“Why waste your time?” was one of Dad’s favorite lines, always accompanied by a supercilious flick of one eyebrow.
But I wanted to swim on the high school team, she thought now, still defiant. So what if I wasn’t the best?
“So what if I wasn’t?” she said aloud, slowly.
What was wrong with doing something just because it was fun?
Dumb question—it wasn’t the Laclaire way.
Of course, the Laclaire way meant she was a perfectionist. It made her good at her job. This weekend’s event had gone without a hitch because she’d worked so damn hard to foresee every possible pitfall. And no, that wasn’t a bad thing.
Suddenly, though, Madison wanted to sing. Sing so loudly her neighbors couldn’t miss hearing her and flinching at every discordant note.
Damn it, I like to sing.
Well, all right, she’d sing in the shower, she decided. Maybe someday she’d sing in the shower even if she was sharing it with someone else.
Carrying her strappy evening shoes in one hand, she padded into the bedroom, where she shimmied out of her snug black dress. The someone she envisioned in the shower with her was John Troyer. She had a feeling he wouldn’t mind at all that she couldn’t carry a tune as long as she was happy singing.
But then, singing probably wasn’t what she’d be doing if Troy joined her in the shower, Madison thought with a private smile.
As she reached in to turn on the water, she wondered again whether he’d read whatever his father had left in the time capsule. And if so...was he feeling sad?
She wished he’d called her. She was a little startled to realize how much she would like to be the person he did call when he felt distress or triumph or anything at all he needed to share.
CHAPTER FIVE
TROY CONTEMPLATED HIS face in the mirror. After a sleepless night, what he saw wasn’t pretty. He’d expected shaving would help, but if anything he looked worse now. The stubble had drawn the eye from the deepened lines and creases that were now so apparent. The fact that he’d nicked himself meant his jaw was decorated with a couple of tiny wads of toilet paper. And yeah, the bags and shadows beneath his eyes were almost as bad as the time a punk who didn’t want to be arrested had planted a fist in Troy’s nose.
Making a sound in his throat, he scrubbed a hand over his face and turned away.
Goddamn it. He didn’t see that he had any choice but to take what he now knew to the department, however much he hated to expose his father’s lousy judgment. No, worse than that. His father’s stunning, damn near criminal, ethical failing. It stung, remembering how proud Dad had been when Troy made the decision to become a cop. He’d been there to see the badge pinned on. He’d rejoiced to see his son come home to Frenchman Lake to enforce the law.
And all that time, he’d been hiding the knowledge that he had shielded a murderer because they were friends.
Troy’s mind still boggled at what he’d read last night. He would have sworn he knew his father inside and out. He’d looked up to him, measured his own decisions and accomplishments and rectitude by his father’s. What would Dad do? he would ask himself. What would Dad say?
Goddamn it, he thought again, as he took his first swallow of coffee, desperately needing the caffeine hit. Dad, how could you?
So, okay, a lot of twenty-one-year-olds weren’t very mature. Dad believed in loyalty. It was apparent in what he’d written that he had desperately wanted to believe in Guy Laclaire’s innocence. He’d tried hard to dismiss his suspicions.
It was also apparent he hadn’t succeeded. If he had, what he saw that night wouldn’t have weighed so heavily on his mind months later, when he typed that single, stark page and chose to insert it in the time capsule.
But I’m thinking, now that I read it all here in black-and-white, that I will talk to whoever is investigating.
So why hadn’t he?
Hell, maybe writing the confession and knowing it would be read someday had given him some sense of absolution.
Everything in Troy rebelled at the idea that his father had sighed in relief and gone on with a clean conscience.
He found himself wondering what had happened between Guy and Joe Troyer the last semester of their senior year, after Guy had lied about being at McKenna Sports Center the night of the murder. Had they stayed buddies, same as always, Dad pretending to Guy—and maybe even to himself—that he’d never seen a thing? Had they ever had it out? Or maybe they just drifted apart? And if so, had Guy ever wondered why Joe had changed toward him?
All questions, Troy realized, that only Guy Laclaire could answer.
What Troy did know was that the two men hadn’t stayed friends after graduation. Troy had never heard Guy’s name until Madison mentioned it. After his mother’s complete collapse, Troy had been the one to take responsibility for calling, emailing or writing everyone in Dad’s address book. Some friends from college who Dad hadn’t seen in years were in there. Guy wasn’t.
“Shit,” Troy said, thinking about his mother. She wouldn’t like the idea of any wrong Dad had committed being exposed to the eyes of the world.
Or was he misjudging her? Troy frowned. As he was growing up, Mom had been as firm as Dad was about what was right and what was wrong. What if he talked to her about this?
His every instinct said, No. There might have been a time when Mom was capable of placing an abstract concept of justice and ethics ahead of her love for her husband, but that time wasn’t now. It was almost a year since Dad died, and as far as Troy could tell, all she did was cling more tenaciously to his memory. God forbid Troy criticize Dad. He was beginning to think she regretted not climbing into the coffin with him and holding tight to his lifeless body as the soil thudded down and buried them together. She sure as hell had no interest in life.
This decision is mine, he realized, and knew it wasn’t a decision at all. He was an officer of the law. He’d loved his father, but there was only one choice he could make.
There was no urgency, though, and he had to talk to Madison first.
His belly felt hollow, and it wasn’t all because of his conflict about his father, his disappointment in the man he’d admired above all others. No, what scared the shit out of him was the fear that this would kill any chance he had with Madison, who, while obviously having some ambivalent feelings about her own father, also clearly loved him.
Yeah, arresting her dad for murder probably wasn’t the way to get the girl.
He groaned and reached for the phone.
* * *
WE HAVE TO TALK, Troy had said.
Talk about what? As she waited for him to arrive, Madison restlessly paced her living room and fretted. He’d sounded strange, and when she wanted to know what was wrong, he only asked if he could come over.
What could he have to say that would impact her? The visiting alumni had all departed this morning to drive home or catch flights. And wouldn’t he have said something at the formal dinner last night if he’d learned anything worrisome?
Did he think she’d been too manipulative in bringing everyone back to the campus, with a goal of extracting money from them?
Damn it, I was doing my job. No more and no less.
Everyone had fun. She knew many had written checks, but she had yet to hear the total.
No, that was silly anyway—she’d been up front from the beginning about her goals and Troy had seemed okay with them. He knew how important fund-raising was for a private college.
So what did he want to talk about?
She growled in frustration, then stiffened at the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside. Whirling, she raced for the bathroom. Her ponytail was still smooth. Take it down or leave it up...? The doorbell rang, and she jumped.
Losing interest in her hairstyle, she hurried to open the front door. On the other side of it, Troy was imposing, as always, his tall, solid body dwarfing hers. But her heart bumped in alarm at her first sight of his face, haggard and grim.
�
��Something is wrong.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” He raised his eyebrows. “Can I come in?”
“Oh. Sure.” She backed up. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry to be mysterious with you.” Having followed her in, he glanced around her living room.
She felt a little self-conscious, since the home she’d created for herself was bound to give away facets of her personality she hadn’t yet shared. He could probably tell right off that, while she wouldn’t describe herself as a slob, she had rebelled in her modest way after moving out on her own by refusing to be fixated on perfect order either. A couple of magazines lay on a sofa cushion; books and the Sunday newspaper littered the coffee table. Books were jammed into the pair of bookcases flanking the fireplace, too, not arranged with restraint or even—her father would shudder—alphabetically. But the house was basically clean, and she liked the paintings she’d hung, the combination of bright colors that, to her eyes, worked. She’d done classic decor in her office at the college. Here at home, she’d suited herself.
Funny—more than once she’d had the thought that Dad wouldn’t like it. But then, he never visited her here. She always went to Seattle to see him.
“Please, have a seat,” she said, scooping the magazines off the sofa and adding them to the heap on the table. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Maybe in a little bit.” His grimness hadn’t abated. “I have something I need to tell you.”
She sank onto one end of the sofa, a leg curled under her, and he chose a chair facing her. For the first time, she saw that he had a manila envelope clenched in his hand.
“Is that your father’s...?” she asked hesitantly.
“Yeah.” His gray eyes held hers. “It’s a shocker, Madison. I want you to read what he wrote.”
Her heart was hammering. He sounded so serious. Not only as if he’d had a shock, but also as if whatever was in that envelope would affect her. The only reason it could was if it had to do with her father.
“All right.” She was proud of her steady voice.
He opened the envelope and half rose to hand her a single sheet of paper. His storm-cloud eyes held something powerful—she had the odd sense that it might be grief. Then he sat down and watched her, impassive but for the spasm of a muscle in his jaw.
Stiff with apprehension, she bent her head and began to read.
I’ve kept a secret that I probably shouldn’t have.
* * *
“THIS IS A LIE!” Madison threw the piece of paper away. It fluttered to the surface of the coffee table. “It can’t possibly be Dad he saw. If he saw anybody. Has it occurred to you this could be fiction? Some kind of practical joke on my dad?”
She saw nothing but pity on his face.
“No. That’s—” Troy nodded at the paper “—my father’s voice. There’s nothing self-conscious about what he wrote. He’s too miserable, too obviously battling his conscience. If that was a successful joke, it was written by a master, not a college kid.”
Frantic as she was, Madison heard the truth in what he said.
I don’t want to make trouble for a friend. And I keep telling myself what I’m thinking is all in my head. Guy of all people wouldn’t do something like this—
There was nothing slyly humorous about his language, nothing that said sardonically, Gotcha!
She pressed on. “He admits he barely caught a glimpse of Dad’s face. He mistook him for someone else. That has to be it.”
“Of course it’s possible. Dad could have been wrong and your father really did fall asleep and never showed up.” Troy paused, that disturbing gaze never leaving her face. “It’s also possible your father was there and had nothing to do with the murder but had some other reason for lying. By morning, he might have found out about King’s death and was afraid he’d be suspected, especially if it was commonly known he didn’t like the guy.”
Madison absorbed what he said. His voice, low, resonant and soothing, had calmed her somewhat. At least he wasn’t automatically accusing Dad of murder. He was saying, I acknowledge there are alternative explanations. Thank God.
“But if that’s the case,” she heard herself say reluctantly, “and it really was Dad, why would he have ‘rushed away’ and then not come back to meet your father, the way he’d promised?”
“I don’t know.”
The pity wasn’t soft. Instead it glinted, she thought in alarm, like the steel barrel of a gun.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“How can I?” Troy’s face had never looked harder. “I wear a badge every day, Madison. Today, for the first time in my life, I’m ashamed of my father. But at least he was a private citizen. I’m not. My job is to catch killers.”
She shot to her feet. “My father is not a killer! He’s... You don’t know him, or you wouldn’t even say that!”
He rose, too, more slowly. “Somebody murdered Mitchell King. Bludgeoned him to death.” He paused to give emphasis to the brutal reality. “And odds are, it was somebody who knew him. Who wasn’t even noticed in the gym because he belonged there by rights. He damn near had to be a member of the college community, Madison.” His head cocked slightly to one side. “Of course you don’t want to think your father could have done something like that. Nobody would want to.”
Her legs gave out and she collapsed back onto the sofa. She was trying to be furious on her father’s behalf, but mostly she felt scared. She understood Troy’s point, but somehow, she had to make him understand that Dad, of all men, couldn’t have done this. It was simply impossible.
“Dad doesn’t cheat on his taxes,” she said. “If a restaurant bill leaves an item off, he draws the waiter’s attention to it. Dad is unrelentingly honest. He held me to standards as high as his own. If I tried to lie even to myself, he called me on it. As a businessman, he has a tough reputation because he can be ruthless and maybe hard, but he’s also known to live up to his promises. I have spent my entire life...” Her voice caught. She couldn’t finish.
“Trying to live up to his standards?” Troy circled the coffee table and sat down on the cushion beside her, taking her hand in a warm grip. “I’ve tried to live up to my dad’s, too. And I’ve just discovered he made one hell of a mistake. He didn’t live up to his own standards.”
“Murder is a much bigger mistake.” If her father had committed murder, her entire world was undercut. “No,” she said aloud, strongly. “Not Dad.”
Troy shook his head. “I can’t ignore this, Madison. That’s all I came to tell you. I have to go to my police chief.”
She pulled her hand from his. “Do you know what this would do to my father’s reputation?”
He grunted. “It won’t do much for my father’s either.”
“That’s not the same!” she cried.
His jaw tightened and he shook his head. “I have no choice.”
“Please,” Madison begged.
“What kind of cop would I be if I shrugged and decided I could let this guy off because, hey, I don’t want to get my girlfriend’s dad in trouble?” His eyes bored into hers. “Tell me that.”
Girlfriend? Was that how he thought of her already? Inexplicably, her heart warmed. Even so, she couldn’t quit fighting.
“Can’t we, I don’t know, investigate quietly instead? I could ask Dad about the murder, even tell him I knew somebody had seen him at the gym that night. Then, if he has a good explanation, nobody would have to know.” While she meant to sound reasonable, she knew she was coming off as pathetic. Her voice was even shaking, and she despised herself for it.
“This isn’t only about me being a cop, Madison.” Troy sighed, expression troubled. “Dad wrote down every detail and put it in that damn time capsule because he knew it all had to come to light. He isn’t here to do what should be done, but I am. It feels like something he handed to me. A trust.”
“But he never did report what he saw to the police,” she said quickly. “Are you so sure
he wouldn’t have burned that piece of paper the minute he got it back?”
His eyes burned with pain. “I hope to hell he wouldn’t have done that.”
Madison felt cruel for having said what she did. Troy was already living with the knowledge that his father had fallen short when faced with a tough decision. Of course it would have occurred to him that Joe Troyer might have destroyed this last evidence of his shame.
They sat in silence, Troy seemingly staring blindly at the brick fireplace. She doubted he saw the framed photos on the mantel; several of them included her father. She squeezed her hands together so hard they hurt, and gave Troy the time and space to think.
“All right,” he said suddenly, harshly. “We’ll play it your way.” He turned that stare, now fierce, on her. “But you do know I could lose my job over this. If I get caught suppressing evidence, it could be the end of my career.”
The hope that had momentarily swelled within her collapsed like a balloon pricked by a pin. Oh, dear God. Her throat closed and she struggled to speak. “No,” she finally said. “No, I didn’t think. I was wrong to ask,” she said with difficulty. “It wasn’t fair. I don’t want you to make that kind of sacrifice.”
Some of the tension visibly left Troy’s body. One side of his mouth crooked up. “I’ve been known to break the rules before.”
“But not for the sake of a man you don’t even know.”
“Actually, sometimes it was.” The smile became more genuine. “In this case, I’m not willing to take the chance for your father’s sake. I’m doing it for you.”
Her breath rushed out. “Oh, Troy.” Her eyes burned, but she refused to let tears fall. She never cried. Tears had disgusted Dad.
“Don’t look like that,” he said gently. His big hand covered her still-knotted fists. “I’ve got a stake, too, remember. If we can get your father off the hook, mine will be, too. Then I can burn that damn thing.”
She swallowed and nodded, blinking several times. “Did you show it to your mother?” she asked, her voice a little scratchy.
Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead Page 7
