Anna looked dismayed. She said, “Oh, Em.”
“He had such a mean streak as a boy, remember?”
“But the idea that he could be a murderer is just so— He grew up playing with our kids. They all hung around together nearly every day. It’s scary.” Anna stirred sugar into her coffee.
“After what Darren did to Holly only Tucker would have anything to do with him. Do you remember how furious Natalie was?” Emily had been upset over Tucker’s misplaced loyalty to Darren, too. She’d tried talking to Nat, tried apologizing, explaining. “Nothing worked with her,” Emily said. “I never talked to her again. It still shocks me that we aren’t friends anymore. We three were so close.”
Anna said, “Anger is how Nat dealt with everything back then, Em.”
“I know. I don’t blame her. I’m just sorry.” Emily fiddled with her teaspoon.
Anna said, “You’re going to drive yourself insane, you know. Nat’s gone—it doesn’t matter what she or anyone else thinks. You, me, the people who matter, know Tucker has nothing to apologize for in regard to Holly’s situation, and as far as Miranda and Jessica are concerned, who knows who killed them? There could be any number of people...men who—”
“Tucker being one of those men.” Emily thought how deeply ashamed she was that Tucker was lumped into such a category, and then she was ashamed at herself, that she could be so judgmental of her own son. It made her no better than the rest of the neighborhood.
She thought of the things she had come to know, the world she’d been introduced to as the result of being Tucker’s mother, a world far removed from her dreams for him when she’d held him as a baby, warm and sweet smelling from his bath, in her arms, a world where her son fell for the wrong sort of girl and got dragged into a dark and dirty life. At least, that’s how she viewed it, but then her generation had been raised differently, in a time when the lines between right and wrong, and moral and immoral behavior, were much more well-defined.
Anna was quiet, turning her mug in a circle, keeping her eye on it.
“That woman Revel Wiley called again this morning before I left the house.” Emily hadn’t meant to say it, to burden Anna with more of her family’s drama that increasingly was a source for shame.
Anna looked up. “She talked to Roy? Because I’m not sure it would be a bad thing.”
“No, he was already gone, and when I answered, she talked to me, instead of hanging up. Who knows why. She said she has Tucker’s phone.”
“His cell phone? How did she—?”
“She was at a party in Galveston, where Tucker was. She found it there. She says there’s evidence on it that proves he wasn’t in Austin.” Emily took her mug to the sink and rinsed it.
“What sort of evidence? Did you tell Joe?”
Emily said she hadn’t, that Revel had called after she talked to him.
“She’s harassing you, Em. I think you should call the police on her. This has gone on long enough.”
“She warned me not to. She said if I told anyone, there would be worse trouble.” Emily broke off. Panic mushroomed. It jammed her throat, heated the space behind her eyes as if now she’d mentioned the source for it, it had only been waiting for the opportunity.
“Em? She could be lying, you know.” Anna laid her palm on Emily’s back.
“She wants five thousand dollars, Anna, or she’ll take the phone to the police. Where am I going to get that? If I take any more out of the account, Roy will know. He’ll find out I paid her before to get Tucker free of that stalking charge, if he doesn’t know already.”
A silence fell, and Emily would always think she sensed it, the awkward shape it took on before Anna spoke, before she said, “I could do it, Em. I could lend you the money.”
Emily felt the flush of humiliation heat her cheeks. “No, Anna, I didn’t mean—”
“I know, but I want to help.”
“Thank you, but no.” She pushed away from the countertop, shouldered her purse. “I have to go. I still haven’t been to the store.”
Anna looked confused, even hurt, Emily thought. But it was too difficult trying to explain how it felt to be the one in the friendship who was always in trouble somehow, always in need—or to have the child who was.
Emily left Anna blindly; she left wondering if she would lose Anna’s friendship and her respect the same as she’d lost Natalie’s. She wondered if in the end, when this was over, she would have no one left, not even Tucker.
* * *
Swiping away her tears, she decided on her way to the grocery store that she would make chicken Parmesan for dinner, and she was glad to have a plan. Cooking was her solace, a form of meditation, a source of satisfaction and comfort. It kept her grounded, and she needed that now. If nothing else, at least she could get a good, hot meal on the table. It was something, wasn’t it? It was better than giving in to the hysteria she felt pressing hard against her ribs. Better than listening to her mind relentlessly asking why. Why was this happening to her son, to her family? Why were they always the ones life chose to test?
She was standing next to her half-filled grocery cart, admiring the fresh-cut chicken breasts, when her cell phone rang. The sound jarred her; she didn’t want the interruption, but seeing Joe’s name in the caller ID window, she changed her mind.
Rushed through a greeting, telling him where she was, what she was making for dinner, stopping when he said her name, “Emily?” and then, “Maybe you want to wait until after you’ve checked out to hear—?”
“No,” she said faintly, but she was conscious of the other shoppers, the lack of privacy.
“The thing is, I found a report,” Joe said. “Well, not the actual report, but some notes that were made, regarding a complaint Miranda filed against Darren Coe, here in Harris County.”
“What sort of complaint?” Emily maneuvered her cart and herself as far as she could out of the aisle.
“It was the month before she was murdered. She alleged that Darren assaulted her sexually and that he battered her and threatened to kill her, if she told. The report mentions photographs, but if there were any, they’re missing.”
“What are you saying? Do you think he could have—?”
“I’m not saying anything, okay? Not yet. But you should check this out with Tucker. Ask him what it’s about.”
“Why?”
“Because his name is mentioned in the duty officer’s notes. Evidently, when Miranda came in to report the assault, he was with her. The photographs of Miranda’s injuries were on his phone. They should have been printed and put together in a file, but it doesn’t look as if anything like that happened.”
The silence was problematic, lingering.
“Joe?” Emily prompted.
“I don’t know—I’m just unsure about this. The report’s incomplete. I only found it because— But never mind that. Ask Tucker, okay? See what he knows. I’ve got to go now, but I’ll call if I hear anything else.”
Emily thanked him, and when he asked, she said she was fine, but she wasn’t. She left the grocery store, left her half-filled cart parked beside the meat counter and drove home, her mind churning, feeling bewildered, panicky, and yet somehow hopeful. If Darren Coe did this... But she was afraid to go any further with such a thought.
Parking the car in the garage, she got out and opened the trunk, then stared, uncomprehending of the emptiness, before recalling that she’d left the groceries in the cart at the store. Calamity ruined everything, she thought, even something as ordinary, as mundane and simple, as dinner on a Monday night. That was the thought in her mind when she closed the trunk.
And while she did register the sound of a car passing slowly by in the alley behind her, enough so that she turned to look, to see it was a midsize sedan, neutral in color and unfamiliar to her, her observation was l
ittle more than cursory. Even when the car returned, coming into her view again as she was climbing her back porch steps, she felt no sense of alarm, and she would find that amazing in hindsight, that under the circumstances she paid so little attention.
11
LISSA TURNED THE corner onto her street half expecting to see her house and driveway staked out by reporters, but it was blessedly vacant of all but Tucker’s Chevy Tahoe. She found him out in back, sitting on the bench in the gazebo, and she sat down next to him, scooting close. She wanted to tell him about Miranda working for the police, but then she’d have to confess she met with Detective Garza, and she wasn’t sure how he’d react. It might not mean anything, anyway.
“You got your car back,” she said instead.
“Yeah, it about took my last dime.” Tucker sat forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “You want to show me how you want the tile laid in your studio, then I can get started unloading it.”
“What about those receipts, from when you were in Austin?”
“What about them?”
“They’re in your glove box, right? You need to give them to the police, so they can check them out.”
“I will, in the morning.”
Why are you waiting? Lissa jammed her hands into her jacket pockets. If she asked, it might lead to more of a discussion than she wanted. “Have you seen today’s Chronicle?”
Tucker said he hadn’t. He looked wary now and impatient. When she didn’t elaborate, he said, “I guess there was something in there about me....”
“Not you specifically, but it looks like they’re about to arrest someone for Jessica’s murder.”
Tucker sighed. “Jesus.”
Lissa patted his knee. “It could be anyone. Todd Hite. Who knows?”
“What a shit storm. I’m really sorry.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“I know that, too,” she said.
“You’re sure it didn’t give my name?”
“No, so maybe—”
“We both know there’s no maybe. It’s me the cops want, for whatever fucked-up reason.”
“If that’s true, you’re getting a lawyer this time, Tucker. No argument.”
“It’ll have to be a public defender. The old man sure won’t pay for it, and I’m not about to ask you and Evan.”
“We’ll worry about that when—if—something happens.”
Tucker picked up a small stone near the toe of his work boot and chucked it out the gazebo door.
Lissa followed the arc of its path until it fell into the grass. “I’m thinking of talking to Sonny Cade.”
“What for?”
“Maybe he saw something like someone getting rough with Jessica. Or maybe he knows about that sting operation Todd was involved in, or something about Todd, or one of his clients.”
Tucker didn’t say anything.
“You think it would be okay?”
“Okay how? I don’t think he knows shit, if that’s what you mean.”
“He was kind of rough around the edges in high school.”
“Who wasn’t screwed up back then? Cade is a stand-up guy. He did time in Afghanistan, came home with medals. Talking to him about his experience over there made me wonder why I didn’t sign up. Maybe it would have straightened me out, too.”
“Dad didn’t want you to have anything to do with the military,” Lissa said.
“Oh, yeah.” Tucker laughed, and the sound was hurt. “I forgot. I was supposed to be the next Nolan Ryan, do my old man proud.”
Lissa didn’t respond. Tucker’s failed baseball career was still such a sore part of his history. He’d been coached by their dad to be the best, and it had earned him a full ride scholarship to play for Texas Tech, but then, in his freshman season, he’d injured his knee permanently, sliding into second base. Lissa didn’t think their dad had ever gotten over the disappointment. “I remember you and Sonny were friends in school,” she said after a bit.
“Yeah, so?”
“I bet he’d want to help you, and maybe he can.”
“I doubt it, Liss, really.”
“C’mon, Tuck, when Evan and I picked you up from the jail, you said he knows what goes on at the club. You acted like he had your back.”
“I guess.” He lifted his hat, resettled it. “Pop’s at the lake, working on the house. Did you know?”
Lissa said she did, feeling the bite of exasperation at the way he’d changed the subject.
“This morning when Mom said he was going out there, I thought maybe it was a sign, that things would be all right. I thought how I could help him, if he’d let me.”
Lissa let her stare loosen into the middle distance. She flinched when Tucker jerked to his feet, when he shouted, “Goddamn it! Why can’t they leave me alone?”
She touched his hand.
He looked down at her. “Let’s get the stuff for the floor out of my car, okay? I need to get to work.”
She nodded, and led the way up the path toward the driveway.
Tucker came around her to the back of the Tahoe and opened the hatch. Three boxes of the clay floor tiles Lissa had ordered were wedged into the space with the tile saw, a tool kit and several buckets of grout and sealer.
“I’ll get the handcart,” she said, heading for the garage. It took her several minutes to find it, and by the time she returned, Tucker was sitting on the Tahoe’s bumper, having already taken everything, except the tile, to the studio.
“Move over, tough guy.” She knocked him with her hip and, reaching into the hatch, dragged out the box nearest to her and loaded it on the cart. “Want some iced tea when we’re finished?” She stacked a second carton on top of the first.
“That would be great.” Tucker whipped his hat off his head, armed the sweat from his brow.
Pulling the last box toward her, Lissa froze. “What is that?” She stared at the stain she’d uncovered. It looked like blood, old blood, a largish spot roughly the size of a breakfast plate, dark reddish-brown in color. Glancing around the interior of the hatch, she saw other, similar stains, a broad brushstroke, a smattering of smaller dots. The hair on her neck rose. Her heart dropped like a felled bird.
Tucker looked where she was looking. “It’s blood,” he said matter-of-factly, resettling his hat. “A couple weeks ago, I was driving out of the neighborhood, and there was a dog lying in the road. Some asshole hit him and didn’t stop.”
“Was it alive?”
“Barely. I took him to that clinic, the one that just opened on Tenth and Pin Oak? The vet there did everything he could, but the poor little dude died two days later. Cost me a hundred seventy-five bucks.”
Lissa glanced at him and away, and for some reason, she thought of the people she had seen on television, the ones with family members who were charged with crimes and then found to be not guilty. In interviews they would say they believed implicitly in their loved one’s innocence despite the accusations or the evidence. They would say they never suffered a moment’s doubt. She admired that, but even so, she questioned whether it was possible. To never have a moment’s doubt? Not one fraction of one second’s wonder? She wished she could feel that certain of anything or anyone, and it wasn’t that she suspected Tucker. Even the thought filled her with guilt.
She looked back at him, and he smiled. He held her gaze.
It was enough.
* * *
There was no sign of the media at her mother’s house, and Lissa was relieved. She found her mom in the kitchen, starting dinner.
“Meat loaf,” she said when Lissa asked what she was making. “Cherry pie, I think, for dessert.” She seemed unsettled, distracted.
“You saw the article in the newspaper.” Lissa was guessing.<
br />
“No,” her mother said. “I haven’t had time to look at it.” She got out a small bowl and began sifting the flour she’d measured for the piecrust into it.
“Well, it’s probably nothing.” Lissa glanced around and saw the Chronicle in its plastic sleeve on the counter. She picked it up, taking it to the table. “Evan said there’s something in the Metro section about Jessica’s case, that they’re on the verge of making an arrest.”
Her mother went still, her shoulders dropping as if someone had pulled the pin that held them in place.
Lissa flipped through pages until she found the story, and even though Evan had warned her it was there, she winced at the headline. Arrest Imminent in Sweet Murder Case. She thought of her meeting with Detective Sergeant Garza, who had told her nothing, given her nothing.
Her mother dusted her hands and came to the table. “How imminent is imminent, do you think?”
“Who knows,” Lissa answered.
Her mother went back to her pie making.
Lissa folded the newspaper. “I saw Detective Garza this morning.”
Her mother looked at Lissa over her shoulder. “Whatever for?”
She repeated what she’d told Evan, leaving out the part about Tucker’s refusal to allow the police to search his Tahoe. Her mom didn’t need an additional worry.
“I have a hard time believing Miranda was working for the police,” her mother said when Lissa finished. She cut cold pats of butter over the top of the flour. “At the time, I thought that was just media hype.”
“Me, too. I’m still not sure I believe it. I feel like Sergeant Garza was playing some sort of game. The way she talked to me, the questions she asked. I got the feeling she thinks I have information, and I’m hiding it, trying to protect Tucker. It was weird.”
Her mother turned, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “Well, I found out something myself about Miranda, from Joe Merchant. You remember Joe—”
“Sure.” Lissa crossed her arms, feeling a flutter of unease. Her mother seldom mentioned Joe. Lissa had met him a handful of times; once when her mom took her and Tucker to a park in Houston, he had pushed them on the swings. On the occasions when Lissa asked about him, her mother would only say that Joe had helped her over the years. He’s a good and kind man, a dear friend, her mother would say, and Lissa believed her. She had liked Joe the times they’d met. But he was a cop, Lissa thought, a homicide cop.
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