Page 71 of Our Daughter's Bones
“Right. We’re looking for Quinn Jones. Do you know where he is?” Nick asked.
David looked around half-heartedly, his mouth set in a flat line as though the ruckus was completely normal. “He’s not here?”
“We don’t see him around. We were told he would be available right after the game.”
“I don’t know, man. He’s probably at Coach Grayson’s house. The after-party is there. Some of us are going there now. Want to join? Free beer and chicks,” he waggled his eyebrows at Nick.
Mackenzie turned to Nick. Her blood boiled and flowed thick in her veins. “You know what’s happening, right?”
“He’s avoiding us.”
“Or the mighty powers around him are protecting him. It’s just one interview. He isn’t even really a suspect. We just want to know if he knows more than he’s letting on.”
Nick mirrored her anger. His jaw set tight as he pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “David Falkner, you’re under arrest for serving alcohol to underage persons.”
He stepped back with his hands raised. “Wait? What?”
“I saw you give that kid beer,” Mackenzie smiled.
Nick recited him his Miranda rights and bound his wrists behind his back. His eyes went wide. He twisted his body, trying to escape Nick’s grasp.
“Mack, call Sully. Tell him that we have information that underage kids are drinking on Bill Grayson’s property, including Quinn Jones.”
“You can’t fucking touch me! You know who I am?” David yelled, but Nick shoved him forward.
What irked Mackenzie was Quinn Jones. Was it a string of bad luck or was he purposefully avoiding them?
Thirty-Seven
September 20
David Falkner had spent the night in a holding cell. When Mackenzie had left him, he was slurring curses at her and boasting about his reach and powerful friends. They had twenty-four hours to charge him, after which they would have to release him. But Mackenzie and Nick figured that twenty-four hours should be enough to send out a message that Lakemore PD meant business. Lieutenant Peck was livid.
“What the hell are your detectives doing, Sully?”
“He was serving beer to underage kids.”
“Oh, come on!”
But apparently the message had been received. They got a call to say that the Sharks’ quarterback was coming for an interview in the afternoon, after school.
Mackenzie cracked her neck and bobbed her head to “Karma Police”by Radiohead. Quinn had lied, but she suspected he was just a kid who didn’t want to get into trouble—the same reason Abby had lied.
But Eddy Rowinski was the wildcard. She picked up the file containing his criminal record. What were the chances that a man known to be violent toward women didn’t hurt the girl who was never heard from again? She had re-watched the CCTV footage. The way he was positioned when he spoke to her. Like he was aware that there were cameras and didn’t want to be seen.
Today, she’d spent hours researching the meaning behind the number 916. She poured over the texts on Erica’s phone. But there was nothing useful in them. All she had concluded was a strong friendship, bordering on one-sided obsession on Abby’s part.
Nick plopped down on the seat next to her with a loose tie and open collar. He stifled a yawn and gulped down his scalding coffee. He hadn’t slept well either.
“Want to try it?” Nick offered.
“No, thanks.”
Nathaniel Jones walked in first, the overhead light casting a glow on his hairless head. He looked even bigger than he did at the funeral. In his crisp black suit and Rolex watch, he looked every bit of the revered Lakemore idol. Quinn was right behind him. There was something tragic about him. His body was athletic, but he had the face of an artist.
“I’m here because Lieutenant Peck is a friend and out of courtesy to the police. I figured I would show some decency and set an example for you,” Nathaniel said.
Mackenzie spotted Nick’s back stiffen. The cords running down his muscular arms tightened, as if he could blow a fuse anytime.
