Deeper Than the Dead

69

“He’s lying!” Farman shouted.

“Frank, sit down and shut up,” Dixon ordered.

They had gone into the interview room next door to where Farman’s son had just declared him a murderer. Despite Dixon’s order, neither of them sat. They were two broad-shouldered men with their arms crossed, each of them laying claim to his section of the room.

Vince watched them on the monitor, knowing this wasn’t going to go well.

“I was told he’d been in a fight,” Farman said. “Was that just a lie to get me down here so you could accuse me of something, Cal? What the hell?”

“Dennis wasn’t in a fight, Frank. He attacked two kids in Oakwoods Park. He stabbed a boy. The child could die. Dennis is under arrest.”

Farman’s face dropped. “What? He did what?”

“He stabbed a boy. The boy is in surgery. He might not make it, Frank.”

Now Farman sat down as if his legs wouldn’t hold him up any longer. He looked dazed.

“I don’t understand,” he said, almost to himself. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with him. You know Sharon was drinking when she was pregnant with him. He’s never been right.”

“I brought his teacher in because I know she has some rapport with the boy,” Dixon said.

“Oh, great!” Farman said. “That snotty little bitch. Who knows what she’s put in his head. She’s got a problem with men—”

“Can it, Frank,” Dixon snapped. “Stay on point here. We’re talking about your eleven-year-old son committing a felony. I’m trying to decide where to house him. He’s too young to go to juvenile detention, let alone jail.”

“This is . . . I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Where’s your wife, Frank?” Dixon asked. “We’ve been trying to reach her. Now your son tells us she’s dead.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Why would he make that up?”

“Why would you believe him?” Farman countered angrily. “Jesus, Cal! We’ve known each other a dozen years. We’ve been through it together. And you turn on me like a fucking snake! I don’t get it. A week ago we were friends. I was your goddamn right hand!”

“I haven’t turned on you, Frank,” Dixon snapped back. “I’m doing my damn job! How hard do you think this is for me? My right-hand man is acting like a suspect. My right-hand man can’t account for himself when a girl was abducted. My right-hand man can’t tell me why his kid was in possession of the finger of a murder victim! Don’t give me all this wounded-friend bullshit!”

Vince went across the hall and knocked on the door before sticking his head into the room. “Sheriff, you have a phone call. It’s urgent.”

Dixon gave his right-hand man a final scathing look and exited the room. He was red in the face and breathing too hard.

“What’s the call? Is it Mendez?”

“The call is, You need to step out, boss,” Vince said. “This isn’t going anywhere good.”

Dixon jammed his hands at his waist and breathed in and out, visibly reining himself in.

“Let me talk to him,” Vince said. “I got no stake in him. I don’t know him from anyone. It’ll be easier for me to get what you need.”

Dixon nodded.

Vince walked into the interview room, coffee in hand, and took a seat at the table, turning his chair a little sideways so he could comfortably cross his legs in front of him.

Farman glared at him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“You should be happy to see me, Frank,” Vince said evenly. “I’m fucking Switzerland. I don’t know you. I got no history with you. I got no beef with you. There’s nothing personal going on here. I’ve got some questions. You’ve got the answers. It’s all good.”

Farman said nothing, but Vince could see him settle with the idea somewhat. He was going to have to answer these questions. Better to answer them with no emotion involved.

“So where’s your wife?” Vince asked. “She should be part of the discussion about your son. Let’s just get hold of her and clear this up.”

“She left,” Farman said.

“And went where?”

“I don’t know. We had an argument last night, and she left.”

“See?” Vince said, lifting his hands. “There’s always an explanation. Was that so hard?”

Farman said nothing.

“So, what happened?” Vince asked. “She got pissed off, took off, went to her mother’s, something like that?”

“I don’t know where she went. I admit I had too much to drink at dinner. I was an ass. Later I passed out. When I woke up this morning, she was gone.”

“Does she have a friend, a sister, or someone nearby?”

Farman shook his head, but to himself, as if he was having an internal conversation, considering and discarding answers. “I don’t know her friends.”

“Do you have kids besides Dennis?”

“Sharon’s two girls from her first marriage. They’re staying with friends or something. They’re teenagers. I don’t try to keep track of them.”

“You can see here, Frank, where this gets sticky,” Vince said reasonably. “Nobody knows where Sharon is, and your son is saying she’s dead and you killed her. If you weren’t in a uniform, what do you think would happen about now?”

“If I was smart, I would ask for a lawyer,” he said quietly.

“Is that what you want to do? You know what happens then, Frank. Everything goes totally by the book. You know the book inside and out. The lines of communication shut down. Or you can let your people go to your house, have a look around, see that everything is fine. You dig up the phone numbers of Sharon’s friends and family, and she’s contacted and everything is good.

“You shut it down now, you know where everyone’s head goes. You had too much to drink, you were pissed off about Dixon taking you off the team. You got into it with the missus, she said the wrong thing, you lost your temper. One thing led to another, things got out of hand, you panicked . . .”

Farman took a big breath, heaved a big sigh, put his face in his hands for a moment.

Come on, come on . . . Vince could feel he was on the edge of saying something. The moment hung there, getting heavier and heavier. And then it was gone.

“Dixon wants to search my house, fine,” he said, though he clearly was pissed off at the idea. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Vince nodded. “Okay.”

“But he has to do it himself. I don’t want Mendez in my house again.”

“Fair enough.”

“I want to see my son now.”

“You know that’s not going to happen until your wife shows up.”

“Then I’ll go,” Farman said, standing up. “I’ve got to get the boy a lawyer.”

Vince nodded and rose from his chair. “This is a tough situation, Frank. I’m sorry.”

Maybe the guy was a dick. Maybe he was worse than a dick. That didn’t make what was going on with his son any less a tragedy. If the man had any humanity at all, that had to hurt.

Farman nodded and walked out into the hall where Anne had just stepped out of the room next door.

“You put that in his head, didn’t you?” Farman said to her.

Anne stood right up to him. “Yes, because you wrote me a ticket for driving on your lawn, I got your son to stab another child and then accuse you of murder.”

“I told you before to mind your own business,” Farman growled, stabbing a finger at her.

“Your son is my business, and somebody should have stepped in a long time ago and done something. Now look what’s happening to him.”

“That’s not my fault,” Farman argued.

“He can’t be your son without you taking responsibility,” she said fiercely. “He didn’t turn out this way by accident.”

“You fucking little bitch,” Farman said quietly, backing her into the wall.

Adrenaline surging, Vince stepped in between them, put his hands on Farman’s shoulders and shoved him back against the opposite wall hard enough that he banged the back of his head.

“I was nice to you in there, Frank,” he said, pointing toward the interview room as he advanced on the deputy. “You give this lady a hard time, I’m not gonna be nice. I’m gonna kick your ass up between your ears. You should leave now before that happens.”

“Leave?” Anne said, incredulous, as Farman stalked off. “Isn’t he under arrest?”

“They don’t have anything to hold him on besides the say-so of a mentally disturbed eleven-year-old child,” Vince said. “We don’t know Sharon Farman is dead, or even missing. Did Child Protective Services get here?”

“Yes, they’re in with Dennis now,” she said and sighed. “He wants to know when he can go home.”

She wanted to cry for the boy, Vince could see. He walked her down the hall and they went out the end door to the side yard. They stood in the shade on the far side of an oak tree and he put his arms around her and just held her—and she just stood there and let him hold her, slipping her arms around his waist as if that was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m proud of you,” he said quietly.

“Proud of me? For what?” she asked, slipping out of his embrace as easily as she had slipped into it.

“You’re a tough little mouse, standing up to Farman like that.”

She frowned. “Look at all the damage he’s done. Dennis is never going to have a normal life, is he? Whether he’s in prison or not. He’s never going to get over this, is he?”

Vince shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, honey. I wish I could say different, but in my experience . . . He’s broken, and there’s probably no fixing him.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” she asked. “Throw him away? I don’t like that answer.”

“I know, but I don’t have a better one.” He reached a hand out to her and she took it without hesitation. “Maybe someday you could be one of the people who figures that out.”

“Someone has to try,” she said stubbornly.

“I know. I mean it. You’re great with your kids. You’re passionate about figuring them out and helping them. Not that teaching isn’t an important job, it is. But you could be making an even bigger impact on kids that need serious help.”

“I just want to do the best I can for them,” she said.

Vince leaned down and kissed her softly.

“You are one incredible lady, Anne,” he said, settling for those words instead of the ones that sat on the tip of his tongue—I’m falling in love with you.

He was forty-eight with a bullet in his head, falling in love on the third day of knowing Anne Navarre. That sounded a little crazy, even to him. But it was true . . . and he was going with it.