Covenant

84

Casey Jeffs shook Tyrell’s hand and regarded him with a serene expression as they sat down opposite each other in the living room of Casey’s small apartment.

“What can I do f’ya, Detective?”

The apartment was devoid of excess furniture or trinkets. A simple crucifix dominated one wall of the lounge, and there was no television or music system in the room.

“You’ve a nice place here, Casey,” Tyrell said, looking around. “Been here long?”

“Sixteen years,” Casey replied, “ever since I’ve worked at the hospital.”

Tyrell retrieved a photograph from his pocket. “Do you recognize this man?”

Casey looked down at the black-and-white image.

“No.”

“His name is Damon Sheviz, and we believe he is responsible for a number of murders in Washington DC and in Israel.”

The Texan shifted as though he were being prodded with hot needles.

“What’s this got to do with me?”

“We think that there may be a connection between this man and Pastor Kelvin Patterson.”

“The pastor?” Casey asked, frowning.

Tyrell looked at the man’s expression and judged his apparent confusion to be genuine. He would need a different tack, and with Casey Jeffs he reckoned that brazenly revealing his knowledge might tease out a confession more quickly than more surreptitious means.

“How come you work at the hospital, instead of for your brother, Casey?”

“He runs a big corporation,” Casey said proudly. “Byron’s in Israel signing a big deal right now.”

“Is he now?” Tyrell replied, lifting one eyebrow.

Casey’s expression quivered as though he had woken from a brief nap. “How did you know about my brother?”

“I know a lot of things, Casey,” Tyrell murmured. “Byron keeps you a secret. Have you ever wondered why?”

Casey’s expression remained stoic, as though he were unable or unwilling to consider the complexities the question provoked.

“I ain’t given it much thought,” he replied awkwardly.

In truth, Tyrell hadn’t been sure of the family connection and maybe Casey wasn’t aware of the truth himself, but it explained everything. Bradley Stone had been a whiskey-drinking, cigar-smoking philanderer with a taste for younger women, and he was both willing and able to pay any amount for the company he sought. Casey was the orphaned son of a Texas hooker who had overdosed under suspicious circumstances, and his whole life had somehow been financed by persons unknown. Tyrell had suspected that Bradley and now Byron Stone were behind Casey’s covert financial security, probably to avoid scandal or more likely a lawsuit. Moreover, Casey had been on the stand for killing his own mother, but the case had collapsed due to witness testimony and the defense arguing that Casey was mentally incapable of both premeditated homicide and the deluding of detectives investigating the scene. That, of course, did not mean that the young Casey had done either the planning or the deluding. Nor did it mean that his mother had overdosed.

“How often does Byron fly to Israel on business?” Tyrell asked.

“Maybe twice a month.”

“And he flies with scheduled airlines?” Tyrell baited him.

“No. He has a private company jet.”

Tyrell nodded and smiled an ingratiating little smile. The gesture had the desired effect as Casey squirmed.

“We believe that the AEA is actively involved in illegal medical experiments, which have resulted in the deaths of at least three American citizens.”

Casey blinked, taking a few moments to absorb the information.

“Experiments?”

“Medical experiments on live people, only one of whom survived.”

“There was a survivor?”

“You know about that, Casey?”

Casey’s expression quivered.

“I think it’d be better if we had this conversation with a lawyer present.”

Tyrell sat back on the sofa, casually placing one hand in his jacket pocket to rest on a can of pepper spray nestled within.

“Can you tell me your whereabouts this afternoon?”

“I’ve been at work all day.”

“And you had a particularly busy day, didn’t you, Casey?” Tyrell saw the Texan’s larynx rise and fall silently in his throat. “You were in the hospital kitchens.”

Casey’s blue eyes flared brightly in surprise. Tyrell didn’t give him the chance to speak.

“We have your DNA, Casey,” he lied. “We know how you did it.”

Casey Jeffs shook his head. “No, you don’t, else you’d have arrested me already.”

“So you admit that you were involved?”

“I din’ say that. I din’ go nowhere near the boy.”

“I didn’t say that you went anywhere near him.”

“The boy was found with the pills; they were there in his room!”

“Seemed like the perfect crime, didn’t it?” Tyrell continued. “A mentally impaired boy enduring great suffering commits suicide by overdose in a locked and drug-free room. We find the pills and bottle on the floor, but nobody else went near the room and nobody saw him except his mother, who’s arrested for being the only person who could have given the drugs to him. Neat, Casey.”

Casey Jeffs stared at Tyrell with an impassive gaze that the detective recognized as the visage of the guilty, struggling to conceal emotions behind a facade of indifference.

“I had nothin’ to do with that boy’s murder.”

“Murder, Casey?” Tyrell echoed. “So you’re saying that it was murder now?”

Casey slammed a clenched fist down on the table between them.

“I didn’t kill the boy! He overdosed, locked in his room!”

“Didn’t you kill before, Casey?” Tyrell asked.

“I din’ kill no one!”

“The pill bottle on the floor, that was the key,” Tyrell went on. “He couldn’t have gotten them into his room — past all that security and all those checks and a police officer — in clothes that had no pockets. He could barely walk at all. Had to be his mother, didn’t it?”

“Suppose,” Casey muttered.

Tyrell watched Casey’s blue eyes transfixed on his own, unable to tear himself away from his own terminal demise.

“Actually, Casey, I don’t think there were any pills in that room at all.”