by Alicia Scott
Call him, a little voice pleaded. You need help. He will help you. You can trust him.
And then what? the rest of her cried. You drag him into your problems, you learn to depend on him, and then the senator or whoever it is, gets him, too? One more person to care about. One more person to lose. No. She wouldn't do it.
She would take care of herself. She'd let herself go, cried too much, gotten lost in the labyrinth of self-pity. No more. She was stronger than this.
She got up. She took a long hot shower, hoping to relax her bunched neck. She ordered a large pizza with fresh vegetables and a tossed salad, and forced herself to eat. She drank a whole glass of orange juice for the vitamins. Then she slipped outside and swam fifty laps, making her body function long after it would've given out.
When she returned to her room, she fell instantly into a light slumber, gaining precious hours of rest.
By 5:00 a.m., she was feeling calm, grounded, composed.
Maybe it had been the senator all along. Who else would have the power to watch her? Who else would have the resources to find out about C.J.'s father? Who else would have so much to lose that he would contemplate murder?
If that was the case, she was in a vulnerable position. She couldn't hide forever, and yet she couldn't come forward. She'd found no evidence tying the senator to that night ten years ago. She had only her hazy memory, and if something happened to her…
She made her decision. By the dim light of the bedside lamp, she wrote out everything she remembered from ten years ago. She stated why she thought the senator might be involved. She recorded what happened with her brake lines, the scorpion, the bomb beneath her car.
There wasn't enough information to stand up in court, but if something happened to her, at least it would raise the right questions. Maybe it would be enough to get an ambitious journalist or D.A. digging.
Maybe it would give C.J. a lead to get the senator once and for all.
She sat alone in the middle of the tousled bed. She folded the two-page letter carefully and sealed it inside an envelope. Her hand wavered for a long time.
Who to send it to?
C.J. would listen. C.J. already knows what's going on. He has credibility, he has expertise. He cares.
You will not need C.J. MacNamara.
With a quick, forceful flourish, she wrote Patty's name on the letter and called a courier. Thirty minutes later, fifty dollars poorer, it was done. Patty would be receiving the letter within the hour.
Once more, she'd taken care of herself.
She curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed and tried to sleep without dreams.
* * *
At 7:00 a.m., a knock on her door roused her from the bed. Her first thought was that it was Patty. Her second thought was C.J. Then she peered out the window.
Two brown sedans sat in the parking lot of the tiny hotel, the gold stars on their doors proclaiming them to be from the sheriff's department. The rapping on the door continued while she stood there, fighting the sinking feeling in her stomach. Something had happened to C.J. Something had happened to Patty.
She knew why cops came to people's houses. They stood at the foot of your bed, their young faces somber, while they told you what had happened to the people you loved.
The rapping continued.
She undid the locks like a woman in a dream. She drew open the door very slowly, knowing her face was too pale, her eyes too stark.
Sheriff Brody and two young deputies stood in her doorway in full uniform. The sheriff stood in front. His broad, ruddy face was grimmer than Tamara remembered. His small brown eyes were as sharp as a hawk's. He'd unsnapped the top of his holster, and his hand was poised on his hip, his fingertips brushing the handle of his gun. The two deputies stood to the side. Their holsters were unsnapped, as well. Their hands hovered above their hips.
Their faces were very serious.
A low buzzing filled her ears.
"Tamara Allistair?"
"Yes."
"Tamara Allistair, you're under arrest for the murder of Spider Wallace. You have the right to remain silent…"
Chapter 10
« ^ »
Sedona did not boast a large sheriff's department. A small town that existed mostly for tourists, its law enforcement officers were accustomed to a steady supply of petty theft, fender benders, and drunken and disorderly charges. Sheriff Brody hadn't arrested a murderer in five years, and he wasn't taking any chances.
He'd read the Miranda to Tamara promptly and cuffed her hands behind her back. Now she sat in the department's one interrogation room, her hands finally freed, but with two deputies stationed at the door. Sheriff Brody had left her a small cup of coffee, which she refused to touch even though her system craved caffeine. She'd watched TV; she knew how this worked. The fuzz brought you in, pumped you up with coffee and cigarettes until your bladder was so overloaded and your nerves so tightly strung you'd agree the pope was Protestant just to use the bathroom.
She was smarter than that. And she was determined to keep her wits about her even while sitting alone at a wood-table with a metal fold-down chair cold and hard beneath her butt and the room stark and bright white around her. This whole thing was a big mistake, and if she just remained intelligent and lucid, it would all be cleared up.
Sheriff Brody had informed her she could make one phone call, but she hadn't used it yet because she didn't know who to call. She didn't have a lawyer, and she didn't have many connections in Sedona. She could call her office in New York—certainly Lombardi, the senior partner, knew some heavy-hitting lawyers, but it would take at least twelve hours to get someone out here.
She was hoping she could resolve the matter before then. After all, she hadn't killed Spider Wallace. She'd never even heard of the man until three hours ago.
From the hallway came the sharp snap of two deputies pulling themselves erect. Obviously Sheriff Brody was returning. He'd been gone for forty-five minutes or so. Maybe he thought the solitude would wear on her conscience and make her snap.
The door opened. The sheriff walked in, pulled out his chair and settled his imposing bulk on the thin metal frame. Methodically, he set his little spiral notebook on the table, unclipped his black disposable pen from his shirt pocket and pulled off the cap. Tamara was becoming accustomed to this little game. Sheriff Brody moved like molasses, never in a rush. He even spoke slowly, as if he was on the verge of falling asleep. It created long moments of silence, which no doubt she was supposed to fill with sudden confessions of guilt.
Tamara kept her gaze on the sheriff's eyes. He had a hunter's eyes, and that assured her of her place—she was the prey.
"Tell me about Spider Wallace," Sheriff Brody drawled.
"I don't know who that is."
"You shot him."
"I did not."
"We found him dead in the cemetery, in front of your parents' grave. Cognac at his feet."
"I didn't shoot him."
"You said you went to the cemetery that night."
"I did!" Tamara's nerves frayed a little. They'd been over this before. Three, four, five times. She didn't remember anymore. But she hadn't shot Spider Wallace. Not even New Yorkers went around shooting poor, innocent cemetery caretakers.
"So you went to the cemetery, but you didn't shoot Spider Wallace?"
"Exactly, there you go. I visited my parents' grave, I left the bottle of my father's favorite cognac as I do every year on the anniversary of the accident—"
"And you shot Spider Wallace."
"And I walked away."
"And kicked Spider's dead body out of the way."
"I did not shoot Spider Wallace! I did not see Spider Wallace! I was there alone, saw no one, spoke to no one and left without meeting anyone. Why are you doing this, Sheriff? So the man was shot in front of my parents' grave. That doesn't make me the killer!"
"Got a witness who says he saw a woman walking away from the sight. A woman in an expensive black suit and
fancy heels."
"I don't wear heels. Haven't you watched me walk? Women with grafted ankles and plastic knees have no business on spikes."
"Maybe he was wrong about the heels."
"Maybe you're grasping at straws!"
"Spider was shot with a .22," the sheriff said evenly.
"Lots of people have .22s."
"Yup." Abruptly, the sheriff tossed a file onto the table. It landed with a slap. "But only one .22 matched the ballistics report on the slug we took from Spider's body. That would be yours."
Tamara felt the blood rush from her face. "Wh-wh-what?"
Sheriff Brody leaned over, his thick arms crossing on the table, his wide shoulders filling the space. He spoke in rapid, clipped tones she'd never heard from him before. "We got a full ballistics match. We got a witness who saw a woman walk away from the scene. We got a man dead in front of your parents' grave and a bottle of cognac with your prints. Now I hear you've been asking questions about your parents' accident ten years ago. I hear you're asking about the senator. Was he next, Tamara? Were you going to shoot him next?"
"I … no! Of course not!" She couldn't think. She stared at the sheriff like an idiot, her eyes blinking, her mouth open.
Dammit, pull yourself together. He's confusing you and you're letting him.
"Why'd you kill Spider? He never harmed anyone. The man was just a cemetery caretaker. It was cruel to kill a man like him."
"I didn't," she whispered.
"Now, the senator, he's made some enemies. I hear stories about him from time to time. Politicians get a lot of power, lot of influence. Maybe you held him accountable for something. Maybe you didn't like his politics. But I could see why you might have reason to go after a man like him."
"I'm not after the senator."
"He likes to chase women. You ever been involved with him? He break it off with you?"
"I've never even met him!"
"Yet you come all the way from New York to work on his campaign. And you asked around about him. I hear you even kept tabs on his schedule…"
"I want my phone call," Tamara said.
"Were you obsessed with the senator? Maybe you stood at your parents' graves and told them you were plotting to kill the senator. Folks do crazy things like that. Then you realized Spider overhead you, so you shot him."
"I want my phone call!"
"Did Spider hear too much? Is that why you killed him?"
Tamara pressed her lips together in a thin, white line. She stared at the sheriff with all the outrage and mutiny she could muster. Minute turned into minute, the silence growing, stretching, becoming taut.
Tamara didn't give in. She was in over her head. She didn't know what had happened, but her arrest was no longer a matter of simple mistaken identity. She'd been foolish to answer any questions at all, she realized. Well, she'd never been arrested before. She'd chalk it up to experience, and move as fast as she could to correct her mistakes.
She was very scared.
"Why'd you shoot Spider Wallace?"
She stared at the sheriff mutely.
"Why are you after the senator?"
Tamara locked her gaze on the far wall.
"Did the senator hurt your family? Is that why you wanted him?" And a minute later he added, "Why hurt a poor man like Spider, Tamara? Hell, he never hurt anyone."
Tamara didn't say a word.
Finally, Sheriff Brody hefted his bulk from the chair. He looked at her with frank disapproval, the way a father might stare at his rebellious daughter. His fingers stroked his luxuriant mustache. "It would make it easier on everyone if you'd just tell us why you did it."
"Get me the phone, Sheriff."
"Well … if it has to be like that…"
He lifted his heavy shoulders and got to the business of exiting. It seemed to take him a full minute just to close up his spiral notebook and slip the cap onto his pen. A whole minute, when the bright lights of the sterile room pressed against her and her backside grew sore from sitting on such an uncomfortable chair. Her shoulders were too tight, her eyes too tired. She started to eye the coffee seriously.
The sheriff moseyed to the door as if he had all the time in the world. The silence begged to be filled. Tamara refused to comply.
It took five more minutes for the sheriff to reappear with an old rotary phone. He paused before the table, his gaze sharp on her face as if he were giving her one last time to confess and beg for clemency. Tamara wondered how many teenaged children he'd raised to develop such skills in interrogation.
He planted the phone on the table. It gave a small clang of protest.
"I'll be back in a bit. Holler to Dennis or Rod if you need anything."
Tamara was tempted to say thank you, but somehow that sounded too hospitable, given the circumstances.
The door of the interrogation room had been closed for thirty seconds before she could bring herself to lift the receiver. She still wasn't sure who to call, but there was one person who knew the truth, one person who could vouch for her actions. One person who'd pledged to be her friend forever.
Tamara called Patty. The ringing phone filled her ear. One, two, three rings.
"Please be home, Patty. Please be home." Suddenly, the line picked up.
"Patty! Oh, Patty, I'm so happy you're there." She was babbling. She was too desperate to care. "Do you have the envelope, Patty? Please tell me you have the envelope."
Patty didn't immediately reply. Instead, a long, troubled silence filled the line. Tamara began to sweat.
"Patty?" she whispered.
"You went too far," Patty said abruptly. "When you were just asking questions, it was one thing, but, Tamara, I heard about the arrest."
"I didn't do it—"
"Spider Wallace never hurt you. He never hurt anyone. He was just a sweet old man who took care of the graveyard. How could you turn on him like that?"
"I didn't hurt Spider! Didn't you read the letter? Patty, please…" Tamara was begging. She heard herself beg, heard the desperation hitch up the words until they came out high and falsetto. She was leaning forward, clutching the phone with whitened knuckles as if it would somehow help.
"You've changed a lot more than I realized, Tamara. I'm sorry I ever helped you."
"Patty—"
"What kind of person would kill Spider Wallace? What kind of person sinks that low?" Her voice broke. She sounded as if she was crying again. "Don't call me again, Tamara."
The phone clicked. The dial tone filled Tamara's ear. Fine use of a phone call. Today was just not her day.
Dammit, I didn't do it, I didn't do it! How could you believe something like that about me, Patty? How could you not trust me anymore?
Tamara stared dully at the beat-up wood table. Her hands no longer seemed to belong to her. And the room was unbearably white, unbearably cold, unbearably bright.
What did she do now?
"Tamara?"
She looked up and C.J. stood in the doorway, his blue eyes shadowed.
She looked like hell, C.J. thought. The cool, composed woman in designer suits was gone. This woman sat in the same pants and shirt she'd worn yesterday, and they appeared wrinkled enough to have been slept in. She was pale as a ghost and ragged as a frayed sheet. Sitting on the edge of the chair, she looked like she hadn't a friend in the world.
He'd been surprised when Sheriff Brody had shown up at his place this morning looking for Tamara. The sheriff had refused to say why, of course, but his tone and the presence of both of his deputies had indicated that it was pretty serious. C.J. had spent the rest of the morning trying to weasel the information out of the sheriff's receptionist. When Yvonne had finally admitted Tamara had been booked for murder, C.J. had been stunned.
Tamara was many things. She had many secrets to hide. But C.J. didn't believe murder was one of them.
He pulled out the vacant chair.
"We don't have much time. I'm not even supposed to be in here, but Dennis owes me. Of course,
when the sheriff decides to check in on you again, he'll probably tan my hide and fine me to hell and back, that is, if he decides not to book me for obstructing justice."
Tamara looked at him wordlessly. Her eyes had turned into huge, dark pools. Dilated. Shocked. He reached across the table and took her hand, rubbing her icy fingers as he spoke.
"Did you kill Spider Wallace?"
"No," she whispered.
"Do you know who did?"
"No."
"Do you understand why you were arrested?"
"They said the ballistics report on my gun matched it to the bullet."
"Is it your gun, Tamara, or did someone give it to you?"
"I bought it. In New York."
"Has it been in your possession the whole week you were in Sedona?"
"No. When I work I leave it in my hotel room. I didn't think it would be good to be seen in the campaign war room with a gun."
"Did you take your gun with you when you went to the cemetery that night?"
"Yes. I think so."
"Was it really your gun? Did you check the registration number on the barrel?"
"No, of course not. I had no reason to."
"Huh. Well it's a start. Someone could've stolen your gun, leaving a dummy in place while using your weapon to shoot Spider, then swapped back."
She blinked her eyes several times rapidly. He didn't try to pretend the theory wasn't far-fetched.
"Tamara, do you know how they found you? Do you know how they knew to come arrest you?"
She shook her head.
"Yvonne told me they pulled a pair of prints for Tamara Allistair off the cognac bottle. Then they got an anonymous tip that Tamara Allistair and Tamara Thompson were the same person. They've been looking for you since last night. Word of advice, Tamara—don't order pizza or personal couriers when you're trying to hide."
"Oh." Her fingers had curled slightly. Tentatively, unconsciously, she'd begun to grip his hand.
"Sweetheart, do you know who would've called in with that kind of tip?"
"No."
"Well, I do. My guess is that it's the same person who shot Spider Wallace."
Abruptly, her eyes filled. She gripped his hand in earnest. "I don't know what's going on," she wailed, her voice raw. "I swear I didn't kill Spider Wallace, C.J. I swear I wasn't plotting to kill the senator, not even if he did turn out to be the person who hit my parents' car. I wanted real justice—legal justice. I don't even know how to shoot a gun!"
