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“Um, you mean because the dead guy was someone who was supposed to already be dead?” I ventured, gesturing at the backhoe.
“God. Yes.” He let out a groan. “You should hear the various theories being thrown around. People are batshit insane.”
“Sorry, Ben,” I said. “I was only hoping to help y’all figure out why someone would want to steal the guy’s body.”
He heaved a sigh. “I know. But on one side I have people insisting that the first victim was identified wrong and couldn’t have possibly actually been Lyons, though the prints that were taken from that body have been checked three different times now and still come up the same as the ones taken from the watch. So now I also have people trying to figure out how the dead guy from the lab could have the headless dead guy’s watch—without getting any of his own fingerprints on it.”
“And the scar…” I said.
“Yeah. That’s the part that’s freaking everyone the hell out. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve looked at those crime scene pics and compared them to the Driver’s License pics I have of Lyons.” Ben spread his hands helplessly. “It looks exactly like the same guy. So, what? A father and son who happen to have the same scar?”
“They wouldn’t have the same fingerprints,” I said.
He smiled grimly. “Yeah. Well, I also have the people who say that the older guy’s from an alternate dimension, or that the killer who took the head somehow managed to regrow the guy’s body.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m telling you, the crazy theories are all over the place. But the ‘real’ Norman Kearny hasn’t been back to his apartment since the night his imposter died, according to his neighbors. They also confirmed that he worked at NuQuesCor.”
I had no doubt that the real Norman Kearny was dead. But did Zeke kill him to take his place, or did someone at the lab kill him to help cover up an escape attempt of a captive zombie? Either way, I doubted we’d ever find a body.
“Wow,” I said. “Well, I don’t know if it’ll help you figure out what the deal is with Zeke Lyons, but I’m pretty sure I know who held me up.”
He perked up at that. “Seriously? And how do you know that?”
Shit. I couldn’t tell him that I had a grand plan of somehow sneaking in, albeit as legally as possible, under the guise of applying for a job there under a fictitious name. “I, uh, was over at NuQuesCor to see a friend of Marcus’s.” That wasn’t a complete lie. Sofia was a friend of Marcus’s. And I might have been interested in seeing her. “I overheard the head of security,” I told him. “And I swear to god it’s the guy. I’d know that voice anywhere.”
“His name is Walter McKinney,” he said absently. I wondered briefly how he’d know this, then realized he probably got the guy’s name and info on a witness statement. Ben pursed his lips while he considered what I’d told him. Hope flared in me as it seemed that he wasn’t rejecting it outright. But the hope sputtered as he grimaced. “I don’t know if I can get a warrant just on the basis of recognizing his voice, Angel. The brass is going to want a lot more to go on before they risk making waves with NuQuesCor and their backers. Besides, why would this guy want to steal a body?”
I knew why. Because he knew that the body would be ID’ed during the autopsy, and it would come back to someone already dead. And it totally would have worked if I hadn’t put the watch into property storage.
I gestured toward the grave. “Look, we already know something completely screwed up and weird is going on, right? I mean, we have a guy who somehow died twice.” I knew what they’d find when they opened the casket up. A body with fingerprints to match Zeke Lyons and the ones on the watch.
“Supposedly,” Ben stated. “Until the coffin is opened up, I’m reserving judgment.” He shook his head. “But even so…I’ll admit there’s some precedent for a voice lineup, but with everything else going on with this case, and…” He trailed off, and I knew without a doubt he was holding back from saying that, with my history, I wasn’t exactly a reliable witness. “With all the weird stuff,” he said instead, “it’s just too, well, X-Files. No judge in the world would take this seriously enough to grant a search warrant.”
I could feel a knot building up in my throat, made worse by the look of pity that Ben gave me. He was being nice, damn it, and it fucking sucked. I was trying so damn hard to change my life and yet my past still kept biting me in the ass. “It’s cool,” I said as calmly and evenly as I could manage. I even forced out a smile that hopefully didn’t look too sickly.
“I’m sorry, Angel,” he said. “I just need more.”
I nodded. “It’s cool,” I repeated. “Lemme know what you find in the coffin,” I said, then turned and left without waiting for a response. I knew if I stayed there another second I’d either start crying or punch someone in the throat—though I liked to think it would’ve been Allen Prejean instead of Ben.
And, damn it, I still had a little pride left, even if my self-control was hanging by a thread.
Chapter 17
I went home, stripped off my clothes, and crawled under the covers in an effort to grab something resembling a nap. I was tired enough to fall right asleep, until a loud banging on my bedroom door yanked me awake.
“Angel!” my dad yelled from the hall. “Wake the fuck up and open this goddamn door now!”
I groaned and sat up. “I’m awake!” I croaked. “What the hell’s wrong?” I looked blearily at the clock on my nightstand. Wow, I’d managed to get a whole hour of sleep. Go me.
“Get the fuck out here! I need to talk to you!”
It didn’t sound like a I need to talk to you about what color we should paint the house either. More like You’re a fuckup and I want to yell at you because it will make me feel better. Trust me, I knew the difference.
“Gimme a sec,” I shouted.
“I mean it!” More pounding, as if he wasn’t sure if I was awake. “I’ll break this damn door down!”
“Gimme a fucking second, Dad! I’m putting on some fucking clothes so, unless the goddamn house is on fire, chill your ass out!”>After about half an hour I’d plowed through the whole stack of paper. And, sadly, no asteroid had yet landed on Mr. Steve Lombardo. Gathering up the papers, I made ready to return to the desk and once more try to bluff my way into an interview, when the man I recognized as the head of security walked past me and to the coffee stand. Hard to miss with that square jaw, military-grade haircut, and Secret Service-type suit.
“Morning, Sandra,” he said to the barista. “Medium Americano, please.” He paid then casually scanned the area while he waited for his order. His eyes rested briefly on me, and he gave me a polite nod with no hint of recognition in his eyes. I returned the polite nod with a chin lift of my own, though I had to do everything in my power to keep my face as neutral as possible.
