Defending Pacer - Hamilton T. J. - Страница 27
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“Metro Storage. You pile ’em, we file ’em.” Travis’s voice comes through the speaker.
I laugh. “It’s me.”
The door buzzes so I pull on the long handle and scurry inside. Travis wasn’t joking when he said they pile ’em. Towers of boxes are stacked high in the loading dock space. Travis coming down from the stairs at the far end.
“Surely this is a safety hazard?” I walk carefully through the aisle of boxes.
Travis laughs as he talks. “Don’t say that too loud. The bosses will be down here quick smart, making me get through these quicker.”
I have to hand it to Travis; he is the epitome of resilience.
I hold out my empty hands. “Sorry, I couldn’t bring you a coffee after all. I just didn’t want to risk anyone else in this shit city seeing me.”
“Yeah, I can imagine that’s like dodging bullets at the moment.” He’s never without his humour. “I can run up and grab us coffee and something to eat, if you plan on staying?”
I nod. After today, this will be the perfect hideaway and distraction, all in one.
“Okay. Let me take you down to all the files on Fratelli, and I’ll head out to grab us some food.”
“Thanks so much, Travis. I really needed this.” More than he realises.
“So is there anything in particular that you’re looking for?”
I continue following behind. “Just names, really. Something to shed more light on who was in charge of a couple of investigations. The officer in charge has been omitted from the case file that I have.”
Travis shakes his head. “These files have generated a lot of interest lately. Just a few weeks ago, two homicide detectives were down here, searching through these same files.”
“Did they say what they were retrieving exactly?” I know that’s not normally how they look for information.
Travis’s hair has more grey than it did the last time I saw him. This place is aging him quickly. For a man who’s only in his thirties, he looks as if he should be at least ten years older. Although his case was one of my wins, it’s always felt like a loss. Particularly when I come here for his help, which has only been twice, but two times that he could lose his job over. I won’t need to do this too many times in my career, so I’m sure his good deed will go unnoticed by anyone but me.
We walk down a thin corridor of cages, piled high inside with boxes of all the city’s criminal matters that have had their time in court.
“The murder cases are always down the back.” Travis tilts his head towards me as we walk. “They have to stay in archives for ninety-nine years. I won’t be getting rid of them any time soon, so they remain down here in the depths of the criminal history of our city.” He wiggles his fingers out in front of him as if it’s some sinister ghost story, which in reality, it is.
These cages hold all the city’s dark secrets. Untold motives, crimes that have gotten off on a minor technicality—all the parts the media couldn’t get hold of sit here.
There are only two caged doors to choose from, and Travis takes the one on the left. Unlocking the padlock, he swings the door open.
“When you find the boxes you need, you can bring them out to my office to read over, if it’s easier? I’ll head out and grab us a coffee and some food.”
“Thanks, Travis. I know what you’re risking by doing this.” My gratitude still doesn’t sound like it’s enough.
He screws his nose up, and swats his hand. “Please. Come on. You’re risking just as much to make sure there are fair trials, and still the justice system misses the ball.”
No truer words.
The moment Travis leaves the cage I start scanning along the boxes to get to the Fs. Finding FRATELLI is easy. His father, Vincenzo Fratelli, has quite a collection of boxes of his own to add to Pacer’s collection. Vincenzo Fratelli’s boxes are worn. The grey cardboard has faded more than Pacer’s modern document boxes that sit alongside them.
Putting my bag down on the raw concrete floor of the cage, I drag the stepladder over to where I need it and kick off my heels. I slide the first box out and drop it on the ground, and repeat the same with the next three boxes. There’s no time to waste by going out to Travis’s desk, so I jump off the stepladder and toss open the first box. Flicking through the folders, I find one of the homicide investigations that had its lead investigator omitted from my paperwork.
Drawing my finger from one line to the next, I get to the officer in charge.
Inspector Lawson. Inspector Michael Lawson. Now I understand Pacer’s little comment to the Inspector earlier—her husband was one of the first people to charge Pacer with murder. Is that why they hate each other so much? For a chick, Karen Lawson seemed to do an awful lot of chest bumping with Pacer.
Rummaging through my bag to grab my notebook, I stop the second I feel my phone. Pacer’s response is understandable. His investigations all seem to be linked, one way or another.
Do I search through my phone to see if there’s a message from him? What if it’s not there?
I stop debating the issue and drag my phone out from my bag. Sliding the home screen open, I see there is hardly any reception in amongst the thick barrier of paper that’s between the world outside and me.
Scrolling through the missed calls, none of them say ‘Pacer’. Chancing rejection, I search through the messages.
PACER: I ran because I wasn’t man enough to stay and protect you. I’m sorry.
I’m torn. Half of me wants him to sweat on that guilt because he was a prick, but the other half of me understands how claustrophobic this would feel. The life that Pacer and I are accustomed to—cameras always watching—makes the world seem a hell of a lot smaller. His is smaller again. How can I judge that?
I flick through to Pacer’s number and call him. The line jumps in and out as it rings. I walk to the end of the cage, and lean against the metal bar doorway.
“Hi.” He sounds hesitant, but it’s still him.
I clear my throat as I let out my one syllable reply. “Hi.”
“Chelsea? Are you there?”
I walk down the caged aisle to get better reception. “Can you hear me now?”
“Yeah, I got you. Where are you? Are you alright?” He sounds worried now. It makes my heart soften.
“I’m fine. I’m just getting some work done.”
“Chelsea?” The connection fades.
“Hello?” I reply.
“Do you want me to come past your place when you’re done?” I can hear his whole sentence without fault.
“No. I think we should really keep things cool while there is so much interest in us.”
“Fucking connection. Chelsea? Can you … what … you … cool?” Only fragments of his sentence come through, but from what I hear, he sounds annoyed.
“I’ll call you later, Pacer.”
The call drops out completely as I finish the sentence. I don’t know how much of what I said he could actually hear.
I don’t call him back. I need to work. There’s so much to uncover, and this may be the last chance I have of piecing it all together.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It’s almost midnight. Where the hell can she be? She’s not in her office, she’s not at her parents’ and she’s definitely not home. Standing on the balcony of my newly purchased city apartment, I watch the last of the photographers leave the front of Chelsea’s house. I’ll hand it to them, they’re patient fuckers.
Now I’m really starting to worry. I’ve tried to call her again, but it’s the same reordered message I’ve heard for the past five hours. It’s time to call in the services of Scott.
The call rings once and the line picks up without a greeting, as usual.
“I need you to get the location of a phone that called me five hours ago,” I say.
“What’s the number?” His voice never sounds human.
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