Ghosted

Chapter Nine

What in the hell was the matter with him lately that he just couldn’t seem to keep his feelings to himself?

But he couldn’t.

Somehow, suddenly, all that old nearly-forgotten emotion was bubbling up as hot and raw as if he’d been freshly wounded. Archie made a sound of incredulity, heard himself say, “ I’m not the one who said I should do everyone a favor and take the job in Anchorage, that there was nothing for me here.”

“Not that you disagree,” Beau said with aggravating calm.

“No. I don’t disagree.”

I did then.

Back then, he’d been about as broken-hearted as a twenty-something dumbass could be over the end of his first real relationship. He clamped his jaw shut on any further comments.

Beau said tersely, “Anyway, it was a long time ago.”

“Water under the bridge.”

“Dead and buried.”

“ Who are you again?”

After an astonished moment, Beau laughed. Sort of. “I forgot. You always have to have the last word.”

Not really. Not anymore. That was something Archie had outgrown. The inability to be wrong. Unfortunately, Beau seemed to trigger his worst adolescent instincts.

He said wearily, “No. You’re right. It was a long time ago. There’s no point...”

He felt Beau glance his way. Beau said, “Yeah. Let bygones be bygones. Neither of us need this. I guess we both said things we regret.”

Was he talking about the last couple of hours? Last couple of days? Or seven years ago?

Archie nodded curtly.

Beau spared him another glance. “And—off the record—no, I don’t believe you killed John. On paper, you’ve got a strong motive, but in practice, it doesn’t make sense. Somebody could argue that all things being relative, Mrs. Simms has an equally strong motive.”

Was he joking? Archie said nothing, but the idea that Simmy had killed John for an inheritance she clearly had known nothing about was ludicrous. Beau had to know that.

Beau continued, “And I’m not missing the fact that Judith believed she and Desi were going to inherit the bulk of John’s estate. Or that Professor Azizi was threatening to sue John and now he’s MIA. Or that for years John had a contentious relationship with Mila Monig’s son, which means John’s bequest to Dr. Monig conceivably gives her son a pretty good motive.”

Archie looked up in surprise, catching Beau’s gaze. “That was a long time ago. When John and Mila were—”

“Monig believed John was his father.”

Archie’s jaw dropped.

Beau absorbed his shock with grim satisfaction “Yep. Last year he hounded John into taking a paternity test, and when the test came back negative, he wouldn’t accept the results. He insisted the test had been rigged.”

“What?”

Beau’s smile was wintry. “You heard right. Monig continued to insist John was his father and was deliberately and knowingly rejecting his obligations—rejecting him , in fact.”

“John never said anything about it.”

Beau shrugged.

There was nothing pointed in that shrug, but Archie didn’t need an actual accusation to feel the guilt of not having been there when John needed him. Sure, he had not been in position to offer much support, couldn’t have been physically present no matter how much he wished—hell, he had barely managed to keep his “heartbeats,” those regular check-ins with his handler to confirm he was still okay and the ball was still in play.

But it was yet another weight on the scale, on his heart.

Beau’s voice broke into his somber thoughts. “I know what you think, but I don’t have any bias against you. Or for you. This case will be investigated just like any other.”

Archie nodded, but he was barely listening.

With a little edge in his voice, Beau added, “I also know you never thought I had what it takes to be a cop, but I’m good at my job. John’s homicide will be solved and his killer, regardless of who that is or what their motive was, will be brought to justice.”

Archie stared into Beau’s hard blue eyes. “Okay,” he said mildly. “In fairness, I was fifteen. I was wrong about a lot of things.”

“You weren’t fifteen the last time we spoke.”

“True. But I don’t remember us talking a lot about your career plans.”

Beau retorted, “No, we talked about your plans. As usual.”

That was pretty fucking unjust considering how that final conversation had gone. Archie started to answer, but Beau cut him off.

“Sorry. I’d love to sit here chewing over old times with you, but I’m having dinner with my kid.”

Archie realized that they had pulled up alongside the street outside the Fraser House Inn. It was a short drive, but even so. He clicked his seatbelt release, reached for the SUV’s door, and got out. He leaned down, said, “Thanks for the ride.”

“All part of the service—hey.”

Archie stopped, raised his brows in inquiry.

Beau said, “I don’t care about whatever it is you do in the FBI. You’re on the sidelines here. Stay out of my case or I’ll charge you with obstruction. I won’t warn you more than once, Special Agent Crane.”

“Noted.”

Archie pushed the passenger door shut and Beau drove away.

That was that.

Plenty to think about, though, as Archie went through the mahogany and glass door to the lobby. Scarlett had been replaced by a very tall, very blonde woman who smiled politely at him as he crossed the shining parquet floor to the stairs.

He was relieved to know that Beau was considering other possible suspects. Hearing Beau admit, if only off the record, that he didn’t believe Archie had killed John meant a lot. Yes, illogically, it mattered to him that Beau believed he was innocent. But more to the point, he wanted John’s killer brought to justice, and that wasn’t going to happen while Beau wasted valuable time investigating him.

Maybe it was na?ve, but Archie was baffled that Beau didn’t trust him.

Archie had his failings, no question, but he’d never lied to Beau, never cheated on him. Clearly, he’d let Beau down in ways he still didn’t fully understand, but wasn’t that more about their different expectations, needs, and, ultimately, paths?

Everyone had their own point of view, and point of view was, by definition, subjective. But Beau’s memories of that period were so different from Archie’s. The truth had to lie somewhere between those diametrically opposed recollections. But as Beau had said, it was all a long time ago. Beau certainly had no interest in rehashing the past, and that was probably a healthy attitude. There was no going back and trying to fix things now.

Assuming there had been things that could have been fixed.

It seemed less and less likely.

Anyway, it was a relief that Beau was still evaluating all the people in John’s life, even if some of those potential suspects seemed pretty improbable to Archie.

Simmy, for example. Yes, John’s bequest was generous. John was generous. But he was also fair-minded. Simmy had been a friend as well as a long-time employee. She had been well-paid, and it was very possible that she had saved up for a comfortable old age. But it was also possible that she hadn’t been able to save up, and it was unlikely at her age that she would get another highly paid full-time position as a housekeeper. It would be like John to weigh the realities of Simmy’s economic situation against Judith’s, and decide that Simmy’s need was the greater.

That kind of reasoning would also explain how Archie had ended up with the bulk of John’s estate rather than Desi, who had been like a daughter to him. John had always been concerned about Archie’s future, even after Archie had reached gainfully employed adulthood.

John was a problem-solver, a fix-it kind of guy, whether he was setting a patient’s broken bone, paying for his niece’s engagement party, or planning for his housekeeper’s retirement. The character and personality of the victim were always integral to building a comprehensive understanding of the crime. John had lived a blameless, even exemplary, life by most people’s standards, but good people ended up murdered as often as bad people. Had John’s proclivity for trying to help—whether the object of his concern wanted it or not—been a factor in his murder?

Maybe.

John’s murder appeared to have been quick and efficient. Not a rage killing. It was possible the crime had been premeditated, but from Archie’s perspective, John’s murderer had been more lucky than clever. Shooting him during the ghost walk had been highly risky.

Why take that risk?

Not only was John’s will a done deal at that point, Judith had believed herself and Desi to be the main beneficiaries. So, it was hard to see any urgent reason for Judith choosing the night of the ghost walk to get John out of the way. Besides, though Archie didn’t like Judith, he just couldn’t picture her murdering her brother.

He could almost picture her hiring someone, though.

But the fact was, he believed Judith really did love John. Was genuinely grieved by his death.

Desi... He had trouble with that one, too. Desi had fallen into the Mean Girl category when Archie had been a teen. Not cruel. Not vicious. Just unkind. Deliberately. Consistently. John had been very good to her and her grief had seemed genuine to Archie. A career in law enforcement taught you never to assume anything about a potential suspect, but his best guess was even if John had somehow become expendable to Desi, she’d be too squeamish to do the deed herself.

Which brought him to Desi’s fiancé, Arlo Beckham. Given that Arlo’s mother was one of John’s closest friends and a lawyer, was it possible John had discussed his will with her? Was it possible Priscilla knew Frances Madison—Twinkleton was a small town—and that Madison had, perhaps inadvertently, dropped a hint as to changes in John’s will?

Except, apparently, there hadn’t been recent changes to John’s will.

Which didn’t make sense. When the hell had John changed his will in Archie’s favor? Why?

And that being the case, had Judith really believed for the last decade that she and Desi were the main beneficiaries?

But if Judith had recently learned that Archie was inheriting the bulk of John’s estate, killing John would make even less sense. Alive, there was a chance John’s mind could be changed. Once John was dead, Archie inherited everything and it was all a done deal.

That didn’t mean that John’s will wasn’t the motive for his death.

But.

But maybe John’s will was the driver not the motive?

Was John’s will the catalyst?

Meaning what, though? For a moment, Archie felt like he was onto something, but then the feeling was gone.

Slowly, he climbed the staircase and let himself into his room. Adrenaline and sheer stubbornness had kept him on his feet and moving up to this point, but he had reached the end of his physical resources. There was no use fighting it. If he didn’t lie down soon, he was going to fall down.

As he closed the door behind him, he noticed the windows were open, the draperies gusting in the summer breeze. It gave him pause. He had closed and locked the windows before leaving that afternoon, but the neatly made bed and stack of clean towels indicated the maids had been in to clean the room. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.

Which was a good thing, because all he wanted right now, all he had energy for, was sleep.

He toed out of his leather Kiziks and dropped down on the neatly made bed, letting himself fall back into the stack of pillows. He stared up at the shadows from the garden swaying against the high slanted ceiling. Summery garden smells drifted through the windows.

He continued to insist John was his father and was deliberately and knowingly rejecting his obligations—rejecting him, in fact.

Archie blinked wearily over that last and most disturbing revelation of Beau’s.

First of all, Monig was a grown man. So, what did obligations mean to him? Had he been looking for financial support or was his grudge based on feeling personally rejected? A little of both?

Jon Monig had barely registered on Archie’s teenaged radar—and probably likewise. Monig had been older, of course, but it was doubtful they’d have had much in common even if they’d been peers. Tall, gawky, and bespectacled, Monig always had a book with him and it was always something weirdly esoteric, something—in the cynical opinion of the teenaged Archie—designed to be a statement rather than actual reading material.

Archie had never noticed Monig showing any particular interest in or affection for John, but again, he had mostly dismissed the older boy as an occasional accessory of Mila’s. Mila had been around a lot, at least for a time She and John had had a long and intimate relationship, and for a while there had been talk of their marrying.

The romance had fizzled out—Archie had no idea why, though he had been secretly relieved. He hadn’t disliked Mila, exactly, but she was a little bossy, a little pushy, a little abrasive. That had been his teenaged perception, and it probably hadn’t been any too fair. But he had definitely preferred John’s bachelor household to the house on the weekends Mila spent there.

Anyway, Mila and John had stayed friends and continued their business partnership after the romance fizzled.

He wished now he’d paid more attention to everyone else’s reactions during the reading of John’s will. It was not like him to sit there absorbed in his own thoughts and feelings. How much longer was he going to be wandering around in the mental fog of post-concussion?

But even if he’d been one hundred percent, the logistics of Jon Monig being John’s son were unclear to him. John’s relationship with Mila predated his arrival in Twinkleton, and Jon was a couple of years older than Archie, so maybe it was possible.

What wasn’t possible—what Archie would never believe—was that John would duck out on his paternal responsibilities. No way in hell. That had nothing to do with the active role John had taken as Archie’s guardian. It was about who John was. His strong sense of duty, sure, but also his innate kindness and empathy. If Monig was John’s son, John would not have needed a paternity test to get him to acknowledge the relationship.

But it wasn’t necessarily about the truth. It was about Jon Monig’s perception of the truth.

Archie blinked over that conclusion, eyelids growing heavier and heavier as he watched the hypnotic sway and bend of the shadows on the ceiling...

When Archie woke, it was almost ten, the room was dark, and he was starving.

He spent a few minutes trying to convince himself he wasn’t really that hungry, but his stomach loudly protested this theory, and finally he sat up and snapped on the bedside lamp.

By then it was ten-thirty. The hotel kitchen was closed, as would be most of the local restaurants, but he could probably find some place to grab a sandwich. Even a bag of peanuts at a mini-mart would be something.

He found his shoes and headed downstairs to the lobby, which was dark except for the light in the manager’s office behind the silent front desk.

Archie opened the front door and walked into the summery night. Moonlight bathed the garden in an unearthly silvery glow, casting gentle shadows on the cobblestone path. Fireflies flickered in the air, like tiny embers. The air was still warm, carrying the sweet scent of blooming flowers—roses, lavender, and night-blooming jasmine. Leaves rustled overhead as though sharing secrets with the distantly murmuring Siuslaw River.

Twinkleton.

When he’d first heard it, he’d thought it was the dumbest possible name for a town.

But the truth was, at night, when the old-fashioned street lamps were glowing, and the window of the Victorian-era homes were shining, and the stars overhead glittered and sparkled… Twinkleton did sort of suit the place.

If you didn’t mind that American Greetings card vibe, it was pretty.

And usually peaceful.

There were worse places to be a cop. That was for sure.

When he reached the street, he headed downtown. The restaurants and cafes he passed were, as expected, closed for the evening, but he came at last to a little hole-in-the-wall dive called The Tipsy Perch.

He recognized the faded sign with its striped aggrieved-looking perch fish, though he was sure he’d never been inside. Light gleamed behind brown curtains, but it was quiet. No music. No jukebox. Which suited Archie fine.

He pushed open the peeling red door and stepped inside.

The pub smelled of old leather and older wood, of hops and yeast, and very faintly of tobacco smoke though it had been many years since smoking in bars and restaurants was a thing. Mostly, the place was empty. A few regulars sat at the bar, and Archie’s heart sank at the sight of a familiar pair of broad shoulders in a black tactical jacket. He started to back out again, but his attention was caught by the image filling the large-screen TV above the bar: Laramie County Detention Center in Cheyenne.

An unseen reporter announced, “According to the U.S. Marshals Service, John Breland, who was charged with an array of federal crimes including terrorism, espionage, sabotage, conspiracy, and attempted murder, was found dead in his cell shortly after seven o’clock p.m.

“Authorities have confirmed that the death is being investigated as suicide. Breland was one of three men arrested in April of this year after a lengthy sixteen-month FBI operation which involved infiltrating a group planning a violent attack on Warren Air Force Base. Three men were arrested and four others were killed in the plot to trigger a race war. An undercover FBI agent was also seriously injured during the operation. Breland was believed to be the ringleader...”

The world sharply tilted. Archie’s heart thumped in his chest, each beat louder than the last. The voice on the TV faded into the distance.

His knees buckled.

He reached out for the table next to him, but missed, sliding off into black and spinning space.