Grace Interrupted

by Julie Hyzy

  I stood. “Davey and I were just discussing . . .”

  “I know what you were discussing. And your visit is over. You want to talk to Jack, go ahead. Good luck. If last time was any indication, you won’t see or hear from him until he’s ready.”

  “Mr. Embers . . .”

  “Time for you to go home,” he said. With a nervous glance at his son, he added, “I think Davey should have his dinner now.” He turned back to me. “And next time you feel like stopping by, Ms. Wheaton, call first. We may not be home.”

  He and I stared at each other across the family room. In my peripheral vision I noticed Davey avoiding looking at either of us. There was something unimaginably wrong with this family dynamic.

  Behind Gordon’s angry glare, I caught a flicker of something else. Fear. I wondered what possible threat I posed to him. I turned to the young man on the sofa, who studiously refused to make eye contact. “Take care of yourself, Davey,” I said. “Have fun at the closing ceremonies tomorrow.”

  “Ceremony?” Gordon demanded. “What are you talking about?”

  Davey rolled his eyes. “The Civil War group. Tomorrow’s the last day.”

  “You’re not going back there?”

  Davey made eye contact with his father, a defiant look on his face. “Uh, yeah,” he said in the tone usually reserved for Duh! “I am.”

  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Embers,” I said. “Talk to you later, Davey.”

  I hadn’t even made it to the sidewalk when I heard the door slam behind me.

  Chapter 23

  I CALLED TANK ON MY WAY HOME.

  “Working a little late, are you?” she asked. “It’s Friday night. Shouldn’t you be out on the town?”

  Ignoring her invitation to make small talk, I got right to the point. “Can I get a peek at the police report for Lyle Kincade’s murder?”

  “Lyle?” she said. “You sure you don’t mean Zachary?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Well,” she said, elongating the word, “that’s not usually done. Privacy issues, security concerns, you understand. Allowing you access could impede our progress on the case.”

  “It’s been thirteen years.”

  “Murder cases are never closed, and this one’s active again,” she countered. “You know our focus.”

  I held my breath. “I know.”

  “Why do you want to see the old file?” Tank asked. “What do you expect to find?”

  I hesitated. “I have a hunch.”

  Tank was silent. “A hunch,” she said finally. “Care to share?”

  “Not over the phone. But I think I’m right.”

  “Everybody who has a hunch thinks she’s right. Until she’s not.”

  I waited.

  She gave a resigned sigh. “You got time now? Come down to the station. You and I will look over it together.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  THE EMBERSTOWNE POLICE STATION WAS housed in a former raised-ranch single-family home in the middle of a small subdivision that had probably cropped up about the same time the Embers’ home had. The blue-sided structure was freshly painted and featured new windows, but the building still resembled a house more than it did a hub of law enforcement, despite the parked squad cars surrounding it.

  I’d been inside before but had never gotten used to the smell. The new indoor-outdoor carpet’s freshness did little to mask the sour and stale odors that permeated the building’s pine-paneled walls, and the dropped ceiling that had yellowed with age and who-knows-what else.

  Just inside the front door, visitors were faced with the choice to go up or down. Down the short flight were interrogation rooms and the lockup. If you could call it that. Lockup consisted of a scarred bench and handcuffs attached to either end. I’d often wondered what would happen if the police arrested more than two people at one time.

  Tank stood at the top of the entrance steps. She tilted her head to her right and disappeared, leaving me to follow.

  Upstairs, in a tiny office with one equally tiny window, I took a seat at her metal desk. “Where are Rodriguez and Flynn?” I asked.

  “Home for the weekend. With me being from out of town, I don’t have much to do here other than work, and we have a murder on our hands. I like keeping busy.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  Atop the desk in front of her, was a thick expandable file covered in heavy blue cardboard. “Before I let you see this, I need to know what you hope to find.”

  I chose my words carefully. “If my hunch is right, Jack is innocent.” I pointed to the blue folder. “Of Lyle’s murder.” I met her gaze.

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “You weren’t here when this murder happened. Neither was I.”

  I sensed I was in for a lecture.

  She tapped the blue cover. “It’s not written here in black and white because it can’t be. But every cop who was on duty thirteen years ago says the same thing: All their manpower was devoted to this case. They investigated hard. Yet Jack Embers was the only suspect they came up with. They all believe he’s guilty. Unfortunately, knowing something and proving it are two different things. They couldn’t make it stick, so they let it go. I trust these people. I trust their judgment.”

  “Which may have been clouded,” I said, gauging her reaction. “I have another theory. I can’t prove it, not yet, but there may be something in the file—something that confirms what I suspect.”

  “This file could just as easily prove you wrong. Are you willing to risk that?”

  I nodded.

  She came around to my side of the desk and took the seat next to mine, repositioning the book so we could both read it at the same time. She placed her hand atop the cover, fingers spread. “I’m doing you a favor, you have to do me a favor.”

  I knew what was coming and sucked in a breath.

  “Before I open this,” she said, “no more dancing around the issue. You’re going to tell me right now. Who do you think killed Lyle Kincade?”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. Very quietly I said, “Gordon Embers.”

  She stared at me, expressionless, then got up and shut the door. As she reclaimed her seat, she said, “This better be good.”

  I TRIED TO AVOID LOOKING TOO LONG AT THE pictures of the crime scene but the full-color images imprinted themselves on my brain faster than I could pass them to Tank. “Gruesome,” she said, echoing my thoughts. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  “What exactly are you looking for?” she asked. “Detectives from this department went over this file hundreds of times. They could never get enough evidence to stick against anyone. Not even Jack.”

  “Because Jack didn’t do it. According to the guy who delivered his pizza, Jack was in his college apartment at the time of the murder. Far enough away that he couldn’t have made it to Lyle’s home and back. He couldn’t have done it.”

  “Pretty flimsy alibi.”

  I looked at her. “Not if it’s true. Which it is.” I turned to the reports filed and to statements taken from everyone who had been interviewed. “I think there’s a chance Gordon’s alibi won’t hold up.”

  Tank was shaking her head. “I’ve been talking to some of the older guys on the force here. They all swear Gordon was laid up with a back injury. He couldn’t move.”

  I sifted through more pages. “Where’s the doctor’s report?”

  Tank frowned and joined me in my search.

  “If your alibi is a back injury, don’t you think you’d have a doctor’s report?” I asked.

  “You think he made it up?”

  “Gordon Embers supposedly hurt his back during an altercation with Lyle a week before the man was murdered. Here’s something.” I tapped a report. Tank read over my shoulder.

  Frances had been wrong in this instance. Gordon Embers had most definitely been present the week before the murder when Jack and brother Keith went
to “visit” Lyle. A complete list of injuries to all parties was included in the report. Jack’s gashed face and Lyle’s broken knee. Keith had apparently suffered a punch to the kidney and a broken nose. According to the report, Gordon had sustained no injuries.

  Beneath this report was a statement issued by the police department to the press claiming that Gordon Embers had arrived on the scene just as his sons and Lyle Kincade started fighting. He was credited with breaking up the violence before it escalated further, and had been commended for his involvement.

  “Nice way to get him off the hook,” Tank said as she skimmed another page. “Here, I found the doctor’s report. Take a look.”

  She handed me a statement from Gordon Embers’s doctor dated several days after the altercation. Dr. Pfinster diagnosed Gordon with a severely pinched nerve in his back. He had recommended bed rest for a month and prescribed a combination of powerful painkillers.

  “Those would choke a racehorse,” Tank said. “Gordon must have been down for weeks.”

  “If he took the meds,” I said, skimming the reports. I knew what I was looking for.

  Tank stared at me. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “What if he made it all up? What if there was no back injury? What if he faked all this to provide himself with an alibi?”

  “Do you realize what you’re suggesting?” Tank’s expression was grim. “You’re talking about premeditated murder.”

  “I know,” I said. “I think Gordon got the idea to kill Lyle after the altercation in Lyle’s home. They left the guy with a broken knee. He wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight. It was now or never, in Gordon’s mind. So he came up with the back injury idea, acted the part for the doctor’s benefit, and came home to recuperate with a hefty supply of meds that served as his alibi.”

  She tapped the report. “Gordon’s wife didn’t work. She was home all day.”

  I pointed farther down. “Except not the day of the murder. Here, look.”

  Tank read what I’d been skimming—Eileen Embers’s statement. When she finished, she said, “Okay, so the wife went out with her friends for the whole day.”

  “Right. Because, in her words, Gordon insisted that she get a day off from ‘hovering over him.’ ”

  “I see where you’re going, but you forgot one important detail.”

  I hadn’t but I let her talk.

  “The son Davey was still in high school. An emergency at the school sent all the kids home early that day. Gordon couldn’t have anticipated that. Davey says his dad was home when he got there, and that he never left. In fact, he said his dad never even got up off the couch the whole day.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What?” Tank asked. “You doubt the kid?”

  “What if,” I said, “Davey Embers came home from school and his father wasn’t there? His father who was supposed to remain immobile? What if Gordon returned with no explanation, but when the cops came to interview the family he pressed Davey into swearing he’d been there the whole time?”

  Tank sat silent for a moment. “The kid was about fourteen at the time?”

  I nodded.

  “Something like that would screw up a kid but good.” She pursed her lips and stared away. “If you’re right, and that’s a big ‘if,’ there’s no way to prove it. The kid would have been carrying the secret for half his life. He’s not going to turn Dad in now.”

  “I know.”

  Tank didn’t look at me as she continued to sort through the file. “Gordon Embers retired immediately after his medical leave was over.”

  “Is that significant?”

  She met my gaze. “I’ve only met Gordon a couple of times but he strikes me as a man with strong convictions. And from what I understand around here, he was highly respected. He epitomized what police officers should be.” She chewed her bottom lip. “How can a man who upheld the law for so many years ever reconcile himself with taking another human life? If you’re right—and I’m not saying you are—he murdered Lyle in cold blood.”

  “To protect his family.”

  “To protect his family,” she admitted. “He probably saw giving up police work as the price he had to pay for his deed.” Tank scratched her forehead, then continued, “If Gordon Embers really did kill Lyle thirteen years ago, that throws a new light on Zachary’s murder.”

  “How so?”

  She waved a hand. “I’m not suggesting Gordon killed Zachary, but what I told you about it getting easier the second time, is true. With the entire PD convinced Jack was guilty of Lyle’s murder . . .”

  “Jack became the target of your suspicions,” I finished. “I get it.” My mind raced. Should I share any of this with Jack? Telling him I suspected his father of murder would surely put an end to our burgeoning relationship. But how could I not tell him?

  Tank read my thoughts. “Do not say a word to anyone.”

  I started to open my mouth.

  “Not a word, do you understand?” She brought her face closer and kept her voice low. “All you’ll do is open a can of worms that you can’t handle. If you’re right, Gordon Embers killed once to protect his family. Do not put a target on your back by threatening him.”

  “But what if it is true? Doesn’t Davey deserve a chance at a better life? Wouldn’t bringing the truth out into the open help him face reality? Maybe give him the opportunity to grow up?”

  Tank held up a finger. “Not your concern. Not now. Give me a couple days to sort this out. Let me make some discreet inquiries, okay? That’s the key here—discretion. If I start asking questions about this old case, no one will think twice. Heck, I’ve been doing that already. But if you start poking around . . .” She let the thought hang. “Don’t.”

  I gave a huff of frustration. I wanted to do something.

  “Give me your word,” she said.

  I stared up at the older woman. For the first time, I noticed that her eyes were a pale gray rimmed in dark blue. Piercing, and more than a little unsettling. I didn’t give my word lightly and I wasn’t ready to do so now.

  “Grace,” she said, startling me with her force.

  I knew I wasn’t getting out of this room without agreeing to keep quiet. “Okay.”

  “Say it.”

  “I won’t share my suspicions about Gordon Embers with anyone.” After a pause, I added, “I give my word.”

  She nodded acknowledgment. “And I give my word I’ll keep you posted on developments.”

  I called Jack on my way home just to let him know I was there for him. Got his voicemail again. “Jack,” I said, “talk to me. You can’t crawl into a hole like this. If you and I are ever going to have a relationship, we have to learn to work together. Give me a try. If we make it through this . . .”

  I wanted to say that we’d make it through anything, but that was cliché and melodramatic. Instead I simply said, “Trust me, okay?”

  When I got in I saw a blinking light on my answering machine. Jack had left me a voicemail on the house phone. “I got your messages,” he said haltingly, “and even though I know you’re right I just can’t talk right now. I can’t see anyone. It’s all happening again and this time I don’t think . . .” There was a pause. “Just give me time, Grace. Please. I promise that when I’m ready I’ll get in touch.” He made a sound like he wanted to say more, but hung up instead.

  I stared at the phone for a long time.

  Chapter 24

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON, I MET FRANCES AT the office. “Sorry to infringe on your weekend,” I said, “but I appreciate you helping me out.”

  “I should take this next week off just to make up for all my playacting,” she said with a frown, “but I know I’m going to have piles of work waiting for me.” Heaving a deep sigh, she added, “I expect you’re keeping track of the time off I’m owed.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. So am I.”

  Of that I had no doubt.

  Today’s visit to the Civil War camp was of ut
most importance to me. Not only would the camp be open to the public for most of the afternoon as drills and battles were reenacted, but tonight was the celebratory ball signaling the official end of the event. Although I had a passing interest in seeing some of these things, what I wanted most of all was to talk with Davey again. I had a feeling that he would open up to me if I could get him alone again for just a little while.

  Clearing Jack of the first murder wouldn’t automatically clear him of the second, but it would be a good start. I wanted Frances along today because I was convinced that one of Zachary’s Civil War colleagues did him in, most likely Jim Florian. If we were to learn anything of importance about Zachary’s murder from these people, it would have to be today or not at all.

  Frances, clad in her 1860s-era working shift with her ball gown draped over one arm, took a final look at her watch before removing it from her wrist. Giving me a pointed stare she wiggled a finger at my blue jeans and tank top. “You better get changed. We should get down there ASAP.”

  I planned to slather on sunscreen after I donned my Civil War getup, but as I dug through my bag, I couldn’t seem to find it.

  “Can’t you move a little faster?” she asked. “You’re not even changed yet.”

  “Why are you in such a hurry?”

  “No reason,” she said stiffly. Then added, “It’s just that I told someone I’d meet them down there before it opened to the public.”

  I looked up. “Who?”

  “Hennessey.”

  My eyebrows arched.

  “Get your mind out of the gutter, missy. The only thing I want from him is information. Last time we talked, he seemed a lot more tuned in than I’d given him credit for. We have about a half hour before I told him I’d be there.”

  “So he’s more of a kindred spirit than you originally thought.”

  She made a noise of disdain. “Do you want to help figure out who killed that Zachary fellow or not?”

  I grabbed my day outfit and started for the nearest washroom on this floor. “I’ll be right back,” I said.