Paul Cleave - Blood Men

“No, the killer would have taken the money.”

“Maybe Kingsly was killed for an entirely different reason. Maybe the killer didn’t see the money.”

“Something you want to share, Edward?”

“We can spend the next hour here making guesses,” I say, “but at the moment the probation officer is the only thing we have.” I reach down and pick up the dead man’s shotgun. “Let’s take a drive.”

Schroder’s chest is burning and it’s tight and he swears there’s still water in there. Still, all things considered, he’s much better off now than he was twenty minutes ago. When he gets more time he’ll think about those moments between when he stopped breathing and when he started up again. He’s never been a religious person, but that hasn’t stopped him from hoping there’s something when all of this is over, maybe not a heaven in the traditional sense, but something close to it. If there is, he didn’t get to see it, or even glimpse it. For him there was nothing. No memory-not even a memory of darkness. Or a memory of nothing. That’s all there was. Drowning, and then not drowning anymore. Whoever said drowning was a peaceful death had no idea what they were talking about.

He follows Edward to the car. He can’t stop coughing. He walks slightly off balance like a man with an inner-ear infection-or like a man who has been brought back from the dead.

Edward’s car is still parked outside, and they take it since it doesn’t resemble an unmarked police cruiser. But first Edward grabs the paper bag out of Schroder’s car. Inside it are two sets of car keys and a wallet and another cell phone. They go past the patrol car with the dead officer inside. Partly it’s his fault what happened; Edward was right about that-if he’d pressed those in charge to get more people watching Edward’s daughter, maybe this could have been avoided. His notebook is wet but he’s able to get the probation officer’s name out of it, along with an address.

Edward drives because Schroder isn’t up to it. The only thing he really wants to do is curl up in the backseat and fall asleep. Nat gave him his cell phone, and he uses it to call Landry. He explains as much of the situation as he feels like explaining-not telling him where they’re heading-and listens as Landry updates him.

“Theodore Tate has been trying to get hold of you,” Landry says. “Where’s your cell?”

“Lost it. He leave a number?”

“He said he’d keep calling back every twenty minutes. Warden gave him permission to use the phone. He can reach you on the number you’re calling from?”

“Okay. Text me the number for the warden’s office and I’ll call.” He hangs up.

“You going to call the bank manager?” Edward asks.

“No.”

“You said before that-”

“I know what I said, and that was only to keep your in-laws happy. There’s no point in calling the bank. They won’t play ball. If I thought there was any chance at all that they’d help-no matter how small-I’d call them. Shit, this is a goddamn mess,” he says, more to himself than to Edward. “And I’m doing the wrong thing right now.”

“You’re doing the right thing,” Edward says. “Anything else and my daughter is dead. We’re doing what it takes to get her back.”

“Within reason,” he says.

Edward doesn’t answer.

“They matched the prints from the car,” Schroder says. “We got two names-and I’m pretty sure they’ll match the two dead men you’ve left behind.”

“You know who they work with?”

“They’ve worked with lots of people. We’re making progress. It’s only a matter of time until we have more names.”

“A matter of time. How much time? Five minutes? Five hours? Five days?”

The cell phone beeps. Landry’s text has come through with the number for the warden’s office. “Look, Edward, if I didn’t get your point I wouldn’t be here right now.”

He dials the number and it rings a couple of times before it’s answered by the warden. The warden doesn’t seem thrilled by the fact he’s still at the prison when he should be at home, but he doesn’t give Schroder too much grief about it.

“He’s here,” the warden says, and Schroder can hear the phone being put down on the desk and then picked back up.

“Roger Harwick,” Tate says, getting right to the point.

“Roger. . Hardwick?”

“Harwick. No ‘d.’ ”

“How do I know that name?”

“Everybody knows that name. You couldn’t have missed it. He was all over the news this year. He was a small-time newspaper columnist convicted of molesting teenage boys.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, remembering how much joy it gave the media, ripping one of their own apart.

“He’s served three months of a ten-year stretch. He’s been nothing but a sperm bank for everybody around him since he got his teeth knocked out his first night in the joint. I think he got offered protection to kill Hunter.”

“Any ideas who ordered the attempt?”

“I can keep asking around.”

“Yeah. I appreciate it,” he says, and hangs up.

“That was the prison you just rang, right?” Edward asks. “That about my father?”

“Yeah. We got a name.”

“That Harwick guy?”

“Yeah.”

“So you can spare resources to spend time at the jail, but you couldn’t spare them to look after my daughter? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“We’re going to find her,” Schroder says. “And no, we’ve got somebody on the inside working the angles.”

“What, you mean your friend you were telling me about who got arrested for drinking and driving? The ex-cop?”

“He’s reliable.”

“Who is he?”

“It doesn’t matter who he is,” Schroder says, “what’s important is what he learned.”

“I heard you talking with the warden this afternoon. I heard you mention a name. Tate. I recognized it. And the detective you spoke to a few minutes ago, I heard him mention it. He’s the guy you’ve been telling me about, right? Your buddy? Theodore Tate? The guy who got drunk and hurt somebody? Got people killed? He was in the news a lot last year. This the guy?”

“It doesn’t matter who it is,” Schroder says, dismissing the line of questioning.

“So why’d Harwick do it?”

“He was offered protection to do it. A murder like that this early on, Harwick would only get time served concurrently, maybe an extra year, but it increased his chances of living.”

The probation officer’s name is Austin Bracken. When they reach his house Schroder tells Edward to park up the driveway, but instead Edward pulls up two houses past.

“What the hell?”

“Just being cautious,” Edward answers, grabbing the shotgun.

“You won’t need that,” Schroder says, thinking that Edward looks more hopeful than cautious.

“You don’t know that.”

“We don’t know if he stole the money, and even if he did, this isn’t somebody looking for you. We question him, see what he knows, and if he has the money we take it. Then we do things both your way and my way-you get to deliver the money, but we call it in and get backup first-it’s safer for both you and your daughter.”

“He isn’t going to give up the money if he has it. What the hell are you expecting? Knock on the door and he’ll hand it over to you?”

“Something like that,” Schroder says fully aware that he doesn’t sound convincing. They’ll talk to Bracken, and if he gets a bad vibe he’ll call for backup. He’s not taking any more chances tonight.

“He deals with scumbags every day of his life,” Edward says. “You think you can break a person like that just by talking to him on his doorstep?”