by John Hart
“What?”
“The kid that got shot is Gideon Strange. Look, I’m sorry to be the one—”
“Wait. Stop.”
Elizabeth pushed on her eyes until she saw red haze and white sparks. She flashed on every autopsy photo in the Julia Strange murder file, then remembered what Gideon had been like on the day his mother had gone missing. She could see every detail of the boy’s living room, the furniture and the paint, the detectives and the crime-scene techs that drifted like smoke from the kitchen. She remembered Adrian Wall—pale as a sheet—and the feel of the boy’s hot, squirming body as he’d screamed in her arms and other cops tried to calm his wild-eyed, wailing father.
“Is he alive?”
“Surgery,” Beckett said. “I don’t know any more than that. I’m sorry.”
Elizabeth was dizzy, the sun too bright. “Where was he shot?”
“The high right side of his chest.”
“No, Beckett. Where did it happen?”
“Nathan’s. The biker bar.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“No, you won’t come anywhere near this. Dyer was specific. He doesn’t want you around Adrian Wall or this case. Obviously, I agree.”
“Then why did you call me?”
“Because I know you love the kid. I thought you’d want to go to the hospital, be there for him.”
“I can’t do anything at the hospital.”
“You can’t do anything here, either.”
“Beckett…”
“He’s not your son, Liz.” She froze, the phone painful against her ear. “You’re just the cop who found his mother dead.”
That was a hard truth, but who else was closer to the boy? His father? Social services? Elizabeth had been the first on scene when Gideon’s mother went missing. It might have ended there, but she’d also found Julia Strange broken on the altar of Elizabeth’s father’s church, the body so vulnerable in its desecration she’d almost wept. They’d never once met; and yet Elizabeth, even now, felt a kinship between them, a thread that twisted through thirteen years and found its embodiment in the small boy left behind. A man such as Beckett would never understand that. He couldn’t.
“Go to the hospital,” he said. “I’ll meet you there, later.”
Beckett hung up, and Elizabeth handed the phone back to Carol, who said a good-bye that barely registered. There was a blur of face, a cough as the car started and made a brushstroke of color in the road. When it was gone, Elizabeth walked to the bathroom, kept her eyes down so as not to see her face, and used the sink to rinse spray from her hair. She was numb, her mind spinning on images of Gideon as a toddler, and then as a boy. She thought she knew everything about him, his wants and needs and secret hurts.
Why was he at the prison?
Elizabeth shied from the answer because deep down she knew that, too.
Sitting on the sofa, she opened the murder file and pulled a photograph taken by a crime-scene tech less than an hour after Julia Strange was discovered missing. In the shot, Elizabeth stood in uniform with a red-faced infant in her arms. The Stranges’ kitchen was in disarray behind her. Gideon had the fabric on her shirt balled in his tiny fist. As a rookie and the only woman in the house, she’d been given the child to take care of until social services arrived. She didn’t know then how she’d react to such need and helplessness. She was a kid herself. She couldn’t have.
Elizabeth leaned back, remembering all the days and months she’d spent with the boy in the years that followed his mother’s death. She knew his teachers, his father, the friends he kept at school. He called her when he was hungry or scared. At times, he walked to her house, just to do homework or talk or sit on the porch. For him, too, the old house had been a sanctuary.
“Gideon.”
A single finger touched his face, and when tears rose in her eyes, she let them run unheeded down her cheeks.
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
But he had tried, she remembered, calling three times in one day, then again, and then not at all. She’d known that Adrian was getting out, and that Gideon knew it, too. She should have anticipated his distress, known he might do something stupid. He was such a feeling, thoughtful boy.
“I should have seen it.”
But she’d been at the hospital with Channing, then talking to state police and roaming the halls of her own private hell. She hadn’t seen a thing. She’d not even thought of him.
“You poor, sweet boy…”
She gave herself that minute to be soft, to feel the guilty fullness of a mother’s love when she was not, in fact, a mother; then she put the file away, pushed a pistol into her belt, and drove for the cinder-block bar that sat in the shadow of the prison.
5
Elizabeth took Main Street at twice the legal limit. She saw a blur of sidewalks and narrow streets, of wrought-iron fencing and redbrick buildings so weathered they looked like orange clay. She passed the library, the clock tower, the old jail that dated back to 1712 and still had stocks in the courtyard. Six minutes later, she left rubber at the on-ramp for the state highway that turned north past the last remnants of the city, a few outlying buildings rising on her left, then falling away as if sucked into the earth. Beyond that were trees and hills and twisted roads.
If Gideon died…, she thought.
If somehow Adrian shot him …
The math was horrible because both of them mattered. The man. The boy.
“No,” she told herself. “Just Gideon. Just the boy.”
But simple truth was not always so simple. She’d tried for thirteen years to forget what Adrian had once meant to her. They’d never been together, she told herself. There was no relationship. And all of that was true.
So, why did she see his face as she drove?
Why wasn’t she at the hospital?
The questions came without easy answers, so she focused on the drive as the road dropped into a narrow valley, then crossed the river, the prison like a fist in the distance. Elizabeth kept her eyes on a knot of low buildings that floated in a heat shimmer two miles down the road. Cars were parked in front of the sand-colored buildings. She saw blue lights that spun and flashed, a slash of red where an ambulance lingered. Beckett met the car when she stopped. He was not happy.
“You’re supposed to be at the hospital.”
“Why? Because you said so?” Elizabeth patted a thick arm, walked past him. “You know better than that.” He fell in beside her, the bar thirty yards ahead, cops clustered around the door. Elizabeth glanced at the cop cars. “I don’t see Dyer. Is he too scared to show his face?”
“What do you think?”
Elizabeth didn’t have to think at all. She’d sat front and center at Adrian’s trial and remembered every aspect of Francis Dyer’s testimony.
Yes, my partner knew the victim. Her husband was a confidential informant.
Yes, they’d been alone together in the past.
Yes, Adrian had once commented on how attractive he found her to be.
It took the prosecutor ten minutes to establish those simple truths, then he drove the point home in seconds.
Tell me what Mr. Wall said when making reference to the victim’s physical appearance.
He thought she was too good for the man she was with.
You’re referring to Robert Strange, the victim’s husband?
Yes.
Did the defendant make a more specific reference to the victim’s appearance?
I’m not sure what you mean.
Did the defendant, your partner, make a more specific reference to the victim’s appearance? Specifically, did he mention whether or not he found her attractive?
He said she had the kind of face that could drive a good man to do bad things.
I’m sorry, Detective. Could you repeat that, please?
He said she had the kind of face that could drive a good man to do bad things. But I don’t think—
Thank you, Detective.
That will be all.
And it was. The prosecutor used Dyer’s testimony to paint a picture of obsession, rejection, and payback. Adrian Wall knew the victim. He knew her house, her habits, her husband’s schedule. In his professional duties, he’d grown infatuated with the beautiful wife of a confidential informant. When she refused his advances, he abducted and killed her. His fingerprints were at her house and the murder scene. His skin was under her fingernails. He had scratches on his neck.
Motive, the prosecutor said.
The oldest, saddest kind.
It could have gone down like that, too. Murder one. Twenty-five to life. The jury debated for three days before handing down the lesser verdict of second-degree murder. Cops weren’t supposed to talk to jurors postconviction, but Elizabeth did it anyway. It was a crime of passion, they believed, and done without premeditation. They thought he’d killed her at the house, then taken her to the church as an expression of perverse remorse. Why else the white linen and brushed hair, her place beneath the golden cross? Juror twelve found it strangely sweet, and the verdict came as simply as that. Murder two. Thirteen years, minimum.
“Where is he?”
“Third car.” Beckett pointed.
Elizabeth saw hints of a man in the backseat of a police cruiser. She couldn’t see much, but the shape seemed right, the tilt of his head. He was watching her; she could tell.
“Don’t stop walking.”
“I’m not,” she said, but that was a lie. Her feet were slowing as she spoke. She tried to pretend it wasn’t Adrian in the car, that he hadn’t changed her life, that maybe she’d never loved him.
“Come on, Liz.” Beckett took her arm and pulled her into motion. “That’s Nathan Conroy in the other car.” He pointed. “Ex-soldier, ex-biker. This is his place. He says he shot the boy in self-defense, which might be true. When the uniforms got here, they found his gun on the bar, a .32 Walther with one shot fired. The serial numbers were filed, so we’re holding him on a gun charge for now. As for his claims of self-defense, there was a Colt Cobra .38 on the floor beside Gideon. It was loaded but unfired. Given what day it is, I’d call it pretty likely the boy came gunning for payback.”
“He’s only fourteen.”
“Fourteen with a dead mother and a fucked-up father.”
“Jesus, Charlie…”
“Just keeping it real.”
“Is the gun registered?”
“Look, you’re not even supposed to be here.”
“Right, right. Sit at the hospital. Mind my own business. That’s not going to work for me.”
She neared the bar, her gaze locked on a detective she knew and a bloody spot near the open door. Beckett plucked at her sleeve, but she pulled her arm away and called out to the detective, a soft-voiced, steady woman named CJ Simonds. “Hey, CJ. How’re you doing?”
“Hello, Liz. I’m sorry about this. They say you know the boy.”
CJ pointed into the gloom, where every cop had stopped to stare. Elizabeth nodded, but kept her lips tight. She stepped inside, going wide to clear the stained floor near the entrance. Out of the heat, she found the bar to be a narrow space that reeked of disinfectant and stale beer. A few uniformed officers tried to look busy, but eyes followed her as she moved around the room, avoiding the blood on the floor, touching a chair, the bar. She was a cop, yes, but the papers had turned against her, which meant half the city wasn’t far behind. State cops wanted her for double homicide, and every cop in the room knew it was dangerous for her to be here. She was connected to the kid and to Adrian Wall. She had no badge, no standing; and though no one said a word, a lot of people would burn if the kid died or a news crew rolled up unannounced. Elizabeth tried to ignore the attention, but found the stares so unfair and oppressive she snapped, “What?” No one said anything. No one looked away. “What are you looking at?”
Beckett whispered, “Take it easy, Liz.”
But they were the same stares she got from the press and her neighbors and people on the street. Headlines or not, it should be different with cops. They understood the dangers of the job, the feel of dark places; but there was no kinship here.
One patrolman’s stare was particularly intent; it moved from her breasts to her face and then back. As if she were not a cop, as if she were nothing.
“Do you have some reason to be in here?” she said. The patrolman looked at Beckett. “Don’t look at him, look at me.”
The patrolman was eight inches taller, ninety pounds heavier. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Well, do it outside.” He looked at Beckett again, and Elizabeth said, “He’ll tell you it’s fine.”
“It’s okay.” Beckett gestured to the open door. “Go on outside. Everyone but CJ.”
People filed out. The big patrolman waited until the end and brushed Elizabeth with a shoulder as he passed. The contact was swift, but she felt it all the way down, a large man using his size. She watched him go.
Beckett took her elbow. “No one is judging you, Liz.”
“Don’t touch me.” She was glassy-eyed and slick with sudden sweat. The patrolman had dark hair, shaved at the sides of the neck. His hands were brushed with hair like black wire.
“It’s just me,” Beckett said.
“I said don’t touch me. I don’t want anybody touching me.”
“Nobody’s touching you, Liz.”
Outside, the patrolman looked her way, then leaned into his friend and whispered something. His neck was thick, his eyes dark and deep and dismissive.
“Liz.”
She stared at his hands, at rough skin and square nails.
Beckett said, “You’re bleeding.” She ignored him, room fading out. “Liz.”
“What?” She flinched.
He pointed. “Your mouth is bleeding.”
She touched a finger to the corner of her mouth, and it came back red. When she looked at the patrolman, he seemed worried and confused. She blinked twice and realized how young he was. Maybe twenty.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I saw something.”
Beckett started to touch her, but stopped. CJ was looking, too, but Elizabeth was in no mood for troubled eyes or the compassion of others. She glanced a final time at the patrolman, then wiped a bloody finger on her pants. “What does Adrian say?”
“He won’t talk to us.”
“Maybe he’ll talk to me.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Of all the cops who knew Adrian Wall, which one never accused him of killing an innocent woman?”
She left the bar at a fast walk. Beckett caught her halfway to the car. “Look, I know you had feelings for this guy.…”
“I don’t have feelings.”
“I didn’t say you do. I said you did.”
“Okay. Fine.” She tried to bluff her way past the slip. “I didn’t have feelings.”
Beckett frowned because he recognized the lie. No matter what Elizabeth said now, her feelings for Adrian had been obvious to anyone who’d cared to look. She’d been young and eager, and Adrian was a rock-star cop, not just smart but telegenic. He caught the big cases, made the big arrests. Because of that, every reporter in town lined up to make him a hero. The rookies loved that about him. A lot of the older cops resented it. With Elizabeth, though, it went deeper, and Beckett had been there to see it.
“Listen.” He caught her arm and stopped her. “Let’s call it a friendship, okay? No judgment. No baggage. But, you were closer to Adrian than you were to most. He meant something to you, and that’s okay. The medals, the pretty face, whatever. But he’s been thirteen years inside the hardest prison in the state. A cop on the inside, you understand? Whether he killed Julia Strange or not—and to be clear, I’m certain that he did—he’s not the man you remember. Ask any cop that’s been around for a few years, and you’ll hear the same thing. It doesn’t matter if Adrian was a good man, once upon a time. Prison breaks a man down and builds him into something different. Just look at the
poor bastard’s face.”
“His face?”
“My point is that he’s a convict, and convicts are users. He’ll try to leverage your relationship, whatever feelings you may still have.”
“It’s been thirteen years, Charlie. Even then, he was just a friend.”
She started to turn, but he stopped her again. She looked at the hand on her arm, then at his eyes, which appeared dim and sad under heavy lids. He struggled for the prefect words, and when he spoke his voice seemed as sad as his eyes.
“Be careful with friendships,” he said. “Not all of them are free.”
She stared pointedly at his hand and waited for him to release her arm. “Third car?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Beckett nodded and stepped aside. “Third car.”
* * *
She walked away with an easy stride, and Beckett watcher her go. The long legs. The eagerness. She carried herself well, but he wasn’t fooled. She’d been deep in the cult of Adrian Wall. Beckett remembered how she’d been at the trial, the way she rode the bench day after day, straight-backed and pale and utterly convinced of Adrian’s innocence. That set her apart from every other cop on the force. Dyer. Beckett. Even the other rookies. She was the only one who believed, and Adrian knew it. He’d look for her in court, first in the morning, then after lunch and at the end of the day. He’d twist in his seat, find her eyes; and Beckett—more than once—saw the bastard smile. Nobody celebrated when the verdict came down, but it was hard to deny the near-universal sense of grim satisfaction. When Adrian murdered Julia Strange, he put a black eye on every cop that cared about right and wrong. Beyond that, it was a PR nightmare.
Hero cop murders young mother.…
Then there was Gideon Strange, the boy. For whatever reason, Elizabeth bonded to him, too. She’d held him at the funeral as his father wept and was even now involved in the boy’s life on a fundamental level. She cared for him, loved him, even. Beckett never understood the reasons, but knowing the depth of her affection, he wondered how she was holding it together.
“Sir.” It was CJ Simonds, the interruption hesitant.
“Yes, CJ. What is it?”
