Page 17 of Delivering David

“You live around here, son?” the older man in the driver’s seat asked.

“Yes, sir,” T.J. said, using his best fake sincere voice. He wasn’t about to give up his address unless they asked for it. “I heard there was some trouble in the neighborhood last night. Can I help?”

“You seen a blond kid wandering around?” The other officer, younger and with a bad haircut, leaned forward from the passenger’s seat. “White kid, around ten years old?”

“No, sir,” T.J. lied with ease. “Is he missing?”

“Yeah,” Bad Haircut said. “His name is David Philips.”

“No, sir,” T.J. repeated. “But if I see him, I’ll take him home with me and call you. Will that work?”

“It will,” said the first officer. He took a card from the console and gave it to T.J. “Here’s the name of the officer in charge,” he said. “If you learn anything, call that number and someone will find him. And you need to go home right now. There might be trouble going on, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” T.J. called as they drove away. He waited until the cruiser had vanished around the corner and then headed to the Johnsons.

“This just sucks,” he muttered. “Cops will be crawling everywhere looking for David. I’ll need to move David after dark.” The question is, where?”

CHAPTER 14

A little later atthe Brotherhood Protectors Safehouse

“I should haulyou downtown and charge you with interfering in an ongoing murder investigation if I thought I could make the charges stick.” Grant Miller’s eyes pinned them to their chairs.

“But you won’t, will you?” Suzanne asked hopefully.

“And T.J. remembered her and knows David,” Kristopher put in. “It wasn’t like she was talking to a stranger.” He did not add they’d told T.J. Mercy Phillips was dead. He’d bet ten to one that her neighbors had already spread the news all over their social media accounts. So, T.J. would have learned it anyway.

“Mercy Philipps was killed less than twenty-four hours ago and you stayed in the neighborhood where it happened.” Miller’s tone was relentless. “Real smart, Brower,” and Suzanne watched the two men exchange accusing glances and wondered if they’d clashed over cases before.

Grant Miller had agreed to meet them at the BP safehouse to tell them about the dead couple from the shelter. And since going to the ER would be a waste of time for everyone, Kristopher had called Amos Jones, MD, a BP doctor who lived in Knoxville and was almost always available, to come and look at Suzanne’s wrist.

“It doesn’t really hurt,” she lied as Jones wrapped it with a soft elastic style bandage while trying not to watch the other two men. “It feels a bit bruised, but the biggest problem will be I’m hopelessly right-handed.”

“Sometimes these sprains or strains hurt more a day or two after they occur,” Jones told her. “But I don’t think you’ll have much trouble using it. Over-the-counter meds and some salve I’ll leave you should take care of any pain but let me know if there’s a problem. Brower, do I need to give you the once over?”

“I’m good to go,” Kristopher said. “But Elaine Prescott is going to have your head on a platter when she finds out you didn’t tell her about your wrist, Miz Bennett.”

“Officer Jackson phoned in his report after you left,” Miller said as Amos Jones exited the room. “He said you didn’t find Mrs. Phillips’ address book or any kind of contact information.”

“No,” Suzanne sighed. “Her address-appointment book might be at work, but whoever did this must have been incredibly angry. The house looked like a tornado tore through the rooms. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a mess. What does that suggest to you, Grant?”

“That it’s looking less like a random killing and more of a targeted one,” he told her, running a hand over his face. He looked as tired as Suzanne felt.

“Do you know how the intruder got into Mercy’s house?” Kristopher asked, and Suzanne noted he did not use the word ‘murderer’. His thoughtfulness should have made her feel better.

It didn’t.

“The front door was securely locked, so we think the killer entered Mrs. Phillips’ study through the French doors facing the deck just outside,” Miller described. “It runs the length of the back of the house, and the doors face a wooded grove. They were standing open when we got there last night. But there were no fingerprints on the doorknob, or anywhere else for that matter. Was she in the habit of leaving those doors unlocked?”

Weariness slid over Suzanne and her bandaged wrist began to throb. “No,” she said. “Mercy was careful about things like that because of David. His upstairs bedroom windows face the deck and the grove too. When he called me last night, I told him to call the police and then get under the bed–”

Her voice stopped and her hands began to shake. “I guess they found him, huh?” she whispered. “Whoever did this. I should have told him to run. It’s my fault they have him.”

“Stop that,” Miller ordered fiercely, but his angry expression was finally gone. “We don’t know that. The question is, if he did run, where would he go? None of the neighbors questioned today or last night had any idea where he might go. Would this T.J. kid know?”

“T.J. said he didn’t know anything about what happened,” Suzanne said. “He had an attitude, but after Kristopher did his badass soldier thing, he warmed up.”

“Scared the hell out him, did you?” Miller’s laugh erased some of the weariness from his face.

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