All The Stars In Heaven

by Michele Paige Holmes

  Being careful to stay in the shadows, Sarah crept along the side of the house. According to her watch it was almost eleven p.m., and most of the house lights on the street were out.

  She crouched in front of the motor home and reached beneath the step, searching for a key as she’d seen the couple do two nights ago, when she and Jay hid in the bushes nearby. Her fingers scraped against the rough, cold metal then stopped, her nails snagging on a piece of duct tape. Sarah tugged it away, and a key fell into her hand. Elated, she stood, quickly inserting it into the lock. The door swung open and she climbed inside, closing and locking it behind her.

  She switched on the flashlight again, grateful the beam was low and that the front windshield had a cover. She didn’t dare turn on the lights—if they even worked—but seeing the bed in the back, complete with a stack of folded blankets, Sarah felt like she’d arrived at a five-star hotel.

  Sarah removed her shoes and sat down, taking a minute to stretch her aching feet. She took the gun from the jacket pocket and set it on the floor beside the bed. Pulling a quilt over her lap, she angled the flashlight so it illuminated the small space. Then she turned the envelope on its side, sliding the papers out.

  While walking here she’d given in to curiosity, glancing at a few of the documents. But the need to stay alert and aware of her surroundings kept her from reading anything in detail.

  Sarah picked up the paper on top of the pile—a copy of a police report from the early eighties. She scanned the form, noting her dad’s signature at the bottom. Subsequent pages, paper clipped together, described the bust of an art counterfeiting operation run by one James Devon Rossi. Sarah paused, rereading the name, certain she’d heard Kirk mention it before.

  “You really do have intuition,” she mused aloud, thinking of Jay and his suggestion they search the attic. She sensed this report was important and wished Jay were here with her to figure it out.

  What does an art counterfeiter from the eighties have to do with Dad and drugs in 2005?

  After a few minutes, she set the report aside and went on to the next item—a car repair bill. Behind that were two hospital bills—one for her mother and one for Emily. Instead of feeling sad, Sarah held the papers reverently, grateful for proof of her mother’s and sister’s existence.

  There were other things in the stack, as varied and unusual as those she’d already looked through, and exhausted as she was, she couldn’t seem to find a common thread linking them together.

  She felt a headache forming and began massaging her temples as she glanced at the last two documents. The first was a petition for divorce filed by her mother, the last a page from the Boston Globe, dated December 1986. Red ink circled her mother’s obituary, and above that the sentence, Are we in agreement now?

  Agreement with whom? Goosebumps sprang up on her arms, followed by an involuntary shiver. Sarah flattened the paper, reading both columns of the newsprint for any additional clues. There were none she could see; the obituary gave only the date and place of her mother’s death. But the red circle around it, along with the note that wasn’t in her father’s handwriting, indicated it had been significant to someone.

  Sarah decided that a trip to the medical examiner’s office tomorrow might be a good place to start. But for now her eyes blurred and stung, and she couldn’t remember ever being this tired. Giving in to exhaustion, she set the papers aside and lay back against the pillow, pulling the quilt up to her chin.

  She had plenty of questions and no answers—nothing that would help Jay. The thought of him in jail made her sick to her stomach. She wondered if he was alone or with other inmates. Is Carl anywhere near him? Why did I let him go? I’m the one who should have faced Dad.

  Rolling on her side, Sarah curled in a ball, wrapping the quilt around her. What if I can’t get Jay out? The turmoil continued as her imagination took flight and the worst possibilities filled her mind. Too tired to cry anymore but too worried to sleep, she lay alone in the dark, praying for a miracle.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  For the second time in twenty-four hours, Sarah unlocked the front door of her father’s house and went inside. Turning the deadbolt behind her, she stood in the living room for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the light while she battled ghosts of the past and fought off feelings of oppression. Her father’s and Carl’s voices echoed through the halls of her memory, and the room seemed to shrink, closing in on her—suffocating. Yesterday, with Jay here, it had been different. Today it was all she could do not to turn and run outside.

  She thought of Jay, and the very real walls closing around him—indefinitely if she couldn’t prove his innocence—and knew that all she could do was stay here and face her father. He alone had the answers she needed, the information that might set Jay free.

  She didn’t bother turning on any lights, but she opened the kitchen curtains enough to see what she needed. Getting right to work, Sarah pulled the phone cord from its jack in the wall and stuffed it in her pocket. She took the knives from the drawer and dropped them, one by one, into the overflowing garbage, making sure to bury them well, without the trash looking like it had been disturbed.

  Another glance around the kitchen and she felt satisfied—and depressed. She’d forgotten how dreary the whole house was. A few months away had changed her perspective so that she wasn’t sure anymore just how she’d survived here for almost nineteen years.

  Her father’s room was next. Again, she disabled the phone and collected all the weapons she could find. When she’d finished, a pocket knife, five guns, and a rifle lay across the bed. The knife she zipped into her jacket pocket with the cords. Then she took her time checking each of the guns and searching her father’s closet and drawers for additional ammunition. Certain she’d found everything, she traded out Detective Doyle’s gun for her father’s PP7, the clip and several extra rounds, and the silencer attachment. The remaining weapons and ammo she hauled up to the attic, balancing on her tiptoes on the chair to push them as far as she could from the opening.

  Sarah returned the chair and brushed the dust from her jeans. With the loaded pistol in one hand, and the newspaper with her mother’s obituary in the other, she sat down in her father’s chair to wait for his arrival.

  * * *

  Grant closed the front door behind him and was reaching for the light switch when instinct kicked in, telling him he wasn’t alone.

  “Drop your gun belt on the floor.”

  “Sarah?” He turned toward her familiar voice.

  “Do it.” She stood on the far side of the room, one of his own pistols in her hand, pointed at his heart. A determined expression on her face, she looked for all the world as she had the day they’d buried her mother and Sarah demanded he take her home.

  “You wouldn’t really shoot your father,” he said, calling her bluff.

  “Wouldn’t I?” Sarah said in an angry voice that wasn’t as familiar. “A father is someone who loves his children, but I mean nothing to you except for ironed shirts and a hot meal.”

  “Rossi was listening in when I said that,” Grant tried to explain. “If he’d heard me say I loved you—”

  “Throw it over there,” Sarah said, cutting him off. She inclined her head toward the sofa.

  They locked eyes for a minute before Grant decided to humor her. She wasn’t in her right mind; this wasn’t the Sarah he knew. He removed his belt, tossing it, along with his gun, baton, and phone, onto the couch. “You’ve got this all wrong. It isn’t me you need protection from. Put the gun down. You don’t want to shoot anyone. And anyway, without your glasses on, we both know you’re blind as a bat.”

  “Contacts.” Her grip remained steady. “But you’re right. I didn’t want to shoot that phony DEA agent you sent after us either.”

  “That was you?” Grant’s mouth turned up in a smile of admiration. “Well done, then. He was one of Rossi’s best, and a thorn in my side for a long time.”

  “Then you know how I feel a
bout Carl.” She stepped in front of the couch, putting herself between him and his weapon—a smart move.

  Grant’s chest swelled with pride. She would have made a good cop—even if that wasn’t what she wanted. Though just now, in spite of the gun she wielded with authority, she looked more like a movie star playing a part. She’d cut her hair and it curled around her face, showing off blue eyes that stared at him with intensity. Noticing Sarah had attached the silencer, Grant felt a stirring of unease. He backed toward the kitchen, putting more distance between himself and her gun, though he still didn’t believe she would really use it.

  “Carl’s in jail for good. You won’t have to worry about him anymore. But we need to leave. I’ve got enough money for—”

  “Run away?” Sarah said in a choked voice. “You think I’m going to leave Jay rotting in prison when you know something that can free him?”

  “So that’s what this is about?” Grant reached the counter separating the living room from the kitchen.

  “It’s about everything.”

  He’d have to lie to her, tell her they’d get her friend out. Otherwise she’d never leave. He could see it in her stubborn countenance. And they had to get out soon. If Rossi discovered she was here, they’d both be in trouble. And while Grant knew his sorry life wasn’t worth much these days, Sarah’s was. If it was the last thing he did, he’d make sure she was safe. He glanced toward the phone and saw that the cord was missing. Smart girl. “Give me the gun.” He held out his hand.

  She followed him with her eyes but maintained her stance.

  “Now, Sarah.”

  “No!” She pointed the pistol down and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet whizzing past his kneecap, into the wall behind him.

  Grant jumped back in surprise, then lunged forward, furious. She fired again, this time just missing his arm.

  “I will shoot you,” Sarah screamed as he continued to advance. “Why shouldn’t I?” Her hands were steady, but a tear rolled down her cheek. “You killed Mom—and Emily.”

  Emily. The word stopped him where her weapon had not. Grant froze, the painful image of a tiny infant flashing through his mind. He hadn’t heard that name in so long, and he was sure he’d never mentioned it to Sarah. “What do you know about that?” he asked in a gruff voice unrecognizable to his own ears. Hearing Emily made him feel as if his air supply had been abruptly cut off.

  “I know Mom wasn’t an addict,” Sarah said. “I went to Boston this morning and read the medical examiner’s report. For some reason the examiner ignored a lot of unusual facts.” She paused, breathing in deeply.

  It seemed he wasn’t the only one fighting for oxygen.

  “He’s retired now,” Sarah continued. “But after the current examiner looked at the report, he decided to make some phone calls. There’s going to be an investigation.” Her lips pressed together as another tear leaked from her eye. “But you already know what happened, don’t you, Dad?” Her knuckles were white as she gripped the gun. She took a step toward him. “I want to know why. Why did you kill her—and my little sister? And I want to know about this.” Sarah opened one hand, and a yellowed newspaper clipping fluttered to the carpet.

  Grant didn’t need to read the words to know what it was.

  He backed into his chair and sat down as the pieces of his life crumbled around him. This was the beginning of the end. He took a deep breath and looked up. Sarah was serious, the anger in her eyes real. At the very least she deserved an explanation. “I didn’t kill Emily. At least I didn’t mean to.”

  * * *

  “Thought of everything, didn’t you?” Grant asked as he opened the knife drawer and found it devoid of anything sharp—including scissors.

  “You taught me well,” Sarah said. “I’d be dead if you hadn’t.”

  “Glad I did something right.” He grunted, then used his teeth to rip off a piece of duct tape. He should have felt humiliated that his own daughter held him at gunpoint, had forced him to tape his legs together, and was now forcing him to tape his arm to the chair. But at the moment worry was the more prominent emotion. “There are other places we could go to talk,” Grant said, trying again to convince her they should leave. “If Rossi finds out you’re here, we’re both dead.”

  She shrugged. “Talk fast. Tell me about him.”

  Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter? Grant continued to be astonished, irritated, and ultimately impressed by the confident young woman standing in his kitchen. “I intend to tell you everything,” he said, finishing the awkward job.

  Sarah pulled out the chair across from him, but instead of sitting in it, she pushed record on the tape recorder she’d hidden there.

  She really did think of everything. Grant leaned forward, his free elbow propped on the table. “It won’t do you any good to take that to the police, you know.”

  “Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to bother. Who knows how many of your underlings are just as corrupt as you.”

  Grant raised his head. “That isn’t true. I work alone. No one else in the department is in on this.”

  “On what? And don’t lie to me. I saw Detective Anderson arrest Jay yesterday.”

  Grant sighed. “You’re wrong—especially about Anderson. He’s a good cop. I hired him hoping—” Grant stopped, realizing he was getting ahead of himself. And since Sarah was recording this, he might as well make it good. “I’m going to start at the beginning. This has been going on a long time—a lifetime. My lifetime.” He paused, hating to open the door to such painful memories. “But once, long ago, things were different.”

  Sarah leaned against the wall. Grant knew her arms had to be getting tired, but she hadn’t let her guard down. Not that he could do much if she did. It was over now. The best he could hope for was to confess everything to her as quickly as possible so she could get out of here. She’d managed to stay safe this long; maybe she could get the information to the right authorities and end this once and for all. He hadn’t heard from J.D. today. There was a chance . . .

  “I was a rookie cop when your mom and I married. We didn’t have much—not a decent car, not enough money for a movie, but we were happy. A couple of years later, you were born. Life was even better.” A wistful smile touched Grant’s lips. He thought he saw Sarah’s tremble.

  “Then one day I broke a case I’d been working on for several months. A man named J.D. Rossi had been smuggling counterfeit art into the country and selling it at quite a profit. He was arrested, tried, and sent to prison pending sentencing. I’d interrogated him during the process, and I went to see him while he was in jail. He’d been offered a plea agreement if he’d testify in another case. Turns out he had an offer for me as well.”

  “Go on,” Sarah said.

  “The paintings were not only imitations, but they concealed drugs—a relatively new one called methamphetamine. Rossi told me it was worth a lot of money, and he agreed to testify in the other case if I’d help him get the meth out of the paintings, still held in our evidence room. He said he’d give me half the profit, and he planned to use his portion of the money to bring his family here from Costa Rica.”

  “You agreed,” Sarah guessed.

  Grant nodded. “I was naive. I figured it was for the greater good in getting his testimony, and I justified taking the money by reminding myself how little I was paid for my public service. It took weeks, but a little at a time I slipped the paintings out of our evidence room then back in again. One of Rossi’s friends took care of extracting the meth. His name was Eddie Martin.”

  Sarah gasped. “The same Eddie you had me tracking all those months?”

  “The same. Eddie sold the meth and gave me my share of the money. I used it to fix our car and pay off debt. Rossi testified in the other case. Our deal was complete—no harm done, or so I thought.” Grant looked up at Sarah. “Water, please?”

  She went to the sink and filled two paper cups. One she drank; the other she placed on the far side of the table.
With his free hand, Grant reached across, took it, and downed the whole thing.

  “Rossi was released about eighteen months later, about the time your mother got pregnant with Emily. He came to see me, said he needed his portion of the money so he could get his family.”

  “But didn’t Eddie have it?”

  “He was supposed to, but he insisted he’d given it all to me. I was in a real mess—two criminals angry with me and nowhere to turn.”

  “Because you’d broken the law yourself,” Sarah said.

  Grant looked up, wanting her to understand he hadn’t started out intending to do wrong, intending to ruin his life and destroy his family. “I didn’t want to go to jail. I had a wife, who I loved and adored, a precious daughter, and another child on the way. I felt I had no choice but to agree to work with Rossi again. He was going to smuggle in the meth, and I’d watch his back and make sure the cops stayed away so he could do his thing. When he had enough money for his family, then I’d be done.”

  Sarah’s lips were pinched, her expression anything but understanding. “It didn’t work that way?”

  “Of course not,” Grant said. “I was young and stupid. There was no family waiting. Everyone was already here, working full-time introducing meth to the East Coast. And Eddie had split the money with him, but I didn’t know until it was too late and I was so far in I knew I’d go to prison for years if what I’d been doing came to light.” Grant sighed, wishing as he had so many times that he could go back and make different choices. What had seemed monumental then was nothing compared to what happened afterward.