by Kelly Irvin
She tried to go left around the cluster of reporters. They shifted with her.
“Did you kill Melanie? Do you know who did?” Diana Mitchell, one of Aaron’s colleagues, dodged Fred’s arm and stuck a microphone in Nina’s face. “You were in Melanie’s house. Why did they let you go?”
Diana’s voice cracked on Melanie’s name. This wasn’t just professional for her, it was personal. For all of them. One of their own had died. It hurt. They would get the story because that’s what Melanie would’ve done. Then they would go home and cry into their pillows.
“No, I didn’t kill Melanie.” Nina dodged the mike and kept walking. “And no, I don’t know who did.”
“No questions. She’s not answering questions.” Fred’s feeble attempts to shoo the media away had no effect. He reminded Nina of Pearl shooing flies from her fresh-baked pie on the windowsill. “Get back.”
“It’s okay, Fred.” She halted and faced the people who’d once been her cohorts in pursuit of the story and the photo and the video. “I have nothing to hide. I wish I had more to tell you. All I can do is plead with the public. If you know anything about the death of my father, Judge Geoffrey Fischer, or the death of Melanie Martinez, or the hit-and-run this morning that killed Serena Cochrane, please, please call the police. If you saw anything, call. You don’t have to use your name. Call the Crime Stoppers tip line.”
The number was engraved on her brain from all the news conferences she’d covered. She never expected to need it herself.
“What are you doing? Are you nuts?” Rick plowed through the crush of reporters. Fury lined his face. He grabbed her arm and dragged her away. “You can go, Teeter. I’ve got this. You obviously don’t.”
“Rick, stop it.” Nina jerked away. His grip was tighter than necessary. She rubbed her arm and looked back. A flummoxed expression on his white-whiskered face, Fred stood defenseless, the media milling around him. “I know what I’m doing. I don’t need you to swoop in and save the day.”
“Apparently you do. Where have you been?” Rick’s normally modulated Harvard tone disappeared, leaving his southside homeboys accent. “I stopped by your house and found your mother wandering around like a lost kindergartener. She said she thought you went to take pictures somewhere with ‘that sweet boy Aaron.’”
“Is that what this is about? You’re jealous of Aaron?”
“This is about you skipping around town like a juvenile delinquent who doesn’t know when to do what the police tell you to do. Didn’t King tell you to stay put? Your mother was there alone when he came back with the subpoena. They tore your house apart.”
The letters. The box of receipts. If they’d found them, King would have mentioned it in the interrogation he called an interview.
“How did you know that?”
“Trevor mentioned it on his way out the door. He apparently helped your mom through it since her daughters were too busy to stick around.”
“Where was he going?”
“I’m not his keeper.”
“You’re not mine either. And since when are you so concerned about my mom’s welfare?”
“I . . .” Rick’s voice trailed away. He looked over her shoulder. The media had turned their attention from Fred to the full-blown argument taking place in front of the police headquarters at Unity Plaza.
Beyond the crowd King trotted down the steps in front of the six-story building of cast-in-place, blast-resistant concrete with its three-story glass atrium. “Hey, wait.”
“I’m done. I’m not going back.” Nina turned on her heel and rushed toward Santa Rosa Street where Teeter had parked his car in the city pay lot. “I’ve had enough for one day.”
Enough for years. Finding Melanie. It was too much. She fought back hot, angry tears. Too much, God. You expect too much.
“Y’all go about your business. This isn’t the place to loiter.” King’s East Texas accent did nothing to sweeten his tone as he stomped down the steps toward them. “Move along. Nothing to see here.”
He couldn’t make them leave. It was public property. But some scattered toward the media office housed in the building. Others headed toward their marked units parked on the street or anywhere close, legal or not.
“Miss Fischer.”
“Really, all the time we’ve spent together, surely you can call me Nina.”
“Nina, your brother Trevor was scheduled to be interviewed this afternoon. He agreed to come down on his own steam after helping your mother with some arrangements. He hasn’t shown. He’s not answering his cell. His girlfriend says she hasn’t seen him.”
“Trevor has a girlfriend—”
Nina put her hand up to stymie Rick’s question, but her gaze remained locked with King’s. “I’ve been here with you. Why are you asking me?”
“I called your mother. She seems to think he was meeting you somewhere. Apparently he told her you two were seeing about getting your father’s body released.”
“I saw Trevor this morning.” Nina was too tired to think fast. She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs from her brain. “We talked about what needed to be done, but so much has happened since then I don’t know . . .”
She wouldn’t lie. Jan was right. Fischers didn’t lie. Except for Geoffrey. The father of all liars. Another father who couldn’t be trusted. Do as I say, not as I do.
I promise to love, honor, and cherish. Until I don’t.
“When you see him, tell him we’re looking for him.” King’s gaze went to Rick. “I’d hate to put out an APB on him.”
“He’ll show up.” If she had to drag him downtown herself. They didn’t renege on their responsibilities either. “I’ll talk to him.” She whirled and pounded toward the street corner.
“Where are you going?” Rick kept pace.
“To Fred’s car. He’s giving me a ride.”
“Let me. I’m on the street at Milam Park.” He gestured toward the park between Market Square and Santa Rose Hospital with its enormous dove mural by her favorite local artist Jesse Treviño. The beautiful dove that represented hope for the patients who entered the building. Which took her right back to Melanie and the Jesse Treviño painting on her wall. The one she would never look at and admire again. Her eyes were wide open, but she couldn’t see.
Would her body be in a refrigerated slot in the ME’s office somewhere near the one that held Dad’s?
Rick tugged on her arm. “Slow down, slow down. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”
Panting, she slowed and then stopped. She put her hands on her knees. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
Rick’s warm hand tugged her into his arms. His smooth-shaven chin nuzzled her cheek. “You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re fine. I’ll take care of you.”
She pulled away. “Thank you, but I don’t need your help.”
Rick’s black BMW loomed in front of her. It was parked in front of a fire hydrant.
“I don’t need a ride from you.”
“I’m sorry I got carried away.” He stepped in front of her, forcing her to halt. “I get a little crazy, worrying about you.”
“I can take care of myself. I’ll wait for Fred.”
“I know you can take care of yourself. I’ve watched you do it for years. Maybe it’s time to let someone else carry the load for a while.” He touched her cheek. “Please, forgive me. Let me feed you. I’ll take you to Mi Tierra for enchiladas. You love their enchiladas.”
The thought of food made her stomach lurch. “I need to get home to Grace, remember?” She fumbled for her phone in her jeans pocket. “I need to find Trevor.”
“You need to eat. Your face is whiter than a baby’s butt.”
She couldn’t help it. She snorted. “You’re the worst.”
“You’re the best.”
“Just take me home. Pearl will feed me.”
She slid onto the leather seats while he fired up the AC and gunned the engine. Seat belt on, she sent a text first to Fred to let him know
she had a ride, then to Trevor, then to Aaron. The last two said the same thing: Where R Yu. Need to talk.
Aaron answered first. But he called instead of texting. Glancing at Rick, Nina answered on the first ring. “Are you okay?” His voice was soft like his lips trailing across her cheeks and forehead with exquisitely tender kisses. He felt different than Rick. Solid. Sturdy. No slick snake oil. No hair product. No expensive cologne. Just Irish Spring soap. Had that only been this morning? “Nina. Are you okay?”
“Yes. Rick is taking me home.”
A long pause. People talking in the background. Static. Scanners. TVs blaring. “You said you needed to talk.”
“I do. I thought you had to make a statement to the police.”
“I did. Some guy named Cavazos. King’s partner, I guess.”
“Hey, Aaron. Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her.” Rick yelled as he whipped past a VIA Metro bus and screeched around a corner onto Cesar Chavez Boulevard. “You just keep working on your story.”
“Shut up.” Nina slapped her hand over the phone and scowled at him. “He just lost a good friend. He doesn’t need you needling him.”
“Forgot. Sorry.” Rick managed to sound repentant. “Tell him I offered my condolences.”
Nina removed her hand from the phone. “How’s everyone there taking it?”
“They’re a tough bunch. You have to be to work in this business. Claire’s taking it hard.” His voice caught. “It must’ve been terrible for you—seeing her. And so soon after your dad. I’m so sorry you had to go through that again.”
The round hole in the middle of Melanie’s head filled Nina’s vision. Her jaws ached from gritting her teeth all day.
“I can’t believe Serena died minutes after we left her.” The pain in her jaw radiated up to her temples. She rubbed a spot in a circle, trying to rub away the memories. “Do you think we had something to do with it?”
“I don’t know. I hope not. She was a nice lady. She didn’t deserve to get run over in the street after breakfast.”
“She was always so sweet to me. Like the grandma I never had.”
“Do you still have the envelope she gave you?”
Nina glanced at Rick. Looking predictably annoyed, he thumped his thumbs on the wheel to a musical rhythm she couldn’t hear. He raised his eyebrows. Get off the phone, he mouthed the words. He was an attorney. He was a friend. He said he cared. He also cared about his position at the firm. He cared about launching his political career. He cared about social standing and not having it.
He cared about his BMW and his hair.
She wanted to trust him. She trusted Aaron more. “Can you come by the house?”
“Why does he need to come by your house?” Rick swerved onto South Alamo Street. “He should be there with his pals. Having a wake or lifting a glass to their dear friend.”
“Are you sure? You’ve got Rick with you.”
“There are things we need to talk about.” She shifted her gaze to the enormous Steves Homestead on King William Street. As a kid she’d thought it a palace. Compared to her former abodes, all the historic houses in this district were mansions. Beyond anything she’d ever seen before. Her dad reveled in belonging to one of the historic families who started this German enclave in the late 1800s. “We need to . . . compare notes.”
“It’ll be late. I’m reviewing archive video files. We’re doing a piece on Melanie’s career for the six and ten. Then everyone’s getting together at Greg’s. He had to call her mother in Phoenix and tell her. He said it was the worst thing he’s ever had to do.”
“King should’ve done it.”
“Greg thought it would be better from him.”
“Maybe.” Nothing could make the death of a child better. “So maybe not until tomorrow.”
“If it can wait. If not, I’ll skip the—”
“No, don’t do that.” He needed to mourn his friend with his colleagues. It would be selfish to make him miss that because she needed him. “Call me later, okay, when you can.”
“Hang in there.”
“You too.”
He disconnected.
“What do you need to talk to him about?” Rick pulled into the driveway. Instead of driving around to the back where Pearl would be able to see them from the kitchen, he put the car in Park inside the fence and let the engine idle. He stared at the front of her house as if he’d never seen it before. “What were you talking to Serena about?”
“She wanted to see me.”
“With a TV news photographer in tow. What, was she looking for her five minutes of fame as the court coordinator to a murder victim?”
“No, no, she wanted . . . she cared about Dad.”
“What did Melanie have to do with it—with her?”
“She interviewed her yesterday afternoon, at the courthouse.”
“Did the old biddy—I mean, did Serena have any insight into why someone would want to kill your dad?”
“No. She loved him. She said everyone loved him.” That was true. Serena wore blinders when it came to her judge. Tell him about the key. Tell him.
Trust. It came down to trust.
“Come on, are you holding out on me? Don’t you trust me? What did she say?”
“She didn’t have a chance. Aaron got the call from Melanie and we had to go.”
The key. What about the key?
“You didn’t answer my question. You don’t trust me. If you need something—anything—I’m your guy.”
A five-o’clock shadow darkened his face, making his perfect teeth seem even whiter. His dark eyes seemed to see straight to the heart of the matter. The envelope fit snugly in her bag. She could pull it out and hand it to him. Done. Simple as that. Let him figure out what her dad was hiding.
And ruin his reputation. Rick idolized her dad. He would want to hide the truth as much as she did. But for different reasons. It would suit his plans.
She didn’t trust him. Not with this. Not with her dad’s reputation on the line. She’d learned long ago to be careful with trust. If a child couldn’t trust her mother, who could she trust? Aaron had proven himself over and over again. Everything about his actions and his words gave her hope, gave her a sense of possibility. Which made him the most dangerous. Rick was a known quantity. “I know that. I’m just trying to sort things out.”
“You’re not still planning to do the exhibit at the Blue Star Art Complex, are you?”
Nina shook her head. “It’ll never be finished in time now, and who knows when the funeral will be. And Melanie’s funeral. Aaron has a lot to handle too—”
“Aaron this and Aaron that. What is it with you and this guy?” Rick’s lips contorted in a deep scowl. His baritone deepened. “Your face is messed up. You get hauled downtown to PSHQ. He’s a terrible influence.”
“He didn’t influence me. If anything, I influenced him.”
“You have more sense than that. More smarts.” He shoved his dark hair back, messing up his perfect do. “At least I thought you did. You used to have more street smarts.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I know how to take care of myself.”
He leaned forward and touched her face. “Apparently not. I don’t like this.” His hand slipped behind her neck and pulled her toward him. His lips met hers in a hard, angry kiss that hurt her lip. She struggled to move back. He didn’t let up.
She closed her eyes and tried to identify the current that ran through her. It was deeper, more violent, steeped in hurt and loss and uncertainty. Familiar. Dinner and the movies or bowling or a Missions baseball game followed by time in his old Datsun, just the two of them. Restless. Unsure of how it went. How anything went. Explorers. She always drew the line. He always argued, kissed, and tried the seduction moves of a seventeen-year-old.
She held the line.
She never wanted to be her mother. She didn’t want to bring children into the world she couldn’t care for. She wanted to be good. I was good, God. Look
where it’s gotten me.
His hand tightened. His heat seeped through her blouse, burning her skin. The kiss deepened.
A bonfire burned. She could smell the dry leaves combust. Earthy and sweet. He tasted like earth.
He leaned back. A slow smile played across his face. “There you are.”
“It doesn’t work.” She swallowed tears he could never see. “We don’t work. I wish we did, but we don’t.”
They were fundamentally different animals. He lurked in the dark and lured her to places she shouldn’t go. He reveled in seeing how far he could make her go. He reveled in the hold he had over her. He ignored her desire for a love that she could trust. A love that reflected light and hope.
“Yes, we do.” He walked his fingers across her collarbone. She shivered and swallowed. He grinned. “When you relax and let me in, we work.”
“We’re not teenagers anymore.”
“Or two kids trying to be something we’re not.”
The son of a maid and the daughter of a drug addict. Neither one of them had felt at home in the historic King William District that bordered downtown San Antonio. A few blocks away and they were in Rick’s territory. The housing projects. There Nina felt at home.
A long time ago. Now Rick was an attorney, mentored by her dad, and she was a photographer, an artist, and a published poet. Two very different people with only the past in common.
She slid away from him to the far corner of the seat until the door handle pressed into her back. The frigid AC air cooled her damp face. She was sweaty all over, like she’d run a hundred-yard dash. She pressed her fingers to her throbbing lip.
“Did I hurt you?” His voice softened. “I didn’t mean to. You just affect me that way. You know what I want, but you refuse to give in. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of what it would be like, and it keeps me coming back for more. You’re a tease.”
That was not her intention. “I have to go.”
“Did King actually threaten to put you in jail?”
She straightened. This was safe ground, crazy as it seemed. “He did. He knows I couldn’t have killed Melanie. He’s seen Aaron’s video. That’s the only reason I walked out those doors.”
