More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

by Jeffery Deaver

  Liz smiled. “I guess I did. I started to look you up but I lost the nerve.” Liz felt tears welling in her eyes as her daughter continued her examination of the room. The house was small, yes, but the furniture, electronics and appointments were the best — the rewards of Liz’s hard work in recent years. Two feelings vied within the woman: She half-hoped the girl would be tempted to reconnect with her mother when she saw how much money Liz had but, simultaneously, she was ashamed of the opulence; her daughter’s clothes and cheap costume jewelry suggested she was struggling.

  The silence was like fire. It burned Liz’s skin and heart.

  Beth Anne unclenched her left hand and her mother noticed a minuscule engagement ring and a simple gold band. The tears now rolled from her eyes. “You—?”

  The young woman followed her mother’s gaze to the ring. She nodded.

  Liz wondered what sort of man her son-in-law was. Would he be someone soft like Jim, someone who could temper the girl’s wayward personality? Or would he be hard? Like Beth Anne herself?

  “You have children?” Liz asked.

  “That’s not for you to know.”

  “Are you working?”

  “Are you asking if I’ve changed, Mother?”

  Liz didn’t want to hear the answer to this question and continued quickly, pitching her case. “I was thinking,” she said, desperation creeping into her voice, “that maybe I could go up to Seattle. We could see each other… we could even work together. We could be partners. Fifty-fifty. We’d have so much fun. I always thought we’d be great together. I always dreamed—”

  “You and me working together, Mother?” She glanced into the sewing room, nodded toward the machine, the racks of dresses. “That’s not my life. It never was. It never could be. After all these years, you really don’t understand that, do you?” The words and their cold tone answered Liz’s question firmly: No, the girl hadn’t changed one bit.

  Her voice went harsh. “Then why’re you here? What’s your point in coming?”

  “I think you know, don’t you?”

  “No, Beth Anne, I don’t know. Some kind of psycho revenge?”

  “You could say that, I guess.” She looked around the room again. “Let’s go.”

  Liz’s breath was coming fast. “Why? Everything we ever did was for you.”

  “I’d say you did it to me.” A gun appeared in her daughter’s hand and the black muzzle lolled in Liz’s direction. “Outside,” she whispered.

  “My God! No!” She inhaled a gasp as the memory of the shooting in the jewelry store came back to her hard. Her arm tingled and tears streaked down her cheeks.

  She pictured the gun on the dresser.

  Sleep, my child…

  “I’m not going anywhere!” Liz said, wiping her eyes.

  “Yes, you are. Outside.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asked desperately.

  “What I should’ve done a long time ago.”

  Liz leaned against a chair for support. Her daughter noticed the woman’s left hand, which had eased to within inches of the telephone.

  “No!” the girl barked. “Get away from it.”

  Liz gave a hopeless glance at the receiver and then did as she was told.

  “Come with me.”

  “Now? In the rain.”

  The girl nodded.

  “Let me get a coat.”

  “There’s one by the door.”

  “It’s not warm enough.”

  The girl hesitated, as if she was going to say that the warmth of her mother’s coat was irrelevant, considering what was about to happen. But then she nodded. “But don’t try to use the phone. I’ll be watching.”

  Stepping into the doorway of the sewing room, Liz picked up the blue jacket she’d just been working on. She slowly put it on, her eyes riveted to the doily and the hump of the pistol beneath it. She glanced back into the living room. Her daughter was staring at a framed snapshot of herself at eleven or twelve standing next to her father and mother.

  Quickly she reached down and picked up the gun. She could turn fast, point it at her daughter. Scream to her to throw away her own gun.

  Mother, I can feel you near me, all through the night…

  Father, I know you can hear me, all through the night…

  But what if Beth Anne didn’t give up the gun?

  What if she raised it, intending to shoot?

  What would Liz do then?

  To save her own life could she kill her daughter?

  Sleep, my child…

  Beth Anne was still turned away, examining the picture. Liz would be able to do it — turn, one fast shot. She felt the pistol, its weight tugging at her throbbing arm.

  But then she sighed.

  The answer was no. A deafening no. She’d never hurt her daughter. Whatever was going to happen next, outside in the rain, she could never hurt the girl.

  Replacing the gun, Liz joined Beth Anne.

  “Let’s go,” her daughter said and, shoving her own pistol into the waistband of her jeans, she led the woman outside, gripped her mother roughly by the arm. This was, Liz realized, the first physical contact in at least four years.

  They stopped on the porch and Liz spun around to face her daughter. “If you do this, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

  “No,” the girl said. “I’d regret not doing it.”

  Liz felt a spatter of rain join the tears on her cheeks. She glanced at her daughter. The young woman’s face was wet and red too, but this was, her mother knew, solely from the rain; her eyes were completely tearless. In a whisper she asked, “What’ve I ever done to make you hate me?”

  This question went unanswered as the first of the squad cars pulled into the yard, red and blue and white lights igniting the fat raindrops around them like sparks at a Fourth of July celebration. A man in his thirties, wearing a dark windbreaker and a badge around his neck, climbed out of the first car and walked toward the house, two uniformed state troopers behind him. He nodded to Beth Anne. “I’m Dan Heath, Oregon State Police.”

  The young woman shook his hand. “Detective Beth Anne Polemus, Seattle PD.”

  “Welcome to Portland,” he said.

  She gave an ironic shrug, took the handcuffs he held and cuffed her mother’s hands securely.

  * * *

  Numb from the cold rain — and from the emotional fusion of the meeting — Beth Anne listened as Heath recited to the older woman, “Elizabeth Polemus, you’re under arrest for murder, attempted murder, assault, armed robbery and dealing in stolen goods.” He read her her rights and explained that she’d be arraigned in Oregon on local charges but was subject to an extradition order back to Michigan on a number of outstanding warrants there, including capital murder.

  Beth Anne gestured to the young OSP officer who’d met her at the airport. She hadn’t had time to do the paperwork that’d allow her to bring her own service weapon into another state so the trooper had loaned her one of theirs. She returned it to him now and turned back to watch a trooper search her mother.

  “Honey,” her mother began, the voice miserable, pleading.

  Beth Anne ignored her, and Heath nodded to the young uniformed trooper, who led the woman toward a squad car. But Beth Anne stopped him and called, “Hold on. Frisk her better.”

  The uniformed trooper blinked, looking over the slim, slight captive, who seemed as unthreatening as a child. But, with a nod from Heath, he motioned over a policewoman, who expertly patted her down. The officer frowned when she came to the small of Liz’s back. The mother gave a piercing glance to her daughter as the officer pulled up the woman’s navy-blue jacket, revealing a small pocket sewn into the inside back of the garment. Inside was a small switchblade knife and a universal handcuff key.

  “Jesus,” whispered the officer. He nodded to the policewoman, who searched her again. No other surprises were found.

  Beth Anne said, “That was a trick I remember from the old days. She’d sew sec
ret pockets into her clothes. For shoplifting and hiding weapons.” A cold laugh from the young woman. “Sewing and robbery. Those’re her talents.” The smile faded. “Killing too, of course.”

  “How could you do this to your mother?” Liz snapped viciously. “You Judas.”

  Beth Anne watched, detached, as the woman was led to a squad car.

  Heath and Beth Anne stepped into the living room of the house. As the policewoman again surveyed the hundreds of thousands of dollars’ of stolen property filling the bungalow, Heath said, “Thanks, Detective. I know this was hard for you. But we were desperate to collar her without anybody else getting hurt.”

  Capturing Liz Polemus could indeed have turned into a bloodbath. It had happened before. Several years ago, when her mother and her lover, Brad Selbit, had tried to knock over a jewelry store in Ann Arbor, Liz had been surprised by the security guards. He’d shot her in the arm. But that hadn’t stopped her from grabbing her pistol with her other hand and killing him and a customer and then later shooting one of the responding police officers. She’d managed to escape. She’d left Michigan for Portland, where she and Brad had started up her operation again, sticking with her forte — knocking over jewelry stores and boutiques selling designer clothes, which she’d use her skills as a seamstress to alter and then would sell to fences in other states.

  An informant had told the Oregon State Police that Liz Polemus was the one behind the string of recent robberies in the Northwest and was living under a fake name in a bungalow here. The OSP detectives on the case had learned that her daughter was a detective with the Seattle police department and had helicoptered Beth Anne to Portland Airport. She’d driven here alone to get her mother to surrender peacefully.

  “She was on two states’ ten-most-wanted lists. And I heard she was making a name for herself in California too. Imagine that — your own mother.” Heath’s voice faded, thinking this might be indelicate.

  But Beth Anne didn’t care. She mused, “That was my childhood — armed robbery, burglary, money laundering…. My father owned a warehouse where they fenced the stuff. That was their front — they’d inherited it from his father. Who was in the business too, by the way.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  She nodded. “That warehouse… I can still see it so clear. Smell it. Feel the cold. And I was only there once. When I was about eight, I guess. It was full of perped merch. My father left me in the office alone for a few minutes and I peeked out the door and saw him and one of his buddies beating the hell out of this guy. Nearly killed him.”

  “Doesn’t sound like they tried to keep anything very secret from you.”

  “Secret? Hell, they did everything they could to get me into the business. My father had these ‘special games,’ he called them. Oh, I was supposed to go over to friends’ houses and scope out if they had valuables and where they were. Or check out TVs and VCRs at school and let him know where they kept them and what kind of locks were on the doors.”

  Heath shook his head in astonishment. Then he asked, “But you never had any run-ins with the law?”

  She laughed. “Actually, yeah — I got busted once for shoplifting.”

  Heath nodded. “I copped a pack of cigarettes when I was fourteen. I can still feel my daddy’s belt on my butt for that one.”

  “No, no,” Beth Anne said. “I got busted returning some crap my mother stole.”

  “You what?”

  “She took me to the store as cover. You know, a mother and daughter wouldn’t be as suspicious as a woman by herself. I saw her pocket some watches and a necklace. When we got home I put the merch in a bag and took it back to the store. The guard saw me looking guilty, I guess, and he nailed me before I could replace anything. I took the rap. I mean, I wasn’t going to drop a dime on my parents, was I?… My mother was so mad…. They honestly couldn’t figure out why I didn’t want to follow in their footsteps.”

  “You need some time with Dr. Phil or somebody.”

  “Been there. Still am.”

  She nodded as memories came back to her. “From, like, twelve or thirteen on, I tried to stay as far away from home as I could. I did every after-school activity I could. Volunteered at a hospital on weekends. My friends really helped me out. They were the best… I probably picked them because they were one-eighty from my parents’ criminal crowd. I’d hang with the National Merit scholars, the debate team, Latin club. Anybody who was decent and normal. I wasn’t a great student but I spent so much time at the library or studying at friends’ houses I got a full scholarship and put myself through college.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Ann Arbor. Criminal justice major. I took the CS exam and landed a spot on Detroit PD. Worked there for a while. Narcotics mostly. Then moved out here and joined the force in Seattle.”

  “And you’ve got your gold shield. You made detective fast.” Heath looked over the house. “She lived here by herself? Where’s your father?”

  “Dead,” Beth Anne said matter-of-factly. “She killed him.”

  “What?”

  “Wait’ll you read the extradition order from Michigan. Nobody knew it at the time, of course. The original coroner’s report was an accident. But a few months ago this guy in prison in Michigan confessed that he’d helped her. Mother found out my father was skimming money from their operation and sharing it with some girlfriend. She hired this guy to kill him and make it look like an accidental drowning.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective.”

  Beth Anne shrugged. “I always wondered if I could forgive them. I remember once, I was still working Narc in Detroit. I’d just run a big bust out on Six Mile. Confiscated a bunch of smack. I was on my way to log the stuff into Evidence back at the station and I saw I was driving past the cemetery where my father was buried. I’d never been there. I pulled in and walked up to the grave and tried to forgive him. But I couldn’t. I realized then that I never could — not him or my mother. That’s when I decided I had to leave Michigan.”

  “Your mother ever remarry?”

  “She took up with Selbit a few years ago but she never married him. You collared him yet?”

  “No. He’s around here somewhere but he’s gone to ground.”

  Beth Anne gave a nod toward the phone. “Mother tried to grab the phone when I came in tonight. She might’ve been trying to get a message to him. I’d check out the phone records. That might lead you to him.”

  “Good idea, Detective. I’ll get a warrant tonight.”

  Beth Anne stared through the rain, toward where the squad car bearing her mother had vanished some minutes ago. “The weird part was that she believed she was doing the right thing for me, trying to get me into the business. Being a crook was her nature; she thought it was my nature too. She and Dad were born bad. They couldn’t figure out why I was born good and wouldn’t change.”

  “You have a family?” Heath asked.

  “My husband’s a sergeant in Juvenile.” Then Beth Anne smiled. “And we’re expecting. Our first.”

  “Hey, very cool.”

  “I’m on the job until June. Then I’m taking a LOA for a couple of years to be a mom.” She felt an urge to add “Because children come first before anything.” But, under the circumstances, she didn’t think she needed to elaborate.

  “Crime Scene’s going to seal the place,” Heath said. “But if you want to take a look around, that’d be okay. Maybe there’s some pictures or something you want. Nobody’d care if you took some personal effects.”

  Beth Anne tapped her head. “I got more mementos up here than I need.”

  “Got it.”

  She zipped up her windbreaker, pulled the hood up. Another hollow laugh.

  Heath lifted an eyebrow.

  “You know my earliest memory?” she asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “In the kitchen of my parents’ first house outside of Detroit. I was sitting at the table. I must’ve been three. My mother was singing to me.”


  “Singing? Just like a real mother.”

  Beth Anne mused, “I don’t know what song it was. I just remember her singing to keep me distracted. So I wouldn’t play with what she was working on at the table.”

  “What was she doing, sewing?” Heath nodded toward the room containing a sewing machine and racks of stolen dresses.

  “Nope,” the woman answered. “She was reloading ammunition.”

  “You serious?”

  A nod. “I figured out when I was older what she was doing. My folks didn’t have much money then and they’d buy empty brass cartridges at gun shows and reload them. All I remember is the bullets were shiny and I wanted to play with them. She said if I didn’t touch them she’d sing to me.”

  This story brought the conversation to a halt. The two officers listened to the rain falling on the roof.

  Born bad…

  “All right,” Beth Anne finally said, “I’m going home.”

  Heath walked her outside and they said their good-byes. Beth Anne started the rental car and drove up the muddy, winding road toward the state highway.

  Suddenly, from somewhere in the folds of her memory, a melody came into her head. She hummed a few bars out loud but couldn’t place the tune. It left her vaguely unsettled. So Beth Anne flicked the radio on and found Jammin’ 95.5, filling your night with solid-gold hits, party on, Portland…. She turned the volume up high and, thumping the steering wheel in time to the music, headed north toward the airport.

  INTERROGATION

  “He’s in the last room.”

  The man nodded to the sergeant and continued down the long corridor, grit underfoot. The walls were yellow cinderblock but the hallway reminded him of an old English prison, bricky and soot-washed.

  As he approached the room he heard a bell somewhere nearby, a delicate ringing. He used to come here regularly but hadn’t been in this portion of the building for months. The sound wasn’t familiar and, despite the cheerful jingling, it was oddly unsettling.