Candace’s expression was steely as she pulled the cord from the wall and picked up the phone. “Now. We go to the station and I let the chief listen to this. Gives me a decent excuse to show up there.” She walked over and put her free arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “He’s a brute and a coward, Jillian. And I like nailing those types.”
I nodded again, but now I was frightened for her as well as for myself.
Since Candace lives practically around the block from downtown, we reached the courthouse in less than five minutes. That’s where the police station is located.
I had to run to keep up with Candace when she raced up the courthouse stairs with her answering machine. We entered the lobby, and the security guard manning the metal detector opened a gate so we could bypass this part of entering the building. We headed left down the long corridor that led to police headquarters.
Wrong name. That sounds way too fancy. Benches and molded plastic chairs lined the hall leading to the police station in this, the older and unrenovated part of the historic courthouse. A woman with a swollen jaw and black eye was holding a squirming toddler. She was the lone person outside the police station door.
Candace stopped dead. “Margie?”
The woman looked up at Candace with sad eyes. The little boy freed himself and waddled across the hall. He climbed onto one of the benches and stuck his thumb in his mouth. He wore a diaper and a T-shirt bearing a red truck.
“You’re here to press charges, right?” Candace said.
Margie hung her head.
Candace put her hands on her hips. “No. You are not bailing that bastard out. Please tell me that’s not why you’re here.”
No response came from Margie, and Candace’s frown showed her frustration. “I can’t stop you. But you’re making a mistake.” She looked at me. “Come on, Jillian.”
As Candace opened the door that led into the police offices, I thought about Kara. She should be here to see this side of Mercy. It wasn’t so different from Houston or from any other part of the country, for that matter. Crime, domestic violence, even prostitution met up with law enforcement here.
Inside was another very cramped waiting area that had one advantage-it wasn’t as smelly as the corridor outside. B. J. Harrington sat at the cluttered desk to the left. I nodded at him in greeting, but Candace was already headed down the hall.
Over her shoulder she said, “Wait here while I talk to Chief Baca. I’m thinking this guy is too smart to have used a traceable phone to call me, but we have to go through the motions.”
I took the seat in front of the desk and smiled. “Hey, B.J. How’s it going?” B.J. was a new addition to the Mercy PD. He was taking criminal justice classes at the local community college and did dispatch and paperwork when not in class.
“I’m thinking about sandwiches,” he said. “There’s a lot of different sandwiches these days. There’s your regular kind, but then there’s quesadillas and flatbreads and Hot Pockets, not to mention anything wrapped in lettuce. And if you fold your slice of pizza, that’s sort of a sandwich, and-”
“You hungry, B.J.?” I said with a laugh.
The phone rang, and B.J. listened for a few seconds and then said, “We’ll take care of that, ma’am.” He hung up and got on his radio. “Deputy Dufner. Over.”
“What is it?” came the staticky reply.
“We have a 10-79 near the residence.” B.J. rattled off an address and said, “Over,” again.
“A bomb threat? And not at the high school where they always are?” said the officer.
B.J. blinked rapidly. “Th- that’s wrong. Wait.” B.J. picked up a sheet of paper and scanned it. “I mean a 10- 91b. Sorry. Over.”
“Would you quit with the codes and tell me what this is, B.J.?” Dufner said.
I stifled a laugh, but I didn’t hear B.J.’s response because the professor’s family walked in at that moment.
Sarah VanKleet began talking to B.J. even though he was still on the radio, saying, “We have an appointment with the chief of police.”
B.J. held up his hand as the officer asked for a repeat on the address.
I stood. “Maybe I can tell the chief you’re here.”
The gray-haired man, who looked like he could have been related to the Kennedy clan, looked me up and down. “You’re a plainclothes officer?”
“Uh, no. But I can help.” I hurried down the hall before they could say anything else and rapped on the chief’s office door.
I heard him say, “Enter,” and cracked the door. I saw Candace sitting in the chair on the other side of Baca’s desk.
“They’re here,” I whispered. Why I was whispering, I didn’t know.
“Good. Candace, Sarah VanKleet is mine. You’ll interview the boyfriend. The kids will have to wait since Morris decided he needed a day off. Says he sick.” Baca rolled his eyes. “Thanks for letting us know they’ve arrived, Jillian. Seems like we need volunteers in this place.”
Candace followed me out to the waiting area.
B.J. started to apologize for being occupied, but Candace waved him off. “Mrs. VanKleet, you’ll be speaking with Chief Baca.” Candace looked at the man. “Professor Lieber, is it?”
The distinguished-looking man nodded.
“You’ll be talking to me. I may not look the part, but I’m Deputy Candace Carson.” She pointed to the badge she’d pinned on her jeans waistband. “As for your sons, Mrs. VanKleet, we’ll be interviewing them when we’re done with you two.”
I took notice of the young men, who both looked to be in their early twenties, having paid little attention to them over at Belle’s. One had wavy brown hair and dark brown eyes; the other had shaggy dirty blond hair and green-gray eyes. The only trait they seemed to share was their height. Both were over six feet and lanky. The professor had been a small man, but Sarah VanKleet was at least five foot ten, so they must have gotten their height from her.
Sarah VanKleet scowled. “Why can’t we all talk to the chief of police together?”
“That’s not how we do things,” Candace said. “B.J., please take Mrs. VanKleet to the chief’s office. Professor? Follow me.” She turned and started down the hall, leaving Sarah sputtering in protest.
B.J. stood and smiled at Sarah VanKleet, but her mood didn’t improve. She ignored him and looked at her sons. “I’m sorry about this, but it seems you’ll have to wait here.” She glanced around. “In this place.”
The blond one spoke. “What about the death certificates? Don’t we need those to get Dad’s affairs in order? He’s probably left us a mess.”
She raised her eyebrows and offered him a “You better shut up” look.
The other son said, “Later, Evan.”
Mrs. VanKleet smiled and said, “Thank you, Brandt.” Then she followed B.J. down the hall.
I smiled at Brandt. “Hi. I’m Jillian Hart. I sort of volunteer around here.” Baca said it, not me, I thought. I looked at the other young man. “Hi, Evan.”
“Hey, what’s happening?” He offered a straight arm and a fist, and we bumped knuckles.
“You guys want a Coke or something?” I said.
“Yeah, sure,” Evan said.
B.J. came back around his desk, and I said, “You got money for the machine?”
“Oh. Sure.” He opened a drawer and gathered several coins. But it wasn’t enough.
“For all three of us,” I said. I’d dropped by here enough to know that unless you were being arrested, you got free Coke.
“Sorry. Right. Um, thanks, Jillian,” he said.
“This way, guys,” I said to the VanKleets.
I led them out of the office and down the hall to the vending machines. We passed Margie, the baby and the husband, who must just have been released from the basement jail. He didn’t have a black eye or a swollen face. And he looked smug. I hated that.
