by Chris Culver
“I’m not going to be ready by then.”
“You should have thought of that before you went to the police.” She took a step toward me; instinctively, I took a step away. “I hope you understand what I’m doing for you, the sacrifices I’m making.”
“You’re ruining my life,” I said, turning and starting toward the door. I paused before reaching it and looked over my shoulder. “How’d you know the police were coming?”
“Samantha told me you had visited her. She was worried about us and thought you might do something that would hurt us both. I took precautions.”
“You handcuffed yourself to a toilet,” I said. “That’s not a precaution. That’s crazy.” She started to say something, but I spoke over her. “How’d you plan to get out if the police couldn’t find you?”
“I hid a key.”
“Where?”
Tess raised her eyebrows. “So you can run to Mr. Morgan and tell him that I tied myself up and hid a key within arm’s reach?”
“The thought never entered my mind,” I said. “I was just curious. Your sweatpants don’t have pockets.”
“I swallowed it. I knew it’d pass eventually.”
“Clever,” I said. “I hope that works out for you.”
As I started to open the door, Tess walked toward me and put her hand on my shoulder. “See you tomorrow?”
I looked back at her. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
39
A uniformed officer drove me home, but not before Captain Morgan said he’d be in touch. I couldn’t pinpoint anything specific about his word choice or tone that set me off, but the words felt ominous nonetheless.
By the time the officer dropped me off in front of my house, the sun was just beginning to rise in the east, and my eyelids could barely stay open. I went inside, where I closed all the blinds in the house and fell asleep on the couch in my living room.
I don’t know how long I slept or what I dreamt about, but I woke up when my phone rang. The sun beat against the blinds, so I must have been out for a couple of hours at least. Before answering, I looked at the caller ID. It was from my wife.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I said.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “You sound a little garbled.”
I cleared my throat. “I just woke up. Are you guys okay?”
Katherine paused. “You and Tess made the news.”
“Already?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s a big story.” She hesitated again. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I sighed. “Tess is the last thing I want to talk about right now.”
“The news said you saved her life, though. They also said the police arrested Moses Tarawally.”
“Yeah. He’s in jail. They popped him for Isaac’s murder, but they’ll probably add charges to that.”
“What about Tess?”
“She wants me to kill her mother.”
“Oh,” said Katherine. “Did you tell the police?”
“They’re not going to believe me,” I said, walking to a window. I peered through our venetian blinds. There were two news vans out front, but neither had the antenna up to broadcast live. “Tess has this wrapped up too tightly. It’s going to fall apart, I know it will, but that will take time.”
“The news says she was kept prisoner.”
“Tess will say and do anything to get what she wants. She chained herself to a toilet and swallowed a key so the police would think Moses held her captive.”
Katherine didn’t respond for a moment. “Are you sure she’s faking it? Even if she wasn’t chained at all times, he might have been forcing her to do things.”
“She’s not the victim here. You’ll see that.”
“What if she is the victim?” asked Katherine. “Have you considered that?”
“I wish that were the case, but it’s not,” I said, running my hands through my hair and squeezing a fistful. “Looking into her eyes, it’s like I’m staring at the darkest hole I’ve ever seen. There’s no bottom there, just black.”
Katherine hesitated. “I believe you.”
I sighed and sat down on the nearest chair. “You and Vince are about the only ones.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not okay, but I’m doing the best I can.”
“Have you talked to a lawyer yet?”
I shook my head, even though I was alone. “Not yet, but I will.”
“Do that. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I hung up and went to the kitchen, where I checked my answering machine for messages. I had missed half a dozen calls while I slept, including one from my literary agent. She congratulated me for being part of such a big story and wanted to know if I would feel comfortable writing a book about my place in Tess’s rescue. She also mentioned that as soon as the story broke, my most recent book rocketed up in the sales charts to number one on Amazon. I declined to return her call and instead went to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. I hadn’t slept well, but the coffee would at least help me keep my eyes open. Once I had a cup, I opened my wife’s laptop on the dining room table.
The lead story on the St. Louis Post-Dispatch’ s website, not surprisingly, was about Tess and her rescue, and while I didn’t look at any of the national news websites, I assumed they had picked up the story, too. From a news standpoint, the story had legs, long ones, which meant it ought to provide front-page fodder for at least a week or two. Eventually, some enterprising reporter would dig into Tess’s story and discover the discrepancies, but that would take time I didn’t have. I needed to move things along before she hurt somebody else.
I pulled out my cell phone and searched though the list of recently made calls until I found the number of Detective Roger Arteaga, the retired Idaho Falls detective who first looked into Holly Olson’s disappearance. He grunted before speaking.
“More questions about missing-persons cases, Mr. Hale?”
“Not questions,” I said. “And I know Captain Morgan from the St. Louis police department called you, so you don’t need to dance around that.”
“Oh, so we’re going to be straightforward this time,” said Arteaga. “Can you guess who else called me?”
“Lauren Hampton?”
“Oh, no,” said Arteaga. “An aide to our esteemed Lieutenant Governor. He was less than pleased to make my acquaintance. Seems your Captain Morgan contacted a whole lot of people, not just me, and at least two of those people contacted Alan Yates. He wondered why a detective from St. Louis is digging into ancient history, history that happens to involve his deceased son.”
I adjusted my grip on the phone and leaned forward. “So Captain Morgan called about Brandon Yates?”
“Among other things.”
“What did he say? Is he looking into Holly Olson’s death?”
“I don’t make a habit of recounting my private conversations. Now, did you have a reason for calling me?”
“Yeah, I called for a reason,” I said. “The police here recently found a woman who’s been missing for the past nine years. She was my girlfriend.”
Arteaga took a breath. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She wasn’t dead,” I said, shaking my head. “They found her in a hotel room west of St. Louis. She claims she was kidnapped nine years ago and held hostage by a man who worked for her stepfather.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It is,” I said, nodding. “It’s a big story, but it’s going to be bigger. I think you should see her.”
“Why do you think that?”
I stood and walked to the paneled glass door that led to my backyard and looked out. Simon used to stand in that same spot and bark at birds on those rare days I tried to work from home. At the time, nothing annoyed me more than his interruptions, but looking back, they had somehow become almost endearing.
“Because she’s Lauren Hampton. That’s not her real name, but that’s wh
at she went by when she lived in Utah. Her real name is Tess Girard.”
Arteaga paused. “You do realize that I’m retired, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you know what slander is, Mr. Hale?”
I didn’t know where he was going with the question, so I nodded. “Yeah, I know what slander is.”
“Have you ever been sued for slander?”
“No.” I paused. “I’m a writer, so, if anything, I’d be sued for libel.”
“Allen Yates, our Lieutenant Governor, threatened me with a lawsuit if I looked into Holly’s death and so much as intimidated that his son was involved. It was bluster and bullshit, but I’m retired, which means I don’t have liability insurance to protect me from that kind of suit. If Yates sues me, even if I win—and I think I would—I lose. Do you understand?”
“I can pay you,” I said. “I’ll even pay your legal bills if Yates sues you.”
“I’m not looking for money, son,” said Arteaga. “If you believe you have information pertinent to an investigation, please contact your local law enforcement agency. That’s all I’m going to say.”
“Can you just look at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch’s website? Tess’s picture is on the front page. You’ll recognize her.”
“Have a nice day, Mr. Hale. And good luck.”
“Just wai—”
I didn’t even get to finish my thought before he hung up. His advice may have been worthwhile in most circumstances, but somehow I doubted Morgan would be open to my pleas. It was time for plan B. I called Vince and waited for him to answer.
“Hey, it’s Steve. Where are you?”
“In the Willis Tower. Katherine and Ashley are here. What’s up?”
“I need you to go to Utah.”
“Aside from a couple of million Mormons, what’s in Utah?”
“Maybe a way out of this mess,” I said. “The police picked up Tess last night, and she said Moses Tarawally has kept her locked up for the past nine years. I need you to show that she’s a liar.”
“Okaaaay,” said Vince, drawing the word out. “How do you propose I do that?”
“Fly to Salt Lake City and prove that she spent several years at the University of Utah.”
“If that’s all you want, we can just call up the Admissions Department and ask them.”
“They might be able to tell us that someone named Lauren Hampton was enrolled, but they won’t be able to tell us that it was Tess. If we do this right, we can bring her down before she hurts anyone else.”
Ashley said something, but I couldn’t make out what in the background. Vince told her that he’d be another minute.
“Are you sure leaving Katherine and Ashley alone is a good idea?” he asked.
“It’s a risk, but it’s a calculated one. Moses is out of the picture, and I think I can keep Tess busy for the next few days. That should give you enough time to prove she lied about her captivity. If we prove she lied about that, Captain Morgan is bound to start putting the pieces together. I think he already is. He’s been calling people and asking them about Brandon Yates and Holly Olson.”
“I’ll try to get a flight out tonight.”
“Charter a plane if you have to. I’ll pay for it.”
Vince lowered his voice. “All right, then. Looks like I’m going to Utah.”
I wished him luck and then hung up. Vince could find almost anything about almost anyone, and eventually, he’d prove Tess was a liar and maybe even that she played a role in Holly’s death. That’d take time, though, and I didn’t have a lot to spare. I peered through the blinds in my living room. The reporters were still outside, but I didn’t think they’d slow me down too much. Tess wanted a modified copy of her mother’s will by tonight. I didn’t know what she’d do if she didn’t get it, but I figured she had something planned and I doubted I’d enjoy it.
I left my house through the back door and walked through my rear neighbor’s yard to the street, bypassing the reporters. Even if my father had drafted Annette Girard’s will, it long since would have been moved out of the office. I thought I had a way to get around that, though.
I walked to my office and immediately opened the filing cabinet in which I kept important papers. My dad had drafted his own will, so I used it as a template. In my forgery, I specified that ten percent of Annette Girard’s would go to the charity Tess mentioned and the rest would go to Samantha. Those provisions might not raise any red flags, but a couple of other details I inserted would. I signed it “Bill Hale” instead of “William Hale.” It was a small thing, but my father thought Bill was a hillbilly’s name, an opinion he voiced to almost anyone who would listen. The St. Louis legal community was small enough that someone somewhere ought to remember that.
I also forged the signatures of the witnesses, my grandfather and Betty Wachowski, my father’s administrative assistant ten years ago, purposefully misspelling her last name. Most people would look at those errors and dismiss them as simple mistakes, but not lawyers, especially not lawyers looking to dispute the will. I even used Betty’s old notary public stamp—she had left it in her desk when she retired—to “notarize” the will, dating it almost six months after my grandfather would have died. If all else failed, if Tess killed me, the will would be my parting shot from the grave.
I called her cell phone and spoke before she could.
“I’ve got that document you wanted from me.”
“I’m so glad,” said Tess, her voice bright. “I’m at my mom’s house. Why don’t you bring it by? We’ve got a few things to talk about.”
“I’m sure we do. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
40
I couldn’t find a parking spot near the Girards’ neighborhood, so I had to park illegally in the private lot of an apartment complex a couple of blocks away. Despite what the warning signs told me, I didn’t think it’d be a problem as the lot was only half full. At the worst, a towing company would take my car to some faraway lot, taking with them the duffel bag in my trunk. Considering that the police believed I played a part in Isaac’s death, having two million dollars cash and my gun in a secure parking lot somewhere distant wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
I walked over to Kings Highway Boulevard. A small group of reporters huddled on the sidewalk while two cameramen filmed the neighborhood’s front entrance. The Girard house was at least a couple hundred yards from the main entrance, so I don’t know what they expected to see, but that didn’t seem to deter them, either.
As I walked nearer, one of the reporters tapped another on the shoulder and pointed to me. That started a cascade that resulted in all of them watching me. A reporter I knew peeled off from the rest of the group and walked toward me, holding out his hand for me to shake. I had given David an interview on the phone before Dominique’s execution, but I hadn’t actually seen him in several years. Coffee had stained his teeth a dull yellow, but his eyes were as sharp as thumbtacks and he exuded the slippery charm of a used car salesman. I stopped without shaking his hand.
“You’re the man of the hour,” he said, grinning at me just out of arm’s reach. “Care to give me an interview?”
“Be happy to,” I said, pasting a grin on my face. “New book’s coming out in about three months, and I can always use the publicity.”
“I was hoping we could talk about Tess Girard. Nine years is a long time to be gone. How do you feel about having her back?”
“I don’t have her back,” I said, resuming my walk. “And nine years is a long time. A lot can happen in nine years.”
David walked alongside me and peppered me with questions, while the other reporters hung a respectable distance back, presumably hoping to overhear our conversation.
“How do you feel about Dominique Girard now that we’ve found out he’s innocent?”
I didn’t break stride. “Nobody’s innocent. You’re old enough to know that.”
“What do you mean?”
I ignored him the
rest of my short walk. Two armed security guards wearing jeans and matching Polo shirts with a shield stitched across the breast stood watch behind the entrance. Neither smiled when I walked up, but one opened the wrought iron gate and waved me forward.
“Steven Hale?” the guard asked. I nodded. “Please hold your arms out to the side. I’m going to pat you down for weapons.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“It’s the procedure we’ve been asked to follow,” said the second guard.
I didn’t like the invasion of privacy, but, having left the money and gun in my trunk, I didn’t have anything incriminating or dangerous on me. I held out my arms while the security guarded patted my ankles, my thighs, waist, and upper torso for weapons. While he did that, his partner spoke into a two-way radio.
“Are we good now?” I asked. The security guard who patted me down took a step back and then bent to retrieve a clipboard and pen from the ground.
“I need you to sign this sheet. Your ride will be here shortly.”
I took the clipboard from his hand and signed in the box he indicated.
“This is a lot of security,” I said, handing him the clipboard.
The guard looked at my signature and nodded. “Thank you for your cooperation. The neighborhood association felt the security was prudent considering the circumstances.”
There were a lot of crazies out there, so maybe hiring extra security was the right move. I nodded and waited while a third man drove up in a green golf cart. The drive to the Girard home took all of two minutes, and when we arrived, the driver stayed and watched until Annette Girard opened the front door and waved me inside. An ugly grimace crossed Annette’s face as I stepped through the threshold and into the entryway.
“She’s waiting for you in her bedroom.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Annette’s glare told me she had significantly more to say, but I didn’t give her the time before taking the steps to the second floor. In contrast to the wood-paneled entryway, the second floor had plain white walls and a thick, light green carpet. At one time, there had been a small sitting room at the top of the steps, but now the furniture was gone. I padded down the hallway and knocked on the fourth door on the left, Tess’s old bedroom. She opened it a crack and smiled when she saw me.
