Red Rain: Lightning Strikes: Red Rain Series #2

F
or anyone
who has ever faced addiction, and to those whose lives we harm.

T
he drawing was impressive
.

Detective Alan Tremock looked at it, wondering if he had any single talent like this sketch artist. Thomas had done this his whole life, though Alan imagined he could have done something else, something a lot more lucrative than working for the Dallas Police Department.

That’s not important right now
, he thought and pushed the extraneous ideas from his mind. What mattered was
who
he saw on the thick sheet of paper in front of him.

“You’re sure?” he said to Susan.

“Yeah, that’s him. I think his name is John Hilt.”

Alan felt excitement rising in him, like a fissure in the ocean floor breaking through the crust, sending boiling liquid into the cold depths around it. He wanted to control the excitement because this picture didn’t necessarily mean anything. Indeed, there could be an infinite number of reasons why John Fucking Hilt didn’t tell Susan about his coffee date with the dead man, and more likely, an infinite number of excuses as to why he wasn’t the murderer.

“I didn’t think he was necessarily keeping anything from me, but I did have to press him on something he didn’t include in the interview,” she said.

“Something other than this?”

Susan looked at him. “Of course—you think I forgot that someone went to lunch with Stinson hours before he died?”

Alan smiled. “Sorry.” He turned to Thomas. “Thanks. Really great work.”

“You need anything else from me?” the sketch artist said.

“No, I think we should be good. The girl, Kaitlin, how did you feel about her?”

“She was nervous,” Thomas said. “But most people are when they come in here.”

No doubt about it, the girl didn’t like being in the police station one bit; John noticed the same thing during his brief interview.

“Can you email me a copy of this?”

“Already did,” Thomas said.

“Okay, we’ll get out of your hair,” Susan said and left the office. “Good news, huh?” she said once Alan caught up to her in the hallway.

“It could be. What do you think?”

“I think he kept something from us, which doesn’t look good for him.”

“But you talked with those guys,” Alan said. “Don’t they meet a lot like this? My uncle was in AA and he was always meeting with someone.”

“They do, but this guy told me he didn’t meet with people a lot because he didn’t
need
to, which kind of goes against what the drawing tells us.”

“Goddamn,” Alan said, unable to contain his happiness anymore. “We got him.”

“Whoa, cowboy. We don’t have anything yet except a reason to interview him again. That’s it. Him lying to us doesn’t mean he murdered anyone.”

“I’m going to interview him this time,” he said as they rounded the corner to the detectives’s floor.

“Yeah?”

“Do you mind?”

“I might a bit if what you just said is going to color the interview. He’s not guilty yet, Alan. Not by a long shot.”

“I won’t fuck this up. I want to squeeze him some, though, to see if he feels the pressure at all.”

“Just don’t put blinders on,” Susan said. She stopped and grabbed his elbow, making him turn to her. “Putting someone innocent in jail isn’t going to bring Teresa back. It won’t give her any justice either. Now this guy could be involved, but most likely, he’s not.”

Alan looked at her but didn’t say anything immediately. He saw the concern in her eyes and knew where its root lay. Cops went down when they followed only one path—good cops, too. People that you ate dinner and went to baseball games with. All because they got it in their head that they were chasing the bad guy.

“Okay,” Alan said. “Maybe he’s not our guy. We still have to follow the lead.”

Susan looked for a few seconds longer before saying, “Okay.”

D
r. Vondi watched
the boy walk into his office.

One always forms a mental picture when speaking about someone not yet seen, but the boy Dr. Vondi saw now didn’t fit the image in his head. He imagined a taller person, someone athletic looking, strong even—for thirteen, at least.

The kid crossing Dr. Vondi’s office didn’t look like any of those things. He didn’t wear glasses, but looked like they would fit his personality. He was thin, closer to a tennis player than a football jock. Dark hair like his mother.

“How are you?” Dr. Vondi asked.

“I’m okay,” John Hilt said.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” Dr. Vondi motioned to the couch. John sat and remained quiet. Vondi moved to his chair in the middle of the room. “Your mother told you she’s been coming to see me for a while?”

John nodded.

“What else did she tell you?”

The boy looked at him as if judging the truthfulness of Vondi’s words. His eyebrows didn’t scrunch or eyelids narrow, in fact, his face remained the same—yet, Vondi had a distinct feeling that something was happening inside the kid’s brain. Like, if he didn’t appreciate what came from Vondi, then he would shut the whole thing down.

A sense of control.

That’s what Vondi felt, that the kid was placing his will across this relationship.

That doesn’t make any sense, and you know it,
he thought. Which was true, but that didn’t change his feeling at all.

“She told me that you were going to talk to me about how I feel,” the boy said, finally. And with that, Vondi knew John Hilt had passed some sort of judgment.

“She’s right. We’ll talk about feelings in here,” Vondi said, trying to escape the claustrophobic pressure inside his head. “You know what a psychologist is?”

“My dad says you guys don’t farm out pills, but actually talk to people.”

Vondi laughed. “There’s some truth to that, I think. We do talk a lot, perhaps that’s ninety percent of my job. Or rather, listening is what a psychologist really does. I asked your mom to have you come see me, actually.”

“Because of Harry?” John said.

Vondi nodded. “Partly, yes. What you saw was a pretty traumatic experience.”

“I’m seeing someone at school, too.”

“How is that going?” Vondi said.

John shrugged his shoulders.

Dr. Vondi nodded back, his mind quickly deciding which path he wanted to take. The boy wasn’t exactly uncomfortable here; in fact, he seemed at ease, yet something about him gave the impression that he didn’t
want
to be here.

“Has your mom said anything about what happened to Harry?”

“She hasn’t said a lot. She’s upset, though. Everyone is.”

“What do you think about it?”

The boy cocked his head to the side. “What do I think?”

“Yes. About what you saw. About everything that’s happened after. Just anything.”

The boy didn’t move his head, but kept that peculiar look. “What would you think if your best friend died?”

“Mine died a few years ago, actually,” Dr. Vondi said. “I thought a lot of things, but I mainly thought how much I would miss him.”

Neither spoke for a few seconds.

“I miss him,” John said. Vondi saw tears in the boy’s eyes, though none fell. He looked away from the doctor. “He was my best friend. Maybe my only friend.”

“Your mom misses him, too,” Vondi said.

The boy flicked his gaze to Vondi. “Is that what she tells you?”

“I can’t talk about what we discuss in here, not to your mom or anyone else. That also means I can’t talk to you about the things she and I speak about, but I think it’s obvious to anyone in this situation how much we miss those we love.”

“She probably does miss him,” John said. “I don’t think that’s why she’s concerned, though. I don’t think that’s why I’m here. Not to make sure I don’t miss him too much. I think I’m here because she thinks I killed him.”

A
lan rode the elevator up
, looking at his shoes.

He was making a ballsy move, one that could backfire badly and waste a lot of time. But if it worked? Well, that’s why he was taking the risk, the payoff would be huge.

Detectives scheduled interviews as much as possible. This did a few things—it increased the odds the suspect would attend, the suspect had adequate time to have a lawyer present, and it kept everything on the up and up. The one con was obvious: up and up gave the suspects time to develop a story, or jump ship if they didn’t have a story that worked.

Alan didn’t want this guy—John Hilt—developing any kind of story. He wanted to see Hilt’s reaction the moment he found out the police were looking at him with more interest than just a friendly interview. Alan thought he’d see something in that reaction, something that gave away more than anything Hilt might say if they called him down to the police station, a lawyer walking by his side.

The elevator stopped and Alan walked out. Office 1824. He hoped Hilt was in a meeting. He hoped people surrounded him and they all looked over at the exact same time when Alan walked in, just before turning back to look at Hilt—wondering what in the hell was going on.

Alan saw Hilt’s assistant, sitting in a smaller office to the right of 1824. Her door was open and she didn’t appear to be on the phone, so Alan leaned in.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m looking for John Hilt.”

“I’m sorry, he’s busy right now. May I ask who you are?”

“Sure,” Alan said, pulling his badge from his back right pocket. “I’m Detective Tremock and I’d really like to talk to Mr. Hilt as soon as possible.”

“Would you mind stepping outside? I’ll see if he can move his schedule around.”

“Sure,” Alan said, taking a few steps back and finding a chair in front of her office. Most times people were busy until they found out the cops wanted to see them, then they suddenly found the time. Alan sat for a few minutes, careful not to pull his phone out or do anything that might give the impression that his attention wasn’t fully here. He didn’t know what Hilt could see, whether cameras were looking at him, but his persona mattered.

Because the reaction that came in the next few minutes could say a lot.

“Detective?” the assistant called from her office. Alan stood up and poked his head inside the door again. “Mr. Hilt will be able to see you in just a few minutes. May I ask what this is about?”

“Just routine interviews given the death from downstairs.”

“Oh, okay,” she said. Alan thought she believed it.

He sat back down in the chair and waited until he heard her call from inside her office, “Detective Tremock? He’s ready for you.”

“Thanks,” Alan said with a smile and walked to the door. He knocked on it softly before twisting the knob. Alan paused for a second as he stepped in, admiring the room’s beauty—not even an act, but sincerely awed at what he saw. Modern day offices were tightly constrained, trying to cram as many people into a building as possible, but Alan stood in what looked to be a holdover from the mid 1950s. “This is nice,” he said, letting the words trail out into the open air high above his head.

“Thanks,” the man sitting across the room said. He sat behind a glass desk which resided on a slightly raised platform, putting it a foot or so above where Alan stood. “I got lucky getting this office; I just as easily could have been put in the mailroom, I suppose.”

“I doubt that,” Alan said, smiling again. He walked across the room, stepped up onto the platform, and extended his hand. “Detective Tremock.”

“John Hilt,” the man said, shaking Alan’s hand. “What can I help you with? Are you working with Detective Merchent?”

“I am. We’re investigating the murder of Paul Stinson.”

Hilt looked down at his desk, his face taking on a semblance of gravity. “I miss seeing him at group, to be honest. It’s just sick.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Alan said. “When you spoke with Detective Merchent, you told her you didn’t have much contact with Mr. Stinson, is that right?”

“Yeah, not much at all. I forgot to mention, though, and this didn’t hit me until a day or so ago, that I did see Paul that day, the day he disappeared. Just a happenstance type thing. I walked into a Starbucks that he apparently visited regularly, and we talked for a good bit.”

Alan studied Hilt’s face. No surprise anywhere. No worry. Not a hint of anxiety running through a single cell of his body.

“That’s actually what I came to speak to you about, Mr. Hilt. It’s kind of … curious, I suppose, that you bring it up today.”

“Why’s that?” Hilt asked.

“Well, someone at that Starbucks helped us create a sketch, and sure enough, that sketch showed your face.”

“I don’t find it too curious, given that I was in the Starbucks talking to Paul. Actually, it makes sense, and I wish I had remembered earlier, saved everyone some time and resources.”

Alan nodded. “Do you mind if I take a seat, Mr. Hilt?”

“No, of course, sit.”

Alan did, folding his hands in his lap.

“Why didn’t you tell Detective Merchent when she questioned you the other day?”

“Like I said, I forgot. The whole thing, I mean his death, was beyond shocking. I wasn’t thinking clearly at all. Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure it was the same day he disappeared, but at least someone was able to help us pin down the day with that sketch.”

“Were you going to tell us about your meeting with him? Or that you were seen leaving with him?” Alan said.

“I’m not sure. I mean, I left with him because we had coffee
together
. I don’t see how it would have any bearing on your investigation.”

“You may be the last person to see him alive. You don’t think that has bearing?”

“Not if you knew the contents of our conversation.”

“Well, Mr. Hilt, I can promise you that whatever you said is extremely interesting to my partner and me. In fact, interesting enough that we’d like you to come back to the station and interview you again. How does that sound?”

Hilt shrugged. “Should I bring a lawyer?”

“What’s the saying? Only guilty people lawyer up?”

“I don’t know; I’ve never really dealt with lawyers, so those sayings are lost on me.”

Alan stood. “Well, that’s your choice, Mr. Hilt. I can’t make it for you. Two PM tomorrow work for you?”

“Sure, that works fine,” Hilt said.

“Thanks for your time,” Alan said but didn’t offer his hand before he turned to walk to the door. Just before he reached for the doorknob, he turned around. “Wasn't someone else who worked in this building murdered a few days ago? Do you think it’s curious, just a bit, that two people near you died recently?”

* * *

A
lan looked
at the missed calls on his phone, clearing them before looking up Susan’s number. Electricity jolted up and down his body. Hilt hadn’t shown the reaction Alan expected, but wasn’t his completely calm reaction enough in itself?

Alan looked down at his phone as he rolled his car to a stop at the light. His wife was calling again, which wasn’t normal. She knew where he was, knew what was going on, so shouldn’t be calling like this. Unless she was pissed, being that he hadn’t made it home to dinner in over a week.

Either way, Alan didn’t have time right now.

He had to talk to Susan. Alan sent his wife to voicemail and then hit Susan’s number.

“Not going to make it home for dinner again?” she answered.

“It’s only six. I can still make it,” he said, which was true, if he headed straight home.

“But you’re not going back to the house, are you?” Susan said. “You’re going back to the office.”

“I just finished meeting with him, the guy from the sketch.”

“What did you think?” she said.

“I think …,” Alan paused.

He wasn’t one hundred percent sure how he felt. The almost preternatural calm he felt radiating off Hilt was disconcerting.

“He seemed willing to help,” Alan said. “Only … he seemed to dislike the fact that I was there. Or not so much me being there, but me in general.”

“What do you mean?”

He let a few seconds of silence pass as he figured out how to put it into words.

“I felt like he was looking down on me, maybe. Except, that’s not even exactly right. The man held some disdain for me that I can’t really put my finger on. He said he would come down to the station tomorrow for another interview, and didn’t really sound like he’d bring a lawyer.”

“Sounds to me like
you
don’t like
him
,” Susan said.

“I don’t. Not at all.”

“Because of how he acted or because you’ve already convicted him?”

“I don’t know,” Alan said.

“That’s not the best answer in the world.”

“Maybe not, but it’s all I’ve got.”

“So what do you want to do?” Susan asked.

“I don’t think we’re going to get this guy to admit something in an interview room. He’s educated and has money. If we put too much pressure on him, he’ll lawyer up and that’ll be the end of it.” Alan paused as he thought about how that might feel, to have their first real lead in the case burn like a cheap match. Whatever else happened,
that
couldn’t. “We need to look into everything he’s ever done. As far back as we can find. If he’s guilty, something is going to turn up. We also need to put a tail on him.”

“Something he can slip?” Susan said.

“Yeah, I want him to see that we’re looking. One tail he can slip, and then a second one he won’t ever know is there.”

“Alright. I’ll get on it tomorrow.”

Alan nodded, alone in his car, finding satisfaction in his decision.

“Okay, see ya,” he said and hung up the phone.

When’s the last time you asked how Susan was doing?

The thought poked into his brain like a needle through skin, painful and bright. Painful because he hadn’t asked and bright because the pain illuminated the truth: he didn’t care how she was doing. He didn’t care how his wife was doing. He didn’t care about the girls, either—not really. Not how he had cared before Paul Stinson showed up dead beside that lake. He cared about Teresa, and everything else fell to the side until he made sure
she
was okay.

And she would only ever be okay if the person that killed her paid for it. In blood or time, Alan didn’t care.

Do they notice?

Of course they notice,
he answered.
Your wife just called you three times and you didn’t bother answering or returning the calls. Everyone around you knows what you care about. Even your kids.

It wouldn’t be long. A month, maybe? At the outside? They could all go back to normal once this was over. He promised himself and them, even if they couldn’t hear him.

* * *

M
arie Tremock lay in bed
, sitting up with a pillow behind her back.

The pale blue television screen cast its glow across the room, turning what should have been a dark and quiet place to something unnatural—a room at midnight, full of light and people talking, though only one person occupied the bed.

She watched what felt like the ninth commercial for an upcoming movie—‘The Singularity Rising’ a sequel to something that came out a few years ago titled ‘The Singularity’.

Just awful names
, she thought as the commercial ended.

Marie wasn’t angry, though she thought she should be. In fact, given it was nearing midnight, she should probably be
pissed
that Alan wasn’t home. But she couldn’t find it in her, even if she wanted to.

She understood.

She didn’t like it, wasn’t even sure she respected the decisions he was making, but she did understand.

Marie didn’t want to have the conversation that was about to take place, but what choice was there anymore?

She heard the door open downstairs, closing as quietly as possible. She listened, turning the television down. His footsteps led to the kitchen, the sound of water running, and then silence as he drank. He started climbing the stairs and as he reached the top one, he paused. She heard it and knew why.