Blood Loss

62

Ren walked away from her meeting with Taber Grace in a trance.

I could not have had this all wrong. All this time? I’m trying to clear the name of a man with a thing for teenage girls?

She remembered Matt: ‘I’m concerned your judgment is impaired … that’s what happens.’

Oh my God. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I can’t trust myself. Maybe I can’t trust anything.

Ren went through her conversation with Taber Grace over and over.

Or maybe I just can’t trust Matt.

Then she remembered one thing Taber Grace had said: ‘I was able to access Mark’s computer … and what I found there wasn’t very pleasant. Photos of teens. Lots of them. The same ones your agents are about to find.’

Oh. My. God. He could only have known that we were about to access Mark Whaley’s computer if Nolan Carr had told him. Taber Grace was lying. But why would he lie?

Ren called Cliff.

‘Cliff, it’s Ren. Is there anything you can tell me about Taber Grace?’

Silence.

‘He’s a good guy,’ said Cliff. ‘And he’s an excellent P.I. He’s an IT expert, obviously.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Better than Grabien.’

I love it.

‘I met with him,’ said Ren. ‘He says he was hired by Mark Whaley, because Whaley suspected MeesterBrandt of illegal practices and he wanted to blow the whistle, and to have as much evidence as possible to back that up. Instead, what Taber Grace discovered, apparently, was evidence that Mark Whaley was into teenage girls …’

‘Really?’ said Cliff. ‘Did that ring true to you? We found nothing like that.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ren. ‘No. Cliff, why was Taber Grace fired?’

‘I don’t know why he was fired, just that he was,’ said Cliff. ‘And I was sad to see him go. Afterwards, I know that his wife tried to kill herself, and that it was really hard on him. Taber Grace’s life took a sad turn. It was like it just drifted away from him. One thing I do know, married or not, he would do absolutely anything for Melissa and Taber Jr.’

‘Like lie in a big way?’ said Ren.

‘If they were in any danger, Ren, you bet your ass. I’d do the same myself, and I wouldn’t lose one night’s sleep over it.’

Ren’s phone rang. It was Glenn Buddy.

‘Meet me at Fuller Park by Humboldt Street and 29th,’ he said. ‘We’ve had a report of an attempted rape.’

‘Shit,’ said Ren. ‘Bad news is I’m forty-five minutes away.’

‘Could you swing by anyway — we’ll probably still be there, we need to talk to as many people there as we can.’

‘Sure,’ said Ren.

Thirty minutes later, Ren pulled in behind Glenn Buddy’s car. She could see him in the driver’s seat. She knocked on the passenger window and he told her to hop in.

‘Turns out,’ said Glenn, ‘that the park is practically empty, because of the last rape. There was barely anyone there to ask questions to.’

‘And what about the victim?’ said Ren.

‘We took her down to the station to try to work with the forensic artist,’ said Glenn.

‘So, my work here is done,’ said Ren.

‘Yup, sorry I didn’t text you, but I figured you were only a few minutes away at that stage.’

‘That’s OK,’ said Ren. ‘Depending on what the victim says, if he fits the bill, we’ll at least have a fourth location — enough to get a decent geographical profile.’

Glenn nodded.

‘You know who to call at the FBI for that,’ said Ren.

‘Yup, thanks,’ said Glenn.

Ren got back in her car and pulled out. She took a right onto 29th Avenue. She started to drive back to the office. Then she thought of Bradley Temple, MD. Then she thought of Gary’s words.

Back off. Until we have proof, back off.

Bradley Temple could have proof.

Casinos. Losing money.

What would I do if I wanted a man with a gambling problem in my pocket? Bring him to Vegas, shower him with money and strippers, then ask for one teeny-tiny favor. Then repeat. For two decades.

Ren drove toward the left-hand turn-off for Steele Street. Gary’s words were there, solid, at the forefront of her mind: ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand you at all.’

Me neither.

She took the left.