The Last Child

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Hunt felt so many things as he stepped out of the room: confusion and doubt about what Katherine had claimed to read in Johnny’s notes; anger and frustration that the boy would not talk to him; relief that the kid was alive, and that Tiffany, too, had survived. Hunt pressed his shoulder blades against a cold wall and ignored the people who passed, the looks they gave. He was exhausted and worried, but hoped that the death of Burton Jarvis was the beginning of the end, that the old man’s violent end was the first step in unraveling Alyssa’s disappearance, too. He tried to convince himself that the sick bastard was alone in the terrible things he’d done; but something foul and slick worried through the back of his mind.

A cop?

Was it even possible?

Hunt tried one more time to decipher the tight scrawl of Johnny’s notes. Some of it was in pencil, smudged. Parts were water stained, others marred by soot and pine sap and tears in the paper. Hunt could read just enough to know that there was more. He wanted to kick the door down and squeeze an answer from the boy.

Damn it!

The kid knew things. Hunt was certain of it. He pictured again, as he had so many times, the black eyes and wariness, the profound stillness of deep and careful thought. Johnny was messed up in so many fundamental ways, confused, twisted sideways; but the clarity with which he saw certain things…

Loyalty. Fierceness. Determination.

These attributes made the boy so much more than mere impediment. They made Hunt proud and protective. Johnny should know how rare these things had become, how precious in this world. Hunt wanted to put an arm around the kid, make him understand, and, at the same time, he wanted him to stop.

Hunt stepped into the parking lot, and the sun was too bright, the air too pure. Green grass and sunshine made no sense on a day like this. He looked up at the sixth floor. Johnny’s room was at one end, Tiffany’s at the other. The building gleamed white, and the windows threw back perfect blue.

Hunt moved for his car and was halfway there when he saw the man in the suit. Reedlike, hunched at the shoulders, he moved from a recess near the far corner of the building, ducked between two cars, and came up on Hunt’s right side. Hunt catalogued him automatically. Hands in plain view, affable smile. He carried folded pages in one hand. A hospital administrator, Hunt guessed. A visiting relative.

“Detective Hunt?”

Thirties, wispy hair, skin slightly pocked. His teeth were white and straight. “Yes.”

The man’s smile broadened and one finger rose. He looked as if he were trying to place a familiar face. “Detective Clyde Lafayette Hunt?”

“Yes.”

He handed Hunt the folded pages and his smile dropped away as Hunt took them. “You’ve been served.”

Hunt watched him go, then studied the papers. He was being sued, by Ken Holloway.

Shit.

Levi Freemantle’s probation officer worked in a warren of offices tucked away on the third floor of the county courthouse. Linoleum peeled from the hall floor and eighty years of nicotine stained the plaster walls. The office doors were dark oak under transom windows that leaned out on brass hinges. Sound carried from behind the doors: arguments, excuses, tears. It had all been heard before. A hundred times. A million. Lies came in a flood, which made a career probation officer one of the most astute judges of human nature that Hunt had ever seen.

He found Freemantle’s PO in the ninth office down. The plaque on the door frame said Calvin Tremont, and the door stood open. Files were stacked on chairs and on the floor. A fan churned warm air from its place on a scratched metal cabinet. The man behind the desk was known to Hunt. Medium height, wide through the gut, he was close to sixty, with salted hair and lines that looked almost black where they creased his dark skin. Hunt knocked on the door.

When Tremont looked up, his face carried a ready frown, but it didn’t last. He and Hunt had a solid relationship. “Hello, Detective,” he said. “What brings you up here?”

“One of your people.”

“I’d offer you a seat, but…” He spread his fingers in a gesture that included the files on both chairs.

“This won’t take long.” Hunt stepped into the office. “I left a message yesterday. This is about the same matter.”

“First day back from vacation.” He gestured again. “I’m not even through my e-mails yet.”

“Good trip?”

“Family at the coast.” He said it in such a manner that it could mean almost anything. Hunt nodded and did not push. Parole officers were like cops; they rarely did personal.

“I need to talk about Levi Freemantle.”

Tremont’s face offered up the first real smile Hunt had seen. “Levi? How’s my boy?”

“Your boy?”

“He’s a good kid.”

“He’s forty-three.”

“Trust me, he’s a child.”

“We think your child killed two people. Maybe three.”

Tremont’s head moved like the neck joint was oiled. “I suspect that you’ve made a mistake.”

“You sound certain.”

“Levi Freemantle looks like the biggest badass on the street, like he’d kill you for a nickel bag, which is not always a bad thing when you have nothing. But I’ll tell you straight, Detective. He wouldn’t kill anybody. No way. You’ve made a mistake.”

“You have his address?” Hunt asked.

Tremont nodded and rattled it off from memory. “He’s been there about three years.”

“We found two bodies at that address,” Hunt said. “A white female, early to mid-thirties. Black male, approximately forty-five years of age. We found them yesterday. They’ve been dead for most of a week.” Hunt gave it a moment to sink in. “Do you know a Clinton Rhodes?”

“Is he the dead guy?”

Hunt nodded.

“Not my case,” Tremont said. “But he’s been in and out of here for a long time. Bad dude. Violent. Now him I could see doing a murder. Not Levi.”

“We’re fairly confident.”

Tremont shifted in his chair. “Levi Freemantle is pulling three months on a probation violation. He won’t be out for another nine weeks.”

“He escaped a work detail eight days ago.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“He walked off and hasn’t been seen since, except by a burned-out drunk who barely knows his own name, and by a young boy who puts him near the scene of another murder. That was two days ago. So you see, I’ve got three bodies, each with some connection to your kid.”

Tremont pulled Freemantle’s file and opened it. “Levi has never been convicted for a violent offense. Hell, he’s never been accused of one. Trespass, shoplifting.” He snapped the file closed. “Look,” he said. “Levi is not the sharpest tool in the toolbox. Most of these crimes, hell-if somebody said, Levi, go in there and get me a bottle of wine, he’d just walk into the store and get it. He has no sense of consequence.”

“Neither do most killers.”

“It’s not like that. Levi…” He shook his head. “He’s childlike.”

“I have a dead white female. Early to mid-thirties. Any thoughts on that?”

“He’s been involved with a Ronda Jeffries. She’s white, likes to party. Been known to turn a trick or two on the side. For fun, she likes big, bad men. Specifically, she likes big, bad black men. She got involved with Levi because that’s what he looks like, the toughest mother on the street. She keeps him around because he’s easy to handle and he does what she says. He makes a few dollars and gives them to her. He takes care of the house. Makes her look legit. When she needs a break, or another man, she generally finds some way to get Levi locked up for a spell. It’s like I said, he’ll do whatever she tells him to do. The first time he got arrested, it was for shoplifting. She took a bottle of perfume off a display counter and told him to carry it; then she walked him past the security guard and out the front door.”

“Are they married?”

“No, but Levi thinks they are.”

“Why?”

A smile. “Because they’ve slept together, and because…” The words trailed off. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“Who’s taking care of their kid?”

Hunt felt a chill. “Their kid?”

“A little girl. Two years old.”

Hunt reached for his phone.

“Got a smile that would melt your heart.”