The Weight of Silence (Nicole Foster Thriller Book 2)

by Gregg Olsen

  Again Rachel searches her memory. “Our relationship wasn’t all that deep, Detective. It wasn’t completely trash either. We didn’t talk about anyone else we were seeing. I knew he was married and I assumed that I was the only thing he had going on the side. I didn’t know that there was another girl.”

  When I’m finished questioning Rachel, I phone Carter from my car.

  “Saw Rachel Cromwell,” I say. “She’s afraid of being outed.”

  “She’s not gay,” he says.

  “No,” I say. “She’s scared that her naked photos are floating around the Internet somewhere and this town will be looking at her in a whole new way—a way she doesn’t want them to.”

  Carter has no sympathy for her.

  “She shouldn’t have taken the photos and sent them in the first place,” he says. “Doesn’t anyone have a decent dad around here? I told my girls never to do anything like that. It might seem like a good idea at the time—though I don’t see how—and boom! You’re a damn Internet star for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Roger that,” I say.

  “Fine,” he says. “I’ll get off my soapbox now.”

  Good, I think. Sometimes Carter overdoes the soapbox. Now’s not the time.

  “No luck in finding out who Mari is. She’s the one we need. Rachel has no clue who either Mari or Samantha is.”

  “Okay,” Carter says. “I’ll see what I can do here. I’ll dig through the phone calls. Maybe something will jump out at me. Where are you headed?”

  “Back to the impound lot. See you in a little while.”

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “Just something I need to do,” I tell him. “Something I need to be sure about.”

  “About the case?”

  “Yes, but it isn’t really anything. Just need to be sure about something that’s been on my mind.”

  I know I sound evasive, but I don’t mean to be. I just keep wondering about Ally and Luke.

  Could he really have missed her in the car? Just not seen her in the backseat?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Friday, August 25

  Ally’s car seat is at the forensics lab, but I borrow a Graco car seat from Carrie Anne and drive to the impound lot. It’s a couple of years older than the model used by the Tomlinsons, but an online check indicates that the size and specs are the same. The only difference is the color of the upholstery. I also borrow five-year-old Simone’s large Corolle baby doll, which is four inches shorter than Ally was. I can fix it by putting on a hat, which I do.

  Luke claimed that he couldn’t see his daughter in the car seat.

  I don’t invite Carter along because I know that he’d state the obvious.

  “This isn’t going to hold up in court,” he’d say.

  I know that. I also know that if we get another run at Luke, then we can tell him about the test. We’re allowed to outright lie to the accused, but lying like that has never been my style. I can stretch the truth, though.

  The lot attendant is a young guy with a gunmetal-gray old-school Stanley thermos of coffee that reminds me of my father’s and a trigonometry book that reminds me of no one in my family. He sits in a little glass cube that serves as his office by the entrance to the lot. I show him my badge, and he motions me inside.

  The Subaru sits by itself on the far end of the lot. It’s been examined every which way. Inside, the smell of death still permeates everything. That acrid stench is one of those things that nothing can alleviate. I suspect that the backseat will need to be replaced.

  I put the car seat into position. I take Simone’s doll and set her inside, facing toward the back of the vehicle. The little white stocking cap is next. I need to give it some additional lift, and I do so with fast-food napkins that I keep in my glove box.

  Once behind the wheel, I adjust the mirror and stretch myself upward. Luke is taller than me. A lot taller. And it occurs to me that his height would be an advantage in seeing Ally.

  I look into the mirror, and I stretch my body, making myself as tall as I can.

  This is not science. I know that.

  And yet, when I look in the mirror, I see the little white hat, which catches my attention like a surrender flag.

  I turn my head slightly as though I’m looking in the mirror to see traffic behind me, something that I’m sure Luke did.

  The white flag again.

  My phone pulses. It’s Carter.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “How’s it going?” he asks.

  “All right. Just trying to see if Luke was truly unable to see Ally. A little test. And before you say it, because I know you will, I know it’s not admissible. Maybe some leverage later.”

  “Good idea,” he says. “What did you find?”

  I look back at the white hat on the doll’s head.

  “He couldn’t have missed Ally, Carter. There’s no way that he could have.”

  “Couldn’t miss the smell,” Carter says. “Couldn’t miss the sight of her. Wonder if he heard her cry for help.”

  I don’t say anything. The thought of what it was like for that baby in that car is nearly too much for me to take.

  “You still there?” Carter asks.

  “Yes. What’s up? Why did you call?”

  I hear the sound of traffic and the noise his lungs make when he inhales deeply on a cigarette. He’s in the parking lot.

  “Luke wants to talk,” he says.

  “No shit?” I ask, adrenaline giving me a better jolt than a double espresso.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Says that he’s sick and tired of what everyone is saying about him and he wants to talk to us.”

  “With counsel?” I ask, still taking it in.

  “Yeah, but that’s fine. Better for us down the road when we get him into court. None of that ‘I wasn’t represented’ bullshit that winds its way into just about every case these days.”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon. You done at the yard? Need any help?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m good. I’ll be there soon.”

  I take the doll from the car seat and hold it in my arms like a baby before gently putting it and the car seat into my trunk.

  “Ally,” I say to myself just before shutting the trunk, “I promise you that we’ll make sure your dad pays for what he did to you. We will.”

  Eleven days into the case, and my resolve is stronger than ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Friday, August 25

  Jail attire looks good on Luke Tomlinson—better than his WinCo work attire. The flip-flops on his feet are beachworthy, and the jumpsuit fits as if it were tailor-made: no tug at the tummy like the shirt he was wearing when he was arrested. The right outfit for the man, I think. I hope he has a closetful of the same for the rest of his life.

  Luke stays seated behind a large stainless steel–topped table as Carter and I enter the interview room. His lawyer, Thom Russo, rises immediately, jack-in-the-box style.

  “I don’t agree with this meeting,” the lawyer says.

  Too bad, I think.

  Thom is in his late fifties, with a pate that looks like a flesh-toned yarmulke that has permanently been glued to his head. It’s such a shiny marvel that I can’t take my eyes off it as he slides into his seat next to his client.

  “We’re here because Luke wants us here,” I say.

  “We didn’t ask for this meeting,” Carter adds.

  Thom shrugs. “I know.” He looks at his client. “Say what you want to say.”

  Luke runs his bloodshot eyes over us. He looks like he’s had trouble sleeping. I assume that killing your daughter can do that to a father. He puts his hands on the table; the chains that run from his cuffs to his belly rattle like Marley’s ghost.

  “I don’t like what everyone is saying about me,” he says.

  Join the club, I think. I’ve been there.

  “We can’t control the media or the public,” I tell him. “Is that what this is
about?”

  Luke looks at Carter. “How would you feel if someone said you killed your kid?”

  “You did, Luke,” Carter says without so much as a pause. “So you’ll have to tell me how you feel.”

  “It was an accident,” he says. “I loved Ally. I didn’t mean for this to happen. You need to believe me.”

  “Video doesn’t lie,” I say.

  Luke doesn’t look at me. He focuses on Carter. Thom looks at his phone and reads some texts.

  Luke’s pudgy face goes crimson. The hue clashes with the orange of his new wardrobe. “I didn’t see her,” he says. “I didn’t. The video can’t know what I saw or didn’t see.”

  “It shows you going to your car at lunchtime, Luke,” I say. I want him to look at me. He does for only a second. I hate guys like this, looking at my male counterpart as though I didn’t exist. “You opened the car door, Luke.”

  “Detective Hanson,” he says, “have you ever made a big mistake?”

  Carter doesn’t answer right away. He’s pausing to push Luke into spinning the wheels of whatever he’s thinking.

  Finally he speaks. “Look, we came here because we thought that you had something to tell us.” He pushes his chair back, indicating it’s time to leave. I do the same.

  “Wait!” Luke says. His tone has shifted drastically. He’s scared.

  That’s good. He needs to be.

  “You have to help me. It’s not safe for me in here.” He looks anxiously at the window to the hall that leads back down the corridor to his cell. “The guy next to me calls me Baby Killer. He’s a tweaker. A lowlife. But he’s a mile ahead of me on the food chain around here. I’ll get shanked the first chance anyone gets.”

  “You should have thought about that before you killed your daughter,” I say.

  Luke’s eyes fill with tears, and he starts to blubber.

  “It was an accident. It was. It was a hot car. Those things happen. They do. You know that. You see stuff like that on the news all the time. It happened to Ally. It did. I didn’t remember to drop off Ally at day care. I screwed up. I made a big mistake.”

  Carter and I stand to leave.

  Thom Russo turns his attention to his client. His expression is stern. I can’t tell if it is fatherly or if he’s simply annoyed. “That’s enough, now, Luke,” Thom says. “You’ve said what you wanted to say.”

  He looks at us. “We’re done here.”

  Luke tries to stand, but Thom pushes him back into his seat. “But they aren’t listening,” Luke says, his voice now sandpaper. “They aren’t!”

  “We heard you,” Carter says. His tone is flat, unemotional.

  “We’ll see you both in court,” I say, driving a sharp little spike into the conversation.

  Not a great idea.

  Luke is now in attack mode.

  “You bitch,” he says, his voice filling the space around me. “You’re a fucking gambling addict. Everyone knows it. You fucked up that case of the girl in Bellevue. You walk around like you’re all that, but you’re nothing.”

  Against my better judgment, I fire back.

  “Yes, I’ve made mistakes, Luke. But I’ve never killed anyone. That makes you the winner in our race to the bottom here.”

  As Carter and I exit the room, I can hear Luke railing about me to his lawyer. He’s saying all the things that I know could come at me in court later. How I was unstable. How I was homeless. How I gambled away a promising career. I hate all the things that I did. I think about them every single day. The thing is, I know in a very real way that everything creating the downfall that brought me home has made me stronger. To think of it any other way is to admit defeat. I came home in search of a new beginning for Emma and me.

  “Wow,” Carter says, “that was a waste of oxygen.”

  I nod. “Yeah. Luke’s tears were for himself, not his daughter.”

  “Sociopath for sure.”

  Carter knows that Luke’s words stung a little.

  “Don’t let what he said get to you,” Carter says.

  I breathe in deeply and let out a sigh. “He’s right about some of it,” I say. “I did mess up. I do know that people can make mistakes, but going to the casino and gambling away every penny wasn’t an irremediable mistake. I own what I did—I take the consequences to heart every day—and I live a different life now because of it.”

  “Yeah,” Carter says, “I know you do. I saw that the minute you came here for the interview. I knew that Nicole Foster had been knocked down, but she had dusted herself off and was never going to let that happen again.”

  Carter not only says the right thing at the right time, he says so without a hint of pity.

  I like that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Friday, August 25

  Our departmental receptionist, Chadwick Meeker, summons me to the front desk not more than twenty minutes after we finish with Luke.

  “Someone here to see you, Detective. Says you left a message to come in.”

  I wind my way down the hall, catching Carter chatting up a records clerk.

  “We got an answer to one of our messages,” I tell him.

  “Mari or Samantha?” he asks, stepping away from the pretty new girl.

  “Don’t know. At the front desk now. See you in the interview room when you’re done here.”

  Carter looks embarrassed. The records clerk looks irritated. Suddenly I feel better.

  I open the door to the reception area. A young man in a McDonald’s uniform sits by a sad ficus that has dropped most of its leaves like it thinks autumn has arrived indoors.

  I look at Chadwick.

  “That’s Sam,” he says.

  Sam?

  Not Samantha.

  I recognize him from the video. He was the one behind the counter. He’s in his midtwenties, with close-cropped hair that’s done that way for the style, not to cover a waning supply. Leather and silver chain bracelets adorn his wrist. He gets up and meets me halfway across the room.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  I don’t know, but I don’t say that.

  “Are you friends with Luke Tomlinson?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yeah. We’re friends. Not good friends, but I know him. He came to the restaurant the morning his little girl died in the car.”

  I see some sweat collect on his brow. He licks his lips and never quite meets my direct gaze. His hand swipes his forehead quickly as though he doesn’t want me to see how nervous he is.

  And he’s worried about how much I know.

  “We’re interviewing everyone right now,” I say. “People who he knows, people he’s come in contact with.”

  “I don’t know him all that well,” Sam says.

  I don’t want him to know that I don’t know his last name.

  “Let’s go back to our interview room, okay?” I say, indicating for him to follow.

  A minute later we’re sitting with Carter, who looks completely perplexed. I pull out the folder with the printout of his text exchange with Luke and place it on the table. I’m surprised. Sam isn’t Samantha.

  “Sam,” I say, “I need you to verify the spelling of your last name.”

  “Underwood,” he says. “Like Carrie or the deviled ham.”

  I write it down.

  “We saw you talk with Luke,” Carter says. “You know, on the tape that morning.”

  Sam looks downward, like he’s remembering. “Oh, yeah. He and his little girl wanted extra butter for her pancakes.”

  “You can never have too much butter,” Carter says.

  “Is that all you talked about?” I ask.

  Sam thinks some more. The sweat rolls from his head to the tabletop. He swipes that away too. “Yeah. I think so.”

  I get up with my folder. “Sam, you do know that we’re in the middle of a murder investigation, right?”

  “I know,” he says. “I watch TV. I also read the paper.”

  “Good,” I tell him. “Now, is there
anything you can tell us that will help us with our case? We need to know everything about Luke Tomlinson that we can find out. Every single thing. A little girl is dead.”

  Sam slides off his bracelet and squeezes it like a stress ball.

  “How did you get my number?” he finally asks.

  I feel sorry for him. I really do.

  “We got it off Luke’s phone,” I say.

  Sam’s quiet. He’s thinking. Putting it all together.

  “You aren’t going to tell my mom and dad, are you?”

  “Tell them that you and Luke are lovers?” I ask, opening the folder and showing the printout of the text message. “No, we won’t be doing that. But you need to be honest here. What was going on with you and Luke?”

  Sam starts to knead his temples. He’s close to breaking.

  “Hookup,” he says softly. “That’s all. Not lovers. Just a casual thing. We met online and every once in a while we’d meet down by the river or at my house when my folks were gone. Just sex. Nothing else. No strings.”

  “We didn’t know that Luke was bisexual,” I say.

  “I don’t think he cared who he messed around with,” Sam says. “Luke just wanted the rush of having some hot action—that’s what he called it—and then moving on. I think he had me in kind of a rotation that included a couple of other guys. Mostly girls, though. He told me that he was an ‘equal opportunity fucker.’ His words. Not mine.”

  Sam puts on his now-mangled bracelet, takes in some air.

  “Did he ever talk about his daughter?” I ask.

  “A little,” he says. “We didn’t do that much talking, but from what I remember, he told me that he loved her, but she could be a pain in the ass now and then.”

  “Did he talk about his marriage?” Carter asks. “His wife? Any problems they might have?”

  Sam shakes his head. “Not really. Said she worked a lot. Didn’t seem as interested in him as she had been. Other priorities, I think. I didn’t really listen. I wasn’t there to hear his life story and he wasn’t there to hear mine.”

  “You were going to meet him for sex,” I say. “The day Ally died.”

  Sam grows quiet. He’s running through the events of the day, wondering if his relationship with Luke had any bearing on what happened.