“I was a student teacher at the time. Twenty-two. The boy was seventeen. It was wrong, not just because he was underage but because I was in a position of authority. In other states it would have only been a lapse in judgment, though. Not a crime.” He looked again at the camera’s red light. “You have no idea what it feels like to be watched all the time, Detective.”
Esther set down the papers. “I guess I don’t. Let’s get through this so that you can go home, so that we can move this case forward.”
“Fine,” he said. “Yes, I was on the river. Yes, I guess I went past the house where the kid, Charlie Franklin, went missing.”
“Did you see him?”
He stayed quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” he said at last. “I did. I saw him. He was playing by the shore. I floated by. That’s really the end of the story.”
“He was playing,” she said. “What was he doing? Was he close to the water’s edge?”
“He’s a kid,” he said. “I barely saw him. I don’t know what he was doing. I paid more attention to that big house than anything. I remember thinking that some millionaire had to be living there and that the kid was some rich person’s child. You know, how lucky that boy was. Where you start in life matters. Big-time.”
She knew what he was saying was true. Her own mother had said so many times.
“I need you to think, Mr. Collins. I need you to think very, very hard.”
“I have,” he said. “I don’t know anything. Really. And if you think for one second that I really had something to do with this, then you better check out the bartender at Anthony’s in the Old Mill District. I got out of the water at Mirror Pond, took the bus back to return my tube, and planted myself in front of the TV in the bar to watch the game. I bet my Visa card was swiped by eleven o’clock, if not a few minutes sooner.”
Esther’s eyes met his. “We’ll check into that. Now, I know you’ve been thinking long and hard about the day on the river. Did you see anything—really, anything at all—that was unusual?”
“I don’t live here,” he said, shifting in his seat. “I don’t know what unusual would be.”
“It was quiet that morning,” Esther said.
Brad looked away. “Yes. Very.”
“Did you hear anything?”
He glanced at her, then away once more. “Some kids were partying up the river, but it was quiet past the little bridge. I thought the kids were obnoxious.”
“Upriver?”
“Yeah. Just past those damn rapids.”
“What else?”
“Nothing. A guy with a dog. In a canoe. Some ducks.”
“Do you remember anything about the boy? Anything?”
“No. I don’t. I really don’t. I was minding my own business. I’m on a damn vacation. At least, I was.”
“How long are you going to stay in Bend?”
“Up to now I was thinking of moving out here. Rented the cabin for a month’s stay. Now I’m not so sure. Came here to do a good deed and I get blamed for something I didn’t do.”
“No one’s blaming you,” Esther said.
“Maybe not for this, but you blame me. People like you always do. No matter what I do, I’ll always be the first person that gets the knock on the door. And for what? A mistake I made a long time ago.”
The detective handed the Ohio man her card.
“Let me know if you are going to leave,” she said. “I might have a few more questions.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MISSING: FIVE DAYS
Damon West poked his head into Owen’s office at Lumatyx. It was after ten in the morning—early for Damon, who favored a workday that lasted until after midnight. A row of red Japanese toy robots on a stainless steel credenza behind Owen bobbled as the air moved. The toys were an affirmation of the geekdom that surrounded Owen. He’d ordered the lot of them from eBay but pretended they’d been collected one at a time. In his heart, Owen Jarrett was not a techie. He could, however, play the part.
“You look like shit,” Damon said.
Owen knew that his business partner’s assessment was probably on the generous side. He’d had less than three hours of sleep. Before getting dressed, he stood in the shower for a full twenty minutes, letting the hot water cascade over him to peel away the sleep and the stream of consciousness that he had been unable to escape.
Liz. Charlie. Liz. Charlie. Murder. Liz.
“Thanks,” he said. “I feel like shit. Twenty-four-hour bug, I think.”
Damon took a seat in the Herman Miller Eames chair that was Owen’s first splurge in anticipation of the windfall he was about to collect on.
“You’ve been preoccupied,” Damon said, adjusting his new frames.
Owen blinked his bloodshot eyes. “Have I?”
“Everything all right? With you?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Liz?” Damon asked.
Owen glanced down at the face of his phone. A stream of texts from his wife filled its cracked surface.
“You’ll find out soon enough. She didn’t finish her bar exam. Got sick.”
“Shit,” Damon said. “She’s been studying her ass off.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. She’s at home now trying to figure out her next move. We both are.”
“I’m really sorry that happened,” Damon said. “It’s just a stumble. We’ve had them, and now look at us.”
“Yeah, the money.”
“Rolling in, baby. We’re set for life.”
“Money’s good,” Owen said.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to buy?” Damon asked. “After the car, of course.”
“I think I’ve spent every penny in my head a thousand times over. No idea what I’ll really do. After the car, that is. You?”
“I’m going to buy my mom a condo in Sunriver,” Damon said with a wry smile. “Close to me, but not too close.”
Sweat dripped from Owen’s armpits and his head throbbed. Even so, he managed a grin. “I figured you’d do something like that, Damon. The only thing we have in common is code.”
Damon laughed as he got up to leave. “Yeah. We’re about to have big, fat bank accounts too.” He looked closer at his business partner and friend. “Drink some water, Owen. You’ll feel better.”
Owen doubted that.
“Right,” he said.
Owen returned his gaze to his phone and started to scroll through Liz’s messages.
She had sent the first one only minutes after he left home for the office.
Liz: What have I done?
The next text came through ten minutes later.
Liz: I don’t know how to face Carole. I don’t know what I’ll say. I’ll tell her. I think I’ll tell her. Owen, I need you. I need your help right now.
Five minutes passed, then another was dispatched.
Liz: We’ve made this worse. We’re really screwed up here. I’ve thought about it. I should tell someone. But I won’t. I promised you.
Owen pressed his hand against his clammy and pounding forehead. His wife was unraveling when she needed to find a way to deal with the situation. Texting unremittingly was not the answer. In fact, it could make things far worse.
Someone could read them.
Liz: I’m going to take a valium and go over there. I’m going to hold it together. I am. Please don’t worry.
Valium was a good idea, but worry was all Owen could do. He picked up the office landline and dialed Liz’s cell. She picked up on the first ring.