The Prophecy

13

Jones answered the same questions, over and over, for nearly forty minutes. First it was the campus cops, then the Pittsburgh police came rolling in. One officer after another, each slightly higher up the food chain than the previous one, all of them asking the same things. Not that Jones complained. He had spent too much time in the military to get upset over the chain of command.

The only request that bothered Jones was their final one of the evening. Since he was covered in blood splatter, they asked him to undress inside the chapel and give his tuxedo to a forensics expert for further analysis. Jones wasn’t sure why they needed his clothes — the shooter was dead, which meant this case would never go to court — but he complied. He figured, the sooner he got out of the police’s spotlight, the better. Because there were things he needed to do.

Illegal things.

Unfortunately, he would be forced to do them in someone else’s clothes. The police offered him a paper-thin smock that resembled a hospital gown, but he immediately turned it down. Considering the cold weather and the flock of journalists gathered on the lawn, he told the cops he would rather spend the night in his underwear than go outside in a muumuu. After all, he had his reputation to worry about.

With very few options in the lost and found, the police scrambled to find an alternative. The best they could come up with was a khaki jumpsuit that was a few sizes too small, but all things considered, it was acceptable to Jones. He wondered where they had found it on such short notice until he read the name on the front pocket. The tiny patch said: Sam.

‘Thank you, karma,’ Jones mumbled as he got dressed in the basement.

Upstairs, Sam was waiting for him. He stared at Jones for several seconds, checking him out in his new outfit, then burst into laughter. ‘Not as gay as your monkey suit.’

He took it in his stride. ‘Thanks for the loan.’

‘Loan, my ass. Report to work at 6 a.m. sharp. I’ll be damned if I’m cleaning up the blood myself. That shit ain’t in my job description.’

Jones bit his tongue and left before the janitor could tease him further. Outside the chapel, the police were still dealing with the crime scene. The steps and patio had been cordoned off with yellow tape, and the coroner’s office was handling the body. Jones spotted the officer in charge and asked if he could borrow a police jacket for his long walk to his car. A minute later, Jones was handed a navy-blue coat. In gold letters on the back, it said: SWAT.

Only a couple letters different from Sam, but way cooler in his mind.

No way in hell he was giving it back. Not unless they returned his tux.

Ironically, the coat was going to do more than keep him warm. It was going to help him break the law, which was why he had asked for it in the first place. If he had been concerned with warmth or style, he would have walked over to the Cathedral and retrieved his jacket from the coat-check girl. Instead, he wanted to use the SWAT coat to gather intelligence.

During the question and answer period, Jones had kept a few titbits to himself. The first was the existence of the mysterious letter. Since it was in his possession when Ashley was killed, he didn’t see the need to tell them about it. And neither did Payne. So Jones stuck with the basic story that they had agreed upon, and was confident that Payne would do the same.

The second item was a little more dishonest. Not a bold-faced lie, just a simple omission that would slow down the police investigation by an hour or so. It was the time Jones needed to get some information for himself.

Very early on, Jones realized Ashley wasn’t carrying any identification. He had figured that out when cop after cop kept asking if he knew her full name. The truth was he didn’t. She had introduced herself as Ashley and had never provided a surname during their conversation. If she had, he would have told the police immediately, so they could notify her next of kin.

However, he had failed to mention the location of her car. He knew he should have since it probably contained her purse, or insurance papers, or something with her name and address, but he decided against it because he wasn’t sure what else might be there.

Maybe information about the letter. Or possibly the actual letter.

Whatever the case, he wanted to see it first.

Wearing his SWAT jacket, Jones ducked under the crime-scene tape and turned left on Varsity Walk, hoping to figure out why Ashley had been killed. Earlier that evening, he had followed her down the same path and had spotted her from the icy steps. Back then, her movement had stood out on the deserted road. Now Bellefield Avenue resembled a carnival midway.

Everywhere Jones looked he saw bright, flashing lights. The entire left-hand lane was filled with police cars and satellite trucks from the evening news. People scurried to and fro, half of them buzzing from adrenaline, the other half from caffeine. Compared with earlier, this seemed like a different place — as though Pittsburgh had been magically transformed into Las Vegas. Only with fewer strippers and a lot more snow.

Glancing across the street, he saw Ashley’s Ford Taurus. It was parked fifty feet to the right, buried under an inch of fresh powder. In his mind, that was good news because it would help conceal what he was about to do. He needed to break into her car, right under the cops’ noses.

With a smile on his face, Jones walked down the steps like he owned the place. After waving to some detectives, he said hello to a group of paramedics, acting like he belonged, like he was one of them. And because of that, no one questioned his presence. Although the jacket helped, his attitude sealed the deal. Never nervous or shady, he carried himself with confidence — a man who was there to do his job.

Reaching into his pocket, Jones pulled out his wallet. Hidden in the crease of the leather was a small set of lock picks he had carried with him for years. The type that could get him inside a car or building in a matter of seconds. He had learned how to use them in the military and had continued to use them during his career as a private detective — a career that began several years sooner than Jones had ever imagined it would.

Originally he had planned on staying in the service for another decade or so, but when Grandpa Payne died and left his company to his grandson, everything changed. At the time, Payne wasn’t ready to retire, but out of love and respect for the man who had raised him, he left the military and moved back to Pittsburgh to fulfil his familial duties. To help his adjustment to civilian life, Payne had convinced Jones to retire as well. In fact, he had bribed him to do it. He gave Jones office space in the Payne Industries complex and loaned him enough start-up capital to open his own business. It had always been Jones’s dream to run a detective agency, and Payne had the means to help. So Payne figured, why not?

In Payne’s mind, Jones was the only family he had left.

Not surprisingly, the pace of their lives had slowed considerably in recent years. Other than the rare occasions when Payne helped Jones with one of his cases, the only time they got to carry guns and have some fun was when they had their own adventures. The last time had been their trip to Greece. And it had been a life changer.

Thanks to their historic discovery, Jones suddenly had more money than he could possibly spend in his lifetime. Growing up in a lowermiddle-class family, he had lived his life frugally, always saving money for a rainy day. The military had paid for his education at the Air Force Academy and had taken care of his basic living expenses for nearly two decades which had allowed Jones to build a nice nest egg. Now he had more nest eggs than a chicken farmer.

The first thing he did was pay back all the cash he had borrowed from Payne. Not only the start-up capital, but also the money that Payne should have been charging for rent, plus interest. Payne had been reluctant to take it — he certainly didn’t need the funds — but Jones pestered him so much that he eventually agreed.

Unfortunately, there were some drawbacks to their sudden notoriety. For one, crackpots and treasure hunters were constantly approaching them with crazy schemes. And since Jones’s clients came from the general public, he had to deal with nutjobs more often than Payne. Sometimes they asked Jones for money. Other times they needed his guidance or required a helping hand on some wild adventure, but the sheer number of people contacting his agency was so large that Jones had to hire extra staff to screen potential clients.

Not that he was complaining.

As someone who loved mysteries, he was enjoying his second career. Still, compared to his days with the MANIACs, his current life was painfully boring.

Of course, all that changed with the shooting at the chapel.

His adrenaline was flowing, and he was craving more.