As for Mary, he had a pretty good idea of what her end game was. It would be damn entertaining. He snapped lids on the coffees for the waiting customer. “Now, you have a nice day,” he said with a smile. “Buh-bye. Who’s next?”
Tuesday, September 21, 9:45 a.m.
Eric carefully laid out his black suit and chose a dark, sober tie. Mary had called to say that Joel’s funeral would be at two this afternoon. He’d have just enough time for the service. He’d need to be at the airport two hours early for an international flight.
He’d land in Paris at 9:30 tomorrow morning, local time. That would be 2:30 a.m. here in Minneapolis. If the texter had no plans for tonight, he’d be fine. No one would miss him until he was gone. But if they were commanded to set another fire tonight with a midnight deadline, that left two and a half hours for the texter to post the video and for the police to find him and where he’d gone. All it would take would be a phone call and the police in Paris might be waiting for him at the gate. It was possible, certainly. But not probable. Right now, improbability would have to be good enough, because if he did nothing, capture and prison were guaranteed.
He’d only pack a small bag. Albert would notice things were missing if he packed too much. He had packed a few of the belongings he wouldn’t want to end up in police hands when he became a fugitive. He’d mail the box to an uncle who had been the family bad boy in his youth and was unlikely to turn it over to the cops.
Behind him the television news murmured and his heart skipped a beat when he heard the words that now represented his worst fear. Breaking news.
“Breaking news on the two arsons we’ve been covering,” the newscaster said and Eric slowly turned to watch. Then frowned. A glass ball? What the hell?
He heard SPOT and environmental arson and ongoing FBI investigations into some guy named Preston Moss that he’d never heard of. But Joel would have. Joel read all that shit. “Joel, you fucking idiot,” he muttered.
But it couldn’t have been Joel. He wasn’t there last night. And it couldn’t have been Albert, because he never entered the condo. And it wasn’t me. Mary. But why?
He grabbed his phone to dial her number, then stopped. Mary had left those glass balls. What if she’d left fingerprints, too? He didn’t want any more communication between the two of them. If they caught her, they’ll trace her to me.
He’d see her at Joel’s funeral and he’d ask her then. Unless they were caught before then. He drew a breath, closed his eyes, and forced himself to use the logic that had ruled his life until two fucking days ago when he’d decided that once, just once, he’d be a damn crusader.
The news reporter had said it was the signature of some radical environmental group back in the nineties. That Joel would know about them was certainly possible. That he would want to leave something behind to honor his hippie hero, Preston Moss, was certainly possible. That he and Mary had planned it behind his and Albert’s backs?
Totally possible. Joel and Mary had wanted to leave a signature and Eric had refused, saying that stopping the threat to the wetlands was enough. Albert had sided with him, and Joel and Mary had sulked. Looks like they decided to do it anyway.
He thought of Mary’s words as she’d lit the warehouse fuse. This one’s for you, Joel. That she’d continue with the signature they’d planned made perfect sense in a totally insane way. She hadn’t known about the murders and he himself had told her Joel would have wanted Tomlinson’s place torched.
So now what? Keeping Mary un-arrested was critical to his own protection, at least until he made it to France. Then everything would hit the fan and the three of them would be on their own. Using the texter’s disposable cell, he sent Mary a text.
Ball on news. WTF?
He hit SEND and waited, wondering how the hell to go about getting a fake ID. If the cops found out about them, there was no way he was making it to France on his own passport. Unfortunately, Albert was the only one he knew unsavory enough to know people who could get him false papers, and Albert would not be the best person to ask.
Then who? Eric pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d had a headache for days. He needed sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he saw that face at the window.
We killed her. But we didn’t mean to. It didn’t matter. She’s still dead. Visions of turning himself in taunted. But he wasn’t going to prison. I’d rather die.
If Albert finds out I’m leaving the country, I just might.
Tuesday, September 21, 10:30 a.m.
Steven Oaks, principal of the school for the deaf, had a fatherly face that was currently creased with worry lines. He gestured to a table where another man waited.
“I’m stunned, Detectives,” Oaks signed and Val voiced. “To think that one of our students could be involved in the death of that young woman. But I’ll help in whatever way possible. This is Dr. Haig. He’s our staff psychologist and knows all the high school students. I invited him to be part of this meeting. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Olivia said and Val signed. “I want to be clear from the start, we don’t know that the young man we’re looking for has done anything wrong. We think he escaped from the building that burned. He might be able to help us.”
That seemed to set the two men a bit more at ease.
Olivia handed Oaks a photo of Tracey Mullen. “This is the girl who died in the fire. Her name was Tracey Mullen and she lived in Florida with her mother. Do you know her?”
Oaks studied the photo, then passed it to Haig and both shook their heads.
“She’s never been a student at our school,” Oaks signed. “I can’t help you.”
“We think Tracey came here because of the male she was with in the condo,” Olivia said. “Our best guess is that he’s got dark hair, Caucasian, and wears a size ten shoe.”
“We have a lot of young men who could fit that description,” Haig said aloud, signing at the same time. He was hearing, Olivia realized. “Can you give us more?”
“He wears a hearing aid, but I guess that doesn’t narrow it down much either,” Kane said. “He may have attended a Camp Longfellow this past summer.”
Both men raised their brows. “Some of our students do attend that camp,” Oaks signed, Val’s voice quietly following. “I know a few who did last summer, but I wouldn’t know them all. If their parents made the arrangements, we wouldn’t know about it.”
“Did you contact the camp for their roster?” Haig asked.
“That’s in process,” Kane said. “It’s off season.”
Haig sighed. “A few went on scholarship, so I had to write a recommendation for them. I have a list of those students. We can bring them up for you to talk with first.”
“That would be great,” Olivia said. “The boy we’re talking about had a relationship with the victim. If he escaped the fire, he might be very emotional. Can you think of any of your male students who seem overly upset recently?”
Oaks gave them an incredulous look. “This is a high school, Detective,” he signed. “They’re all overly upset, every single day. They’re teenagers.”
“Right,” Olivia said ruefully. “This boy would be familiar with boats-rowboats, that is. And he was in the condo at about midnight on Sunday.”
Haig considered. “Nothing’s triggering for me with the boats. But if he was in the condo on Sunday night, he’s a day student. Versus living in the dorms,” he explained. “Residential students return from the weekend with their families on Sunday afternoon and the dorms are locked down at ten each night. Staff do room checks. If he was in the condo at midnight, he would have been missed.”
“Can we borrow copies of your yearbooks for the past few years?” Olivia asked.
“Of course,” Oaks signed as the two men stood. “I’ll have my secretary get the yearbooks and I’ll get a day-student roster.”