d never get around to what you really wanted.”

  Jones ignored the jab. “Mr. McGregor’s story has the potential to be something big. It has all the hallmarks of a great story.” Jones ticked off his fingers as he said, “Crime, corruption, greed, and regular people being taken advantage of. There is so much potential, but—” Jones glanced back at the house.

  “What?”

  “I need to know if I can trust my source.” Jones stepped in a little closer. “I need to know if Mr. McGregor is someone trustworthy, or if he is someone who has an axe to grind.”

  The old man bit hit cheek and looked Jones up and down. “Un hunh.”

  “Have you ever heard Mr. McGregor complain about his employer?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me about him? Nothing personal, of course. I just want to know what kind of person he is.”

  The old man rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Jones guessed it had been more than a few days since he last shaved. The white hairs against his palm sounded like a wire brush scouring metal.

  “No,” he said, and then he shut the door.

  Jones walked to the next house, knowing the old man had seen through him. He wasn’t sure where he went wrong; perhaps a steady stream of salesmen had fine-tuned his bullshit detector. Jones didn’t have time to dwell on it; the woman who lived in the house next door was much older than her neighbour and much more interested in talking to a complete stranger. Jones talked to three more people before he walked back to his Jeep. The grumpy old man from across the street was walking on the opposite sidewalk and he made it a point to ignore the polite wave offered to him. Jones had assumed the old guy was just crotchety, but he now knew better. The old man had been waiting on Jones: he had tailed him to the Jeep and got the plate number.

  Jones had planned on dealing with the cops after he found the girl and after he spoke with Ruth, but the cop waiting for him on the street changed things. In less than twenty-four hours, Scopes expected Jones to show up for an interview. Jones knew that Scopes was setting him up and that whatever he said, truth or lie, would get him the same cell.

  19

  Jones knew that Scopes smelled the murder on him. He had a witness who could put him at Kevin McGregor’s home the day before he was killed. The only thing Scopes probably didn’t understand was the why—the why was just as important as the who because without one, you couldn’t get the other. Scopes had given nothing away; he hadn’t even mentioned the second body. He had wanted to push Jones to see if he would talk; maybe say something that he could use to tie him up later. Jones understood; he had done the same thing more times than he could count and it usually worked. . Most people overcompensated, to hide the bad things they had done. Most people, but not all. There were some people who had done enough bad to not worry about it anymore. Jones was one of those people.

  He sat down at the kitchen table and traced t
he grooves in its surface with his fingers. From his seat, Jones could see a business card adhered to the fridge with a magnet. Jones had used Jeff Pembleton’s name with Norah because it was legit and would have stood up to a quick internet search. Ruth had introduced him to Pembleton years ago and Jones did work for the lawyer from time to time. Jones knew him to be smart and he could tell he was good by the way his fancy cheques cleared. In the morning, he would call Pembleton and bring him to the meeting with the cops. Scopes would see the call to the lawyer for the admission of guilt it was, but Jones had no other card to play. He had murdered a man and there was a witness. Jones thought about the word murderer. He thought about Kevin McGregor and waited to see if any feelings would show themselves. He waited five seconds, ten, thirty, but nothing came. He didn’t think anything about McGregor; all his thoughts were of Adam.

  Jones dug into his pocket for his phone. Before he spoke to the lawyer, he had to talk to Ruth, and it couldn’t wait any longer. He dialled from memory and waited for the familiar voice to pick up.

  “Verne residence.” The voice showed no sign of the late hour. It was the exact same voice that answered when he called at eleven in the morning.

  “I need to speak with her.”

  “I am afraid Ms. Verne is sleeping, Mr. Jones.”

  Jones drank some more of the coffee and spent a second searching for the citrus. “I need to speak with her, Peter.”

  His voice broke and Peter had to clear his throat before he spoke again. “Have you come to the conclusion of your investigation?”

  Jones stared out the window at the darkness created by sleeping houses. “No,” he said. “Not the conclusion.”

  A heavy sigh that sounded close to relief came from the man in the large house. “Then I am afraid you will have to wait until tomorrow, Mr. Jones. I will inform Ms. Verne that you wish to speak with her, and she will contact you at her earliest convenience.”