by Sharon Haste
'Uncle? I don't know anything about my father's family. He never talks about them. Which one? Do you think he had something to do with it?'
'His name's Pedro, and I'm not sure if he's involved,' Sam says. 'He could be, but I can't find him.'
'Dad's family lives in Chile,' Charli says. 'How could he have done it?'
'He was in Delany the night it happened,' Sam says. 'Your father confirmed it. I haven't been able to talk to him though. I'm just telling you this because if he hasn't left Delany, you could be in danger. Your uncle's not a good man and doesn't like your dad much.'
Charli is stunned into silence. Her uncle is in Delany.
'What has he done?'
'You don't need to know the details. This motel your friends are staying in, what's it called? Are you staying there, too? Does your father know where you are? You know you should be at home where he can keep you safe. If Pedro had anything to do with what happened to your family, he may try to finish the job he started or something worse.'
Charli pales when Sam's words sink in. Oh my God I'm so stupid. All I've thought about is saving them and getting my life back. I haven't even thought about who did it in the first place; or that I could be in any danger.
'Sorry,' she says. 'I didn't even think about that. I'll go straight home after I tell Jael and Tobi where I am.'
'How're you getting there? You'd better let me take you if you're on public transport or walking. I don't think you realise how serious this is.'
Charli swallows, kicking herself for being so naive. 'I was going to catch a cab,' she says. 'But it might be better if you give me a ride. Then you can meet Tobi and Jael, too.'
'Good idea,' Sam says, grabbing her car keys. 'What did you say the name of this place is?'
Sam gives her a ride back to Casa Lido, frowning as they glide into the parking lot outside. 'Are you serious, Charli? This place is a dump. How did you ever think this was safe?'
'Tobi said nobody would find me here. I guess they wouldn't expect a rich kid to stay in such a dive.'
'I guess so, but there's no security, no front desk to get past, and just flimsy, wooden doors. You're lucky he hasn't found you yet. Let's hope he's gone back to Chile and has forgotten about you.’
'Maybe it wasn't him,' Charli says.
'I hope you're right.'
She turns to Sam. 'The boys don't like police,' she says. They might be a bit jumpy when you come through the door.'
'Been in trouble before?'
'Don't think so, but they are just a bit nervous of authority.'
'Well, maybe I can convince them that we're not all bad,' she says with a smile.
Her apprehension mounts as she unlocks the door and braces herself for the boy's resistance. The door swings wide into an empty room. The mounting debris is gone, and the room smells of faint disinfectant.
'Tobi? Jael?' she calls out in case they're hiding.
'They're not here.'
'Why don't you leave them a note, and I'll take you home.'
'I'll text Jael,' she says.
Charli pulls the door shut and grabs her phone from her back pocket while they get into Sam's little green car. She sends the text, telling them she'll meet them at ten the next morning.
In fifteen minutes, Sam is slowing in front of Charli's house.
'Can you go around the back?' Charli asks.
Sam nods and follows Charli's directions to the back of the property. They confirm their meeting with Jael and Tobi at ten the next day, Sam insisting on collecting her. Charli feels Sam's eyes follow her out of the car and through Mrs P's gate.
Charli doesn't go into the house right away. She sits on the back veranda overlooking the large expanse of lawn, noticing for the first time the long stalks rearing flower heads at the edges. The gardener was late with the mowing. She frowns, trying to remember when she'd last seen him and couldn't remember. Maybe her dad had let him go in his depressed funk. She would have to ask him.
Her thoughts turn to Sam, hoping she's done the right thing. Will she be able to help make it right? She wonders what the plan will be and how they can make a difference. Her thoughts turn to her uncle, and she wonders if her dad knows he's here and whether he tried to hurt them.
She yearns for someone to talk to. Ella's phone doesn't have international roaming so they can't talk until she gets home, which is over a month away. Zoe's mother confiscated all their phones, including her dad's at the airport before they left, declaring it a media-free break. Charli had a three-way phone chat with some friends from school, at her aunt's insistence; but she couldn't wait to hang up. All they talked about was how much shopping they'd done since the holidays started, who's going out with whom, and what's the latest fashion. She couldn't believe she ever engaged in such meaningless, idle nonsense.
Exhaustion creeps over her, making her limbs heavy. She stretches back on the sun lounge and lets her eyelids droop, warm tears squeezing from their corners. Something holds her head in a vice, and her heartbeat thumps a vicious rhythm in her temples. Darkness descends as she wonders if Sam's right. Should I let them go and focus on catching whoever did this? Is that what the cross is telling me to do? But how can I? She wishes she could turn back the clock and erase everything that's happened and everything she's seen and heard. She wants to be a kid again, to only worry about schoolwork and what she's doing on the weekend. She never wanted this. It isn't fair. What do I have to give to get them back? Is it my life? Do I have to die so they can live? She drifts off, thinking about her own death and wondering if she can make the ultimate sacrifice for her family to live.
Chapter Thirty-one
Sam drives away from Charli's house in a heightened state of exhilaration. She can't believe the day she's had and is excited at the promise of solving the case and setting Charli free. For the first time since the Mercedes went into the lake, she has made progress and had a real breakthrough. If the Richter girl is right, and her gut tells her she is, she still has a few weeks to sort this out before the trial. She swallows, knowing she'll lose her job if Mal ever finds out that she's helping her.
First of all, she needs to find the brother. She knows he hasn't flown out of the city because she already checked days ago and put a stop on his passport. The only way he could have made it out is if he has a new passport, but facial recognition should still have picked him up. She tries thinking like a criminal, as she often does at times like this. Where would he hide? She's still pondering this when she reaches her cluttered desk and fires up her computer. She burns her way through every detail of the case on file and every helpful database, coming up with a couple of possible addresses for the brother. She checks her watch; it's almost five. If she hurries, she could check out the first place before her date with Alex. She shuts her computer down and heads out the door.
The drive to the first house takes less than half an hour. Sam's eyes flick between the address she has on a scrap of paper in her hand and the house before her. The front yard has a modest thatch of lawn and a few bushes peppered with red flowers. A bungalow nestles beyond the bushes looking like every other suburban home in the street: red rendered bricks, sash windows, and a closed wooden door. The roof is tiled, and a cement drive leads to a neat shed to the left. There are a few sun-bleached bones littering the grass and a bucket of water beneath a dripping tap. Sam peers in, her heart beating faster. She shouldn't be here alone; maybe she should wait until tomorrow and get one of the constables to come with her. But then she'd have to explain it to Mal, and she knew he'd refuse her. She couldn't very well tell him about the pendant. She doesn't even know if it works. She'll just have to brave it alone.
She wipes her hands on her jeans and feels the police-issued revolver tucked beneath her shirt. She peers through the six-feet, cyclone wire fence, trying to spot the dog whose bones are scattered about the yard and wondering if it's still around. She rattles the gate. There's no response. She eyes the house and hears the faint noise of a television inside. She
unclips the gate and gives it a tentative push. It creaks open. Standing on the threshold between public and private property, she waits for the dog. There's no sound. Someone starts a mower in a nearby yard, and she smells the burning fuel as the small engine is revved. A distant squeal of car tyres and the rhythmic creak of a swing normalise the tense situation. Sam steps into the property, leaving the gate open, and makes her way to the front door. She raps on the dull wood and waits, her heart slamming against her ribs. There's a sound from inside, and she hears snuffling beneath the door, followed by a deep growl. She leaps back in fright, expecting the animal to burst through the flimsy wood and after her.
A woman's voice cautions the dog and yells through the wood that she's putting it away. Sam releases her breath and waits. When the door swings open, a voluptuous woman, her breasts spilling from a tight, black dress, stands on the threshold. She smiles with white teeth and red lips.
'Hello,' Sam says, flashing her badge. 'I'm Detective Constable Harris from the Delany police.'
A shadow passes over the woman's face, but the smile remains. 'Whatcha want?' she asks.
'I'm looking for a man called Pedro Romero,' Sam says. 'Is he here?'
'Nah, he's...'
A man's voice interrupts her, speaking in rapid Spanish.
The woman turns and yells back at him, abrupt and frowning. She turns back to Sam, forcing a smile.
'Sorry, not here, can't help you.'
She starts to close the door, and Sam puts up a hand to stop her, asking when he'll be back.
'Andre says he won't be back.' She leans in closer. 'Has a new lady friend.' She winks. 'Dunno when we'll see him again.'
Sam nods. 'Do you know where his lady friend lives?' she asks.
The woman shrugs and smiles. 'Never tells me nuthin'. He'll just turn up one day.'
'Can you let him know I came by and would like a word, please?'
'Sure,' she says, taking the offered card. 'I'll tell him.'
'Thanks. Can I have your name for my records?'
The woman hesitates. ‘Serena,' she says.
A man fills the door. He's Sam's height; biceps bulge beneath a black singlet, and his face is peppered with old scars. He scowls at her, asking in broken English what she wants. She forces a smile and apologises for the disturbance. As she turns to go, his hand snakes around her wrist, and he pulls her closer to the door. The woman speaks to him in rapid Spanish, and he scowls at her and opens his fist.
'Don't bother coming back; he's not here anymore. He's nothing to me.' He spits at her feet to emphasise his point.
In seconds, she turns on her heel and walks away, her wrist stinging from his grip and her heart galloping faster than she can walk. She's through the gate and in her car before she releases her breath. The engine fires up first turn, and the tyres squeal as she presses her foot on the accelerator too hard. Her hands are shaking as she flicks her indicator to turn the corner.
In twenty minutes, she's home and standing under a warm shower, washing away the army of butterflies squirming in her belly. Her heart has returned to normal. She towels herself dry, contemplating her next move and wondering if her visit has sparked any activity in the little house. Who was the man with the woman? Was that Pedro? She'd only seen one photo of him, and fear had marred her concentration. It could have been him or an associate, judging by the thick accent. She isn't sure about the woman. She could be anybody.
Distracted, she opens her wardrobe, vowing for the millionth time to clear it so her clothes don't spring out like the sales rack at a thrift shop. She never wore most of them anyway; she always sticks to the few comfortable favourites. She tries to focus on her date and pulls a pair of jeans from their hanger. Before she starts shoving her feet through the top of her pants, she stops and changes her mind. She has some ground to make up with Alex. Besides, she likes him. She decides on a short black dress with red beads. She puts on earrings and strappy black sandals, hoping it's enough to impress him. She applies a thin veil of foundation and some mascara, finishing her scant makeup with a sheen of gloss on her lips. She smiles at her reflection and throws caution to the wind, releasing her straight, blonde hair from its elastic tie and letting it frame her face. It softens her features, making her more feminine and younger. Satisfied, she grabs her bag and keys and is just about to zip out the door when there's a firm knock. Startled, she turns the knob, and a dark-skinned man towers above her on the other side. For a moment, she thinks he's Thomas, but this man has a jagged scar running the length of one cheek and a gold earring in his left earlobe.
'Ms Harris,' he says, a smile breaking his face.
'Yes,' she responds, cursing herself for having tucked her police weapon in the bathroom drawer while she was showering.
'I believe you came looking for me? I'm Pedro Romero.'
She gives him a tight smile. 'How did you…'
'How did I find you? Wasn't hard. Delany is such a small town and a man of my resources has no trouble in a place like this.'
She nods, unable to find her voice.
'What can I do for you?' he asks. 'Is this about what happened to my brother's wife and kid?'
She nods. 'Yes, I wanted to ask you a few questions,' she says, butterflies marching inside her belly. She no longer wants to interview this man, especially alone in her unit.
'Well, ask away,' he says, spreading his arms.
'I'm just on my way...'
'Out?' he finishes. 'I'm sure whoever you're meeting will wait.’ His eyes travel her entire length from top to bottom. 'You appear to be worth it.' He pushes her back through the door so she almost stumbles, unaccustomed to the heels on her feet. He slams the door before scanning the room.
'Cosy,' he says. 'Got anything to drink?'
Her mind turns to the contents of her fridge, but Pedro is already striding across the room, his eye on a bottle of bourbon on the bench. He plucks two glasses from the draining rack and fills them each with a generous measure of the amber liquid.
She thinks about running, but she knows she won't get far in her shoes, cursing herself for not wearing her usuals flats.
'Sit,' he orders her, waving one of the glasses at the couch and sloshing a little of the golden liquid over the edge. He hands her a glass. 'Have a drink with me, seeing as it's Christmas and all that.'
She makes her way to the couch, deliberately slow, her mind racing and wondering how long it will take Alex to miss her. Or will he think I'm blowing him off like I did at lunch time? She hasn't been that reliable so far, and they'd only been out twice, plus a work lunch, which did not constitute a steady relationship. She still held a sliver of hope that he'll ring and come looking when she doesn't answer.
Pedro pulls up a kitchen chair and sits back, sipping his bourbon with relish.
'You have good taste,' he says, slugging back the glass. 'You don't look so good, constable. I don't mean to scare you. Now, what is it you want to ask, so we can get on with our evenings?' he asks.
A flicker of hope ignites. Will he just walk away after I ask him the questions? She straightens in the chair, finding her interview voice and projecting it with as much confidence as she can muster.
'I want to ask you about your movements on the tenth of December,' she says. 'The day before Clare and Ashley Richter were killed.'
'Ashley.' He sneers. 'What kind of cockass name is that for a Romero son? He should have followed tradition and called his son Pedro, after our father.'
Sam waits.
'I did a lot of things that day,' he says with a wink. 'I left a beautiful woman's bed in the morning, had breakfast with a couple of colleagues, went to a bar, and had the pleasure of my brother's company for a short time.' He rises to his feet. 'He came with a fistful of money and some notion of us being friends. Ha.' He spits on her floor. 'He's no brother of mine.' He runs a long finger over the scar on his cheek. 'He gave me this, my God-fearing, angelic brother. Threw me off a two-story balcony and left me for dead. Is that the way to tr
eat family?' He drains his glass and slams it on the coffee table, making her jump.
'Did you take the money?' she asks.
'Of course I took it. If he's stupid enough to think it will make a difference, I'll spend it for him. It's all the same to me.'
'What did you do after that?'
'I had a few drinks, went to the gym to let off some steam, and then went out to dinner with Teresa.'
'Teresa?'
'My new woman.'
'What time did you finish dinner?'
'Around eleven.'
'Did you go to your brother's house on that night?'
'Is that what he told you?'
'No, but I have a witness who saw you there,' she lies.
'I may have paid a visit,' he says, the suggestion of a smile playing on his lips.
'Did you go to see Thomas?'
'On the contrary, I had specific instructions from my brother,' he says, the smile still lingering.
'Instructions?'
'Yes, instructions.'
'What kind of instructions?'
He raises an eyebrow in response, but he doesn't answer.
'What did you do at the Richter house if you didn't see Thomas?'
'I paid a little visit to his wife, the beautiful Clare, and my niece and nephew.'
'Did you talk to Clare?' Her gut is twisting now. She feels her phone vibrate in her bag beside her. Alex. Hope surges. Please come, she prays.
'Yes, we had a nice little chat,' he says, eyeing her near-full glass. 'You're not drinking, Constable. May I suggest you start?' An undertone to his voice spurs Sam into action. She lifts her glass and pretends to sip the drink.
'There, now, that's better. I don't know what it is about you Delany women; you have no stamina when it comes to drinking. Have another,' he orders.
Her hand is shaking as she brings the glass to her lips and fakes another sip.
'Clare had a drink like yours, although I think it was a better year. Thomas would have nothing but the best.'
She fights the urge to throw it in his face and wonders if he has put anything in it.
