The Competition

37

The sky was turning to hues of purple and indigo when we pulled up to Evan’s house. It was downright cold now that the sun had set. I was glad I’d worn my peacoat and cashmere scarf. This time we met Evan’s father. John Cutter had that tight, lean muscle and super-groomed, short-haired look that screamed military.

“Did you happen to know Logan, Mr. Cutter?” I asked.

“I met him a few times when he was here to see Evan, but I can’t say I formed any strong impression one way or the other. He seemed pretty introverted.” He shook his head. “I guess you just never know, do you?”

“You really don’t,” I said. “Have you ever met a person named Shane Dolan?”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell. If you had a picture, I might-” Bailey showed him the photo she had on her cell phone. Cutter shook his head. “No, I’d remember if I saw a man like that in my house.”

Like the k in knuckle, the “he-wouldn’t-step-foot-in-this-house-again” was silent. “Do you mind if we speak to Evan in his room?” I asked.

“Not a problem.”

Bailey and I followed him down the hall. “Evan has an older sister in grad school back East, doesn’t he? Does she come home much?”

“No. Once she moved out to college, it was just Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

“So it’s been, what? Five years since she lived here?” Bailey asked.

“About that, yes.”

We’d let local police back East check with her about Shane, but it was probably a dead end. There were two doors at the end of the hall. A thumping bass was vibrating behind the door to our left. Cutter rapped his knuckles sharply on that door, and a faint voice replied, “Yeah?”

“The detective and deputy district attorney are here to see you, Evan. Open up.” He put his hands on his hips and stared at the door with impatient eyes.

The music got softer right away, but it took a few long moments before the door opened. Evan looked like he’d had a bad night. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face looked drawn and pinched.

“Hey, Evan,” I said. “We’ve just got a few questions for you. It won’t take much time, I promise.”

He nodded, dipped his head, and stood aside to let us enter. I turned to Mr. Cutter. “Thank you. We’ll just be a couple minutes.”

Cutter wanted to listen in. I could tell he was fighting the urge to say that it was his house and he’d damn well be in any room he wanted. But his better instincts won out. He nodded and left us. We stepped inside and closed the door. Evan leaned against his desk.

“How’re you doing?” Bailey asked.

Evan shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

I guessed otherwise but knew better than to call him on it. “It’s a tough time for you, I know. We won’t take long. Just a few questions, okay?”

Evan gave a resigned nod.

“Do you know someone named Shane Dolan?” I asked.

He frowned, then shook his head. “No.”

Bailey pulled up Shane’s photo on her cell and showed it to him. “Do you recognize this person?”

Evan studied the photo. “No.” A worried look crossed his face. “Who is that?”

“We think he might be a friend of Logan’s,” I said. “Did Logan ever talk about someone named Shane?”

“No, not that I remember.” Evan’s eyes strayed back to the photo. “And I know I never saw that guy with him.” He was trying to act cool. But as he said it, he gripped the edge of the desk he’d been leaning against.

“Evan, we’re looking out for you,” I said. “I don’t want you to worry about…anything.”

He looked at me briefly, then lowered his head. “I’m okay.”

“Did Logan ever talk to you about a guy who had access to guns?” Bailey asked.

“No.”

He stared at the floor. His expression was tortured. But it was also tight and unyielding. It didn’t matter how much I tried to reassure him. He was scared, and hearing about this Shane character had only made matters worse. We wouldn’t get anything more out of him. At least, not now.

I noticed his laptop on the desk near the window. It was closed. But I’d bet it hadn’t been before he opened the door. “Evan, I’d like to take your computer for just a few days, if you don’t mind.”

That snapped his head up. “What? Why?”

“Because Logan must have sent you emails. There might be something in them that gives us a clue as to where he might be. And he may even try to reach out to you.”

“You don’t have to agree, Evan,” Bailey said. “But I’m about a hundred percent certain we can get a search warrant for it. ’Course, if we do that, it might take forever to get it back to you because it’ll be considered evidence. That means we’ll have to hang on to it until the case is all over. Could take years.” Bailey turned to go. “But, you know, your call.” It wasn’t technically accurate that we’d have to hold it ad infinitum, but she was definitely right that we’d be able to get a warrant.

“If I let you take it now, do you promise to give it back in a week or so?”

“No promises,” Bailey said. “But it’ll sure be a lot sooner than if we take it with a warrant.”

Evan unplugged the laptop and handed it over, looking glum. I felt sorry for him. And increasingly worried. Not so much about his safety-the local cops were keeping an eye on him, and I didn’t believe Logan was really a threat. It was his mental state that worried me. “Look, the cops are watching the house, and if you want, we can try and get you extra security, okay?”

“I’m good, really,” Evan said. “You don’t need to get me any more security.”

“You’re sure?” I said.

“Yeah, save the manpower for the real problems. I’ll be fine.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. But I was sure that was the answer his father would’ve liked. We walked out of the room and called out to John Cutter that we were leaving.

Oddly, Cutter seemed more upset at our taking the laptop than Evan. “Why on earth do you need his computer?” Bailey explained that it might have information on Logan Jarvis. He put his hands on his hips. “What’s he supposed to use for school?”

“We won’t keep it that long,” Bailey said. “But I’ll check with our Computer Crimes Unit and see if they can line up a loaner for you.” She tucked the laptop under her arm and reached out to shake his hand. He frowned and reluctantly gave Bailey’s hand a firm single pump. It looked to me like his grip had a little something extra in it, so I decided not to risk it.

“Were you in the Marines, Mr. Cutter?” I asked.

“Seventeen years. How did you know?”

“Just a guess.”