Facing the Past

by J. J. Cagney

  “This isn’t fair to you.”

  He snorted. They sat there for another minute, staring at each other. Danielle scratched her neck. As a child, she was quiet out of fear. As an adult, she’d realized strength sometimes meant keeping her mouth shut.

  Trevor’s gaze never wavered from her face. “Finish the story.”

  Danielle dropped her eyes to the table, her cheeks heating with nerves but also with embarrassment. Trevor splayed his fingers on his side of the table, three feet of space wider than the Grand Canyon.

  “Not much else to tell. The household I grew up in was not the house—the family—you knew and yearned for.”

  “You felt betrayed,” Trevor said. “By them both.”

  Danielle snorted. “I was forced to grow up. I wasn’t ready.”

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  “That you asked?” Her laugh was brittle.

  Trevor sighed, running his hands down his suit jacket before buttoning the two buttons there. “No. That you had to live through that. The woman you speak of wasn’t the woman I knew, Danielle. She seemed so strong, so capable of handling every trial, working through her grief and mine.”

  Here was the opportunity. “And my father?”

  Trevor tugged at his lip. “He wants me to take over AMEAC. He told me thirty years is long enough. In March, I’m stepping into the chairmanship. He’s in the process of handing over the day-to-day activities to me. That’s the plan we developed when I came on board.”

  “Has he cleaned out his office then? Already on the golf course?” She tried to keep her voice calm. Trusting Trevor with her secrets, with her fears, proved difficult. Or maybe stupid. He was, after all, her father’s protégé. She’d known this and she’d kept talking.

  Trevor laughed a little, but his eyes were still dark, his pupils dilated. “Nah. Hank isn’t one to give up or out early. He’ll be in the office giving me hell every day for weeks yet, maybe years.”

  Meeting Trevor had been foolhardy. So much for hoping her mother told Trevor her fears. As far as Danielle could tell, Trevor knew nothing that could help them solve Jonathan’s murder—and was opposed to Danielle even trying.

  “I hope that goes well. Thanks for meeting me but I’m not hungry,” Danielle said. She stood, dropping some bills on the table.

  Trevor nodded, absent-mindedly, when Danielle rose from the booth and headed toward the front doors. She paused, her heart racing when, when she glanced through the tinted glass in time to see a gray hybrid SUV pull away from the curbside to-go order parking spot.

  She blinked, unsure . . . possibly caught up in her past . . .

  The man in the driver’s seat looked like her father.

  No, she realized with a gurgle of fear lashing up from her midsection. The man was her father.

  23 Danielle

  Danielle fumbled to pull out her phone and snapped a rapid set of pictures, all while her heart continued to gallop in her chest cavity. If that was Hank . . . well, what did that prove?

  She climbed into her minivan just as Trevor walked out the doors. Their eyes caught, held. Danielle held her breath, wondering if Trevor would approach her again.

  She released the pent-up air, swaying slightly from lightheadedness, when he turned away and headed toward his car.

  She rubbed her damp palms up and down her chilled arms. The officers who’d been in the restaurant pulled up beside her in a beige sedan.

  “You okay?” the one nearest her asked.

  Was she? Mansfield held more than just the memories of Jonathan’s murder. Something about her presence seemed to ripple through the air, causing a faint rumble at the very foundations.

  “I will be,” Danielle murmured. She glanced over. “Do you know if you guys got all that—what Trevor and I said—on tape?”

  The driver leaned forward so that Danielle could see his face. Sharp jaw, almost a cruel line to his mouth. “We got it.”

  “All right. Well, I’m going home.”

  “We’ll escort you.”

  Danielle shivered, considering the car she thought held her father and the look on Trevor’s face when he met her gaze through her windshield.

  “I’d appreciate that,” she said.

  Danielle sent the photos to Chief Hardesty’s email address as soon as she set her car in park. He called her moments later.

  “How you doing?” he asked.

  “I’ve been better. Lots better.” She gripped the steering wheel in a tight grasp as her heart rate once again skyrocketed. “Why didn’t you meet with him?” Danielle asked.

  “Could have,” Hardesty said. “He might’ve told me. “I got a feeling he’d spill way more to a pretty gal like you than he ever would tell me, especially now that he’s working for your dad.”

  Danielle glared at the front of her garage, wishing the chief could see her displeasure.

  “What’s your deal with my dad?” Danielle asked. She rubbed her fingertips against her forehead, much like she was trying to work out a headache. “Why don’t you like him? I mean, do you know something—something I should? Was that . . . was that his car tonight?”

  24 Arlen

  “It was,” Arlen said. “We think he was checking up on you.”

  For what purpose, Arlen wasn’t quite sure. He stared down at Nancy’s journal, which lay open on his desk. He’d gone through another four today. Still nothing of interest—at least as it pertained to the case.

  Oh, Arlen had learned much about Hank’s ambition. He’d read, over the pages, as Nancy fell slowly out of love with her husband. At times wrenching and others angry, Nancy’s writings gave a deep insight into her relationship with Hank.

  Unfortunately, none of it was evidence. Arlen needed a smoking gun.

  He needed a motive. The note about Rusty’s Trucks was helpful, but Arlen needed more than a breadcrumb to follow.

  He wanted to nail the SOB who’d done this more than he’d wanted to close any other case in his career.

  His calendar mocked him. As of today, four weeks until retirement. Four measly weeks to seek justice.

  Arlen pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Much as he hated to tell Danielle the truth, she needed to know what they were dealing with—she’d guessed but hadn’t asked outright. He understood because the reality was too disturbing. For years, Arlen worried the man who killed Jonathan was a serial killer. One who preyed on little boys.

  Arlen rubbed his fingers over his tired, bloodshot eyes. This was his first case in more than ten years. He wondered again if he should hand it over to one of his detectives. He’d considered it, for both his sanity and his wife’s.

  But he just couldn’t. This case . . . it ate at him. Always had.

  “I’ve let my counterpart up in Dallas know about the situation. We’re going to do what we can, Danielle. Right now, that’s all I can offer.”

  Not enough. But then, in this situation, it never had been.

  Hardesty settled his bulk into his chair early the next morning. He logged in to his computer and took a deep sip of his coffee. He’d made it through another two journals last night. More ramblings. On some level, Arlen felt like a voyeur, going over every one of Nancy’s penned thoughts. But she’d wanted him to have the books. Wanted him to read them.

  He called the number his secretary had left on his desk, her handwriting only slightly more legible than his.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, there. I’m looking for Rusty Williams.”

  “Speaking,” the voice said, but suspicion laced his tone.

  “Well, now, I’m looking for the Rusty Williams that owned Rusty’s Trucks.”

  “Oh,” Rusty Junior said. “That was my dad.”

  Arlen’s mouth turned down at the word was but he asked, “He around?”

  “He died ten years ago,” Rusty Junior said.

  Dammit. So far, Arlen had come up with nothing.

  “How long did he run the car dealership?”

  Juni
or laughed, a deep belly guffaw. “Weren’t a dealership. Just old beaters that needed to be in the junkyard. I own that,” Junior said, pride puffing his voice and probably his chest.

  “But you sold the truck part?”

  “Naw. Shuttered it. Actually, my dad did. Came home from the junkyard one day real pale. Said a lady, a pretty lady came by to see him, asking about his trucks—who he sold ’em to.”

  At this Arlen’s heart began to pound. His face burned hot and he tried to take slow deep breaths like his doctor showed him to do when his blood pressure was on the rise.

  “When was that?” Arlen asked.

  “Oh . . . I don’t know. Maybe five, six years before he died. Who’d you say you are?”

  Arlen looked down at the date on the journal entry. It matched Junior’s recollection—from sixteen years earlier.

  “I didn’t. I’m Chief Arlen Hardesty of the Mansfield Police Department. I’m looking into that case—the one with the pretty lady. Her name was Nancy Foster.”

  “Huh. I don’t like cops.”

  Most people didn’t and not just those who had something to hide. These days, it was hard to flip through the news on those social sites his son and daughters liked so much without reading about a cop killer or some other horror. Arlen hung his head, wishing more people believed in his profession as he did. He’d always seen himself as a protector of his community. One of the good guys. Most were. Arlen had to believe that.

  “Can you tell me anything else about that lady or what your dad said?”

  “Not much else to tell,” Junior said. His words were more clipped, careful. “Dad looked real blue, said the lady showed him a picture of a truck that’d been used to kill her boy.”

  Arlen tapped his pen on his large, yellow notepad hard enough for the cap to fly off. It clattered across his desk before rolling to the floor. “He tell you the guy’s name who bought it?”

  “Naw. Just quit selling trucks and retired. Drank a lot and looked a bit peaked. Kinda wished that lady never stopped on by. He was happier afore that.”

  Arlen knew that feeling. He thanked Rusty Junior and hung up.

  He worked his way through some departmental issues, keeping an eye on the clock. After a bathroom break and another cup of coffee after his morning meeting, Arlen heaved a sigh of relief as his clock rolled over to ten.

  Finally. He punched in the number. When the other man picked up, he said, “You get through?”

  He’d had his son’s boss, a big shot lawyer up in Kansas City, call Hank Foster’s foundation. “Nope. Said he was out of the office.”

  Arlen leaned back in his chair, wincing at his squeak. Yeah, those twenty pounds weren’t doing much for his health—or the lifespan of his chair.

  “What about Trevor?”

  “Also out of the office.”

  Arlen needed to confirm that, which he’d do now. “Thanks, Jeff.”

  “Any time. Though I do want to know why me calling AMEAC was so important.”

  “Tell you once I know for sure.”

  Jeff remained silent. “This a big case?”

  “If I can prove it? Explosive.”

  “Well, shit.”

  Arlen hung up. His secretary needed him, then he had to deal with a shift dispute. Finally, he had another free minute, and he dialed the AMEAC line and waited to be connected to Trevor Dresden’s office. Might as well fish for information there first. A nice young woman picked up the phone.

  “Hey, there, Fiona. My name’s Arlen Hardesty. I’m an old friend of Trev’s.” Sort of true. “I’m gonna be in town this afternoon and wanted to know when was a good time to stop by.”

  Not true at all.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry he’ll miss you, Mr. Hardesty. Mr. Dresden took the afternoon off for a funeral. Close family friend.”

  “You know who that is? ’Cause that’s why I’m in the area. To visit with the Foster family.”

  “Mr. Dresden planned to attend Nancy Foster’s funeral, sir.”

  “Doesn’t that start at six?”

  Arlen glanced at the clock. Three thirty. No need for the men to leave work early.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Hardesty. Mr. Dresden left before lunch.”

  “Thanks for the information, Fiona. You’ve been very helpful.”

  He dialed back through the main switchboard and got a hold of another young woman, Kara, who was Hank Foster’s secretary.

  “Kara, I’m in a bit of a bind. I’m an old family friend of the Fosters—knew Nancy and Hank back when they lived down here in Mansfield. I needed to speak with Hank to get the details of Nancy’s funeral.”

  “Mr. Foster isn’t available,” Kara said, her voice frosty.

  “Well, now, that’s a shame. I’d like to pay my respects to Hank and Danielle. That family’s been through so much.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Hardesty. I’d suggest you call back tomorrow if you’d like to speak to Han . . . er, Mr. Foster.”

  The slip was small but it flustered her. Arlen’s smile held no humor. Seemed that Hank’s charisma hadn’t faded with the ladies over the years.

  “I’ll do that, Kara. You let Hank know I called. We go a long way back. Over thirty years.”

  “Of course.”

  “And let him know I offered my condolences on his wife’s death.”

  Kara made a noncommittal noise.

  He hung up the phone.

  Time to haul his ass up to Dallas to check in on Nancy’s memorial service—and make sure both Trevor and Hank attended.

  25 Danielle

  Her mother’s service that next Tuesday evening was short and spare; a single oversize floral wreath next to a blown-up photograph, causing Nancy’s pores to appear grainy, her sad eyes seeming to watch each person who passed by it.

  Trevor walked in and sat, head bowed in a chair in the third row to the right. Danielle made no effort to greet him.

  Chief Hardesty stood in the back, his arms crossed over his thick chest, eyes assessing each person. He moseyed over to Trevor before he left, saying a few words that had Trevor’s eyes dropping to his shoes.

  Danielle inched closer to hear what they were saying. Trevor’s gaze rose, raking over her with a sullen displeasure that caused her skin to prickle.

  “I don’t see why you have to look back into Jonny’s death,” Trevor muttered to Hardesty. “What the hell does this have to do with Hank?” Trevor stepped in, closer to Chief Hardesty.

  “I asked him to reopen Jonathan’s case,” Danielle said.

  Trevor’s blue eyes seared her face. “Why would you want to open that type of pain back up to others? To me? Your father?”

  “My mother knew more about Jonathan’s death than she said.”

  Trevor’s eyes widened, dilating so much that the blue dissolved into a dark abyss. Trevor turned to look out the window. Chief Hardesty shifted his bulk, firmly planted between Danielle and Trevor. He shot Danielle a watch-yourself look.

  She planned to.

  “Don’t hurt your father like this, Danielle. I mean . . . your family was perfect. I wanted to be part of it. I wanted that more than anything.”

  Danielle shook her head, motioning to the too-large, grainy photo of her mother and the mostly empty room. “Jonathan’s death destroyed whatever we had. I was too young to participate then and by the time I was old enough to remember, the tensions between my parents were high. My mother was a mess.”

  “I just can’t believe that.” Trevor turned away, his back rigid.

  “Trevor. I need to ask you something,” Danielle said, her palms wet and itchy as she rubbed them against her black wool skirt. She hated this dress, never wanted to see it again.

  “I already told you what I know. The biggest takeaway was they never found out who did it.” Trevor slid his gaze toward Chief Hardesty, his eyes flinty and his tone hard, unforgiving. Chief Hardesty met Trevor’s glare with calm eyes.

  Danielle knew—both from that look and from the reputation she
read about on the internet—that Trevor was one of the most feared men in court. That ruthlessness would never bring Jonathan back. As Trevor’s gazes shifted toward the pretty bay window, Danielle knew that no matter how many criminals Trevor had gotten convicted he’d never be able to save Jonathan. Or the others before, but maybe they could save some now.

  “Tell me about your fight,” Chief Hardesty said. “The reason Jonathan had your skin under his fingernails.”

  Trevor blinked, his mouth dropping open in a silent o of surprise. He shook himself, returning to the calm, capable man he present to the world. “We talked about the coolest superheroes. I thought it was Flash, but Jonny was adamant that Spiderman was the best. We fought about it, yelling. Came to blows. We rolled around in the dugout, the other boys egging us on.”

  Trevor shook his head, eyes brighter. Neither of them mentioned that or the apparent thickening of his voice.

  “You hit each other?” Danielle asked. Her own boys had never come to blows—she didn’t know how she’d cope should the situation arise.

  “Knockdown, drag out. That was one of my very last interactions with my best friend. Us, beating the crap outta each other.”

  Unable to take the pain in his eyes, Danielle touched his knotted fingers. The whiteness eased, and he linked his fingers through hers in a smooth, practiced gesture. He stood tall again, after a moment; an impressive form, supple and lean in his slacks and button-down shirt. Pent-up frustration and fear dried Danielle’s throat.

  “You said my father wanted us to meet while you were in college.”

  “Yeah,” he murmured.

  “Did he ever tell you why?”

  “Keeping it in the family.”

  A shiver trailed lightly down her lower back, settling in the pit of her stomach. She glanced up at Chief Hardesty, who appeared to be calculating that statement.

  “Keeping what in the family?” Danielle asked. “Why did he say that, Trevor?”