“No.”
“Did you rob anyone? Beat them up?”
“No.”
“I bet you’ve never lifted a single item from the shelves here, have you?”
Chloe looked insulted. “Of course not.”
“Then you listen up, girl. Go see the cops. Don’t you go talking about your life being wrong and confessing every stupid little mistake you ever made. Just answer their questions as simply as possible. Be cooperative. Bat your eyelashes if you want—you’re young enough and cute enough to get away with it.”
Chloe had never thought of herself as cute. She wondered if Velma was putting her on.
“But don’t you ever tell them you’ve done anything wrong. They can’t have anything on you or they would have talked to you before this.”
“It’s not that simple,” Chloe wailed.
“’Course it is. Whatever you’ve done, or think you’ve done, spending time in prison won’t change it.” Velma nodded in the direction of the manager’s booth at the back. “If you want to go now, just tell The Great One you’re not feeling well. I can handle the register by myself.”
“Thanks. I’m not ready just yet, but I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long.”
*****
Chloe waited until the end of her shift before calling the police. She hoped it would be a short phone conversation, but the person she needed to speak to wasn’t even available right then.
“Where can you be reached tonight?” the woman at the police station asked.
Chloe gave the woman her phone number.
“How about a physical location?”
“Can I go back to the apartment?” Chloe asked.
“Let me check.” It took the woman a moment to get an answer. “It’s all yours. The investigation there has wrapped up.”
*****
Chloe should have been grateful to be home, but the apartment didn’t feel like home anymore. It felt empty and depressing and unfamiliar. Chloe knew where the bedroom was, and which cupboard held the bread and the plates, but nothing about it felt right. Without Trace, it was nothing but a few ugly rooms with stained brown carpeting and pocked walls. She could tell the place had been searched by the police. She was glad she’d packed up most of their personal items last night and stashed the suitcase and gym bag in the basement. At least there hadn’t been strangers pawing through her underwear.
She didn’t know what she was going to do about a place to live. She couldn’t afford the rent here by herself, even if she’d wanted to stay. But she didn’t. What she wanted was a sunny yellow apartment with wood floors, a bay window, and a flower garden. A home. And she knew she’d never have it.
An officer showed up at her door a little past seven. He didn’t bother calling first. Nor did he ask if he could come in. He just plowed past Chloe like he owned the place.
“I understand you’re the live-in girlfriend of Trace Rodriguez.”
The way he said “live-in girlfriend” made her sound trashy, but Chloe nodded.
“How long have you known Trace?”
She did a quick calculation in her head. “About seven months.”
“You have any ID?” the cop asked. He was an older man with deep-set eyes and heavy jowls. What little hair he had left was buzzed close to his head.
Chloe handed over her driver’s license.
“Barely eighteen.” He raised his eyes to look at her and shook his head. Then he silently copied her license number and birth date into a notebook. “What do your parents think about this arrangement? Or do they even know?”
“They don’t care,” Chloe said with a shrug. A full answer would be way too complicated.
The cop handed Chloe’s license back to her. “Your boyfriend was a piece of work, wasn’t he?”
“What do you mean?”
“Among other things, he shot a police officer last night. A buddy of mine, in fact.”
Chloe clenched her hands in front of her. “Is your friend going to be okay?”
“Better than the two men your boyfriend killed at the QuickStop a couple of weeks ago.”
Chloe willed herself to be still. She felt a tornado raging inside her, making her dizzy. She wanted to bury her face in her hands and blurt out the truth—that she was there and saw what happened. To drop to her knees and say how sorry she was. To bare her soul and be done with it. Instead, she looked at the officer blankly.
“You don’t know anything about that?” he asked with heavy sarcasm.
Chloe shook her head.
“He never said a word to you? Never acted like he was hiding something?”
“No.”
“There was blood at the scene,” the cop continued. “Besides the victims’, that is. Blood type matches your boyfriend’s. You didn’t see he’d been hurt?”
Chloe’s throat closed down tight. She could hardly breath. “He told me he got into a fight with a friend,” she said. Velma would be proud of her but Chloe could feel the fires of hell lapping at her feet.
“Why were you with a creep like him anyway? Huh, can you tell me that?” He paused but not long enough for Chloe to respond. “Yeah, I know, you loved him.” More sarcasm. “I’ve got a daughter your age. I don’t know what’s with girls today. You’re all stupid as pig shit.”
The cop rubbed his hands on his pants. “Okay, where were you a week ago last Sunday?”
Chloe shook her head and lied. “I don’t remember.”
“Yeah, sure. I bet you were with your boyfriend. You hang out with him when you can, don’t you?”
“Not all the time.”
The cop gestured toward the bedroom with his elbow. “How come the closets are empty? Where’s all your stuff?”
“We, uh, don’t have a lot.”
“You got more than one change of clothes, don’t you?”
How could she explain the suitcase in the basement? She couldn’t. “I took stuff to the Laundromat.”
“Yeah, sure. Looks to me like you and your no-good lover boy were getting ready to run from the law.”
“No,” Chloe said. “That’s not true.” They were running from thugs not the law. But she could hardly announce that.
“Do you have a job?” the cop asked.
“At the Craft Connection.”
More scribbling in the officer’s notebook. “Your boyfriend quit his job a couple of days after the robbery. Did he tell you that?”
“He was looking for something better,” Chloe explained, even though she knew the response made no sense. Who quit a perfectly good job for no reason before they had another one lined up?
“And you bought that line?” the cop asked with another exaggerated shake of his head. “So what do you think now? Are you surprised to learn your boyfriend was involved in an armed robbery? That he killed two men?”
Chloe was slowly getting the hang of breathing again. “Do you mind telling me . . . what makes you think it was him?”
“We don’t just think it. We know it.” His icy glare was a challenge but Chloe said nothing.
“A number of things,” the policeman said finally. “Blood type, ballistics on his gun, the car he was driving . . . It had stolen plates. You don’t know anything about that either?”
Chloe’s stomach knotted. She should confess the truth now, before he caught her in a lie she couldn’t back away from. The cops probably had her prints from the plates and were just waiting to trip her up. She opened her mouth but the words wouldn’t come.
The cop squinted his eyes at her. “Whether you want to believe it or not, your boyfriend was pond scum. And what’s worse, he must have bragged about it. That’s what tripped him up.”
“What do you mean?”
“We got an anonymous tip telling us to look at your boyfriend for the robbery and shooting. And guess what? The more we looked, the better he looked. It would be nice to think the tipster turned him in because it was the right thing to do, but more likely it was payback
. I don’t suppose you’d have any thoughts about that, either?”
Chloe shook her head. But she knew with sudden clarity that it must have been Weasel-face or one of his two buddies.
She knew, too, that they’d come back looking for her.
She couldn’t stay in the apartment even through the end of the month. She wondered if she dared stay working at the Craft Connection. She wondered if she should just tell the truth and take what came.
And then she thought of her baby. What would happen to Isabella if Chloe went to prison?
Chapter 25
Diana was emptying the dishwasher when Emily, still in her pajamas, padded into the kitchen Wednesday morning and popped two pieces of bread into the toaster. She leaned against the counter and traced the grout line in the floor tile with her left foot.
“You sure it’s okay if I head back to school?” Emily asked.
Diana handed her a plate, still warm from the dishwasher. “We’ve been over this, honey. Not only is it okay, I think it’s the right thing for you to do.” In fact, Emily was scheduled for a flight to San Diego that afternoon.
“I guess that makes sense.”
“You sound uncertain.”
Emily shrugged. “It feels disrespectful somehow.”
This from a daughter Diana sometimes felt didn’t know the meaning of respect. “It’s not, believe me. It’s what Roy would have wanted.” Diana smoothed the hair from Emily’s face. “But if it makes you feel uncomfortable to go back so soon, we can put it off a bit.”
“No.” Emily sighed, “I’ll never catch up with all the work if I wait any longer.” She broke a slice of toast in half, then ignored both pieces. “Is that the man who shot Roy?” She gestured to the front-page story and photo in that morning’s newspaper.
Diana nodded. She’d spent half an hour earlier, before the children were up, studying the news account and accompanying photo, hoping to understand. Waiting for a sense of closure.
Trace Rodriguez had a thin, clean-shaven face and dark hair, cropped close to the scalp on the sides. His eyes were dark also, and without expression. Diana thought she detected a bit of a sneer in his smile, but there was nothing overtly menacing about his appearance. And she found nothing the least bit settling about finally stamping a name and face on what had happened to Roy. If anything, the questions tormented her more.
She wondered if Roy had walked in on the robbery or if the gunman, this Trace Rodriquez, had brazenly entered the store knowing there was a customer inside. What went on in the mind of someone like that? What made him decide to rob a store in the first place? Money, of course, but that wasn’t really an answer. Drugs? Greed? Or maybe a simple afternoon’s diversion.
But mostly Diana had questions about Roy. Why had he been in a San Francisco convenience store that Sunday afternoon? Was he, as Inspector Knowles initially suggested, somehow involved in what happened? What had he done with the money he’d taken from their accounts? Who was he really, and why had he hidden his true identity from her and everyone else?
She wondered if there was someone who knew more than she did.
“I don’t understand how somebody could shoot people for no reason,” Emily said. “It’s just so sick.”
“I don’t understand either, but it happens.”
“I’m glad he’s dead but that seems almost too good for him. We suffer and he doesn’t. It’s not fair.”
“No, it isn’t.” Diana shared Emily’s feelings of injustice, but her outrage was tempered slightly by Detective Knowles’s cautionary words about the pitfalls of a trial. She shuddered when she thought what might have come out about Roy, had Rodriguez stood trial. She had no desire to see Roy’s reputation tarnished, even now when she questioned everything she thought she’d known about her husband.
“Maybe it’s better this way,” she told Emily. “It’s over.”
Except Diana knew it wasn’t really over. It wouldn’t be over until she had answers, and she was afraid that might never happen.
*****
Later that morning, after she’d taken Jeremy to school and failed to engage Emily in further conversation, Diana settled in front of her computer. She’d started this column three times, discarding each effort halfway through. Only the fact that she was already past deadline kept her from hitting delete and starting yet again. The pressing questions about Roy occupied her mind, and her attempts at light, frothy commentary on everyday events fell flat. She finally settled on the pleasures and pains of fall weather. How boring was that? But at least she’d make her word count.
When her phone rang, she knew instinctively it was her editor, Jack Saffire.
“Hi, Jack. I know I’m late but I’m putting the finishing touches on the piece as we speak.”
“I need it by noon, Diana or I’ll have to find something else to fill the space. I know you’re going through a lot right now and I wish I could cut you a little slack, but I’ve got a deadline.”
“You’ll have my column within half an hour, I promise.”
“Good girl. I knew I could count on you.”
Diana smiled at the “girl.” She knew women who would have taken offense, but Diana had never been one of them. “I’m not sure that I can continue writing this column,” she added. “I might need to get a job. One that pays better.”
“Are you asking for a raise?” He laughed. “I might be able to squeeze—”
“No,” Diana said emphatically. “I meant a job that will support my family. Without Roy, well . . . finances are going to be tight.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jack was quiet a minute. “Got any prospects?”
“I haven’t even started looking. I know it won’t be easy. But I wanted to give you fair warning.”
Another short stretch of silence. “Gwen is leaving,” Jack said after a moment. “She just gave notice yesterday. Her husband is being transferred to San Antonio.”
“Poor Gwen.”
“Poor me. I’m losing people right and left.” He paused again, while Diana made sympathetic noises. Then he asked. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in taking over for her? It’s not a lot of money but it’s more than you take home now. And you’d have flexibility in terms of hours. As well as full benefits.”
Gwen Smith handled the paper’s advertising accounts and its classified section. Not a glamorous job, nor one that required creativity. But Diana would have a regular paycheck and, as Jack had pointed out, flexibility. With Jeremy to consider, that was important.
“I might be,” Diana replied. “Do you need an answer right away?”
“Next couple of days. Gwen’s not leaving for two weeks, but I’d like to get somebody on board by next week so there’s some overlap.”
Not Diana’s dream job by a long shot, but it was steady work. Only thing was, Diana hadn’t expected to start quite so soon. What would she do about Jeremy? She’d have to make arrangements for a housekeeper, too. So many logistical details to be worked out . . . but it was an attractive offer in many ways.
“Let me think about it and get back to you,” she told him.
She gave the column one last read-through before emailing it to Jack. After he saw her lackluster effort, he might rescind the job offer and the decision would be made for her.
Diana printed out a copy of the column for her file and in the process of reaching for it, sent Roy’s cell phone clattering to the floor. She’d set it on the desk when the police had returned it to her, and hadn’t touched it since.
Her throat grew tight as she experienced one of those terrible moments when Roy’s death hit her anew. It was always something little that touched off this sense of free-falling into the abyss. The pair of Roy’s socks that had ended up in the dryer with her things. The notice from the library that the book Roy wanted had come in. The scent of the wintergreen Life Savers he favored, the sight of the apple tree in the backyard he had planted their third day in the house. The baseball mitt he’d picked out for Jeremy’s b
irthday. A memory, triggered by something as random as a billboard for a Hawaiian vacation.
And now, Roy’s cell phone. Unlike so many lawyers and busy executives, Roy stuck with what was simple. Diana had encouraged him to upgrade if only so she’d have something to buy him for their anniversary, but he hadn’t been interested. She held the phone to her cheek, thinking about all the times he’d called her on it, mostly to convey a simple message about logistics or timing, but sometimes simply to tell her he loved her. She had always experienced a pleasant rush hearing his voice in the middle of the day.
She turned the phone on to check its battery power. It began vibrating in her hand. Three new messages.
The first, left the Monday after Roy was shot, was from a colleague who obviously hadn’t heard the news about the shooting. The second, also left that Monday, was from a man who said only, “Roy? Hey man, call me. Enough of this shit, okay?” His voice was gravelly and he sounded angry. Diana checked the caller ID. No name or number. She punched the button to return the call, but all she got was a ringing phone. She let it ring ten times before hanging up.
The third message had been left last Wednesday from an area code Diana didn’t recognize. A man who identified himself only as Bernie was checking to see if Roy had received the package he’d sent. “Nothing more on any evidence found with the body,” Bernie reported in his message. “Just that leather cord and charm necklace I told you about. I’m kind of at a dead end here until you give me further direction.”
Diana assumed Bernie was an investigator Roy was using on a case. She took a deep breath and punched in his number. She needed to tell him about Roy’s death. So many loose ends, but Diana would have thought Roy’s secretary, Jan, would have notified people by now.
The phone was answered on the second ring. “About time,” a man said. “I thought you’d dropped off the face of the earth.”
“Is this Bernie?” Diana asked.
There was a moment’s pause. “Bernie Fusco.” Dogs barked in the background. “Who are you?”
“Diana Walker. Roy Walker’s wife. You probably haven’t heard. Roy passed away ten days ago.”
Lying With Strangers Page 17
