“Um, Kimberly—that’s just the normal spelling—Michelle Alley. A-L-L-E-Y.”
“Mrs. Alley, do you know Detective Lucas Garrett?”
“I do, yes.”
“How do you know him?”
“We were married.”
“When?”
“Um, we got married in 2011, and we divorced about four years ago.”
“What happened to split you two up?”
Yardley said, “Objection, Your Honor.”
“Sustained. Facts only pertinent to this case, Mr. Aster.”
He put his hands in his pockets and watched Kimberly Alley. “Do you know what this case is about, Mrs. Alley?”
“Yes.”
“And I know you weren’t in the courtroom, but your husband just testified that he has never stabbed anyone and never been investigated for stabbing someone.”
“I’m sure he did say that.”
“Is it true?”
“No, it’s not.”
Murmurs went up from a few people in the courtroom. Yardley glanced behind her. At least half a dozen people were there, all in plain clothes without press tags. Most of them, she was sure, were reporters and bloggers attempting to get around Weston’s bar of any media in the courtroom. She was surprised not to see Jude Chance.
“Please tell us what you mean,” Aster said after allowing a good ten seconds to go by so the jury could soak in what was just said.
“Lucas and I had a . . . troubled relationship. It was really good in the early years, but he started drinking a lot after he became a detective. It was—”
“Objection,” Yardley said. “Your Honor, none of this is relevant.”
“Overruled.”
Aster nodded to Kimberly. “Go ahead, Mrs. Alley.”
“I was just gonna say that he started drinking heavily after he became a detective.” She glanced at Garrett, then turned her gaze back to Aster. “Some cops just aren’t cut out for it. A lotta cops don’t like the detectives because they get all the glory and their faces in the papers and interviewed for documentaries and stuff, and a lotta the detectives don’t like the uniformed officers because they get regular schedules and get to clock in and out at regular times. They’re two different worlds. And so when Lucas became a detective, he had to live and breathe those cases, and he lost all his friends. Didn’t hang out with them anymore. It caused a lot of stress. Anyway, I think that’s what started the drinking, and um, after about a year it got outta control.”
“Out of control how?”
She tucked her lower lip underneath her upper lip as she gazed out the windows of the courtroom. Yardley thought her eyes began to glisten with tears.
“He, um, beat me up one night.”
Yardley shot to her feet. “Sidebar.”
“Denied.”
“Your Honor, I requested a sidebar.”
“And I said denied.” He looked at Kimberly. “Go ahead, Mrs. Alley. Continue.”
Yardley sat back down. She glanced at Aster, who winked at her.
“What do you mean, he beat you up?” Aster said. He proceeded to gently question her, eliciting the details of a fight during which a drunk Garrett had shoved her into the shower, then punched her repeatedly in the face. He asked her questions about what she did after and the ride to the hospital. How their son had to go to the emergency room with her and lie to the doctor so his dad wouldn’t be arrested and lose his job, their only source of income.
Yardley could see the sympathy in the jury’s faces. Garrett leaned forward and whispered to her, “That’s bullshit. Object to it.”
“I tried,” she whispered back. “What else aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing. It’s all made up. Put me back on that stand after so I can explain everything.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
Kimberly had started crying. Aster took a lot of time letting her compose herself and then said, “Was that the only time he hit you?”
She shook her head. “I never called the cops or anything. They weren’t going to do anything when it was my word against his, so I let it go. I loved him, too, and we have a son together. I figured he would change once the stress in his job was reduced or he cut back his drinking . . . I don’t know. You don’t know what to think in that situation. You love him and hate him at the same time.”
Yardley felt an intense revulsion: How many times had she lain awake in bed and thought that same thing?
“Did he change?”
“No,” Kimberly said. “It became . . . not a routine thing, but it happened enough that I knew he needed help. When I tried to get it for him, he said he would die before going into a treatment program with a bunch of junkies. So I decided right then to leave him.”
“When was this?”
“Four years ago. April something. I remember it was a Saturday. He’d gone fishing with some friends, and I packed up a few things and me and my son left.”
“What happened then?”
“He was angry. There was a lot of screaming. He came to my work one Monday morning. Broke things, screamed, pushed around my boss, who was trying to protect me. He was so drunk I could smell the alcohol from ten feet away.”
She glanced at Garrett, then quickly looked away.
“Did this continue past that Monday?” Aster asked.
“Yes. It got worse and worse. I was going to take out a, what do you call it, a restraining order, but my lawyer said it wasn’t a good idea until the divorce was finalized. That it would complicate things since we had to talk about custody and how to split everything.”
“What else happened at this time, Mrs. Alley?”
She inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. “It was just my income now. I was working full-time at a low-paying job while I went back to college to finish my degree, so we didn’t live in the best area. Some teenagers sold drugs on the corner. There was a little convenience store, and you could see them hanging out there. People would give them money, and then they would give them something. It was more unsettling than anything scary, but sometimes there’d be a fight. So one day—this was in June, I want to say June tenth of that year—the police come to my door. I’d just gotten home from work, and I’m exhausted and was about to tell them I didn’t know anything because I was sure they were there to ask about some fight, but then they told me that my boyfriend at the time, my husband now, Nathan Alley, had maybe stabbed someone. One of the boys on the corner selling drugs.”
“Did he?”
“Absolutely not. He was away on business in Montreal when it happened. He owns a nutrition supplement store and was at an expo. I showed the cops his Instagram, where he posted tons of pictures of him there, but they didn’t care. They said they were searching the condo, and there was nothing I could do about it.”
“What happened when they searched?”
“They found a knife. Like a military knife. One of those ones that folds. They found it wrapped in a T-shirt that had blood on it.”
“Your knife?”
“No. I’d never seen it before.”
“Nathan’s?”
“No. The cops said that Nathan stabbed that boy, and they arrested him until their sergeant or whatever talked to several people that were in Montreal with him. Then they thought it was me until they watched the video of my condo. I had one of those video recorders on my front door where it starts recording if there’s movement nearby. On the night of the stabbing, it recorded me and my son coming home and not leaving until the morning. But it did capture something else the next day.”
“What?”
“Objection, hearsay. We need to see this video if she’s going to discuss it.”
Aster laid a DVD on the prosecutor’s table and said, “May I approach the clerk, Your Honor?”
“You may.”
He handed the clerk a DVD. A projection screen came down across from the jury near the wall while a bailiff turned down the lights. The clerk inserted the DVD, and an image flickered to
life on the screen.
The entire courtroom watched, rapt, as the video showed Kimberly and a little chubby boy leave the condo. The screen went blank. When the camera activated again, it was brighter, midday, and Lucas Garrett was on the porch. He hurried to the door, glancing around a few times. He had something in his hands, and he fiddled with the lock for a while before the door opened, and he went inside.
“What did we just watch?” Aster asked.
“That was Lucas breaking into my condo. The camera is hidden really good. He didn’t know it was there.”
“I’m going to fast-forward now fifteen minutes.”
The screen went blank, and Aster fast-forwarded about fourteen and a half minutes, and the image came back. Garrett came out of the condo and rushed over to his car and drove away.
“Did you show this video to the police?”
“I did.”
“What happened?”
“They immediately dropped the investigation against me and Nathan and said they wouldn’t be bothering us anymore.” She looked at Garrett now. “They said they were going to bring Lucas in for questions. I never heard anything from them again.”
“Do you think Lucas stabbed that boy and planted the knife in your condo to get your boyfriend arrested and make you look bad during a custody fight?”
“Objection, speculation.”
“Sustained.”
Aster said, “Thank you, Mrs. Alley, that’s all.”
Yardley stayed seated and watched her. She appeared fragile and, still after all these years, frightened. A tough cross-examination could alienate the jury. And Yardley hadn’t become a sex crimes and domestic violence prosecutor to tear apart victims on the stand. She turned to Garrett, who was staring at Kimberly, and whispered, “Is it true?”
“No. Hell no, it isn’t true.”
“You’re lying to me.”
He grimaced and shook his head. “You know what, I don’t need this shit from either of you. Convict that asshole by yourself.”
He rose and stormed out of the courtroom. Yardley gave no reaction other than a flex of her jaw muscles from her teeth grinding together. She stood up.
“No questions for this witness, Your Honor.”
55
The sky was a deep gray. Baldwin lay on the hood of his car and listened to the birds in the nearby trees and the buzz of the occasional fly that zipped by. There was a case he remembered from years ago, a young mother murdered in this park while pushing a stroller. It seemed like if you were in this job long enough, everywhere would hold ghosts for you.
Detective Kristen Reece pulled up a few minutes later in her blue Chevy. She got out wearing black pants with a red shirt, her gun in a sleek black shoulder holster. She put on her suit jacket and said, “You sleepin’ on the job again?”
“Gotta get it where you can.” Baldwin sat up and stretched his neck. “So who is this guy?”
“Just said his name’s Leonard and he’s got information on Harmony Pharr. I called you right after I spoke to him.”
“I know, and I really appreciate that. A lotta cops wouldn’t have.”
“Hell, that’s just you men with your ‘who’s got the biggest dick’ contests. That’s why only women should be police chiefs and sheriffs. We just want to get the job done.”
“Who would make all the coffee and get the donuts if you guys were running things?”
She punched his arm. “Don’t make me shoot your ass.”
He chuckled as he got off the car. “I miss hanging out with you.”
“Me too. Where the hell you been anyway?”
They walked across the parking lot into a grove near a large playground. A cement path had been cleared through the trees.
“The ASAC I told you about. He’s got me running down people passing off fake checks and other bullshit like that twelve hours a day now. Takes all my time.”
“For real?”
“For real. I’m actually here off the clock.”
“Shit. Well, that sucks.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, what can you do. It’s probably getting time for me to move on anyway. I’ve always wanted to run a bar. You think I’d be good at that?”
“I think you’d make a lotta tips with those looks.”
He grinned and put his hands in his pockets as they strolled through the park.
“So you don’t know anything about this guy, huh?” he said.
“Nope.”
“Seems weird to just rush out here instead of inviting him in first and getting some more info.”
“You seen the file in this case? We got nothin’. When it first hit the media, we got calls from cranks and Good Samaritans leaving tips, but even those stopped after a few days. No one cares anymore. She was news for an afternoon, and now it’s done. If I don’t find somethin’ in the next few weeks, this’ll be transferred to open-unsolved, and Harmony Pharr can kiss her ass goodbye, ’cause ain’t no cop ever gonna look at it again.”
He nodded. It was nearly the same protocol at the Bureau. Once the case went cold for a certain length of time, the file was closed and buried and never thought about again. Except by the family members left behind.
He said, “I made contact with a CI that I used to use in the sex offender community. Made him a deal to testify at a track hearing for him if he got me any info on Harmony.”
“He find anything?”
“No. He said he looked everywhere and there was just nothing out there. Not a peep. Just the same nutjobs making disgusting comments on the dark net, but nothing that people can’t learn from the news. Whoever took her is probably not a part of that community, and they’re doing a good job keeping their head down.”
She stopped at a clearing. The park bathrooms were ahead with another playground to the right and a full-length soccer field on the other side. Covered pavilions with benches and tables were behind them.
“Said he’d meet us here.”
They sat down on a bench near the playground.
“You ever get sick of this shit?” Baldwin said.
“Mm-hmm. What cop doesn’t?”
“Then why don’t you leave? You got other options, don’t you?”
She shrugged. “My daddy has a good business. Sells rec vehicles, like boats and four-wheelers. Could go work for him. But I just can’t see myself in another job. Maybe I just don’t wanna see pictures of missin’ kids on Instagram and think maybe I could’ve done somethin’, but instead I’m selling Jet Skis to rich douchebags.”
He grinned. “Some days I would gladly take a pay cut just to stand in a store and sell Jet Skis to douchebags.”
“Some days,” she said, looking at him, “but not every day, I bet.” She took nicotine gum out of her pocket and chewed on a piece. “How come they got you on white collar now? You’re a homicide investigator through and through.”
“The ASAC, Dana Young, thinks it’s all bullshit. That Behavioral Science never should’ve been given the attention it’s gotten and we just should’ve had a general homicide division. He doesn’t see the difference between a gang slaying and a sexual predator. Murder’s murder.”
“Shit. Have him come out and do my job for a week. Find kids stuffed in sewage pipes with nooses around their necks and then tell me a drive-by is the same thing.”
He nodded and watched the trees sway with a breeze. “I’m not kidding, Kristen. I think I’m done. After this, I think that’s it for me.”
“Well,” she said, taking his arm in hers, “whatever happens, you’ll land on your feet. You always do.”
A man approached through the playground. He wore a long white-sleeved shirt, and his acid-washed jeans were faded and torn. His face was sunburned, and he was nervous, constantly looking behind him as though he were waiting for someone to attack him.
He came up with his hands in his pockets and stood in front of them. “You Detective Reece?”
“I am.”
“Who’s this? I said to come alone.”<
br />
“Cut the shit and just tell us what you know. Gonna rain soon, and I don’t wanna be out here.”
Baldwin noticed the man’s hands trembling as he pulled them out of his pockets and the jitteriness of his movements. His pupils were large, and he was unhealthily skinny. If Baldwin had to guess, he would say this man was addicted to speed. Probably snorting it, since his teeth didn’t have the black stains addicts got from smoking out of pipes.
“So I want two hundred. Up front.”
“Two hundred what? Dollars?”
He nodded.
“Get the hell outta here,” she said. “You didn’t say nothin’ about paying you.”
“What’s the girl’s life worth to you? Two hundred seems small.”
Baldwin said, “What do you know about her disappearance?”
“I know where she is.”
Baldwin and Reece exchanged a quick glance before Baldwin said, “She’s alive?”
He nodded. “I ain’t go talk to her or nothin’. I just seen someone bring her to this place I know. I seen her picture. I know it’s her, I got a good look at her.”
Reece said, “We could just arrest you and charge you with obstruction. Then you can sit in a cell until you’re ready to talk to us.”
“No,” Baldwin said, taking out his wallet. “I got a hundred seventeen. This pans out, I give you my word I’ll get you the rest.”
The man mumbled under his breath. “Yeah, all right, gimme the money.”
Baldwin handed it over and then took out his phone and opened the audio recording app. He turned it on and put it next to his leg on the bench.
“No recordings,” the man said.
“I might forget things I need to go back to.”
He shook his head. “No, no recordings. Write it down if you want, but I ain’t givin’ you my last name, and I ain’t bein’ recorded.”
Reece said, “Hey, listen here, shithead—”
“No, it’s fine, Kristen.” Baldwin turned the recorder off and pulled up his note-taking app and showed it to the man. “No recording. Just taking notes on this.”
He nodded and nervously glanced around again.
Reece said, “So? Start talkin’.”
“I was at this bar called Henry’s. You know where it is?”
Crimson Lake Road (Desert Plains) Page 23
