Readjustment (Restitution #2)

7

Caleb Straus

The station’s conference room looked like a scene out of a crime show.

A large whiteboard on a rolling easel sat at the front of the room, its surface dirty from where someone used the wrong marker, then used Windex to try to clean it. A tray of sliced subs from Jimmy John’s, soda cups and chips littered the wood table.

After visiting Mr. Janson’s headquarters (he wasn’t in, but his receptionist set us up with an appointment that afternoon), we headed back to the station to meet with our deputy liaisons, Brass and Myers.

Deputy Brass sorted through a box full of dry erase markers to see which ones still worked. Brass was the leanest of us, with the wispy, shaggy hair of a cop too close to retirement to care about regulations. His slacks hung baggy on his waist with ragged hems, and the top button of his polo opened, revealing a swatch of blonde chest hair.

Assistant Sheriff Grant Myers slid a chip into his mouth from the bag crackling in his hands. He and I attended the academy together, and what I thought was friendly competition morphed into a deep dislike by graduation. Time hadn’t changed him. Same buzzed, black hair. Same ruddy complexion that clashed with the beige sleeves of his uniform. And that same superior attitude and pointed stare.

I loosened my tie, unwrapped a turkey sub, and took a bite. Next to me, Adam hung the jacket of his grey windowpane suit over his chair, and I couldn’t help but notice how his tailored shirt showed off his broad shoulders. The fabric was a little loose at the waist these days, but that was easy to ignore when those biceps popped every time he lifted his soda or nibbled at his food. I tore my eyes away from him and found Myer’s glare had hardened, and I could envision the vicious thoughts floating through his mind.

“Ah-ha, got one!” Brass held up the winner. “Let’s talk, fellas.”

Only the crackling of wrappers and clattering ice cubes came back in response.

“Well, don’t everybody talk at once.” Brass’s wide grin made him seem more like a used car salesman than a detective.

The silence got awkward enough to make my skin crawl, so I spoke up. “Milo Davonte would be Suspect Number One.”

“Agreed.” Brass wrote the name out on the board.

“He’s got a long rap sheet.” Adam crumpled his napkin and tossed it next to his sandwich. “His last charge of manslaughter was thrown out on a technicality.”

“So, he isn’t above violence.” Myers voice was gruffer than I remember, but it fit the whole stereotypical cop appeal he had going.

“And if he got away with it once…” Brass said.

“He was the last one to use Jessica’s car.” I added. “And he has several drug offenses on his record. We found Xanax in Keola’s room, so there might be a link there.”

Brass scribbled Milo Davonte on the board, followed by Drugs. Victim’s Roome. He stopped to erase the e with his thumb and said, “Milo could be a victim, though.” He picked up a file from the table and distributed copies of photos to everyone like some substitute teacher. “A deputy found his phone with blood on it in the parking lot of a McDonalds. CCTV didn’t show anything. And if he was in the car, why stop a mile from the scene and then run?”

“But if this was premeditated, that could have been done to throw us off,” Adam said. “He commits the crime. Makes a call. Hitches a ride, then ditches the phone.”

“But there’s no evidence of defensive wounds on the M.E. report.” Myers scowled at Adam. “If Keola didn’t fight back, how’d the blood get on the headlight and Milo’s phone?”

“Looks like we’ve got two solid theories, gentlemen.” Brass drew another line down the board with a flourish. “Any other leads?”

“Keola didn’t have an arrest record,” Myers said.

Adam muttered under his breath.

“Got something to share with the class, Detective?” Myers asked.

Before Adam could say anything else, I pushed my chair back and stood. “We’ve got a conference call with Narcotics in a little, and we’re meeting Mr. Janson this afternoon.”

“Then let’s stop here for today.” Brass picked up his notes and pointed the folder towards the door. “Myers and I will work on finding Milo while you work the information trail.”

Brass and Myers turned towards the lobby while Adam and I headed for the bullpen. Our shoes clicked off the epoxied floors and echoed off the walls. A film of dust covered the wood moldings; evidence that they didn’t change the furnace filter enough around here. Chief Branson’s phone was ringing as we passed his office door. In the breakroom, Austin Barrett tossed peanuts in the air and caught them in his mouth, to the delight of Jessica Soren. Her hair was growing out of its pixie cut and it was at that awkward, shaggy length that was too short to be put up. They’d be a cute couple, and I had already started to imagine what their children would look like when Adam’s voice ruined the mood.

“I don’t trust them.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Brass and Myers.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

Adam grabbed my arm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t trust anyone, Dorothy.” I pulled my arm away. “But I’ll bite. Why?”

“Okay, Rose. Work the beat in Chicago for five years, then get back to me.” Adam tossed his jacket on his desk. “These assholes are in our wheelhouse, running things like they’re in charge. Why the hell do we even need a joint-task force?”

“We’ve got four detectives here, Adam. Chief can’t tie us all up with a high-profile case.” I sat in my chair and swiveled to face him. “With the missing person angle, we’d be spread thin.”

“But why let the sheriff hand-pick those guys?” He sat down and gripped the armrests. “It’s just…odd.”

“It is,” I agreed, “but if it was your son, wouldn’t you want all the resources available at hand?”

“I guess.” He lowered his voice. “Myers has a shitty attitude.”

I quirked an eyebrow and scoffed. “You think?”

“What’s so funny?” Adam asked.

“Pot, meet kettle.”

He grunted and stared at his monitor until Narcotics called.

Huddled at Adam’s desk, we stared at the email Trooper Jaime Hurst sent us, and found… largely nothing.

“Without a record, there’s not much we can do,” she said flatly. “No dates or areas to work around, and nothing useful from our C.I.’s, but we’re still waiting for one to report.”

“So basically, we’ve got squat.” Adam fanned the edge of his pad of Post Its.

“Wish I had more, but—hang on.” Clicks from her keyboard were followed by the chime of another incoming email on our end. “Just got a report from the Quincy campus. No record of illegal drug use, but there’s something here about marijuana.”

“Weed’s legal; why would that be reported?” I asked.

“The school still has a zero-tolerance policy,” Hurst said. “I’m emailing you the report. They arrested him because Keola threw a chair at a wall.”

“When was this?” Adam Asked.

“September nineteenth of this year,” she said. “The professor involved was Nathan Bruce. He didn’t press charges, and Keola got off with a warning.”

“That’s it?” Adam said incredulously.

“That’s all I’ve got,” she said. “You’d have to contact Quincy for more.”

After wrapping up, we called the dean at the college and left a voicemail and message with this administrative assistant.

“Well,” I stretched my arms back until I heard the satisfying pop of my spine, “at least we have another lead.”

“I guess.”

We spent the rest of the morning working through reports, but I couldn’t stop myself from peeking at my partner every so often. He’s beautiful the way nature is. The more you stop and take it in, the more you appreciate it. I caught myself wanting to touch him, so I turned away and studied my screen.

The next few hours passed with less drama. Bruce Dunn and Colt Mason returned to the bullpen from an early morning overdose case. Dunn, the older (or as he said, more experienced) of the two, tossed his cellphone on his desk. “The Blues need to fucking ditch coach Berube. He’s made that team unwatchable.”

Mason, a Columbus, Ohio native, and former Marine who stood six-foot-six, walked down the aisle of desks and hung his coat on the wooden rack. “You’re still welcome to become a Blue Jackets fan. Blue is in the name, and you don’t have to deal with watching Bennington flop around in his crease.”

I tried to focus on my emails, but the way Adam tossed his pen down was a sign that he was about to be, well, Adam-ey , and I wasn’t about to miss this.

“Fuck that. Watch the Red Wings.”

“Who asked you?” Mason snipped, turning to face him.

“Hold on now.” Dunn leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Let him make his case.”

“They’ve won four cups in the last twenty years.” Adam held up four fingers. “Yzerman has traded for like, five Blues players, and, oh yeah,” he skewered Mason with a look, “they’re not from fucking Ohio.”

Mason threw his arms up and went to his desk. “I always forget you’re from Michigan until you open your fucking mouth.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Adam rolled back behind his desk.

“You fuck off.” Mason flipped the bird over his shoulder.

The noise died down after that, and before I knew it, the clock ticked past four.

“Ready to go?” Adam smoothed his lapels and adjusted the Rolex on his wrist. “Fifteen-minute drive, right?”

“Yep.” I shrugged on my jacket and grabbed the keys.

The sun began to set as we rode across town. Everything was touched with grey, giving the scenery a sad, solitary mood. Fields blended into asphalt on the horizon, and I could almost see why some people thought the earth was flat.

The Greenlawn Complex sat between an abandoned diner and a long stretch of wooded area not far from where Keola was found. The cement-block building had been built in the seventies, but the backlit sign on the entrance berm was only a few years old. A long row of windows split the two floors and a large metal pillar held up a sign over the entrance. The main lobby opened up to four business suites on each floor, with restrooms, drinking fountains, and an elevator. Grey ceramic tiles gave way to slate-blue carpet in the hallways, and the stifling acrylic scent suggested the clean ecru walls had recently been painted. At Suite 1-A, Carrie, a cheerful receptionist with a cute bob of burgundy hair, greeted us. A gold blazer added color to an otherwise black outfit, including a blouse, pixie slacks, and high-heeled shoes.

“Detectives.” Mr. Janson peeked out the door of his corner office. “Come on back.”

Peter Janson, Gary County Clerk, was exactly what you expect a politician to look like. Brown hair that contrasted enough against his sideburns to tell it was a toupee, baby soft hands but firm handshake, and a spray tan. Dressed in a royal blue suit and red tie, he flashed a painted-on smile that didn’t fade when he spoke.

“Sorry for the delay.” Janson ushered us into his office. “I had a meeting with our crisis management team.” He sighed and put a hand over his heart. “Such a shame what happened to Keola. I’ve known his dad since the boys were in diapers. Lovely family. Great men. All of them. But I’m sure Peyton’s finest will get justice for him.”

I could swear I heard Adam’s eyes roll.

“We appreciate the confidence.” I met Janson with my own practiced grin.

“Of course.” Janson swept his hands towards two leather chairs. “Please, have a seat, gentlemen.”

Janson’s oak desk was stacked with various flyers that all said, “Janson for State Representative.” Behind him, the shelves were stuffed with books, accordion folders and an 8 x 10 of him on a boat proudly holding up a large bass. “Some weather we’re having this winter.” Jason peered out the row of windows to his right.

Adam, never one for useless small talk, got straight to the point. “We understand you met with Keola Antu in the days leading up to his murder.”

“Sure did. He’d requested a meeting with me…” Janson swiped a few times on the cell phone sitting on a charging dock and squinted. “Sorry, I meet so many people—Oh here! It was three days ago.”

“What was the meeting regarding?” I asked.

“He came by to talk about a project he’d been working on.” He scratched his chin. “He wasn’t exactly clear, but it sounded like a memoir of growing up with the Sheriff. At least I think it was a book. Might have been a screenplay?”

Well, that’s interesting, I thought.

Adam rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers. “Why would he approach you about this?”

“Like I said, I knew his dad. Worked on the force with him for ten years before getting into politics.” Janson sat up a little straighter. “He wanted to run some stories by me to see if they were true, and see if I had anything to add.”

“And did you?” Adam rose a brow.

“I told him about a time his dad got head-butted by a goat, but to be honest,” Janson leaned in further, “but I could tell something was off with the kid.”

“Why’s that?” I scribbled in my notebook.

“The kid had an ulterior motive,” Janson answered.

“And how could you tell?” Adam asked.

“I’m a politician, Detective,” he said dryly. “I know one when I see one.”

“So, what was it?” Adam’s brow wrinkled.

“He wanted to play a little politics himself.” Janson’s lips curved into a smirk. “It isn’t anything I haven’t seen before; young, hungry college grads looking to make a name. It’s easier for kids these days. I mean, have you seen these quacks they put on CNN?”

“What did he want?” Adam said through tight lips.

“He offered info on something developing in the department.” Janson interlocked his fingers and fumbled with his thumbs. “Something I might build a campaign on if I could exploit it.”

My grip on my pen tightened. “What was he talking about?”

Janson made a non-committal face. “The kid wanted compensation for his cooperation, and I let him know I’m not a pay-to-play guy.”

“So, you’re telling us you turned down something helpful to your campaign?” Adam asked skeptically.

Janson nodded. “Absolutely.”

“And you have no idea what Keola was talking about?” Adam raised those expressive brows.

“Listen,” Janson said, “I won’t pretend cops haven’t taken bribes, cut corners, or blurred a few lines since the dawn of time. Everybody knows that happens. But I worked with Sione Antu for years, and at one time, he was a close friend. Unless there’s solid evidence, I’m not about to commit career suicide.”

“You’d think the Sheriff’s son would understand that,” Adam said.

“Yeah, I thought that too,” Janson scoffed.

Whatever Keola discovered was a lot bigger than your run-of-the-mill bribe. My stomach hardened at the thought. Could my own colleagues, the people I’ve spent years trying to impress, really be cogs in some broken machine?

“Did you contact anyone about this?” I asked.

“If you’re asking if I did my job, the answer is yes. I contacted the Southern District of the DOJ, gave my statement over the phone, and left them to it, while I,” Janson waved a hand over the flyers, “focused on my campaign.” He grinned at Adam. “I even locked down an early endorsement from your father-in-law, Detective.”

Adam’s eyes flickered in surprise, then dulled. “Did you set up another meeting with Keola for any reason?”

“Why would I do that?” Janson said. “The bastard tried to sell out his dad. I told him to get the hell out and think long and hard before he contacted anyone else.”

“Really?” Adam pulled out his cell phone. “Then why did Keola’s friend say he had a meeting at this address the night of his murder?”

“What?” Janson’s jaw slackened, and he pushed back away from his desk. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said evenly.

“He sure as hell didn’t come see me,” Jansons said. “I was at a fundraising event at the VFW and I’ve got staff that can confirm it.”

“Did he talk with anyone else in your office?” I asked.

“No.” His voice rose in pitch. “Carrie and I are the only ones here on a regular basis. I didn’t contact him after that.” He grabbed his phone and slid it across the table with a jerky movement. “You can check if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Adam said. “Not yet, at least. We’ll bring a warrant if we change our mind.”

The skin around Janson’s eyes lost some color, yet he still managed a phony smile. Did I look like that when I did the same thing?

“Is there anything else you can add?” I asked.

“No, but I want the record to reflect I did my part.” Janson flattened his hands on his desk and stood. “Now, I apologize, but I’m terribly busy today. I think you know your way out.”

As we left the office, Adam and I exchanged long looks. Even if Janson didn’t want to know what Keola knew, someone likely did. Someone who might kill to keep it hidden.

“We need to get into that laptop.” Adam rubbed his hands together and blew on his fingers as we walked to the car.

“I’ll call for an update—”

“I’ll call. You’re driving.”

As Adam spoke into his phone, I tuned out his voice and got lost in my thoughts. Was Janson telling the truth? He’s a politician, which means at best he tells half the story. Did he know more, and feared what it’d take to get involved? What kind of evidence had Keola collected?

“God damn it! ” Adam slammed his hand down on the console.

His eyes closed in fury and he swore under his breath. “Keep us informed,” he snapped and hung up. “Fuck!”

“What’s going on?” I put the car in gear and cranked up the heat.

“They lost it,” Adam said. “The laptop’s fucking gone.”