“Maybe someday you can teach me how to shoot.”
Joe smiled, a wicked tempting smile. “Okay, Sherlock, but not tonight.”
I took off my right shoe. Joe followed and took off his right shoe. Then my left shoe. Then his left shoe. Right socks were next, removed slowly with much grinning. I took off my shirt. He took off his. It was our game, mirroring every removal. Finally, we were both naked except each of us had kept one sock on one foot. We faced each other, standing straight. The first one to touch the other would lose the game. I was as still as a statue. Joe was…well, for the most part, absolutely still. Joe’s smile turned into a wide grin. I knew how to win. I slowly raised my arms up and clasped my hands behind my head.
Joe lost.
And then we were in bed and his soft mouth found its way down my neck to my collarbone and he pulled off my remaining sock, and his fingertips made a slow crawl from my toes to the inside of my knee. Even if I sometimes questioned the wisdom of dating a moody cop, I never had doubts about dating a former basketball player. Those guys really know what to do with their hands.
I woke two hours later to the beeping of my cell phone on the bedside table. Wynan was back in Reno and would pick up the warrant tomorrow. He was at Nell’s apartment. Wynan was often at Nell’s apartment. I hoped they stayed together no matter what we discovered had happened to Jamie.
A full moon shone through the maple trees on the front lawn. Soon the leaves would turn a brilliant orange. I lay in bed, one hand stroking Joe’s bare body, hoping he’d wake up and make love to me again. Perhaps it was the threat of serious danger awaiting us the next day, but whatever the reason, it aroused passions neither of us had felt for some time.
Jamie
Jamie couldn’t sleep. She worried about the not yet empty bottle of tequila in front of the man downstairs. She listened intently for the sound of his chair scraping back from the table, for his steps coming up the stairs toward her bedroom, toward her.
She could not lock her door from inside.
Outside the window, the moon shone through the branches of a huge willow that grew on the lawn. She thought water from the lake must find its way through the ground to nourish the enormous tree. She got up and tried for the hundredth time to open the window and gain access to the bars. There was a slight give, but the window held firm. Maybe if she broke through the glass, he would be too drunk to hear. Maybe if she got to the bars and worked at them the way she had worked on the hole in the closet, she could push them out. And then what? The willow was ten feet away from the house and no other tree was near the window. She would have to pry the bars open enough so she could squeeze through with enormous effort and fall or jump to the ground. She looked down. It would be a long fall. Enough to break a bone or sprain an ankle.
And, of course, punishment if he caught her.
She returned to her bed and found herself sobbing into her pillow. She fought her tears. He was drunk and it was important she hear him if he came upstairs. She had to listen. Listen hard.
Chapter 32
My desk was tidy but covered with piles of memos, messages, spreadsheets, and reports Nell had carefully tended. This was the usual paperwork that normally faced me on a bright early fall morning. But I was not feeling at all usual. I was edgy and nervous about the afternoon that lay ahead. I flicked some of the papers off the top, caught sight of the envelope containing Bud’s memo, and put it on the bottom of a pile. It would just have to wait for my response. I was in no mood to deal with the petty politics of a university committee when I faced the prospect of hunting for a young woman in more danger than any of them.
I turned my back on the papers, and looked out the window that faced the quad. A group of students had set up a platform and a microphone.
One of them unfurled a banner and strung it across the back of the platform, tying it up on two upright poles. The banner displayed in large black and red letters “Rally for a Culture of Consent.” I opened the window enough to feel the cool autumn breeze and hear the voices of the students.
As I watched, the group grew larger. Three young women and a young man stepped up on the platform. The tallest of the women stood in front of the microphone, her long blond hair moving in the breeze. “Thank you. Thank you for showing up,” she called to the crowd, which numbered perhaps a hundred students, males and females.
A few faculty members stood with them. I recognized Howard Evans. Karen Milton was standing on the side of the crowd.
“Tonight at 6:30 we will rally to replace a culture of assault with a culture of consent on this campus,” the blonde shouted. The crowd applauded and whistled. “And we are happy to see so many of you are here to support us, and happy to see that so many of you are men, and that so many of the men are fraternity men.” Another roar of approval.
Another woman with cropped, unnaturally bright orange hair took her place at the microphone. “Listen, everyone. Get all your friends to come to the rally tonight outside of the Student Union. We’re ready to insist that Mountain West University have a new policy on sexual assault, but we need a whole lot of student support.”
I felt vindicated for suggesting students participate on our committee. Clearly they saw this as their time and their issue.
“What if we don’t get a new policy?” came a shout from someone in the crowd.
The blonde was back at the microphone. “The students at Syracuse protested when they closed a student center designed to help assault victims. Some of the students even occupied the building with the chancellor’s office.”
“Colgate had a student protest too,” added the girl with orange hair.
“Why don’t we just march over and occupy the provost’s office?” shouted a burly kid near the platform, flexing his muscles. Football player, most likely.
“Come to the rally instead,” shouted the blonde. “We can occupy the provost’s office later, if no one listens to us.”
I laughed to myself.
Wouldn’t Ezra McCready just love that move?
The wind came up and blew some of the leaves off the oaks, showering the speakers and sprinkling the lawn.
The crowd began to disperse and the banner was taken down. I noticed Howard helping the students remove the microphone. Karen seemed to have left early. I closed my window, almost sorry I’d miss the rally. But I planned to be busy that evening, backing up the hunt for the Lassiter house even if I couldn’t join Joe and Wynan.
It was noon when I started to clean up my desk and prepare to go home. I sensed rather than saw the woman in the doorway. Dorothy Weinstein, George’s wife, was dressed in a tweed suit and a silk blouse that gathered around her thin neck.
Her face was lined and sallow, but still finely featured. I had thought her quite beautiful when we first met, beautiful but unhappy.
“Oh, Dorothy, please come in and sit down. I thought you were in San Francisco.”
She moved slowly, like a woman walking through waist-deep water. She put her hand on the back of one of the chairs by my table and stopped. Dark shadows were under her eyes. I suspected she had not slept for a long time.
“Please sit,” I repeated. “Can I get you some coffee? My assistant is on her lunch break, but I know how to find the pot in the break room.”
She coughed a small raspy sound. “Thank you, no,” she said. “But I will sit for a bit.”
“Dorothy, you look at the end of your rope. How is George doing?”
“He’s coming along,” she said, easing into the chair, every move still in slow motion.
“I feel badly. If I had known you were back in town, I would have come to your house if you needed to see me.”
She removed her gloves, finger by finger. Her breath was shallow and uneven. “I just flew into Reno this morning. I haven’t been to the house yet.”
I sat next to her and put my hand over her pale
freckled one. Her hand was unbelievably cold. “What can I do to help?”
Sharp inhale. “I just came from the District Attorney’s office. He told me about Larry Coleman’s arraignment.”
She made another effort at a deep breath. I gripped her icy hand. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”
“I told the District Attorney that I wanted him to drop the charges against Larry Coleman.”
I must have looked astonished.
“I know that will seem odd to you, but I also told the district attorney I was going to come here and ask you not to testify to what you saw that evening.”
“Good God, Dorothy. Why? What did the DA say?”
“He’s thinking about it, particularly since I told him if he pursued the case to court, I would testify on behalf of the defendant.”
“Please help me understand this.”
The woman was trembling, her hands freezing, but her eyes were clear and her voice grew stronger with every sentence. “George deserved what happened to him. He’s been a fearful bully all of his adult life. Not just to his peers here, but to his family. He was especially cruel to my parents, who were invited to come and live with us when my father’s investments failed.”
“I remember hearing that your father once went to the hospital with severe bruises. Was that George’s work?”
Her chin went down to her chest. “It was. Although I have to say, most of George’s bullying was verbal rather than physical. That must have been true for you, Red.”
It was. I had some vivid memories of encounters with George when he tried to bully me into agreeing with him.
She sighed. “Surely you must have wondered if George was responsible for your predecessor’s fall down the stairs.”
“I did. But it turned out to be someone else instead. However, I know Larry Coleman shot George, because I saw it with my own two eyes. I grant you, it was after George had struck Larry so hard he fell to the ground, but shooting a man is an extreme reaction to a fistfight.”
Dorothy’s chin came up and the look on her face was closer to rage than despair. “Normally, I would agree. But George has made life hell for too many people. Including me. Larry Coleman was a victim of George’s tyranny all last year and he just did what someone was bound to do someday.” Her expression changed to fierceness. “You remember the party Larry gave to celebrate his tenure?”
I did. The entire faculty plus Nell and her assistants were invited. Larry’s wife, a corporate attorney with a handsome salary, had bought a large house in the same part of town that housed Philip Lewis. The bar was lavish and the food was excellent. By ten almost everyone was slightly if not seriously drunk, including the host.
Larry had raised several toasts. To his wife. To me. To the faculty of the school and at the end, his face flushed with drink, he raised his glass once more, “To the assholes who tried to sabotage my tenure.”
George had laughed out loud and raised his glass in return. “Atta boy, Larry. You tell it like it is. You’re tenured now and you don’t have to take shit from anyone.”
Larry had looked at George the way a rattlesnake looks at a rabbit.
“I remember that party vividly, Dorothy. What does it have to do with the shooting?”
“George and I stayed late. After most of you had left, I went to find George. He’d cornered Larry in the kitchen. Just the two of them. I heard Larry say ‘go to hell.’” She paused and searched in her handbag for a tissue. “Then George pushed Larry up against the refrigerator and banged his head on the door and called him a little shit. That’s what he said. And he told Larry someday he was going to make sure he left Nevada forever.” She paused again. “In a box, if necessary.”
So that was why Larry had been carrying a gun all this time. I sat back in my chair and let my mind roll around this for a few minutes. Dorothy seemed to welcome my silence. At length, I said, “I will give this considerable thought and I’ll talk it over with the DA.”
‘Thank you. I assure you, if I testify at his trial, Dr. Coleman will very likely be acquitted.”
“What’s the prognosis for George at this point?”
“He’ll live, but his spinal cord was severed just below his neck.”
“Oh, dear. That sounds as if you’ll have a great deal to do taking care of him.” Poor Dorothy. The hell would never end for her, I feared.
Dorothy rose from her chair and turned toward the door. Her movements had quickened. “Well, someone will have a great deal to do taking care of George.” A thin smile appeared. “But I don’t think it will be me.”
“Dorothy, before you go, do you feel safe still being married to George?”
She cocked her head to one side and put her gloves back on. “I do now. George is paralyzed and no longer has use of his arms and legs, or of the hands he used to make into fists.” She stopped by the door and looked at me, her eyes steady and still fierce. “My husband will depend on the good will of his caretakers for the rest of his life. Bullying will no longer work for him. Not if he wants to be fed and bathed. I doubt George Weinstein will ever be able to hurt anyone again.” She closed my door behind her.
After she left, I called the district attorney’s office. I told him what Dorothy had said and he repeated what he had said to Dorothy. At the end of our conversation his voice lowered as if telling me a confidence. “I have no idea what I’m going to do next, Dr. Solaris. This is a really weird case.”
Indeed.
Jamie
The man slept late, all that morning. At noon, he walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. He hadn’t shaved and his eyes were red at the rims. Jamie made him some eggs and toast that he ate silently. Then, without a word to her, he had gotten up and gone back upstairs. Hungover, she thought. But he had left her alone. When she came downstairs, she had found the bottle empty on its side in the middle of the kitchen table and had thrown it away. She hoped it was the only liquor in the house besides the beer in the refrigerator.
He did not come back downstairs until late afternoon. She was in the parlor, watching the sun set on the lake. She had thought all day about what to do next and decided on a new approach.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “I rarely drink hard liquor and I’m not used to it.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she said. “We need to talk.”
He sat heavily in one of the upholstered chairs. “No more about Alice. Please.” He waved his hand in the air as if to dismiss the thought. His eyes were dark and his voice was weary. “I’m hungry. I need something to eat before we talk about anything.”
She walked into the kitchen and pulled out a chicken she had roasted the night before. She sliced some pieces and put it on a plate with some bread and cheese. She was not going to cook him a full meal. She had other plans for that night.
He sat at the table and began to eat. After a few minutes he got up, got himself a glass of water, and sat down again. “What’s on your mind?”
“What really happened to Alice?”
Chapter 33
Joe, Wynan, and I had agreed we would meet at my house at three o’clock. I drove home an hour ahead of time. I was hoping there would be time to tell Joe about my conversation with Dorothy Weinstein before we headed out to Shelby’s ranch.
I changed into jeans and put on mountain climbing boots and an extra heavy sweater. I knew Joe would still refuse to let me join the search, but I figured I should be prepared to hike into the property in the event of some unforeseen emergency. No matter what, I was going to be ready and waiting if Jamie Congers was found and there was some way I could help her.
I pulled a large wicker picnic basket out of the front closet. I folded a blanket and put it into the basket followed by a first aid kit along with my big flashlight. No telling what shape Jamie would be in when we found her, and I wanted to be equippe
d. In fact, as I put bandages and medical tape into the basket I realized why I was so determined to be close to the search. No matter what, if the girl was still alive, she might be in shock and seriously hurt. She would need care and comfort, and I was the woman prepared to supply that.
Joe and Wynan showed up at exactly three. Both were dressed in heavy pants and jackets and what looked like army boots and gear. And both carried handguns that neither made any attempt to conceal. I knew there would be a rifle and a shotgun in the trunk of Joe’s car.
“No Bushmaster semi-automatics, guys? What if you run into the watchman?”
Joe grimaced. “The Landry police department doesn’t issue that kind of weapon. Wynan and I will just have to be faster and smarter.”
The drive to the Vane ranch seemed to take longer even though we had driven the route before. The day was still warm, the pastures held fewer of the black cattle, and the sprinklers must have just finished watering the sod that glistened green and lush in the afternoon sun.
Shelby Vane’s mother was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch when we drove up. She watched as Joe and I mounted the stairs to the porch.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Vane,” I said in a tone as friendly as possible. The woman turned her face away.
Shelby opened the door. He was wearing boots, jeans and a heavy sweater and carrying a shotgun. “We may need this,” he said, gesturing with the gun.
“We have our own weapons, Shelby. You can leave that here. I don’t want you going any further than you need to point out the right direction to the house. Just get us to the fence opening and then you and Red will both stay in the car.”
“Be careful, son,” said the old woman without looking at any of us.
Shelby kissed his mother and he and I got in the front seat of his Jeep, while Joe and Wynan got into Joe’s car. Shelby led the way and we went back out onto the two-lane road and drove faster than before. We passed sod farms and ranches, one with sheep. The trees grew in clusters next to streams.
Red Solaris Mystery Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 43
