Page 25 of Closer Than You Know (Vera Boyett #2)
Las Trojas Cantina
Redstone Drive, Fayetteville, 6:55 p.m.
Vera parked in the lot and waited. She could see Eric just inside the door, waiting for her. But there was something she needed to confirm before she went inside, and to do that she had to wait.
About ten seconds after she’d parked, another car slid into a slot a few spaces away. Then she waited some more. A full half minute later, and no one had emerged from the vehicle. She smiled. She had been right. Satisfied, she climbed out of her SUV and secured it. Rather than walk toward the entrance of the restaurant, she moved in the direction of the other vehicle. Black—of course—two door and quite sporty. The windows were tinted, but she was far too confident in her conclusion to be put off by the lack of visibility.
Vera walked right up to the driver’s window and rapped on the glass.
It powered down, and a man of twenty-five or so, maybe thirty, stared up at her without saying a word. The look on his face told her all she needed to know. He’d been caught, and his boss was not going to be happy about it.
“Deputy ...?” She sent him a questioning look.
He exhaled, stared forward. “Kershaw.”
“Deputy Kershaw,” she said, “I’ll be in the restaurant for a couple of hours, give or take, and then I’ll be heading home. Did the sheriff assign you to keep an eye on my house tonight as well?”
“Until further notice, ma’am.”
“I guess I’ll see you later, then.” With that, she headed toward the entrance of the restaurant.
The hostess smiled. “Welcome. How many in your party?”
“She’s with me,” Eric announced, appearing at Vera’s side. He ushered her toward the dining room. “I have a table already, and our waitress is on standby.”
Eric was always fully prepared for every occasion. Had never allowed a “play it by ear” moment in his life. He’d likely already tipped the waitress well to ensure she appeared the moment Vera arrived.
The table was in the corner farthest from the small crowd already seated in the dining room. Vera would wager no one would be seated close to them. Never leave anything to chance was her old friend’s motto.
When they’d settled, the waitress took their drink orders. Vera decided she was due a margarita. Maybe two, depending on how long the evening lasted and just how much Eric was willing to share. He ordered a margarita as well.
Once they were alone, he leaned forward. “I just had a call from Agent Alcott. He tried to visit Solomon again this afternoon,” he said in a hushed tone.
Vera wasn’t surprised. The FBI would want to put to rest any notion of this situation being the Messenger or someone who had worked with him. The possibility might make them look bad and would certainly raise questions and have reporters nosing around. The copycat scenario was much more palatable from their perspective.
“Have you heard how the meeting went?”
“Solomon refused to see him. Insisted he had nothing to say to the agent.”
Not a complete surprise. “He never liked Alcott.”
Eric nodded. “But he did have a message he wanted to pass along.”
The waitress arrived with two rather large glasses rimmed with salt and festooned with lemon slices. So maybe one would be her limit. Vera sipped the tangy drink. “Hmm. Nice.” She licked the salt from her lips. “What was the message?”
Eric ignored his own drink. “He said he had something to tell you, but he would only pass it along in person.”
Wasn’t she the lucky one? “Really?” She indulged in another, deeper swallow. “He wants to see me. Interesting.” Not really. The Messenger had had some bizarre fascination with her from the beginning. The idea that it still lingered made her more than a little uncomfortable. “If it helps with our case, I’m happy to oblige.”
The prospect had made sense back then. She fit the profile of his preferred victim. But, if she was completely honest with herself, it had felt like more. Eve had touched on it when they talked at the cemetery, but Vera would never admit as much out loud. On some level she understood there was a connection between her and Solomon ... a knowing. Vera had only felt that deeper connection to a perp a couple of times. Explaining it to anyone would be like attempting to describe the shape and texture of air. It was impossible to put into words. She downed more of her margarita.
Eric’s expression had gone somber. “I don’t like this, Vera. I’m concerned that he’s up to something. Unlike Alcott, I’m not convinced that what’s happening here is the work of a copycat. But if it’s him, I don’t think it has to do with his past activity either. I think this is purely about you and his sudden need for revenge.”
“Could be, I suppose. I can pay him a visit first thing tomorrow. No problem. But why now? That’s the real question, don’t you think?” Vera felt a little buzz of something like anticipation and maybe just a little fear, which likely prevented his words from evoking a deeper reaction. “Better than twelve years is a long time to wait.”
The fact that Eric was even suggesting this case was actually related in any way to the Messenger screamed loudly that he knew something she did not. The man was trained to always CYA when it came to the MPD.
“He’s dying.”
The impact of those two words jarred her. And there it was, the “something” he knew that she didn’t. Wow. Vera cleared her head, then her throat just to buy time.
“I ... don’t know anything about his current circumstances. Frankly I haven’t even thought of him in all these years,” she responded. That last part might not be entirely true. Every so often she googled him. Made sure he was still where he was supposed to be. And once in a great while, the things he’d done found a way into her dreams.
“He found out just before Christmas,” Eric explained. “Pancreatic cancer. It’s quite advanced. They’ve given him only a few months at most. Alcott claims he was unaware of this development. I have my doubts on that one.”
The Bureau never liked sharing until necessary. As for Palmer Solomon, he had just turned sixty when Vera first met him. That would make him seventy-two now. His wife had died the year before his arrest. He had no siblings or extended family other than his children. A son, Christopher, and a daughter, Pamela, who had a son of her own, Patrick. Christopher had valiantly done all possible to keep his father out of prison. In addition to retaining the very best criminal attorney in Memphis, he had called in a high-powered psychiatrist to try and prove his father was insane and should be in a hospital, not a prison. Then Solomon had turned it all off. He had confessed in calm, vivid detail. The daughter was appalled and took her son and went into seclusion. According to the prison visitor logs, Christopher had been the only one to visit Solomon in prison.
The news unsettled Vera, perhaps far more than it should have. “I can see how this might prompt a renewed interest in revenge,” she agreed.
The timing, which had been the sticking point in her opinion, now made sense. And if revenge was the Messenger’s intent, he would want the connection to be obvious—his MO would need to be clear. Furthermore, he would want it to happen fast, before he was dead.
“You can see now,” Eric said, his worried eyes searching hers, “how I would be concerned for your safety.”
“You shared this with Bent already?”
“I told him when I first arrived. I wanted to tell you privately.”
He’d pulled one of her maneuvers. “You made sure Bent was aware before I could suggest limits or additions to what you intended to share.”
“I felt he needed to be fully aware,” Eric confessed.
The waitress returned, and Eric ordered for the both of them. God knew they’d eaten together enough times at their favorite Mexican restaurant in Memphis for him to be well versed in her preferred choices. She let him. Her mind was elsewhere, and she needed a moment to tamp down the rising frustration.
When the waitress had moved on, Vera said what was on her mind. “Like I said, I’ll go see Solomon tomorrow. Maybe I can end this thing.” It was always possible that all he wanted was her attention anyway. He had tried repeatedly those first couple of years of his prison sentence to open a line of communication with her. She had ignored him.
“The chief and Alcott have requested a conference call for eight tomorrow morning,” he said, rather than commenting on her decision.
She wanted to tell him that whatever her former boss and Agent Alcott had to say was irrelevant in her opinion, but this was Eric. He deserved better than her frustration with the higher-ups.
“What they say or think won’t matter,” she warned. “Not really. You know this.” The truth was, she should have been warned. There was always the chance that a heinous killer’s impending demise could prompt desperate actions.
“Lincoln County and Fayetteville may not have the bodies or the skill level for this kind of manhunt, if it comes to it,” Eric argued. “ You know how this can go.”
The point was a valid one. The Messenger had known how to hide. If someone went missing—someone besides her—finding that someone in time to save his or her life would be impossible. They hadn’t been able to do it in Memphis with a hell-of-a-lot larger division and the help of the FBI—not to mention years of data on the bastard.
Clearly whoever was playing the part of puppet had already proven capable of the same. They hadn’t found Baker until the perp was ready for him to be found.
Fury twisted in her belly. Son of a bitch. Solomon was already several steps ahead. He’d had weeks—months to plan.
Forcing her head back into the conversation, she asked, “Are they planning to send someone else to help out?” They certainly hadn’t given that impression in today’s call. The whole thing could turn into a major clusterfuck.
“Obviously that’s the sheriff’s call.”
Part of her felt certain Bent would want to keep this in his department, but then, he might feel that in this situation, having outside help would be the best way to protect the residents of his county.
Deep down she had hoped—really hoped—this was not the Messenger orchestrating this show. That maybe it really was just some copycat. A part of her had known better ... but that knowledge had not kept her from ignoring the possibility, allowing her to sleep better at night. Denial was a powerful emotion.
“So,” Eric said, “that is the Bent. The one who stole your heart when you were only seventeen.”
Why in the world was he bringing up her old love life? Then she followed his gaze, which was no longer on her.
Bent sat at the bar, his back to them. As she watched, the bartender placed a bottle of beer on the counter next to his hat. Bent’s gaze remained on the mirror behind the bar ... the one that likely allowed him to see them quite clearly.
Irritation was her first reaction. More of the frustration she’d been dealing with since they’d sat down came next. But then all of that went away as something like satisfaction filled her. Was Bent jealous? No, that was impossible. Men like Bent never felt that green-eyed monster. Never had to.
Don’t be juvenile, Vee.
Vera forced her attention back to Eric. “That’s him.”
Eric’s gaze rested on hers once more. “He didn’t escape unscathed. I could see it in his eyes when he looked at you and every time I said your name before you arrived at the meeting. You left your mark.”
Vera laughed. Then she finished off her margarita. Maybe she would have that second one after all. “Eric.” She rested her attention on the man she had adored ... the man she had wanted so desperately to fall in love with but somehow it just wouldn’t happen. “Your imagination is running away with you. There are some fairy tales that just don’t have happily ever afters, and my history with Bent is one of them.”
Eric pointed to Vera’s drink and nodded to the waitress.
God, the man read her like a damned book.
“But you admit that it was a fairy tale–like affair.”
She shook her head, pushed her empty glass aside. “I suppose to a seventeen-year-old it was, yes.”
“Have you told him everything?”
Vera wished that second drink would hurry up and get here. She made a noncommittal face. “There are some things you don’t talk about with just anyone.” This was why she wished he had consulted her before telling Bent new information about Solomon.
“Except someone who lived them with you,” he countered.
That was the thing. She and Eric had lived through something ... an event that changed both their lives. Not to say that their relationship was based solely on that singular, shocking time, but it was the little things leftover afterward—the almost-intangible ghostly tethers—that had tied them together for months, maybe years.
“I haven’t told him. No.”
The sad smile that appeared on Eric’s lips made her chest ache. “We got through it. That’s what matters.”
Vera’s throat felt dry. “I should have killed him when I had the opportunity.” She had never said those words out loud, no matter that she had thought them hundreds of times. The bastard was nothing but a drain on the taxpayers of Tennessee, just sitting in prison all these years. Now he was even more so, considering his medical treatments were likely exorbitant.
He deserved none of it.
The waitress arrived with her margarita, and Vera’s relief was palpable.
“No.” Eric shook his head. “You did the right thing. He was disabled. You called for backup. That was the right choice.”
Palmer Solomon had lured Vera into a trap using Gloria Anderson. Eric had been assigned to keep an eye on Vera, which landed him in the same hellacious situation. It was a mistake she would not make again. Oh no. After that she had made it her life’s goal to immerse herself in all the training available. She never passed up an opportunity to learn how to better her self-defense skills.
But back then she had been eager. Eager and ambitious. Totally focused on solving the biggest case of the time. She’d ended up captured by a serial killer. Landing Eric in that trap too. Nearly three days of sheer hell ... but it was Eric who bore the scars of her mistake.
The Messenger had intended to leave a message for law enforcement—carved in the skin of one of their own. Vera pleaded for the bastard to use her instead. She fully realized it was her fault Eric was there. Her pleas only made the Messenger more determined ... fueled his disgusting desires. On the last day, he decided to make Vera finish the carving. The second biggest mistake of his twisted life. She used his trademark filleting knife to slice a hole right through his gut.
But she hadn’t killed him. Her aim narrowly missed any vital organs, damn it.
He survived ... they both did.
And then, in the end, he officially confessed to everything.
Vera and Eric were heroes. They’d become friends and, in time, more—to some degree because of what they had shared.
“I’m sorry.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized she intended to say them.
He frowned. “Sorry for what?”
Eric Jones was one of the kindest, smartest, damned coolest men she had ever known.
“For not being a better friend ... a better part of us. ”
He laughed, sipped his margarita. “You didn’t love me the way I loved you. It wasn’t your fault; it just was.”
“Thank you for understanding and for still being my friend.”
“Always, Vera. I will always be your friend.”
Their food was served, and they ate. By the time dinner was over, Eric had told her about a new friend. A lovely woman—he had dozens of photos on his phone—who made him happy. Vera was thrilled for him.
Eric suddenly frowned. “We should have called Bent over. Now he’s gone.”
Vera glanced in that direction. He was right. Bent was no longer at the bar. She looked around. Not in the dining room.
“I’ll let him know we got busy catching up and lost track of time.” She smiled at her friend. “He’ll understand.”
“He’ll do a hell of a lot more than that if he’s smart.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “You are an amazing woman, Vera. He would be very lucky to have you.”
Vera laughed. “On that note, I think we should call it a night.”
They reminisced a bit more while he settled their tab, and then he walked her to her SUV. They hugged, and for a split second Vera wished again that things had been different.
But there were no true do-overs. There was only moving on.
In her rearview mirror she watched him watching her as she drove away, her detail right behind her. Eric had insisted he wanted to walk back to his hotel. To get a little air, he’d said. Vera powered her window down. She needed a little air herself.