“Sixty-six Mustang?” The mechanic was grease-stained and bored.
“That’s right.”
“Color?”
“Maroon. It came in early.”
“Well, now.” The mechanic sipped from a Dr Pepper can. “I didn’t get here ’til seven, and it’s not on the clipboard.”
“Check again, please.”
He took his time, pages turning with the same slow, licked-finger rhythm. “Wait, yep. Here it is.” He pressed a damp finger onto a single page, twelve sheets down. “Problem is, you said Mustang. The paperwork says Ford. You also said maroon, and this says dark red.”
“Are you screwing with me?”
“Why would anyone screw with a cop?”
The smile showed in his eyes, but city employees with a bitter streak were hardly rare, so French gave him the win. Working through the bay, he opened a door on to an acre and a half of parked vehicles, and found the car where he’d been told to look.
Registration in the glove box.
Plenty of gas.
French pulled on rubber gloves, and searched it front to back. Nothing. Returning to the small office, he found the same mechanic sipping on the same can of soda. “I want that car moved to deep impound.”
“Huh? It was just a tow.”
“I’ll have a forensics crew here in thirty minutes.” French reached across the desk, snatched up the phone, and spoke as he dialed. “In the meantime, move the car. Do it now. I’ll need your fingerprints, too.”
“Huh?”
“You and whoever hooked up the tow.”
* * *
When French returned to the station, he went to see the captain. David Martin was a fair man, but a stickler for the rules. French didn’t care. He barged into the office.
“I want in on the Tyra Norris case.”
“There’s this new thing.” Captain Martin leaned away from the desk. “It’s called knocking.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it.”
The captain regarded him carefully, twisting a pen between his fingers. “So your son, at last.”
“I should have done this sooner.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Shock. Disbelief. I don’t know. Too much cop and not enough father. I thought like the rest of you.”
That was about recovered photographs and the murder weapon, a slab of evidence thick enough to bury Jason alive.
“Kathy,” the captain called out, and his assistant appeared around the door. “Two coffees, please. Cream for the detective.” She left, and he gestured at a chair. “Let’s talk about Gibby first.”
“You heard?”
“A cop’s son found half-dead in a ditch? Yeah, I heard.”
“This is not about Gibby. War or no war, I don’t think Jason is a killer.”
“I still can’t let you near the case.”
“Unofficially. Off the books…”
“Not even that.”
“Then dark. Just the two of us.”
For an instant, the captain’s conviction seemed to waver, but the door opened, and Kathy appeared with coffees. “Cream for the detective, and black for you.”
“Thank you, Kathy. You can close the door.” She did as he’d asked. The captain left his coffee untouched. “One question, Bill, and I want an honest answer. Did you recognize Tyra Norris at the crime scene? Did you know then who she was, that she’d been sleeping with Jason?”
French opened his mouth, but had no words.
Surprisingly, the captain’s eyes softened. He nodded gently; his voice was soft, too. “Go see your son, Bill. Go be a father.”
* * *
The warden was in his office when the call came from the front gate. “You’re sure of that ID?”
“Detective William French. I’m holding his credentials right now.”
“Hold on a second.”
Bruce Wilson lowered the phone as if a few extra seconds would make the problem go away. He was not a bad warden or a bad man. He’d done the best he could in difficult circumstances. Of course, there was always the risk a moment like this would come, the first domino that would bring the rest down.
“Are you there?” the guard asked.
“Tell him he has to wait.”
Dropping the phone onto its cradle, the warden left the office at a fast walk. His secretary tried to stop him with a question, but he said, “Not now,” and left her looking hurt. At death row, he cleared security and took the stairs down. X was painting, his back to the cell door. The painting looked like Jason French. “We have a problem.”
X declined to turn. “I suspect what you mean is that you have a problem.”
“Jason’s father is at the gate.”
“Not much of a problem.”
“He’s a city detective who wants to see his son. If I say no, he’ll want to know why. That means questions I’m not prepared to answer. Jason would not be here without my involvement. His father knows that.”
“So let the man see his son.”
“What if he talks?”
“He won’t.”
“You can’t know that!”
X turned, lifting an eyebrow.
“I’m very sorry.” The warden showed his hands, and lowered his voice. “What if this cop pulls on the wrong thread? What happens then?”
“Jason knows what is expected of him. There will be no threads. I assure you.”
“Okay, okay.” A nervous nod. “What else can I do?”
“You can remember, Warden Wilson.” X dabbed his brush into bloodred paint, and touched it to the canvas. “You can remember your hard-learned lessons, and act accordingly.”
* * *
French didn’t know what to expect from his son, but this cold and distant emptiness was not it. His eyes looked vacuumed out, his voice monotone, as a guard secured his cuffs to the table. “I don’t want you here. You shouldn’t have come.”
French struggled to understand. He’d expected something, anger, at least. “I came to talk. To apologize.”
“Apologize? Really?”
“If you’ll hear me out—”
“Why now and not before?”
French had no idea what to say. A moment earlier his thoughts had been clear—so clear.
“Just go,” Jason said. “Go home.”
“Not this time, son. There are too many things to say, and too many years between us.”
“Oh, you came to talk years.”
“Mistakes made. Things I wish I’d done differently.”
“Family history,” Jason said.
“That’s part of it.”
“Okay.” Jason blinked once, and slowly. “Let’s talk about why I went to war.”
“You went because of Robert, because he died a hard death, and you were young and angry—”
“Is that what you tell yourself?”
“Isn’t it the truth?”
“Do you really want to talk about mistakes?”
“It’s why I’m here.”
“I heard her that night.” Jason studied his father with those empty eyes. “The night we learned that Robert died, I heard what she said. That’s the reason I went to war.”