The Thin Edge

by Peggy Townsend

  Her anger seemed to take on a life of its own. It was volcanic, unstoppable.

  She tossed the throw from her shoulders. “Don’t talk to me about ego, Mr. Blowhard. Yours is so big you can’t see around it to the fact you’re about to make a huge mistake.”

  “My only mistake was trusting you,” Quinn shouted. “Now, I’ve got to go clean up the mess you made.”

  “Good. Go,” she yelled, “and take your big head with you.”

  “I’m taking you to the station. The doc said you shouldn’t be alone.”

  “The only way I’ll go to the station is if you arrest me.”

  “Don’t think I wouldn’t like that.”

  Aloa snatched the throw from the ground. “I’m going back to the house. Alone,” she added.

  “So I can find you dead tomorrow? Hell no,” Quinn said.

  He reached for her arm and she shrugged him off.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I will not,” Quinn said.

  In the end, Aloa agreed to let Quinn escort her to Justus, where Erik and Guillermo fussed over her and put her to bed in their guest room, bringing her a tall glass of ice water and two Tylenol and promising to check on her every hour.

  “Sleep tight, but not too tight, sweetie,” Erik said as he closed the door gently behind him.

  Aloa fell into a restless sleep, awakening once to find Baxter the cat curled up against her ribs and another time to feel Erik gently tugging the covers up over her shoulders.

  “I’m fine,” she whispered when he came in a little before 5:00 a.m. to check on her again. “You don’t need to keep watching me.”

  “You scared us, honey,” Erik said. He perched on the edge of the bed. “You could have been killed.”

  “But I wasn’t.” She took his hand. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

  “That’s what big old queens are for.” He smiled. “You’re family, honey. Don’t forget that.”

  A lump grew in her throat and she swallowed it away. Damned concussion. “I won’t,” she said. “Now, you should get some sleep. You have to work today.”

  “You promise you’re fine?”

  “I am.”

  “And you’ll do what the doc said and stay here and rest?”

  “Scout’s honor,” she said.

  But at 7:30 a.m. she awoke with an idea so strong her brain seemed to crackle like lightning with it. She lay still for a moment before climbing out of bed. She slipped into her clothes—jeans and a college-era denim jacket she’d found in her closet—left a note for Erik and Gully saying she’d gone back home, and tiptoed down the stairs carrying her Timberlands in her hand.

  She walked a few doors down the street, pulled out her phone, and summoned an Uber.

  DAY 10

  The Davenports’ neighborhood was just waking up as Aloa’s driver crested the hill and asked if she wanted to drive around the block one more time or if there was another place she wanted to go.

  Aloa studied the steep street. She watched a man in a plaid robe walk a nervous Chihuahua, and a woman in a suit and high heels get behind the wheel of a Mercedes and pull away. But there was no sign of a small blue pickup like the one that had hit her.

  “Just let me out,” she told the driver.

  She’d awakened that morning with the sudden realization of where else she may have seen the panicked eyes that belonged to the hit-and-run driver. It was at the Davenports’ house when Kyle Williams had opened the door that first time. The memory had made her sit up and let the thoughts flow: Kyle’s overprotectiveness of Davenport, the left-handed man at the Davenports’ door, his mistreatment of Corrine Davenport, his years at the hands of a psychopath, and Bon Tae’s tale of a nature so vengeful he would hurt a child.

  If it was Kyle who tried to kill her with his truck—and that was still an “if” until she could confirm the blue truck belonged to him and examine it for damage or blood—there could be only one reason for the assault: he was Corrine’s killer and he was afraid Aloa was getting too close.

  She’d gathered up her clothes, remembering Kyle had an alibi, but also knowing there were ways to manipulate witnesses, and dressed quietly. She’d debated calling Quinn, but realized the Brain Farm had made that impossible by absconding with Hamlin. Not only did Quinn blame her for what happened, but he was so angry he wouldn’t believe any theory she came up with at the moment.

  That left her with only two options: She could break her promise and reveal Hamlin’s alibi, something that would violate the moral code she’d adopted of trustworthiness in all things. Or she could prove Kyle was the killer.

  She looked down the street at the Davenports’ house and got out of the car. There might be a way. But it would be tricky.

  She watched the Uber pull away and took a few steps, but a sudden wave of vertigo washed over her and she had to put her hand on the hood of a parked Volvo, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Her head had stopped pounding, but her brain was behaving like a cell phone with bad service. Stretches of clarity would be interrupted by a moment of buzzing blankness. She closed her eyes and waited for the spinning sensation to end before continuing. She hoped it was intuition and not the concussion that had led her here.

  She knocked on the Davenports’ door, heard footsteps, and saw Kyle blanch when he opened the door to find her standing on the porch.

  “Oh,” he stammered, “it’s you.”

  “I’ll bet you’re surprised to see me,” Aloa said.

  His Adam’s apple took a deep bob. “Well, it’s barely eight o’clock.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she answered.

  He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “Yes, well,” he said. “Whatever you meant, you can’t come in. Christian isn’t ready for visitors.” He started to close the door.

  Aloa put up a hand and stopped the door’s swing. “You can’t run forever, you know,” she said.

  An intercom crackled. “Who’s there, Kyle?”

  “Nobody,” Kyle said. “Go away,” he hissed at Aloa.

  Instead, Aloa called out. “It’s Aloa Snow. I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Davenport.” She raised an eyebrow at Kyle.

  “You can’t do this,” Kyle said under his breath.

  “Watch me,” said Aloa as Davenport’s voice came back over the intercom.

  “Well, if you don’t mind a little quadriplegic skin show, come on back,” he said.

  Aloa smiled, pushed her way past Kyle, and went into the bedroom where she guessed Davenport would be. He was lying in his hospital bed, his hair damp and tangled, a sheet lowered to below his navel, revealing prominent ribs and hip bones that stood up like cupped gravestones—an image of wasting she recognized too well. She looked away.

  Kyle shoved past Aloa to draw the sheet over Davenport’s chest. “You need your bath and your breakfast,” he said.

  “It’s fine, Kyle,” said Davenport. He smiled at Aloa. “I have trouble regulating my temperature. Sometimes I’m too cold and sometimes I feel like I’m in the tropics. Right now, it’s the tropics.” He lifted his chin toward a straight-backed chair in a corner of the room next to a clutter of medical equipment. “Have a seat, Ms. Snow.”

  “Christian, you know what happens when your schedule gets thrown off,” Kyle objected, smoothing Davenport’s hair off his face and drawing it into a topknot he secured with a small elastic band.

  “I’m sick of schedules. Let’s live a little, huh?” Davenport smiled at Aloa but the grin faded to a frown. “You found out something. Something I won’t like,” he said.

  Davenport’s perception was spooky-good.

  “I have a few questions,” she answered. “I guess whether you like them is up to you.”

  She waited while his eyes searched her face.

  “OK,” he said slowly. “Ask your questions and I’ll see whether or not they make me happy.”

  Aloa inhaled. “So tell me about your marriage. Were you and Corrine happy?”

  �
�This is ridiculous,” Kyle interrupted, smoothing Davenport’s sheets and adjusting his pillow.

  “It’s all right, Kyle. Apparently, Aloa thinks I’m either faking this useless body of mine or I somehow rose up and ninja-killed my wife. And would you stop fussing over me, please.”

  Kyle lifted his hands and stepped away.

  “I just want to get a better feel for your wife’s state of mind,” Aloa said.

  “Sure. Lay a foundation, right?” Davenport said. “So do you remember me talking about gaman? The Japanese virtue of endurance and self-denial?”

  Aloa nodded.

  “While it sounds like some really noble thing, it’s also a recipe for darkness. Imagine being expected to endure suffering no matter what it did to you inside. Imagine not speaking up or asking for help or thinking you deserve better. Then, imagine being married to someone like that, someone who bottles up her emotions so you don’t know if she’s happy or sad or hates your guts. I could do something like forget Corrine had made a special dinner and stay late at work, or jump on a plane without telling her, and she wouldn’t say a word. She’d just look at me and go unpack my suitcase or make another dinner. It made me feel like a jerk. We worked on it, though. She went to counseling and got the job with the DA’s office. She was getting better. Then the accident happened and we were back to the same old thing.”

  “So if you told her to get a tattoo to prove her love, she’d do it?”

  “I told you that was her choice.”

  Who was lying? This man in front of her or Corrine, who’d told Wendy her husband had forced the symbol on her?

  “How about right before she died. Was she depressed? Worried?” Aloa glanced at Kyle. “Wanting to make changes?”

  “Having to tell your husband you cheated on him isn’t exactly a recipe for happiness. She was ashamed, sad. She said she had a lot on her mind and was having trouble sleeping, but she and I were good. She was determined to fix her mistake.”

  “You said before that it wasn’t a mistake.”

  “That was her word, not mine.”

  “Maybe she thought it was a mistake because it was she who fell in love.”

  “She wasn’t in love with Hamlin,” Davenport said. “What are you getting at?”

  Aloa weighed her options. “I think everybody is wrong. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Hamlin who killed your wife.”

  Davenport arched an eyebrow.

  “Hamlin was somewhere else when Corrine died,” she said.

  “But I heard his voice,” Davenport said.

  “You said yourself you were angry with Hamlin and that you wanted to punish him. You had a lot of time to lie there and think about it that night. Maybe you heard what you wanted to hear.”

  For a moment, the only sound in the room was the quiet hum of an air purifier.

  “So Hamlin didn’t kill her?” Davenport asked.

  “That’s right,” Aloa said.

  “Do you know who did?”

  Aloa paused. “I think I do.”

  “OK. Well then.” Davenport frowned. “Kyle, why don’t you bring us some tea? I think I need a little fortification and Ms. Snow looks a bit pale. Let’s try some of that special Yan Wang tea. I think it’s exactly what we need on a day like today.” Davenport turned to Aloa. “It’s very rare. I have to order it through this dealer in New York.”

  Kyle didn’t move.

  “Go,” Davenport ordered.

  “So, Ms. Snow,” said Davenport after Kyle had left, “are you saying I’ve accused an innocent man?”

  “I’m saying things aren’t always the way they seem at first,” Aloa said.

  “And you’re sure about this other person? The real killer?” he asked.

  “I’d like to ask a few more questions before I answer,” Aloa said.

  Davenport’s lips twitched into a smile. “The eighth rule of interrogation: the ‘we know everything’ gambit. Hanns Scharff pretty much rocked that method in World War II: let the subject believe you already know everything and hope they’ll slip and fill in the blanks for you. For me, it really only worked if the subject wasn’t all that bright. But go ahead. Give it a try.”

  Aloa ignored the dig. “So it was only you and Corrine here on the night she died?”

  “Would you mind raising my head? My neck muscles can’t take this angle for too long,” Davenport said.

  Aloa found the right button on the hospital bed and did what she was asked, glancing at Davenport’s soft, unmoving hands. What would it be like to be so helpless?

  “Thanks,” Davenport said. Then: “That’s right. Kyle had gone home. We had dinner and watched a movie.”

  “He didn’t come back?”

  “If you saw the police report, you know his roommate alibied him. He was at home.”

  “Then who was the left-handed man your neighbor saw knock on your door?”

  “It was Hamlin.”

  “Hamlin is right-handed,” Aloa said.

  “The old lady could be wrong.”

  “Maybe, but it seems strange there was no DNA evidence putting Hamlin inside your house.”

  “The detective said the murder happened fast.”

  “How does your intercom system work?”

  “Voice-activated. Kyle set it up.”

  “Interesting,” Aloa said. “Then why didn’t you activate the intercom when you heard Corrine and a man talking? You said you couldn’t hear, but you could have listened in.”

  “Like I said, it happened fast. I guess I didn’t think.”

  Aloa changed tacks. “What kind of vehicle does Kyle drive?”

  Davenport frowned. “What does it matter?”

  “Here we are,” Kyle interrupted, coming into the room with a black lacquer tray that held two cups of tea. He pulled over a small table and set Aloa’s tea on the shiny surface, then busied himself arranging Davenport’s beverage, blocking Aloa’s view of his boss.

  “Try your tea,” Davenport said when Kyle finished. “Tell me what you think.”

  Aloa took a tentative sip of the dark-gold brew. It had an unusual but appealing taste. A combination of mushroom and earth and something brothy. Warmth filled her.

  “It’s good,” she said.

  “Expensive as hell,” he said. “Can you taste the minerals? Imagine a sidewalk after a summer rain.”

  “Sorry. No.”

  “Try again.”

  She took a small sip. “Maybe.”

  “That’s all right,” Davenport said. “Not everyone has that kind of palate. I doubt you’ll have another opportunity to try it, anyway. It’s so rare customers can only order two ounces at a time, and then only once every two months.”

  Rare or not, Aloa set aside her cup.

  “So you want to get down to business, do you?” Davenport asked.

  “Please.”

  “Kyle, why don’t you leave us alone for a few minutes?” Davenport said.

  “I don’t—” Kyle began.

  “That wasn’t a request, Kyle,” Davenport said more forcefully. “Go on. Maybe start packing up Corrine’s things like I asked you to. And make sure you close the door behind you.”

  “All right,” Kyle said, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Aloa as he left.

  “Now,” said Davenport when Kyle was gone, “why are you asking about Kyle’s truck?”

  “Details. You said it yourself. That’s how you found the little girl’s kidnapper, how you almost nailed Bin Laden’s videographer.”

  Davenport’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. How did you know about Bin Laden’s videographer?”

  “I talked to your lieutenant, Tim Everson.”

  “And why would you do that?” Davenport’s voice hardened.

  “Background. Sometimes you find out things you didn’t expect.”

  “Like what?”

  Aloa considered her answer. “Like an army investigation.”

  Outside, wind rustled the ferns and grasses. Maybe the fog would finally clear. />
  “And you have no secrets, Aloa?” he asked.

  “I try to be open about them.”

  “Like your time in the psych ward? Did you think there weren’t records?”

  Aloa’s head gave a thud and she reached for her teacup. She could count on one hand the number of people who knew about that part of her past. She took a long pull of the tea. She needed a moment to process.

  “How did you get them?” she asked finally. “Medical records are private.”

  “Friends in the bureau. Not everybody likes journalists.”

  “That time has nothing to do with this case.”

  “It does if you’re damaged; if, say, you’ve got mental health issues that screw around with your idea of what’s true and what isn’t, that lets you make up things like news sources.”

  Don’t fall for his diversion.

  “We’re all damaged in some way. You, me, Kyle. Especially him.” A ripple of vertigo ran through her, then passed.

  “Kyle’s doing remarkably well for what he went through,” Davenport said.

  Aloa opened her mouth, but her next question seemed to have scurried to some dark corner of her mind.

  The concussion at work?

  “Tell me about him.” It was an old reporter’s trick: ask a generic question while you gathered your thoughts.

  “If that’s the way you want to go,” Davenport said. “He was a good kid, but pretty naive. His kidnapper saw him at the bus stop, offered to buy him a donut and drive him to school. He trusted the guy, just like he’d trusted his mother to come back, and ended up chained like a dog for the first year, abused, tortured—it was the worst I’ve ever seen, which is why I helped him. He needed to have a connection with someone he could rely on, someone who wouldn’t hurt him. I got him a shrink and they worked on a lot of stuff, including his shame at not escaping, even when his abuser took him to town. That was the hard part for him, the part nobody understood. But I did. I read him. I know why he stayed. He had nowhere else to go.”

  The room suddenly pulsed in and out and Aloa grabbed the chair to steady herself.

  “Are you all right?” Davenport asked.

  “I had a little accident yesterday,” she said.

  Was it yesterday? What day was it?