A Welcome Grave

mostly.”

“An Italian man named Walker,” Joe said, and glanced at me, one eyebrow raised.

“Can I ask whether he was ever alone in your daughter’s room?” I said.

Jerry Heath’s face went hard and curious, but his wife answered.

“Yes, he was. The police had already searched it, but he wanted to take a look himself, make sure they’d done a thorough job. Wanted to know what they looked at, if they took pictures of anything or wrote down a, uh, what do you call it? An inventory. Said he wanted to be sure it was all being done by the book. I guess he was pretty experienced at that sort of thing.”

“He was alone for this?”

“Yes. Mr. Jefferson said he didn’t want to make us go through it again, you know, because it was so difficult to go in there and look at everything.”

“Why do you ask about that? Whether he was alone?” Jerry Heath said.

“Just trying to understand the situation,” Joe said.

The phone rang, and Jerry Heath got to his feet and went into the kitchen and answered. He talked in low tones for a few minutes while Joe and I sat with his wife, waiting on his return. When he came back into the room, his face was dark with anger.

“You fellas got about ten seconds to get the hell out of this house.”

“Excuse me?” Joe said.

“That was George Hilliard. The prosecutor. Told me he just got off the phone with the police back in Cleveland. Called to ask about you boys. They told him you’re working without police approval or even a client.”

He turned from Joe to me, and jabbed his rough index finger at my chest. “And they said you are a suspect in a murder investigation.”

“What?” Anne Heath stood up fast.

“Somebody killed the same attorney that came in here, trying to help us. The one they’ve been asking about, Jefferson. Police said this guy’s trying to use Monica as a distraction. To use our daughter as a way to keep the police off his own back.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “We’re trying to prove what really happened to your daughter, Mr. Heath. We think Andy Doran—”

“I will go open this door for you, and you best walk through it with a spring in your step, mister. Because if you don’t, I will gladly throw your ass right through it. Now get out.”

When we left, Anne Heath was crying.

28

Anger rode through me like water filling a hose as Joe drove us away. I had my cell phone out of my pocket before he cleared the driveway, dialed Targent’s number, and sat through the rings with my hand tight on the phone.

“Who you calling?” Joe said, but I ignored him because Targent picked up.

“Yeah, Perry?”

“You’re pathetic,” I said. “I’m out here doing your job and you try to derail us like that? Tell those poor people that I’m using their daughter as a distraction?”

“I told the prosecutor that you were a suspect, not the family.”

“You knew how fast that information would be relayed.”

“You’re damn right I did, and it should have been relayed, too. What you’re doing out there is nothing but a hindrance, Perry.”

“Somebody should be investigating—”

“Shut up. You call me to cry and bitch? That takes some balls considering I just spent an hour on the phone convincing Lieutenant Brewer not to push for an extradition order that would send you back to Indiana.”

“No judge in the world would extradite me based on what he has, Targent. Don’t try to pass yourself off as my protector.”

“I’m not your protector. Only reason I told him not to go for it is because you’re the centerpiece of a far more important investigation back here. Told him I needed some more time with you. And that evidence you questioned? It just changed, Perry. In a big way. If Brewer wants an extradition order, he’s going to get one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have half an hour to get back to your office. I’ll be waiting there. You don’t show, maybe I’ll reconsider what I told Brewer, arrest you myself and ship your ass back to Indiana.”

“I’m an hour away, Targent.”

“Well, then, I suggest you hustle.”

Targent reached our office before we did. He was out of the car and sitting on a parking block behind the building with a bottle of water in hand, waiting. When Joe pulled into the lot, Targent didn’t get up, just sat there and drank his water and watched us get out of the car. Only when we were standing above him did he screw the cap back on the bottle and stand up, without a word of greeting.

“What did Brewer tell you?” I said. “What’s the latest bullshit I’ve got to deal with, Targent?”

“Inside.”

We went inside the building and up the steps, and Joe unlocked the office door. Targent went in first and sat down across from my desk. I brushed past him and sat down, pulled up to the desk, and spread my hands.

“Well?”

“At my request, Brewer took the cash that was sent to the PI in Indiana and tested it for fingerprints. I wanted to see if he could pull one of Jefferson’s prints, prove conclusively that it was his money.”

“I don’t care if it was his money, I didn’t send it.”

“Well, we didn’t get one of his prints.”

“Tough break.”

“We got one of yours.”

You hear people use the word “shocked” all the time. They were shocked to find out the ATM overcharged their account by fifty dollars, shocked to learn their purebred Shitzu was actually a mutt, shocked to discover HBO wasn’t included in their deluxe television package. Those people are full of shit. They’re surprised, not shocked. Shock is what you feel when you’re told something that can’t possibly be true, then assured that it is true. Shock is what you feel when a cop finds your fingerprint on money you never handled.

“You’re lying,” I said. “Bluffing. Good effort, Targent. I’m not surprised to see that’s what you’ve fallen back on.”

“I’ll have the computer image to show you. It’s not just one print. We’ve got three fingers, showing up on five bills. More that are smudged.”

“They were planted.”

“You can plant a fingerprint?”

“Of course you can. There’s a way. Take something I’d handled, use tape or some shit, some chemical . . . that can happen, Targent.”

I felt like a liar as I reached for the explanation, clumsy and inept, Targent watching me with raised eyebrows.

“Really,” he said. “Well, I look forward to hearing your defense attorney find a forensic expert to explain it.”

“I didn’t touch that money, Targent. I didn’t send it, and I didn’t touch it.”

“Just like you didn’t know Thor?”

“This is different.”

“Sure it is. A different lie.”

“I’m being set up. Can’t you at least consider that as a truth? See it as a