Grey Areas 4: Smoke and Mirrors & White Lies

GREY AREAS 4:

SMOKE AND MIRRORS

& WHITE LIES

BY BRAD CARL

Copyright © 2015 Brad Carl

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Cover art adaptation by Matt Downing Photography

Copy editing by Free Range Editorial

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

Thank you so much for buying this fourth and final book of the Grey Areas series. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about Grey Areas.

Thanks again for supporting my work.

—Brad

To my mom for being my biggest fan.

I

Chase picked up the latest issue of Sports Illustrated for the third time in ninety minutes and began thumbing through it yet again. Delia had been in surgery for two hours. The longer it took, the more nervous he got. Dr. Langston was unable to tell Chase how long the procedure would last. She had it explained it was impossible to know how much pressure there was to relieve until they opened up his twin sister.

Things had gone from bad to better to really good and suddenly to complete shit in a matter of days. Chase tossed the magazine onto the coffee table in front of him. He pressed his palms to his face.

Good Lord, I have a splitting headache, he said to himself and then immediately felt guilty for complaining about pain in his head. Chase’s thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sound of boots coming his direction at an uneven pace. He glanced up as Chief Perkins made his way to where the FBI agent was sitting. Chase began to stand.

You don’t need to get up, Agent, Perkins said with the wave of an arm. Chase did anyway, and the two men engaged in a handshake. The chief placed his left hand on top and held it there to express his concern. I’m so sorry, son, he said. I can’t imagine what you must be going through right now.

I appreciate that, Chase said. Perkins let go of his hand and the two men sat down in adjacent chairs.

If you wanna talk… Chief Perkins said.

Chase wasn’t sure if Perkins meant it or not, but it didn’t matter. Instead of talking about Delia’s condition, he wanted to change the subject and keep his mind on other things. Anything new on the Chumansky murder? he asked.

As a matter of fact, yes, Perkins replied. That’s the other reason I’m here. I have good news. Or, I guess it’s actually bad news.

I figured you’d find something eventually, Chase said.

The chief shook his head and snorted before continuing. "Technically, just the opposite. I found something that was missing."

That’s what I meant.

I gotta hand it to you, Perkins said. You knew what you were talking about. It shouldn’t have taken me as long as it did. It’s not like there have been that many guns entered in evidence at our station. On the other hand, there’s been a lot of crap put in there. And I’m a bit embarrassed at how crummy our filing system has been over the last couple of years; but I finally discovered the record of a .357 Magnum that is not in inventory.

No empty bag, nothing? Chase asked.

Zilch, Perkins confirmed.

Makes sense. If you’re a cop and you’re going to steal it, you take any evidence that it ever existed in the first place. Chase let his words echo through the waiting room as he pondered them for a few extra seconds. But now that I think about it, why wouldn’t he delete it out of the computer system?

Perkins smiled. That’s an easy answer, he explained. He couldn’t. We’re a laid-back, small town department, but every once in a while I do things that make sense. See, I’m the only one with the password to the inventory system.

Ahh, Chase said in delight. "So if something was missing from inventory and the system…"

"It would have to be me who did it, Perkins said. Of course, I never expected something would ever actually happen. Guess it shows what I know."

Chase leaned forward. Chief, it’s imperative that you don’t say a word about what you’ve discovered to Jackson.

Of course not.

And it’s also extremely important to not let him know about Delia’s condition, Chase said. I’m waiting to hear back from my office about one other thing regarding your sergeant. Depending on what information comes back to me, I may need him to think Delia has leveled with me and finally told me ‘the truth’ about what happened to Chumansky.

Chief Perkins raised his eyebrows in surprise. You think your sister was involved?

I’m fairly certain she knows more than she’s told me, Chase said, but that’s all I can say for sure.

Wow, Perkins said with a sigh.

I was coming here to chew her ass about it… Chase added contritely.

Chief Perkins responded with a sympathetic pat on the FBI agent’s knee. You’ll still get a chance to ask her about it, he said.

Chase nodded.

You need anything? Perkins asked as he rose from the chair. I’m gonna head out.

I’m good, thanks, Chase said.

You’ll keep me posted? Perkins said.

Yes, sir. Of course.

The police chief turned and began to hobble back up the hallway but stopped short and spun around to face Chase again. Hey, one more thing, Perkins said as Chase looked up. How about you don’t refer to him as ‘my sergeant’ anymore, okay?

#

The entire notion was absurd, unfathomable. He continued to glance at his father’s phone as if it might grant his wish and disappear, making the last thirty minutes nothing more than a nightmare. But every time he looked down at the passenger seat next to him, the phone was still there. It was all real. Too real. And so insane.

Just down the street from his condo, Barrett pulled into a strip mall with a liquor store. His friends always made fun of the establishment because it was next door to a dentist office. The adjacent neon signs were the same color and type style and read Liquor Dentist when seen from a distance. He had no idea why he was here but after opening the door Barrett marched straight for the hard stuff.

His heart hadn’t stopped racing since he first saw Otto Clevinger’s cold, lifeless stare on the cell phone video. He skimmed through the bottles on the shelf: whiskey, rum, gin, vodka. When he came to the Everclear he paused. Grain alcohol. Why not? After paying for the bottle, he hopped back in his mother’s SUV and drove on home.

When he entered his condo he made a mad dash for the kitchen. Although it had been four months since he had been inside, Barrett took no time to look around. He did notice that it smelled oddly clean, but this was not surprising after hearing Agent Sheehan’s observations a few days ago.

Dad probably cleaned the place up to wipe away any DNA, Barrett thought. And it was a good thing he had, too.

He went to the cupboard and grabbed a glass. After placing it on the kitchen table, he sat down in front of it and the bottle of booze. He pulled the phone from his pocket and set it down on the table, too. Scrolling to the videos, he pressed play again. Initially, Barrett thought he would be able to force himself to sit through what he had already watched. But after a few seconds, he realized this was not going to happen. He pressed fast-forward until he reached the section of the video where he had stopped watching and left the bank.

My name is Frank Greyson…and I murdered Otto Clevinger.

Barrett’s entire body shuddered in disbelief, just as it had earlier when he was alone inside the private room at the bank.

When I learned my body was being destroyed by cancer, a number of things went through my mind, including all of the experiences I would miss out on. I would never see my sons get married. Never hold my grandchildren in my arms. There were even surface-level things like never getting the opportunity to retire and enjoy life without having to go to work every day. But there was also a deviously selfish idea that I would soon be gone and could not be punished for any crimes I might commit between that moment and my death.

Good Lord, Dad, Barrett murmured out loud.

Having never been a deeply religious man, I’m not concerned about being judged for this heinous act in the afterlife. I have witnessed my hardworking son, Barrett, become as loyal to Otto Clevinger as he was to me. Maybe more so. But I did not end Mr. Clevinger’s life out of jealously. I ended it to right a wrong that disgusted me because of the nepotism. Otto Clevinger has shown great favoritism to his son and completely disregarded my son’s loyalty to him and his business. In return, I am showing favoritism towards my son with this deed.

What? Barrett said.

I probably have murdered the wrong person. It might have made more sense to dispose of that clueless son of his. But my rage is not as much with Boyd Clevinger as it is — or was, anyway — with his father, Otto. It is he who allowed this situation to progress to what it is today. Barrett now works in the shadow of an inferior Clevinger, aggressively dealing with Boyd’s flaws in both character and work ethic. If Otto Clevinger had not blindly allowed his son to take over his company without having any idea as to what the hell he was doing, this would not have happened.

Who is this guy? Barrett wondered.

But as it stands, I had nothing to lose by doing what I did only a few minutes ago.

This knowledge that his father had felt compelled to share with him was causing Barrett nothing but torment. What was he supposed to do with this information? Live with it? Give it to the FBI to clear his own name and anyone else’s? Had Frank Greyson even considered how this was going to affect the world after he had left it?

Barrett was beginning to feel like he never knew his father. If he was capable of something like this, what else had he done that his family wasn’t aware of? And rooted deep within, Barrett also wondered who he might really be as Frank Greyson’s son. Was he capable of these kinds of things as well? He didn’t think he was, but could he be certain? Could he share this information with anyone? His mother? His brother? If he did, how would it affect his life? Their lives? The burden of the information and of what to do with it was overwhelming.

Instead of opening the bottle of Everclear, Barrett grabbed the only beer from a nearby craft brewery left in his refrigerator. Under normal circumstances he would’ve poured it in a glass and sipped it for an hour. But this wasn’t normal circumstances. He cracked it open and took a long swig directly from the can.

Wow, that’s good, Barrett said out loud. And to think he might never have had the opportunity to drink it again if he had made his way to Canada. And if he had gone to Canada he also knew none of this would be happening to him right now.

The afternoon had not turned out quite the way Barrett had planned. But at least he had made it back to his condo. He turned the television on but, as he had assumed, the satellite service had been disconnected. There was also no running water. There was, however, still power. He flipped the stereo on in the living room and began scanning the radio channels. Nothing grabbed his interest. A couple more sips of beer before flipping to satellite radio. No service.

When Barrett disappeared he had left behind a lot of favorite personal items. His iPod was one of them. He went to his bedroom and shuffled through his things before he found it almost exactly where he remembered leaving it months ago. He brought it out to the living room and placed it in its dock on the stereo. Then he sat back down in the recliner and began to scroll through his 15,000 songs. Barrett was almost done with his beer when he finally settled on Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. He fell asleep before the song On the Run had ended.

#

They’re treating me like a criminal around here, Randy spouted off.

Derrick Janssen glared at the client he'd been appointed to represent. "You are a criminal, Mr. Fowley," he reminded Randy.

"Not this kind!" Randy cried, yanking his handcuffed wrists from the table between the men.

You’re a registered sex offender, you stole a car in front of twenty-seven people in a restaurant, and you threatened a small child and fired a gun multiple times in front of those people. Are you kidding me? Oh yeah, and you also stole a minivan. Janssen was proud of himself. He hadn’t even needed to refer to the file while reciting the offenses.

Are you here to defend me or crucify me? Randy asked with a snarl.

If you want me to defend you, I’m going to need your help. You can start by being honest, Janssen said.

"For the record, I didn’t steal the car at the