Made to Be Broken

Chapter Nineteen

The murder of Janie Ernst was so sloppy, you'd almost think it was a pro, setting the scene to frame her boyfriend. No guy could possibly be that stupid, right? Come over for a Saturday night victory drink, leave his DNA all over the empty glasses, kill his girlfriend for her share of their profits, then drive home in her truck.

Sadly, the IQ of the average thug isn't really all that high. Add booze into the mix, and it drops even farther.

The question wasn't "whodunit," but whether we could get to him – and the answers I needed – before the cops found Janie and followed the four-lane highway of bread crumbs he'd left behind.

When I suggested going after the boyfriend right away, Jack brought up another reason to act fast – one I'd rather not have been reminded of. The killer may have left a trail a blind man could follow, but when the White Rock cops found Janie dead, they'd come knocking on the door of the person seen fighting with her earlier that day. Sure, they'd eventually get back on the right track… but only after they'd done what they could to make my life miserable. And once that happened, there'd be no way of getting to Bancroft to find Janie's boyfriend – not without a police cruiser or a reporter on my tail.

I tried not to picture Don Riley and his crew on my doorstep, the satisfaction on their faces, the rumors they'd spread, the business I'd lose just from those rumors. I tried not to imagine the press getting hold of it. Even if I wasn't a viable suspect, they'd love the excuse to disinter the story of Nadia Stafford, killer cop.

If only I'd resisted the urge to confront Janie.

"Well, that'll teach me" really didn't seem adequate.

We headed for Bancroft. It was a thirty-minute drive straight up Highway 28. We already had our interrogation gear on us, so we were set. The boyfriend's address would have been useful, and it rankled, knowing it was right in Benny Durant's office. But no matter how careful we were, it was an extra risk, especially after I'd been asking Durant about her property that same day.

So we were driving to Bancroft in hopes of finding Janie's truck. It was a small town, just a little bigger than White Rock. Still, even at four thousand people – and shrinking – that was a lot of driveways to search. And hunting for an old pickup in these parts was like searching for a new Mercedes in Toronto.

We started with a tour of the bar parking lots. Now, if you ask me, a guy who just killed his girlfriend shouldn't be heading out for beer, but Jack thought it was a strong possibility, and the more I considered it, the more it made a weird kind of sense.

I knew all the bars in Bancroft, since White Rock didn't have any, and I needed all the alternate venues at hand – addresses, directions, music variety, clientele type – for my guests. In Bancroft there were two, and one was attached to a restaurant.

We found Janie's truck at the other, a hole-in-the-wall called Charlie's. And we found her presumed killer, slumped over the steering wheel, dead drunk.

"Fuck," Jack muttered.

"You can say that again."

"Sure that's her truck?" Jack asked. We were parked at the end of the lane.

"Yep. See that dent in the front bumper? Get close enough and you'll see fur caught in it, from Mrs. O'Malley's late Irish setter, Red. Beautiful dog. Dumb as a post, but beautiful. This winter, Mrs. O'Malley found Janie passed out drunk in a snowdrift, got her inside, warmed her up, and called the doctor. Later, she suggested Janie needed help and tried to find a program for her. So Janie ran over her dog and left the fur in the bumper as a reminder to anyone else who might try to 'interfere' in her life."

"Should've left her in the snowdrift."

"I won't argue. And this is the woman we let raise Sammi. Isn't that what child services is for? Did anyone even call them when she was little?"

"Probably too scared to interfere."

"I've known Sammi since she was twelve. I wasn't afraid of Janie, but I still didn't do anything."

"By that time? Too old. Wouldn't want to leave."

"How do I know that if I never tried?"

"Gave her a job. No one else did."

"Too little, too late. No wonder she hated me – hated all of us." I undid my belt. "Okay, back to work. So how are we going to interrogate a guy who's passed out dead drunk in a truck in a public place?"

"Could be tricky."

"A master of understatement, as always."

I peeked in the passenger-side window. The man inside was in his fifties, with dyed black hair that he probably wore in a comb-over, but was now sticking straight up. He had his face planted on the steering wheel, every snore making that rooster comb quiver. We wouldn't need to see him wake up. We'd hear it.

The passenger door was locked. The driver's side wasn't, but I couldn't risk that slap of cold night air waking him when I opened it. I slid the slim jim in and jostled the passenger door open. Then a low whistle from Jack stopped me. I glanced over as a drunken couple wobbled my way, arms wrapped around each other. I dropped and rolled under the truck.

The woman's giggles twittered across the quiet lot. "Can you believe that place? It was like something out of a honky-tonk movie."

"Or a meeting spot for Rednecks Anonymous," the man said.

They roared with laughter, pleased by their incredible wit. More giggles. More jabs about the "rubes," who'd probably treated them with respect, served them full-strength drinks at reasonable prices, fed them an unlimited supply of peanuts and pretzels, and peppered them with suggestions for the best hidden fishing spots and scenic lookouts. I could rail against the stereotype, but the truth is that more than a few residents are just like me, with a high school education, driving a fifteen-year-old pickup, and only wearing makeup on special occasions. Doesn't make us worse; we just have a different set of values.

Apparently, though, all that crisp fresh air and undiluted booze was bringing out Mother Nature in this citified couple. Or maybe it was just all the drunken stumbling, grabbing each other for support. Before they were halfway across the lot, their giggles gave way to moans, their jibes to whispers of "oh, baby," proving they weren't any more articulate than our local high school dropouts.

The wet sound of sloppy kisses tempted me to do a little moaning of my own. Move along, people. I'm sure you have a perfectly good bed in your fancy inn. Undress out here, and you re going to freeze.

"Hmm, is that an open pickup bed over there?"

I had a mental flash of Janie's truck… and missing tailgate.

No. Please, no.

Two pairs of feet stumbled my way.

"Wait," the woman said. "There's a guy in there. Sleeping, I think."

"Then let's give him a thrill. Show these country bumpkins how it's done."

No. Please…

The truck jolted as they banged into the back. Rust rained down. The woman's feet disappeared as her partner lifted her onto the bed. A pair of panties landed in a puddle. He stayed standing, presumably just hiking up her skirt.

The bed rocked once. Twice. I wrapped my arms around my head and squeezed my eyes shut against the rust shower.

Three. Four.

It stopped. Shit, they'd woken him up. I braced for a shout or, worse, the engine starting.

"Good?" the woman panted.

"Yeah, babe."

That was it? I hadn't even had time to regret what I was missing.

They staggered off, leaving her panties still floating in the mud puddle. Once the couple had driven away, Jack gave an all-clear whistle. I crawled out and glanced in the truck cab. Our target was still snoring.

I prepped my materials, then took a deep breath. That brief rocking might not have woken him, but it could have started the process. I counted to five, then threw open the door and lunged across the seat, gag going around his mouth, turning his face away from mine before his eyes opened.

I didn't need to bother. I had the gag tied, the blindfold on, and the guy pulled flat on the seat and he kept sleeping. If it wasn't for the now-muffled snores, I'd have thought he was dead. It was only when I tried to bind him that he woke, flailing and elbowing me in the gut, knocking my wind out. Tight quarters for a takedown. Even tighter when Jack got in the passenger side to drive us out of there before someone noticed the struggle.

There were a few moments of chaos as I got the guy's hands and feet bound while trying to keep him off Jack's lap. Jack got kicked and elbowed a few times, including one in a place that probably smarted, but he didn't say a word, just drove from the lot.

By the time we reached the road, I had our guy fully restrained and on the floor at my feet. Then I sat up, face toward Jack, as if talking to him. The streets were empty, but if anyone did notice us, they'd see only a couple heading home. I didn't say a word, though. I wasn't giving our guy any sign that he was dealing with a woman. If he took that story back to White Rock, I'd have Don Riley on my doorstep in a flash.

When we neared the town limits, which didn't take long, I pulled out the man's wallet. Peter Weston. I showed it to Jack, so he'd have the name, then stuffed it back in the wallet and tossed it behind the seat.

Jack pointed to a sign announcing Eagle's Nest lookout.

I shook my head. It was a great location – a thickly wooded hill with a winding road going up – but on Saturday night, even this late, we couldn't be sure local teens wouldn't be using it for more than sightseeing.

It didn't take long to leave the town lights behind. Out here, civilization is just a hole carved from the wilderness, the thick woods always at the outskirts, waiting patiently to reclaim their territory. In more than a few places up here, that's exactly what's happened. Our ghost towns are nothing like the empty buildings and dusty streets of the old West, but just village ruins overtaken by Mother Nature, the footprint of man growing fainter with each year.

Jack drove a couple of kilometers from town, then he headed down side roads until we found a lot with a For Sale sign so weather-beaten it was almost illegible. There are plenty of good building lots up here. This just wasn't one of them. Maybe the forest was too dense to clear, the ground too rocky, the lakes too far, or – the kiss of death – it was too near a potential native land claim.

Jack drove up a rutted lane and parked behind a curtain of brush. I hauled Weston out and dragged him deeper into the woods as Jack cleared a path with his crutch, the harsh thwacks betraying his frustration at leaving the heavy work to me.

Once I got Weston in place, facedown in the undergrowth, I retreated, staying close enough to hear but too far to be tempted to jump in with "extra persuasion."

Jack reached down, grabbed Weston's hair, yanked his head back, and ripped off the gag. Weston only moaned and mumbled something about his head.

"Out celebrating tonight, Peter?" Jack said. "Feeling a little extra flush?"

"Ow, my head. My head hurts."

"Answer the question, Peter."

"I don't know what you're talking about. My head – "

"Janie Ernst."

Weston went rigid and, after that, it didn't matter what he said. We knew we had Janie's killer.

"I don't know no – "

"You were involved with her. You were seen coming out of her house tonight, right before one of my associates went in and found her with a broken neck, shoved behind the sofa."

It took Weston at least ten long seconds to muster up an appropriate exclamation of shock and dismay. Then he stopped short.

"Are you guys cops?"

Jack gave an ugly laugh. "You wish. Have you ever heard of the Rock Machine?"

"S-sure. A biker – um, I mean motorcycle club. Janie used to run with them back in the day. But they were swallowed up by the Banditos and the Angels." Again he stopped. "Are you guys from – "

"Let's just say Janie's relationship with our organization isn't as far in the past as she led you to believe."

"That bitch! That cold, sneaky bitch. She was holding out on me. Said she didn't have any money coming in, but she did, didn't she? She was working for you guys."

"If she was, you can see how her untimely death might cause us some concern."

"I didn't have nothing to do with – "

This time it was the swish of a switchblade that cut Weston short. His head jerked up, turning wildly, as if he could see through the blindfold.

"What's – " he began.

Jack bent and pressed the knife tip into the back of his neck.

"Hey!"

Jack dug it in farther. "Feel that?"

"Y-yes."

"Know what happens if I go another half inch?"

"N-no."

"You'll be paralyzed."

"P-par – "

"Not permanently. Just for a day or so. Full paralysis, though. Won't be able to move a muscle." A pause. "Do you know what lives in these woods? Black bears, wild dogs, coyotes, maybe even a wolf or two, wandered on down from Algonquin. Plus you've got your smaller predators like martens, weasels, rats, and the birds – the hawks and the vultures. Normally, humans are too big a challenge, but if you've got a few nice cuts leaking blood, and you're just lying there, not moving, they'll take a nibble. They won't bother killing you first. They'll just feed, while you lie there, unable to move, blink, scream…"

"I killed Janie, but it was an accident. I just got so mad at her, holding back, that I went a little nuts. I started whaling on her, and next thing I know, she's dead."

"Holding back. You mean she wouldn't give you her share from a job?"

He squirmed. "Well, no, it wasn't a job, so it wasn't really my share, but it'd been my idea. So I was entitled to a little advance, right?"

"So where'd the money come from if it wasn't a job?"

"From the house."

"Selling the house?"

"Right."

"That was your idea?"

"Right. With that kid of hers gone, Janie kept moaning about how she wouldn't have any money coming in. She didn't have a job… or so she said, though I guess she forgot about working for you. The bitch."

"The house…?"

"I said she should sell the place to that real estate guy who keeps bugging her, then move in with me. It was my idea, so I thought she should give me a little cash, you know, as a thank-you."

Jack glanced back at me. For a moment, I couldn't respond, seeing my theory – my only theory – shatter around me. Then I motioned for Jack to push, but didn't need to – he'd already returned to Weston.

"What do you know about Sammi Ernst's disappearance?"

"The girl pissed off. Left her mom in the lurch. Un grate ful brat."

Jack pressed harder, but it was clear Weston knew nothing of Sammi's fate and, apparently, neither had Janie, who'd been scrambling to make up for the lack of rent money.

"So you went to ask for a few bucks, had a drink, got into a fight, and accidentally killed her."

"Exactly. I swear that's how – "

"I believe you."

Weston slumped. "Thank God."

"And now you're going to take that story to the cops."

"What?"

Jack leaned down, knife digging in. "You think my employer wants the cops nosing around in Janie Ernst's past?"

"No, but – "

"You said it was an accident. You were drunk. Hell, you were so drunk you took her truck."

"Mine's not running so well," Weston whined.

"Point is, you're looking at manslaughter, tops. Even if you do time, you'll be out before you know it, and back to your life." He bent farther. "Which you aren't going to have if you don't turn yourself in."

Weston audibly swallowed.

Jack twisted the switchblade. "Remember how I said you'd die if you didn't tell me the truth? Well, if you don't tell the cops, you're going to wish I'd killed you."

"O-okay I'll go see them in the morning – "

"You'll see them tonight. If you want manslaughter, you're damned well going to want to prove remorse. And you want to prove you were drunk while the booze is still swimming around your blood. You'll go to them tonight and, as for me, I was never here, right?"

"R-right."

"And just in case you think of running? Remember who you're dealing with. This isn't some pissy local gang. Wherever you go, we'll find you, and when we do, it'll be too late to change your mind."

As Weston babbled promises, Jack tossed Janie's keys into the undergrowth. Then he untied Weston's hands, leaving him to get the blindfold off and his legs freed before he found the keys. That meant we'd have a lengthy head start, which we'd need, considering we had to walk all the way back to town for my truck.

There was no way I was making Jack limp for five kilometers. Of course, I wasn't stupid enough to offer to get the truck – I just waited until we got back on the main road and took off, his muttered curses fading behind me.

When I returned, I drove right past Jack, who'd stepped into the ditch when he saw lights. But I caught his wave through the mirror and turned around.

I took the long way out, circling Bancroft so I wouldn't be seen passing through twice in a few minutes. Not that there was anyone around, but I wasn't taking chances.

"That stuff about paralyzing someone," I said. "It's bullshit."

A faint smile. "Are you sure?"

"Ninety-nine percent."

"Would you risk it?"

"I guess not," I said with a laugh. "I'll have to remember that one. Anyway, about getting him to confess? I hadn't thought of that, but it'll make things much easier if no one comes banging on my door."

"Thought so."

I glanced at him. "Thanks."

A shrug. "Easy enough."

Ten kilometers of dense forest passed in silence, then I said, "So I was wrong again."

"Both of us were. Got the killer right. Just the wrong motive." He rubbed his leg above the cast. "The wrong motive for Janie. Maybe not wrong for Sammi."

"You think someone else killed her to steal Destiny."

He nodded.