by Debbie Burke
The creek had washed away the blood from his face but red lacerations showed from the sand shot. She tried to avoid the close-up photo of his damaged, wide-open eyes but couldn’t. She forced down queasiness.
His dark clothes matched her recollection. One picture showed him on his side, highlighting his strange posture that had made her think of him as Sasquatch.
She nodded at Tillman seated beside her.
Across the table, Detective Bettencourt watched her. “Well?”
“That’s him. At least as sure as I can be, not having seen his face.” She pointed at another view where his black sweatshirt was pulled up to reveal a bullet wound in the fleshy part of his side. “I thought my last shot had hit him.”
Bettencourt flipped through the three-ring binder in front of him. “It did. Coroner recovered the thirty-eight bullet lodged in a rib. No vital organs hit.” He studied a page. “His name is Alvin Jimsen, alias Crooked Neck. Congenital deformity of the vertebrae in his back and neck. Made him walk bent over. Mrs. Lindholm, you specifically described that, which is why we were pretty sure the body was his. Age thirty-seven. In and out of prison most of his life. Last time for armed robbery of a liquor store. Butt-stroked the manager to make him open the safe.”
Under the table, Tillman’s hand tightened on her thigh.
“Butt-stroked?” Tawny asked.
Tillman answered, “The equivalent of pistol-whipping but with a rifle stock.”
Despite his even tone, she read the concern in his eyes: the man could easily have used the rifle to bludgeon his children and her. She swallowed hard.
Bettencourt continued: “Crooked Neck had the cash but, on his way out, he stopped to pick up a bag of his favorite cool ranch chips. Hanging around those few extra seconds was long enough for the cops to arrive. Lotta brawn but short on brains. He got out of Deer Lodge five months ago.”
“Any leads on his partner?” Tillman asked.
Bettencourt shook his head then faced Tawny. “Now, Mrs. Lindholm, you were in a pretty frightened state, worried about the children, an armed man coming at you. You were shooting in in a crisis situation. Is it possible the man was retreating when you fired?”
Tillman interrupted, “Don’t answer that, Tawny.” He leaned across the table toward the detective. “What are we talking about here? Are you implying Mrs. Lindholm shot her armed attacker in the back while defending my children?”
The detective leaned away. “Just clarifying the sequence. Mrs. Lindholm stated he’d dropped his rifle when her first shot hit. She further stated he was holding both hands over his eyes. At that point, he was no longer armed.”
“And his partner was lunging toward her, grabbing for the rifle. Which clearly meets both the definition of defense of self or others and the use of force to prevent the commission of a forcible felony as delineated in the castle doctrine. Do you have a point, Detective?”
The man flipped pages in the binder, avoiding eye contact.
Tillman said, “Show us the photo of the shot in the back of the head.”
Bettencourt’s eyes flicked sideways. He shuffled through a separate group of photos and slid one across the table.
Tillman pulled it close for both him and Tawny to examine. A tiny burned hole showed in Crooked Neck’s black hair near the base of his skull. Tillman almost smiled. “A shot to the brain stem would have dropped him where he stood. He’d have been dead on my floor. No way he could make it outside, let alone run up the hill and escape.”
The detective shifted in his seat.
“What caliber was that weapon?” Tillman asked.
Bettencourt mumbled, “Twenty-two.”
Tillman leaned farther across the table, eyes narrow. “Mrs. Lindholm’s weapon is a thirty-eight that holds five shots, all accounted for. The kidnapper’s weapon is a thirty-ought-six. Where is the weapon that fired the twenty-two?”
A long silence. “We haven’t found it.”
Tillman stared down his nose. “That bluff really wasn’t worth the effort, was it? Now let’s make sure we’re straight on this. Mrs. Lindholm’s actions were completely appropriate and justifiable. We are straight on this, aren’t we, Detective?”
Bettencourt grunted in defeat.
Tillman rose. “If you don’t have any further updates, we’re finished here. Tawny, let’s go.”
Outside the sheriff’s department, walking back to the office, Tawny asked, “What was that all about?”
Tillman glanced down at her. “A piss-poor attempt to annoy me. Bettencourt knew he was full of shit. He made you squirm to twist my tail.”
She smiled and took his hand. “Didn’t work out too well for him.”
“It rarely does but he keeps trying. Give him points for persistence.” Tillman’s pace increased, long legs eating up the sidewalk.
As they turned the corner to the alley, Tillman suddenly pulled free and sprinted for the office.
Then she spotted Steve’s black Jaguar parked in the lot. Uh-oh.
Tillman disappeared inside the building as she hurried to catch up. When she entered, he was pounding up the narrow wooden stairs, three at a time, toward Steve’s second-floor office. He punched the door open, entered, then slammed the door closed.
The impact shook the historic building.
Esther sat at her desk, fists clenched. She muttered, “Welcome to the end of the world as we know it.”
Inside Steve’s office, shouting erupted, growing louder each second.
Tawny and Esther stared at one another, unable to make out the words but feeling the reverberations as glass rattled in the windows. Tawny felt pain in her scalp and realized she was twisting her braid, hard.
The argument raged for several seemingly endless minutes. In a final crescendo came Tillman’s muffled shout, “Get out!”
Steve’s office door banged open. The usually-genial, blond partner emerged, purple with rage, and started down the long flight of steps.
A half-second later, Tillman appeared at the landing, holding Steve’s prized bronze Remington statue over his head, his long face contorted. With a mighty grunt, he hurled the statue down the stairs toward Steve. The bronze bounced like a boulder in a landslide.
Steve grabbed the bannister and vaulted over it. When he landed on the main floor, his knees buckled. The statue barely missed him and continued its thunderous descent.
At the bottom of the stairs, it smashed through the wall that separated employee cubicles from the reception area. The whole building rocked.
The bronze came to rest on its side. The legs and tail of the Wicked Pony were viciously embedded in the side of a leather couch in the waiting area. Dust rose from the ragged hole it had torn through the lath and plaster.
Steve scrambled to his feet. He shot a lightning bolt glare of pure hatred at Tillman, who was glowering from the top of the stairs. Knees unsteady, Steve staggered toward the rear exit, supporting himself with both hands on the walls of the narrow hallway. The door slammed shut behind him.
No one spoke. Plaster dust continued to rise for long seconds then slowly settled over the damage.
Tillman closed himself in Steve’s office.
Esther’s eyes were wide and frightened. “Shit. I’ve seen him shatter a few coffee mugs against the wall but this…”
Tawny knew they were both visualizing what would have happened if Steve hadn’t leapt out of the way at the crucial second—his skull smashed in or he’d be impaled on the Wicked Pony’s sharp, jutting hooves.
****
An hour later, after a tense, silent drive home, Tawny and Tillman opened the front door of the Rosenbaum house to hear screaming. They moved toward the argument raging in the dining area between Rochelle and Arielle.
Red blemishes peeked through the woman’s careful makeup. Angry blisters showed above the neckline of her satin blouse.
Arielle’s hair was plaited in shiny cornrows that curved in elaborate patterns around her head. A stylist must have also done h
er makeup, accenting contours, highlighting cheekbones. Beneath Arielle’s awkward adolescence, Tawny glimpsed the future promise of a young woman with the striking glamour of Diana Ross. But right now, the girl’s dark eyes glistened with unshed tears she fought to hold back.
Rochelle faced Tillman and thrust a finger at the girl. “Look what your daughter did. She convinced that stupid security guard to take her out of school because she had an appointment to do that to herself.”
Tillman gazed at Arielle. “You look beautiful, baby.”
“She looks like a goddamn pickaninny,” Rochelle shrilled.
Arielle let out a sob and ran from the dining room. Tawny had to stop herself from running after the wounded girl, longing to comfort her, reassure her.
“Goddammit, Chell,” Tillman growled, “if you didn’t want children who were part black, why the hell did you marry me?”
Rochelle’s hands balled into fists. “You’re right. I should never have married you.”
He rolled his eyes. “We finally agree on something.”
Rochelle nodded toward Tawny. “It’s her fault. She let Arielle make the appointment while we were at the retreat. She wants to lead my children around like she leads you around.” Her sudden, unexpected smile could have frozen water. “But, Tillman, I do think that ring she’s put through your nose is quite attractive.”
Tawny’s stomach contracted. She fought the urge to belt Rochelle. Stay out of it. Don’t play her game.
A jackhammer couldn’t have cracked Tillman’s expression.
“Dad?” Mimi appeared in the open door of the library. “Can I talk to you?”
Tillman took a step toward his eldest. “Sure, baby.”
Mimi faced Tawny. “You, too?”
Tawny felt Rochelle’s glare like hot knives in her back. She moved into the library with father and daughter. Tillman closed the door firmly and looked down at Mimi.
The girl moved close to Tawny and slipped cold fingers into her hand. Tawny squeezed. “It’s OK, honey. I already told him.”
Tears seeped under dark lashes. Her lips trembled.
Tillman stepped closer, folded his daughter into his arms, and held her, rocking gently. Over her head, his gaze met Tawny’s, carrying the same silent message she used to exchange with Dwight when their children had problems. He looped long fingers in Mimi’s curls then asked, “What do you want to do, sweetheart?”
Her answer was muffled in his suit coat. “I don’t know, Daddy.”
He kept rocking her. “We’ll work it out, baby. No matter what you decide.”
Tawny’s heart broke for father and daughter. Her job was finished.
She slipped from the room, closed the door, and almost collided with Rochelle who waited outside. Tawny guessed she’d been trying to listen through the door.
The woman’s lip curled. “You want my children, fine. You take them.”
If only Rochelle knew how hard Tawny had fought at first to avoid involvement with the kids. The irony almost made her laugh.
Now, nothing could tear them from her heart.
“I’m not going to argue with you, Rochelle.” She turned away, heading for the long staircase to Tillman’s suite.
A desperate pitch crept into Rochelle’s voice. “What are they talking about?”
“Ask them.”
“But you know, don’t you?”
Tawny faced the woman. For all her hatefulness, Rochelle was still a confused, concerned mother and Tawny understood that. “Mimi’s pregnant.”
Relief washed over Rochelle’s beautiful features. “Is that all? That’s easily solved.” Her manicured hand flicked the air. “I’ll make an appointment tomorrow with her GYN to end it.”
Tawny’s face must have shown more than she intended because Rochelle peered closer at her and frowned. “What else?”
Tawny bit her lip. It wasn’t her place to reveal Steve’s identity. “Ask Tillman.” She again started toward the stairway but caught Rochelle’s quick movement from the corner of her eye. Tawny hurried to stop her—too late.
The woman flung open the library door.
Tillman and Mimi were sitting side by side on the couch, his big hands enfolding hers, leaning close in intense conversation. They jerked at Rochelle’s entrance. Tillman leapt to his feet, a six-foot-seven impenetrable shield protecting Mimi from her mother.
“Well, aren’t you stupid?” Rochelle sneered at Mimi.
The girl rose and started out of the room, pushing past her mother, but Rochelle seized her arm. “You’ll go to Dr. Jacobs tomorrow and end it. And, understand this, the father will pay.”
Mimi pulled free. “Yeah? Well, tell Steve to get out his American Express.”
Rochelle’s dark eyes widened. Her already-pale skin blanched whiter. The red welts stood out like fresh blood. She grasped the back of a chair to steady herself. “What?”
Mimi, although smaller than her mother, at last had the upper hand. She took a step closer to Rochelle, defiant chin lifted. “I screwed your lover.”
****
Steve Zepruder scowled when the call went immediately to voicemail. He had no choice but to leave a message. “We need to talk. Tonight. Meet me at the playhouse at three. I love you, darling.” Damage control was impossible by phone.
Even in person, he doubted he could fix the disaster crashing down around him.
Chapter 19 – Death on the Rims
Silence startled Tawny awake at three-thirty a.m. The normal roar of Tillman’s snores was missing. Her hand patted across the mega-king mattress. Not there.
She flipped on lights and checked the rest of his suite. Not in the bathroom, not at the computer or watching TV. She threw on his bathrobe and hurried up the steps to the garage.
His Mercedes was parked as usual. The hood felt cold under her palm, not driven for hours.
Only about five thousand more square feet of mansion to search but she hesitated to prowl where Rochelle and the children were. One or more of them might also be wandering around, as sleepless as she was. With the turmoil swirling in the family, Tawny doubted anyone slumbered in peace.
She returned to bed, trying to argue herself out of worry. With his car in the garage, Tillman couldn’t be far.
Maybe having a snack in the kitchen.
Maybe reading in the library.
Maybe having a heart-to-heart with Mimi.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
No matter how many possibilities she thought of as she twisted in the sheets, the burn in her stomach kept getting worse. She popped a couple of antacid pills and waited for them to relieve the blast furnace. They left her mouth chalky but did nothing to ease the pain.
A few minutes before five, she heard the door from the hall open and close softly. Tillman was trying not to wake her.
She popped out of bed, flipped on the light, and hurried to meet him. He was wearing a sweatshirt with cut-off sleeves, shorts, and running shoes. Perspiration shone on his grim face.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
His silent stare lasted long enough to scare her.
She laid her hands on his chest, feeling the heavy thump of his heart. “Where were you? What’s wrong?”
“Went for a run.” He ran his cold hand down her cheek. “As long as I already woke you up, I’ll take a shower.” He moved to the bathroom, stripping off his sweatshirt, stepping out of his gym shorts.
She turned on the faucet inside the marble shower, knowing the futility of trying to break through his lie. She had to be patient.
The many showerheads rained down warm water. When he joined her, her hands were already billowing with lather from the eucalyptus-scented body wash. She rubbed the froth over his sinewy arms, his wide shoulders and chest, down his powerful long legs.
Sometimes, if she waited long enough, he’d eventually open up and talk.
But not tonight. Hair dripping, he wore his unreadable courtroom expression. He didn’t react to her sensual touch.
/> Much more was wrong than the troubles she knew he already carried.
She trailed a finger through the dark hair on his chest, circled his nipples, then across his taut belly, and lower. Grasping him, she slid her hand slowly up and down, and smiled, trying to keep her tone light. “A little stress relief?”
His dark eyes flickered, not with the passion or hunger she expected, but something different. Sorrow?
He bent down, hooked both arms under her thighs and lifted her to his waist. Her legs locked around his hips, her arms around his neck. She kissed him deeply, feeling his heat in contrast with the cool marble wall pressed against her back.
Later, she would remember his haunted eyes and realize the expression was resignation.
****
Following the graveside service at Beth Aaron Cemetery, a hundred people milled around the grounds of the Rosenbaum estate in the warm afternoon sun. Champagne flowed freely and servers passed silver platters of canapes among the guests. Rochelle had evidently made peace with the caterer after the fiasco over Judah’s bar mitzvah.
Tillman wore a fitted black silk suit, a yarmulke capping his dark curls. He looked even more striking than usual among his colleagues in the legal profession.
He introduced Tawny to Kemp Withers’ wife, Gloria. They shook hands and she murmured sympathy for a man she barely knew, although she understood too well the fight against a beloved husband’s cancer.
Gloria’s gray hair had been freshly cut and styled. Makeup couldn’t hide the dark hollows under her eyes nor the pallor of sleeplessness. Her daughter had probably dragged her to a salon for a makeover, trying to cover up the ravages of caregiving. Tawny’s own daughter had attempted a similar rescue mission before Dwight’s funeral. But no amount of makeup could hide the blank, vacant stare of loss that Tawny recognized in Gloria—the sad sisterhood of widows.
She leaned close. “I lost my husband to prostate cancer, too.”
Gloria blinked a few times then her eyes came into focus. “Forty-six years. Would have been forty-seven next month.” She searched Tawny’s face, asking silent questions without answers.
