Read Online Fear Has a Name: A Novel by Creston Mapes - Free Book Online
Authors: Creston Mapes
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belched silently. “This is when our police sense really needs to kick in.” He looked at Nielson, then Jack. “I’m confident these charges merit further investigation, so I’m not going to make an arrest at this time—that is, if you agree to be completely cooperative with us.”
Jack let out a lungful of air and nodded heartily. Pam leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and squeezing.
“Keep in mind, we have the goods on you,” Potanski continued. “We can pick you up anytime—tomorrow, next week, next month. Our case will still be good because of the evidence we have, so we have no worries there. What I’m saying is, I’m willing to listen to you, be sensitive to your circumstances, and give you the benefit of the doubt—but when I call, you better pick up the phone. In fact, every time I call you’d better kill yourself to get to the phone. And if you ever lie to me, I will hammer you.”
It was past ten o’clock by the time Jack walked Pam to her red Accord on the third floor of the dimly lit city parking garage and saw her off. He waited forever for the ancient elevator, took it down to the main floor, and found the Jetta by beeping its alarm from the remote.
He and Pam had agreed not to try to follow each other, because it was only about a fifteen-minute drive home and Jack needed to concentrate on a call he had to make to his editor. As he zipped down Washington Street toward the interstate, he saw a fissure of lightning off to the left, followed by a loud rumble of thunder. The humidity must’ve been close to a hundred percent. Raindrops began tapping his windshield.
“Where have you been?” Cecil Barton’s jarring voice forced Jack’s hand to his left ear.
He turned the volume down on the Bluetooth speaker attached to the visor above his head.
“Derrick had to finish the water-rate-hike piece, and I’m going crazy here wondering what’s going on with the missing pastor story. Is your voice mail working? I’ve left messages. What the heck is happening with you, Crittendon?”
Jack explained about the evening’s long meeting with the police, the accusations, and the break-in.
“For the love of peace, why didn’t you tell me about all this?” Cecil said.
“I thought you knew about the break-in.”
“No one told me! Derrick said you had some kind of minor emergency. I thought one of the girls skinned a knee for Pete’s sake—a home invasion? With Pam and the children there? You should have come to me.”
“You had your game face on.”
“We could have had the sketch of that low-life in today’s edition. You get it to me, pronto. We’ll get it in ASAP.”
“I thought we only did that for murder cases.”
“And low-life slugs who invade the homes of my reporters!”
For once Jack didn’t have a comeback for Cecil. Goose bumps rose on his arms and gave his entire frame a chill. It was one of the few times his editor had shown any sort of personal interest or commitment, and it felt good.
Jack filled Cecil in on his interview with Wendy McDaniel and informed him of his plans to go to Five Forks Methodist Church the following day to talk to as many people as possible. He planned to have an in-depth story for Cecil by that evening’s deadline.
The rain came harder. Jack signed off with Cecil and flipped the wipers to high, slowing well below the speed limit on Highway 16. He chastised himself for not having replaced Pam’s wipers; the last time he rode with her in the rain they streaked like crazy. He contemplated calling her to tell her about Cecil volunteering to run the police sketch of their intruder but didn’t want to take her concentration off the road.
They would nail this guy, he was confident, and then it would all be nothing more than a weird memory. He just prayed it would happen sooner rather than later. At least he and Pam had each other. They’d be together tonight, with the girls, all under one roof. Not so for Wendy McDaniel and her
Jack let out a lungful of air and nodded heartily. Pam leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and squeezing.
“Keep in mind, we have the goods on you,” Potanski continued. “We can pick you up anytime—tomorrow, next week, next month. Our case will still be good because of the evidence we have, so we have no worries there. What I’m saying is, I’m willing to listen to you, be sensitive to your circumstances, and give you the benefit of the doubt—but when I call, you better pick up the phone. In fact, every time I call you’d better kill yourself to get to the phone. And if you ever lie to me, I will hammer you.”
It was past ten o’clock by the time Jack walked Pam to her red Accord on the third floor of the dimly lit city parking garage and saw her off. He waited forever for the ancient elevator, took it down to the main floor, and found the Jetta by beeping its alarm from the remote.
He and Pam had agreed not to try to follow each other, because it was only about a fifteen-minute drive home and Jack needed to concentrate on a call he had to make to his editor. As he zipped down Washington Street toward the interstate, he saw a fissure of lightning off to the left, followed by a loud rumble of thunder. The humidity must’ve been close to a hundred percent. Raindrops began tapping his windshield.
“Where have you been?” Cecil Barton’s jarring voice forced Jack’s hand to his left ear.
He turned the volume down on the Bluetooth speaker attached to the visor above his head.
“Derrick had to finish the water-rate-hike piece, and I’m going crazy here wondering what’s going on with the missing pastor story. Is your voice mail working? I’ve left messages. What the heck is happening with you, Crittendon?”
Jack explained about the evening’s long meeting with the police, the accusations, and the break-in.
“For the love of peace, why didn’t you tell me about all this?” Cecil said.
“I thought you knew about the break-in.”
“No one told me! Derrick said you had some kind of minor emergency. I thought one of the girls skinned a knee for Pete’s sake—a home invasion? With Pam and the children there? You should have come to me.”
“You had your game face on.”
“We could have had the sketch of that low-life in today’s edition. You get it to me, pronto. We’ll get it in ASAP.”
“I thought we only did that for murder cases.”
“And low-life slugs who invade the homes of my reporters!”
For once Jack didn’t have a comeback for Cecil. Goose bumps rose on his arms and gave his entire frame a chill. It was one of the few times his editor had shown any sort of personal interest or commitment, and it felt good.
Jack filled Cecil in on his interview with Wendy McDaniel and informed him of his plans to go to Five Forks Methodist Church the following day to talk to as many people as possible. He planned to have an in-depth story for Cecil by that evening’s deadline.
The rain came harder. Jack signed off with Cecil and flipped the wipers to high, slowing well below the speed limit on Highway 16. He chastised himself for not having replaced Pam’s wipers; the last time he rode with her in the rain they streaked like crazy. He contemplated calling her to tell her about Cecil volunteering to run the police sketch of their intruder but didn’t want to take her concentration off the road.
They would nail this guy, he was confident, and then it would all be nothing more than a weird memory. He just prayed it would happen sooner rather than later. At least he and Pam had each other. They’d be together tonight, with the girls, all under one roof. Not so for Wendy McDaniel and her
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