Every Crooked Path Page 9

  However, as he left, he did glance in the woman’s direction and almost, almost, almost took a detour past her table to pretend to look at some books on a nearby shelf, but then his nervousness overwhelmed his initiative and he went out the main door instead.

  On the way back to the ICSC, he tried the number Dr. Perrior had given him for Dr. Tignini, but it went to voicemail.

  He left a message for her to call him.

  As soon as possible.

  A message from Claire that the NYPD was looking for some information was waiting for him when he got back to his desk. “Detective Cavanaugh would like to speak with you about something called the Final Territory.”

  +++

  While Tobin took a call from someone at the ICSC, I got word from Jodie that a man who’d seen the photo of Randy’s note on the Internet believed it was his brother’s handwriting.

  Apparently, they hadn’t been in touch for a couple of years, but the guy lived in Brooklyn and was on his way to the morgue now to see if he could identify the body.

  “I’ll head over there,” I said to her. “If it is his brother, I want to talk with him as soon as possible.”

  I hung up just after Tobin did.

  “What do we know?” he asked me.

  I summarized what Jodie had told me.

  He pulled out his car keys. “I’ll drive.”

  “What did the ICSC tell you?”

  “They’re looking into it. I spoke with a guy named Francis Edlemore. I’ve worked with him before. Kind of an odd cat, but he’s been there for a while and he knows what he’s doing. He’s going to see what he can pull up.”

  The two of us left in his car for Presbyterian Central Hospital.

  17

  On the drive over, I learned that the man we were going to meet, Billy McReynolds, was a blogger and syndicated talk show radio host, leaned conservative, and had garnered a huge social media following since he got started three years ago. One of his fans had seen the note, made a connection since Billy would sometimes tell stories about growing up with his brother, Randy, and tweeted the link to him.

  We met him in the hospital’s first-floor lobby.

  Billy wasn’t as tall as his brother, but the family resemblance was there. His experience as a professional speaker was clear in his deep, resonant radio-voice. But even that didn’t cover the nervousness and unease that came through from him being here now to identify his brother’s body.

  The medical examiner, a slightly standoffish French woman in her early fifties, led the three of us into the autopsy room.

  I don’t like morgues.

  Most of the time they smell overly sanitized and look all too spotless and shiny with their stainless steel counters and sterile exam tables and polished dissection tools.

  The floors are almost always vigorously mopped and have no sign of blood or bodily fluids, but the drain on the floor in the middle of the room speaks volumes as to what really goes on in here.

  Of course if you’re here during an autopsy, the floor looks a lot different.

  Smells different too.

  Dr. Coutre went to the freezer. “Are you ready?” she asked Billy. “Or do you need a minute?”

  “I’m ready, but I haven’t seen my brother in over two years. I’m not sure I can identify him, especially if he’s . . . I mean . . . I heard he fell pretty far.”

  “We’ll give it a shot, okay?”

  “Yeah,” he managed to say.

  Tobin stood stoically beside me. He was watching Billy rather than the doctor, perhaps to gauge his reaction. It was a good idea. I did the same.

  Dr. Coutre unlatched the door to the freezer and swung it open, and a puff of chilled air followed as she pulled out the gurney containing the corpse. The body was covered with an unblemished white sheet. No stains. No blood. Not a spot. Nothing to signify how violent an end this man had met.

  “Ready?” She respectfully waited for Billy to nod before drawing the sheet back to reveal the man’s head.

  Eyes closed. Grayish skin.

  The autopsy was scheduled for tomorrow, so at least they hadn’t cut into him yet.

  Last night when I felt for this man’s pulse, he at least looked alive. Now he had a claylike appearance that was troubling on a gut level, especially when you realized you were going to look just like that one day as well.

  Billy cringed and swallowed hard.

  “Is this your brother?” Tobin asked him.

  “I . . . I think so. I’m not sure.”

  When people are dead, they look strikingly different than they do when they’re alive, so I wasn’t too surprised about his uncertainty.

  Billy went on, “He had a tattoo on the back of his right hand. A shamrock. I would recognize that. It’s pretty distinctive.”

  I recalled the tattoo and nodded for Dr. Coutre to go ahead. She slid enough of the sheet back to reveal the corpse’s tattooed hand.

  “That’s him,” Billy said softly. “That’s Randy. Cover him up.”

  “Do you want a few minutes alone?” Dr. Coutre asked him.

  “Yeah. I guess so. Thanks.”

  We retreated to the lobby and about five minutes later Billy joined us and Dr. Coutre went back into the autopsy room to take care of the body.

  +++

  “Mr. McReynolds,” I said, “I know this isn’t an ideal time, but I need to ask you a few questions about your brother.”

  “Alright.” He took a deep breath to calm himself. “Yes, go ahead.”

  “You mentioned that you haven’t seen him in two years. Do you know where he’s been in the meantime?”

  He shook his head. “I lost touch with him. The last I heard he was in West Virginia. Beckley.”

  As a rock climber, I’d heard of Beckley. It’s a climbing and rafting destination since it’s so close to the stunning New River Gorge, but I’d never been there myself.

  Tobin said, “You recognized his handwriting from the note that was found on his body?”

  A nod. “One of my listeners sent me a link to it. Then when I read it, it made sense.”

  “How’s that? How did it make sense?”

  “What it said about the accusations, about letting me down.”

  “What accusations were those?”

  “I’m not sure I should say. I mean, they were just . . . Nothing was ever proven.”

  “You can help us save time if you just tell us what they were.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, some woman said he sexually assaulted her—date rape—when they were seniors in high school. He always denied it. I don’t know, maybe that’s what led him to do this.”

  “Which woman? Do you have a name?”

  “No. Beth, I think . . . I’m not sure. It was a while ago.”

  I unpocketed my phone, logged in to the Federal Digital Database, scrolled to the DMV photo of Jamaal Stewart from the case files, and showed it to Billy. “Do you recognize this man?”

  “No.”

  After swiping the photo to the side, I found one of Ted Wooford. “What about him?”

  “No. I don’t know how I can help you. I wasn’t close to my brother. Now, please. I think I need to go.”

  “The Final Territory,” I said, “does that mean anything to you?”

  “Uh-uh. What is it?”

  I debated how much to tell him and decided on a vague answer. “An Internet group we’re wondering if your brother had any ties to.”

  “No, I don’t know about it.”

  “What’s Randy’s full name?” Tobin asked him. “What else can you tell us about him?”

  “It’s Randy—not Randall—he was always adamant about that. And Quentin, that’s his middle name. Like I said, the last I heard he was living in West Virginia. That’s all I know, honestly. We had a falling-out. It hap
pens—I wish it didn’t, but it did. I should go. Really.”

  “Just one last thing.” I put my phone away. I’d had a falling-out with my brother too. It’s not easy when it happens. “When I met Randy, he seemed worried that some people might be after him. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm your brother? Any enemies he had?”

  Billy ran an uneasy hand through his short-cropped hair. “He was a good guy. Served in Iraq as a Marine. I don’t know about anything like that. I can’t think of why anyone would want to hurt him.”

  “He was a Marine?”

  “Yes. Listen, if there’s anything else you need, you can call me. I just need a little time to let all this sink in.” He gave me his business card.

  We thanked him for his time, told him we were sorry for his loss, and then, while Tobin checked his texts, Billy met up with a woman who looked a bit older and might have been a friend or another relative and they left together. I looked for Randy’s military record on the Federal Digital Database on my cell. His name was listed, but his prints didn’t come up.

  His heavily redacted file was marked as confidential and only the most rudimentary information was available, including his name, rank, and service number.

  When I showed my phone’s screen to Tobin he said, “The plot thickens.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  My friend Ralph Hawkins currently worked with the Bureau’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. However, before joining the Bureau he’d been an Army Ranger and I figured if anyone had the contacts to help us uncover more about McReynolds’s past, it was him.

  I put a call through to him.

  My number must have come up on his phone because before I could even greet him he said, “Pat. Good to hear from you. What’s up?”

  I gave him the rundown, then said, “Randy’s brother mentioned he was a Marine and I found only a very basic service record. Most of it has been sealed. I’m wondering if he might’ve been special ops?”

  “Maybe. Let me make some calls, see what I can come up with.”

  Tobin and I ordered a couple slices of pizza for dinner at a storefront restaurant across the street from the hospital.

  In New York City they heat the slices up for you after you order them, and while we waited for the food, I ran Randy Quentin McReynolds’s name and found that indeed a man by that name had rented a place in Beckley, West Virginia. The last utilities paid by him were in January.

  Tobin was busy at his phone as well. “No credit cards for Randy, no phone records. Nothing after the first of the year. The guy becomes a ghost for six months, then he shows up here afraid for his life.”

  “Well,” I said, “at least it gives us a place to start. Let’s contact the landlord in Beckley, see what he can tell us.”

  +++

  Lily Keating took the subway back to the apartment she shared with two other women who were also in their early twenties.

  The audition had not gone well.

  The director wanted people with experience, and the only way to get experience was to act—but the only way to act was to have experience so you could get the part in the first place. How did you break into a closed loop like that?

  She wasn’t sure, but ever since finishing college last year, she’d been trying to.

  And failing.

  So she’d taken up other ways of earning money to pay off her college debts.

  Tonight she would go to work, pretending, acting, playing a role on the streets, one that, back when she was growing up, she’d never dreamed she would have to play.

  18

  Our efforts to reach the landlord came up empty and, by the time we’d picked our way through traffic back to the Field Office, it was already almost five thirty.

  We convened in my office with Jodie, who offhandedly remarked that she wasn’t in any hurry to get going and could hang around and work for a while if we were game.

  Hearing her say that made me think again of her plight of being kicked out of Dell’s place and of my offer to let her stay in my apartment until she could get back on her feet. Now, however, I realized I hadn’t spoken with Christie to clear things with her.

  Stepping into the hall, I called her, and after a quick hello, I said, “Hey, I need to tell you, Jodie and Dell are going through a rough spot—Dell told her to leave. She might need a place to stay for a while. I offered her my apartment. I was thinking I could crash at your place for a few nights while she looks for somewhere to stay. I’m not trying to invite myself over, but—”

  “No, of course that would be fine. How’s she holding up?”

  I recalled her bloodshot eyes from this morning. “I don’t think it’s going to be easy on her if they’re not able to patch things up. Dell means a lot to her.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m here if she needs someone to talk to.”

  “I’ll let her know.”

  “By the way, I’m glad you called. I know we were going to try and get together to talk, but something came up with Tessa. I’ll need to postpone that until tomorrow.”

  “Things okay?”

  “I think so. Just some mother/daughter stuff we’re going to need to talk through. Would you be staying over here tonight, do you think?”

  “Let me talk to Jodie. I’ll text you.”

  When I returned to the office, Jodie told me she was fine for this evening. “I never checked out of the hotel earlier today. My things are still there. I wasn’t sure where I was going to go tonight.”

  “Save your money tomorrow. My place is available.”

  “Okay, we’ll see.”

  I told her about Christie’s offer to talk if she needed to.

  To keep Tobin in the loop, she gave him a quick summary of what we were talking about while I texted Christie that I would be staying at my apartment tonight. Then the three of us worked for another hour and a half, searching through more folds in the cases on our plates, trying to find the true shape of what we were looking at.

  The origami of the case.

  Still a mystery.

  Eventually, with a yawn, Jodie announced that she should probably be taking off. “Attention span is officially at zero. I need some sleep.”

  After she left, Tobin and I researched things for another half hour or so, then he asked if I wanted to grab a beer before calling it a day. Since I’d gotten my run in this morning and I had no other plans for the evening, I agreed. “Sure, why not? You have a place in mind?”

  “Mally’s Pub and Toffee Shop.”

  “Wait—did you say pub and toffee shop?”

  “I know, it sounds crazy, but it’s great. Lots of local brews on tap and freshly made toffee. You can’t go wrong either way.”

  “You want me to drive?”

  “It’s on my way home.” He gave me the address. “I’ll meet you there.”

  +++

  Lily Keating watched evening tilt across the city, the skyscrapers’ long, narrow shadows stretching over the streets, all leaning simultaneously in the opposite direction from the setting sun.

  With casting calls during the day, she needed to work nights. But as she reminded herself all the time, this was only temporary, a stepping stone. She’d heard someone say once, “Wishes are dreams without feet.” So this was her way of giving feet to her dreams.

  Thursdays were typically a bit slow, so she liked to be at her corner by nine in case she could pick up any early clients.

  Lily had heard somewhere that girls wear makeup to look old and women wear makeup to look young. She found herself caught somewhere in the middle, but chose to shoot for the looking-younger route.

  She went into the bathroom and put on the kind of makeup that served her best with the men she met at night.

  19

  The sweet smell of fresh toffee saturated the air, rich and smooth and inviting
. It reminded me of walking into the kitchen when I was young and smelling my mom’s freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

  Warm and gooey.

  Only this place served beer too.

  It was, admittedly, an odd combination, but also appealing, on a number of levels.

  When I saw that they had Sixpoint’s Gorilla Warfare, which is a craft beer made with beans from Gorilla Coffee in Brooklyn, I immediately went with that. Tobin ordered a Galia Melon Sour Sweet from Big Alice Brewing, then we found a booth in the back of the place where no one would be able to walk up behind us or startle us.

  Watchful vigilance. Something you pick up early on in law enforcement.

  If Christie were here, she would’ve ordered dessert first, but we decided to go with the toffee after we’d finished our beers.

  Music throbbed through the restaurant. I recognized the voice—Johnny Cash—but not the song. As I took a sip of my beer, the scent of toffee baking in the kitchen mixed with the smell of the lager in a way that was unusual, but, with the coffee flavoring coming through, very inviting.

  “How is it?” Tobin asked.

  “Even better than I expected. Yours?”

  He tried his beer. “Not bad at all.”

  We worked on our drinks as we discussed the case for a few minutes, then he said, “So, what’s your story, Pat? Wife? Kids? Anything?”

  “No kids. Never married. I am seeing someone, though.”

  “Serious?”

  “Maybe. I hope so.”

  “That’s good.” He took a sip. “So, how’d you end up doing this for a living? What got you started?”

  His questions took me back to when I was sixteen. That year, an eleven-year-old girl went missing from my hometown. I was the one who ended up finding her, dead, in a tree house on the edge of a marsh just outside of the city limits. Later we learned that she’d been sexually molested before she was killed.

  It’d affected me, no doubt about that. But was that what led me into this life?