Walk Into Silence

by Susan McBride

  “I’m ready.” She gathered her car keys and her wallet, stuck them in her coat pockets. She locked everything else in her desk.

  “Did you call Dielman?” her partner asked.

  “He didn’t answer,” she lied, because she hadn’t. She was afraid he’d tell her no, that he couldn’t deal with the police on his doorstep right before Jenny’s service. And Jo didn’t just want those photos. She wanted to push a few buttons while she was at it.

  Hank leaned away from her desk, fiddling with his tie, which looked about to choke him, and she realized that he’d actually dressed for the funeral. He was decked out in black, from his polished Lucchese boots to his slacks and tweedy jacket. He even had a solemn purple-and-gray-striped tie over his white button-down. Jo wondered if his wife had picked it out.

  “Let’s go,” he said, cheeks turning pink beneath her steady gaze.

  Then he walked her out.

  The day looked flat-out dreary. Low-hanging clouds smothered the sky beyond the spindly reaches of near-leafless trees.

  Hank didn’t even try to make conversation as they got into the Ford and bounced out of the lot. Jo figured he wasn’t any more certain of what to say to her than Adam had been. She’d rather have silence than a fatherly warning anyway.

  He turned up the heat, and she faced the window, leaned her cheek against the cool glass, gazing out into gray, looking for answers that weren’t there.

  She straightened up as they entered the subdivision and passed Lisa Barton’s place, approaching the yellow house next door. The white BMW sat in the front, much as it had the day they’d come to tell Patrick Dielman his wife was dead. Everything looked so quiet and ordinary.

  Hank parked on the street, pulling the Ford so close against the curb that he bumped it, rocking them none too gently.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  When had he ever apologized for a bad parking job?

  “Look, stop it, okay? I’m not made of glass. I’m not about to duck and run because of a dead bird in my mailbox.”

  “What would it take, Jo, a horse’s head in your bed?”

  “I didn’t piss off the mob, for Pete’s sake.”

  “But you did piss off a bad guy.”

  “I’m always pissing off somebody, aren’t I?”

  He shut off the ignition, keeping his hand on the keys for an interminable minute. “I took that damned crow down to Parkland myself,” he said without looking over. He stared at the street. “I paged your friend Emma Slater, who met me in the middle of the freaking night.” He finally turned his gaze on her, and it burned into her hard. “Someone had carved that thing up like a Thanksgiving turkey. You get the message?”

  “Yeah, I get it,” she said, her mouth dry. “But they didn’t break in. They didn’t put a gun to my head. Whoever sent it isn’t sloppy. They won’t hurt me when I’m with you or Adam or anyone else. And you’ve got me surrounded.”

  Hank stared at her without blinking, and Jo knew what he was thinking. She could see it in his face as clearly as she had in Adam’s.

  Would he be so concerned if she were a man?

  She put a hand on his arm. “Hey, nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ve got you watching my back, don’t I?”

  “Always.”

  The way he said it made her blush, and she busied herself unhooking her seat belt.

  “C’mon, let’s go.” She grabbed the door handle and got out of the car. The near-freezing air hit her like a rude awakening as she crossed the sidewalk and crunched across brittle grass on her way to the door.

  She rang the bell, and within seconds, the door swung wide.

  Lisa Barton greeted them, looking as surprised to see them as Jo was to see her. “Ah, Detectives, what’s goin’ on? Did you find out something about my broken window?”

  Jo thought for an instant she’d gone to the wrong house. “Is Mr. Dielman around?” she asked, figuring he must be. It was still over an hour before the funeral.

  “He’s getting dressed, but he should be out soon,” Lisa said, not inviting them inside. Jo wondered how Jenny would feel, having the neighbor answering the door as if she lived there.

  “Mind if we come in?” Jo asked.

  “Oh, sure, go right ahead.” Lisa took a step back, and Jo gratefully crossed the threshold into the warmth of the foyer. “Pat’s having people over after the service, so I’ve been tidying up. He doesn’t even know how to run the dishwasher, poor thing. Jenny did most of the housework.” She reached up to fiddle with her hair, tucking loose strands behind her ear, and Jo again noticed the white scars on her fingers.

  “Were you burned?” she said, something she’d been dying to ask since she’d first noticed.

  “Burned?” The woman glanced at her hands self-consciously. “Oh, that? No, but I did something stupid when I was a teenager. Tattoos,” she explained with a nervous smile. “I was tough back then, always trying to prove something. Thank God, doctors can laser ’em off when you’re old enough to know better.”

  “I’ll kill my kids if they ever do that,” Hank interjected. “Pay somebody to draw on their bodies, I mean.”

  Jo thought of the tattoo on Jenny’s hip, the butterfly that had signified her freedom from Kevin. Only maybe she hadn’t been as free of him as she’d imagined.

  “Look, Detectives”—Lisa crossed her arms and tucked her hands away—“I don’t mean to rush you or anything, but I’ve still got a few things to do in the kitchen before we head to the church. The caterer’s coming here after the service. They’re bringing cold cuts and such, and I’ve been cleaning up the mess Pat’s made. I just want everything to be perfect.”

  Everything to be perfect?

  Jo wanted to laugh. The woman sounded like Martha Stewart hosting a soiree.

  “What do you need Patrick for anyway?” Lisa asked. “Did you find out who killed Jennifer?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it,” Jo said simply. “I actually need something from him. Could you see if he’s dressed?”

  Lisa’s face tightened. “Just don’t keep him too long, okay? We’re fixin’ to head over to the church soon to talk to the pastor and check on the floral arrangements.” She uncrossed her arms and plucked at the fabric of her tight black dress. Black suede boots poked out below the calf-length hem. “Poor Pat. He’s been on the phone all morning. Jenny’s sister got into town, and he tried to talk her into riding with us to the service. But apparently, she declined.”

  So Kimberly Parker had arrived.

  “Does she need a lift to the church?” Jo asked. “We could swing by and pick her up.”

  And get the shoe box that Jenny sent her, Jo thought.

  “No, she’s taken care of.” Lisa frowned. “She rented a car at the airport. She can follow us back here afterward. We’ll take her into Dallas to the cemetery for the burial later.” She checked her watch, looking uneasy. “Let me get Pat, and I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  Jo watched her stride through the foyer and disappear into the hallway that led to the master bedroom, the route they’d taken yesterday.

  She mulled over Lisa’s remark about getting her fingers tattooed as a teenager, and she wondered if it was a rebellious act or if she had been in a gang.

  “Just because she looks like Goldilocks doesn’t mean she is,” her partner bent to whisper. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

  “You figure if she had a rough childhood, she’d grow up to be a killer?” Jo said quietly. “We ran her through the system. She doesn’t have a rap sheet.”

  “That we can find,” he reminded her. “The tats on her hands kind of have a juvie jailhouse ring to ’em, don’t you think? You still have pull with anyone in the city? Someone you know who remembers everybody’s names, some retired sergeant who’s never tossed his notes?”

  “Maybe,” she told him, wishing he’d stop reading her mind. She’d check with Terry, too, see if she could tap into any records from the Department of Family and Protecti
ve Services. If Lisa Barton had been in real trouble as a kid, her records were likely sealed.

  With a tap of heels on marble tiles, Patrick Dielman emerged from the hallway, flushed and a bit wild-eyed. He greeted them with an apology. “I didn’t realize y’all were coming by, and I didn’t hear the doorbell.”

  “You have other things on your mind,” she said.

  “Too much.” He ran a hand over neatly combed hair, patting down a cowlick that dipped over his brow. A wave of sadness swept across his face, and Jo hoped he wouldn’t start to cry. “It took me all morning to decide what suit to wear,” he remarked. “Jenny hated black. She said it reminded her of losing Finn.” He sniffed. “So I put on gray. Do you think that’s all right?”

  “Yes, I do,” Jo said, thinking how different Dielman seemed now compared to the man who’d sat at her desk three days prior. Had losing Jenny softened him? His grief seemed real, but any psychopath worth his salt could cry at the drop of a hat if it helped him get away with murder.

  Dielman glanced down at his dark pants, belted at the waist, and smoothed his hands over the fine creases. He wore a crisp, white shirt with a gray paisley tie. His cuffs hung apart, unbuttoned, and a piece of toilet tissue clung to a spot on his jaw that had bled through a deep red. Did he even know it was there?

  “I was hoping you had some news.” His eyes went from Hank to Jo. “But Lisa said you needed something from me.”

  “It’s a little of both,” Jo said, just as Lisa Barton returned, wearing a black trench coat. She sidled up behind Dielman, his tan Burberry folded over her arm.

  Jo continued, “We did find evidence that there are two suspects involved in your wife’s death. We also believe she was taken somewhere first, before the quarry.”

  “Oh.” Dielman’s Adam’s apple did a jig. “So you’re closing in?”

  Jo watched his face. Then she looked at Lisa Barton. “We’re making progress, yes,” she told him.

  “That’s good.” Dielman nodded. “That’s very good.”

  “Patrick, we really should go.” Lisa held out his coat.

  “We don’t want to hold you up,” Hank said. “Do we, Detective Larsen?”

  “No,” Jo said, “of course not. If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to take a photo from those albums in the yellow room.”

  “Another picture of Jenny?” Dielman asked as he shrugged into his Burberry. “But I already gave you one, and I’m not sure why you’d need it now.”

  “It’s the shot of Finn’s tree house.”

  “The tree house, huh?” Dielman touched his jaw, connected with the bit of toilet paper and ripped it off. A tiny spot of blood remained. Though his demeanor looked calm, his voice shook. “Take the damned photo, Detective. Take every photo from those albums, for all I care. What the hell am I going to do with them now?”

  Lisa hustled him toward the door. Dielman frowned as he patted his pockets, and Jo wondered if he was looking for the leather glove that she’d bagged as evidence. Did he even remember she’d taken it?

  “See y’all at the service,” Hank said as they departed.

  Jo stared after them.

  “Did you get the response you were looking for?” Hank asked bluntly.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

  “Go on.” Hank nudged her. “Get what you need. Then let’s get out of here.”

  She hurried down the hallway and opened the first door on the right.

  The photo album lay on the coffee table, just where she’d left it. She thumbed through the pages until she found what she was looking for: the picture of Fort Finnegan, the tree house that no longer existed.

  She plucked out a shot of the boy for good measure, one where Finn wore gold-rimmed glasses and a grin wide enough to show missing teeth. She slipped both into her coat pocket.

  Hank waited for her in the foyer, thumbs hooked in his belt, gazing into space.

  “Can you give me a minute?” she asked, as he started for the door.

  “Larsen . . .”

  “I just need to do one more thing,” she told him.

  He gave her a look, like she’d better not be up to anything. “I’ll be outside, waiting on the blue-and-white.”

  The department had arranged for a squad car to sit outside the house during the service, since the case was so high profile. They’d keep an eye on the place until Dielman returned.

  Hank headed out and closed the door.

  Jo did a quick walk-through, eyeing plumped sofa pillows, vases filled with fresh flowers, and carpeting with vacuum tracks. There were no dishes on the coffee table, no newspapers spread about, zero evidence that anyone had slept on the couch, and no sign of a fur-shedding black cat.

  “Ernie,” Jo called as she walked around. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

  She listened for the sound of paws padding across the floor but heard nothing.

  The front door flew open.

  “The uniforms are here,” Hank called into the house.

  But Jo wasn’t ready to go. She had to find Ernie.

  “C’mon, partner, let’s roll.”

  Reluctantly, she followed him out, though she hung back while he greeted the guys in the squad car, parked smack in front, where the white Beemer had once been. One of the uniforms lifted a cup of Starbucks in greeting, and she nodded back. Exhaust fumes plumed the chilly air behind the sedan.

  She was about to give up and head to the Ford when she saw motion in the low-lying holly bushes. She heard the plaintive mew and stopped in her tracks.

  “Ernie?” she called out. “Come here, kitty.” She crouched down, opened her hand on the brittle grass. “Hey, baby, where are you?”

  Trimmed green branches shimmied, and a shadow blew out, the dark shape shooting across the driveway to where she squatted. He pushed his damp nose into her palm. The black coat was matted with burrs and leaves, and he shuddered hard as she picked him up, tucking him against her coat to warm him. She felt his ribs beneath her fingers, and the icy pads of his paws.

  Jo glanced back at the front door, debating what to do.

  Take him inside, or take him with her?

  “You have a problem, Detective?” One of the uniforms rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “You need some help with that critter?”

  She spoke without thinking. “I’ve got it under control, thanks.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up. His window whirred closed.

  She started walking toward Hank, who leaned against the Ford, looking none too pleased when he spied what was in her arms.

  “Don’t tell me you’re stealing the Dielmans’ cat.”

  “He was Jenny’s,” she said, because it made a difference. Ernie butted his head against her jaw, clunking skull on bone, and she felt an unexpected surge of laughter catch in her throat. “He tossed the cat bed already, Hank. I have a feeling Ernie’s next.”

  “Well, you can’t just take off with him.”

  “Why not?” Jo said. “He doesn’t belong to anyone anymore.”

  Her partner squinted. “What exactly do you aim to do with him?”

  “I’ll bet your kids would love to have a pet.”

  Hank snorted. “They’ve got a turtle.”

  “Isn’t that a little like having a pet rock?”

  He frowned. “No cat, Jo.”

  Her gut wrenched. “Well, I can’t leave him here. Dielman doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass. Besides, it looks like he already has a new pet.”

  “Goldilocks?” Hank’s caterpillar eyebrows rose. “Take him to your place, then.”

  “My place?”

  “Well, I sure as shit didn’t mean mine.” He shrugged. “Besides, don’t cats kill birds? Maybe he can keep the crows away.”

  “Very funny.”

  He pulled open the passenger door and said, “Get in, Sister Christian.”

  So she did, sliding into the seat, careful to keep Ernie secure in her arms while Hank shut them inside
. The cat vibrated so hard against her chest, it felt like part of her own heart beating.

  She gazed into the trusting yellow eyes and thought: Dear God, what have I done?

  I dialed K’s number again today. I wanted to tell him that I had put more pieces together, that I wasn’t going to stop until I had it all figured out. Only it wasn’t K who answered.

  “What do you want?” his wife demanded, acting so high and mighty. “Can’t you see that we’ve moved on? We have a baby on the way. Surely you understand what that means.”

  Oh, I understood, all right.

  K would get a second chance to be a father. It was crueler than cruel.

  “You should have more sympathy now,” I told her. “You should understand why I can’t let this go.”

  “I will not have this conversation with you. I’m hanging up—”

  “Wait!” I thought of something then, the one thing I’d been dying to ask her. “I know you were talking to him when Finn . . . when it happened. You heard everything, didn’t you? How can you cover up for a man who could hurt a little boy?”

  She was silent for a moment, and I prayed she would break wide open.

  “Leave us alone,” she said sharply, but her voice shook, so I knew I’d struck a chord. “Kevin won’t like that you called again. You need to stop before you make him angrier.”

  “Then tell him to stop calling me!” I screamed into the phone.

  “Calling you? You’re crazy.”

  “Tell him to stop pretending he’s Finn—”

  But she was gone.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Grace Church perched on the corner of a large lot in a mostly residential area. Plainfield Elementary School sat across the street, its playground encompassed by metal fencing. The church’s well-tended grounds looked brown like everything else in North Texas. The fledgling trees were bare of leaves, branches bucking with each gust of wind.