Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (thriller book recommendations .txt) 📕

“I mighta guessed.”

“Good afternoon, Chief. My God you look old.”

Gibbs grunted and Francis seemed to enter without moving. He twitched off his black leather gloves, finger by finger.

“I heard the news.”

Gibbs said, “What news?”

“You know what news.”

“I want you to say it.”

“Craig Lewis was murdered.”

“Yeah, and what’s that to you?”

“Years ago we were acquaintances and I valued him highly. Recently I saw him at dinner with Daniel Jennings. The same Daniel Jennings my brother has mentioned twice.”

“How were you and Craig acquaintances?” said Gibbs.

“Chief.”

“You were gay lovers.”

For a long moment, Francis held Chief Gibbs with his eyes, a stare hardened from his omnipotence on the bench. Gibbs, however, wore the armor of fatherhood and his years with the badge, and the resultant friction threatened to turn the little office ugly.

“If you weren’t such an ass, you might not be alone in the world,” said Francis.

The sharp rebuke stole Gibbs’ breath. The words stung in places Francis didn’t know about. Gibbs couldn’t reply, not even to apologize, though he would never. He hadn’t told a soul about his diagnosis. And he might never, better to die alone.

Francis said, “For the moment, perhaps you can act like the chief of police instead of an old bastard. You can remember that fathers should care, not humiliate. You can remember that I am a judge who will potentially see this case very soon and you are charged with apprehending the culprit.”

Gibbs nodded and swallowed. Waved his hand to dismiss the subject.

“I cared about him. That’s what’s important,” said Francis. “Did Peter kill him?”

Gibbs leaned back, chair squeaking. With one hand he removed his reading glasses and let them drop onto his desk. The other hand pressed against his hip. “Your brother never goes to that gym. But he did that morning.”

“Damn it.”

“Don’t slouch, boy. Stand up straight like a man. I can’t tell you that forever.” Gibbs pivoted his computer monitor for Francis to see. He’d been watching surveillance video.

His detectives had nabbed a copy of yesterday’s gym circulation log and they were combing through the video to eliminate suspects. The ME had declared the approximate time of death and police were already making calls on the members who left soon after. Twenty-one men on their list.

Gibbs pressed play; on screen, Peter Lynch arrived at the gym.

“That’s Peter,” said Francis.

“He swiped his card at 8:33.”

“He’s wearing a cap. Why would he wear a cap?”

“You’ll figure it out.” Gibbs fast-forwarded. “This is later, about an hour and a half before Lewis was killed in the shower.”

On screen, tracked by three separate cameras, a man wearing the same cap and scarf emerged from the locker room, left the gym, and walked to the far Jaguar.

Francis leaned closer to the screen.

“Is that Peter?”

“What do you think?”

“It must be. So he’s not the culprit, if he left before…” Francis’ words trailed. He was puzzled.

“That’s what my detectives think too.”

“Play it again please.”

Gibbs did. Francis once more watched his brother arrive and then leave. His face hidden behind a scarf and sunglasses and cap.

The ruse was good. Except Francis had grown up with Peter, knew him, could recognize his posture and gait in the dark. The second man wasn’t Peter. It had to be Homer, the man Peter employed on his farm, both men bearded. Homer had left in Peter’s clothes and Peter remained behind, probably in the locker room.

The implication slapped at Francis—it had happened again.

Peter had done it again and the awful truth was they’d known he would. Had been waiting for it.

“You see what I see?” said Gibbs.

Francis fiddled with his gloves.

“You see it,” said Gibbs.

“Does anyone know?”

“They don’t suspect a thing. He tricked’em good.”

“What will you do?”

“What I always do.”

“He’s still stringing up rabbits by their ears and you’re still pretending not to see, Chief.”

“And what would you have me do, Judge?”

“Arrest him.”

“Here you were telling me fathers should care.”

“Arresting him would be for all our benefits, including his.” Francis plucked a black handkerchief from his jacket pocket and pressed it to his mouth, the left side.

“A father can’t do that to his son. Nor should his brother. We can’t. Our hands aren’t exactly clean. You know Peter, he’ll implicate us and laugh doing it.”

“He can prove nothing. And he’ll kill that girl next.”

“Daisy,” said Gibbs.

“Yes.”

“Can’t blame him there. A girl looking that good should be married by now. Not dating boys like Peter Lynch.”

“They’re dating?”

“He texted me. Told me he was taking her out, but…”

“But what?” said Francis.

Gibbs knew how the date had ended. His evidence locker had held his son’s hair, until he got word of it through back channels. No reason to let Francis worry.

“But nothing. You don’t care about Peter anyway.”

“That’s unkind,” said Francis. “I see him for what he is. He’s sick. Remember the psych evals? The apperception, the anger inventory, the clinical multiaxial, God, those were eye-opening reports even to me, a teenager. The court nearly mandated restraints.”

“After he broke your mouth.”

“Peter needs help. He’s needed it for decades.”

“That’s what I’m doing. I’m helping,” said Gibbs.

“You’re enabling. What about Daniel Jennings?”

“The Green Beret. Haven’t heard anything from him. I expect I will after he finds out about his ol’ pal Craig Lewis,” said Gibbs.

“He’s determined.”

“He’s trouble. For all of us. Trouble I can’t afford right now.”

“I know he worries Peter.”

“He turn you on? Pretty boy, isn’t he.”

“Don’t be lewd.” Francis turned to go. “And yes he is.”

“That limping soldier might get himself strung up by his ears, he don’t be careful.”

“We should end this.”

“What’cha got in mind, Judge?”

“If you won’t arrest him—”

“I won’t.”

“Then we need to deal with him as a family. Before we’re out of time.”

Gibbs leaned forward to pick up his reading glasses. Thought about putting them on but didn’t, had no desire to watch the surveillance video again. “Maybe we’re already out of time.”

40

Jennings hadn’t slept well after his phone conversation with Kelly. The exhaustion was accumulating. He felt like he walked through the school day on a tightrope, poised to plunge into despair and