Triangulation, page 10
part #2 of Borealis Investigations Series
The small desk fan, which North had kicked over on his last visit, was back in place. The motor made a grinding noise as the blades turned. He lifted it onto a folding chair and elbowed open the window a few more inches. Hot July air—a muggy heat that lingered long after sundown, pasting itself to the skin—seeped into the house, but maybe hot, fresh air was better than the refrigerated, recirculated cigar smoke.
“Dad,” North called into the house, passing into the kitchen with its mountain of dirty dishes, the disconnected dishwasher sitting in the middle of the room, and the air stinking of burned grilled cheese sandwiches. “You awake?”
“Jesus, it’s you.” Then the kitchen fluorescents fluttered to life. David McKinney had slipped even farther down the shit-hill in the two months since North had seen him. His yellow skin sagged, and he looked much too thin. He leaned heavily on a walker now, and the nasal cannula had slipped and hung askew. Shaking his head in disgust, he lowered the pistol he had aimed at North and placed it in the pocket of his bathrobe. Then, checking the oxygen tank on his walker, he shuffled past North and into the living room.
North waited until his father was gone. Then he closed his eyes and counted to twenty. He told himself he wasn’t a kid anymore. He thought of what Shaw had said to him the last time he had come here: you come back different. And then he thought of Shaw under Jadon Reck, the cop’s muscular body tight as he drilled into Shaw, the way Shaw would throw his head back, his long hair spilling like ribbons of fire across his chest, his shoulders, his back. The way Shaw would sound as Jadon tore him apart. The way Shaw would sound when he climaxed. And the vision was so sudden and so startlingly real that North thought he could feel the acid churning in his stomach. Then he didn’t care about counting to twenty anymore. He opened the fridge, pulled out four Bud Lights, and carried them into the soft, TV-glow flicker of the living room.
On the old CRT, in its massive wooden cabinet, an episode of Gunsmoke was playing. Marshal Matt Dillon was talking to a pretty blonde who’d gotten stranded. She looked like she was holding up pretty well, and Matt didn’t seem to mind talking to her very much.
“I think I’ve seen this one,” North said, settling onto the folding chair next to his dad’s recliner. It was the same folding chair that, two months before, he had dragged in front of the TV. Had it been here this whole time? And if it had, what did that mean? That nobody else had stepped inside this house except David McKinney in those two months?
North set out the beers on the TV tray between the two seats and popped the top on his first one. “Her carriage got robbed, isn’t that it?”
His dad grunted, popped open a beer, and sucked spray off his knuckles.
North felt the ache in his own knuckles where bruises were already forming and the scabs over his split skin pulled. He said, “Isn’t that this one?”
“That’s all of them.”
“Yeah, but she’s got a friend who got taken by the bandits.”
David McKinney punched the volume up.
With a sigh, North opened up his throat, closed his eyes, and pounded down the beer. Then he opened the second one.
They watched Gunsmoke. Then the Wheel of Fortune rerun. North’s dad drew the line at Jeopardy and switched the channel to KDNL and caught the end of the news. North, for his part, got a lot of exercise: pulling the tabs on the Bud Lite, lifting the cans, carrying the empties to the sink. He felt like he could do this forever: stare at the TV with the images flashing on and off against the back of his eyes; stare out the window above the sink at the smudged light pollution above the city; stare into the yellow glare of the fridge until he wasn’t even sure how long he’d been there, with the cold air wicking against him pleasantly, and then come back to himself just enough to snag a few more Buds and carry them to the TV.
“Thought you were a towel head.”
North was six beers deep by then, practically swimming, and he had to blink and focus. “Oh. The gun. It’s ok. You can’t say that anymore, though. People don’t . . .” He forgot what he’d been trying to tell him.
“Bunch of them moved in on the other side of the park. I’ve just been waiting for them to make their move.”
“People don’t say that kind of thing anymore.” North thought he had more to say, but instead he slid down in his seat until his neck rested on the back of the folding chair.
“Some kind of fight with Laguerre, is that it?”
“He’s my husband.”
“I know who he is.”
“His name’s Tucker.”
“I know his name.”
After that, the TV’s murmur seemed to grow louder and louder until North’s ears were ringing with a white hiss. It was so much easier like this. He felt like he could do this forever. He didn’t even remember walking, but he was in the kitchen, slumped against the fridge door, the cold air brushing the tops of his bare feet. He didn’t remember taking off boots and socks. He didn’t remember drinking so many beers, but the fridge was empty except for that glare the color of egg yolk.
He wanted to call Shaw. That seemed like a good idea, so he stumbled out to the sunroom and dug his phone out of his pocket and after a few mistakes, managed to get Shaw’s number on the screen. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. It was going to voicemail; North was dimly aware that this was the most likely possibility, and again came that vision of Shaw on his back, legs in the air, hair burning in coils across his chest, with Jadon’s muscular frame above him.
Then the phone clicked, and a voice said, “Hello?” And that was the clue that it was voicemail because (North’s logic was inescapable): a) Shaw was too busy getting drilled by Jadon to answer the phone, and b) if Shaw had answered the phone himself, he would have said North’s name, the way he always did.
“You knew,” North said. “You knew and you didn’t . . . you didn’t even say anything. You knew. You fucking . . .” North’s stomach roiled again, and he wasn’t sure that this time it had anything to do with that mental image of Shaw. “You fucking knew. You knew.” He was sweating badly now, and he leaned up against the windows, where the swampy air trickled in with the buzz of mosquitos and the hot mulch scent. “Do you remember watching . . .” He gagged; a monstrous burp forced its way out. “Do you remember watching Supernatural, do you even remember? Do you remember anything, do you remember fucking anything from that, back before you met Jadon, fucking Jadon, back before you met—” North’s stomach cramped. His breath was foul as it furled against the glass and rolled back at him. “You fucking knew and you didn’t even say anything, and I fucking hate you.”
Something hit North’s hand, knocking the phone from his grip. Hands gripped North and spun him.
“Jesus Christ,” his dad said, leaning on his walker, the cannula slipping again. His face was gray in the weak light. “Are you trying to wake the whole fucking neighborhood so they can listen to your fucking bedroom problems?”
“I didn’t—” North tried to swallow, but his stomach was really turning now. “Dad,” he managed to say.
“For fuck’s sake.” With surprising strength, David McKinney dragged his son to the door, swung it open, and shoved North’s head out into the thick, wet heat of the darkness.
North barfed long and hard. And when he’d finished, his knees were shaking, and cold sweat dampened the shirt on his back.
“You’re hosing that off in the morning,” his dad said as he stomped away on the walker. “And you’re calling Ronnie. He’s been looking for you.”
North nodded. That was a good idea. But a better idea was to lie down, right here in the sunroom. Just for a minute. And he managed to do so just before a black tide rolled in.
Chapter 11
AFTER JADON LEFT WITH a promise to text any relevant information, Shaw spent the morning hiding the signs that Jadon had been there: he locked the front door, with its separate staircase; he slid the box of condoms deep under the bed; in the bathroom, he shuffled the containers of vitamins and supplements so that the bottle of red yeast rice that really held his supply of Ambien was at the back, where North was least likely to find it.
At half past nine, Shaw’s phone buzzed, and a message appeared from Jadon: Chuck being charged. Multiple stab wounds. Faded bruises, 3-7 days old. Time of death difficult to estimate. ME says multiple days, and Thursday likely, but he can’t do better. Body moved after livor. Fibers.
The last bit of the text was terse, but Shaw was grateful Jadon didn’t feel like he had to explain it. Livor, with blood settling at the lowest point in the corpse, became fixed somewhere between six and twelve hours after death. If the corpse were moved after that time, the blood staining the pale flesh would be fixed and wouldn’t shift. In this case, those marks were a clue that the body had been killed, left in one position for up to twelve hours, and then later moved and put into the trunk of Chuck’s car. The final word was the one that gave Shaw the most hope: the forensic team had recovered fibers on the corpse, and the fact that Jadon had included that detail in the text meant that the fibers did not initially match, at least on a visual inspection, the upholstery in Chuck’s car. They were another clue that Shep Collins had been killed somewhere else and then planted in Chuck’s car.
A series of images followed: close-ups of red fibers against what looked like the seat of a pair of navy trousers, and then similar fibers matted to the Bug’s charcoal-colored upholstery. The fibers definitely didn’t match anything in the Bug, and from what Shaw remembered, they didn’t match any of the furniture he’d seen in Iris.
Then another text: Half a kilo of cocaine with Shep’s body. Shep and Chuck both test positive for cocaine. Cash in apartment.
Shaw stared at the text, not quite believing what he was seeing. The police wouldn’t have charged Chuck unless they felt like they had a solid case against her—and at this point, that case would have included an explanation for the incongruous fibers and the livor. The drugs and the cash were part of that explanation. Shaw didn’t believe Chuck had killed Shep; until Pari told him otherwise, Shaw intended to work this case to prove that Chuck was innocent. But Jadon’s texts, combined with Mike’s story about the fight between Chuck and Shep over money, made it harder than Shaw would have liked.
The next step was finding out where everyone had been on Thursday. That was the day Shep had gone missing, and even though the medical examiner couldn’t provide an exact time of death, the stage of the body—bloat and decomposition and the easing of rigor would be the most useful factors, Shaw guessed—were clues that multiple days had passed. The sweltering July heat would have accelerated all those processes, though, opening a window that made Shaw’s job—and, he noted distantly, that of the police—harder than it might have been.
He spent the rest of the morning on the phone, and as he called, he doodled his free association sketches around the timeline he was constructing. When he had finished his calls, he had this for Thursday, July 26:
6am-2pm: Beau works at Iris, speaks to Shep, everything seems normal (no worse than usual)
2pm-11pm: Chuck works at Iris; says goodbye to Shep at 5pm
5pm: Shep Collins leaves Iris
Then he started his list of alibis:
Beau Jones
5pm-6pm: out for a run (not confirmed, check with neighbor)
6pm-7pm: at hairdresser (confirmed; sounds really butch; told me he’s a barber, not a hairdresser)
7pm-9pm: at Clarity’s football scrimmage (McCluer North; not confirmed)
9pm-on: at home, alone (no way to confirm)
Chuck Abelano
5pm-11pm: Iris (need to confirm time she left; activated security with her code)
11pm-on: at home, alone (no way to confirm)
Mike Llagas
5pm-7pm: home, alone, getting ready for dinner (no way to confirm)
7pm-8pm: dinner alone at Candicci’s (confirmed)
8pm-on: home, alone (no way to confirm)
Grace Augusta Rowe
???
Donny Yates (real name: Adonis)
???
Shaw had just set down the phone again and was examining his sketches—one corner was dominated by a Yorkie wearing a bow the size of its head, and Shaw thought he might take the paper to Dr. Farr because he thought it meant something, he just wasn’t sure what—when the front door opened, and a familiar, heavy tread entered the building.
North looked like shit: his thatch of blond hair mussed worse than usual, dark pouches under his eyes, stubble glinting where the sun caught it, the same St. Alban’s 2016 t-shirt rumpled and so tight it was about to split across his shoulders.
The phone call from last night came back, then, although Shaw had been working hard to bury it. Shaw’s cheeks heated, and he bent over his MacBook, typing and clicking at random.
North dropped into the chair next to Shaw, rummaged through his drawers, and muttered a quiet, “Shit.” He was still talking in his other voice, the voice Shaw hated, and he dropped his head on his forearms. Then, in that same hard, unpleasant voice, “I bet you’ve got ibuprofen.”
“Yeah.” But of course, Shaw couldn’t find it because he’d been reorganizing his desk according to a spiritual resonance system, and he still hadn’t finished. “I know it’s in here somewhere.”
“Forget it. Like you’ve ever been able to find something in that desk.”
“Maybe you need to take a day. You don’t look so good.”
Dragging himself upright, North spread his arms, and a seam in the purple t-shirt popped. “I don’t look so good, everybody. I better go home, pack it in.”
“You smell like smoke.”
“Sorry. I visited my dad. I didn’t realize you were so delicate.”
“It’s not cigar smoke.”
“You really are delicate.” North’s mouth opened in an exaggerated O. “I am so, so sorry. Let me go wash up and put on Jadon’s cologne, and then I bet you’ll feel better.”
Shaw pushed back from his desk, and even the clatter of the casters on the uneven boards sounded angry. He marched out to Pari’s desk. In one drawer, he found what looked like four melted popsicles sealed in a plastic bag. In another, he found a spent sparkler, a brooch, and a packet of peanut butter crackers. In the third, he found a fresh bottle of Rose de Seville nail polish—he pocketed this because he was tired of Pari complaining about the first one—and a bottle of Motrin. He shook out four of the pills. He got a glass of water from the kitchen. He carried all of it back into the room, and slapped the pills on the desk. He was a little gratified at the way North flinched. Then he held out the glass.
North took it. He tossed his head back and swallowed all four pills. Then he rested his head on his arms again.
Shaw was beginning a Facebook search for Grace Augusta Rowe when North spoke again in that brittle voice. “So. How was last night?”
“Do you want to say something to me?”
“I’m asking you a question. Jesus, Shaw, what’s up your butt today?”
“What’s up my butt? What’s up my butt?”
“Jadon came home with you, didn’t he? And I’m not allowed to ask if you had a good night? Maybe you want to brag a little. Maybe I want to know my buddy got boned like a champ last night.”
“I hate this. I hate this so much.” Shaw’s eyes felt hot, and he turned blindly back to the computer. “Every time, North.”
“He bones you like a champ every time?” North’s laugh was just as dry and brittle as his words. “Well, hey, buddy, that’s a glowing recommendation.”
“Just—just shut the fuck up, ok? Every time, you come back like you hate me, and I just hate this so much. So just shut up.”
The silence after Shaw’s words had a ringing quality, and the sound was so overwhelming that Shaw wondered, for a moment, if he might pass out. He just kept pecking grimly at the keyboard. He had, it turned out—he was blinking his vision clear—conducted a search for two tickets to Fiji. Maybe that’s what he needed. A vacation. He could get away from here for a few weeks. He’d ask Jadon if he wanted to go.
“You can be such a pussy sometimes,” North said, rolling his head so his forehead rested on his arms. “Jadon’s not going to like that when he finds out.”
Shaw pushed back from the desk too hard; the chair rolled and wobbled across the floor, carrying him almost to the wall. He launched out of the seat, almost fell, grabbed the MacBook, and marched out of the office. It would have been a pretty impressive display excerpt for the whole thing with the chair. And then, on the way out, he stubbed his toe, and he had to swallow a cry of pain.
On his bed, upstairs, Shaw took a few deep breaths and blinked his eyes clear again. Then he opened up Facebook and started looking for Grace Augusta’s page. As he did, part of his mind wandered back downstairs to North and to what had just happened. It was like touching a fresh bruise—painful, but hard to resist.
As Shaw clicked on Grace Augusta Rowe from Bentonville, AR, he felt a flicker of pity for North. It wasn’t North’s fault, not really. Shaw had met David McKinney, and he knew what North had to deal with. But it was hard to feel sympathy after the phone call last night, with North so wasted that Shaw could barely make out the words—something about you knew and Supernatural, and then, with savage drunkenness, I fucking hate you. That had been perfectly clear at the end. And then today North had started in about Jadon, about sex, and that had—well, it had pressed a button somewhere in the back of Shaw’s brain, and he couldn’t seem to think straight when anybody pressed that button.
He focused his vision on the screen. Grace Augusta Rowe was a willowy blonde who was probably in her forties and who looked fantastic: great skin, great hair, and strikingly beautiful. In her sundress, tan, her arms and legs smooth and slender, she looked like she might have been her daughter’s older sister rather than her mother. Aside from the profile picture, though, Shaw wasn’t able to get anything else; she had locked down her profile to friends only. Shaw sent her an invite, but he guessed he shouldn’t hold his breath.
