bastard, Jones.”
“I plan on it. In fact, that’s where I’m headed right now. Do you think Dad could take me to the airport? I’m kind of in a hurry.”
“I’m sorry, your father is bailing your brother Ethan out of jail this morning.”
I looked at her with surprise. “Ethan’s in jail?”
“I guess some loud mouth at Main Street Tavern said some not-so-nice things about his brother and Ethan socked him in the nose,” she added casually like it was some mundane event. After what she’d been through the last few years, maybe it was.
“They were saying bad things about Noah?” I asked.
“No JP. He was defending
Chapter 66
I arrived at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport at just before noon. My mood was aglow, my thoughts still focused on the previous night with Gwen.
I rented a Taurus and headed for the Phoenix suburb of Gilbert. I walked in the police station demanding to see Chief Dahl “right now!” as if I owned the joint. My leg was killing me. Too much driving and sex in the last week-not that I was complaining.
Almost an hour later, I was escorted into his office.
I expected a rigid looking, mustached cop with a straight brimmed hat and a surly attitude. But quite the contrary, Chief Dahl appeared more like an aging surfer.
His attitude was laid back. I hated laid back. Dahl’s feet were up on his desk like he’d just awoken from a nap, and the remnants of the salad he ate for lunch were strewn over his desk-not the doughnut or artery-clogging meat sandwich I’d expected.
“Can I help you?” he greeted me with nonchalance.
“My name is JP Warner and…”
He cut me off, which irritated me. “I know who you are, Mr. Warner. If you’re here to uncover some sort of police corruption, I can assure you that you’ve come to the wrong police department. Let’s start again-can I help you?”
“I’m here to talk about a police officer who once worked here.”
“Since I’m fairly certain you’re the anonymous reporter who phoned me last month to discuss Kyle Jones, I’m going to assume that’s who you’re referring to.”
His street smarts impressed me and I confessed to making the call.
“If I recall, you mentioned an award he received back east. He’s a good man and I’m glad to see he’s doing well. Is that why you’re here?”
“I wish I could say that,” I said, my voice darkening.
“Then why are you here?”
“It’s my belief that Kyle Jones is dead. It’s also my contention he was killed here in Gilbert back in 1998. I believe his body is buried in the backyard of a house he rented at 52 Ash Street.”
Dahl glanced at his desk calendar like he was checking to see if it was April Fools’ Day. “Well, if that were true, Mr. Warner, how do you explain the reference I gave for Kyle to get a police job in Connecticut?”
I reached into my overnight bag and pulled out the newspaper from the day Jones was given the award at the fair. A photo of Officer Kyle Jones accompanied the article.
I tossed it onto Dahl’s desk and pointed to the article in the lower right corner. He kept looking at it, and I got the impression he knew who the man in the photo really was. I thought he might.
“Do you recognize him?” I asked impatiently.
He nodded. “It’s Kyle’s old roommate-Grady something.” He tapped his hand on his desk as if it would help him think.
“Grady Benson,” I tried to speed up the process. “I want you to dig up the yard on Ash Street.”
“You’ve made quite a leap from stolen identity to murder. Do you have any evidence that Kyle is even missing?”
“With all due respect, Chief Dahl, you know as well as I do that Jones had no family, and his friends were the people he worked with at any given time. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Benson picked him to prey on.”
“I’ll take that as a no on the evidence.”
“If you don’t take some action, then I’ll go over there and dig it up myself.”
“If you think being held captive by terrorists was bad, I can guarantee you, Mr. Warner, it will seem like Club Med compared to an Arizona prison.”
A stare-down followed. He wasn’t the pushover I’d suspected-I could hear my mother’s warnings about judging books by covers. My eyes wandered to some of the framed photos on the wall behind his desk-numerous shots of Dahl, posing with other police officers and state officials. What I found most interesting was that a few of them featured the real Kyle Jones. For Kyle to make the wall of fame, they must have been close, and hopefully had formed an emotional bond that I could tap into.
“Listen, I understand your hands are tied. But if you can’t do something as a police officer, can I at least get your word that you will look into this as Kyle’s friend?”
Dahl saw right through my act. “I met Grady Benson on a few occasions. He was your typical hanger-on. Maybe he saw stealing Kyle’s identity as an opportunity for a new life. It would make sense that he landed in an obscure small town in Connecticut, where he would likely never be questioned. I’ll contact the Rockfield Police Department and present them with the possibility that the Kyle Jones they know may be impersonating an officer. That’s the best I can do.”
“Your best isn’t good enough,” I raised my voice.
Dahl studied me, before asking, “This is personal, isn’t it?”
“Grady Benson killed my brother.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need you to be sorry, I need you to do something about it. You should take it personally-he killed your friend!”
“You don’t know that.”
“Don’t you find it strange that you never heard from him again once he left here. And you’re a smart guy, so you now realize that those emails you received from Kyle Jones were actually from Grady Benson, as were the Christmas cards.”
“Kyle was always a loner. He’s probably living in some remote section of Alaska, or saving some rainforest halfway around the globe. To be honest with you, I never really expected to hear much from him again, unless he needed a reference.”
“You obviously aren’t willing to accept the truth. Can you at least give me the name of Kyle’s former girlfriend? In our earlier conversation you said it was Lucy, but cut me off before I got a last name. Maybe she still cares what happened to Kyle.”
“I’m not at liberty to give out information to someone looking to serve up some vigilante justice.”
“Vigilante justice?”
“What else would you call it? Despite your preconceived notions, Mr. Warner, Arizona isn’t the Wild West with shootouts at the OK-Corral. But there’s a good Wyatt Earp Museum about two hours south of here if you’re interested.”
“I’m talking about justice and you are talking about bad Costner movies.” I boiled over. “Grady Benson is the only vigilante here!”
“It’s been fun. I believe you have a great future writing fiction, Mr. Warner.” He stood and reached across the desk to shake my hand.
