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“WHY ARE YOU CALLING me, Mrs. Jackson?” Morgan gripped the phone as if she could make the woman’s eyes bulge. “Let me speak with Austin, please.”
“He ain’t here. I can’t do this no more. Piano playing ain’t going to do us no good. People like us, we gets money from kids what plays sports. You finds him a coach—football, basketball, hell, even tennis—that makes sense. Better yet, you take him on. Kid’s nothing but trouble.”
Her words were slurred, but Morgan had no trouble following the conversation, one they had every month or two. One the woman wouldn’t remember when she sobered up.
Morgan took a calming breath. “That’s right, Mrs. Jackson. Now let me talk to Austin so I can straighten this out for you.”
“Said he ain’t here.”
“Where is he?”
“School. Least he’s supposed to be.”
“That’s good, Mrs. Jackson.”
Nothing.
“Mrs. Jackson?” More silence. Damn, why didn’t cell phones have dial tones?
Assuming Austin’s mom had either disconnected or dropped the phone, Morgan hit the end call button and called Mr. Nakamura.
His “Yes, Miss Tate” when he picked up dripped with exasperation.
“I’m sorry ... again,” she said. “Austin’s mother has his phone, and from the way she sounded, it’s highly unlikely she’ll be in any condition to get Austin to his lesson. I’ll call the school, see if they’ll get a message to him that I’m ordering an Uber to get him there.”
His pause chilled her like a D flat minor chord from a silent movie organ.
“This might as well be the time to bring it up, Miss Tate. I’m afraid I can no longer provide lessons for Austin.”
“You’re dropping him?” she said. “You can’t. Not now.”
“It’s true he’s a gifted child, and that’s part of the problem. He needs a teacher who can offer more than I can. That, combined with his sporadic attendance, puts me in an uncomfortable place. I’m unable to serve students I can nurture.”
His words ran into each other like tumbling dominos. He was the best piano teacher anywhere near Dublin, Ohio, and there was no way Austin could travel farther for lessons. “You won’t reconsider?” she asked. “I can increase payments.”
“It wouldn’t be fair to you, me, or Austin. If he shows up today, consider this our last lesson. In any case, I’ll refund the advance payments you’ve given me.”
“I understand.” Despair settled like an anvil in her stomach as she ended the call. She was not going to fail with Austin. The world deserved to benefit from his talent. It was a matter of the best way to develop it.
Morgan called the school and made her request. “If possible, can you have him let me know he got my message, please?”
The admin, a woman Morgan had dealt with numerous times, said, “Austin’s a good kid. I’ll call him to the office to relay the message, and he can borrow my cell.”
After giving profuse thanks, Morgan ended the call and turned up her ringer volume. She’d wait until she heard from him before ordering the Uber.
Trying not to worry—which was like trying not to notice the sun had come up—Morgan continued to work her way through the boxes. When, half an hour later, her phone rang, she hurriedly swiped to take the call.
“I’m sorry, Miss Tate,” Austin said. “I forgot to hide my phone, and Momma found it.”
“That’s okay. We all forget things.” She instructed him to wait in the school’s pickup line after school for the Uber. “What are you wearing, so I can let him know how to find you?”
“Jeans, Bengals shirt.”
Which could be dozens of kids at the school. “You have your backpack?” Another piece of Bengals gear, one she’d given him last Christmas.
“Yep.”
“I’ll have him look for you. I’ll tell him to ask for—” she thought for a moment— “Frederic, just in case somebody else is trying to pick you up. Don’t go with your mom today, okay?”
“Okay, but Frederic?”
“As in Chopin.”
“Oh, like a code name. Can I be Wolfgang? Nobody’d ever think of that.”
Morgan laughed. “Wolfgang it is. Call me as soon as you get to your lesson.” She explained this would be his last one, but that she’d work something out. “I’ll work on getting your phone back, too.”
With luck, Mrs. Jackson would respond to Morgan’s threats to sic the cops on her for stealing the phone—assuming she was still boozed up enough to accept what Morgan said without thinking it through.
A harsh tone rang in the background.
“Gotta get to class. I’ll talk to you later,” Austin said.
Morgan arranged for his ride, told Mr. Nakamura he’d be there. Austin seemed upbeat, calm, not hiding anything. Maybe it was as simple as him forgetting to keep his phone tucked away from his mom’s prying eyes. Maybe she’d stumbled upon it lying around and had called on a drunken impulse. Alcohol brought out a belligerent streak in the woman.
Back to work. Two more boxes. Small ones. A few minutes and she’d have a major item checked off her to do list.
She pried open the flaps. Folded t-shirts. Charity or trash? Morgan lifted the top shirt. A long-sleeved polo. Much nicer than the rest of her finds. The one underneath seemed of equal quality. She went to move it to the charity section of the basement and was surprised by its weight—far more than what she’d expect from a box of shirts. She held up the next shirt. They looked very much like the ones in Uncle Bob’s box from the Villas.
Were they his? If they were, did that mean everything in the basement had also belonged to her uncle?
Didn’t matter. Regardless of who these things had belonged to, they were all being disposed of, one way or another.
Beneath the last shirt Morgan found the reason for the extra weight. More notebooks. Morgan pulled one out. Not a notebook. A hardbound ledger. Her heart doing a brisk mazurka, she opened the book.
More numbers, just like the ones in the spiral notebook.
~~~
COLE SAT AT HIS DESK, filling out his report. Once Connor and Detweiler had shown up, it was Thanks for the information, we’ve got it covered, now get back to work.
Ahh, the life of a patrol officer. Front lines, first on scene, keep the peace. Digging for who and why fell to the detectives and crime scene people. Cole liked it that way, although today’s case had him curious. Why had Randall been so withdrawn about his assailants? Even if he hadn’t been able to identify them, if they’d been disguised or caught him totally by surprise, he’d have had an idea of who they were.
Detweiler had nixed Cole’s request to sit in on the interview. Cole turned in his official report, making mental notes about questions jouncing around in his brain. Whelan might make a good sounding board.
Whelan. Lunch. Damn. Cole checked the time. Almost two. Whelan’s cop experience meant he understood there was no such thing as a scheduled lunch, but Cole moseyed out to reception to apologize.
Whelan was on the phone, staring at the ceiling, a look of undisguised exasperation etched on his face. “Yes, ma’am. I understand, ma’am. I’ll be sure to report it.”
“Helpful citizen?” Cole asked once Whelan hung up.
“Wants us to move the handicap parking slots out of the city lots and put them in the hospital lots, because there are more handicapped people who need them there.”
“Wonder where she was when they were handing out brains.”
“Looking for a parking place in the city lot.” Whelan wrote notes on a phone intake form and shoved it into an accordion folder on his desk. “You had a little action today.”
“Yeah. Sorry about missing lunch. You didn’t wait for me, did you?”
Whelan chortled and patted his midriff. “If I waited every time someone said, ‘Let’s have lunch,’ I’d weigh twenty pounds less. Of course, taking up with a woman who runs a bakery doesn’t help.”
Cole smiled. “I’m off shift at four. I have to drop some things off for a friend right after work. I’d still like to pick your brain, even more so after what happened today. See if you can tell me if I’m overcomplicating things or show me the simpler solutions.”
“Occam’s Razor.”
“The simplest solution is usually the right one.”
“Casting a wide net at the start makes sure you don’t miss anything, even though it seems totally unrelated or trivial,” Whelan said.
“Wagon Wheel? Closer to five?” Cole could drop off Bailey’s gear, meet with Whelan for a bit, then go back to Elm Street to do the next coat on Morgan’s drywall.
“Should work. I’ll check with Ashley, let you know if I can’t make it.”
Cole thanked him, then pulled out his phone to check his messages. Nothing since Morgan had told him she’d be bringing Bailey home today.
He added another reply to the message thread. OK I drop Bailey’s stuff come back later 4 wall.
He smiled at her thumbs up.
Whelan called after him. “Detweiler wants to see you. His office.”
“Roger.” As Cole strode down the hall, he ran through everything he’d done at the scene. Had he screwed up?
Cole stood in the detectives’ office doorway. Detweiler motioned him inside.
Cole took a seat, still replaying his actions.
Detweiler folded his hands on his desk. “Good call about checking on school absentees. Randall Ebersold’s doing all right. Bruises, slight concussion, and a broken arm. He refused to talk, says he can’t remember much, and has no idea why he was accosted. All he gave us was he’d ditched school because he wanted to study for a major exam and concentrates better out in nature. I want you to go with Kovak when he interviews three boys who were on the absence list at the high school today.”
Cole’s brows shot upward. “Me, Sir?”
“You don’t think you’re up to it?”
“No. I mean, yes. I’ll go.”
“Kovak’s in the workroom. Report to him now.”
Cole shot to his feet. “Yes, Sir.”
He liked his job as a patrol officer, but being included in the followup had a balloon of pride swelling in his chest.
Kovak’s directive to take notes and observe, not speak, poked a pinhole in that balloon.
“They’re minors,” Kovak pointed out, “so parents will have to be there. Watch the body language, especially the way the kids look—or don’t look—at their parents before and after they speak.”
They arrived at the first house, home to Sean Dennison. Dark hair, shuttered eyes. Built like a linebacker. His mother was home, but not his father. She was all too willing to cooperate with the police. From her tone, her boy could do no wrong.
Cole looked at Sean. A few bruises, no cuts or scrapes. The kid passed them off as routine bumps incurred in football practice.
“You heard about Randall Ebersold,” Kovak said. “Got beat up pretty bad. We’re trying to find out who might have wanted to do this.”
Sean shook his head. “I hardly know Randall. No classes together, and football takes up most of my time.”
“Season’s over,” Kovak said.
“Coach has after-school sessions year-round. Wants us sharp for next year.”
“Why weren’t you in class today?” Kovak asked.
Cole shifted his gaze to the mom. She stood tall. “He wasn’t feeling well this morning. He said he was up to date with his classwork, and—” she shrugged— “sometimes a day off helps recharge the batteries.”
“Were you home with him, Mrs. Dennison?” Kovak asked.
“No, I work in Salem, half days for a real estate office. Receptionist. I got home an hour ago, and Sean was here, watching television.”
“You were here all day, Sean?” Kovak said. “Anyone come by who can confirm it?”
Sean gave a canary-swallowing grin. “Nope. Slept late, played video games, watched television.”
Kovak thanked them, and they moved on. It was more or less the same at the other two houses. Lives revolved around football, all had mysterious episodes of malaise, parents vouched for them with the attendance office.
“Your take?” Kovak asked when they were headed to the station.
“They’re lying.”
“Any way to prove it?”
Cole shifted to face Kovak. “Did Connor find anything that put them at the scene? Prints on the Mustang? What about those beer cans we flagged?”