by Beth Yarnall
“Early. I’m usually asleep by nine.”
I sort it out in my head. Beau said he arrived at Cassandra’s at about ten after Mrs. Wheeler was asleep, so she wouldn’t have seen him. He left just after one in the morning. Some time after one a.m. the delivery guy got there and then he left around four the next day, according to Mrs. Wheeler. LeFeaux said he saw Beau leaving Cassandra’s apartment around two, but his testimony is bullshit, so I can’t count that.
“Do you know if he delivered to only Cassandra’s apartment or to any of the other tenants too?” I ask.
“My window rattled just the slightest whenever she closed her front door. That day it rattled and then the man came down the stairs. I figured I missed his arrival. It happens. I get caught up in my shows sometimes. I couldn’t ever hear when the door opened, just when it closed.”
“And you told all of this to the detective with the ugly tie?”
“Yes. All of it.”
“What else did you tell him?”
“He asked me a lot about what the man looked like—height, build, hair color, that sort of thing.”
I tap open the notes app on my phone. “How tall would you say he was?”
She looks me over. “About your height, I’d say. It’s hard to tell from the angle of my bed.”
“About six-two. How was he built? Was he fat, skinny, muscular?”
“About like you except he had a little more around the middle, but that might’ve been because his uniform was a little small for him.”
If he stole a uniform to get into and out of Cassandra’s apartment it wouldn’t be a surprise it didn’t fit him.
“What color was his hair? Was he black, white, Asian…”
“White with brown hair. He wore sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes. And he had a tattoo.”
“Where? What was the tattoo of?”
“I could only see the last half of it. The sleeve of his shirt covered a good part of it. It came to a point at the bottom.”
“Like a triangle?”
“More like a shield.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “I’m guessing that because of the shape, and it was gold with lines and words.”
“Which arm was it on?”
“The side that was closest to me—his left upper arm.”
“Could you draw it if we had paper?”
“There’s some in the drawer there.”
I find a pad and pen and hand it to her. She sketches for a few minutes, then hands me the pad back.
“It does look like a shield. You’re pretty talented.”
“I used to teach art.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about the detective? Did he have an accent? A habit, like clicking a pen over and over? Did he smoke? What were his teeth like? What kind of car did he drive?”
“No accent, but he did smoke…cigars, I think. No habits. I don’t remember his teeth. His car…now, that’s what’s interesting. I didn’t notice it at the time because I was so upset over poor Cassandra. It wasn’t until later when I went over it again—as I like to do—that I noticed the duplicates.”
She’s been pretty lucid up until now, but I wonder if maybe she’s getting tired.
“The duplicates?” I ask.
“In my book. It’s right over there.” She points to the dresser on the other side of the room. “There’s no point in my keeping it anymore. No cars drive past my window. The third drawer.”
Now I’m sure she’s losing it. If she even had it in the first place. I open the third drawer as she directed. There are some clothes and a stack of spiral-bound notebooks.
I hold them up. “These?”
“Yes. Bring them here.”
I do ask she asks.
She pulls out the second one from the top. “This’ll be the one. What was the date Cassandra was killed?”
I give her the date and she flips through the pages.
She taps a line with her finger. “Right here is the day he came over to talk to me. 6TPW001.” She turns back a couple pages. “Then see here it is again—6TPW001. There are so many on this day. The neighbors across the street had a lot of parties back then.” She points it out a few more times. “Right here is the first time. A couple of months before the last time. All told, 6TPW001 is here twelve times.”
“What is 6TP whatever it is?”
“A California license-plate number.”
“Hold on. You’re telling me you have his license-plate number?”
“I have just about every license-plate number parked on our street that I could see from my window.” Her gaze goes to the window. “There are no cars now to keep track of.” There’s nothing on the other side except the blank brick wall of the building behind the care center.
Chapter 31
Cora
I’m sitting outside in a little patio at the front of the care center. It’s hotter than the surface of the sun, but I’m not bothered by it. I can’t believe we came all this way for nothing. Now that my tears have all dried up, I want to scream in frustration. I thought for sure Mrs. Wheeler would be the answer to all my prayers. I’d held out too much hope. I should know better than that by now. Just when I gather the strength to pick myself up, life strolls by and kicks me in the teeth.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch Leo exiting the care center. He’s probably looking for me.
I jog to catch up to him. “Hey.”
“There you are.” He takes me by the hand. “Come on. We gotta make this quick so we can get back to San Diego before dark.” He tows me across the street to a little market.
“What are we doing here?”
“I’m getting Mrs. Wheeler a present. You won’t fucking believe what she told me.” He grabs a couple spiral notebooks and heads to the cashier.
I help translate and then we’re heading back to the care center.
“Why are we going back here?”
“It’ll be quick. Wait here.” He leaves me at the front desk and jogs down the hall. In a few minutes, he’s jogging back.
“What are you doing?”
“Come and help me talk to the lady at the front desk.”
“What is going on?”
“I’ll explain everything in the car. Ask her if there’s an empty room with a window that looks out on the street.”
Giving him a What-the-fuck? look, I do as he asks. “She says there is one. She wants to know why we’re asking. I’d like to know why too.”
“Ask her if Mrs. Wheeler can have that room.”
I relay the message. “She says it costs fifteen hundred pesos more a year than the rooms she’s in now.”
“How much is that American?”
I ask the lady and she taps on her computer. “She says it’s a little over a hundred dollars, depending.”
Leo pulls his wallet out and peels off three hundred-dollar bills. I can’t help but gawk that he has that much on him.
He hands it to the lady. “Tell her that’s the difference for two years and there’s a little something there for her if she can have Mrs. Wheeler moved today and her bed set up near the window.”
“What are you doing?”
“Repaying a favor.”
“What did Mrs. Wheeler tell you after I left?”
“Will she move Mrs. Wheeler or not?”
I chat with the lady at the desk, who is so thrilled at her sudden windfall she picks up the phone and makes the arrangements. “She’s having her moved right now.”
Leo flashes a wicked smile. “Muchas gracias.” He takes my hand again. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
We jump in the car. It’s the most animated I’ve seen Leo, and that’s saying something, since the guy is practically an anime cartoon. He tells me about Mrs. Wheeler’s notebooks and the photos and a bunch of other stuff I can’t believe. I was so sure this trip was a monumental waste of time.
As soon as we cross into the United States, Leo calls his dad who has some news of his own. Damien LeFeaux admitte
d to lying on the stand in exchange for having his outstanding grand theft warrants reduced to minimal charges and his DUI case dropped altogether. When faced with the proof of his lies, LeFeaux gave up everything. He agreed to recant his testimony if Mr. Nash can make it so he doesn’t serve any extra time for lying on the witness stand.
Leo tells his dad what we learned from Mrs. Wheeler and how she’s willing to testify to what she saw. Leo gives Mr. Nash the license-plate number of the detective who took her statement and then didn’t add it to the case file. We also tell him about our suspicions that this detective may have harassed Cassandra before her death and he may be the real killer.
“If there’s a cop behind this, then we’re talking about a whole other level of danger here,” Mr. Nash says. “You kids be careful. I’ve got a friend at the DMV who can run the plate, but I’m concerned if we do there could be some kind of alert set up by the owner of the car that lets him know if anyone runs it. I’m going to have to see how we can go about this in the safest way possible. He’s already onto you guys. He knows you’re getting close. If he suspects for one minute that you found Mrs. Wheeler…On second thought, I have a better idea. It’s time to bring in the lawyers to see what they can do. You kids stay safe. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.” He hangs up.
“I can’t believe it,” I say. “I can’t believe we’re so close. I need to see Beau. I need to tell him what we’ve found out. I just can’t believe it.”
Leo chuckles and takes my hand. “It’s too late to go out to the prison today and we’re not on the list for tomorrow. You could call, but it’ll probably be faster to send him a letter.” He brings my hand up and kisses it. “I can’t tell you what it does to me to see you smile like that.”
I lay my head back on the seat rest and study his profile. Haloed by the low, late-afternoon sun, he’s breathlessly handsome. I can’t believe I’m sitting here with him. A few months ago I never would’ve imagined I’d be interested in someone like him, let alone have a relationship with him. I didn’t think I needed anyone in my life. I had Beau and Jamie and a handful of work acquaintances. I had my case files and more than I wanted to handle with my parents.
I realize now that I had nothing, nothing to call mine. Everything I did, from the way I dressed to how I spent my time, revolved around getting Beau freed. I’m not sorry about it. At all. I wouldn’t change a damn thing except to find Mr. Nash’s agency sooner…and Leo.
The summer’s almost over. We’re closer than I’ve ever been to accomplishing my goal. I can’t help but look toward the future. My future. What will I do with myself if I’m not spending every waking moment on Beau’s case? What am I going to do when Leo leaves for school? How can I go back to the way things were before I met him? I don’t think I can be that person again. I didn’t realize it then because I was so obsessed, but I was lonely. Instead of doing something about my loneliness, I dug myself deeper into Beau’s case.
There’s something solid and real between Leo and me. I know there’s a word for how I feel about him, but I can’t bring myself to say it, let alone accept it. Not yet. I’ve come to depend on him in a way I can’t depend on anyone else…even Beau. My brother’s in a place both mentally and physically that’s so far from where I am that I wonder if he’ll ever find his way back. His words echo in my head about finding a life for myself. I’m close, so close, to finding that life for both of us.
Chapter 32
Leo
Dad’s right. If we’re talking about a cop murdering Cassandra we’re in way over our heads here. How am I going to protect Cora from a professional? I can’t show it, but I’m scared shitless. This guy has gone to great lengths to stop our investigation. He’s a murderer, for fuck’s sake. If he finds out we’re onto him, really onto him, there’s no telling what he’ll do. We’re just going to have to lay low until Dad and his attorney friends can work their magic.
I think Mrs. Wheeler’s notebook might have given us even more than I originally thought. The first time the license plate appears in Mrs. Wheeler’s notebook could provide us with the date Cassandra initially called the police about the strange things happening around her apartment building. I don’t think I was far off when I told Cora that I think this whole thing started with that call for help.
The cop who killed her must’ve been the one to respond to it. I’m guessing by his subsequent visits to her apartment that he gave Cassandra his business card to call him directly if there was any more trouble. Just like I called it—Hero Syndrome. The more problems Cassandra had, the more reasons she had to call him. He created her need for him to come to the rescue. According to Mrs. Wheeler’s notebook, he created that need more than ten times in a two-month period. That’s more than once a week.
Cassandra’s phone records would show her calling the cop’s number. That would’ve come out in the investigation. He had to have known that. How did he get around it? A burner phone, maybe? He could’ve written his burner cellphone number on his business card when he gave it to Cassandra. My private line. Special for only you. If you need me I’ll be here in a flash. Call me. Anytime.
I can see it. He thought he was smart using the burner phone. He didn’t count on Mrs. Wheeler’s notebooks. She was smart not to tell him. It probably saved her life. She puts him at Cassandra’s apartment too many times to excuse away. The unidentified hair in Cassandra’s bed must be from him. He lucked out there. They never ran it for a DNA match, but when they do it will put him in her bed. He could claim they had a romantic relationship. Who’s alive to say they didn’t?
It would cause a lot of problems for him though. Especially with the hidden witness interview. At the very least, it could create reasonable doubt for Beau. The cop is another potential suspect who was never interviewed. A suspect who tampered with the case. That alone could cast enough suspicion to reopen the case against Beau.
We’ve got all the pieces. We just need to reveal the final player.
We grab some food at a drive-through restaurant and head for my friend Mike’s place. He was cool to let us stay here for as long as we need to. That need is greater than ever. With his state-of-the-art security system, it’s the safest place we could be.
Cora’s been very quiet since we talked to my dad. I wonder what she’s thinking. I imagine a lot of the same things that have been going through my head. It’s weird to be at a complete standstill. There’s nothing to do but wait. Everyone’s been found who needed to be found. We’ve pulled all the threads we can pull in the case. It’s now up to my dad to do what he did for Maurice Battle—contact the legal group that works on cases like Beau’s. It’s now in the hands of lawyers.
It feels strange to me to be in waiting mode. I can’t imagine what it must be like for Cora. I want to fast-forward to the day Beau gets released from prison, not just for Beau and Cora, but for me too. Because on the day he’s free she’ll be free too. And then maybe, just maybe, she’ll give us a chance.
“How long did it take?” she asks, as we go through the front door of Mike’s place.
I turn off, then reset the security system. “How long did what take?”
“To free Maurice Battle.”
“Longer than you’d think. Too long. Nearly six months.”
This information does nothing to cheer her. It does even less for me. I don’t have six months with Cora. I don’t even have one month.
“That’s not fair.” She’s looking out the window when she says this.
“No. It’s not fucking fair at all.”
I want to go up behind her and put my arms around her, but I know if I do I won’t be able to stop at just a simple hug. I need more from her than she’s got to give. And I have nothing that she needs anymore. I can feel the lengthening between us. It started in Mrs. Wheeler’s room. Maybe even before that. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m desperately, hopelessly, in love with her. It hurts. No one tells you that.
In the movies it looks so easy. In two hours a
couple meets, falls in love, encounters problems, someone makes a grand gesture, then BAM, happily ever after. I don’t have a grand gesture. I don’t have anything she wants or needs. The one thing I had to give her I’ve already given her—the leads and connections to free Beau. It’s so fucked up that I—of all people—couldn’t give her the only other thing she wanted—sex. What’s wrong with me? Even now I want her so badly I practically vibrate with it. But I know if I touch her I’ll only disappoint her. Again. It’s all just so fucking fucked up.
“That’s another one hundred and fifty-two days,” she says.
She did the math. Of course she did. I don’t know if it’s a coping mechanism or an obsession. Either way, I feel the anguish and anger she’ll endure in every single one of those days. And that’s if we’re lucky. It could take longer. It could not happen at all. What then? What if Beau is never freed?
“Two thousand two hundred and forty-one days altogether,” she intones, like some fucking electronic clock.
I can barely see her through the rage that hits me out of no-fucking-where. “How many hours is that? How many minutes? Seconds? Nanoseconds?”
“Why are your mocking me?”
“I’m not mocking you. I want to know. I want to know how deep it goes. Come on. How many hours?”
“I don’t know.”
“Need a calculator?” I pull out my cellphone, punch up the calculator setting, and hold it out to her. “Go on.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’ll do it for you.” I jab my finger at the buttons. “Two thousand two hundred and forty-one times twenty-four. That’s fifty-three thousand, seven hundred eighty-four hours.” I hold it up for her to see. “That’s sounds a lot worse than two thousand and some odd days, doesn’t it?”
“Stop it.”
I can’t stop. “There are sixty minutes in an hour.” I punch the clear button. “If we times twenty-four by sixty that’s one thousand four hundred forty minutes in a day. Times that by your two thousand two hundred forty-one and it equals…” I’m out of control. I know I’m out of control, but I can’t stop. “Holy fuck. Three million two hundred twenty-seven thousand and forty minutes.”
