The Boyfriend (26 page)

As soon as Till had seen the report that Rafferty in Boston forwarded to him, he had driven to the San Jose airport and bought a ticket to San Antonio, Texas. He had called the local police department and talked to Ron Evans, an old acquaintance in Homicide there.

Now Till stood in the coffee shop and walked through the crime scene. He put himself in the body of the Boyfriend. He sat at a table that had been put in the place of the one used in the murder. He could tell that was the location because it had been marked on the floor.

He was surprised when one of the San Antonio cops told him the store would reopen tomorrow. All the crime scene work had been done immediately, because they had known from the beginning that the killer was connected with the murder of two Mexican cops in San Mateo, California, and was suspected of a wide variety of other killings. This was a race, and the Boyfriend had shown that he was good at breaking traps and getting away.

Till looked at the scene in the coffee shop. He could feel what the Boyfriend had felt. He’d been there early in the morning to case the bank before he went in. He had been alone, or nearly alone. He’d sat where he could see the front door of the bank, and stayed there for a while. He must have been drinking coffee, but Till hadn’t heard anything about fingerprints being found. The Boyfriend had gone to the counter and had his first look at the barista who gave him his coffee. Then he had sat down.

Till could feel the anxiety that had made the Boyfriend sit here watching the bank. The report Till had seen claimed the killer could not have seen any of the cops inside the bank, but he obviously had known there could be some. He had been assuming there would be something in the computers at Daniel Cowper’s house to lead the police here. He had probably hoped he had made it to the bank before the police were aware of it. If he was here before the cops, he would get his money and leave. If not, going in would get him caught. So he watched.

The police report said the 911 call from the waitress had mentioned that two men were fighting over a table. The shop had been empty of other customers. Till counted the tables: eight little wrought-iron tables, and sixteen chairs. The Boyfriend had needed to be in the center where he could watch the front of the bank. Why had the other man cared?

Till brought back the sight of the photographs of the dead man. He had been stabbed, but he had been badly beaten up before that. The police report said the knife was left stuck in the victim’s heart. Till remembered the tattoo on the dead man’s arm. It was old, one color, and so crude as to be barely symmetrical. It looked like a spiderweb. Prison.

Till consulted a piece of paper from his pocket and called the number on it. The man who answered said, “Detective Evans.”

“Hi, Ron. This is Jack Till. I was wondering about the stabbing victim. Does he have a rap sheet?”

“I just got it. He’s got a couple of convictions. Nothing recent. Assault, aggravated assault, battery. Did five years total.”

“Was the knife his?”

“Right on that one too. His wife identified it.”

“Thanks,” said Till. He ended the call. Now it made more sense. The Boyfriend had been in the coffee shop watching the bank across the street. This guy had come in. He had looked at the Boyfriend and seen a man who was not big or formidable. The Boyfriend was alone, and there was something about him. He had a pretty face, one that made the girls all love him. He must have looked like someone this man would enjoy bullying.

The knife was the only weapon found in the building, and the dead man—Ronald Earl Barr—had brought it in with him. He was bigger, about six two. He was older, probably by five years. And when he came into this shop he made the biggest, and therefore last, miscalculation of his life. He picked a fight with a man who was good enough at killing people to do it for a living.

Till lifted the small wrought-iron chair with two hands and raised it over his head. It must have weighed forty pounds, at least. A couple of whacks with that would have changed the balance quickly. Probably the Boyfriend had used it to injure and disarm Barr, and then used the man’s own knife to kill him. Till set the chair down and then guessed what the Boyfriend had thought next:
Where’s the girl?

Escaped. She saw the fight. Maybe the Boyfriend even heard her call the cops. She might have remained on the phone, as the emergency operators tried to make people do when they should have been running. The Boyfriend was moving into the back of the shop, and when he got there he saw she had run off. He had no time to chase her. All he could do was run for his car.

The police had found an apron and a hat from the shop in the trash down the street, so he had probably worn them or prepared to. It was another indication that he looked young. If Till had tried that, he’d have been shot on sight.

The Boyfriend’s face made him a favorite with young girls, but it also made men underestimate him, made them think he couldn’t be the mean one, the crazy one, because he looked so much like the harmless, innocent one. That was worth remembering. Till had to keep in mind that when he finally caught up with this guy, what he would see would not look like a killer. If Till took an extra second or so to see through the appearance, it would give the Boyfriend enough time to kill him too.

Joey Moreland could hardly believe how close he had come. When that big moron had started messing around with him, it had pushed Joey into a rage. The idiot wouldn’t go away, so all Joey could do was make him die. Once he was dead, the girl should have died too. She had called the police, and he hadn’t wanted to leave her alive to describe and identify him, but he’d had no choice. He’d had to run.

As he had driven past the coffee shop, he had seen the cops who had poured out of the bank’s door. They must have all been in there waiting for him since before dawn. So the big psycho who had come in and taken his chair had actually saved him from the police. It wasn’t a small thing. He could never have surrendered, and he couldn’t win a gunfight with a dozen cops.

He drove north with determination, trying to get out of the state of Texas as quickly as possible. It was night now, and that should have made him less worried, but it didn’t. What had happened in San Antonio had shocked him.

He knew he would never get the money in the San Antonio bank. Now that the authorities had connected that account to the Broker, it would be confiscated. Probably it already had been confiscated before he’d arrived in San Antonio. As he drove, he thought about the other accounts he had established. He needed to remember which accounts he had let the Broker deposit money into electronically. That had been going on for only a year or so. At the beginning the Broker had paid Holcomb and Holcomb had paid Moreland in cash. Sometimes the Broker had sent Holcomb cash and they had simply sat down and split it. But then he had gotten clever and let the Broker transfer the money. There were other times when the Broker had sent him a check, and he had deposited it in one of his accounts.

Every account that the Broker had known about would eventually be found. He had to try to save some of those accounts before the cops got to them. He had to save some of his money.

He drove steadily for the state line on Interstate 285. He went from Pecos, Texas, to Carlsbad, New Mexico, with particular care. There was no reason to get close to the Mexican border, where the cops and the drug dealers stared into one another’s eyes to guess the next move. He drove at exactly the speed limit until he was past Carlsbad and heading for Roswell. He had done this trip before, and he knew that he would hit Interstate 40 at Vaughn.

He stopped at Artesia at one a.m. for gas and coffee, and then went on. He had been relying on his youth and physical conditioning to keep him ahead of the FBI agent or detective who had been following him since Phoenix. He knew he could outlast any pursuer, so he had stayed on the road. But it was getting to be time to rest. He stopped at a big motel off the highway near Roswell at two-thirty, checked in, showered, and went to bed. He had driven hundreds of miles during the day, and now he felt exhausted. He fell asleep quickly.

When he awoke at ten, he knew what had to be done. He checked out and drove toward Illinois, the northern state where he’d opened a bank account. That was the next bank account to try to salvage. It took Moreland three days to drive to southern Illinois. He stopped in a Denny’s restaurant in Carbondale, and went inside to look for the right sort of person. As soon as he came in the door, he noticed a young couple who looked about right. He went to the booth nearest to their table, and sat down. As he studied his menu, he couldn’t help looking over the top of it now and then, and when he did, he would see them again.

What had caught his eye was that they were just the right age—about twenty—and the right general description, attractive and clean and wholesome-looking. The girl was about five feet three with pretty skin and the kind of curves that were perfect now, but would probably turn to fat in twenty years. The boy had dark hair and a handsome, symmetrical face with intense brown eyes. He was slim and wiry. As Moreland lowered his eyes to the menu, the boy stood up and walked toward the men’s room.

The girl looked around the room, a little bored, when her eyes met Joey Moreland’s. She had already let her eyes rest on his for the half second when she should have kept her eyes moving, so she smiled a bright, white-toothed smile that crinkled the smooth skin at the sides of her blue eyes, then turned away to stare straight ahead, but still keep him in the corner of her eye.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Do you know the best way to Springfield?”

She turned all the way around to face him, and bestowed the smile on him again. “I would say that the best way is to get on the interstate and take it north to Route 55—that’s right around Centralia—and follow that straight up.”

“What’s the number of the interstate?”

“Oh, that was dumb. I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s 57. We just call it ‘the interstate’ because it’s the only one we’ve got.” She blushed a little and touched her hair. “Are you going up for the fair?”

Moreland had no idea what she meant. “Is the fair happening now? I’ve never been before, so I suppose it’s time. I was just going up there on business.”

“I’ll say it’s time,” she said. “I just love the fair. We’re planning to go up in a couple of days.”

“We?”

She was flustered, and the blush in her cheek grew redder. “My boyfriend Gabe. Didn’t you see him sitting here when you came in?”

Joey gave her his best smile. “I’m sorry. I guess my eyes couldn’t get past you.”

She made a swatting gesture in his direction, but then touched her hair again. “Get real,” she said. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”

“Honest, I’m not,” he said. “I’d never be mean like that. I’m just sorry you’re taken, but I respect that. I’m Michael, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you.” She said it and her eyes rose to his for only a second. “I’m Sharon.”

“Delighted.” He leaned forward, took her small pudgy white fingers in his, gave her hand one gentle shake, and then released it.

She curled her fingers into a dimpled fist, as though she had an unconscious urge to touch the place where he had touched her. She saw his eyes rise and focus on something behind her, and she spun around in her seat and pretended she’d known her boyfriend was coming all along. “Honey,” she said, “this is Michael. He’s going up to the state fair.”

Moreland stood up and held out his hand. “Hi. Michael Grimes,” he said. “I’m actually going up on business, but your girlfriend mentioned it’s fair time, so I thought I’d check that out too.”

Gabe had no obvious alternative but to smile and shake this stranger’s hand, and Joey was pleased to see that Gabe didn’t think of a way to avoid it.

Gabe sat down across the table from Sharon, and looked at her with the sort of shrewd gaze that indicated he thought she was cute rather than smart.

Moreland sensed that Gabe would start signaling for their check in a minute, so he brought out his pitch. “Sharon tells me that the two of you are planning to go up there in a few days yourselves. What are the best things for a first-timer to see?”

“We’re just thinking about going,” said Gabe. “Nothing definite.”

Sharon interpreted the question as intended for both of them, and she was delighted to be asked. “I love the Ferris wheel, and oh, the Mega Drop, and Turbo Force.”

“Those are rides,” Gabe explained. “On Mega Drop they drop you a hundred and thirty feet to the ground.”

“There are over a hundred rides.” Sharon was more and more animated. She wiggled her hips excitedly. “There’s nothing else around like the fair.”

“You must like being scared,” Moreland said.

“I do,” she said happily.

“They have good bands some nights,” Gabe offered. “Lots of chicks.”

Moreland pretended to think. Then he said, “You know, the reason I’m driving up there to Springfield is that I’m a lawyer, and I’ve got to go file some claims to take possession of some property for a client. That’s a pretty quick process, and my company is paying for everything.”

“You’re so lucky,” Sharon said.

“I guess so. Anyway, if you two feel like going up there tomorrow, I’ll drive to Springfield and my company will pay for the trip. I’ll drop you off here on my way home to Texas. You can show me the way, and talk to me so I don’t fall asleep at the wheel.”

“Wow,” said Gabe. “That sounds like a great offer, but—”

Sharon jumped in to keep the conversation from ending. “We’ve got to wait until I get paid on Thursday. It’s only like fifteen dollars to get in, but you have to eat, you need a place to stay, and all that.”

“No problem,” said Moreland. “I’ll tell you what. You can help me do my errand when we get there, and I’ll put you on the payroll. Your pay will be whatever the trip costs.”

Sharon said, “Gabe, can we, please?”

Gabe said, “Jeez, I don’t know. I’m supposed to work tonight. We’d both have to take the next two days off.”

“We’d have to do that anytime we go, and the fair won’t be free any other time. Please.”