Nine One One Read online

  He looked down. "We did before but she changed."

  "How do you mean changed?"

  "I saw her get hurt. I couldn't help her. It made her sad."

  "Who hurt her, Nate?"

  "She told me not to tell anyone. I promised."

  "Do you mean someone hit her?"

  He nodded. "Yes. I tried to stop him but I couldn't. After that I tried to make her happy, but she was too sad. I'm not supposed to talk about it."

  "Sometimes it's okay to break a promise if it helps to make things right. I think maybe your mom would want you to make things right for her."

  He picked at a finger and didn't say anything for a few seconds.

  "Nate, a promise is a special thing. Most of the time we don't tell. But now it could help us find who hurt your mom. Do you know why she was sad?"

  "Yes."

  "It's okay to tell me why."

  "Her friend left. He made her mad. I heard her on the phone. She cried and told him she never wanted to see him again. I knew it was bad because it made her cry. I was in the other room, and she didn't know I was there. When she found me, she made me promise not to tell. I didn't want her to hurt anymore." Nate started to cry.

  She held out her arms. "Come over here, Nate. Like I told you, it's okay to cry."

  He shuffled over to her, and she motioned for him to sit next to her. She wrapped her arms around him, and they sat quietly while Nate's chest heaved and his shoulders shook.

  "I wasn't supposed to tell." He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "I never even told Grandma. Not supposed to break a promise."

  "If it helps someone and doesn't hurt anyone, it's okay to tell. And that's what you're doing. You're helping. You are very brave, Nate. And very smart."

  "How am I helping?"

  "You're giving us some important information. I need to ask one more question. Do you know the name of your mom's friend?"

  He shook his head.

  "Did she ever use his name on the phone?"

  "Just Dan."

  "That's good, Nate. Very good. Say, would you like to get some ice cream? I can ask your Grandma if it's okay to go to DQ. How about it?"

  His eyes opened wide. "That'd be great."

  They spent the next two hours eating ice cream and talking about everything except his mother's death. Afterward she took him home and left him at the door with his grandma.

  "It's been a wonderful afternoon, Nate. I'd like to do this again sometime. How about you?"

  "Sure. It was fun."

  Mrs. Brockton shook Jen's hand. "You've been so kind to help us. Thank you."

  "It's been a pleasure."

  "May I ask why you've taken such an interest in us?"

  Jen tousled Nate's hair. "Nate reminds me of my little boy, Johnny."

  "Maybe they can get together and play sometime."

  Jen's throat tightened. "I'm afraid not. Johnny was killed in a car accident over a year ago."

  Mrs. Brockton's hand went to her mouth. She touched Jen's arm. "I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Menlo. What a tragic loss."

  "My husband and my mother were bringing him home from school and a drunk driver hit them. Everyone but the drunk was killed. I'm still trying to deal with it. And when Nate made the 911 call, I somehow felt connected and wanted to help."

  Mrs. Brockton's eyes glistened behind her bifocals. "You have, my dear. You have." She patted Jen's arm. "You're welcome back anytime. Right, Nate?"

  He stuffed his hands into his pockets and nodded.

  Jen left with her chest so tight it hurt. She thought about Nate all the way home. His crooked smile was so much like Johnny's. She pulled her Camry into the driveway, folded her arms over the steering wheel, and sobbed.

  Why, Lord? Why take innocent children? And why put such a burden on a seven-year-old? I'm having a real hard time with that, Lord. A very hard time.

  Friday

  Rushing from her job, Jen barely made it to the church in time for the service for Nate's mom. Nate was in the front row with his head on his grandmother's chest. Jen's heart ached for the boy. After the service, while marching down the aisle, he gave Jen a watery smile.

  The Friday forecast included April showers and strong winds. Nothing like bad weather to make a funeral worse than it already was. Rachael McClendon, she thought, had a lot of friends. Cars lined both sides of the white rock drive at the crowded cemetery. Jen hated funerals, but it was important to let Nate know she was his friend and was there for support.

  Jen's umbrella threatened to turn inside out in a strong gust. She pointed it into the wind and tried to keep her shoes out of the mud as she trailed behind a man and woman discussing the merits of coffee shops.

  The tent over the grave was too small for the crowd. Jen stood next to a tent stake, her new coat getting intermittently splattered with raindrops by an errant canvas flap. The scene was eerily similar to Johnny's funeral. Rain, wind and tears. Thunder rolled, occasionally drowning out the pastor's voice. This was the first funeral Jen had been to since her son's. She'd planned to excuse herself from the funeral, but empathy for Nate overcame her dread.

  A tall, nice-looking man sat beside Nate with an arm around his shoulders. His father likely. Mrs. Brocton sat on his other side. Then, thankfully, it was over. Jen stared while Nate's grandmother helped him lay a red rose on the coffin. They turned and walked away.

  They were a few steps out of the tent when a man wearing a heavy raincoat and a fedora came up and hugged Mrs. Brockton. A smile broke through a full goatee and he said something as he took Nate's small hand in his.

  Nate pulled away and moved behind his grandmother. Mrs. Brockton reached a hand behind her to pat Nate on his head. She spoke briefly to the man and he left.

  Why did Nate pull away from him?

  The man climbed into a new Cadillac, pulled out of the line of cars, and drove off.

  License plate DGG 144. I wonder who that is? Bet I can find out.

  "How nice of you to come, Jen."

  Jen spun around, her concentration broken. "I wanted to be here for Nate."

  The tall man, who was holding an oversized umbrella over Nate, offered his hand. "Hello, I'm Nate's dad, Ted McClendon. I hear you've become Nate's friend."

  She shook his hand. "We both like ice cream, don't we, Nate?"

  Nate's eyes sparkled. "Sure do."

  Mrs. Brocton, her eyes glistening with tears, patted Jen's arm. "Thanks for your kindness. It means a lot to us. Ted was just telling us he might be moving his CPA business back here to be with Nate. Isn't that great?"

  "Yes, I'm sure Nate would love that."

  Ted towered over Jen and almost everyone else in the crowd. He was at least six-foot-five with a pleasant grin and a tanned face. A perfectly trimmed moustache and freshly groomed dark brown hair appeared to be the work of a master barber. As his smile widened, his deep green eyes showed abundant laugh lines.

  The wind grabbed Jen's umbrella and she wrestled with it, finally getting it back over her head.

  Ted McClendon spoke softly. "I appreciate you being here for Nate. Thanks."

  "My pleasure. That's what friends are for." Jen laid a gentle hand on Nate's shoulder.

  "I know this is above and beyond, and I'm grateful for your kindness." He tilted his head. The laugh lines around his eyes relaxed. "I'd like to repay your thoughtfulness. Although it may seem an awkward time to ask, would you allow me to take you to dinner as a token of my thanks?"

  Jen's breath caught. Is he asking me on a date? At the funeral of his ex-wife? "Well, I, ah..."

  Ted chuckled. "I will, of course, invite Nate and Barbara to go along as chaperons."

  Jen exhaled and grinned. "In that case, how can I refuse?"

  "Good. Tomorrow, say...seven?"

  "Tomorrow is fine."

  "Oh, where do you live?"

  "1205 West Monroe. Just a couple of blocks from Nate's house. But there's really no need for you to feel obligated."

  "Nonsense,
I insist. Been awhile since I've had dinner with a beautiful lady." He turned and hugged Mrs. Brockton and Nate. "I'll see you guys later." Then he turned and walked down the lane to his car.

  Jen stared after him. I think he did ask me on a date. At a funeral no less. There's a first time for everything, I guess.

  * * * *

  Jen waved at Aileen when she stopped by the office to run the license number through the computer. While waiting for the results to come up, she sat at her desk, thinking. So many things had happened since that call from Nate. She'd always avoided getting personally involved with a case, but this one struck too close to home. She was hooked.

  She'd been a police officer for eight years and an investigator for three. Now she couldn't seem to let it go. A down size of the department six months ago had riffed her and she'd been forced to work in Dispatch, just to keep a job. Now, here she was, right in the middle.

  The screen blinked and the license information popped up. Dan Grimestaff, thirty-two, 112 East Sycamore. Where have I heard that name? Grimestaff. She couldn't recall, but she knew someone had mentioned it to her.

  Where's Sycamore Street? She located it up on the city map on the wall in front of her computer. A dead-end near the mall. Don't think I've ever been on that street.

  Jen tried to process everything she'd learned. Nate had not liked a friend of his mother named Dan. Could it be the same man? Nate certainly had pulled back when the guy tried to touch him. Got to be the same one. Think I'd better run a search on him. See what comes up.

  Back at her computer, she typed in Dan Grimestaff.

  "Hey, Jen. Logging some overtime?"

  Crap, Guthrie. Standing in front of the desk. Her ears suddenly became hot. Always happened when she got caught doing something she wasn't supposed to be doing. "Yeah, like we got money in the budget for overtime. No, I'm just catching up on some paperwork. Be done pretty quick." This was one time she thanked the computer for being slow, and that the screen was not facing her boss.

  "Right. Don't work too hard." He continued down the hall to his office.

  Whew, that was close. The screen blinked. Dan Grimestaff, two counts of domestic violence, one DUI, and one misdemeanor property destruction in the last five years. So, Dan, you have a temper. I believe that puts you at the top of my suspect list.

  Careful, Jen, you're acting like an investigator again.

  * * * *

  "Got a minute?"

  Guthrie raised his eyes to look at Jen, but kept his head down. "Sure. Wanted an excuse to delay finishing this report anyway." Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands over his substantial stomach. "What's on your mind?"

  "When I was at the funeral for the stabbing victim, I noticed a couple of things."

  Guthrie smiled. "Still investigating, Jen?"

  "It's in my genes. Anyway, a fellow was there to pay respects, and when he approached Nate, the vic's son, the boy pulled away, acting very afraid. He had told me his mother was harassed and may have been abused by a boyfriend named Dan. I checked on him." Jen ignored Guthrie's raised eyebrows. "His name is Dan Grimestaff."

  The lieutenant shuffled through some papers. "Got a report on him from a neighbor. Seems he ran over a mailbox and took off. The neighbor got his license plate. Said he'd seen him a few times parked in front of the woman's house. We're trying to contact Grimestaff to ask a few questions. Um, anything else?"

  "I also met Mr. McLendon at the funeral. Don't know how long he's been in town, but I don't see him as a prime suspect yet."

  Guthrie located additional notes on his desk. "Has an alibi for the time the crime was committed."

  "What about fingerprints? Any on the knife?"

  "Nope. None anywhere. That's really weird. Couldn't find any in the area at all. Like they'd been carefully wiped clean. No forced entry, which is also odd. And it's not a robbery. She had over five hundred dollars in her dresser drawer, and some good jewelry lying around in plain sight. It seems premeditated."

  "How many times was she stabbed?"

  "Just once through the heart. No sign of a struggle. Looks like the suspect knew her and was close enough not to be regarded as a threat. We're checking friends, acquaintances, old boyfriends. Not much to go on yet. Got any thoughts?"

  "Right now, my money's on Dan, the abuser. Who's got the case?"

  "Wiley."

  Jen frowned. "Wiley?"

  "I know you don't have a lot of confidence in Wiley. But with a short staff, and it's likely to get even shorter, I had no choice."

  "Shorter? City Council budget cuts again?"

  "That's the rumor. Between you and me, with Wiley being the son-in-law of the biggest political contributor in the county, he'll still be here when they retire Randy Guthrie. And you didn't hear that from me."

  Jen nodded grimly. "That's why I'm in Dispatch instead of Investigations. I'm reminded every day."

  "Well, if it's any consolation, I'd rather have you there than Wiley. Wiley's a good cop, but not the best phone presence. He'd probably hang up on the caller if they didn't answer his questions right. So you were my best choice for dispatch. I hated losing you in investigations. And unofficially you can poke around as much as you want. Just not during duty time."

  "I intend to. I like that boy, and I'd love to nail his mom's killer."

  "We will. I appreciate the help. Soon as we locate Grimestaff, I'm going to question him. Would you like to be here for that?"

  "You bet."

  "Somehow I knew you would. I'll give you a heads up."

  Jen left the lieutenant's office and went to her desk. The small office contained four additional desks: one more for Dispatch, and three for other officers. Sergeant Dave Trainor, a 22-year veteran of the Wheaton Police Department, manned a reception are,. Behind reception, the dispatch area housed the computer terminals and communications equipment. Two additional officers worked evidence and fingerprinting.

  Aileen was taking a call about a robbery. She hung up and completed her paperwork.

  Jen sat down to open e-mails and check her case status on the computer. "Busy day, Aileen?"

  "Nope. Not really. Couple of robberies and a lost kid. Found the little girl hiding in the closet. What's going on with you?"

  "Oh, this stabbing case has me buffaloed. Can't get it out of my head."

  "Any leads so far?"

  "Dead ends mostly. They're going to look closely at the boyfriend."

  "You know what they say. The perp is usually a close family member or friend."

  Aileen picked up her ever-present long-handled mirror and began smoothing her red hair. Jen envied the shiny, long curls. Aileen was more of a fashion plate, with a pretty, soft face, that needed minimal makeup and a body to die for. She'd done some modeling when she was younger.

  Jen's mousy blond hair, when she let it grow out, would never lie flat or curl. So she always had it cut short. The pixie look was a good one for her. Besides, not having a bunch of hair protruding from under her trooper hat was more professional.

  Aileen took a call, and Jen finished with her mail. As she got up to leave, Aileen motioned for her to stop. "Just got a call that the boyfriend is being hauled in for questioning. Guthrie said to let you know. Room 2."

  The interrogation room could have been the template for interrogation rooms across the country. Drab green with a table and three chairs. The one-way window afforded a clear view, and a microphone inside allowed observing officers to hear the questioning.

  Dan Grimestaff lounged in the chair across from Guthrie. He appeared relaxed and familiar with the routine. His full goatee failed to hide the smirk on his face.

  "Mr. Grimestaff, we need your cooperation in an investigation of the death of Rachael McClendon."

  "What you want with me? I didn't do it."

  "You are not under arrest and are not a suspect at this time. We merely want to ask a few questions."

  "Fire away. Got nothing to hide."

  Guthrie stood and walked be
hind Grimestaff's chair. "Did you know Mrs. McClendon?"

  "I knew her. We dated for a while."

  "When did you quit dating?"

  Jen watched Grimestaff rub his goatee. She could see where a young woman might be attracted to him. His curly black hair and muscular build gave him a rugged, outdoors look. "Must'a been five, six months ago. Got tired of her always whining about her kid. Never had time for me, so I dumped her."

  "Did you ever hit her?"

  Grimestaff leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I don't hit women."

  "That's not what your record shows. Domestic violence. Battery."

  Grimestaff picked at one of his fingernails and shifted his weight. "I been drunk a couple of times and didn't know what I was doing."

  Guthrie continued walking around the room. "You get drunk often?"

  "Not any more. I'm trying to quit drinking so much. Next time is jail time."

  "Are you in a program?"

  Grimestaff shook his head. "No AA or nothing. Just trying to stop on my own."

  Guthrie circled Grimestaff's chair once more and stood in front of him. "When did you last see Mrs. McClendon?"

  Grimestaff changed position and averted his eyes. "Don't really remember. Some time ago."

  Guthrie placed his hands on the table and stood over Grimestaff. "What if I said we have someone who swears you were at her house the day she was killed?"

  Grimestaff jerked forward and slammed his fist on the table. "Damn liar! That's what I'd say."

  Guthrie leaned in closer. "They seem pretty sure. Could be you got mad at her. She said something you didn't like, and then you killed her."

  Grimestaff settled back in his chair and narrowed his eyes. "Am I under arrest? I want my lawyer if you're going to be accusing me. I know the law. I'm entitled."

  Guthrie roughly shoved back his chair. "Yes, you're entitled. You're not under arrest, but don't make yourself invisible. We may need to talk again."

  Grimestaff stood and stuffed both hands in his back pockets. "Hey, I'll certainly be looking forward to it. Oh yeah, would you have one of your flatfoots drive me home? I got no way to get there."

  Guthrie nodded. "No problem, Mr. Grimestaff. By the way, do you own a knife?"