Page 43 of The Evening Wolves

“John-Henry, please. I’m suspended, and I’m not here as the chief of police.”

She shrugged. “It seems like it would be hard to keep your personal investigation separate from your official role. Besides, I imagine most defense attorneys employ an independent investigator. I have a hard time believing they send their clients out in search of witnesses.”

Emery’s voice grew dry. “We’re an unusual case.”

“I can’t prove to you that I’m not doing anything illegal,” John-Henry said. “And I can’t force you to tell me what you know. And I’d be grateful if you could help me. I don’t know what to say except that I didn’t do what they say I did. Someone is trying to frame me. Someone wants to hurt my family. And I don’t know how to prove I’m innocent except try to run down every lead I possibly can. If you can’t help me, I’ll respect your decision. I appreciate the food, and we’ll pay for it, of course. We’ll leave and stop bothering you.”

In the silence that followed, faint music filtered in from the kitchen—it sounded like pop, but in a language John-Henry didn’t recognize.

Without a word, Masouda collected their plates and carried them back to the kitchen.

John-Henry waited until her steps had faded to rest his head in his hand.

Emery’s hand found his back, rubbed against the tightness between his shoulders. “It’s ok. We’ll check the U-Haul dealership; they’ll have cameras all over the place. Maybe they got Vermilya on tape—”

“And what, Ree? We already know what kind of car he drives. He walks in. He walks out. What are we going to see?”

Emery flattened the napkin against the chipped laminate. “I don’t know.”

You asshole, John-Henry thought. You stupid asshole. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re right—”

“I’m not right. It’s a good idea. We’ll ask—”

The tread of Masouda’s kitchen shoes made John-Henry glance over his shoulder. She was carrying a laptop under one arm as she came around the counter, and when she met John-Henry’s gaze, her eyebrows went up. She sat, opened the laptop, and angled the screen to show them. A video was already cued up, and it only took a moment for John-Henry to understand what he was seeing: footage from a security camera that looked down on the restaurant’s dining room. He shot a look up, spotted the camera, and returned his attention to the video. Masouda began to play it.

“No audio. It’s an old system; it was already installed.”

John-Henry barely registered the words because on the screen, the man who called himself Jace Vermilya strode into view. The picture on the screen was grainy, but it was unmistakably him. It felt unreal, watching the confident, controlled movements of a man whom, later that day, John-Henry would find bleeding out under a meth trailer. Vermilya was big and muscular, and the way he moved suggested he knew how to carry himself. He approached the counter, said something to Masouda, and took out his wallet.

“He was very polite. He asked if he could leave a tip.”

Emery opened his mouth like he had something to say about that, but before he could speak, another man came on screen. This one, John-Henry recognized immediately—Eric Brey was a state representative for a town called Auburn, and a few months before, he’d been a suspect in a double murder. Brey was still a free man, but that had more to do with a good team of lawyers and knowing when to keep his mouth shut than anything else. On camera, Brey moved up behind Vermilya. The two men exchanged words, and Vermilya’s response—even though John-Henry couldn’t hear the words—had a kind of contained anger that made John-Henry straighten in his seat.

Masouda was already shaking her head when he looked up. “I didn’t hear what he said; I was making change. But the other man looked like he might be sick.”

Even from the high angle of the security camera, John-Henry could tell Brey didn’t look his best. The state rep went to sit in a booth, his movements jerky, his body taut. Vermilya finished his transaction with Masouda and joined Brey at the booth. Brey said something, but Vermilya cut him off and began to speak, bending over the table, a finger drilling into the laminate to emphasize his words.

“Doesn’t exactly look like a naïve innocent or a victim of coercion, does he?” Emery murmured.

If anything, John-Henry thought, Vermilya looked like he was the one doing the coercing. One of the things they’d learned about Brey while investigating months ago was that, among other things, Brey liked to tie women up and hurt them. There was a sexual component to it that went beyond kink and play. That thought flickered at the back of John-Henry’s mind now as he watched Brey shrink into the booth, making himself smaller and smaller as Vermilya tore his hide off. The men quieted when Masouda brought Vermilya’s food, but the conversation picked up again almost immediately. Twice, Brey tried to interject, and both times, Vermilya slapped him back down—not literally, but whatever he said made Brey curl his shoulders and drop his eyes. Abruptly, Vermilya made a dismissing gesture, and Brey slunk out of the booth.

“Why meet here?” Emery asked. “Why not anywhere else—an empty stretch of road, for heaven’s sake? For that matter, why meet at all?”

“I don’t suppose you heard anything when you brought the food?” John-Henry asked.

Masouda shook her head. “I stayed in the kitchen after I took them their food. I kept thinking he was going to do something. I kept thinking I should tell them to leave.”

Do something, John-Henry thought. Like hurt Brey. Maybe kill him.

“Can you send us a copy of this?” Emery asked. “And make a second copy for yourself.”

Masouda raised her eyebrows again.

“I imagine at some point, law enforcement is going to ask for this. It’d be nice to know that you have a backup in case it gets ‘lost’.”

Frown lines deepened on Masouda’s forehead, but she nodded.

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