by P J Parrish
“All I asked you was if you wanted a refill,” she said. “If you’re gonna get ugly, there’s the door.”
He held up his hands. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Yeah, bring me another, please.”
The bartender moved away, and he looked back across the bottles of booze at his reflection, thinking again about McCall. Had he intended from the start to kill Amelia Tobias? Had McCall known that when he had hired him? Was this all some elaborate setup? McCall’s last words to him in Georgia, just before he got out of the car, came back to him.
This is how it will work. When you get back to Fort Lauderdale, there will be a package waiting for you at the hotel. In it will be five thousand dollars, a cell phone, and a key. The five grand is for your expenses. The cell is how I will stay in contact with you. The key is to a locker where I will put two million in cash. When you finish the job to my satisfaction, you get the location of the locker. This is the last time we will see each other, do you understand?
Buchanan pulled out the cell phone. It was a cheap disposable Samsung with a prepaid plan that couldn’t be traced. It was called a burner, used by drug dealers mostly. Buchanan had used more than his share in his line of work.
He focused now on the key. It was small, brass, with the number 328 etched on it. It could fit anything from a bus locker at Port Authority to a safe deposit box in Sao Paulo. Buchanan pulled out his wallet, stuck the key behind the photograph of his daughter, and put the wallet away.
The bartender brought his fresh scotch. Buchanan took a drink and then finally, sick of staring at his reflection, he swung the stool around and looked around the bar. He had found Kim’s Alley by accident. After cabbing in from the airport, he had gone up to his room and started sorting through the box of mementoes from Amelia’s closet, looking for something that would lead him to Carol Fairfield or Amelia’s nameless lover. But after an hour of looking at faded snapshots and reading a couple letters Amelia’s brother had written from Afghanistan, Buchanan gave up. He knew he needed to keep digging into Amelia Tobias’s life, but since accepting McCall’s deal, it was almost like he didn’t want to know anything more about the woman. If she remained just a face in a magazine or a line in a dance review, he didn’t have to think about her as a real person.
Finally, he had thrown everything back into the cardboard box and retreated to the hotel bar, expecting a quiet dark corner where he could think. But after fifteen minutes sitting on a gold silk banquette listening to bad jazz, he left. He wandered down A1A, his head hunched into the turned-up collar of his sport coat. The beach was deserted, the afternoon sky and the ocean below it roiling and gray. He walked far, turning away from the beach and finally into a strip mall. That’s where he had found this place.
Kim’s Alley was dark, smelled like beer and body odor, and except for the soft thick-thock of Ping-Pong balls, it was blissfully quiet.
He watched two guys finish their Ping-Pong game. The roar in his head had quieted. Even her voice was gone, for the moment at least. He knew this was dangerous, letting his mind go empty, because that’s when the memories slid in. And they were coming now, not like they usually did, like he was seeing them through a soapy shower curtain, but with a sharp, stabbing, awful clarity.
It had been hot that September day, with tornado warnings crawling across the bottom of the TV screen as he watched the Titans game. The baby was crying in the kitchen, making that awful wheezing sound he made when his asthma was bad, and Gillian had made a mess on the rug with her Shrinky Dinks. Rayna had come into the living room and grabbed the remote, muting the TV.
Bucky, didn’t you hear the phone?
No. Did it ring?
He hadn’t even looked at her. The AC was on the fritz, he was hot and miserable, thinking that this was his first day off in two weeks and all he wanted was to be out in the woods with his binoculars and birds. He was thinking about the late mortgage payment and the baby’s unpaid medical bills, thinking about his peckerwood boss and how much he hated working as an insurance fraud investigator. Thinking that if Rayna hadn’t gotten pregnant again, the money they had saved might have been enough for him to go back to night school and finish his psychology degree.
When he finally looked up at his wife, he saw something there in her clear blue eyes he didn’t want to see—himself, made small and mean, because this was never what he had envisioned for himself, and it was too late to go back and fix it.
Rayna, you and the kids are the only good things in my life, and I love you, but whatever is choking me from inside won’t let the words come out.
That’s what he wanted to say.
Instead . . .
You still going to your mom’s?
Yeah, I have to get going. I’ll take the baby so he won’t bother you. Keep an eye on Gillie-Girl there.
When you coming back?
Around eight maybe.
It’s going to rain. The tires are bad on your car. You should take my truck.
I’ll be fine. I’ll be back before you can miss me, Bucky.
And then she was gone.
He watched the rest of the game, helped Gillian clean up her sticky things, and even got the six-year-old to take her bath, eat some SpaghettiOs, and get into her Garanimals. His daughter was fast asleep in her room and the Sunday night game was half over when he saw the car headlights sweep across the curtains.
The murmur of police radios out on the porch and then a sharp knocking. He opened the door to see two Nashville cops standing there, heavy and pulled in, like birds get when they sense a storm coming and the air is too thick to fly, and he knew, he knew, he just knew . . .
We found your wife’s car, Mr. Buchanan, in a wooded area north of town.
The driver’s door was open, and there was blood on the seat.
There was a baby seat in the back. It was empty. Do you have a child, sir? I mean, besides the little girl over there?
Gillian had come out of her room and was standing there staring at the cops, twirling a strand of her blonde hair. After that, the cops followed him next door while he got Mrs. Prescott to watch Gillian. He was allowed to drive his own truck down to the station and they took him into a small hot room.
Were you at home all evening, Mr. Buchanan?
Can anyone verify that?
How was your marriage?
Are you having an affair?
Are you in any financial trouble?
How much insurance do you have on your wife?
As the questions went on and on, he got the feeling they were never going to let him leave. But they did, finally. Maybe it would have been easier if they had just kept him there, locked him up. Because in the days that followed, the house, emptied of Rayna and baby Corey, felt too huge and too filled with a deafening quiet.
In the first week, the TV trucks camped at his curb, and every time he answered the phone it was another reporter. The cops kept coming back with just one more question, Mr. Buchanan. Everyone wanted a piece of him; everyone wanted his confession on tape, because it was easier to believe “that nice man next door” could kill his wife and baby than it was to imagine a faceless monster out in the dark, and that it was just random good luck that the monster hadn’t picked them instead.
In the second week, when Gillian left, wheeling her pink suitcase out behind Rayna’s parents to their car, his last barrier to oblivion was gone. For a while, he hid the empty scotch bottles in the garage, not wanting the neighbors to see them in the trash by the curb. But finally he just didn’t care.
Two months after Rayna and Corey disappeared, his boss called him in. He had been expecting it because how often could you drag in at noon smelling of booze before you were told that maybe you needed some time off to think? When he was fired, it was almost a relief.
Not long after that, the notice came in the mail. His in-laws were contesting custody of Gillian. He hired a
lawyer and sat in the stuffy courtroom, watching the sleet pelt the windows, listening as they called him unfit to take care of himself, let alone a six-year-old girl, and all he could think was that it was true. Then his mother-in-law got up there and said he’d told Rayna that he had never wanted another kid.
Guilty, guilty as charged. Until I held my son for the first time.
After he lost Gillian, after his bank account was drained, he sold the house in Berry Hill, taking a loss in the lousy market. He found a furnished apartment in downtown Nashville and enough construction work to keep going. He was down to his last fifty bucks when his lawyer called him—out of pity, Buchanan guessed—saying he needed to track down a missing witness and was Buchanan interested in some freelance investigative work?
That was how it started. One desperate gig where he went looking for a loser and ended up finding himself.
He didn’t even know then that it was called skip tracing. He just did the job and did it so well that within six months he had had enough money to buy a good camera and some business cards. He loved the work because it was nothing like the drudgery of insurance fraud. It let him move in shadows and silence, watching people the way he watched birds. It let him crawl inside other people’s minds and emotions, mining their mysteries without giving back anything of himself.
He loved the fact he was finally able to send some money to help Gillian. He loved that it kept the memories of Rayna and Corey at bay. Or at least it had until now.
The district attorney in Nashville is preparing an indictment against you.
It had been five years, but he knew that charges could come anytime, even a decade after a murder, even with minimal evidence, even without a body. But he had hoped the truth would somehow keep him out of a courtroom again.
He had to know if what McCall had told him was true.
He pulled out his cell and scrolled to the Nashville name listed in his contacts—Gary Pitts. He had retained Pitts in the custody battle for Gillian, but he hadn’t talked to him in years. Buchanan wondered if the lawyer would even take his call.
He did.
“You’re lucky I’m talking to you,” Pitts said. “You still owe me five grand, Clay.”
“I know, and you’ll be getting it soon,” Buchanan said. “But right now I need something important.”
Pitts was silent.
“I heard a rumor the prosecutor was taking the case to a grand jury, looking for an indictment,” Buchanan said. “Is it true?”
He heard Pitts let out a slow breath. “I was going to call you once the grand jury went into session, but yeah, it’s true.”
Buchanan lowered his head, speaking softly so the bartender wouldn’t hear him.
“What do they have now that they didn’t have five years ago?”
“Your daughter.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t have the statement in front of me yet but I heard Gillian’s psychiatrist—she’s been seeing one, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“Well, I heard that the psychiatrist is claiming she’s recovered repressed memories of the night Rayna disappeared. She’s saying she heard her mother come home, heard an argument between the two of you, then heard a door slam.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Maybe, but it’s the meat of their argument.”
“My in-laws have brainwashed her.”
“Maybe that’s true, too, but the grand jury will believe her, Clay,” Pitts said. “She’s a sweet, credible witness and juries, by their nature, look for someone to blame so they can feel like they did their job. I think you’re in trouble.”
Buchanan took a slow drink and then stared into the empty glass. “How much will it cost me to retain you for the trial?”
“I’m not a criminal lawyer.”
“I want you,” Buchanan said.
“No, you don’t. I’d be in over my head. I’ll come up with a few referrals for you, but I can’t promise anything.”
McCall’s voice was in his ears again. I can promise you won’t see one day in prison.
“I’ll get back to you, Gary,” Buchanan said. He hung up and dropped his phone to the bar. His eyes drifted back to the man in the mirror.
What is it you want, Bucky?
He wanted his daughter back.
And he would do whatever it took to make that happen.
Back at the hotel, he stopped off at the desk to see if McCall had left anything for him. The clerk handed him a plain manila envelope. “And that young lady over there has been asking for you,” he said, pointing his pen.
Buchanan turned. It took him a moment to spot the woman sitting in the corner. She was wearing a tan trench coat, her head bowed over her phone and her face hidden by a curtain of long blonde hair. When she tucked her hair behind one ear, he recognized her—Joanna McCall’s daughter.
She looked up from her iPhone as he approached, her eyes sliding over his soaked jacket, down to his muddy boots, and back up to his face. She didn’t smile as she stood up.
“Miss McCall.” He couldn’t remember her first name, and he had the feeling she wouldn’t like him using it anyway.
“I’ve been waiting here an hour to see you, Mr. Buchanan,” she said.
“You should have called. Your mother has my number. No need to make a special trip on such an ugly night.”
“I didn’t call because I don’t want my mother to know about this. Let’s get that clear right from the start.” She dropped her phone into her big red feedbag of a purse. “Buy me a drink. My father’s paying for it, right?”
He followed her to the same bar he had abandoned earlier that day and into a corner banquette set in an alcove with midnight blue walls and pinprick spotlights in the ceiling like a Milky Way sky. She ordered a glass of Sancerre; he opted for club soda. She shrugged off the tan trench, revealing black leggings and a white silky blouse. She had pulled out her iPhone, and her thumb was working furiously as she scrolled through her messages. He suppressed a sigh, waiting.
“So what’s this all about, Miss McCall?” he asked finally.
Her eyes came up to meet his. She hesitated and then set the phone on the low table.
“There is something you need to know about Amelia,” she said. “Something my mother didn’t tell you.”
“Such as?”
The waitress appeared, setting their drinks on the table. When Joanne McCall’s daughter reached for her glass, her diamond bracelet sparked in the light. Her name came back to Buchanan in that moment—Megan.
“So why are we here, Megan?” he asked.
She took a drink of her wine before she decided to answer.
“Amelia was badly hurt,” she said.
“No doubt. Her head made a good-sized crack in the windshield.” He picked up his club soda.
“No,” Megan said. “You don’t get it. He hit her. Alex hit her.”
Buchanan set his glass down.
“How do you know this?” he asked.
“I just know.”
Buchanan shook his head slowly.
“You don’t believe me.”
“Not without some evidence. Did you ever see him do it?”
She shook her head.
“Did you ever see bruises or anything on Amelia?”
Again, she shook her head, but her eyes remained steady on Buchanan’s. “You don’t know Alex,” she said finally. “You don’t know what he can be like.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“Alex can be very charming, but he’s a very jealous man.”
“Amelia Tobias is beautiful. Husbands of beautiful women get jealous. It’s normal.”
Megan gave him a hard stare. “This wasn’t normal. How Alex treated her wasn’t normal.”
She looke
d away, out over the bar. When he picked up his club soda, he angled his wrist so he could see his watch. Almost eight. He needed some food, and then his plan was to get upstairs to finish going through the stuff in that cardboard box more carefully. He still had to track down Carol Fairfield.
“Amelia told me,” Megan said.
“Told you what?”
“That he hit her.”
Buchanan shook his head. “Why would she confide in you about something like that?”
Megan lowered her head, and the curtain of blonde hair hid her face. When she looked up again, her face was flushed but her eyes were steady on his.
“I was raped,” she said. “Seven years ago, when I was a senior at FSU. It was my boyfriend. I reported it to the campus police, but it never went anywhere because my mother convinced me I had to let it go. But she told Amelia about it and—”
“Why?”
Megan stared at him. “Why what?”
“Why would your mother tell Amelia something that personal about you?”
Megan didn’t blink. “My mother tells her everything.”
But Amelia, according to everything Buchanan had found out about her, told no one anything. “Why would Amelia tell you about Alex?” he asked.
“I guess she thought I’d understand.”
“Does your mother know about Alex?”
“No.”
“Your mother is her best friend.”
Megan was silent for a long moment. “Friend isn’t the word. My mother calls Amelia her older daughter.”
There was touch of bitterness in the woman’s voice.
“Amelia has a thing about never wanting to disappoint people,” she said. “And my mother has this blind spot when it comes to Amelia.” She let out a long breath. “My mother is very . . . invested in Amelia.”
That much was true, at least. Joanna considered Amelia her very own Eliza Doolittle, and Amelia played that part to perfection. As for confiding in Megan, on a basic level it made sense. Joanna was at least twenty years older than Amelia, but Megan was only five years younger. If you needed to unload a secret on someone, wouldn’t you talk to a woman your own age?
