A sudden, loud crash broke the quiet. Chloe froze. More clatter, then footsteps near the rear of the building. From the apartments above the lot, someone opened a window.
Chloe could feel her heart racing. Should she run? Wouldn’t that draw attention? But what if she was found here, holding a screwdriver and crouching in front of a car with a loose license plate? She should never have agreed to do this. It was a stupid idea. She experienced a swell of resentment toward Trace.
She heard the clatter of what sounded like bottles being dumped into the trash, and then the footsteps retreated into the building. A dog barked and a cat darted across the asphalt. Chloe let out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. She took out the last screw and pulled the plate free, tucking it under her jacket.
On the walk home, she saw a shadowed figure of a man coming toward her. She kept her head down and walked with a determined stride, then turned up the walkway to a nearby house. He wouldn’t attack her there, would he? The house was dark, but if she screamed, surely someone would come running. Or at least look out the window.
Or maybe not. This was a neighborhood where people pretty much minded their own business. She reached into her pocket for the screwdriver. She’d go for his eyes. That was advice she’d read in one of those women’s magazines near the checkout stand at the grocery. Go for his eyes and scream.
The man walked past, muttering to himself. He was old and frail and totally spaced out. He didn’t even look at her as he passed by.
Chloe practically ran the rest of the way home. When she closed the door to her own apartment, relief rolled over her like an ocean swell and left her almost giddy.
Trace was already in bed. Two empty beer bottles were on the counter by the sink. Chloe put them in the recycling bag and wiped the sticky counter. Then she went into the bathroom, washed her face, and brushed her teeth. The apartment was cold and Chloe shivered. In bed she scooted closer to Trace. As she fit her body into the curl of his, he rolled over and away.
She fought an unwelcome wave of emptiness. She put her hand to her abdomen. “Good night, Melanie,” she told the baby, testing yet another name. “Everything’s going to be just fine. You wait and see.”
Chapter 8
“I really appreciate the ride,” Diana told Len as she buckled herself into the plush leather seat of his cream-colored BMW. “I would have taken BART to the city but the police impound lot is nowhere near a station.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m happy to help.”
Len was unfailingly gracious and accommodating—in large part, Diana thought, because she was Allison’s friend. But being congenial was also in Len’s nature. He rarely expressed opinions or voiced disapproval, and was quick to smooth over awkward moments with hearty banter. These were traits which irritated Roy, but Diana usually enjoyed Len’s company. Today, though, she would have preferred the company, and support, of a best friend. But Allison taught graphic design at the community college on Tuesdays, and Diana didn’t want to leave Roy’s car in impound any longer than necessary. It was as if by bringing his car home, she’d be keeping Roy closer.
Len took his right hand from the wheel long enough to adjust the climate control in the dashboard. “Any news on Roy’s condition?”
“I wasn’t able to reach the doctor this morning, but the ICU nurse I spoke with said nothing’s changed.”
He grimaced. “So it’s a matter of wait and see?”
“It seems so.” Except that waiting seemed too mild a word. Waiting was what she did in grocery lines and at airports, in doctor’s and dentist’s offices. Waiting was a matter of biding her time. The frantic worry and fear that now lodged in her chest felt more akin to desperation.
The notion that Roy might die sent her into a blind, freefall panic. She couldn’t imagine her life without him. The eight years they’d been together had healed thirty years of self-doubt. She’d blossomed into someone who felt deserving of love. And Roy’s confidence in her had given her an inner strength she’d never known. The detective’s phone call Sunday had shown her how fragile the construct of that security was.
And then there were the questions that swirled through her mind like a stalled twister. Why had Roy gone to San Francisco? Why had he lied about his plans? And who was Mia?
Diana had spent hours last night after Jeremy was in bed going through Roy’s computer files, and had found no mention of a Mia. No indication of another woman at all. Only household records, family photos, and the travel itinerary for their most recent vacation to the Grand Canyon. Roy’s web browsing history revealed nothing of interest, either. She tried to convince herself that Mia was just some random name Roy pulled from the mist of his groggy, sedated state. It meant nothing. Maybe it wasn’t a name at all, but a word.
She wasn’t buying that, though. She’d heard him clearly, and Roy hadn’t been rambling, he’d been trying to tell her something specific. She felt sure of it.
“You okay?” Len asked. “You seem . . . well . . . distracted. Not that you don’t have good reason to be.”
“Sorry, I was thinking about Roy. It’s hard to stay hopeful when there’s still so much that can go wrong.”
Len reached across the gear console and gave her forearm a reassuring squeeze. “It’ll work out, Diana. Roy is a fighter.”
She acknowledged his remark with a smile, but she was far from reassured.
“I’ll wait here,” he said when he dropped her at the impound lot, “and follow you home.”
“There’s no need for that.”
“I insist.” He reached to turn off the engine.
“No, really,” she said firmly. “I’ve got a few errands to do on the way.” Len was only trying to be helpful, but it irritated Diana the way he couldn’t take no for an answer.
Len hesitated. “Well, if you’re really sure.”
“I am. Thanks again for the ride.”
When he drove off, Diana rang the buzzer on the gate. It gave off a sharp and surprisingly shrill sound. She’d expected it to ring inside the small shed at the edge of the lot but when she looked more closely, she saw the shed wasn’t manned. She rang again. A minute or so later, a gangly man with a cigarette dangling between his lips came out of the building next door.
“Hold your horses, I’m coming.” He opened the gate and let her in. “You here to pick up your car?”
Diana nodded. “It’s a silver Lexus registered to Roy Walker.” She hoped she didn’t need the license plate number because she suddenly realized she didn’t know it.
“Who are you?”
“His wife.”
“You got ID?”
Diana pulled her driver’s license from her wallet and handed it to him.
The man ground out his cigarette on the pavement. “It’s nice of you to do his dirty work for him. What’d he do, park in a tow-away zone or forget to pay his parking tickets?”
“He was shot,” Diana said. She’d meant to leave it at that—she wasn’t here to exchange life histories with this man—but the words sounded so abrupt, so stark, she plowed on. “He was a bystander to a holdup at a convenience store. The police had his car towed from the lot.”
“Shot,” the man muttered, shaking his head with no sign of recognition. He obviously didn’t keep up with the news. “We don’t get many of them. Mostly it’s parking violations.”
Diana swallowed against the lump of sadness in her throat. “I was a little surprised they towed it. Roy was a victim. He hadn’t done anything wrong.” Nothing she knew about, anyway.
“Probably just as well,” the attendant said. “Fancy new car like that would have been stolen or stripped otherwise.”
Diana hadn’t thought about that.
“Come on in,” the man told her, heading to the shed. “We need to take care of the paperwork.” He opened the door and pulled some forms from a desk drawer. “Name, address, and so forth. It’s all pretty self-explanatory. If you give me the key, I’ll get the car and bring it t
o the front while you do that. And I’ll need five hundred dollars.”
“Five hundred?” Diana gulped.
“Three hundred for towing, and hundred for each day it’s left here. I should probably charge you for today, too, but seeing as how it’s before noon, I’ll let that one go.”
“Thank you,” Diana said in a tone which she hoped conveyed none of the sarcasm she heard in her head. At least she’d had the foresight to bring a car key. She pulled out her checkbook.
“Sorry, ma’am. Cash only.”
“Cash? I don’t have that much cash with me.”
He shrugged. “Company policy.”
“How about a credit card?”
“No can do.”
“Why won’t you take a check? There’s more than enough in our account to cover it.”
“Lady, you wouldn’t believe the kinds of people we get and the stories I’ve heard.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I’m doubting you, personally, of course.”
What now? Diana was stuck in San Francisco with no car and not enough cash to retrieve Roy’s Lexus. Reluctantly, she pulled out her cell phone and called Len. At least he wouldn’t have gone far yet.
“Diana?” He’d clearly checked the readout before answering.
“I’m so sorry to bother you again, but this place won’t take a check or credit card.” Her voice was tight and she could feel tears of frustration threatening. She wasn’t going to let that happen. Breathing deeply, she continued in a calmer voice. “I’m wondering if—”
“Sure thing,” he said. “How much do you need?”
“The bill is five hundred. I have eighty-five in my wallet.”
“I’ll find an ATM and be there in short order.”
“Thank you.”
“No problemo.”
Len might have some irritating quirks, Diana thought, but deep down he was a really decent guy, in spite of what Roy might think.
*****
Half an hour later, Len had come, handed Diana a wad of cash, and then, at Diana’s insistence, driven off again. When the attendant pulled Roy’s car up to the gate, Diana experienced a moment’s rockiness. Roy loved that car. He’d had a special sound system installed and some kind of shift and brake upgrade. And now, to her, it looked like an empty shell. Oh, God, Roy, what happened?
The attendant climbed out and Diana climbed in, pulling the seat forward and adjusting the mirrors. It looked as pristine inside as it did when Roy drove it. Despite the hefty towing fee, she was glad the police hadn’t left it sitting in front of the store. The attendant was right, the car would be in pieces by now.
Eager as she was to look around the interior for some clue about Roy’s mission on Sunday, she didn’t want to do that in front of the attendant. She drove several blocks and found a parking spot at the curb in an area that appeared safe. Aside from a map of San Francisco on the passenger seat, the interior was as neat as always. She looked in the glove compartment. Nothing but the owner’s manual for the car, a flashlight, and a bottle of Motrin.
Next, she looked in the trunk, empty except for the earthquake blanket and bottled water Roy always carried. No odd pieces of paper or scraps of mail under the seats, either. She experienced a ripple of disappointment. She’d so hoped for some answers.
Back in the driver’s seat, she remembered the compartment under the armrest where Roy kept change for parking meters. Inside, she found the torn corner of a newspaper advertising supplement with an address scrawled in the margin in blue ink. No city, just 1162 Bayo Vista. The handwriting was neat and square. It wasn’t Roy’s.
She pulled away from the curb slowly. The slip of paper could have been there for months. It might have nothing at all to do with Roy’s activities Sunday afternoon. But it was something. Something was more than nothing.
It would have to wait, however. She’d arranged to meet with Inspector Knowles and she was already late. She pulled away from the curb and headed for the Hall of Justice.
*****
Diana took an elevator to the fourth floor, walked down the hallway, and pushed open the door marked HOMICIDE. The lettering gave her a moment’s pause. Roy was alive. The store clerk was dead, though, so maybe that’s why the case had been assigned to Knowles. Or maybe aggravated assault was lumped in with homicide.
Knowles saw her enter and came forward to greet her.
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
“I’m managing.”
“It’s never easy.”
Diana wondered how many times he’d said the same words in the course of his career. His manner wasn’t brusque, but there wasn’t a lot of warmth in his tone. She’d guess he was in his late fifties. Experienced enough that he’d seen tragedy played out many times. It had to have grown almost routine for him.
“Any news on your husband’s condition?” he asked.
“There’s been no change. I get the impression that’s not necessarily good.”
Knowles nodded grimly. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He led her to his desk, where he gestured for her to be seated in a straight-backed wooden chair facing his own. “I’m afraid your assessment applies to our investigation, as well.”
“But the news reports said there was a witness.”
“Right.” Knowles cracked his knuckles. “A man who pulled into the lot just as another car was leaving. He didn’t get a look at the driver, and his description of the car is fairly vague. Dark color, older model sedan.”
“That’s it?”
“Afraid so. He’s backtracked some from his initial statement. Doesn’t know cars, he says. He did get the last two digits on the license plate, or he thinks he did. He isn’t really sure about that, either.”
“But that’s . . . that’s not very helpful, is it?”
“It’s not as helpful as we’d hoped.” Knowles had eyes like an old basset hound, warm but sad. He regarded her now with kindness, and Diana realized his work wasn’t routine to him at all. He simply needed to measure his emotional responses in order to continue doing what he did day after day.
“We’re working with Alameda County authorities on this,” Knowles continued. “On account of your husband’s position with the DA’s office. And we’re bringing everything we’ve got to this investigation. Someone out there knows something, and sooner or later, we’ll find that person.”
“There’s no guarantee of that,” Diana said. She hated false promises.
Knowles sighed. “No. There’s no guarantee.” He rubbed the bags under his eyes. “You haven’t learned any more about what your husband was doing in that area of the city, have you?”
She shook her head. “I picked his car up from impound this morning. I was hoping I’d find some clue there.” She paused, recalling the slip of paper with the address. It might not be relevant. It might be—her thoughts drifted to Mia—personal. She’d see what she could learn first and then she’d tell Knowles about it.
“Don’t most stores have some sort of surveillance camera?” she asked. “Especially in . . . uh, questionable neighborhoods. I should think the owners would want to protect against shoplifting.”
“There’s a camera, all right,” Knowles replied, sucking on his cheek. “But the tape was missing.”
“Oh.” Disappointment rolled over her. “So you’ve really got nothing to go on.”
“For the moment. Like I said, most of these cases get solved because someone talks. The guy who did it gets drunk and tells a friend, that sort of thing. We’ve also got contacts on the street. They know there might be some money in it for them if they can give us a name. There’s a decent chance we’ll find who did it.”
A decent chance. Hardly a statement that evoked confidence.
Knowles stood. “I’ve got your husband’s personal belongings for you. His keys, watch, wallet, and cell phone. If you come with me I’ll release them to you.”
Diana followed him down the hallway. “What about his gym bag?”
Knowles turned and looked
at her. “Gym bag?”
“He took it with him. It’s not in his car so I assumed the police had taken it.”
Knowles shook his head. “We didn’t find a gym bag. Are you sure he had it with him?”
“Positive.” Could Roy have actually gone to play golf and left it at the club? Maybe something happened during the game that caused him to drive to San Francisco.
“We don’t have it.” Knowles opened the door to a small room lined with cardboard boxes and pulled one down from the shelf. “Here you go. The hospital will have his clothes, but I don’t imagine you’ll want those, given the state they’re in.”
“No, I think not,” Diana said, although part of her wanted every component of Roy she could get—bloodied clothes and all. “Did you check his phone for incoming or outgoing calls?”
Knowles nodded. “That’s how I got your number. We were hoping maybe he’d called to report suspicious activity or something, but there were no calls at all that day, made or received. In fact, his phone wasn’t even on.”
“But Roy always kept his phone on. He needed to be available for people at work, and for his family.”
“All I can say is that it was off when we found it.” Knowles hesitated for a moment. “Did your husband always carry a lot of cash with him?”
“A hundred, maybe a bit more depending on how recently he’d been to the ATM.”
“I meant more than a couple of hundred.” Knowles cleared his throat. “His wallet has over five thousand dollars in it, mostly in hundred-dollar bills.”
Diana swallowed, fighting a growing uneasiness. Five thousand dollars cash?
“Does your husband own a gun, Mrs. Walker?”
“Yes. Why? Roy didn’t shoot himself.”
“The clerk didn’t shoot himself, either.”
“What?” Diana’s skin felt prickly. “You think Roy shot the clerk?”
Lying With Strangers Page 5
