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And just like that night, my throat goes dry, and I can’t make a sound. Not even a squeak to call for help. I’m powerless. Just like that night.
44
Jericho
“He inside?” I ask Zeke as I walk up the drive to Jones’s front door. He lives a little over an hour out of town. Zeke is standing in the open doorway. Jones is the coroner who performed the original autopsy on Carlton Bishop and signed off on the cremation of the body.
“In his office.”
The door closes behind us and two men stand guard as I walk in, Zeke falling into stride beside me.
“I guess he’s not happy about that,” I say as we reach the study. Zeke has a man out here too.
“No. Apparently we interrupted a trip to the Bahamas.” Zeke finally caught up with Jones last night just as he was to board a private flight. He’d all but vanished off the face of the earth the last couple of days and I wondered if he hadn’t met with some terrible end at Julia Bishop’s hand.
“Was he alone?”
Zeke nods and opens the office door. “Not very chatty though, are you, doc?” he asks as we walk in.
Abe Jones is sitting on a straight back chair that looks like it was brought in from the dining room. His wrists are cuffed to the legs on either side of him. At his back stands yet another guard. He keeps his gaze on the wall behind us. These soldiers we hire are paid well for both their proficiency and their discretion.
“Were the cuffs necessary?” I ask Zeke. He’s in his mid-forties from the looks of him and although he appears fit enough, I have no doubt Zeke could take him. He’d probably enjoy it. Not to mention the men with guns if he somehow got past my brother.
Zeke shrugs his shoulder. “Flight risk. Wasn’t taking a chance.”
I chuckle. “And the black eye?”
Zeke grins. “That’s for wasting my time and sending me all over the fucking city looking for him, isn’t that right, doc?” he asks that last part with exaggerated drama.
“I will report you to The Tribunal as soon as I’m freed of these restraints. I will require the full extent of the penalty for what you’ve done.”
I raise my eyebrows and glance at Zeke. “Thought you said he wasn’t chatty.”
“Maybe he’s coming around,” Zeke says. He moves to sit behind the man’s desk and starts to look through the drawers.
I sit on the end of the coffee table facing Mr. Jones. I take in his disheveled appearance. He’s not a member of IVI but he is on their payroll. He comes from a long line of coroners and over time IVI has made use of his family’s services.
“I doubt The Tribunal would hear your argument, but you’re welcome to try,” I say, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “Take those off,” I tell the guard, gesturing to the cuffs.
“Yes, sir,” he says while Zeke tsks behind me. I hear the squeaking of the chair as he rocks back and forth on it.
Once Jones is freed, he rubs his wrists and I see the shiny Rolex on one. It’s possible it costs more than all the furniture in here combined.
“New?” I ask, gesturing to it.
He smiles, rubs off a smudge of non-existent dirt, then nods.
“It’s very nice. A gift from Julia Bishop?”
His face loses some color. “She was very grateful to have had me perform the autopsy on Mr. Bishop so quickly.”
“I bet. And what did she pay you to sign off on the cremation certificate?”
His eyes grow wider and skip around the room, settling on the door.
“Please do not make me have to chase you,” I say. “It’s been a long couple of days.” I stand up, stretch my arms, crack my knuckles.
“Have kids?” Zeke asks. He’s found a laptop and is punching something onto the keyboard.
“No,” Jones says, then shifts his gaze to me as I move behind Zeke to look at the screen.
“Girlfriend? A pet?”
Jones shakes his head.
“A goldfish maybe?”
“No.”
Zeke turns his head, shaking it. “Make this quick and give me the password, will you?”
“Why do you need it?”
“Curious how much you got paid for claiming a man died of a heart attack when he very clearly did not,” Zeke says.
Jones’s mouth falls open, any remaining color on his face disappearing. “What are you talking about? Carlton Bishop’s cause of death was cardiac arrest. I wouldn’t have lied about that. I could lose my license. Or worse.”
“Password,” Zeke says. When he doesn’t answer, Zeke gestures to the guard who just uncuffed him. He fists a handful of Jones’s hair and tugs his head back at such an awkward angle, the chair falls away and his spine is bent in way that makes even me wince.
“Mexico2020,” he rushes to say.
“Any capitals?”
