Her ears pricked at the tone of the hushed discussion in the hallway.
“Anyone tell her yet?”
Must be Jenner.
“What?”
Agent Stewart’s higher tone. Lily cocked her head toward the door.
“The fire.”
What fire? Lily rose, ignoring the tingling pain of her soles, and walked to the door. “What fire?”
The uniformed officer, a young man with curling hair and a sheepish expression, pressed his lips together before opening them. “Sorry, ma’am. There’s a fire. Out at the Taylor residence. And, ah, that’s not all.”
Lily waited until she realized he was not going to share without a prompt. “Is anyone hurt? How bad is it?” Fear and irritation did not mix well with the chicken noodle soup she gobbled for lunch. The whole thing seemed to be fermenting in her gut.
“The house isn’t that badly damaged, but yeah, you could say someone was hurt.”
“Not Cam? Cam Taylor?” Lily hoped the bubbles threatening to erupt from her throat stayed down.
“No.”
“Who, then?”
“They don’t know. They haven’t identified the body yet.”
“A-another body?”
Jenner had that excited-but-sorry expression. “Yeah. Well, I better get to work.” He took the seat that Agent Stewart vacated and set to looking fierce at anyone who walked nearby.
Stewart shrugged. “Afternoon, ma’am. I hope your nephew gets better soon.”
“Thank you,” Lily said faintly. She studied Jenner before returning to Kenny’s side.
“Who’s that you were talking about, Aunt Lily?”
Lily jumped and came down hard, sure some of the blisters on her feet broke, elated yet still nauseous. “Oh! Kenny! When did you wake up? Nurse! Officer, call the nurse. He’s awake!”
What had the poor kid overheard? And what was she going to tell him about his mother?
FORTY-EIGHT
Roman did some token exercises in the yard, but the air was still so cold it hurt to take a deep breath. He sat on a cement bench against the wall, calm in the wintery sunlight, his face tilted up and his eyes closed. His coat wasn’t quite enough to keep out the chill and the bench was so frozen the sensation reversed itself, like a red-hot oven to his buttocks and thighs. At least the wall sheltered him from the worst wind. It wasn’t always a good idea to close his eyes, but he wanted to conjure Mexico, and the sunshine, little as it was, felt good. He sank deep into the dream, until he could hear the tide pushing waves onto the beach.
The odor of warmed-over sauerkraut and old, weak coffee fouled his reverie. Roman reluctantly opened his eyes. Grandhoff stood in front of him with his fists clenched.
“You told them I stole a book.”
Roman waved his hand in front of his nose. Grandhoff must have several teeth in poor condition to warrant that bad of breath. “Me? What book are you talking about?” Roman glanced around while trying hard not to look like he was canvassing the others for possible allies.
“That one I returned. About the bigshot gone to prison. You said I would like it. I didn’t. You took it back. But then you told them I stole it. I got confinement, you—”
“No, no.” Roman held up his hands. “That’s not the way it happened, buddy. I didn’t—”
Grandhoff took his time pulling his fist back, as though stringing a huge bow. Roman dropped to the ground on his knees and ducked, scraping his palm against the crusted ice and blacktop. A tussle of some kind went on over his head, but he didn’t dare lift his face. Too easy to lose an eye that way, or get kicked in the ear.
“Romy!” Gruden stood there, smirking, while a couple of the others held Grandhoff by the elbows. “You owe me something.” He winked and walked away, whistling.
Roman stayed down, head bowed, breathing shallowly. He lifted his hands to find he’d left a bright crimson smear of blood. How many days? How many hours? He tasted the bile in his mouth and spit.
“Time!” Guards whistled and he got in line to troop inside.
Gruden waited on one side. “You got a visitor,” he told Roman. “Come with me.”
* * *
Cam sat, once again, in the conference room at the police department, but this time he had Minerva and Forbes on his team, trying to make sense of why bodies seem to be falling from the sky wherever he went. This time he had a good excuse for his whereabouts last night. He’d been right here, in this same hard, plastic chair, drooling on the table.
At least Minerva thought to feed him. He pushed away the paper plate and crumpled napkin. He’d wolfed half of the excellent hot beef au jus sandwich and side salad delivered from the diner, until he remembered the sight of his front door, still intact. In the shadow of the overhang, no one noticed the ugly thing nailed to it until the firemen were cleaning up. A brown ponytail. At least Lily hadn’t seen it before it was photographed and bagged.
Cam rearranged in his mind what he’d thought of Findley, knowing he’d been guilty of judgment and doubt. He hoped the man’s demise had been quick, if that really was his charred remains in his kitchen. But was that where Findley’d been killed and arranged? To what? Frame Cam for murder? A message? If so, he needed the code book.
Forbes sat at the table on his right, trying hard not to act like he was in charge when, for all practical intents and purposes, he was. Barter Valley happened to be the county seat, which meant all the paperwork and endless interrogation was a jurisdiction mess because a burned body, like the headless corpse, had been found outside of city limits. Sands County Sheriff Gennett’s complaint was universal. “I’m already over budget, what with poaching, the drinking, and accidents.”
Fire department Chief Rosebloom sat in, sweating, as he was briefed. “I must agree with my colleague,” Rosebloom said. “We’re a small, underfunded rural department. It is my hope that the FBI can take over.”
“I’m not FBI,” Forbes said again. “Not all federal agents are part of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which is another office of the Department of Justice—”
“Well, you must know somebody,” Rosebloom said. “We’re not equipped to deal with this sort of thing. An accidental shooting, even the typical overdose, domestic violence, but this…headless…burned…” He shook his head, making his jowls dance.
Cam’s eyeballs burned every time he blinked, and his lids were getting harder to prop open.
“It has to be gang activity,” Paten was saying. “From across state lines. We don’t have criminal behavior of this kind around here. Arson—”
“No official report of arson has been made, gentlemen,” Minerva asserted.
Paten glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, a nervous gesture, one of many, that made Cam wonder how the man had been elected in the first place.
The sheriff opened his clamped lips again. “Mr. Taylor is new to the community—”
“Are you accusing my client of anything?” Minerva leaned forward. “Because I’d like to know how it’s possible he could go running around starting fires or decapitating people when he was held right here in this very room while the supposed events were taking place.”
“Nobody’s accusing anyone, Minerva,” Paten said while eyeing Forbes. Rosebloom wiped his forehead with a blue paisley bandana.
Cam stared at it until the pattern went fuzzy. Then his chin bounced off his chest and he shook his head, trying to clear it, hoping he hadn’t missed anything. “What?”
Minerva stood, forcing the others to rise also. “My client is exhausted as a direct result of the uncalled-for interrogation last night by law enforcement officials.”
Oops, we really need Forbes on our side, Cam thought. “Uh, Minerva, I—”
Minerva didn’t even glance his way. “I will personally vouch for his whereabouts, which will be at the Starlite Motel, due to the recent destruction of his home. With his family, visiting from out of state for the holidays.”
Even though Cam rarely rested wel
l in many years, he felt like he could sleep for a day at least. “Yeah, I am pretty tired. Is there anything else you need from me? How about Lily? She’s still under protection?”
Forbes nodded, sympathy clouding his expression.
Cam pulled on his coat and followed his sister and his lawyer outside as if they held his lifeline. The cops would keep Lily and Kenny safe for a few hours at the hospital. When he thought of what Ole might do if anything happened to either of them, he smiled.
* * *
Gruden handcuffed Roman and led him down the wrong corridor. There were the same locks on the doors, but he’d never been this way before. Roman tripped when the guard stopped suddenly. He stumbled and fell against the wall, bit his tongue, and tasted the resulting sting. The guard gripped his arm and hustled him upright.
That was going to leave a mark. Roman knew better than to complain. “Uh, sorry ’bout that.”
“This way.”
Gruden unlocked a door and prodded him inside. “Sit.”
“It’s dark.”
“Put your hands out. The chair’s in front of you.”
“Who’s here?”
The door clattered shut again. The jingle of a key in the lock made his heart pound and sweat bead his hairline. Gruden. How much did he know, anyway?
Who could he trust now that Art quit? Certainly not Gruesome.
Someone who’d been sitting across the table struck a match and lit a cigarette. “Do you smoke, Mr. Masters?” a lightly accented voice asked.
Roman cocked his head, trying to place it. “Sure, sure. Yeah. Yes, I do.”
“Son, give the man a light.”
The room’s lights came up slowly to reveal Shawn Limm offering him an unfiltered, hand-rolled cigarette. He leaned forward with a lighter.
Roman’s fingers were so numb he couldn’t feel anything. His lips shook, making the cigarette bounce around as the younger Limm lit it.
“Thank you,” he said.
They smoked in silence until Roman had to stub his out on the table. He would not for anything break the silence first.
“I find it relaxing, peaceful even, to enjoy some silence while I have a cigarette,” the seated man mused.
Roman assumed the man who stayed mostly in shadow was Shawn’s old man, head of Securities Unlimited, but he would never ask. “Sure,” was as much as he could manage.
“Our partnership is in jeopardy.”
Roman straightened. “Art quit. I don’t reckon where he is, but whatever he did, I had nothing to do with it. I swear.”
A few ticks of unnerving silence passed before the man spoke again.
“A father who cannot control his offspring does not deserve them.”
“Arthur Townsend is not my offspring.”
“Nevertheless, you raised him as your own.”
Roman wriggled in the chair, finding it hard, and the room stifling. Shawn Limm stood so close his body heat burned through Roman’s prison-issue shirt. “I tell you, Art has some…problems. You know,” he raised his handcuffed hands to his head and pointed, “up here. I was nice to him. That’s all. But they told me he up and quit his job.”
“I regret to inform you he has died.”
Roman swallowed hard and choked. “I didn’t do anything,” he whispered.
“Fortunately, your daughter has survived. She is…safe.”
The shadowed man lit another cigarette, held the match out—too far for it to allow Roman to glimpse more than his stringy mustache—then shook it out when the flame reached his fingers. Roman took a deep breath. Was everything all good, then? Had the plan worked, after all? If that disaster of a child Art hadn’t bought it, he would have made sure something else would have happened. Dare he ask? “I hope our arrangement has still met with your approval?”
“Your son failed to complete the entire order.”
Roman thought fast and furious. What else had the kid messed up? “I’m afraid I was not aware of anything other than the request to have my daughter join your…your firm. With the insurance compensation, of course.” Oh, yeah—that woman visitor. What had she said? To lose a… “Wait a minute. I, uh, I…well, I understood from your…another source, that is, that there was something—someone? My daughter’s son? I didn’t understand what she…what the source meant. I mean, the woman who came to talk to me the other day.” Roman sat back and crossed his legs. “I thought she was mistaken.”
Pressure from behind of a hand on his shoulder reminded him not to relax yet.
The man across the table exhaled into the single bulb lighting only part of the room. “My offspring, Mr. Masters, are quick to do my bidding. They trust me.”
“If you would have explained to me about—”
“A policeman will call on you shortly. You must tell him you give him permission to question the boy.”
“Question? You mean—you mean, he’s all right? Not dead?”
The light blinked out, leaving Roman in the dark again. The presence behind him melted away. A guard he didn’t recognize conducted him back to his cell, where he paced until a man came who identified himself as a deputy from the Sands County Sheriff’s Department. Roman couldn’t read the name tag through the mesh-covered slit of a window, only the yellow shield and some letters on his khaki sleeve. Sands County standard issue uniforms were brown.
Still, he couldn’t figure out any reason not to do what cigarette man had asked. “Yes, of course, sir, you have my permission to question my grandson, Kenny Masters, age ten, without the presence of his mother, whose present whereabouts are unknown. I hope you find her soon.”
Papers were pushed through the food slot, which he signed and slid back.
FORTY-NINE
Thursday, December 21
At Mrs. Iversson’s house the next morning, Lily wiggled in her seat, frustrated and no closer to answers about her sister or Kenny. Or her own life, for that matter.
Agents Forbes and Stewart stood in Eunice’s sunflower-themed kitchen, stoic-faced and eerily large in the small space. Eunice sat at the chrome table, sipping tea that was mostly half-and-half, nibbling toast and peering at the tiny squares of the crossword puzzle in the paper, a second pencil tucked into her fuzzy gray hair above her right ear.
Since Cam had her car, and she was shaky about driving yet, Ole had hauled her back to his mom’s for the night and all-out refused to take her anywhere else. The Starlite manager said Cam wasn’t taking calls, so she’d left a subdued message. One disaster at a time.
One thing for sure, she wasn’t staying here any longer. Not that Eunice wasn’t a sweetheart, but Lily needed space. Once Kenny was released, they’d have to go somewhere. The house. With Art sick, or locked up, she could take the boy and stay there.
Cam needed some down time. The fire wasn’t Forbes’s worry. But she and Kenny were part of his active case. “So, what are you going to do next?” Lily asked. She folded her arms and would have stomped her foot, but she knew how much that would hurt. “Art’s plot didn’t work, and you still don’t have the evil geniuses behind it.”
Stewart gnawed on the corner of his lip, while Forbes parked his hands on his hips and looked ready to throttle someone. “With your permission,” Forbes said, “we’d like to talk to your nephew. Maybe he overheard something between his mother and his uncle that would shed some light on the situation.”
Lily shook her head. “No way. He’s just a little boy. He nearly died. His best friend is in a coma, and he hasn’t even had time to process that yet.”
Stewart’s lips thinned and his eyes hooded in pain. Lily wondered if he had a family. His wedding ring said he was married.
“It would be helpful,” Forbes forced out through gritted teeth, “if we could at least ascertain why he ran away.”
“I thought you didn’t get involved in local domestic disputes,” Lily said sweetly.
“He’s still in danger—”
“Ma’am,” Stewart cut his partner off with a tight-mouth assessing
glance. “If it was my little boy, I’d want to know what happened, hopefully keep it from happening to anyone else.”
Lily melted a little. She dropped her arms and stared at the floor. “You aren’t sure he was running away. Maybe he was just pulling a prank. On his day off from school.”
Stewart nodded. “Maybe. We’d want you there when we talk to him in any event.”
“Let me think for a minute. Be right back.” Lily whirled and stepped gingerly down the hall to the little bathroom tucked amongst three small bedrooms between a closet-sized living room and the kitchen. Every time she turned on the light, she was caught flatfooted. Although a rather unforgiving mirror covered much of one wall, the others, including the shower curtain and the ceiling, were covered in shiny posters and script pages from Gone with the Wind. Not his majesty Clark Gable or much of Vivian Leigh, but the faces of Leslie Howard, Hattie McDaniel with her red petticoat, and Olivia de Havilland watched her every move and noted the hideousness of her body when she took a shower. She sat on the closed lid of the toilet and put her face in her hands.
Maybe if she thought of what Berta would do and did the opposite, she’d make the right choice. She still wanted to ask somebody else—not Eunice. Maybe Cam, when she could be with him again.
Officer Deegan had promised to ask around about Berta. She could stall the agents until she heard back from him. By then, Cam might be able to be there, too.
Cam…a guy like him. Why was she even bothering? She could do more than like him, definitely. Something so dignified about him, the way he held himself, the way he came to her rescue and treated her, even when she’d been rude, and scared, and hurt. He was gentle, but not a pushover. Why did some people get to deal with all the bad stuff, while others, like Berta, get away with…
Once he found out about her, the Poland’s, what would he do?
They could stay friends.
Not the way she felt.
Slow down, there, Lil. You’ve known him what—a week? Get a grip.
Understory Page 23
