“He had a thing for Agnieszka?”
“Who wouldn’t? If you’d met her, Detective, trust me: you’d want to impress her, too. She was the kind of girl who makes you want to come off better than you really are.”
His voice goes soft, and I can tell he’s picturing her in his mind, remembering what it was like to be in her presence.
“If you’re serious about Dave Bayard as a suspect,” he says, “you should talk to the son. The wife will keep the family secrets, but David will spill his guts just to even the score.”
The way he makes the pronouncement, I can tell Jack Hill never felt the back of a father’s hand, or stood by helpless as others did. No sympathy for a victim of abuse, or the impact such abuse can have on personality. If the son is dead set against the father, perhaps there are reasons other than spite. Perhaps he knows the true nature of the man who spawned him and has chosen in his own weak way to fight.
If Dave Bayard killed Simone before winging it to Africa, only to have his trip cut short by the termination, he could have returned in time to see Agnieszka out at the pool. Even though Hill never confronted him, it’s a good bet he realized she had spotted him watching her. Which meant she could pass his name along to police. Is that why he had to kill her? Finding my card on her nightstand, he might have assumed she’d already done the damage. So he’d paid a rushed visit to my place, only to lose his prized knife.
There’s just one problem. The emails. If Bayard was in Lagos, how did he manage to send an email from outside Dr. Hill’s house? Until I hear back from ICE, I really can’t say.
Candace Walker calls to tell me she’s obtained a release and scheduled her daughter’s funeral for tomorrow. The desolation in her voice touches me. The sound of a woman who never anticipated having to bury her own child.
“I thought you might want to be there,” she says.
“I’ll do my best,” I say. “There have been some developments in the case, though, that could prevent me.”
“Developments? I thought Jason was released.”
“He’s not our chief suspect, ma’am. As a matter of fact, we’ve pretty much ruled him out since his hospitalization.”
“His what?”
I realize she hasn’t heard of Jason Young’s head injuries-but then, how would she? The lead investigator on her daughter’s case hasn’t kept her very well informed. As I stumble through an explanation, I make a mental note to follow up on Young’s condition. For all I know, he could be dead. So much has happened since my Saturday night visit to the emergency room: my visits to Huntsville and New Orleans, the fresh homicide, the attack on Charlotte, the connection to David Bayard. The case has moved so quickly, so fast, despite my sense that time ebbs along slower than ever. I need to sleep.
“So he’s in the hospital?” she asks, struggling to take in the news. “And you’re certain he didn’t hurt her?”
“The last I heard he was out of surgery, but he hasn’t regained consciousness. And I’m fairly confident he was not involved in your daughter’s death.”
“Should I. . should I wait, then? For the funeral? He’d want to be there.”
“I’m not sure what to tell you, ma’am. I believe his injuries were quite serious. From what I gather, he might never wake up.”
“All right, then. I just want to do whatever’s right.”
“Of course.” I listen to the sound of her breathing. “Candace, tell me something. Did Simone ever say anything about being watched? Did she think someone might be observing her, a peeping Tom or something like that?”
“Not that she ever told me. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering,” I say. “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right? Unless something comes up, I’ll make a point of being there. And I will keep you informed if we have any developments.”
Saying so makes me feel better, but Candace Walker gives no sign of being reassured by the words. She rings off with the same uncertain tone she had at the beginning. Lost in a world of the familiar where nothing makes sense anymore. I’ve been there. I know.
With some help from the computer I track down an address and telephone number for David Bayard Jr., who has an apartment in College Station, about ninety miles northwest of Houston. I leave a message for him to call me, giving him my cell number. If the semester at the University of Houston, where Dr. Hill teaches, is winding down, then A amp;M is probably in the same situation, meaning David Jr. might already be back in Houston for the Christmas break. I’d like to get his story before approaching his stepmother or his father.
Aguilar calls in from Dearborn’s with an interesting tidbit.
“I got a list of everything Bayard tried to move through the consignment dealer,” he says, “and the dealer told me why the collection was being liquidated. According to him, Bayard’s wife put her foot down. She wanted all the knives out of the house, or she’d walk. That was his story, anyway.”
“From what I’m hearing about the wife, I don’t see her issuing ultimatums. Any sign of Knife 29 on the list?”
“Nope. The dealer said he’d remember one of the bowies. March, these things sell for over two grand, you realize that? For a knife?”
I thank him for the effort and promise to return the favor sometime.
Glancing at the clock, I see it’s past six. Apart from my early morning field trips to Dearborn’s and the offices of ESG, I’ve spent the better part of the day in the office. Easing out of my chair, I shake the numbness from my legs. I could clock out, head home, and go straight to bed. Eight hours of sleep would do me a world of good right now, and I’ve pushed the ball far enough forward that I could steal them without guilt.
The lights inside Bascombe’s office are dim. The captain’s door is shut, the blinds drawn.
I decide to go for it. I’ll swing by Bridger’s place to check on Charlotte, then get my head down for some much needed, hopefully dreamless sleep.
Grabbing my jacket off the back of the chair, I remove my side arm from the desk drawer and holster it. I head for the exit with my chin tucked, not glancing around for fear of making eye contact with anyone who could fault me for leaving. I’m safely through the door and into the hallway before I hear my name called.
“March!”
Stephen Wilcox bounds toward me from the far end of the corridor, his pale cheeks flushed, his blond eyebrows knit together, one of them cockeyed from a childhood scar. I’m half tempted to slip through the doors of an arriving elevator. The look on his face promises nothing good. I stand my ground.
“What’s the matter, Stephen?”
“Can I have a word with you?” he hisses, taking my arm in his hand and pushing me across the elevator’s threshold. He waits for the doors to shut. “The days of me covering for you are long over, compadre. I’m not going to lie for you anymore.”
“Okay. You wanna tell me what this is about?”
“It’s about Fauk, what do you think? They’re gonna put it all together, March, and when they do, they’ll figure out you were there. . even if I don’t volunteer the information. So there’s no upside for you if I don’t, and plenty of downside for me. I’m just warning you that it’s coming. Not that I owe you even that much.”
“Stephen,” I say, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He pauses. The elevator doors open. I follow him into the ground floor lobby.
“This morning,” he says, “somebody slipped a shiv into Donald Fauk.”
I stop in my tracks. “You’re kidding.”
“In the breakfast line,” he says. “Fauk’s standing there, and somebody comes up and starts stabbing him. Some kind of metal rod, sharp on one end and wrapped in tape. Six or seven wounds, I don’t know exactly. He was rushed to the hospital. They had to re-inflate one of his lungs.”