“Why not?”
“Mr. Reeder, this was a suicide, plain and simple.”
“Did it occur to you, Detective, that hanging yourself with a belt is not a ‘plain and simple’ way out when you’re a law enforcement professional with a weapon handy?”
“Suicides take all kinds of ways out.”
“No suicide note?”
“No. But you know that’s not unusual, either. I understand losing a friend can be tough—”
“Do I sound grief-stricken?”
“No, Mr. Reeder, you sound like a good friend in the same line of work who would rather not think that your friend might be capable of such a desperate act. This is nothing we haven’t seen before.”
“If you mean murder,” Reeder said, “I agree... Thanks for your time, Detective. We’ll talk again.”
And clicked off before the detective could respond.
Reeder had been to the Bryson home on Fairview Woods Avenue in Fairfax Station more than once, and drove there easily, no GPS required. He pulled into the empty driveway of the wide, two-story brick-fronted home with attached garage. The first-floor lights were on, Beth expecting him — he’d called ahead.
Taking his time going up the shoveled walk, Reeder moved through the sloping snow-covered lawn, past white-flocked bushes and curtained windows, then up three steps to the front stoop. Rang the doorbell, the sound of which had barely died away when the windowless steel door swung open. Christopher Bryson, suit coat off, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, stood there looking enough like his father to make Reeder think, My God, have I gone back in time?
“Mom’s expecting you, Mr. Reeder,” Christopher said, in a mid-range voice that also summoned memories of his dad. “Come in, come on in...”
“Make it ‘Joe,’” Reeder said, taking off his gloves.
But the response was, “Yes sir,” as the younger man stepped aside, taking Reeder’s lined Burberry and hanging it in a closet of the wide foyer.
An expansive living room was on the left, kitchen straight ahead down a hall toward the back, while to the right a staircase curved to the second floor, with the den/home office at right. The house was immaculate, just as he remembered it, though he hadn’t been there in years, a feeling underscored by well-maintained furniture that hadn’t changed in decades. That time machine feeling again...
Beth, again in the black silk blouse and black slacks but absent the jacket, appeared at the living room’s arched entrance, a tumbler of amber liquid in hand. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she smiled upon seeing him.
“Thanks for coming, Joe,” she said, as her son looked on with concern.
Beth seemed sober enough — he’d never known her to be a heavy drinker — but there was something as liquid about her walk as the Scotch in her glass. She waved with a tissue-stuffed hand for him to follow her into the living room.
The south wall, to his left, was almost entirely a window onto the front yard. Sheer curtains were drawn, but heavy drapes remained open, the world out there hazy. He faced the west wall, dominated by a fireplace above which was mounted a flat-screen TV with some mini snowmen sitting on cotton on the mantle; a pair of matching sofas were perpendicular to the hearth, a black enameled coffee table between them, a lidless cardboard box of plastic police evidence bags sitting somewhat awkwardly on top of an oversize art book.
His pleasantly plump blonde hostess sat at one end of one sofa, her son settling in next to her, Reeder sitting opposite.
“Have you spoken to the police?” she asked, too casually, between sips of Scotch.
“Just on the phone,” Reeder said. “Had a conversation with Woods, the detective in charge, on the way over here.”
“The whelp still thinks Chris killed himself,” Beth said, and had another sip, as if to wash away the bitterness. “You agree with that assessment?”
“That Woods is a whelp? That might be premature. Wait till I’ve been face-to-face with the man and ask me again. Did Chris take his life? Highly doubtful... but I need to find something to convince Woods to take this investigation seriously.”
Christopher said, “What investigation? It’s already a closed file.”
Beth ignored that, setting her tumbler on the coffee table. “What do you hope to find?”
Reeder answered the question with another. “Was Chris still using a laptop?”
Christopher grunted a laugh. “You kidding? He never switched to a tablet, just kept lugging that antique everywhere.”
“Is it here? In the den maybe?”
Beth gestured to the cardboard box. “Isn’t it in here?”
Christopher quickly said, “We haven’t gone through those things of Dad’s. Couldn’t quite... you know, face it yet.”
Reeder said, “I asked Detective Woods and he said there was no laptop on the inventory of effects found in the motel room.”
Frowning, Christopher asked, “Where is it, then?”
“Could be a clerical glitch,” Reeder said, then nodded toward the box. “Go ahead and check, would you, son?”
Christopher rose and did so, hunkering over the box, then looked up and shook his head. “Not here... I’ll check the den.”
And he went off to do that.
Beth was lost in thought.
Reeder said, “Something?”
She nodded. “I’m positive Chris had the laptop with him, when he left for work, that last day. Might be at his office.”
“All right with you if I go have a look?”
“I’d be grateful if you did,” Beth said, and gestured to the cardboard box. “His office keys should be in there.”
“Did he ever use the home computer?”
“No. That’s strictly mine, in my sewing room upstairs.”
Christopher returned, reporting no luck in the den.
Beth said, “Joe, why don’t you take the whole box with you. If it would be of any help.” She met her son’s eyes. “Is that all right with you, dear?”
“Take it, Joe,” Christopher said. “Maybe you’ll find something worthwhile in there. The police didn’t even try.”
Reeder thanked him, then went to the box and began riffling through the evidence bags. Right away, something jumped out at him — a cell phone. Not Chris’s smartphone, rather a cheap flip phone, obviously the burner Chris had called him on.
A question popped into Reeder’s head, one that should have occurred to him sooner — back in field-agent days, it would have. And the police should have asked the same question: What did a man who was about to commit suicide need with a burner phone?
Reeder sat back down and asked them both: “Can you think of any reason why Chris would have needed a burner?”
Beth said, “A what?”
Christopher answered: “A prepaid cell phone. Something you use once or twice and throw away... right, Mr. Reeder?”
“Right. Was that something Chris might’ve used on the job?”
Shaking his head, Christopher said, “The kind of investigation Dad normally got involved with wouldn’t require anything like that. Last few years, he mostly did small-business and industry analyses, recommending security systems and procedures.”
Reeder asked Beth, “You last saw him on Monday?”
“Yes, when he left for work.”
“Did you hear from him after that at all?”
She shook her head. “The next thing was the call from the police the next day.”
What the hell had gone wrong enough from Monday morning to Tuesday night to make Chris trash his own phone, pick up a burner, and call Reeder on a “life and death” matter? The answer clearly wasn’t suicide.
Chris Bryson had been on the run.