Dick was suddenly concerned. “Charlie could go to the police and report me.”
Hannah waved her hand. “He’ll be too embarrassed when he realizes they were just blanks.”
“Charlie is no fan of the police,” Mary muttered. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Do I have to worry about the terms of collection?” Dick asked.
Mary fidgeted. “You’re despicable.”
Dick was happy again. “You can close your eyes and pretend it's Charlie.”
Mary growled. “Scaring Charlie is secondary to getting me into Stanford.”
“Then you can pay me back on the installment plan,” Dick said.
Mary stared at him and realized with sudden clarity that she would never sleep with him, no matter what he did for her. Of course, once she was accepted at Stanford it would be hard for them to un-accept her. Dick wanted her so bad that he didn’t know how stupid he was being.
“Payment is only made upon full delivery,” she said to him.
He looked at her as if he knew what she was thinking. Maybe he did; maybe he didn’t care. He stood suddenly and thrust his hands deep in his coat pockets. Something was buried in there, maybe it was the gun. Again she wondered where he would have bought blanks.
“I'm going to the movies,” Dick said abruptly.
Hannah was annoyed. “You don’t have time for a movie. You have to be at the Crossroads at exactly twelve-ten.”
“The movie is over at twenty to twelve,” he said. “I checked.”
“What movie?” Hannah demanded. “Ashes of Agony? It started ten minutes ago. You can’t go; it's not fair.”
“I'm going; it's Friday night,” Dick said, and walked away.
Hannah sprang out of her seat. “I'll talk to him, Mary. You stay here.”
“I don't want to stay here,” Mary said. She could taste the pizza in her throat and it was not inspiring. Hannah paused to stare at her. Mary wondered if she was looking at her in a sexual way. It was just a thought.
“I’ll meet you in an hour in the center of the square,” Hannah said finally.
“I don’t like this,” Mary said.
Hannah smiled. “You're going to love it.”
An hour later, sitting in the center of the square, Mary chatted with Deputy Howard when he pulled up in his cruiser. He was not much older than she was—three years—but there was a sad inevitability about him that said he was already beat. Howard had a gut and bad heartburn and slouched when he thought he was standing tall. Seldom was his shirt tucked in all the way. His greatest hope for this particular incarnation was to be a good cop. Not that Mary had anything against cops, it was just that Howard would never be very good at that either. Howard was kind of slow, his brain was, and there was a clumsiness to his movements that made even strangers yawn. Married to the first girl he had ever slept with—the equally cerebral JoDean Jones—they had already made three little babies that cried all the time. When he was not being a deputy, he worked as a fryer at Harvey’s, just to be able to feed the munchkins. Mary liked him, even though she felt sorry for him. He asked how she was doing, and they chatted about the weather and other such Howard-like subjects. Then he moved on in a black and white cruising the cold night.
Mary hoped he wouldn't hear the gunshots.
Yet she wished she had asked Howard where one bought blanks.
Hannah finally showed up and she was in a cheery mood.
“Dick is fine, he'll be there on time,” Hannah said.
“I forgot to ask, where are you going to be at midnight?” Mary asked.
“I want to watch. I’ll be in the woods, out of sight. Drop me off before you get to the Crossroads.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Mary asked.
“What does wisdom have to do with any of this? Why are you in such a bad mood?”
“Because I don't like guns. I don't like any form of revenge. I don’t know why I’m doing this.”
Hannah knelt in front of Mary and brushed her own blond hair back. The move was not necessary because Hannah had recently taken to wearing her hair shortish, sort of butch-like. Yet she wore thick red lipstick and mascara, odd. Hannah rested her elbows on Mary’s knees.
“What are you thinking?” Hannah asked.
“I told you.”
“Nah. You're wondering if I'm a lesbian.”
“No.” A pause. “Are you?” Mary asked.
“Does it matter?”
“No. Are you?”
Hannah considered seriously. “I don't know what I am. I think I'm bi.” She paused. “Does that gross you out?”
“No. Not as long as you don't want to undress me.”
Hannah was thoughtful, her unfocused gaze shifted to a distant point.
“I just want to do this to Charlie,” she muttered.
“I love Charlie,” Mary said.
Hannah appraised her. “Honestly? I don't think so, Mary.”
“You don't know me.”
“You don't know yourself. You don't know what you’re capable of.”
Mary stood. “I’m getting cold.”
They got in the car, Mary’s car, the one Charlie had fixed. They turned on the heat and drove around. They ran into Deputy Howard again—that part of what Mary later told Riles and Sharp was true. Yet it was the second time Mary had seen Howard that night, and the first time she had been alone when she was supposed to be with Hannah. These pesky details—they had buried wiser people than Mary and Hannah.
Closing on midnight, they drove toward the Crossroads. Two hundred yards from the spot, Mary slowed and let Hannah out. The snow was deep except under the still and silent trees. Hannah wished her good luck. Mary thought it an odd remark. Alone, she drove to the Crossroads, parked, and got out. The chill from the snow went right through her running shoes, up her legs, into her chest even, where her heart strained to keep her body warm. What an idiot, she told herself, not to wear boots. She loved Charlie. Hannah was wrong. Hannah just wanted to seduce her.
In the distance Mary could see a truck approaching.
It looked like Charlie’s.
CHAPTER NINE
Back at the police station, Lieutenant Riles and Lieutenant Sharp got one of their wishes fulfilled. They had taken a sample of Mary's damp hair and put it in a plastic Baggie. Through the clear bag they could see that the hair fibers had stained the plastic red. The police gave one another knowing looks. Sweet innocent Mary had blood on her hair.
But whose blood?
They gave the sample to Dr. Kohner, who was working very late, and asked him to type it immediately, along with the samples of blood from the frozen puddles. A definitive test, such as a DNA comparison, could take as much as a month to conduct. But typing the blood would narrow the number of suspects, and the two detectives believed that might be enough to make one of the girls talk. Obviously, they thought it would be Mary. Hannah had retreated to a slant-eyed realm of silent venom. Curious, since it was her beloved brother who had taken the slug in the eye.
Typing would take at least two hours, maybe three.
There was still no word on Charlie. Where he might be, what he might be breathing. Air or dirt, snow or water.
Outside, the sun slowly began to warm the sky.
The detectives placed the girls back in the interrogation room where Mary had spent a portion of the night. The police station wasn't that large; they used the room for taking physical evidence as well as verbal. After drawing the blood, the detectives called for the coroner. At first Kohner hung in the background, and to the girls, he looked like a healthy corpse come to feed on their brains. He stared at them as if he had energy left for another autopsy. He only stepped forward as Riles was preparing to sample the stuff under their nails, and the stuff on their hands, particularly around their thumbs, where powder remains from a fired revolver would collect. Riles, with Kohner’s help, used needles, razors, and tweezers. They scraped the girl's skin very lightly, but Hannah hated the proce
ss and expressed her discomfort.
“You can't do this,” she said. “I want to see my lawyer. I want to talk to my father.”
“You can talk to both after we've collected our samples,” Riles said, holding Hannah's hands firmly. “Remember, young lady, you are under arrest and charged with first degree murder.”
Hannah snorted. “Not for long.”
“We can keep you for at least twenty-four hours,” Sharp said.
“We'll be out of here in less than four,” Hannah answered.
That could be true, the cops thought. Hannah's father did know the judge and probably sent him expensive Christmas cards each year. But at least by then they'd have the blood typed. It was going to be real interesting to see what matched what. Riles could hardly wait to get the results, but Sharp was still uneasy. Hannah seemed awfully confident, as Mary showed signs of cracking.
Confident Hannah, not devastated Hannah.
She had tossed aside the charade of grief without realizing it.
“You have pretty hands,” Kohner said to Mary as he scraped her skin carefully with the edge of his razor.
“Thank you,” Mary said quietly.
Kohner leaned over and sniffed them. “But they smell like a strong cleaning solution. Do you use such a product to soften them or clean them?”
Mary stared. “Neither,” she muttered.
Kohner turned to Riles. Sharp also came forward. The coroner seemed to want Riles’s permission. Riles nodded, and the coroner leaned over to smell Hannah's hands. He sat back and smiled, but the detectives weren't sure they liked the joke.
“What is it?” Riles demanded.
“Smart girls,” Kohner said. “They have both soaked their hands in what seems to be Lysol.”
Riles was angry. “That wipes out any powder trace?”
“No,” Kohner said. “Not definitively. But it makes it hard to find.”
Riles glared at Hannah. “You think you're way ahead of us.”
Hannah allowed a thin smile. “How much do cops make a year?”
The question was both insulting and incriminating. Hannah was now her father's only heir. Soon she would be filthy rich while they would still be grinding out miserable salaries. Really, she had a lot of guts to ask what she did. Riles had to restrain himself from slapping her, and he had never hit a woman in his life.
Right then Riles knew they had their murderer.
Yet Sharp was unsure, and Sharp was no dummy.
“It is not how much a person makes that matters,” Riles said seriously. “It is how they earn it. Many of the richest people in the world are the most miserable. Especially when they have destroyed their humanity to get what they have.” He glanced at Mary. “They have no peace of mind. Their consciences haunt them.”
“You think I’m just a punk kid,” Hannah said. “That I have no conscience.”
Riles continued to look at Mary. “Did you soak your hands in Lysol?”
“I washed them at the gas station,” Mary said. “I don't know what kind of stuff they had there.”
“Which gas station?” Sharp asked.
“I can’t remember,” Mary said.
“Charlie hasn't shown up yet,” Sharp said. “We've sent a squad car over to his house a dozen times.” He paused. “Can you remember where he is?”
“No.” A small syllable.
Riles turned to Kohner. “Do the powder stains on their skin anyway. We'll see what we get.” The stain reacted with spent gunpowder. Even through heavy chemicals, it could still work.
Kohner nodded. “I have another interesting find on Dick's blood.”
Riles wanted the girls to hear. “What was it?” he said.
“Besides being drunk, Dick had PCP in his blood.”
The information astounded Mary. She whirled on Hannah, and almost said words the cops would have paid dearly to hear. But at the last moment she restrained herself. The information caught Riles off guard as well. PCP, or angel dust, was one of the few street drugs that made users aggressive. Yet in Maple and the surrounding area PCP was almost unknown. And it was an awfully heavy-duty chemical for a student body president to be snorting.
“Did Dick do PCP?” Riles asked Hannah.
Hannah shrugged. “He did different drugs, I’m not sure which.”
“Where did he get his drugs?” Sharp asked.
“I don’t know,” Hannah said.
Sharp frowned. “This doesn't fit.”
“Maybe it does,” Riles said, watching Hannah. She met his gaze.
“Enough of this playing Sherlock Holmes,” she said. “I want to make one phone call. I’m allowed that, ain't I, even though I am under arrest?”
“Your father is still waiting outside,” Riles said.
“Good,” Hannah said sarcastically. “Then I can call him on his cell phone.”
The detectives told her to wait a minute and retreated into the hallway for still another conference. Kohner followed them, wishing he were a detective on this exciting night. He had a gleam in his eyes.
“Why did you reveal all that stuff in front of them?” Sharp asked his partner.
“I was trying to rattle them,” Riles said.
“We're the ones who're getting rattled,” Sharp complained. He spoke to Kohner, “How much PCP did Dick have in his system?”
“A lot.”
“On top of the alcohol?” Sharp said.
Kohner considered. “It would not be precise or professional of me to say the molecules of alcohol were on top of the PCP molecules. But as a layman I can answer your question in the affirmative.”
“He was stoned out of his mind then,” Sharp said. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Maybe someone wanted him that way,” Riles mused.
“You're thinking of her salary comment,” Sharp said. “I think you’re reading too much into it. I mean, he was her brother for godsakes—her twin. She's only eighteen—how could she shoot her own brother?”
“She certainly didn't spend a long time mourning her twin,” Riles muttered. “We can't let them go before we at least have a report back on the blood.”
Mr. Spelling accosted them next. No one had invited him back into the rear of the station—he made his own way. He still looked shaken, but he was mad again as well.
“Where's my daughter?” he demanded. “I've been here all night.”
Riles took the heat. “She's under arrest,” he said.
Mr. Spelling didn't get it. “What? What for?”
Riles spoke seriously. “For the murder of Richard Spelling, your son. Mary Dammon is under arrest as well.”
Mr. Spelling’s bull neck seemed to swell. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have heard in my life. You let me see Hannah and you let me see her right now.”
“You can see your daughter,” Riles said. “Later. But she doesn't leave here unless she is granted bail by the judge.”
Mr. Spelling gave Riles the evil eye. He could have had a devil in his eyeball because it looked as if some tiny demon was pushing from the inside out.
“You are history, detective. For you to add to our sorrow at this time goes beyond forgiveness.” Spelling held up a shaking finger. “This is the end of your career. It finishes tonight. You won't get away with this, I promise.”
Sharp moved close to his partner. “We have strong circumstantial evidence for arresting your daughter and Mary. If you’ll give us a few minutes, and stop threatening us, we can explain it to you. We all want the same thing here—to find the murderer of your son.”
Mr. Spelling's face shook with fury. “By arresting Hannah? How can you be that sick?”
“Your daughter has lied to us all night,” Mr. Riles said firmly. “You can see her later, and you can ask her about those lies. But as I said, she doesn’t leave here until and unless she’s granted bail. Now get back out to the waiting room and stay there until we call you.”
Riles had his own power. Mr. Spelling turned and left.
/> Sharp groaned. “How come we’re not loved like cops on TV?”
“Because they're usually continuing characters,” Riles muttered.
“I’ll be happy to testify at your job dismissal trial that you both behaved in the most professional of manners,” Kohner said.
Riles was weary. “Will it be as much fun as an autopsy?”
“Very similar, I believe,” Kohner said. Riles was not looking forward to what he had to do next. He had to get Judge Pierce on the phone before Spelling got to him. Spelling might go to the judge even before he called a lawyer. Riles hurried into his office, Sharp on his tail, and looked up the number on his computer. It rang a few times before the judge answered.
“This had better be good,” Pierce mumbled. He was close to seventy and made of stone. He took a five-mile walk every afternoon and had a brisk voice. Ordinarily, without the Spelling connection, Riles would not have minded Pierce's involvement with the case. The judge had a shrewd legal mind and was not intimidated in the courtroom. He never, in Riles's memory, came to a decision just because it was politically correct. Yet Sharp was right, they didn’t have enough evidence to hold the girls and Pierce would quickly grasp that. Then, when Spelling got to him, they'd have trouble holding the girls at all. Pierce was honest but not stupid. Spelling owned half the town and a hundred percent of the mayor. Riles knew the latter would be calling next, as soon as he woke up and heard the news.
“Eighteen-year-old Richard Spelling was murdered last night,” Riles said.
Pierce had to take a breath. “Tell me.”
Riles gave him an overview and then dropped the bomb concerning the girls' arrests. Riles, in explaining why he moved so quickly, pushed hard on the girls’ lousy attitudes. It was a mistake with Pierce. He wanted facts, not cop psychology.
“The soles of the shoes match perfectly,” Riles repeated when he felt he was losing the judge. “They were there, I’m sure of it, and that's where Dick must have died.”
“You’re not sure where Dick died,” Pierce corrected him. “But even if you are right about that, the shoe prints alone aren’t enough to tie the girls to the scene of the crime.”
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