“Who is this guy?” Christina asked, suddenly interested-the future reporter in her shining through.
“He killed my brother.”
“I thought that Jones dude killed your brother?”
“I was wrong.”
A long silence came from her end of the line. “Christina?”
Silence
“Christina?”
“Sorry, I had to pick myself off the floor. It must be early because I thought I heard JP Warner say he was wrong.”
“Just get me the information and call me on the cell ASAP!”
“And where exactly would I be calling?” she asked
“I’m heading to North Carolina to pick up Carter.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot you two Neanderthals are still on your JP is a Jealous Idiot tour. You should print up some T-shirts.”
“I don’t have time for this. Just get me the information,” I thought I got in the last word.
But Christina was smart enough to realize being a pushover in this situation might lead to more early morning calls. She was going to make me work for it. “I always thought you were just a typical pissed off old guy, JP. But now I understand.”
“Understand what?”
“How much stuff you have bottled up inside you. Just tell Gwen you love her and get it over with. The whole overprotective, stalking, passive-aggressive thing you’re trying to pull off is not big with the ladies.”
This time she got the last word by hanging up on me. She was getting better at this.
Chapter 62
I continued to drive through the wee hours of the morning. My mind had been on Benson since I’d left Charleston, but now my thoughts were only with Gwen. Our last contact was on Saturday night when she claimed to be out on the lake with him. I got no answer all day Sunday. I would have called in the FBI, CIA, and military to locate her, but I’d burned too many bridges to expect a helping hand. And Carter-her supposed bodyguard-was employing his usual communication avoidance tactics. He was really starting to piss me off.
I entered the Outer Banks at just after five in the morning. The sun began to rise over the Atlantic, cutting through the morning fog. My stomach growled; still craving the Mama Jasper’s dinner that I’d missed out on. I drove straight to Sloopy Joe’s, which was where I was supposed to meet Carter in about fourteen hours. But with my Grady Benson discovery, the game plan changed.
I purchased a copy of the Ocracoker from a metal box outside, before “walking the plank” to enter. Once inside, I took a seat in a corner booth and opened my paper. The front page featured a story on the still-unsolved murder of Senator Craig Kingsbury. It might have been the biggest story in the Outer Banks since the Wright Brothers’ first flight. I was just glad that there were no stories about an unidentified woman being fished out of the lake.
I ordered a plate of pancakes and did some people-watching, while plotting my next move. I eavesdropped on a group of older men in the booth beside me who were talking proudly about what they deemed a safer time-World War II. But my mind kept returning to the present. I worried for Gwen’s safety, and cursed Carter under my breath.
The ring of my phone interrupted my thoughts.
“Oh my god, JP!” Christina screamed from the other end. “I have his military file in front of me, which includes his official photo. Jones is Benson!”
“How about telling me something I don’t know,” I replied with disinterest. But truth be told, I was impressed that she was able to get his file. I had come up empty with my military sources.
“Grady Benson is forty-two years old. Born and raised in a suburb of San Diego. He’s an only child. Following high school he joined the Air Force, and flew bombing missions during the first Gulf War. About this time, his father took a job with Boeing in the Seattle area. His parents were killed … can you guess how?”
Nothing new, except he was a few years older than I thought. “Let me take a wild stab-drunk driving?”
“Well done, JP. As strange as it is to say, that’s the good news. The bad news is the driver was a juvenile, so his records are sealed.”
“Whoever he was, I’ll bet he’s dead. Keep working to see if you can get a name. What was the date of the accident?” I asked to strange stares and whispers. Now the breakfast crowd was eavesdropping on me.
I could hear Christina typing away. “I know it was 1989, let me check on the month.” She quickly found it. “July 4.”
I tried to locate a pattern. Leeds was killed on the Fourth of July, but Noah was September. It was still not a connected dot.
“When was Leonard Harris killed?”
Christina continued providing information, “According to an article I found, he gave Benson credit for turning his life around, calling him his spiritual adviser. His death was ruled an accident due to carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“That so-called turnaround in his life was necessary because Harris hit two Arizona State students while under the influence of alcohol, killing them. Do you still think it was an accident?”
“Leonard Harris died on July 4, 1996. People sure seem to be accident prone on Independence Day.”
“Was Benson present when Harris died?”
“I’m a college student with access to my landlord’s computer, and a couple of data networks, not an intelligence officer.”
“When life gives you lemons…”
“Ask for the salt and tequila.”
“What I really need to know is when did Benson become Jones, and is there a real Kyle Jones out there who’s had his identity stolen?”
Christina emailed a copy of the Air Force photos to my phone. I saw why Kyle Jones would be the perfect target for Benson. They had similar looks and backgrounds. My best guess was they met in the Air Force, and Christina soon confirmed my theory.
“Benson and Jones were together at a couple of stops along the way, and flew together in the Gulf War. Their last stop together in the military was at Luke Air Force Base in Arizona, where they were stationed for a couple of years. After being discharged, Jones became a police officer in the neighboring town of Gilbert and rented a house on Ash Street.”
“I know all about Jones,” I said impatiently. “I need more about Benson. And is there any way to connect them besides their military service?”
“I’m looking at some phone and electric bills from the late 90s. Guess who also lived in the house on Ash?”
I smiled. “Benson.”
“And they say you are washed up.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”
“When did they move out?”
“Neither of them was the owner of the home, so I assume they were renting. The owner’s name was Joseph Brock, he sold the house back in 2003. The final bills from either Benson or Jones-electric, phone, cable-connected to the Ash residence was June of 1998. Coincidentally, Kyle Jones bought a house on Ocracoke Island in North Carolina later that same month.”
“Have you found any record of Grady Benson after he moved out?”
“He’s totally off the grid, so unless he is living Unabomber-style up in parts unknown, my guess is Benson stole Jones’ identity, and then got rid of the real Kyle Jones,” Christina said, but then thought for a moment. “Or do you think they are working in tandem?”
I’d never thought about that possibility. Jones did seem to be everywhere, and moved with the speed of two men. But I chose to concentrate on what we did know.
We now had visual proof that Benson was Jones, and could make a reasonable assumption that Real Jones was no longer, but had no proof of such. It was also confirmed that Benson’s parents were killed by a drunk driver, which would provide his motive. A nice start, but there were many more questions, and to answer them I would have to follow the Murray philosophy-return to the beginning of the story to figure out the ending.