“You’ve performed autopsies for The Society before. Your family has been providing the service for a long time.”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me about oleander.”
He looks at me, forehead furrowed, and I wonder about him. Wonder if he truly thought Bishop died of a heart attack.
“It’s a plant,” he says.
“And a…” I trail off, gesturing for him to fill in the blank.
“Poison.”
“Good. Working for IVI you’d know about those things.”
“There wasn’t evidence of any foul play,” he says. “Mr. Bishop’s heart gave out in the throes of a passionate event. There were witnesses. Multiple.”
“So I’ve heard but I’d rather not visualize it if you don’t mind.”
He grips the sides of the chair and waits for me to continue.
“There was only evidence of cardiac arrest. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Did you bother to look?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Did you bother, Doctor Jones?”
“I was told it would be best to move as quickly as possible and bury Mr. Bishop, considering how he died and the impact it would have on his son.”
“By whom?”
He draws his lips into a tight line and his gaze shifts away from me.
“By. Whom?”
“Ms. Bishop. Councilor Hildebrand agreed. There was no reason.”
“And who signed off on the cremation?”
He clears his throat. For a Sovereign Son’s body to be cremated, a Councilor and the coroner must both sign off. In this case, Hildebrand was said Councilor. Except I’ve seen his signature.
“Councilor Hildebrand,” he tries.
“So, if I were to ask the Councilor, he’d remember the event? He’s got a great memory I hear.”
He glances away, beads of sweat breaking across his forehead.
“Jericho,” Zeke calls out.
I leave the doctor and walk over to stand behind the desk. He points to a deposit in Jones’s bank account of $25,000 made from Carlton Bishop days after his death.
“Was Carlton Bishop very grateful for the service of the autopsy you conducted on his dead body or was it the speedy cremation?” I ask Jones.
“That was Ms. Bishop. She took over the account with her son being the heir but obviously so young.” Sweat rings are forming under his arms.
“And which was she more grateful for?”
He clears his throat. “I was told it would be better for the boy.”
I return to him, sit on the end of the coffee table again and get into his space. “Which was she more grateful for, Dr. Jones?” I ask, leaning close to him, letting him see how far I’m willing to go to extract his confession.
“She said she’d take care of Hildebrand’s signature after I signed off. She was going to see him anyway. I wanted to make a call, but it was late, and she insisted it had to be done.”
“And you felt it was fine to do after she deposited the money into your account?”
Now he swallows hard and sits very still as sweat runs down his temple.
I get to my feet, turn away to find Zeke watching, posture relaxed. He has a dark side, my brother, one he hides well. And the look on his face is the same as I’d seen on that grainy video in Austria. I give him a nod and he acknowledges the gesture. I then turn back to Jones who shifts his gaze from Zeke to me. I reach for his collar, haul him to his feet and slam him into the wall.
“You’ve wasted enough of our time. Running. Hiding like a fucking criminal. Booking a private plane to the Bahamas and making us come chasing after you. I’m going to give you a choice. One, answer the fucking question and we’ll be on our way or two, waste more of my time and I’ll have Hildebrand deal with you. I can tell you a Councilor will not take kindly to having their signature forged in an attempt to conceal evidence from The Tribunal. Which is it going to be?”
“That was her. Not me!”
“Go on.”
“She came to my house with two of her men. Big guys. Like you two. Like this one. Mean too. She wanted the body cremated. Said she changed her mind on the burial. And when I explained about The Tribunal, that a Councilor had to sign off, she lost her shit. It took one of those men to calm her down and that’s when she paid me the money. I didn’t ask for it. I swear. I was just scared. I signed off on what she wanted and when they left, I packed up and left too. I wasn’t running from you. I was running from her. From them. I was fucking terrified. She’s crazy.”
“Got all that?” I ask, not looking away from Jones.
Zeke replays the last part of it. “Yep.”
“Good. Call Hildebrand. Let’s get some men down here.”
My phone rings and I release Jones who trips sideways before catching himself. I read the name on the display. It’s the man watching the Bishop house.
“Yes?” I answer.
“The woman is on the move. Just left with two men.”
I glance at Jones, thinking of his description of the men. “What about the boy?”
“Negative.”
“Tail them. Let me know where she goes.” The only place she should be going is out of town but to leave her boy behind? That doesn’t quite fit.
“Yes, sir.”
I disconnect and am about to tuck my phone into my pocket when it rings again. This is an unknown number, but I recognize the area code. It’s in the city. I answer.
“Yes?”
“Jericho?” a woman’s voice says. It’s familiar and I try to place it but before I can, she speaks again. “It’s Megs.” And the moment I hear her name my heart drops to my stomach because there is no reason for her to be calling me. “I did something stupid.”
45
Isabelle
Gerald Gibson has me inside the house within seconds. He’s big. Like his brother. And as mean.
“You scream and I’ll fucking knock you out,” he tells me as he closes and locks the door behind us.
The inside of the house is a mess of empty food containers, liquor and beer bottles. Cigarette butts overflow from ashtrays. A large, worn-out recliner is set a few feet from the television. I can see cigarette burns on the arms of the torn brown upholstery. Next to it is a half-drunk bottle of beer. There’s a couch in about the same shape as the chair against the far wall.
He drags me toward the tv set and switches it on, turning the volume up. It’s an old sitcom. The audience laughs as I’m dragged deeper into the house. Through an arch I see a dining room, set with a round table overcrowded with junk.
That’s where he takes me, holding onto my arm. He reaches for a cell phone sitting on the counter between the dining room and a small kitchen.
“Let me go,” I finally manage, still somehow clutching my purse.
“I said shut up, didn’t I?” he tells me, gripping my arm so tightly, I’ll have a ring of bruises.
The phone is one of those older flip phones. He opens it with one hand, pushes a series of buttons, then presses it to his ear.
“She’s here,” he says into it. I don’t hear the person on the other end, but he grins and looks at me. “Yeah, it’s her. No doubt.” Quiet. Then the grin vanishes. “Ten minutes. And bring the money.”