“I was, earlier,” I admitted. “I’ve been up for a while now. Had things to do today. Couldn’t hide under the covers all day long.”
“Melody, I’m so sorry about your mom. She was a good woman.”
“Thank you. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
“Have you, I mean, did you, uh, is the funeral set yet?”
“Yes. Just a graveside service at Ten Mile in Benton on Friday at two o’clock. I hope you don’t have court that day. I could use another friendly face.”
“No, I’m free that day, but isn’t that the day of the rally at the capitol? I thought you were attending.”
“Great, thanks. And yes, it is the same day. I just…oh I just can’t muster the strength to show up right now. From what I can tell, the site and the supporters are all raring to go whether I’m there or not. I need to say goodbye to my mom first, then maybe I will find the inner courage to shout from the rooftops that I wasn’t married to a killer.”
“I think that is a good idea. Give yourself time to heal from these wounds, Melody. You’ve sustained some traumatic injuries to your psyche these last few weeks.”
The lump in my throat pushed against my vocal chords. I took a swallow of tea and pushed it back down, then changed the subject. “Listen, I called you because I have some things I need to tell you that I just can’t say over the phone. How’s your schedule this afternoon?”
“I have a new client coming in at three, but I can always reschedule. Why, what’s up?”
“Some new breaks in the case. Ones I won’t discuss except in person. They are very significant, mind you, so do you mind stopping by?”
“Of course not, Melody. Should I bring Bertrand as well?”
“No, please don’t. I’m…I’m not comfortable sharing what I found out with anyone right now, except you. I haven’t even told Regina or Kendal yet. Kendal is at work and Regina went to the doctor and out shopping, and knowing her, that could take all day. Shiny things distract her, even when buying food. I’m going to be out for a while myself, so any time after three would be a good time to come over since neither of them will be here.”
“If there is something you need, I can pick it up on my way over,” Roger offered.
“No, it’s nothing like that. I have to stop by my mom’s and pick out an outfit, then take it to the funeral home. It’s something I want to do by myself, you know?”
“Oh yes, how well I do. Let me finish up a few motions and shut down for the afternoon, then I’ll be there. Three, did you say?”
“Yes, that’s perfect. Listen, thanks, Roger. For everything. I…I don’t know how I could have gotten through this without all your support and understanding. Means a lot.”
“No need for thanks. Consider it done. See you soon.”
The call disconnected. I turned my face to the west and watched storm clouds form in the distance. The air was heavy and thick with humidity and a slight haze of gun metal gray and olive green shimmered in the sky. The barometric pressure had shifted, and my fake sinus headache was now real. It pounded in my temples as the pressure mounted behind my eyes. I rubbed my head to alleviate some of the pain, and hoped that the winds shifted and took the storm in another direction. If it stayed on its current trajectory, the wicked looking clouds would pass right over the house and deposit gallons of rain, or worse, judging by the colors in the sky.
I didn’t want to be stuck inside when I unloaded the news to Roger later. I wouldn’t be able to unleash my inner turmoil unless I puffed away like a freight train. God, I really needed to give up the habit again, but right now, I couldn’t.
Maybe once the detective solved this case and cleared Jack’s name, I could.
With one last puff, I stood up, gathered my phone and drink and went inside. Simba popped up and was right behind me. She looked wounded when I made her stay outside. I stood in the kitchen for a few seconds and fought the urge to scream. The silence was worse than a houseful of people. The room seemed to get smaller, the walls crushing in around me. My heart pounded in my ears as the unnerving sensation of being smothered pushed the air out of my lungs.
I grabbed my purse off the table, ran down the stairs two at a time and out to my car. Although I dreaded the task of picking out my mother’s final outfit, I couldn’t spend another second alone in the house. The place I used to call home was now just walls that housed ghosts of my past in every room. Somehow, I knew that until Jack’s killer was caught, I would never be able to come to terms with my life and learn to move on.
But as I drove down the streets toward my mom’s place, I knew that wasn’t the only reason I ran like a crazy woman from my kitchen. It was time. Time to stop waiting around for others to make things right in my world. It was time to seize the reins and lead my own way; time to stop playing by the rules and take back my life. I’d felt the shift inside of me when I blew up earlier. A seismic shift that rattled my core and altered my perception, brought upon by the knowledge that the detective felt that somehow the nightmare wasn’t over yet. That now I was in danger and maybe a target as well. A small part of me, barely a whisper, was trying to hang on to my sanity, to keep myself from diving headfirst into the murky waters of rage.
My new purpose seemed crystal clear and shouted like a tornado siren in my head. I wasn’t going to let Detective Knowles screw up again. No way. It was time to start my own investigation—and my first stop was going to be to find and talk to Guy Powell.
My foot tromped on the accelerator as my anger rose. I barreled through the streets, trying to outrun my fury at myself for not fighting sooner. Had I done so, I wouldn’t be forced to pick out another outfit to bury a loved one in.
Craig Knowles had never felt like such a worthless piece of trash. He had hoped to provide good news to help ease the loss, and ended up producing a torrent of anger from Mrs. Dickinson. He couldn’t blame her and agreed with everything she said to him in her fit of rage; he’d tossed another spoonful of salt on her open wounds. It was his fault that her life would never be the same.
It had taken everything in him not to reveal the entire truth of the situation to her when he saw the tears form in her eyes. Craig had wanted to tell her about his visit with Bill Witham yesterday, too. The look of confusion on Bill’s face when he opened his front door and found Craig standing there had morphed quickly to terror when Craig informed him who he was. He’d watched Bill squirm and sweat under Craig’s pressing questions about Jack Dickinson. The man almost fainted when a nonchalant Craig mentioned how hard Serena’s death must have been on Bill, with him being her ex and working in such close proximity to her alleged killer. The real kicker had been the look on his face when Craig mentioned divine justice had been doled out without the assistance of the legal system. Respiratory failure from an allergic reaction to peanut oil—and how fitting it was that the man accused of strangling the air out of Serena’s lungs died a similar death.
Though Bill Witham made no confession, Craig had recognized the nonverbal cues: sweat pouring off his milky white face as the blood drained from it, constantly shifting eyes and fidgeting hands. When Craig left Bill’s house yesterday evening, he was more than convinced Bill Witham had played a pivotal role in the death of Jack Dickinson.
Melody had seen through his attempt to mask his true thoughts. Craig wanted to kick himself for going over to her house in the first place. Had he just finished his investigation and solved the case, Melody would be unaware of the dangers that Craig felt lurked around her.
He felt ashamed for hiding the entire truth from her but knew that until he uncovered everything and sorted out the convoluted, intricate mess, he couldn’t. Heat flushed his cheeks at the memory of grabbing Melody’s hand. He was a professional and knew better than to get emotionally involved, but he couldn’t seem to ignore the feelings that rolled around inside of him.
Craig knew he needed to refocus. He needed to stop thinking about Melody Dickinson that way. She’d
just lost her husband for God’s sake, and now her mother! Still, Craig felt drawn to her deep devotion, her unwillingness to give up, and her feisty spirit.
Pulling into the parking lot of the grocery store, Craig collected his thoughts and began to work a plan up for the day. He had screwed up this case before. He’d cracked under the pressure from his superiors to solve it in record time, to put a shiny star in the eyes of not only the public, but the mighty Phil Rowland. Craig swore under his breath. He never should have been assigned the case to begin with. He hadn’t had a day off in over a month and had been running on fumes as it was.
For a moment, Craig wished he’d never met Lee at the gym the other night, for ignorance really was bliss. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this case would be his last one. Craig knew he would never be able to take lead again without second guessing every move, each piece of evidence. His trust in his own instincts had been blown to hell, replaced with the heaviness of remorse and guilt over the death of Jack Dickinson.
Craig settled his own mental torture by making a promise to himself. Once he’d unraveled the tangled knots and solved this one, it would be time to retire from law enforcement. Between his military service and fifteen plus years on the force, he’d seen enough bloodshed to last three lifetimes. If he didn’t get out now, Craig feared his perception on mankind would be so tainted that he would never recover and become like so many other cops who turned into raging addicts to dull the horrific images seared into their brains. Or even worse—become so jaded and traumatized that the only way to stop the pain was to eat your gun.
He’d sidestepped several offers from his Uncle Rex over the years to partner up and help him run his sporting goods stores, thinking the boredom of a repetitive job and the same scenery behind a desk each day would drive him bat-shit crazy. Craig winced at the thought now, wishing he was locked inside the mundane rather than stuck in the well of guilt he currently resided in. Maybe it was just because he wasn’t looking at life through the eyes of a muscled-up youngster any longer. Maybe age did truly bring a bit of wisdom.
Craig pushed all that mental crap aside, along with the sense of intensity he felt churning inside of him. He needed to leave the angst that crawled around inside his head out of the picture and methodically focus on his agenda for the day.
Priority number one was figuring out a way to visit Guy Powell in jail without arousing suspicion or his visit being reported to his captain. Priority number two was to find Ms. Gonzales and talk to her, because his instincts told him she knew something. Craig opened his eyes and grabbed his cell phone, hoping that he’d missed a call while the phone had been on silent at Melody’s house. He felt a surge of irritation when he saw none.
Craig glanced at his watch. It was almost ten. Shift changed at the jail at eleven a.m., which would be the perfect time to go in. But if just one person slipped up and mentioned his impromptu visit to his captain, he would be toast. He needed a plausible reason to be there. Craig dug deeper back into his memory and recalled the name of the narcotics officer on Powell’s arrest warrant. Craig didn’t know the guy very well, but from what little he’d heard about him, he seemed to be a stand-up cop. Craig fumbled around in his console and looked for the list of department numbers. Once in hand, he snatched his phone off the seat to make the call. Before he could finish tapping in the numbers, it began to vibrate with an incoming call from a blocked number.
It took three full rings before Craig followed his gut and answered an unknown number, something he rarely did. “Knowles.”
“Took ya long enough.”
Craig’s heart rate spiked when he recognized the voice on the other end. “Hey Jalel. Sorry, my phone was on silent. Do you—”
“Ain’t got time for a convo. Where ya at?”
“West Little Rock. Where do I need to be?”
“Boyle Park in twenty minutes. If ya late, we ain’t waitin’. Go to the swings at the back next to the last ball field on the right.”
“We? You and Ms. Gonzales? Is she willing—?”
The line went dead and Craig didn’t waste any time. He tore out of the parking lot and headed to the freeway. Jalel had said “we” and that could only mean one thing—he’d found Ms. Gonzales and somehow convinced her to agree to meet him. And they’d picked Boyle Park—one of the most crime ridden places in the county. A once beautiful public park with several baseball fields was now a haven for drugs, illicit sex trade operations and gang violence. Kids didn’t go there to play—they went to be played, get laid, get high or die.
The location told Craig that Jalel and Ms. Gonzales wanted no part of being on Craig’s turf. Whatever Ms. Gonzales knew must be substantial, or she wouldn’t risk stepping foot into Boyle Park, even escorted by a banger.
Craig stepped out of his Jeep into the bright afternoon sun, his boot-clad feet crunching the gravel underneath him. He’d made the drive across town in record time and still had three minutes to spare. Though no cars were present, he saw Jalel and a woman he assumed was Ms. Gonzales sitting on a dilapidated picnic table next to the broken swings. Neither of them moved as he walked over.
Through his sunglasses, he took the few seconds he had to scan the perimeter. His nerves were on edge, his senses on heightened alert. The sensation of walking into a trap hit him again, just as it had at the gym the other night. He hoped this time he would hear something that would help his case.
A quick perusal of the area verified that he wasn’t about to be ambushed, and he turned his gaze to Ms. Gonzales. Even from a distance, he sensed her fear. He adjusted his stiff stance and gait and tried to appear less gruff as he crossed the last twenty feet separating them.
Jalel motioned for Craig to sit at the other end of the small table. Without a word, Craig eased his body down and removed his glasses. Rather than making the poor woman anymore uncomfortable, he focused his attention to Jalel and addressed him while watching Ms. Gonzales through his peripheral vision. “Thank you for waiting.”
“No need. You was on time,” Jalel said, and Craig noticed a change in the kid’s inflection. Behind the dark eyes that had probably seen just as much screwed up crap as he had, there was softness. A glow of compassion for the woman seated next to him passed across Jalel’s face as he motioned for Ms. Gonzales to speak.
He surmised that Ms. Gonzales was in her early forties and around five foot three. Her dark brown eyes bounced back and forth between Jalel and Craig, and she muttered a few words under her breath that sounded like a Spanish prayer. He watched Jalel reach over and pat her quaking hand. He didn’t understand or speak Spanish, but he picked out enough to comprehend that Jalel was telling Ms. Gonzales to not be afraid.
“She don’t speak much English, so I’m gonna tell you what she says, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Make your questions short. Translatin’ ain’t easy.”
“I will.”
“Before she says a thing, she has a few conditions. Wants your word on all of it or she walks.”
Craig held in his irritation. “Such as?”
“First that you don’t ever bring her in for questioning. What she says you heard from a lil birdie, got it?”
“Go on.”
“Second, she don’t want her name or what she’s about to tell you brought up. Ever. You try and use in it an arrest warrant, she’ll deny it. Try to make her testify, she’ll run. All you’re gettin’ today is a onetime tale. I tried tellin’ her she was crazy. Told her to just move away and never come back. Dude will never know where she went. But she says she can’t. Says the Devil himself is hauntin’ her at night. Won’t let her sleep. Says if she tells the truth, she can pass the curse on to you and that you will be responsible for protecting her from him. What you do with what she tells you is your problem, not hers. Agreed?”
Craig nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out his note pad. The minute he set it on the table and flipped it open, Ms. Gonzales spewed out words so f
ast, even Jalel couldn’t make them out. He watched her eyes on his hands and realized the problem. “Okay, Jalel? Tell her I’m sorry and that I won’t take notes.” He slid the notepad back into his pocket.
“Él lo siente. No va a tomar notas.”
“Tell her she isn’t in any trouble.”
“Usted no está en problemas.”
“I just need her help. That’s all. I just need to know why she didn’t go back to work at the hotel.”
“Él necesita su ayuda.”
Ms. Gonzales’s eyes were still wide, fearful, and fixed on him, but she was listening to what Jalel was saying. He noticed droplets of sweat running down her face and chest, and it dawned on him another reason she was so petrified.
“Tell her I don’t care about her papers. I’m only here to talk about The Duchess.”
“Uh, not sure I know how to say that.”
“No INS?” Ms. Gonzales asked, her voice quiet, breathy.
He shook his head. “No INS. I am a detective with the police. I am working on a case…a woman was killed at the hotel you work at. The Duchess?” He could sense her fear. She may have been afraid of being deported, but she was absolutely terrified of whatever it was she knew about Serena Rowland’s murder.
“Si, The Duchess. No more work there. No go back.”
“Ms. Gonzales, tell me why. What did you see that makes you not want to go back?”
Jalel and Ms. Gonzales exchanged knowing glances. She pulled out a slim cigar from her pocket and fiddled with her lighter. Her hand shook as she took a few puffs.
“It’s okay, ma’am. You have my word. I’m just trying to solve this murder. The man who was arrested—he didn’t do it. He didn’t kill that girl. And now he’s dead and his wife is alone. Please, if you know something, tell me. I swear to the Heavens above that what you say stays between the two of us. You will never hear from me again.”
She nodded at Jalel and as if pre-practiced, he turned and walked twenty yards away, then sat down on the edge of a broken piece of wood that had been part of a sandbox at one time. Ms. Gonzales waited until he was out of earshot before she continued. He realized then that not only did she have evidence, but she knew who the murderer was. She didn’t want to vocalize her memories to anyone other than him.
Empty Shell Page 29
