The woman at the front of the line finally ordered, and it felt like another ten minutes before I at last made it to the counter.

  I ordered two black coffees and the mint green tea Alex wanted.

  The kid behind the counter, long hair tied up in back and earrings attached to places they maybe shouldn’t be, rang me up at the register. “Eighteen seventy-nine,” he said.

  “Eighteen seventy-nine?” I said. “Are you sure?” I looked up at the menu behind him, trying to locate some prices on the cluttered chalkboard menu. The price for anything was almost impossible to find, buried somewhere with another hundred or so items, half in a coffee-aficionado language I’d never understand.

  The kid nodded, assuredly, already looking past me for the next customer in line. He had what looked like a forced smile. “It’s eighteen seventy-nine, sir.”

  At least the kid was polite. And I knew out of that eighteen dollars he was getting a half a buck of it in wages, if he was lucky.

  I pulled out a twenty and handed it to him, and he looked at the bill before he grabbed it as if he’d never seen cash before. He handed me a small card with a web address on it. “We have an app you can download for next time, so you can order and pay ahead if you’d like.”

  I took the card, and wondered what was wrong with my cash, the kid almost acting like it was no good.

  “Keep the change,” I said, wondering if he’d even know what to do with it.

  I tried to carry all three tall paper cups, holding them together between my hands. Hot tea and coffee dripped onto my hand, and I did what I could to ignore it until I made it out to the table.

  An older gentleman was on his way inside and held the door open for me.

  “Thank you,” I said, carrying our drinks to the table where Alex was seated. Mike was on the sidewalk, on the other side of the roped-off seating area, with his back to us, using his phone.

  “What’s going on?” I said to Alex. I placed the three cups down, rubbing the spot on my knuckle where the hot water had burned my skin. My eyes were on Mike.

  “I don’t know,” Alex said. “He’d started to tell me what he’s been able to find out about Jillian Rogers, but then he took a call. He’s been on it the whole time you were inside.”

  “You know who it is?” I said.

  Alex shook her head, then opened the folder Mike had given her and pushed it toward me. “There’s no official cause of death yet,” she said.

  I looked inside the folder, saw the description on top of Jillian Rogers: Thirty-eight years old, five-feet-nine inches tall, no weight listed. She had blue eyes and dark brown hair. There was a black-and-white printout of her photo, Jillian Rogers smiling for the camera. She appeared to be with someone else who was cut from the photo. I flipped the sheet and saw laser-printed black-and-whites from the crime scene. She was fully clothed, dressed in shorts and what looked like a T-shirt, with bare feet, lying on a carpeted floor next to a couch. There was no blood or clear signs of trauma, from what I could see in the photo.

  I glanced over at Mike and, with my voice hushed, said to Alex, “You didn’t tell him anything about how I know Brock, did you?”

  She shook her head.

  My phone in my pocket buzzed. I looked at the screen and it was a 305 area code. Miami. I was about to answer, but tapped the ignore button instead. It could have been Brock, but I didn’t want to take the call right then, in front of Mike.

  Alex watched me slip the phone back into my pants pocket. “Who was it?”

  I shrugged and shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  Alex sipped her tea, looking back at me over the top like she didn’t believe it.

  Mike finally got off the phone and stepped over the rope without a word at first, reaching for one of the two coffees. We both drank our coffee black, and he didn’t bother to ask if it mattered which cup he took.

  He had a look on his face like he was thinking something through before he’d speak, placing the coffee in front of him without prying open the plastic top. He looked at Alex. “Did you look through those files?”

  Alex nodded. “There’s not much here.”

  Mike said, “Well, there’ve been some updates since I received these preliminary reports,” he said, holding up his phone. “That was a friend of mine, down in Miami. At first it appeared Jillian Rogers death might’ve been some kind of freak accident. Or maybe a drug overdose. But the latest assumption is homicide.”

  Alex and I sat without responding.

  Mike sipped his coffee, then placed the cup down, taking his time. “They’re looking for a male suspect, apparently had a relationship with her.”

  “Does he have a name?” I said, afraid of—but knowing in my gut—what Mike’s answer was going to be.

  “Coincidentally, he’s from up here,” he said. “Ex-con, used to live up here in Jacksonville. Name sounds familiar, to be honest, but—”

  “Any chance his name’s Brock Mason?” I said.

  Mike was in the middle of another sip of coffee but appeared to almost choke on it when I said Brock’s name. He wiped his chin and looked at Alex, then at me. “Please don’t tell me you two are somehow involved in any of this.”

  Chapter 4

  I waited until we were back at the house before I dialed the number from the call I’d received at Java Jazz Cafe. I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. After telling Mike what I could about Brock, at least what I knew up to that point, I ended up practically defending him, telling Mike—with little certainty—that Brock couldn’t have had anything to do with Jillian Rogers’ death.

  But the fact there was a space in time between when Jillian Rogers had apparently died, and when Brock had come to see me, made me think he didn’t have what’s considered a perfect alibi. Far from it. Take away the five-and-a-half-hour drive up to Jacksonville and the two hours he’d spent at Billy’s Place, there was always a chance he’d been in Miami that morning and certainly the day before.

  I tapped the recent calls I’d received and the number dialed. It rang five or six times before an automated message came on, reciting the phone number I’d called:

  The person you have called…

  I hung up, knowing just because it wasn’t Brock’s voice on the recording didn’t mean he wasn’t the one who had called.

  I watched Alex outside on the front lawn, tossing the tennis ball for Raz. I looked at my phone, about to dial the same number again. But before I did, my phone buzzed, the call coming from the same number.

  I answered right away, but didn’t speak a word at first. I listened, and could hear what sounded like wind in the background.

  “Hank?” the voice said.

  It was him.

  “Brock?” I said. “Where are you?”

  “Just listen,” he said. “I didn’t have anything to do with Jillian’s death.”

  “I’m supposed to believe you?”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  I heard the front door open and walked out the back door onto the deck before Alex could see I was on the phone. I kept my voice low and said to Brock, “The cops are looking for you.”

  “I know.”

  “If you’re innocent,” I said, “you need to talk to them.”

  “I am innocent, Hank. I had nothing to do with it. I swear.”

  I could already feel it in my bones I was about to get sucked into something I’d regret. “If you didn’t do it, then who did?”

  He paused. “I don’t know.”

  Alex called out to me from inside the house.

  “Why did you come up here looking for her? Was she ever even here? Or was this your way of having an alibi?”

  “Come on, man. I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t do it.”

  “Then you should’ve come clean with me, tell me what it was about in the first place. Now, here you are. You expect me to believe you?”

  “I was told she was up there.”

  I thought about what he’d said. “Up there? You’re not in Jacksonville?”

  Another pause.

  “I drove here, to Miami, late last night, as soon as I heard what happened.”

  We were both quiet; the only thing coming through the phone was whatever sounded like wind.

  “Are you in your car?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you close your window?”

  He didn’t answer, but the windlike sound had stopped.

  “You need to go to the cops,” I said. “It doesn’t look good. And it makes it hard for me to believe you know nothing about what happened to this woman, when you’re not willing to—”

  “I can’t. Not until I know more. I go to the cops, they’re going to try to pin it on me. That’s what they’re looking to do, Hank.”

  “I don’t have much information,” I said. “Just what I’ve heard through someone I know, works up here for the sheriff’s office. But there must be a reason they’d jump this fast, believing you had something to do with it.”

  “I guess things got a little messy between us.”

  “Messy?” I said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The line went quiet.

  “Brock?”

  “Hank, man. You gotta help me.”

  “If you can’t be honest with me, how do you expect me to—”

  “They’re going to pin this on me. You want to see your old buddy behind bars?”

  “Again, you mean?” I said.

  More silence.

  “That was all a misunderstanding. I got involved with some people I shouldn’t have, and I’m the one ends up paying the piper.”

  The door behind me opened and Alex stepped outside, looking me over.

  I took the phone from my ear and pressed it against my chest. I said to Alex, “Can you give me a minute?”

  She stood, staring at me, a suspicious look on her face. But she didn’t ask who it was, instead turning and walking back into the house without a word. The door clicked as she closed it, gently, and I couldn’t help but think she knew exactly who I was talking to.

  I walked to the edge of the deck and leaned against the railing, overlooking the fenced-in backyard. I said to Brock, “I can’t get involved. I’m at a different place now. And, whatever it is you’re caught up in…”

  “Hank, please.”

  I said, “If you’d been straight with me from the start, maybe it’d be a different story.” I looked through the window at Alex pouring herself a cup of tea, Raz spread out on the floor in front of her like he was wiped out from a few rounds of fetch under the hot sun.

  I was at a point in my life where things were different from what they’d ever been. I was happy, for the most part. And I didn’t want to ruin what I had. Being involved with Brock certainly meant there’d be a good chance I’d do exactly that.

  “I know how this all looks,” he said. “But you gotta believe me. I was looking for her because I knew she took off for a reason. At least I thought she did.”

  “You thought she did what?”

  “Oh, yeah, uh… I mean, when she took off from Miami.”

  “You knew she was in trouble?” I said. “Then why didn’t you go to the cops? That’s the part I’m not understanding.”

  Brock didn’t answer right away.

  But then he said, “Oh no.”

  “Oh no what?”

  “Oh shit, Hank, I—”

  Hank’s voice became muffled and distant, but I could hear him:

  “No, please. Come on guys. You don’t have to—”

  Then a loud pop.

  It was a gunshot, so loud I imagined it inches from the phone.

  I listened for a moment. I could hear voices, but couldn’t make out any words. I said, “Brock?” A lot of noise on the other end followed, mostly muffled, then a cracking sound.

  Then silence.

  I looked at my phone.

  The call ended, and I dialed the number Brock had called from. But it went to the same voicemail:

  The person you have reached at….

  I ran into the house.

  Alex was sipping from a mug, and turned to me. She frowned, one hand on her hip. “You really had to go outside to sneak your call. Was it him?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you okay?” she said. She could see it in my face.

  “I heard a gunshot.”

  “A gunshot? Outside?”

  “No.” I held up my phone, as if she could see or hear what I already had. “Through the phone. I think someone shot him.”

  Alex’s eyes widened. She put down her mug. “Are you sure? Do you… Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. In his car. Miami.”

  “He’s not up here?” she said.

  I couldn’t think straight, looking at my phone, then tapping Brock’s number on the screen to call him again. I put the phone on speaker and listened, but it went right to the same voicemail.

  Alex put her mug down and looked around the kitchen, grabbing her phone from the counter. “Should I call Mike?”

  I didn’t know what to say. “I… I don’t know. I don’t even know where he was.”

  “Mike can make a call,” she said.

  We’d already explained to him what we knew about Brock and the deceased woman, so I had little to hide. I thought about it, and nodded. “Okay,” I said. “I guess. I don’t know what else to do.”

  I felt useless. I didn’t want to help Brock at first. But this had quickly gone in a much different direction.

  Alex called Mike and I walked outside onto the deck again, as if I’d find an answer out there. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, for turning my back on Brock.

  I walked back inside and stepped over Raz, walked out of the kitchen and upstairs to our bedroom. I heard Alex on the phone, leaving a message for Mike to call her.

  First thing I did was grab my duffel bag, tossing it on the bed. I started throwing clothes inside it without much thought. A few pair of boxers, some T-shirts, shorts, a tube of toothpaste and my toothbrush…

  Alex stood leaning inside the doorway. “You can’t go down there,” she said, the phone in her hand.

  I zippered the duffel bag and hung it over my shoulder without responding, trying to walk past her.

  But she grabbed my arm. “Henry, slow down. Take a breath. You can’t just jump in the Jeep and drive down to Miami. You have no idea what happened. You said it yourself, that you know nothing about this man.”

  “I know he asked for my help.”

  Alex held her gaze on me, then looked at her phone. “Mike’s not calling back. We need to call the police. In Miami.”

  “And tell them what? I was on the phone with a murder suspect and heard a gunshot through the phone?”

  She nodded. “Why wouldn’t you just tell the truth?”

  I pulled my arm from her and stepped outside the bedroom. I stood in the hall, my brain going a mile a minute. I hadn’t thought anything through.

  Alex was in the doorway, holding her phone out toward me. “We have to call the police.”

  I felt in my pocket for my own phone, but I wasn’t even sure where I’d left it. I stepped past her and into the bedroom, walked into the bathroom, and picked it up off the counter.

  I looked at myself in the mirror, the sun coming at me through the window to my left. I gazed at the phone, unsure what to do. But Alex was right. She usually was.

  Chapter 5

  A week had passed since I last heard from Brock. The thought had crossed my mind it could’ve been another one of his games, where he’d decided to use me—twice, perhaps—to set himself up with not only a potential alibi when he came up to Jacksonville to see me, but also when a shot had allegedly been fired when he’d called me.

  But even for Brock Mason, it was a little much. The trouble was I hadn’t stopped hearing his voice in my head, asking for my help.

  With no body or evidence or a sign of some kind of foul play—his car nowhere to be found—it seemed to me his name was simply added to the long list of missing persons in the state of Florida. Twelve hundred fifty-two missing persons in the Sunshine State. At least according to statistics.

  Make that twelve hundred fifty-three.

  I’d been around long enough to know how these things worked. A middle-aged ex-con with a record didn’t normally get the same attention a missing kid or a woman might. Ask any detective and you’ll hear every case is a priority. But that’s not the truth. It’s just not possible. Throw in some red tape and a few dozen open cases piled on every cop’s desk, and anyone can see why there are a couple hundred thousand current cold cases in the US alone.

  On the other hand, all those unsolved crimes kept a guy like me in business.

  Alex had gone out of town, up for a planned trip to Virginia to see her parents and spend some time with her mother. I didn’t get the details of her trip, but I didn’t mind having the place to myself.

  I did, however, promise Alex I wouldn’t take off for Miami. But I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t been on my mind for the past several days.

  My nights had been sleepless, to a point it even crossed my mind to go stay on my boat to see if I could get some rest. For one reason or another, lying on that crummy mattress on the boat, mildew smells and all, was like rocking a baby to sleep. At least for me it was. The water… the cabin’s loud, cranky air conditioner that barely worked… I found it all quite calming.

  I was at the table in the kitchen with the laptop out, having a coffee when my phone buzzed from somewhere nearby. I wasn’t sure where I’d left it, and got up to look for it. I went into the other room, but the buzzing stopped.

  We had a landline in the house we never used. But it was good for when I couldn’t find my phone, and went over to call my cell. But before I had a chance to dial, the buzzing started again. I went back into the living room and over to the couch. The sound grew louder, and I found the phone shoved between the cushion and the arm of the couch.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21