Back on Murder rm-1

by J. Mark Bertrand

  “I’m sorry it’s so late. With a job like mine, you work odd hours.”

  She ushers me inside, frets over the best place for me to sit, then decides the vinyl armchair is the only choice. Once I’m settled, she goes to the kitchenette to pour coffee, which I don’t have the heart to refuse.

  “It’s hazelnut,” she says, handing me the mug.

  They live on the second floor of a gated apartment complex across from Willowbrook Mall. The spot where Hannah Mayhew’s car was found is just about visible from their tiny balcony. The furniture has a haphazard hand-me-down quality, and apart from a clock over the breakfast nook, the walls are unadorned. The television is flanked by bookshelves filled with crimped paperbacks and DVDs.

  Robb appears at the mouth of the hallway, also in shorts and T-shirt, toweling his hair dry. He pours himself coffee and sits on the big couch, then changes his mind and scoots closer toward me.

  “Just taking a quick shower,” he says.

  Gina flips on a lamp, then feels along the cushions until she finds the TV remote, switching the set off. She sits on the edge of the couch, hands clasped over white knees that seem never to have been touched by sun.

  “Is it all right if I stay?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Fine with me. You heard we pulled in James Fontaine today? He mentioned an incident we hadn’t heard anything about. Did you know he accused Hannah of vandalizing his car back in late February?”

  They exchange looks, then Robb gives an awkward nod. “Donna didn’t mention that?”

  “Nobody did. You want to clue me in?”

  He takes a deep breath. “After the drugs were found in Hannah’s locker, she told everyone they weren’t hers. But she wouldn’t point the finger at anyone, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’d told Fontaine how Jesus suffered unjustly for the sins of others, so how does she turn around and complain for suffering unjustly herself?”

  “She said that?”

  “Not in so many words. But I think that’s what she thought. Because she wouldn’t talk, Donna felt like she had no choice but to ground her. It would have looked strange otherwise, nothing happening when her daughter’s suspended for marijuana possession.”

  I can’t help smiling at the irony. If Hannah really kept her mouth shut for Fontaine’s sake, she showed him more loyalty than he’d extended to any of his friends in the interview room.

  “It looked strange anyway,” Gina says. “Punishing her made her look guilty.”

  He nods. “But I can understand how Donna felt. Hannah did, too. But there was one thing Donna didn’t consider, which was that Evey was leaving to go back to New Orleans. Her mom had tried making a go of things here, but ultimately she missed her home. So we’d planned this big goodbye party, which Hannah now couldn’t attend. It was a big deal, because like I told you before, Hannah was pretty much the only friend Evey had.”

  His wife nods. “She was a tough girl to love.”

  “So what happened?” I ask.

  “Evey left the party and drove to Hannah’s house, talked her into going out, and somehow the two of them ended up at James Fontaine’s.”

  “They keyed his car up?”

  “Well,” he says. “There are two versions of the story.”

  Gina puts her coffee mug on the low table in front of the couch. “I talked to Hannah the next morning, and she wouldn’t say what exactly went down. The impression I got, though, was that Evey did all the damage. She was paying the boy back.”

  “For planting the drugs?”

  “Yes, that,” she says. “Also for breaking Hannah’s heart.”

  Next to her, Robb shifts nervously.

  “It’s true,” she insists.

  “I know,” he says, “but — ”

  “But nothing. Hannah had a crush on that boy.” She looks to me for support. “You don’t always choose which direction your heart goes. She knew he was bad news, and I don’t think she ever would have compromised herself. .”

  “Of course not,” he says.

  “Even so, as smart as she is, she’s just seventeen. I told her, ‘You know you can’t save his soul just to make him safe to date,’ and she said she realized that. But in her heart, I don’t think she did. So when he pushed her away — and I mean really pushed — it hurt her. And that’s why Evey did what she did, because Hannah was the one person who understood her.”

  Robb nods the whole time, but I can tell there’s something in this he doesn’t agree with, not entirely. “What you have to understand about Hannah is, she’s friendly with everybody, but only made friends with a few. And when she makes a friend, she holds on tenaciously, whether it’s good for her or not. She’s very open emotionally, like a child almost. And Evey responded to that, in a protective sort of way.”

  “You said there were two versions of what happened?”

  “Evey left before anyone could get her side,” Robb says. “But some of the girls in the youth group told me Evey liked Fontaine, too, and it was her not him who put the drugs in Hannah’s locker. According to them, Evey was going to run away with the drug dealer, and to stop her, Hannah busted up his car.”

  Gina shakes her head. “Those girls are thirteen. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  “There could be a kernel of truth, though — ”

  She dismisses the idea with a wave of the hand. “They’re in my class,” she explains, “so I have a pretty good idea how reliable they are. I guess the point is, rumors were flying, and the only person who could have told us what happened was Evey, who’d already gone.”

  “Where exactly?” I ask.

  “Back to New Orleans,” Robb says. “I’m not sure where. They were trying to buy a house, I think, but I don’t know whether they did. The insurance payout from the old one wasn’t much, but Mrs. Dyer was a nurse, so she might have saved something while they were here.”

  Gina frowns. “Nurses don’t make that much.”

  “You have a number where I can reach them?”

  Robb’s cheeks color. “I don’t know that we do.”

  “We haven’t heard from them in ages,” Gina says.

  Robb gives me a pained look, then shrugs. He’d been so proud of Hannah for befriending the girl, prompted by his encouragement, but he hadn’t bothered to keep in touch himself. Reading my mind, he nods slowly.

  “I feel bad about it,” he says. “Hypocritical. But with everything going on, I have to be honest, the Dyers leaving was a bit of a relief. I kept telling myself to follow up, but I never did.”

  “Would anybody at the church have a contact number?”

  “I don’t know. I could check around.”

  “I’d appreciate that. One more thing. Fontaine said Evey — it’s Evey Dyer, right? — he said she would kind of explode on people. Is that right?”

  Gina nods. “She did it with me once.” She takes a sip of coffee, gulps hard. “It was kind of scary to be honest. The girl had a mouth on her, but it was more than that. I don’t know if Carter told you, but she’s had a tough life. Spent time on the street as a runaway, did things I don’t even like to think about. I found her in the women’s restroom up at the church one Sunday and she was just bawling. I don’t know why, or what had happened, but I went to put an arm around her and she just flipped out. She started pushing me back and screaming and her hair was flying everywhere. And the things she was saying. .” She shudders. “Finally she pushed me so hard I fell back into one of the toilet stalls.”

  Robb listens silently, hands over his mouth.

  “Then, as quick as it started, it all went away. She helped me up and kept apologizing and she was begging me not to tell anyone.” She glances at her husband. “Besides him, I didn’t.”

  “Was she ever like that with Hannah?” I ask.

  She shrugs.

  “They had a strange bond,” Robb says. “Evey told Hannah a lot of things about herself she wouldn’t share with anyone else. Most of what
we know, really, comes secondhand from Hannah. Like I said, when she and her mom moved back, I was relieved. After Gina told me what had happened in the restroom, I was always afraid of a repeat.”

  According to the breakfast nook clock, it’s edging close to midnight. I’ve imposed long enough, especially considering how easily this could have been handled by phone. Still, in person there are nuances you miss over the line. And it’s not like I was going to get any sleep.

  “Last thing,” I say. “You don’t happen to have a photograph of Evangeline Dyer, do you? Maybe the two of them together?”

  They glance at each other, then shrug.

  “No problem. I’ll check the computer. Sounds like this girl might have a record.”

  As I descend the stairs outside, Robb comes out of the apartment alone, trailing after me, calling in a hushed voice.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask.

  “What I said the other day? I was serious. I need to do something. There has to be some way I can help.”

  “You’re doing plenty. I don’t know what more to tell you.”

  “I could track the Dyers down for you,” he says. “Or that picture you wanted? I could ask around and find one. Maybe I could talk to people again, see if they’d open up to me in a way they wouldn’t with the police.”

  He looks to me for agreement, with a desperate eagerness that’s a little appalling, unaware that not only is he asking me for something I don’t have the power to grant but he’s also conforming to a stereotype well known to law enforcement: the guilty helper. When a civilian suddenly offers up his services, you always take a harder look at him, because more than likely he’s involved — or so the thinking goes. I think I know what motivates Robb, though. Not his involvement, but his lack of it, for he’s convinced if only he’d invested more of himself before the fact, none of this would have happened.

  “I appreciate your feelings, Mr. Robb, but — ”

  “Anything,” he says.

  I stroke my chin, buying time, wracking my brain for a non-binding exit strategy. “If you can track down a number for the Dyers in New Orleans, that would be fine. And if you want to talk to the kids in your youth group, see if anything else comes up, go right ahead. But beyond that — ”

  “Thank you.” He grips my hand and gives it a shake. “I’m grateful, really. I’ll do whatever I can and get back to you. And if you think of anything else, just let me know.”

  “I’ll do that,” I say, slipping away, making a beeline for my parked car before he can offer up additional thanks.

  The next morning I roll over to find Charlotte’s side of the bed empty. The slight dimple in the mattress is still warm. I throw on some clothes and pad down the stairs. She’s in the kitchen, fully dressed, gazing out the window over the sink.

  I kiss her warm cheek, then brush the hair from her neck. “You all right? You’re up early.”

  “Just thinking,” she says.

  I open the refrigerator, pour out the last of the orange juice, splashing half of it into a second cup, which I place in her waiting hand.

  “I’d like things to be how they were,” she says. “No, that’s not right. I want them to be how they should be. In the future, I mean.”

  “Okay.” I’m a little baffled.

  “Ann said something last night. When we were doing the dishes. She said we didn’t seem happy anymore. Do you think that’s true?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re lying. I can tell, you know. My husband’s a detective.”

  “Things can be like they were — ”

  “They’ll never be like they were,” she says. “I know that. I’m not naive. But I want them to be good again. All right?”

  I down the orange juice, lower the glass. “I want that, too.”

  Upstairs, my mobile phone starts to ring. I should honor the moment by letting it go, but the moment’s already as good as it can get. I kiss her on the juice-dampened lips and rush the stairs two at a time. The phone flashes on the nightstand charger.

  “Hello?”

  “March, it’s Wilcox. Good news.”

  “I have the go-ahead to approach Thomson?”

  “So long as he’s willing to give us everything, we’re prepared to work with him on the rest.”

  “He wants it in writing.”

  “Should I fax it over, or do you want to swing by?”

  “I’d better come by. The fewer people who know, the better.”

  When I head back downstairs to tell Charlotte, she’s standing in the open back door, arms crossed, glaring up at the apartment over the garage. I come up behind her, resting my cheek against her neck. At the top of the stairs, I catch sight of a girl in a crop top and tight jeans just disappearing into the apartment.

  “You’ve got to take care of that, too,” she says.

  “I did have a talk with him.”

  “A talk’s not enough.” She turns, puts her hands around my waist. “He’s got to go. It’s past the point of talking. Just get him out.”

  My hand rests on the small of her back and I inhale the scent of her hair.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I say. “Whatever you want.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Instead of heading straight out to the Northwest, business as usual, waiting for Thomson to get back in touch, I make an unscheduled visit downtown, breezing through Homicide on the pretense of having left some files in my desk. Lorenz gives me the cold shoulder, as expected, but Bascombe proves surprisingly cordial, stopping me outside his office to ask how the task force is going and whether I’m fitting in all right. Now that I’m no longer his problem, I guess the lieutenant wants me to see he’s not carrying any grudges. Neither should I, the implication seems to be.

  “Any breaks on the Morales case?” I ask.

  He gives his head a wary shake, like he suspects a trick question. “There’s a cool breeze blowing over that one, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  We stand there a moment, pondering the way a live case can suddenly flash-freeze, all the leads going cold at once. In this instance, with so many bodies and so much physical evidence, it’s hard to believe the line’s already gone dead, even for Lorenz. Strangely, I feel no satisfaction. If my test results come back positive and Thomson really can put the shooters in the frame, the fact that Lorenz got nowhere will only make my victory that much sweeter. Still, there are so many contingencies, so much that could go wrong. I can’t gloat for fear of jinxing my chance.

  “You hear anything about your dna test?” he asks.

  “Not yet.”

  He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “You still think there’s a connection?” He doesn’t sound quite as skeptical as when they gave me the boot. Maybe he’s realizing he backed the wrong detective.

  “It’s hard to say.” I turn to go. “We should know soon enough.”

  The files are in my desk drawer. I tuck them under my arm, aware of Bascombe hovering nearby, watching my every move.

  “If you do get back a positive match,” he calls after me, “I’d appreciate a heads-up.”

  “Sure thing.” I slip down the aisle toward the exit, giving a little over-the-shoulder wave of acknowledgment. When I glance back, he’s still watching, and I notice Lorenz’s head poking above the cubicle wall.

  The sign next to the door reads COMPREHENSIVE RISK ASSESSMENT, not Golden Parachute Brigade, but the matching, nick-free furniture and the glossy new computer screens let me know I have arrived in the right place. The suite is compact, just a bullpen flanked by half a dozen enclosed offices, quiet enough that I can hear the rush of air through the registers overhead. A civilian secretary seated near the entrance behind a low-walled cubicle motions for me to halt.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m here to see Tony Salazar.”

  She unclips her telephone earpiece and saunters over to one of the offices, tapping lightly on the closed door.
After a pause, she opens it and leans inside. My story is simple: since I did Salazar a favor over the weekend, cutting loose one of his confidential informants, he now owes me one. I’ve come to see whether his ears on the street have heard anything about the Morales shooting. If in the course of this errand I happen to run across Joe Thomson, so be it. The meeting will have occurred by chance, and he’ll know without my having to say anything that the arrangements he requested have been made.

  After a hushed conversation, the secretary returns to her desk, nodding for me to advance. Salazar meets me at the door, enclosing my offered hand in his thick boxing glove of a fist. He’s short but powerfully built, with tight dark curls and a nose that either came out flat or was beaten into that shape long ago. To accommodate his broad shoulders, he’s had to buy a white button-down that billows out around the waist, making his legs look disproportionately small.

  He pulls me over the threshold, snapping the door shut behind me. My disappointment must show, but he misinterprets the reason.

  “The boss is in,” he says with a shrug. “You two aren’t exactly the best of friends.”

  It’s flattering to know that after all these years, Keller still keeps our rivalry alive on his end, long after it has stopped making sense for him to perceive me as a threat. The closed door means Thomson won’t be able to pass by and notice me, but in a small way Salazar’s reason for shutting it makes up for that. Once I’m done, I will just have to make a point of lingering.

  “So to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, hoisting himself up onto the edge of his desk. Like the area outside, the office is nicely furnished, though a bit on the bare side. Apart from a couple of photos on the credenza, the contents are impersonal to the point of being generic. Whatever work the team actually does, it seems to leave little trace.

  “I’m here for a favor.”

  He points to his head, then shrugs. “Well, duh. I guess I now owe you one, don’t I? You know that Rios kid never called me.”

  “I had a feeling he might not. Trouble there?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

  “You know Octavio Morales got himself killed? I was wondering whether, with all your gangland connections, you’d heard any rumors about that.”