Ghosted

Chapter Seven

“I’m pretty sure I’m already missing something,” Archie drawled.

Beau’s mouth curved in the faintest of smirks. “Really? You just can’t imagine why we we’d want to talk to you again?”

“I guess you miss me?”

Pure reflexive sarcasm. Archie knew perfectly well Beau had not given him a thought in years. Not until Archie appeared in the midst of his crime scene. But he was off-balance—though not as off-balance as he’d have been had he landed on his ass.

He did not expect to hit his mark. Especially since he hadn’t bothered to aim. Swenson didn’t seem to notice anything pointed in his smartass retort. But Beau flushed and just as quickly paled. His blue eyes got hard and glittery.

He said shortly, “You look like shit, Crane. Is that your guilty conscience?”

Archie made a sound of derision. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Clearly feeling back in charge, Beau shrugged, leaned back in his chair. “Your family thinks so. Judith, Desi, they both believe you murdered John.”

No surprise there. The surprise was the blaze of anger Archie felt at that casual baiting.

“Judith and Desi aren’t my family. As you know.”

“Neither was John, if you want to look at it that way.”

“I don’t look at it that way. And neither did John.” Of course, sadly, Archie had looked at it that way, for far too long. Not that he was going to share that painful revelation with Beau. Not this Beau. Maybe the Beau Archie had loved way back when. Was there any of that guy left inside this arrogant asshole cop? Hard to believe.

“Unfortunately, we can’t ask John,” Beau said.

To which Archie had no answer. Couldn’t answer because his throat unexpectedly clamped shut.

Beau and Swenson stared at him. Archie stared stonily back.

Swenson glanced at Beau. Beau said briskly, “Obviously things have changed since the last time we spoke.”

“Not really.”

Beau ignored that. He nodded at Swenson, who asked, “When did you find out Dr. Perry was leaving you his money.”

His money.

Pretty crass. Though that was probably how most people would see it—and say it.

Archie said, “About two hours ago.”

Swenson made a sound of disbelief. “Dr. Perry didn’t tell you when he changed his will in your favor?”

“No.”

“That seems hard to believe.”

“Does it?” Archie replied.

“Yes. It seems to me it’s something he’d mention.”

Swenson waited for his answer. Archie let his expression do the talking. Swenson looked instinctively to Beau.

Beau said, “Let’s go back over your movements on Friday.”

“Starting...when?”

“Dawn to dusk.”

Archie hesitated.

Beau said, “Sorry. Isn’t that how you do it in the Bureau?”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t handle homicides.”

Beau’s smile was odd. “No. What do you do? Because none of John’s friends or family seem very clear.”

“Is there some reason people in Twinkleton need to know what I do?”

“Are you ashamed of it?”

Archie, too tired to be careful, said slowly, “Man, you really did turn out to be an asshole.”

In the silence that followed, he could hear the distant ring of a landline phone going unanswered, the crackle and buzz of a police radio with a staticky update, and the sound of the HVAC laboring to blow tepid air through the aged vents.

“You think so?” Beau asked pleasantly. “Would you like to find out how much of an asshole I can be?”

“No, I believe you,” Archie replied.

Swenson looked from Archie to Beau and from Beau to Archie.

“Good. Answer the question,” Beau said.

“I slept until one o’clock—”

Beau looked at him with open disbelief. “You slept until one o’clock?”

There was no need to explain himself, but Archie said a little defensively, “We flew in the day before. I was jet-lagged.”

“Sure. You slept till one. Then what?”

“John and I had lunch.”

“How did John seem? What did you talk about?”

They had been over this, of course, in the first interview. But that’s how it worked. You kept asking the same questions in the hope that the answers would start to change.

“We didn’t talk a lot.” Archie thought back. “John seemed...maybe a little preoccupied. I thought he was tired. I was.”

“I’ll say. And after lunch?”

“John said he had some phone calls to make.”

“Who to?”

“No idea.”

“You don’t want to guess?”

“No.” Archie hesitated. He had already recognized the possible link between John’s tension at lunch and those phone calls. He had no way to get hold of John’s phone records on his own, so there was no point in keeping that thought to himself. “I think it’s possible he might have phoned his killer.”

Beau’s formidable brows rose. He and Swenson exchanged looks. “That’s quite a leap.”

“Maybe. I didn’t make the connection at the time. But like I said on Saturday, I think John was worried about something. It was something that came up after we arrived in Twinkleton. He was fine before that. Straight after lunch he went into his study and closed the door.”

Swenson stopped clicking his pen and made a note.

“And what did you do?” Beau questioned.

“I went upstairs to s—read.”

Beau stared, but said only, “And you read for how long?”

It wasn’t like being injured in the line of duty was something to be embarrassed about, and yet, Archie did not want to confess any weakness, physical or otherwise, to Beau. It was silly, just ego, but he knew he was not at his best, and it left him feeling vulnerable and on defense. Beau always looked for soft spots, always played to win.

“I don’t know. I nodded off at some point. John and I had dinner. He still seemed... It’s hard to say. Fatigued? A little down maybe? I wasn’t paying close enough attention. I think he’d made his mind up about something. He didn’t seem worried, though. He wasn’t fearful. I thought he was more like his usual self. Or maybe he had just switched to good host mode.”

Neither Beau nor Swenson spoke.

“After dinner I went up to shower. I dressed. When I came downstairs, John was out on the terrace. I joined him. We talked for a while.”

When Archie stopped, Beau prompted, “About?”

It was painful to remember that last conversation. “Just...chat.”

Beau’s eyes narrowed. “Some reason you can’t share the topic of your discussion?”

Archie said wearily, “Because it’s painful. Because I think...”

“You think what?”

Archie struggled with it, said huskily, “I think I hurt him that night. Again. Without realizing I’d ever hurt him to start with.”

“Hurt him how?” Swenson asked quickly. “You’re saying you argued or you actually hit him?”

Archie ignored Swenson. Beau ignored Swenson.

Beau drawled, “Sure. Because you’re such a sensitive guy, Special Agent Crane. You care so much about other people’s feelings.”

Not that it had exactly been a by-the-book interrogation up to that point, but this was so far out of left field—so far out of line—

Archie pushed up to his feet, palms flat on the table as he leaned forward, yelling, “What the fuck is your problem, Beau?”

Beau, also on his feet and leaning across the table, snarled back, “ You’re my problem!”

It was not an enormous table and they were just about nose-to-nose, glaring into each other’s eyes.

“ Whoaaa! ” Swenson’s chair scraped back noisily. He stared from Beau to Archie. “Chief?”

It had been several lifetimes since Archie had been close enough to Beau to gaze deeply into his eyes—let alone exchange breaths—and it was jarring. Granted, that could have been the jumping to his feet in a rage. Definitely not on the recommended behaviors list. He searched Beau’s gaze for any trace of that easy, smiling, kind—genuinely kind—kid. Beau’s eyes were as cold and blue as Neptune. Or at least the Neptune-blue they’d believed in back in eleventh grade astronomy.

“ Beau ,” Archie protested, and that was straight from the heart. He just didn’t get it. What the hell did Beau think he had to be so furious about? Still furious nearly a decade later?

Beau’s eyes flickered, though he did not soften.

Swenson began, “Do you want me to...” But then petered out because it was obvious that nobody wanted him to do anything besides never have been there in the first place. You didn’t have to be an experienced detective to know that this was not how homicide interrogations—how any interrogation—typically went.

“This is... Do you honest-to-God think I killed John?” Archie demanded.

“Motive. Means. Opportunity.” Beau snapped out each word.

His thick dark hair still had a tendency to fall across his forehead. And that faint burnished gold of summery tan across his perfect cheekbones? Archie remembered that, too.

It was not relevant, but it was distracting. It made no sense that he couldn’t seem to separate the Beau he’d known—for a relatively short time, by the way—from this stranger. But that was what happened when you nearly died. Inevitably, you started sifting through the tea leaves of your memories, remembering things you tried never to think about, reevaluating stuff you hadn’t dragged into the daylight in forever. He hadn’t thought of Beau in months. Maybe years. Okay, probably not years. But this was one reason why he’d never wanted to come back to Twinkleton. Beau and Twinkleton were synonymous in his mind.

He echoed automatically, “ Means ? You’re saying you found the murder weapon?”

“We haven’t yet located the weapon, but who are we kidding? You’re a federal agent.” Beau paused, looked him in the eyes. “You know how to get hold of a firearm if you need to.”

Archie’s lips parted. Before he could respond, someone knocked on the interview room door.

Swenson moved to the door. Archie sat down. He didn’t have the energy for this. Not the emotional energy and not the physical energy.

Beau also took retook his seat. He smiled sardonically. There was an odd glint in his eyes.

Swenson took the cardboard tray of coffees from a police officer who looked even younger than he did—was Beau recruiting them out of high school?—and carried the coffee to the table.

He handed out the containers of coffee. Archie popped the lid off his cup and sipped his coffee black. His hand was shaking a little. His head was pounding. All that adrenaline and anger. Not helpful at a moment when he needed to be cool and reasonable.

Beau took his time, emptying two of the little creamer tubs into his coffee, stirring it. His hands were tanned, well-shaped. He did not wear a wedding ring. No telltale white line on his ring finger either. Swenson poured four packets of artificial sweetener into his cup, sipped noisily.

Beau glanced up at Archie, said, “You’re sweating, Crane. Are these questions making you nervous?”

Archie laughed and carefully set his cup down. Yeah, his hand was shaking and both Swenson and Beau could see it.

“Yes,” he said gravely. “I’m going to crack any minute.”

It wasn’t that far from the truth. He could feel a swell of laughter rising in his throat, and that was not a normal reaction, either. He knew if he started to laugh, it was going to get very weird very fast. But it was so ridiculous. All of it. But particularly this bizarre interrogation that had almost instantly gone off the rails and was now crashed in a field of weeds.

Beau’s lip curled slightly, but what he said was, “So you and John were talking on the terrace. And you realized you’d let him down again. Then what?”

It occurred to Archie he could end this now. No, he didn’t have a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card, but he had a very good boss who knew him, valued him, and would act on his behalf if he asked for help. If he phoned Deputy Assistant Director Wagner and explained the situation, she’d—in Bureau-speak—open the appropriate channels and initiate a diplomatic resolution to what would officially be labeled an “inter-agency conflict,” before Detective Swenson had finished typing up the day’s notes. Archie’s official interview would be thorough and genuine, but it would be conducted by federal agents, who would not be blinded by personal grievance, who would be inclined to believe him, not least because they had access to his records, in particular the last year—nearly two years where the last thing on his mind had been how he planned on beefing up his 401K.

But Archie didn’t want to phone DAD Wagner. He wanted Beau to believe him. And then he wanted Beau to explain why he believed Archie was the bad guy in everything that had gone down between them a decade ago.

“The ghost walk guests started arriving,” Archie said. “John went inside.”

“You didn’t go inside?”

“No. Not right away.”

“Why?”

“You argued,” Swenson chimed in.

Archie sighed. “No. I argued with John once in all the years I knew him. That was when I told him I was joining the FBI.”

Even that argument had been nothing compared to the argument with Beau on the same topic.

“Why didn’t he want you to join the FBI?” Swenson asked. Beau was silent. Of course, he already knew all of this.

“He didn’t want me to go into law enforcement. He wanted me to pursue my law degree. Which I was able to do through the Bureau anyway. But.”

Archie stopped there. Beau said, “But the point wasn’t who paid for your education. The point was that John hoped you’d go into private practice here in Twinkleton.”

“Yes. Right.”

Beau and John had been on the same page on that one.

“So why didn’t you go inside?” Swenson pressed. “The party was starting.”

Archie shrugged. “It was nice in the garden with the lights and the flowers. Peaceful. I wasn’t particularly in a party mood.”

“You don’t like parties?” Swenson sounded suspicious of such antisocial attitudes.

Archie said honestly, “No. Not much.”

Beau made a sound. Not a laugh. Not a sigh. Something sort of in-between. An acknowledgment.

That had been one of the many differences between them. Beau was a social animal. He enjoyed people and parties. It wasn’t so much that he enjoyed being the center of attention—which he usually was—but it didn’t bother him, either. He took it for granted.

For Archie, who didn’t like parties to start with, and who had been a fish out of water the minute he splashed down in Twinkleton, there had been the added strain of being in a secret relationship with the closeted hometown hero.

Beau said, “You did eventually go inside. What time was that?”

Archie hesitated, remembering the weird light in the gazebo. For many reasons, he didn’t want to withhold information in a criminal investigation. At the same time, he was liable to sound like a nut if he brought up what he’d seen. The glowing light did not seem germane to the investigation, given that he had checked out the gazebo and found it empty. But since he was shut out of the investigation, it was impossible for him to really know what was germane.

Also, if he was going to bring up glowing lights, it would have been better to do so on Saturday night when he’d first been interviewed. Now it was liable to sound sketchy.

Sketchier.

“Ten to nine.”

“Your story’s changing. On Saturday, you said you went inside at nine.”

“Are you kidding? You’re quibbling about— Yes, I went in around nine.”

“Nine or ten to nine? Because we’re looking at a tight timeline.”

That was not unreasonable. Archie should have been more precise on Saturday night. He said carefully, “I looked at my watch and it was 8:51. I realized it was later than I thought. I went inside.”

Neither Swenson nor Beau said anything.

Archie said, “I spoke to several people. I’m pretty sure someone can corroborate when I came inside.”

“Close enough,” Beau said.

“Well?”

“The problem is, pretty much everyone agrees you were acting strangely. That you seemed to go out of your way to bring attention to the fact that John was not inside the house.”

Archie stared at Beau’s impassive expression.

“I’m not following.”

“You were described by various people as ‘pale, agitated, distracted, and off.’”

“Off?”

“Wild-eyed,” supplied Swenson.

“Wild...”

Just for a moment, Archie saw a flicker of Beau’s old sense of humor. “You were always wild-eyed, so I don’t take that seriously.”

“I don’t understand how you take any of it seriously,” Archie retorted.

No sign of humor in Beau’s flat, “I take it seriously because I know you’re holding something back. Something happened outside on that terrace. Something between you and John that you don’t want to talk about.”

Well, hell.

Archie made a sound of disbelief. “You think John and I—? What? John was inside while I was still out on the terrace. Obviously, I didn’t—didn’t do him in.”

“Something happened while you were out on the terrace,” Beau repeated. “And I can’t think of an innocent reason why you’d lie about it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Archie muttered. He shook his head, looked at Beau, and gave a funny laugh.

“I don’t see anything funny,” Beau said.

“It’s not funny. It’s just...”

Beau’s black brows drew into a straight and forbidding line.

“I thought I saw ghost,” Archie said.