Famished - Meghan O'Flynn (learn to read books TXT) 📗

Petrosky’s desk chair groaned as he leaned back in it. He tapped Morrison’s smartphone and rewound the video again. Morrison had taken Plumber’s apartment surveillance tapes and installed them into some fancy-ass thing on his phone. An app, he’d called it, which wasn’t even a whole fucking word, and yet the damn thing was working pretty well.

Petrosky tapped play and squinted at the tiny screen as the wall of mailboxes appeared. Then came the girl—at least he thought it was a female. Small, lithe, and fast. She wore a long jacket with a hood pulled over her face. Dark blue or black jeans. And she was watching. Back and forth, scanning, nervous. What was she scared of? Was she looking for Hannah, her lover’s girlfriend, afraid of getting caught? Then the letter from a coat pocket. He zoomed in. She wiggled it into the slit in the door of the box and pulled her hood tighter over her face, shielding herself from the camera. She had known where the camera was; knew her actions would have consequences. It would be tricky without a face, without even a hair color, but they’d find her.

Morrison rushed into the bullpen and headed toward him.

Petrosky tossed him the phone. “Nice work, California. Now to find out who she is.”

“I’m on it. But we’ve got a situation. Jacob Campbell’s mother is here.”

Petrosky followed Morrison down the stairs to the public section of the building, where citizens came to whine about their neighbor’s dog. Ms. Campbell stood in the middle of the waiting room wearing a pink muumuu over a black tank top, the straps cutting into her bared, pudgy shoulders. No coat, despite the snow. She had a cigarette tucked behind one ear.

Petrosky approached her. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

She turned glassy eyes in his direction. “Yeah, you can fuckin’ help me. I need to know how to get around this shit.” She thrust a sheaf of papers at him. “It’s like all the government wants to do is fuck over good tax-paying citizens while they give everything to those bitches and their welfare babies.”

Petrosky took the papers and gestured toward a door that led to their interrogation rooms. “Follow me, ma’am.”

Morrison sat at the head of the table. Ms. Campbell sat across from Petrosky and glowered at him as he looked over the paperwork. It was notification of a monetary settlement to be paid to Mr. Jacob Campbell. The amount was nearly thirty-six thousand dollars.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to do, Ms. Campbell.”

“What I’m trying to do? That money should belong to me.”

Petrosky turned the page, trying to figure out why she was there instead of at her lawyer’s office. But he’d be damned if he suggested she get a lawyer before she told them something useful. “Why didn’t Mr. Campbell have the money before now?”

She shook her head. “It’s in there somewhere. There’s a bunch of shit.”

Petrosky passed half of the pile to Morrison, and they spent the next few minutes looking over the information. Morrison spoke first. “It looks like there’s a provision to turn the money over to Mr. Campbell when he gets married or turns thirty, whichever happens first.”

Ms. Campbell shrugged. “Yeah, what the fuck ever.”

“And in the case of death, all monies go to the closest living descendant or relative,” Morrison said.

He and Morrison looked at her.

“Ma’am, you did realize this is a motive for murder?” Petrosky asked.

“For who?”

“For his closest living relative.”

She gnashed her teeth. “It isn’t me. It’s his fucking kid.”

Petrosky set down the papers. His kid?

“He always said that bastard wasn’t his, but she put his name on the certificate. Now the lawyers want to give the money to him once he’s big enough.”

Petrosky’s mind raced.

She pulled the cigarette from behind her ear and stuck it in her mouth. “So, what do I have to do to get my boy’s name off that fucking birth certificate?”

Shellie Dermont lived just outside Pontiac on a side street carpeted with last season’s leaves and the oily residue of hopelessness. Even the house she lived in appeared to be frowning, its filthy awnings drawing furrowed brows over sagging window eyes, its front door a yawning howl of a mouth. Tax forms indicated she was broke, but stable, supporting herself working two waitressing gigs in the area. Still, people killed for a lot less than thirty grand.

Petrosky stood in the living room. Dermont sat on the couch, paperwork on her knee, finger moving in time with her lips. “I don’t understand what this is.” The black ring in her nose matched the heavy metal T-shirt she wore. In the next room, a boy rolled a toy truck back and forth under a rustic dining table right off the cover of one of those shabby chic magazines Petrosky’s ex-wife used to read.

Morrison pulled out his notepad and sat at the table. Petrosky glared at Morrison until he stood, then turned back to Dermont. “You’ve never seen this before?” Petrosky asked.

“No.” She held the papers out to him. He waved them back, and she laid them next to her on the couch.

“It was sent certified mail to an address on Carper,” Petrosky told her. “But it was never signed for.”

“I only lived there for a few months. There were roaches in the cupboard and the landlord… I guess you don’t need to know that, huh?”

“When was the last time you talked to Jacob Campbell?”

She laughed. It was a melancholy sound. “Not since Jayden was born, so around five years. He came to the hospital to see us. Took one look at him and bolted. Never even held him.”

Petrosky waited for Morrison’s pen to stop scratching on the notepad. “So, you were separated before the baby was born?”

She nodded. “He was…mean sometimes. I didn’t know I was pregnant when I left, and after I found out, I couldn’t bear the thought of—” Her eyes moved to the boy who was now lying on his back, feet in the air. “Anyway, I told him about Jayden, and he wanted a paternity test, so I had one done.”

“Did you file for support?”

She shook her head. “He never had a job while I was with him, and I didn’t expect that he would suddenly get one after the baby came. I didn’t want him around, anyway. He was always pushy, always asking me to marry him, especially when he found out I was pregnant. He got mad when I said no. It was kinda…scary.” She shuddered.

“In what way?”

“Just the way his eyes got. Like he wanted to hit me.”

“Did he?”

“A few times. After the last time, I left.”

“Good for you.”

A sad smile flashed and was gone.

“Hear anything else about him? Through mutual friends?”

“We didn’t have mutual friends. When I was with him, I didn’t have friends at all. He kinda made sure of that.”

Typical abusive bullshit. “I see.”

“I know; it was stupid. At the time, I just didn’t… It’s hard to see when you’re in the middle of it, you know?” She looked at her hands. “To be honest, when I saw the story on the news, I wasn’t all that…sad. I mean, it was a shock, but not all that sad.”

There was a scuffling sound behind Petrosky as the boy ran to his mother and put his head in her lap. She stroked his hair. “Hey, Care Bear, you want to go get a book? We can read before I have to go to work.”

“Stay home, Mama.”

“I can’t, baby. But Ms. Ross is coming, and you always have fun with her, right?”

He shrugged. “I’ll find the dog book.”

“Okay.” She watched him scamper off down a back hallway then turned back to them. “What else do you need to know? I have to get ready for work soon.”

Petrosky and Morrison exchanged a glance. “We’re almost done, Ms. Dermont,” Petrosky said. “Were you aware that Mr. Campbell had an insurance policy that reverts to your family in the event of his death?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Campbell had an insurance policy from his father. He was to receive thirty-six thousand dollars after he got married.”

“That’s why he wanted to marry me?”

“I don’t know.”