by ANDREA SMITH
And then he’s gone.
I toss a glare to his back and turn back around, taking a sip of orange juice.
“Seems to me like you two are oil and water,” Sheila comments.
“That obvious, huh?”
“Parrish, I’m not trying to nose into your personal business, but Nick’s been fairly hush-hush about what’s going on. So, do you mind if I ask you just what the hell is going on?”
I think about how odd this must all seem to her. “It’s kinda complicated and you heard the resident Nazi, I’ve gotta scoot. But, I promise, I’ll have Dad explain it to you.”
The silence between us in the car on our way into Salt Lake City is uncomfortable. Thank God it’s a short drive.
“So, did you read her diary?” I finally ask.
“No. I have to have it processed first. That’s the reason we’re making this trip.”
“Processed?”
“As in booking evidence?”
His tone is condescending.
That doesn’t work for me.
“You know, this is all new to me. You might show a bit more tolerance.”
He sighs, glancing over at me briefly. “This diary can be used as supporting evidence for petitioning the county court for an Order for Exhumation, as long as we show that it was legally obtained and was, in fact, written by the deceased. Before I touch it anymore than I already have, the lab needs to process fingerprints, where hopefully they’ll find hers and, using a forensic test, known as thin layer chromatography, will substantiate the age of the ink and paper. Forensic graphology can provide insight into the likes of the writer’s frame of mind, mood, motivation, intelligence and emotional stability.”
“Do we need all of that in order to petition the court or whatever?”
“That will provide probable cause, and I don’t think her mother will object to the exhumation, so hopefully, there won’t be an issue. Don’t worry; it won’t take that long for the forensics to be conducted. I can start reading it tonight.”
“Won’t the FBI lab have to keep it?”
“Not once it’s booked and tested. I’ll sign it out as the Agent investigating it. A copy will be made to hold until it’s returned. It’s not a lot of red tape actually.”
“Good to know.”
By two o’clock, we’re headed back with the diary in our possession. It went exactly as Marco had said and, I have to admit, I was duly impressed watching the perfectly executed forensic processes that were in place at the Bureau.
“Are you hungry?” he asks as we pull off the interstate.
“Yeah. I didn’t finish breakfast, being rushed and all.”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “We’ll stop, my treat,” he offers, “Being that I was the one that rushed your ass this morning.”
“No argument there,” I reply.
Once seated inside the restaurant, our orders taken, Marco busies himself by checking his cell for missed messages.
“Shit,” he mumbles, pressing the screen and listening to a voicemail. “Fucking great.”
Okay, so am I supposed to ask him if everything’s okay? Will that sound like I’m being nosey?
Who cares.
“Is everything alright?”
He looks over at me, a scowl still present on his otherwise gorgeous face. “Personal shit,” he replies.
“Oh. Okay. So, you’re going to get started on the diary. What next?”
He shrugs, taking a sip of his ice water. “Depends on what’s in the diary. I’m going to stop by to see Mrs. Adams tomorrow...alone. I’m returning the stuffed dog and asking her to sign an affidavit authorizing an exhumation to cover my tracks since she’s the next of kin.”
I’m pricked by his emphasis on the word “alone.”
Pompous ass.
“I don’t understand why it takes all of this supporting evidence or whatever to get a court order. I mean, shouldn’t the fact that her mother believes it wasn’t an accident and that she authorizes the exhumation be enough?”
“Ah, to be so young and naïve,” he says, smiling with a moderate hint of sarcasm present.
Okay. Now I’ve just kind of had it with him.
“Listen, you condescending ass,” I hiss, “I don’t give a damn if you are with the FBI or the CIA or fucking Scotland Yard for that matter! You need to lose that superior attitude of yours. I don’t see you being able to communicate with the dead!” I shove my chair back loudly, grab my handbag and jacket and beat a fast path to the exit.
Shit.
Now, I’m gonna stand out here and freeze my ass off while ‘God’s gift to the FBI’ has his leisurely lunch inside where it’s warm. I consider walking back inside for about ten seconds, but decide it would be a bit anticlimactic, not to mention pathetic to do so.
Several minutes later, he emerges from the restaurant carrying Styrofoam containers with our lunches inside. He holds the remote up, unlocking the doors to his SUV.
Once inside, he hands me the boxes. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “You’re right. I have been acting like an ass. It’s got nothing to do with you or this...case,” he continues. “Just some personal shit that I’ve got no business taking out on you. Please accept my apology.”
“Accepted,” I reply, “Now, will you answer my questions which I think were reasonable ones?”
He smiles as he starts the engine. “Okay, well the reason it takes a court-issued order for an exhumation is because the judicial system needs to consider and concur that the reasons are valid and the preponderance of evidence is enough to result in criminal charges, or sometimes even to prove the opposite and release someone incarcerated since the emergence of sophisticated DNA forensic analysis. If the law didn’t make provisions for this sort of thing, can you imagine the number of exhumations that would be done in order to get Aunt Martha’s diamond ring from her decaying finger to finance a vacation cruise; or Grandpa’s genuine gold fillings to pay a gambling debt?”
“You’re a real people person there, aren’t you Marco?” I ask, shaking my head. “Cynical much?”
“Maybe so, but then again I haven’t spent the better part of my adulthood strolling down some red carpet, giving a dazzling smile and having my picture taken. I’ve seen the extent human beings will go to for their own personal gain and the destruction they’ve left in their wake.”
And I bristle once again at his obvious contempt of how I earn my money. But I’m not about to let him know just how much he’s pushed my button.
“Who did it?” I ask, raising my eyebrow as I look over at him.
“Did what?”
“Shoved that stick up your ass?”
“A woman not nearly as beautiful as you,” he replies, giving me a playful wink, “Again I apologize. It seems as if I have been rather—snide today.”
“Times a million,” I reply, and he laughs genuinely.
It’s the first time I’ve heard his laugh. It’s a nice sound though, I’d venture to say, it doesn’t happen a lot. I think it’s an Italian thing. My father is the same way.
“And, by the way, I’m no longer skeptical or dubious about your supernatural abilities,” he continues seriously.
“Please. Just refer to it as my gift or episode. It sounds less creepy that way.”
“You’ve got it,” he says with a smile, showing an errant dimple.
Hmm…when did he get that?
“So, I guess you know all about my father and his background, huh?”
“I do,” he replies, “He and my father are the best of friends still. I was just a kid back then, four or five years old. Don’t remember any of it, which is probably for the best.”
“You look a lot like your father,” I comment.
He quirks a puzzled brow. “How would you…?”
“My first episode,” I explain before he finishes his question. “It’s how I found out about him at all. Through my mother, Karlie Masterson. My mom and dad were in love back then. Your dad knew all about it.�
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“So, I guess you were raised by someone else then?”
“Yeah, my mother’s best friend raised me as hers. I didn’t know the truth about any of it until my episode.”
“That had to be a real shocker.”
“Yeah. No shit.”
He pulls up the drive to my father’s house. “I booked a room at the lodge. I have to set up my laptop and do some video conferencing. It’s better for me to have privacy. Please thank your father and Sheila for their hospitality. Don’t forget to take your lunch. It’s the one on top,” he says, nodding toward the boxes I had placed between us.
“Wait, what about the diary?”
“I plan on reading it tonight. I’ll call you after I get back from meeting with Mrs. Adams and fill you in, how’s that?”
I’m not happy being left out of the investigation part, but I realize I’m not equipped to be of much help, except that I want to meet some of the other players. Maybe it’s simply curiosity on my part.
“There’s one thing I want you to know before you go. I mean, you’ll read about it in the diary, towards the end, but Cece was pregnant when she was killed. Her murderer knew that, but the father of her baby…Erik, the boy she loved, he didn’t know.”
He looks at me, his face totally serious. “Was that the motive for him to allegedly do that?”
“There’s no allegedly, Marco. Marshall Rydell did it, but no, Cece never told him after she found out that night that Angie had been pregnant when Marshall killed her. There’s evidence in that log cabin.”
“Hold up,” he says, “You’re going too fast here. I’m familiar with the name of Angie Linton from our previous discussion, she was knocked up when she died?”
“Yeah, and the baby was Marshall’s.”
“I see. Now what log cabin? Is it mentioned in the diary?”
“Yes, you’ll find some mention in there, and I can fill you in on the rest. But what isn’t in there is the fact that Marshall was popping acid—something called chocolate mesc—the night he murdered Cece. He also kept “keepsakes” from both Angie and Cece hidden in that cabin. Cece discovered that the night she . . . died.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says. “Try and get some rest. I’ll need your help once I get through this. But, I have to say, I’m impressed so far with what you’ve provided and the accuracy of your recall. I’ll have more questions for you once I’ve read this thing.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow.”
And, as I walk into the house, a feeling of triumph overwhelms me that, at last, Agent Trevani doesn’t think I’m some freak of nature; he believes me.
Chapter 29
Agent Trevani has a new attitude the following day as we drive to Salt Lake City to meet with Erik Laughlin at his construction office. I feel as nervous as if I actually am Cece coming back from the dead. How will I ever be able to truly explain my knowledge to the loved ones in these scenarios?
I’ll have to worry about that later. Right now I have to prepare myself to meet Erik. Will I be able to talk this time?
“Do you have an issue with my asking Erik some questions?” I ask.
In my peripheral vision, I see Agent Trevani glance over and my gaze meets his with a hint of an attitude. I notice him quirking a brow.
Yes, your hotness. I dared to ask that question.
“Maybe we should prepare in advance,” he replies.
So we do. And I can tell that he’s read the whole diary and he does, indeed, have a new perspective on the circumstances surrounding Cece’s death and a new one on me as well.
By the time we reach Erik’s office, we’re both on the same page—almost like we’re a team. He’s the captain, of course.
For now anyway.
Erik Laughlin has aged well. No signs of the former hippy, freak, stoner, head or whatever they were called back then. He still has most of his dark—now intermixed with gray—hair, a neatly trimmed goatee and his build has taken on a few well-needed pounds over the years.
He stands when his receptionist ushers us into his modest office and I see he’s dressed in business casual: long-sleeved polo shirt and Dockers.
Agent Trevani thanks him for seeing us on short notice and then introduces me to Erik as his “assistant.”
Nice.
“Please, have a seat,” Erik invites.
We take our seats across his desk and he sits down, a look of confusion still present on his face. “I’m not sure what I can help you with, Agent Trevani. Your call last night kind of caught me off guard. I mean, it’s been so long since...well, since Cece passed. Kind of came outta the blue, I guess.”
Marco leans forward, removing the diary out of his briefcase and he shoves it across the desk. “Maybe this will help answer your question as to why we’re poking into this after all of these years. Do you recognize this?”
I can tell that Erik does, in fact, remember the diary that was part of Pierre, the gift he selected for Cece all those years back.
“Damn,” he replies softly, picking it up and fanning the pages gently. “I sure do. I gave this to Cece—well, it was inside a stuffed dog, but it’s the same diary I’m pretty sure. Where the hell did you get this?”
“Her mother, Mrs. Adams, had kept it.”
That was totally the truth.
“I don’t understand,” Erik, replies. “Why do you have it then?”
“Mr. Laughlin, there are certain things—events, situations that have been brought to the Bureau’s attention surrounding Cece’s accident. The fact is that many of Cece’s entries in this diary corroborate the information we’ve received from a third party. Enough so that we’re looking into her death as a possible homicide.”
“Homicide?” he asks, his voice getting a bit louder. “Are you serious?”
“I am.”
“But who? . . . What?” he falters, “You think I had something to do with her death? Is that what Mrs. Adams told you, because, if so, that’s a bunch of shit. I loved that girl! I loved Cece more than you could ever have imagined.”
“I believe you,” I say, looking at him and seeing the passion and sincerity that still lace his voice when speaking of her. “But there are some things you can help us clear up about the night she died and then afterwards. Things about other people from back then.”
“Like who?”
“Her friends, ex-boyfriends, classmates,” Agent Trevani interjects, giving me a slight glare.
“Marshall Rydell,” I blurt, not caring if it pisses Marco off at this point. Why beat around the fucking bush?
“That preppy-ass bastard,” Erik snarls, “If anyone should be answering questions about Cece’s death, he’d be my first suspect for sure. It ate him up when she dumped his ass to go back with me.”
“How did he act after she...died?” I press, ignoring Marco’s jab in my side.
Erik shrugs and leans back in his chair. “He wasn’t around long after that. I really couldn’t say.”
“Where’d he go?” Agent Trevani asks before I can.
“Some private school was the story, but I’m betting he made a pit-stop in rehab somewhere. His family had money and power, so they were in a position to hide their dirty laundry from the general population. Trust me, Marshall was on a downward spiral with all the drugs he was eating back then.”
“Where’s his family now?” I pipe up.
“Uhh...let me think. His mom and dad ended up getting divorced a year or two after Cece passed. His mom was a local veterinarian, she’s retired now. His dad was some bigwig surgeon in Salt Lake, but he retired and moved East. I’m pretty sure he passed away years back. I think his mother still lives out at their ranch, if that’s what you can still call it. Pretty run down last time I was by it.”
“Money issues?”
“Yeah. I guess divorces and high maintenance brats can do that to a family, you know?” Erik shakes his head as if remembering something. “Marshall Rydell had it all and, yet, he still always wanted more. Heard
he’s some big-time judge somewhere. Imagine that?”
“So, what did you end up doing?” I ask, because I have to know.
For Cece.
His eyes get a far-away look for a moment. “Well, for awhile I tried to live the dream I had before...before Cece died. I opened a coffee shop out on 189. Got married about four years later and my wife ran it right into the ground.”
“I’m sorry.”
And I was.
“That’s why she’s an ex now,” he replies, giving a wry smile. “I was trying to get this business off the ground and well, I guess I expected too much—least that’s what she claimed. But, you know, Cece would’ve done it right. That much I know.”
“Erik,” I continue, “What about Kim and Keith—Cece’s friend and boyfriend from back then. Are they still around?”
He looks at me and is curious. “How—?”
“They’re mentioned in the diary,” Marco replies.
Erik nods. “Keith died of an overdose when he was nineteen. Kim still lives around Evanston. She married a guy named Riley Benton. They raise sheep on their farm right off 189 near Kemmerer.”
“Thanks,” Marco says, scribbling it down on the back of one of his cards. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
“Erik,” I interrupt, because this is something I need to know for myself, “Did you ever have unprotected sex with Angie Linton?”
“What the—?” I hear Marco growl next to me.
“It’s important,” I reply, turning my attention back across the desk to Erik. “Think back.”
Erik chuckles and shakes his head. “My memory is fine, Ms. Locke and, I can assure you that, every time Angie and I did the deed, I wore my latex raincoat. It might’ve been the seventies, but I still took precautions.”
“What about with Cece?” I press, ignoring the loud sigh that Marco releases.
“Only once without protection. I remember that as well. Just once. Why do you ask?”
I start to answer, but I feel Marco’s hand on my arm, helping me to my feet. “That’s all for now, Mr. Laughlin. We’ll fill you in after we’ve had a chance to go over the rest of the evidence.”
