This time his brother answered. “Whatcha got, Michael?”
“I got a tag number,” he said.
“For what?”
Clearly, Max hadn’t heard his message yet. “The Camaro. XFM 320. I just watched him making a drug exchange with Steven Harper—one of the brothers who uses Tidewater as his address.”
Max laughed. “Nice work! Could be our man.”
“Run the tag, see who owns the car. I can’t do it because I’m driving.”
“Will do,” Max said. “I’ll call you back.”
Michael followed at a distance, letting three cars get between them. When the Camaro pulled into a vacant parking lot, Michael parked some distance away, watching. So if this was the guy who’d pulled the trigger on Bob, then it could’ve been about drugs—the guy was either a buyer or a seller. So what did that mean? Had he killed Bob for drugs? Was he hoping to get Bob’s prescription pad? Cash? But if so, why didn’t he get out of the car and rob him?
No, Bob had been in jeans and a T-shirt. He hadn’t been carrying anything but his wallet, his phone, and some change. The shooter must have seen Juliet following Bob at the gas station, so it wasn’t like she had unexpectedly interrupted the robbery.
After he saw them at the gas station, why would he follow them unless he thought Bob would be a safe mark, that Juliet couldn’t possibly defend him or herself—and that her screaming wouldn’t be enough to bring unwelcome attention before he got what he wanted? And if he assumed all those things, why hadn’t he immediately jumped out of the car and shaken Bob down?
His phone beeped, and he tapped his Bluetooth. It was Max. “Did you find him?” Michael asked.
“Yeah, it’s registered to a Jerome Henderson, twenty-two years old. Been in jail like four times since he was twelve. Once for three years.”
“You got a picture? Driver’s license?”
“Yep.”
“How about texting it to me?” Michael said.
“All right. You have a make on the guy?”
“Yeah, he’s sitting in a parking lot right now, probably using the dope he just bought. If you come make an arrest now, you might be able to catch him with the drugs. Then you could get him in a lineup.”
He half expected Max to balk at the step-by-step suggestions, but maybe his brother was growing up. “All right, stay with him until we can get there.”
Michael hung up, glad his brother was finally treating him with respect instead of trying to compete with him on every case Michael had any part in. It was something. Since Joe’s death, Max and Michael had had a hard time relating to each other.
It was Michael’s fault that Joe’s killer had walked away scot-free. If he hadn’t screwed up the case, Leonard Miller would be sitting on death row right now. Michael’s family had never forgiven him, though they pretended to. Communication had been strained between them ever since.
Cathy had forgiven and defended him, even though she’d been devastated by the murder. She’d become Michael’s closest friend, and now . . . well, now it was more. He couldn’t shake the guilt that she’d been his brother’s girl first, but he just hoped that from his place in heaven—and Michael had no doubt Joe was there—Joe loved them both enough to be okay with it.
Michael had been working on finding Leonard Miller, without any luck. He’d hoped to watch him until he committed another crime, and help put him away once and for all. Now he felt the same sense of injustice. He wouldn’t let another killer walk away. Juliet was like family to him. He couldn’t stand to see her hurting like this.
If they were able to arrest the guy in the Camaro, that would be huge. When Max interrogated Henderson, he might be able to get to the reason behind the shooting. It wouldn’t bring Bob back, but at least filling in the blanks and knowing his killer faced justice would give her some closure.
He knew too well that grief without closure left open wounds that never quite healed. He didn’t want that for Juliet.
CHAPTER 10
Juliet hated planning funerals, and she’d never intended to plan Bob’s. She’d always hoped she would go first, after living a nice long life with him. But she had no choice now. She’d spent the afternoon meeting with the pastor and funeral director, then at home she’d riffled through pictures of Bob, choosing some that could be used at the service. She’d tried to include Zach and Abe in the planning, but Zach had wanted nothing to do with it. She didn’t blame him.
She’d talked at length with Bob’s devastated mother and sister, and her cell phone had rung off the hook with condolences from Bob’s friends and colleagues and their church family. She’d finally turned the phone to silent and stopped taking the calls. She hoped her friends understood.
Sapped of energy, she lay on the bed with her arms around Abe when the doorbell rang.
What now? Had some of her friends tracked her down?
She heard the door opening downstairs, voices, then little footsteps on the stairs. Jackson appeared in the doorway. “Aunt Juliet, Daddy wanted me to tell you that Mr. Michael is here. He needs to talk to you.”
Juliet sat up. “Okay, I’m coming.” She looked down at Abe, whose eyes were red and puffy. “You okay, honey?”
He just nodded.
Jackson came to lean on the bed. “Want to play Angry Birds with me, Abe? You can teach me level six. Daddy doesn’t know how to do it.”
Abe pulled himself up. “Okay.”
Satisfied that Abe wouldn’t be alone, Juliet went downstairs. Michael was in the kitchen with Jay, talking in a low voice. He had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and she knew him well enough to know he hadn’t slept since Bob’s murder. “Juliet, we found a guy in a white Camaro,” he said. “They were able to make an arrest.”
She sucked in a breath. “Really?”
“Yes. Max needs you to come see if you can identify him in a lineup. There’s no guarantee it’s him, but he is connected to the people who made the call.”
Juliet looked around for her purse. “Has he said anything? Did he confess?”
“No. They only got him on drug charges. He’d just bought a large quantity of cocaine, and he had a big envelope of cash. They can’t link him to Bob unless you identify him.”
She found her purse in a chair at the kitchen table. “Okay, let’s go. Jay, can you watch the kids?”
“Of course.”
As she headed toward the door, Zach stepped off the stairs. He’d clearly been listening. “Mom, I want to go.”
Juliet slid her purse strap over her shoulder. “Kiddo, I’d rather you stayed here. Abe needs you.”
“No,” he said. “Mom, I’m twelve. I can do this. I want to go with you. I want to see this guy.”
Juliet stared at her son for a moment. This was the first thing that had animated him since the shooting. Maybe it would do him good to see justice being served. She blew out a long breath. “All right,” she said. “You can come.”
As they rode in Michael’s Trailblazer, Juliet’s mind raced with memories of the night before. She tried to capture a snapshot in her mind of the man who had looked at her at the gas station then pulled up in the U-Haul lot and gunned her husband down. She hoped she could remember. What if none of the men in the lineup looked familiar? What if he was there, but he looked different now? What if she couldn’t be sure?
Michael talked on the phone to Max as they drove. Juliet wondered who else they would put in the lineup. Would it be other police officers, people off the street, other inmates in jail? What if she chose wrong?
Zach was quiet as they rode. She patted his knee, hoping this wouldn’t traumatize him. She had no idea if she was doing the right thing by including him.
At the police station, she followed Michael in, purpose quickening her stride. Zach trailed behind. Cathy was there, waiting in the lineup room with Max and his partner. “You okay?”
Juliet nodded. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Juliet, thanks for coming in,” Max said. “I want
you to look at the six men in the lineup and see if you can identify the shooter. Make sure you’re absolutely certain before you ID anyone.”
“Got it.”
She felt Zach stiffening next to her, and she took his hand. His was cold, clammy.
The light came on in the small area behind the glass where the men would stand. A side door opened, and the first of the men walked in and turned toward the glass, followed slowly by the second.
“Can they see us?” Zach asked.
Max shook his head. “No, their side of the window looks like a mirror. Take your time, Juliet.”
Juliet fixed her eyes on the first one.
“That him?” Zach asked.
“No,” she said. The next one wasn’t him either. The third and fourth came in. Neither of them looked familiar.
She felt Zach watching her. “Not yet?”
By now Juliet was disappointed, shaking her head. Finally the fifth, then the sixth man came in and turned to face her. Juliet sucked in a breath. “That’s him! The last one.”
“You sure?” Max asked.
“Yes, he’s the one.” An unexpected rage burst inside her, and tears blurred her vision. “I looked him right in the eye at the gas station. He shot Bob.”
Max picked up a phone and spoke into it. “She made him,” he said. “We have a positive ID. Put him in the interview room.”
As the men filed out one by one on the other side of the glass, Juliet lunged for the window. Knowing the man couldn’t see her, she hit the glass. He heard it and turned toward her.
“Why did you do it?” she shouted. “What did you want from him? Why did you kill my husband?”
Cathy touched her shoulder. “Juliet, he can’t hear you.”
Juliet turned back to her son, suddenly self-conscious, trying to catch her breath. Zach’s face was twisted and wet. “I just want to know why,” she said. “I want to be there. I want to hear what he says.”
“You can’t,” Cathy said. “Honey, just be patient. They know how to get him to talk.”
“But if he’s the one who called and left that message . . . I want to know what they want.”
Michael looked at Max. “Mind if I watch the interrogation?”
Max raised an eyebrow at Forbes.
Forbes shrugged. “Yeah, I guess that’ll be okay.”
“But why him and not me?” Juliet asked.
“It’ll take hours,” Max said. “We have to do it meticulously, without emotion.”
Cathy put her arm around Juliet’s shoulders. “They’ll keep us informed. Michael and I will make sure.”
Juliet wiped her face and turned back to Zach. He was still staring at the window behind which the killer had stood. She shook herself out of her thoughts and tried to focus on him. She put her arm around his shoulders. “Sweetie, this is a good thing.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“He’s not going to get away with it. They have him now. And I’m sure all our questions will be answered soon.”
“It doesn’t even matter,” Zach whispered.
“What?” Juliet asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said louder. “Dad’s still dead.”
She wilted next to him, dropping her face into his hair. “I know. It doesn’t bring him back.”
She could hardly breathe as she led Zach back to Cathy’s car. Outside, humidity enveloped them. It smelled like rain, and the wind whipped their clothes and hair.
“What will they do to him?” Zach asked as he took his place in the backseat.
She tried to think. “They’ll read him his rights. Then they’ll charge him with murder.”
“Will somebody bail him out?”
Juliet looked at Zach. How did he know about bail? Of course—he’d probably seen it in a hundred movies.
Cathy spoke up. “He’ll be assigned an attorney if he can’t afford one, and his attorney might request bail. But we’ll make sure he doesn’t get it. Or that it’s so high he can’t pay it.”
“Then what?”
“Then we wait. He might realize how strong the case against him is and plead guilty. Maybe he’ll talk and expose anyone else involved.”
“Will they kill him?”
Cathy looked at Juliet, then back at Zach in her rearview mirror. “Florida is a death penalty state. He could be executed, or he’ll get life in prison.”
Juliet couldn’t tell whether that comforted Zach or made things worse.
“Will they shoot him in the head like he shot Dad?”
Juliet felt as if she’d just turned a corner into a whole new tragedy. Why should her son be forced to think about things like this? “No, they don’t do that, honey.”
“They should.” His mouth shook, and he struggled to hold back tears.
Several moments of silence ticked by. Then Zach spoke again. “Mom, I want to hear that tape.”
“What tape?”
“The message they left on Dad’s phone. I want to hear what they said.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . I’m the man of the house now. I need to know what we’re up against.”
Juliet’s heart plunged even further. “I gave the phone to the police. I don’t have it.”
He was quiet for the rest of the ride.
As Cathy turned into Jay’s driveway, Juliet took a deep breath. “I so dread tomorrow night. The visitation . . . all those people. And the funeral the next day.”
“I’m not going,” Zach said.
Juliet closed her eyes. “Of course you are.”
“No, I’m not. I’m staying home.”
She turned toward him. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and his lower lip trembled. “Honey, you have to honor your father. He deserves it.”
“Why? You’ve told me before that funerals are for the family. What if the family doesn’t want it? Then do they have to do it? I could stay at Uncle Jay’s by myself.”
“You’d regret it, Zach.”
“No,” he said, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “I don’t want him to be dead. I don’t want any of this to be true. I just want to be left alone.”
Juliet didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry, honey. You’re going to go. I need you there.”
“But what about what I need?”
“We’ll all need different things,” Juliet said. “Whether you know it or not, you need your family. You’re going, and you’ll sit by me and hold my hand, and we’ll honor your father’s life.”
Tears coursed down his red face. “You can’t make me talk to anybody,” he said. “I won’t smile and laugh and pretend everything’s okay. I’m not going to try to make people feel better when I’m the one who feels lousy. Everybody should feel lousy.”
“That’s fine.”
“And I don’t want to be in charge of Abe. I don’t want to explain things to him or make him feel better.”
“I’ll do my best with that myself,” Juliet said. “Cathy and Holly and Jay will help.”
He looked at her as if she’d betrayed him. Then without speaking, he threw open his door and shot into the house.
Juliet sat staring after him.
“Are you going to be all right?” Cathy asked.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think I am.”
CHAPTER 11
Michael knew his place. He stood in the monitoring room at the police department, watching on the video screen as his brother questioned Jerome Henderson. He studied the man’s slumped posture. He was wearing a white wife-beater shirt that looked as if he hadn’t changed it in days, and his greasy hair hung over his eyes. Wired on whatever drug he’d used before his arrest, his knee jittered.
Max played it easy, leaned back, relaxed in his chair, his calf crossed over his knee, trying to look like a guy having a friendly conversation about murder. “So let’s go back to Friday,” he said. “You say you slept till noon. Then what did you do?”
“I don’t know, man. Hung out with some friends.”
/> “Smoke a little dope?” Max asked, as if it didn’t matter one way or another.
“No, man. I don’t use.”
Max uncrossed his legs, shifted in his seat. “Well, that’s funny, because you flunked our drug test when we brought you in. Cannabis, cocaine, and opiates.”
Henderson rubbed his dirty fingers across his lips. “I have a prescription for hydrocodone. Back problems.”
“You have a script for crack?”
The man didn’t answer.
“So what time did you leave your friends?”
“Midnight, maybe.”
“Give us their names.”
“No, man. I don’t want to drag them into this.”
“If you claim you were with them at the time of the murder, you know we have to verify it.”
Henderson just rubbed his face and looked up at Max.
“So why don’t you tell me how you wound up on Highway 57 that night.”
“Man, I wasn’t over there. I didn’t have my car Friday. I let a friend drive it.”
“What friend?”
“A guy named . . .” He glanced to the left. “Goes by the name of Cytrop. I don’t know his real name.”
The glances to the left alerted Michael. When right-handed people glanced to the left, it usually meant they were making the story up as they went along. They glanced to the right when they were remembering things that had actually happened. And knowing the guy only by his nickname was very convenient.
“Does he look like you?” Max asked.
The man slumped again, scratched the side of his nose with a thumbnail. “I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah, a little, I guess.”
“Why did he say he needed the car?”
Michael smiled. Max was letting Jerome talk on about the friend borrowing the car so that, in court, they could prove he was a liar.
“He had a job interview, man. I’m trying to help him out. I don’t know where he went.”
“Job interview on Friday night?”
“Yeah, man. I don’t know. Maybe he lied.”
“When did you get it back?”