He wrote the address in his notes. Virginia couldn’t remember anything else about that day, so he thanked her and left her standing at the door. A cat rubbed against her leg and she picked it up, gently stroking its fur. Joey’s or Cindy’s pet? He didn’t want to know.
He parked in front of Tim’s house, a small two-story. Glancing around at the well-maintained yard, he walked up the flower-bordered path and rang the bell. When a thirtyish woman answered the door, he spoke through the screen, introducing himself and showing her his badge.
“Are you Mrs. Walsh? Tim’s mother?”
“Yes. Can you tell me what this is about?”
“As you’ve probably heard, Cindy Carroll was murdered. It’s become known that Joey may have had something to tell the police. I just want to check with Tim to see if Joey told him anything that might be useful.”
“I don’t think so—if he had, Timmy would have already told them.”
“It’s a long shot, I agree. I just want to get a sense of what was happening that day and anything he remembers. I have sons of my own. I’ll be gentle with him. I promise.”
“I guess it’s OK. He’s in the kitchen getting a snack.” She opened the screen door and stepped back to let him in. “Please don’t upset him. He was devastated when his friend died, and he still isn’t over it. I wouldn’t let you bring it all up again if it weren’t for Joey’s big sister.”
He followed her through a spotless, modern living room, the light-colored furniture contrasting with the dark hardwood floors.
She paused at the doorway to the family room and turned to him. “He’s already distressed about Cindy. I’ll let you start, but if he gets upset, I want you to stop.”
After giving his word, Peter entered the room and waited on the couch for her to get her son. This is where they lived. The furniture was a darker, more kid-friendly color, and a large area rug covered a space in front of the TV. Perfect for playing games.
Tim entered behind his mother, and Peter hid a smile. Tim could have been one of Peter’s kids, red hair and all. His face was solemn as his mother explained who Peter was and why he wanted to talk to him.
Tim stood in front of him. “You’re a policeman?”
Peter nodded.
“Why don’t you have a uniform on?”
He tried to keep from laughing. “I’m a detective.”
“Like Mark?”
So he did remember him. “Yes, just like Mark. Tim, is it OK if I ask you about Joey?”
Tim nodded, his face serious.
Peter didn’t want to spook him or his mother, so he braced his arms on his knees and let his hands dangle. “What can you remember about the last time you went to visit him?”
Tim fidgeted with the bottom of his shirt, stretching the t-shirt material and rolling it over his fists. “Not too much. We played a board game—his favorite.”
Peter smiled, wondering at the old-fashioned game. Had they made it into a computer game? “No, I didn’t. Is it your favorite as well?”
“It’s a pretty cool game, but I like chess right now. I’m learning to play with my brother, but he always beats me.”
“Big brothers are like that.”
Tim’s hands stilled, wrapped in his shirt. “How did you know he was my big brother?”
“Just a guess. So, do you remember what you talked about?”
He unrolled the material. “Not really. The policemen wanted me to tell them, too, but it wasn’t nothing important. He didn’t tell me what he wanted to talk to the chief about. I didn’t even know he wanted to. He must have told his mom, and maybe the blonde lady he used to talk to.”
“There was a blonde lady?”
“Yeah. This recess lady who used to help at lunchtime sometimes, and talk to the kids. They liked her a lot. She never talked to me though.”
“Is she still at the school? Have you seen her lately?”
“No, she isn’t there now.”
Peter tried to make his voice light. “Was there anyone else Joey talked to?”
“I don’t think so. But I wasn’t around him all the time, you know? He might have, and I wouldn’t know.” Tim started to fidget. He was at the end of his attention span.
“One more quick question. Did Mark ever talk to Joey?”
“Yeah, I remember Mark. He’s cool. He talked to all of us. Joey liked him a lot. Hey, do you like baseball?”
“Yes, I do. Who’s your favorite?”
“I like the local team.”
“A fan, eh? They’re my favorite team, too.”
They talked a little more about baseball, and then Peter left. Walking to his car, he checked his watch. He might be able to catch Libby before she picked the kids up from soccer practice. He hadn’t seen her much since the shooting.
When he got home, she stopped vacuuming and sat at the kitchen table with him. She popped up to get them some iced tea and finally settled across from him.
He gulped half of his glass.
She waited calmly. “Did you find out anything?”
He placed one hand on both of hers. He hated letting her down. “Remember, you promised not to get your hopes up.”
Her face fell. “She didn’t remember anything? I know we weren’t expecting much, but I hoped she’d think of something helpful.”
He gave her hands a squeeze and released them. “She gave me the name of a friend who had visited him that day, and I went to see him. You would have loved him. He looked just like Danny did at that age.”
Libby sipped her tea. “And…?”
“He didn’t remember. But he said something about a blonde lunch lady Joey used to talk to. I scanned the old file before I went, but I don’t remember anything about her.”
“That’s something though, isn’t it? Can you check on her?” She wiped her hand on the tablecloth. “She might have been a part-timer or a volunteer.”
“I can try. Who knows if they’ll have a record if she was a volunteer, but I can check it out. Sure.”
She smiled. “I know it’s probably nothing. I just feel so helpless.…” She carried the glasses to the sink.
“I know.” He stood behind her, folded his arms around her waist, and nuzzled her neck. “Let’s call Linda and see if she can pick up the kids. Tell her we can get them later. We can take advantage of some alone time and not talk about the case.”
“What a great idea.” She turned in his arms. “What do you want to talk about?”
He pulled her close. “I wasn’t thinking about talking.”
24
Mark flipped through the channels one more time. Nothing on. The sitcom he’d been watching couldn’t hold his interest, and he didn’t feel like reading. He turned it off and reached for his phone, studying the pictures Peter had sent him of the warehouse. Cindy’s body wasn’t in them, but her outline and blood stains were there, and the stains by the entrance must be his. Peter didn’t send him those at first, but Mark insisted.
A feeling of desolation filled him again as he remembered the sweet young girl so engaged in finding her brother’s killers. He could almost see her earnest face the times he’d talked to her before. He scrolled back to the pictures of the warehouse. Why couldn’t he remember being there?
He leaned back against the pillows, closing his eyes, trying to remember. He focused on the warehouse, but he could only remember what was in the pictures. The rest was a blank. A big nothing.
Sounds of laughing children being shushed by their parents filtered in from the corridor as a family passed his room. It must be time for visiting hours to end.
He dozed a little then startled awake, unsure what woke him.
Chief Donovan stood at the door, hand raised to knock.
Mark gave him a welcoming smile. “Chief, come in. It’s good to see you.”
Mark pushed the button to raise the bed.
Donovan put his hand up. “Don’t get up. I don’t want to disturb you. I can come back tomorrow.”
“No, c
ome in. I can use the company.”
Donovan’s face was full of questions, but when he met Mark’s gaze, he stopped himself.
Mark probably looked similar to how he felt—like road kill.
Donovan gave him a slow smile. “So, slugger, when will you be ready to play first base? The team’s missing you.”
Mark chuckled. “I feel more like I could be first base, actually. The doctor says since I wasn’t unconscious too long, the recovery shouldn’t be too bad. But I want to know how bad is ‘too bad,’ and too bad for whom?” He plumped his pillows and lay back. “I’m glad you’re here. I want to talk to you while Robin’s gone.”
“Did she go home?”
“She did, but it took all my powers of persuasion. She looks as bad as I do, although if you tell her I said so, I’ll deny it.”
Donovan laughed. “She’s a pretty special lady, you know.” He settled in. “I wouldn’t want to cross her where you're concerned. She defends you like a tigress.”
And now they’d reached the heart of the matter. “Please tell me what she needs to defend me from?” Mark voice was quiet, all humor gone. “And why is Jack outside my room? Are you keeping someone out or keeping me in?”
Donovan told him the facts of the case.
Some things Mark knew from Robin and Peter, but it sounded so much worse all put together. It appeared someone had gone to a lot of trouble to set him up. First disbelief, then anger, and finally sadness washed over him. “Chief, someone’s setting me up. One of my friends is setting me up.” He paused, feeling the hurt of betrayal in his gut. “There’s no way around it. I have to remember what happened before they succeed.”
~*~
Oscar waited in his car. He’d gotten the word he was supposed to do the job on the cop tonight. Apparently, the guy was awake, and Carlo didn’t want to take any chances. He snorted. Carlo didn’t want to take chances, but it was OK if Oscar did.
Why had they waited so long, and how would he make it happen? Killing a cop! And a guarded cop at that! What was Carlo thinking? He simply said to show up tonight by eleven and the guard wouldn’t be a problem. He hoped not, because Colorado still had the death penalty, and killing a cop would guarantee it. If he wasn’t shot first. He transferred the gun from the glove compartment to his pocket. At least if he did this, he’d have a chance at getting away. Telling these people no wasn’t an option; it was suicide.
He waited until the cop’s wife headed for her car before he left the parking lot. Good, he still had plenty of time. He strolled in the emergency entrance and rode the elevator to the second floor, the same way he’d practiced it. He then dashed up two flights of stairs and peered through the little glass square in the door. The hallway was clear. He crouched and eased open the door.
The stairs, close to the end of the hall, offered a view of the whole corridor. A couple of empty rooms yawned in front of him. And down the hall, like the other night, sat the guard, lounging in the chair reading a magazine. A nurse came by and refilled his coffee, her body language flirty. The cop beamed as she moved away.
The elevator dinged. A man exited and headed for the guarded room. He stopped to talk to the cop then entered. Oh, great, extra company. That’s all he needed—more people in the room. What would he do now?
What choice did he have but to wait? Maybe the guy wouldn’t stay long. He eased through the door and settled into a shadowy doorway. Kind of late for visitors, wasn’t it?
Could be a doctor, but he didn’t have a white coat. The man came back out after about thirty minutes. As he walked toward the elevator, Oscar studied him. The chief of police. No wonder he didn’t wait for visiting hours and passed the cop with such ease. Oscar shrank deeper into the doorway.
As soon as the chief entered the elevator, the guard went into the room. Why? Was there something wrong with the cop? Maybe he’d croak on his own, and Oscar wouldn’t have to lift a finger. Wouldn’t that be a relief?
He checked his watch. Ten forty-five. Did that mean the guard was out of the picture? Was someone already in the room when he’d gotten here? And if so, why didn’t they kill Clayton while they were at it? Should he come out now or wait?
The nurse came by again, set a full cup of coffee on the floor, and retrieved the other one. Boy, the service in this place was great if one was a cop. Bet if he was in here, there wouldn’t be sweet-looking nurses tripping over themselves to get him coffee.
The guard came back out and sat. He grinned when he saw the full cup of coffee, picked it up, and drank a few sips.
Oscar checked his watch again. Almost eleven. What kind of diversion had they planned to draw the cop away? And when would it happen?
The cop slumped against the wall. Steaming coffee spilled down his leg onto the floor. Nobody could sleep through that. He must be out cold.
Oscar leapt out, made sure no one was coming, and hurried to the sleeping cop. He prodded him, almost knocking him off the chair. “Hey, officer, you awake?”
No response. He pushed the door open and went inside.
25
Peter drove Libby’s SUV into the hospital parking lot. It was late, almost eleven o’clock. He’d gotten tied up at dinner with Libby’s family and didn’t realize the passing time. He dropped her off at home and came straight over. It was probably too late, but he wanted to ask Mark about little Joey while the questions were fresh in his head. He parked and then hesitated. If Mark was sleeping, he didn’t want to disturb him. It could wait ’til tomorrow, but maybe he was up.
He pulled his phone out of the holder and struggled to find Mark’s new number. “I’m downstairs. You awake?” He texted.
His phone binged back. “Sure, come on up.”
Chief Donovan was in the lobby heading out. “Hey, what are you doing here so late? Do you have news?”
Peter told him about his interview with Timmy. “I just wanted to see if he remembered anything more about Joey. It could wait, but it’s bugging me. I texted Mark, and he’s still awake. You want to go up with me?”
Donovan shrugged. “Might as well. I’d like to hear what he has to say. I never got the chance to talk to Joey, and it’s always bothered me.”
Upstairs, Peter stepped out of the elevator and froze. Jack was asleep on duty.
“Jack!” he barked.
No response. His heart pounding, he pulled his gun from his shoulder holster. Horrifying images flooded his mind as he slammed through the door, hitting something hard on the other side. The tang of gunpowder assaulted his nostrils, but he hadn’t heard a shot. Was he too late?
“Police, drop it!” He screamed as a man stumbled and then stood up. He wasn’t tall, but solidly built. Donovan pushed in behind Peter. The man dropped his weapon, put his hands in the air, and faced them. Donovan moved around Peter and kicked the gun out of the way.
A silencer. Peter’s breath caught. No wonder he hadn’t heard the shot. He glanced quickly at the bed. It was empty.
A nurse skidded into the room, missing him by inches, and halted at the sight of a gun in his hand.
A second nurse yelled, trying to rouse Jack.
“Chief! What’s going on?” the first nurse asked. “Where’s the patient?”
“Under here.” Mark slid out from under the bed.
The nurse who’d first entered moved to help him up. She reached over and shut off the machine next to the bed, which until then, Peter hadn’t noticed had been screaming. In the ensuing silence, they could hear someone in the hall calling for a stretcher.
“Turn around and face the wall,” Donovan said. “Now don’t start anything, or Detective Fox will shoot you.” While Peter kept him covered, Donovan pushed the man’s face into the wall, patted him down, and cuffed him.
The nurse tried to help Mark back into bed. Mark resisted. “Wait. Is Jack OK? What happened to him?”
“Get into bed, and I’ll find out.” By the determination on her face, she wasn’t moving until he did.
“Do as she says
, Mark, I don’t need another officer down. Oh, and call the station, would you?”
Mark grinned and perched on the edge of the bed. “There. Are you happy?” he said to the nurse as he reached for his cell phone.
She stood her ground until satisfied he would stay and, nodding once, scooted into the hall. In a few minutes, she was back.
“Your friend is OK. Drugged, I’d say. His vitals are good, so he’s being moved to another room to recover.” She plucked the dangling monitor wires off the floor and approached Mark. “You need to get into bed, so I can hook you back up.”
“No,” Donovan interrupted. “He won’t be staying.”
“What?” She dropped her jaw. She stood holding the wires. “He can’t go anywhere. He hasn’t been discharged.”
Peter almost laughed.
“I think maybe he has.” Donovan stuck two fingers into his prisoner’s back pocket and slid a wallet out. He casually leaned against the wall and flipped it open. To the nurse, he said, “Can you bring a doctor in here, please?”
The nurse spun and left the room.
“You can turn around now.” The man faced them, and for the first time, Peter got a good look at him. Perhaps in his late thirties, his pale skin contrasted with dark brown hair and eyes.
“Do either of you know who this guy is?” Donovan asked.
“No, sir. I’ve never seen him before,” Mark said.
Peter kept his gaze, and his gun, on the suspect. “Me, either.”
Donovan tossed the wallet on the bed. “Mr. Russo, why did you try to shoot Detective Clayton?”
The man stared at the gun still pointed at his chest and didn’t answer.
Mark finished his call and flipped open the wallet. “Oscar Russo. I don’t know an Oscar Russo.”
“Mr. Russo, you’re mighty lucky you didn’t get the job done. You’d better hope the other officer wasn’t harmed.”
Oscar opened his mouth, so Donovan paused. The moment passed, and Oscar clamped it shut.
“Did someone hire you to do this?”
High Deceit Page 13
