Page 18

Quaid

T he hum of the HVAC system pumping cool air into the room was the only sound as Jude stared at his unmistakable face on the tablet. The summer temperatures were kept at bay despite the wall of windows overlooking the city, yet Jude Marigold perspired like he’d taken to the sauna at the gym.

Dark stains dotted the underarms of his Henley. Beads of sweat peppered his forehead and dampened his upper lip. When a single drop rolled from his temple, along his jaw, and landed on the desk beside the device, he blinked from his stunned state and scrubbed roughly at his face.

“I can explain.”

“They always have an explanation.” Aslan’s comment was directed at me but earned a perturbed glare from the man across the desk.

We were going to have to have a discussion about this good cop-bad cop balance. Aslan had been stealing my thunder through most of the interview, and poor Jude wasn’t getting sympathy from either of us .

“An explanation would be helpful, Mr. Marigold. The floor is yours.” I waved a hand, urging him to proceed.

“I went to the Soccerplex looking for Nixon on Tuesday night. I overheard he was meeting with…” Jude abruptly stopped speaking, clamping his mouth shut.

“We know about his suspicions,” I explained. “That there’s money bleeding from the accounts to places unknown.”

“And you know he accused me of taking it?” Jude’s nostrils flared.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t take the money.”

“That’s honestly not our concern. We’re more interested in locating Crowley Davis, who, as far as we’re concerned, was taken from the Soccerplex on the same night you randomly showed up there… and lied about it.”

Jude swiped his hand over his sweaty brow. “I heard rumors that Nixon was meeting with a forensic accountant that night. I know he’s spoken to a lawyer behind my back and is prepared to take legal action if… when he figures out where the money has gone.”

I waited, maintaining eye contact and applying silent pressure.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

I held my hands aloft. “What am I thinking?”

“If I didn’t take the money, why do I care if he hires someone to dissect our books.

I don’t care, but it’s the fact that he’s left me out of the whole process.

He’s doing all of this behind my back. We’re equals, and he’s treating me like I’m guilty.

People are talking. He’s destroying my reputation.

I had two clients cancel their contracts last week.

That’s not a coincidence. We should be investigating this together. As a team.”

“Mr. Marigold, why were you at the Soccerplex on Tuesday night? ”

“I was looking for Nixon. I heard he was meeting with the accountant that night, but I also knew Crow had a soccer game. Ever since Genie fired the nanny, Nixon’s been…

on edge. Scrambling. Scattered. His mind is everywhere.

He’s got a lot on his shoulders. When I heard he’d scheduled a meeting with the forensic accountant, I raced up here to chat with him. ”

“This was on Tuesday?”

“Yes, but Nixon was already gone for the day.”

“Gone? What time was this?”

“Five.”

“You’re sure?” I glanced at Aslan, whose brow furrowed.

“Yes, because most of our staff leave for the day at five, and people were packing up and heading out, including his secretary. She’s who told me he’d already left.”

According to Nixon, he’d been in a meeting until five thirty. “Go on.”

“I figured he must have scheduled the meeting for later in the evening, after Crow’s soccer game, so I raced out of here and headed directly for the Soccerplex to confront him. I searched the arena, but he wasn’t there. Neither was Crow, so I left.”

“Where did you go from there?”

“Home.”

“Not to his house a few blocks away?”

Jude sighed and briefly closed his eyes. “No.”

“You didn’t think to call him?” Aslan asked.

“Of course I did.” Jude’s petulance returned. “He wouldn’t answer his phone. I told you, when it comes to this business about the missing money, Nixon keeps me in the dark. He makes me chase him around to get answers. ”

I turned over the evidence and Jude’s explanation in my mind, searching for holes, displaying it alongside what I’d learned from Nixon. Their stories didn’t match.

“What time did you get home that night?”

Jude thought for a second and shrugged. “No later than six thirty. The baby was still awake. She typically goes to bed at seven. My wife will confirm. Can I go now? I need to call Nixon.”

I glanced at Aslan, who shrugged, tossing the ball back into my court. I dug a card from my wallet and placed it on the desk. “Call me if you think of anything that might help us locate the boy.”

“Sure. Do you need my number?”

“We already have it.”

***

Aslan and I didn’t speak until we hit the ground floor. The courtyard and restaurants were busier than when we went upstairs.

“Still want that warrant for his finances?” Aslan asked.

“Yes. Costa might be able to prove or disprove Nixon’s suspicion, and in turn, it could either justify Jude’s claim or make a liar out of him. All we have is his word, and that man was at the Soccerplex when Crow vanished.”

My brow furrowed as I considered something else that bothered me. “Give me a sec.” I withdrew my phone and connected a call to my partner.

Jordyn answered immediately. “It’s like a three-ring circus here. Did you talk to Jude?”

“Yes, and I’m not sold on his explanation.

The video footage doesn’t show him taking Crow, so right now I have to believe him, but I’m going to the office to put together a warrant and see if I can’t get it signed.

I want Costa to go through the man’s finances, and that brings me to why I called. Is Nixon nearby?”

“He and his brother are in the garage, avoiding their parents. Imogen’s parents and their other daughter showed up. Good god, the bad blood runs thick in this family.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s some serious tension between Nixon’s dad, Benny, and Imogen’s mother, Diane. Putting them in a room together is akin to starting the next ice age. I almost wanted to frisk them for weapons.”

“Have you interviewed Imogen’s parents?”

“Yes, and no one wants to tell me why they hate their son- and daughter-in-law. No matter who I ask, things are swell. Bull-fucking-shit. Like I said, arctic cold.”

“Lovely. Do me a favor. Find Nixon and ask him where he had his meeting the Tuesday Crow vanished. The one that made him late to the game.”

“Give me a sec.”

I shared a smile with Aslan, who thumbed over his shoulder toward the food court. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

Jordyn had my answer long before Aslan returned, and it was not the answer I wanted. “He said it was at the office.”

“Thanks.”

I disconnected and stared at the patterning on the tile floor for a long time. Someone was lying.

While I stewed, Dontrel wandered by, offering a hearty hello. Before he got far, I called out. “Excuse me. Mr. Dontrel.”

The man spun, shoes squeaking, and hit me with a wide grin. “First name’s Dontrel. Last name’s Aston. ”

“My apologies. Can I ask you something, Mr. Aston?”

“Just Dontrel for a man of the law, and you can ask me anything, so long as it doesn’t breach confidentiality or require a warrant.” He wagged a finger, his smile never faltering. “I know the rules.”

“Of course. My question may or may not break the rules. You let me know. Nixon Davis. Does he use the courtyard to meet with clients?”

“Oh yeah. Sometimes. A lot of the business folk do. Easier to offer someone a coffee or a bite to eat. Mitigates the professional atmosphere. Plus, the sludge they call coffee in those offices upstairs is never good. I’ve had it.

Probably best to meet down here so as not to scare off clients, am I right? ”

I smiled. “The coffee at my office is never great either.”

“Then you understand.”

“Any chance you worked Tuesday afternoon?”

It took Dontrel a beat to think, but he nodded. “Yep. Here from two to ten that day. Switched shifts with a buddy of mine who had something going on with his kids.”

“Any chance you remember seeing Nixon down here in a meeting that afternoon. Sometime after five.”

Dontrel blew out his cheeks and rocked on his heels, wedging his thumbs in his belt loops.

“I can’t recall. There’s a lot of people coming and going around here.

I don’t keep tabs on them, you know? Got to be a couple hundred people working in this here building.

I never forget a name and a face, but I can’t keep track of schedules. ”

“I understand.” I offered Dontrel a business card. “If you happen to remember seeing him with anyone, please give me a call.”

“Will do.” I earned another invisible hat tip, and Dontrel wandered off.

Aslan returned with two steaming mugs of brew and a loaded paper bag .

My nose wrinkled before I could stop it. “What’s in there?”

“A couple of chicken salad sandwiches on croissants. It’s noon, hot stuff, and if we’re planning to race around writing up and delivering warrants, you need fuel. Breakfast was hours ago.”

Old Quaid would have quizzed him—on the type of mayo used, the reason he chose fatty croissants over whole grain bread, and if he’d added cheese or lettuce or salt to the sandwiches—but New Quaid, or rather the Quaid who’d spent the past year in therapy, went through mental gymnastics, reminding himself to stop assigning moral value to food.

The only bad food was spoiled or rotten, and all food was guilt-free because guilt was not an ingredient.

Food was the fuel required to make our body and brain function and keep us alive—hence why Aslan leaned heavily on using that particular word every time we ate.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, digging up a smile.

“That’s the fakest smile I’ve ever seen.” He handed me the coffee and pecked a kiss on my mouth. “Meet me at the office?”

“Yeah.”