She allowed Jack to pull her against his chest. She pressed herself into him, trying to absorb his strength through osmosis. Her body trembled, even as it still felt numb and prickly from the residual effects of the drugs she’d been given.
And then she remembered what she’d needed to tell him.
“Jack, Max’s hands-”
“Shhhh. I’ve got you, Bella.”
“Jack, listen to me.” She pulled away from him and he hesitantly let her go. His blue eyes bore into hers, his attention fixed. She continued, quickly, trying to get it all out at once. “Max is left-handed. The pills were in his right hand.”
Jack was silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, his eyes remaining locked on hers, his face expressionless.
“And Klonapin doesn’t work that way, Jack. I know, because I’ve taken it before. It’s for anxiety – it works slowly.” Tears began to stream from her eyes, but she wiped at them absently and continued, going so far as to grab Jack’s shirt front in desperation. “Jack, can you even think of a drug that works so fast that it knocks the person out while they’re still holding the open bottle in one hand?”
Again, Jack said nothing. However, after a few more tense, silent moments, he shook his head. Once.
“He asked me to dinner, Jack,” and then, quickly, as if she were afraid she would stop speaking before it was all out, “he has a son.” At this point, her voice had risen a few octaves and, likewise, she’d lifted herself onto her knees so that she was at eye level with him. “And I got a message from him. A text message. Cassie and I read it at Taco Bell in St. Paul and it freaked us out so much that we rode back to the office right away…”
Jack blinked then, as if processing some new bit of information and filing it away for later. And then he straightened. Annabelle let go of his shirt. Jack pulled a cell phone from an inside pocket. He looked down at the screen, pushed a few buttons, and cleared his throat. In a deep, emotionless voice, he said, “Forest pink pastel.”
“You took my cell phone.”
“I took everything, Bella. Look for yourself.”
For the second time that day, Annabelle looked down at her own body and found that it was barely clothed. She wore only her underwear and t-shirt, beneath which, she could feel that she still wore a bra. She couldn’t exactly blame him for removing the jeans. They were constricting.
“Forest pink pastel,” he repeated, drawing her attention back to him. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“No,” she answered, her brow furrowed. “Not yet anyway. I have to think about it. And, I’m having trouble thinking.”
“Why did it frighten you so much to receive this message?”
“Because that isn’t like Max. He doesn’t do the cryptic thing. He’s straight-forward and to the point and-” She cut herself off, realizing what she was saying. And then a strange kind of pain, like a combination of heat and cold, assaulted her from somewhere deep inside her chest. In her mind’s eye, she saw Max sitting at his desk, smiling at her, his green eyes sparkling. He was inviting her to dinner. And then he was on the floor of his office, all limp and not breathing and wrong –
“Bella, did you call him after you got this message?” Jack was pulling her out of herself, drawing her to him, keeping her from descending into something awful.
“Yes. I tried his landline,” she said softly, swallowing against the lump that had formed in her throat. Her chest ached. “No answer. So,” she swallowed again, “I tried his cell. It went to voice mail.” Her head began to ache, a throbbing in her jaw that told her she was holding it too tight.
“Bella, look at me.”
She pulled her gaze from the spot at the end of the mattress where she’d gotten lost and forced herself to stare up into Jack’s eyes.
“Can you do this?” he asked. His tone was gentle, his question simple. She knew he was referring to the questioning. Jack was trying to help her. And if she wanted help, if she wanted to figure out what happened to Max, this was how it would have to be done.
She nodded, just once, and closed her eyes. She licked her lips, which had gone very dry. As opposed to her eyes, which were plenty wet.
Jack nodded as well and gave her a moment. Then he asked, “Did you see him this morning?”
“Yes. When I went in. He gave me some jobs.”
“And he asked you to dinner.”
“No, that was later. Before I went to lunch.”
Jack paused for a moment and then asked, “This morning, after you’d gotten in, did anything out of the ordinary occur?”
“No, not that…” Her voice trailed off. Something strange had occurred. A coffee pot hadn’t been where it was supposed to be. “Actually, yes. Max had a laptop. It was Teresa’s. He said he found it in a coffee pot box.”
Jack’s gaze intensified and she knew he was paying extra close attention. “Tell me exactly what he said.”
Annabelle closed her eyes. Her head was sort of spinning. Too much information, too quickly. She tried to sort it out, set it right. What had Max said? “Um…” She licked her lips again. When she opened her eyes it was to find that Jack was holding a glass of water out to her. She stared at it. And then she took it in shaking hands and took a few very difficult swallows. It helped a little.
She handed the glass back and he set it on the night stand. “Take your time.”
Annabelle tried to take a deep breath. It was shaky, but she got it in and out. “He said that he found it last night in his attic. He said there was a leak or something. I guess they were cleaning things out, maybe trying to find out where the hole was.” She paused, wracking her brain. “The laptop was in a box that he’d always assumed had a coffee pot in it. He said he’d thought that the company Teresa worked for had collected all of her stuff.”
“What was the company name?”
“I don’t… Medi-something. I can’t remember.”
“No matter. Anything else?”
“No.” Annabelle ran her hands over her face, rubbing the tears into her skin and massaging her jaw. Her head was now throbbing and her teeth were beginning to chatter. She felt Jack pull a warm blanket around her shoulders and hug her to his chest once more. And then she gave up against the tears and just let them fall.
Through her hiccups, she whispered, “Dylan’s already lost one parent.”
“Shhh. Bella-”
“I have to go see him, Jack. I can’t let him be alone right now.”
“They’ve already told him, Bella. He’ll be at the station house.”
“Jack, please.” She closed her eyes and pushed her face into his shirt. He smelled like after shave and musk and a touch of sweat. He smelled like a man. Against her cheek, he felt like a man.
“You should rest,” he said softly, his rich accent and deep voice wrapping around her as surely as the blanket over her shoulders.
“I will, Jack.” Annabelle pushed herself away from him and looked up into his eyes. As always, his gaze pulled her in, so intensely blue that she felt she was drowning in an ocean of deep, dark influence. What kind of power was that? And why was a human being allowed to have so much of it?
“I will,” she repeated. “But not right now.”
Jack watched her for several long moments more and then he sighed, dropping his head. “Very well. I’ll get your things.”
Chapter Five
Forty-five minutes later, Annabelle sat alone in a plain room, at a small rectangular desk with two chairs at either side. She sat in one chair. The other was empty. Along one wall, a two-way mirror reflected her own somewhat ashen face back at her. She felt cold.
The door opened inward to admit a young man and a woman, both dressed in the dark blue of Bloomington’s police department. The woman carried two cups of coffee in her hands. She set one in front of Annabelle and then sat down in the chair opposite her.
“I have powdered creamer and sugar, if you’d like.”
Annabelle smiled at the woman, though she knew it wasn�
��t a genuine smile. The woman looked to be about in her early thirties, with shoulder-length jet-black hair and slightly Asian features. Her skin was perfect. As were her teeth when she smiled back at Annabelle.
“Black is fine,” she answered, taking the Styrofoam cup and placing it to her lips. Warm steam wafted up over her lips to her nostrils. She inhaled and closed her eyes. As small a thing as it was, it was comforting.
The woman nodded, across from her. “I’m detective Chen. This is detective Robinson.” She motioned to the man who was still standing against the wall by the door. The man nodded respectfully toward Annabelle. But he didn’t smile.
Annabelle took a sip of her coffee and studied him silently. He was almost absurdly tall – maybe six and a half feet – and very thin. His hair was dark brown, neatly cut. His eyes were a very light blue that seemed at odds with the deep tan of his face. He was maybe twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Very young in Annabelle’s book.
“Miss Drake, do you know why you’re here?” Chen’s voice was soft, empathetic. It went a long way toward easing Annabelle’s frayed nerves. She was just beginning to think she should have taken some of the spilled Klonapin from Max’s bottle…
“Not really,” she lied. She knew why she was there. In the interrogation room. Alone. The boys in blue weren’t convinced that Max’s death was a suicide. And she was the one to find his body. She was a suspect and she was there for questioning. She knew that much. But, she wasn’t going to admit it. Why give them information they didn’t ask for?
Chen blinked, obviously taking the time to choose the right words. “You knew Max Anderson very well. Can you tell me if, lately, he seemed different than usual in any way?”
Annabelle was quiet for a long time, pretending to search her memory. She knew the entire conversation with the cops was going to have to be one giant act. The only thing stressing Max out lately had been his dog. And the laptop. Something about that laptop had set him off… But that was information for her and Jack to sort through. For some reason, Annabelle didn’t want the police to know. It was just… personal.
“He was worried about his dog. Sam. He’s really old. I think Max was afraid he was going to die.”
Chen nodded slowly. From where he stood against the wall, Robinson pulled a pad of paper and a number two pencil from his uniform front pocket and began to make notes. Annabelle took another sip of her coffee. The caffeine was the last thing she needed in her already nervous state, but the warmth of the liquid was soothing. She would take what she could get.
“Can you tell me what happened earlier today, before you went to lunch with Miss Reid?”
Annabelle took her time answering, swallowing another sip of coffee as she thought about what she was going to say. Obviously, they had already questioned Cassie. Annabelle wondered what she had said. She would have to be careful not to contradict anything her friend may have relayed. Then again, Cassie didn’t know much. When you didn’t know anything, you couldn’t spill it.
“I got in late,” she started slowly. “Car problems. When I got there, Max gave us some jobs and sort of briefed us on what was going on with them. I asked how Sam was. He said he was hanging in there. Then he went back to his office. Later, I stopped into his office to let him know we would be going to lunch in a while. I asked him if he wanted us to bring him anything back. He said no. I left.” She paused, took a last sip of her coffee, emptying the small white cup, and then finished. “That was it.”
Chen didn’t nod this time. She watched Annabelle closely, not saying anything for a long while. Across the room, Robinson’s pen scratched noisily. Whatever he was writing was lengthy and detailed. In Chen’s silence, it almost seemed as if she were broadcasting mental notes to the other detective.
“What, exactly, happened when you found Mr. Anderson’s body?” Chen asked then, careful to keep her tone soft and respectful. Annabelle realized that Chen was very good at this. It probably wasn’t the first time she’d questioned someone who’d lost a person close to them.
Annabelle raced through the lunch time events in her head, sorting them out as she did so. She placed them into two mental categories: One to tell Jack about and one to share with the police. When she’d finished, she spoke.
“May I have more coffee?” she asked, keeping her voice soft and allowing a bit of the fear she was feeling to filter through to her tone. It helped win Chen to her side. The detective nodded, signaling to Robinson, who left the room. When Chen turned back around to face her suspect, Annabelle had finished preparing her answer.
“When we opened the office door, all of the lights were off,” she said, staring at the table as if she were lost in memory. She didn’t think it would hurt to share this bit of information. People who were suicidal did strange things like that before offing themselves. And the truth was, Annabelle was almost positive that that was exactly the effect Max’s killers were going for. She knew, instinctively, that they’d turned off each of the lamps to add to the illusion of Max’s supposed suicidally depressed behavior. So, she helped them lay it on. “It was quiet. Too quiet.” She swallowed, blinking back tears that weren’t entirely fake.
The door to the small room opened once more and Robinson came back in with the coffee. He placed a fresh cup in front of Annabelle and stepped back to the wall, resuming his earlier task of note taking.
Chen waited patiently for her to continue.
“Cass said something about Sam maybe dying and Max leaving to take care of his son. But it felt strange to me. So, I went down the hall. Cass went with me.”
“Who is Sam?” Chen asked.
“Sam is Max’s dog. He’s very old,” Annabelle supplied.
Chen nodded. Robinson’s pencil continued to scratch. The sound accompanied Annabelle’s words like an abrasive echo.
“We got to Max’s door and I turned the knob.” At this, she stopped. She didn’t have to pretend to be shaken by this process of review. Her hands trembled of their own accord as she reached for her coffee cup and tried to take a sip without it spilling. She managed a few swallows, ignoring the brief sting of too-hot liquid against her throat.
“Max was on the floor… with the bottle…” She closed her eyes, put down the cup, and ran a hand through her long thick hair. She really didn’t want to do this any longer.
The room was silent, then, Robinson’s writing having ceased. Annabelle kept her eyes closed and pressed her hand to her forehead. After what must have been a full minute, she put her hand down and opened her eyes, looking up at the detective sitting across from her.
Chen’s expression was unreadable. Yes, Annabelle thought. She’s done this before.
Finally, Chen stood and nodded once at Annabelle. “Thank you, Miss Drake. We appreciate your cooperation. You’re free to go; Dylan Anderson has been asking to see you and he’s waiting two doors down. You can take him with you if you’d like.” She moved to Robinson and the two exchanged glances. There was a lot of unspoken knowledge passed between them in that single glance.
“If you think of anything further, Miss Drake, please don’t hesitate to let us know.” Robinson nodded at her one last time and then turned and opened the door. Chen walked through the door, motioning for Annabelle to follow.
Annabelle stood and left the room, Robinson following after her. She stopped just outside it and Chen turned to face her. The dark-haired woman gestured to a door down the hall. “He’s in that room.”
The door was slightly ajar. Annabelle pictured the teenager who waited inside. She wondered what state he would be in. What he would look like.
With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and moved to the door. The detectives disappeared around the corner, but Annabelle knew they wouldn’t be far away.
After a moment’s hesitation, she pushed the door open and entered the room.
“Dylan.”
He was sitting alone at a table that was a carbon copy of the one she’d been sitting at, in a room that was a twin to the one she�
��d just left. He looked up at her as she entered and she studied him. He looked normal. Dressed in the jeans and t-shirt that were the proverbial uniform of the seventeen-year-old, the high-tops that were standard issue, and the longer-than-acceptable wavy brown hair that fell just to his shoulders, he looked like quintessential Dylan. It was what was in his eyes that brought Annabelle up short. He had his father’s eyes. And there was something unfathomable in those green depths.
“Miss Drake…” When he spoke, his young voice was strained; his throat sounded dry. But even after all that he’d suffered and in the midst of the horror that he would most assuredly continue to suffer for some time, Annabelle realized that the kid was being respectful. Miss Drake.
“Dylan,” she repeated, fighting back the tears that threatened her eyes once more. She rushed to the table as Dylan simultaneously stood, and the two met in motion, colliding in an embrace of desperate pain. One of them had lost a father. The other had lost a friend. Somewhere in there was a connection, as thin as it may be, of essential empathy. For the moment, they had each other.
Like his father, Dylan was tall. The top of Annabelle’s head came to his jaw bone, and he wasn’t a skinny boy either. Hugging him reminded Annabelle of hugging his father. She hiccupped as new sobs assaulted her, and Dylan’s embrace tightened.
If he was crying, he was doing so silently. So, she cried for them both.
Finally, Dylan’s arms loosened their grip and Annabelle reluctantly pulled away. She looked up at him and, without thinking, he brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.
“Can… can we leave?” he asked then, his voice still strained.
Annabelle nodded, let him go, and turned toward the door. Without a word, Dylan followed after.
As they left the double door entrance to the station house, a black Audi with dark tinted windows pulled alongside the walk. The car idled and Dylan gently grabbed hold of Annabelle’s elbow, pulling her to a stop. A new band of tension had taken over him; his body was ramrod straight, his green eyes flashing.
Hell Bent Page 5
