She reached the porch and glanced around, spotting another camera such that anyone approaching the front door was captured in profile. She unclipped her badge and held it up for the camera as, seeing no bell, she rapped on the door.
A dog barked inside the house. She glanced at the camera and kept her mind focused on where her gun was—back holster—because sometimes people with security cameras in bad neighborhoods weren’t nice people.
The dog growled. Grace kept her badge held up high. Then she heard someone walking toward the door.
“Go back, Frank,” a male voice said. “Go on, now.”
The wind stuttered the knob and then the door opened, revealing an incredibly good-looking guy who was at least a foot taller than Grace. He had wet, dark blond, curly hair; enormous, deep-set sea-blue eyes; and more crags on his face than a mountain. He was wearing a blue Henley and a pair of jeans, and socks. He smelled like soap.
“I’m Detective Grace Hanadarko,” she informed him, holding up her badge so he could read the number off it if he cared to. “There was a hit and run on this street Thursday between the hours of eleven thirty p.m. and one a.m. I was wondering if you saw or heard anything.”
He lifted brows that were darker than his hair. “I had no idea,” he said. “I just got in about an hour ago. I stopped to pick my dog up from the kennel.”
“I noticed you have a security camera.”
He nodded. “I do. It was on while I was gone. I was at an architecture conference in Santa Fe.” He stepped backward, inviting her in. “Would you like to see if I picked up anything?”
“Yes. Thank you, sir.”
“Ian,” he said. “Fletcher. It’s upstairs.”
She walked in, catching her breath at the beauty of the interior of his house. A hardwood floor complemented oak paneling; brass hinges gleamed on carved, closed doors; and golden light gauzed a steep stairway with a tapestry stair runner. He went on up ahead of her, and she had a spectacular view of his ass. This guy worked out.
“This is not a very nice neighborhood,” she ventured.
“I inherited this house,” he replied. “Thought I’d see what I could do with it. I planned to flip it but I’ve overbuilt for the current neighborhood. And it’s kind of grown on me.”
She wasn’t sure she bought that. One look at this palace and any fool knew it was too upscale for what lay around it. Architects as a rule wouldn’t accidentally overbuild. But it wasn’t entirely out of the range of possibility. After all, Bricktown had been a bunch of derelict buildings. Now it was a tourist playland of gentrified bars, restaurants, and souvenir shops.
They reached the landing. Grace realized that the golden glow downstairs emanated from a stained-glass skylight of amber hues and yellows. Whoa, this guy was begging to be burgled.
“You ever had anyone from the police department come out, advise you on how to make your house theft-secure?” she asked him.
He cocked a brow. Damn, he had dimples. “No. Is that something you might be able to help me with?”
As he gazed at her, the light hit his hair like a halo. It took her a bit aback.
“Sure,” she replied. Then I’ll lock you in for a couple of nights.
“Thank you. The camera is in my bedroom,” he added, reaching the end of the hallway. He turned the brass knob and voilà, bachelor den. A big bed with burgundy sheets, lamps with stained-glass shades on the nightstands, and across one wall … oh, yeah, baby … mirrors.
She didn’t mean to grin, but he was looking at her reflection and he caught it. Saying nothing, he led her to a roll-top desk angled in the corner next to the window. She saw the wide-screen computer monitor, very fancy, with a screen saver of a Grecian temple and big block letters that read FLETCHER ARCHITECTURE; beside it was another monitor, a screen filled with a black-and-white image of the street below them. Real time. She looked from it to his window, confirming the angle.
He leaned around her, typing on the computer keyboard, and an external hard drive beside the computer spit out a shiny CD. He showed it to her and slid it into the desktop computer. “We’ll get a clearer image on this one than the one that came with the system,” he said. “It happened two nights ago, you say?”
“Yes. Between eleven thirty and one a.m.” She kept her eyes fastened on the monitor. The Grecian temple disappeared. The screen filled with a black-and-white image of a tree branch, whipping back and forth like a crazed windshield wiper, obscuring her view of the street. He typed in a few commands. There was no sound, but there was a date-and-time stamp in the lower right corner, glowing white. Eleven twenty-nine p.m. She watched, glad to have a witness so no defense attorney could claim she’d tampered with evidence. Or rather, so it was less likely that a jury would believe the defense attorney.
“Is it possible to speed it up?” she asked him. Otherwise they might have to sit there for an hour and a half. Not a terrible prospect, but still …
He typed, and the images sped up. The same damn branch, a few cars. Fifteen minutes passed. She kept watching. The minimart tape had shown the Sons truck at twelve twenty-three.
Between the frenetic whipsaws of the branch, she stared at the street and the apartment building across from this house. A waist-high wooden fence barricaded an entrance to an alley beside the apartment building.
“It was very windy that night,” he said. “Hard to drive.”
“Yeah.” She kept her eyes glued to the screen.
Twelve. Then twelve fifteen. A couple of minutes went past; then, as the branch flapped back and forth, Malcolm’s head popped up from behind the wooden fence. His movements were furtive. Grace tensed; Malcolm hopped the fence and started running, looking back over his shoulder, leaping off the curb, watching …
Twelve twenty.
No, no, no, Grace thought. Aloud, she said, “You might want to look away.”
To her surprise, Ian Fletcher did as she suggested, moving to the window and looking out, as if he would see what was on the recording. She took note; it was a little weird.
Then she returned her attention to the monitor as, on the screen, a panel van approached. The time was twelve twenty-one.
The image was black and white, so the van could be yellow, white, light blue, whatever. Tech might have a way to narrow it down for her. She could only see it from the side. There were letters in a square; she strained to decipher them, but it was no good. Not a Sons of Oklahoma logo, she didn’t think.
Malcolm reached the center of the street. She could almost hear the fwap-fwap of his athletic shoes, the gasp as he turned and saw the van for the first time.
Run, she urged him.
Then things started happening fast. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t, as Malcolm realized the van was bearing down on him, as he zigzagged crazily and tried to run back to the curb—
Run, goddamn it, Grace thought, even though she knew it was too late, and he was dead.
He shot back the other way, and the van straightened out. Grace stared hard. She couldn’t see the license plate. All she could see was Malcolm’s last moments on this earth.
Then it slammed right into him, sending him flying. Grace didn’t blink; she forced herself to watch, the way she had watched Leon Cooley’s face as the fatal cocktail of execution drugs had streamed toward his vein, on their way to kill him, in the death chamber. She hadn’t wavered, just willed Cooley to look at her, and he had died.
Twelve twenty-two.
Then it backed up, aimed, and ran right over his head. Straight over, nose first. It rocked, then backed up, then went over his head again. Premeditated. Vicious. Evil.
She watched the van scream out of frame. She imagined them calling the truck as it cruised by the minimart to share the good news. She’d put some cell phones on the warrant. If they found phones in the van and the truck, they could dump ’em, get all the numbers. Trace them back … get all the sons of bitches.
Malcolm just lay there. Bleeding. He was probably already dead. Impact li
ke that …
Lying there, lying there. No one came out to see what was going on. No one ran into the road to help. She checked the time stamp. Twelve twenty-three. Twenty-four. The anonymous call had come in at twelve twenty-nine. Untraceable.
“It’s over,” Grace said to the man. Ian. She was shaking. She was afraid she was going to be sick. Then her cop brain reasserted itself, and she pulled herself together.
“Did you see what you were after?” he asked her softly, turning his head in her direction. She nodded.
“Sir, may I have this? I can’t promise I’ll be ever able to return it. It’ll be entered into evidence and—”
“Of course.” He turned around and faced her. He looked somber. “And I’ll testify, if you need that, too.” He picked a CD case up off a stack and handed it to her. She put the precious evidence inside.
“He meant a lot to you,” he said, and she nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She pressed onward. “I’ll need a statement.”
“Over tea?” he suggested.
“Sure.” She slipped the case into her pocket. He led her downstairs and into his beautiful, tidy kitchen. Antique cast-iron stove, oak dinette table with four chairs. There were some roses in a vase in the center of the table. Fresh roses.
“How long were you gone?” she asked him, glancing at the flowers.
“About a week.” His back was to her as he lit a gas burner and set a copper teakettle on it. She touched one of the roses. Real, not silk.
“We left flyers up and down the street,” she said. “Asking for information.” He left his house unguarded for a week? In this neighborhood? What about his dog?
“Hmm. I didn’t see one,” he told her, turning. He looked at the roses, and then at her. “Unlucky in love,” he said. She cocked her head. “I bought those for someone. Paid her a visit on my way back.”
“Wasn’t she home?”
“Not for me.”
She grunted. “What’d you do?”
“It’s what I didn’t do. Tick-tick-tick. Her biological clock,” he explained. “I’m not ready. For much of anything.”
The kettle shrieked and he got tea bags and small round black ceramic cups with red enameled Chinese characters on them. She watched him moving around, thinking that it was nice to meet a hot guy who didn’t want a relationship. Ham’s neediness was something she wasn’t ready for, either.
Then she felt the hard plastic CD case in her pocket and her levity evaporated. She felt as heavy as a ton of bricks. As he set down the cups, she pulled out her detective’s notebook.
“So let’s get started on that statement,” she said, clicking her pen.
“You’ll need contact information. My phone number, e-mail address …” He took a sip.
“Yes,” she said neutrally. “I’d appreciate that.”
And suddenly she felt like the worst kind of fool because there was no way in hell she could hop in the sack with this man, nor did she want to. She wanted to sit down and cry because the Briscombe family was falling apart before her eyes. So much effort and hope had been poured into their lives, and for what?
Goddamn it, Jamal, she thought. I’m going to drag you out of the state of Oklahoma by your hair.
“Detective?” Ian Fletcher said.
She jerked. He was looking at her expectantly, concern etched on his chiseled face. Her right hand was gripping her pen and her left was wrapped around her cup. She became aware that the skin on her fingers stung; she was burning herself. Freaked out, she let go of the cup and laid her hand on her thigh. Jesus, was she falling apart, too?
It’s because Earl scared me about Clay, she thought.
“I’m sorry. I missed what you said.” She raised her hand over the notepad. Waited.
“I haven’t said anything,” he replied. “I guess I’m a little at a loss for words.” He took a sip of tea. “Maybe if I’d been here …”
“You weren’t,” she said. Then more gently, “You weren’t.” And that was probably a good thing. All witnesses would be at risk.
“Let’s get started,” she added.
Her scalded hand throbbed.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
After Grace dropped the CD off at Tech, she walked into Mr. Briscombe’s hospital room at Sacred Heart. He was asleep, or unconscious, who could tell; all hooked up to machines.
On his nightstand, there was a card: store-bought Get Well. She picked it up. There were a lot of signatures inside. Really, more like graffiti tags than signatures: among them, Six-Pop, JJ Maxxx, Jam Z, and Tyrell X. Grace was guessing that “Jam Z” was something Jamal had come up with. Gang members liked nicknames. Made ’em feel like superheroes or supervillains or something. Made them forget that once upon a time they had been scared, lonely, lost kids.
Jamal must have brought it by. She didn’t want to be moved that they had done this for Jamal and his grandfather. But she knew they did shit like that—threaten to kill you if you left, give you a nice cake complete with candles on your birthday.
She sat and read the paper for a bit, then touched the old man’s forehead; then bent over and kissed it. For a split second she sensed that she wasn’t alone in the room; she ticked up her gaze, hoping to see Jamal, or maybe Earl. There was a sense in the air, indefinable.
“Are you an angel?” she said aloud.
But there was no one there.
* * *
An hour later, once the wind blew all the sunlight away, heaven was there, as Ham blasted over with two Thetas and three large fries from Johnnie’s at around five, and they ripped into them with the gusto that was the Hanadarko/Dewey trademark. And they further proved the existence of paradise when he ripped off her clothes and carried her into the bedroom. She made him wear a condom and they worked it all off—calories and frustration and everything, boiled off in white passion. Intensity was their crucible. As he entered her, and she bucked beneath him, she felt herself getting put back together, a little bit, anyway. Some people lost themselves in sex. She found herself … at least when she was having sex with Ham.
She climaxed and he followed; then she had a couple of aftershocks. They both sank into the mattress, exhausted. Ham groaned and flopped a hand on her belly. She groaned back appreciatively. At least her body was slowed down, and she was too limp even to reach for an after-sex cigarette.
But as she dozed, her mind began to speed up again. She wondered what the letters on the vehicle would read. Let it be Sons of Oklahoma, she thought. We need that damn warrant.
“Yeah, me too,” Ham murmured.
She frowned. “What?”
He raised his head, his eyelids heavy with sleep. “Didn’t you just say you were hungry?”
“No. You dreamed it, man. But I think we’ve got some fries left.” She rolled out of bed like Lazarus rising from the dead.
Staggering down the hall, she gathered up her hair and let it fall over her shoulders. Gus looked up from his bed and panted at her. Whimpered. Gus was not a whimpering sort.
“What is it, Gussie?” she asked, snapping out of her stupor. She looked around the room, seeing nothing out of place. But the hair stood up on the nape of her neck. Something was different.
“Ham,” she murmured, but unless he had ESP, he wouldn’t hear her.
Then Gus got up and trotted to the side door. Grace looked out with him. Surrounded by a dervish of swirling leaves, a tawny shorthaired dog with a long, long pink tongue sat on his haunches and stared intently at her.
She swallowed. The dog appeared now and then, and Earl had a tattoo of him on his back. She had the suspicion that this dog was God. Did she need a better reason to be skeptical about some of the things Earl told her?
Gus barked once, very softly. Gus hardly ever barked. The dog kept looking at Grace, panting away, that big pink tongue practically touching the ground.
“What?” she asked it. Him. It. “Do you want me to know something?”
The dog stood and walk
ed off her patio. Just like that. It didn’t disappear in a burning bush or a bolt of lightning or—
Grace went outside to pursue it. Naked. The wind was fierce and her hair whipped around her face, stinging painfully.
“What?” she called out, turning in a circle. “Where are you? What do you want?”
“Grace?” Ham said, jostling her.
She woke up. She was lying in her bed. It was just a dream.
“I had a dream that you had a dream,” she said. She thought a moment. “Then I had my own dream. Never mind.”
He smiled at her, brushing hair away from her face. “I was just telling you that Tech called. They’ve made out the words on the van. It’s one of those magnetic car signs. For a real estate agent named Syndee Barlett. I’ve got her home address.”
“Cha-ching, paydirt,” Grace said happily.
They both leaped out of bed and Grace gathered up her clothes. “Cowboy up. Let’s ride,” she said.
Then she re-remembered her dream about the dog and Earl’s admonitions about tough times. Her mood sobered and she studied Ham, the screwy blond eyebrows, sleepy bedroom eyes, creases on either side of his mouth. Could tough times be Ham, getting hurt? Dying? On the job?
“Let’s be careful out there,” she said. “I got a feeling.”
He lifted a brow as he stuck one leg through his underwear. “Say what?”
“Something in my gut, man.” When he looked at her curiously, waiting for more explanation, she shrugged and gave him a fleeting smile. She’d tried to tell him about Earl but hell, she wouldn’t have believed him if the shoe had been on the other foot.
Which it should be. She looked down at her right foot, clad in her left boot, plopped down on the bed, and yanked it off. She could feel her senses snapping awake, fizzing and sizzling along her nerve endings like antacid tablets. She realized she was hungry.
In the kitchen, she grabbed some more cold fries and two bottles of Coke. Handed one to Ham as they blasted out the door. It was eight o’clock on a Saturday night, not too late to pay a citizen a visit. Especially if said citizen ran over Malcolm Briscombe.
Nancy Holder Page 7
