by Deany Ray
“This is how we found it.” A heavyset cop explained to me, shaking his head at the sight. “Our thinking is that after the vehicle was abandoned by Fitzgerald, some other ruffians took what they could get.”
I thought about the ways the golds and tans blended on my new rug and the way it would have felt so soft against my feet. I could have wept right then and there, but I held back my tears. With what had happened to Mike’s truck, I couldn’t exactly stand there and cry about a rug.
I also noticed the truck was parked at an angle across two parking spaces as if Fitzgerald had parked it in a hurry, which made sense.
“A forensics team is on the way,” a youngish female cop said, whose red hair was pulled into a ponytail. “Hopefully there’s something we can use. This guy is determined he will not be caught—and we are determined that he will.”
“Any progress on the search?” I asked, fearing that I already knew the answer.
Mike shot the cops a rueful grin. “As they like to say to us newsy types, the perpetrator is still at large, and no further comments will be issued at the present time.”
The older cop laughed softly. “Yes, ma’am, this guy is good. He can often write the answers before he gets the questions out. I do assure you though; we’re doing everything we can to bring Fitzgerald in.”
Mike ran a hand over the smashed-in hood of the truck. “This is getting personal,” he said. “This was a good truck.”
“Well, we do have a couple of leads,” the male cop said after a brief hesitation, “but that’s all I can say.” Then he turned to me. “Ms. Webb, we are going to need a list of the items from the truck.”
The female cop explained that the stuff in the back would have been easily grabbed and stolen in this part of Palm Shores, where no one would have been around at night to see. “Then the thieves smashed in the windows to see what else they could find—taking the four tires to add to their haul.”
After I gave them detailed descriptions, the woman frowned with sympathy. “Sounds like you have good taste,” she said. “What a mess this has become.”
Soon the forensics team arrived and made their way to the truck. The officers thanked us for our time, and the woman muttered a “Sorry for your circumstance” to Mike. Then they turned to brief the newcomers on the scene.
“I’m so sorry about your truck, Mike,” I said as we made our way to the Jeep. I felt a stab of guilt again, since I was the one using the truck at the time of the theft.
He put an arm around me. “Hey, you didn’t do a damn thing wrong. Today was bad news for us both. I’m sorry for your stuff.”
“Yeah, well, I hope whoever took my stuff knows how to appreciate it.” I laughed. “Where can I drop you off? The paper?”
“Yeah, I do need to go in. I’ve been out and about, learning mostly nothing much about our friend Fitzgerald. I suppose now I have something to write up.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
As we walked away from the truck scene, Mike turned around.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Do you mind if we stick around a bit?” he asked. “Although the cops won’t talk, I’d love to have a look at what forensics does and what they take away,” he told me in a quiet voice. “Maybe if I’m lucky, I can overhear some things.”
“Sure,” I said, glancing at my phone to check the time. I was still good.
“I can always call a cab if you need to go,” he said. “For now, let’s just act like we’re talking and paying no attention to the cops. I’m sure they’ll be careful what they say while I’m still here, but being unobtrusive is part of the game I play.” He paused. “So, what are your plans for the day?”
“My mom is having eye surgery. I have to pick her up.”
He smiled. “You’re a good daughter, Hailey.”
I laughed. “Sometimes, sometimes not.”
It hit me then that I didn’t know much about Mike. Actually, I didn’t know a thing about his family, what his parents were like, if he had any siblings, and what his background was. Had he always lived in Palm Shores? I’d never thought to ask, but I would have thought something would come up in conversation. It didn’t. Perhaps he was the kind of guy who liked to keep things private.
His voice cut through my thoughts. I hadn’t even realized he was talking to me.
“Sorry. What?” I asked.
“I asked what you made of that crazy stunt Fitzgerald pulled on Instagram.”
I didn’t really want to talk about Fitzgerald with Mike. There was so much I couldn’t tell him now that I’d been on the set—and that felt very wrong.
“A pretty desperate move,” I said, “but who really knows? He could get results. Things crazier than that have happened with this case.”
I tried to change the subject by describing my current research project, but Mike’s mind, however, wasn’t on the environmental stats I’d dug up that morning. “Doesn’t it bother you he stole all that money from you, and now he’s offering a hundred grand to someone else? Bothers the hell out of me,” he said, staring at his truck.
Obviously, it bothered me, but I was too caught up in questions about my own behavior to reply. I pondered for a second if I should come clean to Mike. Nope, it was better that I don’t.
Mike gave me a look. “Okay, Hailey, what’s up? You’re being way too quiet.”
It was hard enough to have to keep things from a friend, let alone a friend who was an ace reporter.
I snapped out of it. “Of course it bothers me.” I looked at my cell. “Gee, look at the time. I really do have to run. If I’m two seconds late to get my mother, I will be reminded of that fact for years.”
“Um, okay,” he said. “I’ll jot down some notes in the Jeep about my observations here, and I recognize one of the forensics guys. Maybe he’ll say something about this if I can catch him on the phone.”
We headed to the Jeep, and I pulled onto the roadway as Mike gave a wave to the cops on the scene.
“What do you think of this?” I asked Mike. “How long can he run?”
“To be honest, I’m surprised he wasn’t caught yet. Being in the public eye should make it almost impossible to hide. I guess he could have shaved his head, bought a fake beard, or whatever, but where does he eat and sleep? He has to make the money last, and I doubt he knows too much about how to stretch a dollar.”
I came to a stop at a light. “A cheap motel perhaps?” I could see Fitzgerald now, aghast about places that offered no room service and no valets.
“The police already checked the sleazy ones. You know, the ones where you pay in cash and don’t have to show them your ID. Now they’re moving up a notch to check some of the better places. Maybe he has a friend who’s helping him with more money or a place to stay.”
I thought of Vicente Torres, who cared enough about Fitzgerald to defend his honor with his fists—or perhaps it was his love for Victoria that had caused him to lash out at David Rafferty.
I turned down the road that led to the paper. “Where do the movie people stay?”
Mike ran a hand through his hair. “The Palm Shores Heritage, not too far from the set.”
“Not bad,” I said. “That’s a nice place.”
“The cops have thoroughly checked the room where Fitzgerald stayed,” Mike continued, “as well as the victim’s room. From what I understand, the production company pretty much has the whole place booked.”
“The cop said they have some leads. You know something about that?”
I saw Mike shaking his head. “Unfortunately, no. Might be something small—or not. I just hope they’re going to put me in the picture sooner rather than later.” He paused to think. “If Fitzgerald really did get framed, one thing is pretty much clear. It had to be someone from the set. Or someone who had access.”
“Yeah, but that’s a lot of people.” Here it was again, that uneasy feeling. Mike had no idea that someone in this car was now included in that number. Still, I was doing what
I had to do to get some answers and my money back.
I quickly changed the subject from “access to the set.”
“Have you asked the cops who’s listed on the registration for the gun?” I asked.
He grinned. “Someone’s been watching a lot of those who-done-it shows.”
“I do like a good police procedural,” I said.
“Not me. I get enough of those on the job.” He sighed. “But you’re right, Hailey. Your cop shows have taught you well. In California, most guns are properly registered. But as you can imagine, the police didn’t pass that information on to the press.”
“Sheesh, you really don’t know anything?” I teased.
Mike laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s coming.”
I slowed for some traffic up ahead. “Okay, what about that ammo? Not that I’m all that eager to stand up for Fitzgerald, but I guess it would be easy to plant that ammunition in his trailer underneath his mattress.”
“To plant the ammunition, yes, but to plant his fingerprints on them, that would take some difficult doing.”
I thought some more about it as I stopped for traffic. “How exactly do the cops decide what to tell the press and what to keep a secret? They announce to everyone about the fingerprints discovered on the bullets, but they’re all secretive about the registration for the gun.”
“Clever girl.” Mike smiled. “There tends to be a method to the decisions they make, although their reasoning might not make any sense to you or me. Just as an example, they could be laying out selected facts to make it appear the case is all wrapped up. If there’s someone else who did it other than Fitzgerald, that would throw the perpetrator off. They could let their guard down and be easier to catch.”
“Okay, yeah, I get it. That makes sense,” I said. “So what you’re saying here is the cops are maybe still open to the theory that Fitzgerald is being framed.” I let that sink in. “In that case, he could have spared himself the great escape. He could have spared us all.”
“The guy is not that smart. Lucky, yes, but I don’t think there’s a lot of brainpower there. I mean, the guy wasn’t even convicted. His trial was coming up.”
“He really is a doofus.” I shook my head. And lucky me, to get screwed over by him.
By that time, we had pulled up in front of the Gazette.
“Thanks for the lift,” Mike said. “Tough news for both of us, but tomorrow’s a new day.”
“Let’s hope it’s better than today,” I said as he got out. “Good luck with the story.”
I made my way to my mother’s house. To try to distract myself from the impending headache, I turned on some music. Between that smashed-in truck and the upcoming ordeal with my mother, this was shaping up to be a hell of a day.
Thirty minutes later I was turning onto the well-manicured street of spacious homes where my mother lived. I pulled into the drive and closed my eyes, willing myself to be calm. I looked up, and my mother was already at the door, looking as if she had just endured a shock and a serious bout of flu, both at the same time. Tall and rail-thin, she looked impeccable with her perfect blonde, bobbed hair, a tan suit without a wrinkle, and red stiletto heels, as if surgery on one’s eyes was some grand occasion.
“Here we go,” I mumbled to myself as I got out of the Jeep and made my way to the door.
“There you finally are,” my mom said. “Help me to the Jeep, darling.” She reached out a hand to me. “I am so terrified my legs will hardly hold me up.”
“Mom, there’s nothing to worry about. I swear it’s going to be fine. You’ll have perfect vision without glasses. Doesn’t that sound good?”
“Well, if I live through the procedure, there will be benefits, I guess.”
I settled her into the car, telling myself this would all be over by tonight.
But not until the car ride from hell began. My mother was too chilly, then she was too hot. The roads were too bumpy for her nerves; I was braking too hard at the stop signs when my mother needed calm.
“My heart is pounding so hard maybe you should pull over,” she told me in a breathless voice. “No! Don’t pull over. Your mother will endure.”
It seemed to take forever to arrive at the three-story building that housed the offices of my mother’s doctor. Thankfully, we found parking on the first level of the garage near an elevator. We rode up, and we exited into a marble foyer and followed the signs to suite 306: Eugene Goldblatt, MD.
Soft music was playing in the tastefully decorated office as I signed my mother in, and we took our seats in the waiting room. Seemingly out of words, she kept a tight grip on my arm. I smiled at her and kissed her forehead. “It’s going to be okay, Mom.” She squeezed my hand in response.
A nurse appeared to take her in the surgery room. Alone at last, I flipped through some magazines, trying hard to pause the whole Fitzgerald-stole-my-money movie that was playing on repeat in my head. It wasn’t long at all until the procedure was all done.
A different nurse opened a door from the back and called my name. “Hailey Webb?” she asked with a smile.
I raised my hand and gathered up our things.
“Your mom is doing well,” the nurse reported as she led me down a hall with thick plush carpeting.
“That’s great,” I said.
“We have her in recovery for a while now, and the doctor says she is good to go.”
My mom was reclining in full diva mode with patches on her eyes and huge sunglasses over those, her hand raised to her forehead.
“Miss Selway, here’s your daughter,” the nurse announced in a cheery voice.
“Hailey, is that you?” my mom asked in a weak voice, as if another secret daughter suddenly appeared.
“They tell me your surgery went good,” I said.
“Well, I am alive,” my mom said. “But I feel exhausted.”
“Then let’s get you home where you can get some rest.” Where I could get some rest as well. I put a hand on her elbow. “Won’t it feel good to be home? Come on. I’ll help you up.”
“I don’t know if I can walk,” she said in a tiny voice.
“Sure you can. They operated on your eyes, Mom. Your feet are fine. Just think how perfect your eyesight is going to be.”
I talked her into getting up, which she did very slowly. As we made our way out of the room, I gave the nurse an apologetic look. She followed us to the waiting room and wished my mother well. “Please don’t hesitate to call us if you have any questions.”
As I turned to open the door out to the main hall, I saw the nurse roll her eyes at the receptionist, who put her hand up to her forehead in mock relief. I stopped and gave them a dirty look. If anyone was going to roll their eyes, it was going to be me, not some staffers who spent only a day with my mom. I earned that right, damn it.
With my arm around my mother’s waist, I guided her to the elevator. “We’re going to turn left and take the elevator down,” I said. “Then before you know it, we’ll be at the Jeep. Everything is fine.”
“I can under no circumstances be exposed to direct sunlight. That is important, Hailey.”
“Yes, they told me, Mother, as did you—several times over the last week.”
“Can you walk a bit more slowly? I’m feeling weak.”
I slowed to an almost crawl.
It seemed to take forever to make it to the Jeep, a journey fraught with danger in my mother’s mind. The elevator was too bumpy, the passersby too loud, and the short walk to the Jeep was too far a distance for her fragile state. When we arrived at last, I helped her into the back of the Jeep where she would have more room.
“Darling, you know it’s well worth the money to invest in a vehicle that is comfortable for your passengers. I could help you with the financing if needed. I am, after all, your mother.”
I helped her with her seat belt and walked to the driver’s seat, determined to get her home and settled as soon as possible. Unfortunately, traffic was worse than usual, meaning I had more tim
e to listen to the moans coming from the back.
“They said the pain would be mild to moderate and wouldn’t last for long,” I said. “Isn’t that good news?”
“I had no idea it would be this bad,” my mom said.
Next, I tried to distract her. “How are things at work?”
My mom snorted. “Don’t even remind me. For the last event, they wanted this ballroom decorated in red and pink. Red and pink! Can you imagine? They brought me in as a consultant too, and what was I supposed to say? ‘Makes my corneas hurt?’ Good thing that was before the eye surgery, or else . . .”
I tuned out. After about ten minutes, she was done. Deciding there was no cheering her up, I turned on some music and tried to concentrate on that.
Traffic built up even more as we got to a busy area with people going in and out of shops and rushing down the sidewalks. As I slowed even more, I noticed a familiar blindingly purple cap with a black rim. That looked like Mike’s Colorado Rockies baseball cap. The one Fitzgerald stole when we were in the truck. Holy smokes. My heart began to race as I looked again at the figure on the street. It was Amery Fitzgerald, walking hurriedly down the sidewalk past a florist’s shop.
I slammed on the brakes, causing cars to honk behind me. From the back seat, I heard a thud and some cursing.
Chapter Eight
From the back of the car came a high-pitched wail like from a horror movie. I glanced back to see my mother had pitched forward. I imagined it was just her seat belt that had kept her from slamming onto the floor. Her hysterics, as usual, were overdone, but I did feel really bad.
“Are you insane?” she said breathless. “What the hell are you doing?”
As if to punctuate her thoughts, more drivers joined in with the angry honks.
“Sorry,” I mumbled to my mother as I began driving as slowly as I dared, keeping my eye on Fitzgerald. It was definitely him, slowing down his pace and stopping at a crossroad. He had his back to me, but I knew that stature and that walk, having watched every movie that he’d made, some of them more than once.
