The Buck Stops Here (9 page)

I swallowed hard, thinking,
Me too.

“Anyway, I didn’t even wait for J.T. I just slammed down the throttle and took off. I wasn’t sure how far I’d have to go, but then pretty soon the guy starts slowing down like nothing’s going on. He pulls into the Docksider and ties up. By the time I got out of my boat, he was walking up the dock.”

“What happened then?”

“Well, I was a wrestler in high school,” Harry said, “so I used some of my moves to get him down. He wasn’t nothing but a little guy anyway. I pinned him to the dock and held him there till we started drawing a crowd. A buddy of mine owns the Docksider, and I hollered for him to call the police, that we had ourselves a hit-and-run boat driver.”

“So if it hadn’t been for you,” I said, “he would’ve gotten away.”

“If it hadn’t been for me,” he said, “I don’t think that boy would’ve even known what he done. I said to him, ‘Didn’t you even hear that big thwack? Didn’t you feel it?’ He says, ‘I just thought I clipped a little driftwood.’”

So it really
wasn’t
Tom who killed my husband, which had been my greatest fear. I breathed a deep, long sigh of relief.

“You know, I was gonna testify and everything,” Harry said. “But then that fella pleaded guilty and they ended up not having a trial.”

“Have you ever heard anything about him since?” I asked.

“Nah. It’s old news now. He got a pretty stiff sentence from what I recall—though of course you know that. I ’magine he’s locked up tight over at the state penitentiary.”

“I imagine so.”

We talked a moment longer, but I had already learned what I needed to know. I thanked the man again and hung up, glad at least that I had been able to acknowledge the good he had done.

I started up the car and drove to the police station, finding it tucked away on a little side street. It was a cute building, red brick with white trim and an American flag flying out front. I found parking at a meter down the block, and then I walked back toward the station, wishing I had kept my suit on after all. Somehow, I knew jeans wouldn’t make quite the same impression.

I’m not sure what made me glance back over my shoulder as I turned to take the wide white steps to the main entrance. But look back I did, and I caught a glimpse of someone, a man, suddenly ducking into a doorway. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, except for the fact that he hadn’t made his move until I turned my head. Feeling a deep sense of foreboding, I proceeded into the building. At least I would be safe inside a police station.

At the front counter, I asked for Officer Darnell Robinson. A man pointed toward a fellow sitting at a desk not too far behind him.

“Darnell!” he called. “Somebody here to see you.”

The man looked up, the same officer I recognized from the newspaper photo. He stood and waved me over.

“Can I help you?” he asked, looking as though he’d rather not help me. Mostly, he just looked tired.

“Officer Robinson?” I said. “I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment.”

“Sure,” he said, gesturing toward the chair that sat alongside his desk. “I’m off in about ten minutes, but I can help you if it’s quick. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Callie Webber,” I said. “You probably don’t remember me, but my husband was killed here in town about four years ago.”

“Killed?”

“In a hit-and-run boating accident on the river. You were the arresting officer.”

His eyes widened and then filled with understanding. He nodded, leaning back a bit in his chair.

“Of course,” he said. “Mrs. Webber. You and your husband were water-skiing at the time.”

“Yes.”

“I remember it very well.”

He looked at me, so I continued.

“I’m back in town for the first time since it happened,” I said, “and I’m really just trying to piece together the facts of the case. I wonder if you could fill in some blanks for me, things that weren’t in the newspapers.”

“I can try. There were a lot of us involved in the case at first. I’m not sure I’ll be able to tell you everything you want to know.”

“Mainly I was just wondering about James Sparks, the man who killed my husband. I want information. Does he live around here, or had he come on vacation? Whose boat was he driving that day? Was it his? And so on.”

“James Sparks,” he said, thinking. “Yeah, he was staying up the river, not too far from where the accident happened. A fancy rental home. The boat came with the house, I believe.”

“Do you know if he was staying there alone?” I asked.

The officer shook his head.

“I don’t rightly remember,” he said, “but it’s a big place, four or five bedrooms. Goes for a couple hundred a night. Most folks don’t pay that much just to stay by themselves.”

“Does the name ‘Tom Bennett’ mean anything to you? Do you know if he was also staying there at that time?”

“No, I’m sorry. The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Do you have the address of the house, or maybe the name of the rental company that handled it?”

“The house is out on Randall Road, the last one just after it dead ends. I could check the file to find out who manages the property. The information might be in there.”

“I would appreciate it.”

He stood and went into another room, and while he was gone I opened up my notebook and skimmed through what I had written, trying to remember what other questions I wanted to ask. Before I could think of anything else, Officer Robinson was back at his desk, looking confused.

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing there,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“The file on James Sparks,” he said. “It’s missing.”

The officer tried to be as helpful as he could, but there was no record of James Sparks—on paper or in the computer.

“Somebody goofed somewhere,” he said finally, staring at the computer screen. “I can put a request out. Maybe his file’s been pulled and is sitting on somebody’s desk.”

He gestured around the room, and I guessed I was supposed to take into consideration the number of desks that were there.

“What should I do?” I asked.

He pulled a business card out of his top drawer and handed it to me.

“Give me a call here tomorrow after one. I’ll see if I can find the file before then.”

“Okay,” I said hesitantly. Something about this felt very wrong.

I reached in my bag and pulled out one of my J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation business cards. I scribbled my cell phone number on the back and then handed the card to him.

“If you find something sooner, could you call me?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, looking at the card. “What’s the ‘J.O.S.H.U.A.’ stand for?”

“I wish I knew,” I said.

Eight

Back out on the street, I looked cautiously around before walking toward my car. It was broad daylight and I was near a police station, but still I felt apprehensive, remembering the man I thought was following me earlier.

Still, I made it to my car with no incident and without seeing a single passerby on the road. As I started it up and pulled out, I made sure no one was following me, adding several odd switchbacks just to be certain. There was no one there. It must have been a coincidence.

Once I felt confident that I was all alone on the road, I pulled into a nearby parking lot to study the county map. I found Randall Road and then traced with my finger the way to get there from here. I would need to cross the river and come at it from the other side.

I followed the route I had worked out, trying to calculate how much more daylight I had left. By the time I turned onto Randall Road, I figured that the sun would probably set in about an hour. That should be plenty of time for what I needed to do.

As I drove I thought of what Officer Robinson had told me when I asked for the address of the rental house where James Sparks had been staying at the time of the accident.

The house is out on Randall Road, the last one just after it dead-ends,
he had said, so I stayed on the road as it followed the river, and after about five miles it finally looked as if there were an end in sight. When I followed a slight rise and could see far behind me in the rearview mirror, I was glad to confirm that mine was the only car on this road.

Randall Road petered out in a heavily wooded spot with one lone driveway shooting out from the end like a spur. Ignoring the “Private Property” signs, I turned into the driveway beside a mailbox marked “4839 Randall Road,” pulling past the screen of trees to see a big riverfront home, the lawn wide and expansive, the house itself pretty but not ostentatious. On the other side, of course, lay the river, wide and dark and slow moving.

There were no cars here, and the place looked empty, closed up tight. Still, I drove all the way up to the house, got out, and went to the door. I knocked and rang the bell several times, but no one came. I tried peeking through the windows, but there were no lights on inside, so I couldn’t see much. What I did see looked like a typical upscale vacation rental—wide fireplace, sturdy furniture, muted tones.

I walked around the house and noticed a graceful porch fronting the river, with a walkway leading down to a dock and an over-the-water shed. I followed the walkway to that shed, peeking inside and then catching my breath at the sight of the red cigarette boat docked there. Was it the same boat, the one that had struck Bryan and killed him? I stared hard at the waterline, near the front, but I couldn’t see any dents or marks. Of course, the accident had happened several years ago. With a nice boat like that, any damage caused by striking Bryan’s body would have been repaired by now.

From my vantage point, I looked out at the river, trying to calculate how far this was from the scene of the accident. From what I could tell, it wasn’t far at all, maybe a quarter of a mile, just enough for the boat to pick up some speed.

Frustrated, I headed back up the walk, taking the steps onto the front porch. There were no curtains on these windows, and I could see a little better. The place was nice inside, with a large kitchen and a table with seating for ten near the windows.

There was something on the kitchen counter, a sort of brochure that was propped up, with the word “Welcome” printed on it. I couldn’t make out what else the thing said, so I quickly ran to the car, dug out the binoculars I had bought earlier, and came back for a better look.

“Welcome!” the top line said in large red letters, and then in smaller letters the next line said, “We hope your stay is a pleasant one. Please read the following information.”

There was a bulleted list of rules about things like trash disposal and recycling, and information on where different items could be found, such as “Local maps in top right drawer of credenza.” At the bottom was a small logo, with the words “Chalfont Vacation Homes, Richmond, Virginia.”

Back in the car, I was frustrated to see that my cell phone couldn’t get service. I started up and drove back the way I had come. I finally got service once I was on the highway, so I pulled over into an abandoned gas station, left the car running, and dialed information for Chalfont Vacation Homes in Richmond. They connected me right away, and when a woman answered, I asked for the agent who handled 4839 Randall Road. After a moment, a woman picked up, identifying herself as “Misty.”

“How can I help you today?” she asked cheerily.

“My name is Callie Webber,” I said, “and I’m a private investigator. I need to ask you a few questions about a rental property you handle at 4839 Randall Road, near Riverside.”

“Yes? Is there a problem with the house?”

“No, ma’am,” I said. “This is regarding an incident that happened several years ago. An accidental death involving a man who was staying at that house at the time.”

“He died in the house?”

I pinched the area between my eyes.

“No, the man was staying in the house. The death happened nearby. On the river.”

“Oh. Okay. What do you need to know?”

I tried to make my voice sound nonchalant, though I knew that what I was asking for was probably against the rules for her to give.

“I need the name that the house was registered under at that time.” I gave her the date; she repeated it back to me and then asked me to hold on.

While I waited, I tried to decide what I would do once I heard the inevitable, that the house had been rented under the name “Tom Bennett.” I had nearly convinced myself that this was the case, that Tom felt responsible for Bryan’s death because he had coordinated the vacation that had brought his friend James Sparks to the house, to the river. That wouldn’t explain all of the weirdness, all of the secrecy, behind my meeting with Tom and the lawyer, but at least it would give him a tangible claim for guilt—and a starting place for me to begin finding forgiveness.

“Miss Webber?” Misty said.

“Mrs. Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but this is odd. I can’t tell you who rented the house that week.”

“I know it’s probably against the rules, but it’s just a simple request that would save me an enormous amount of—”

“No, you don’t understand. If you’re an investigator, I don’t mind telling you what you need to know. But that week isn’t in the files.”