by K. A. Tucker
In the end, who would win besides a bunch of criminals?
Mantis knows all this as well as I do, which is why he’s on my doorstep, rattled.
“What the hell was he doing at that dive anyway? I thought him and his wife were solid.”
Realization hits and I close my eyes, a fresh wave of guilt washing over me. “He was lookin’ for someone.” You and your shitty luck, Abe, for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. “Dammit, Dwayne, why the hell would you think I can get you out of your mess?”
“My mess? What, you think your best friend can stir up shit and some of that shit won’t land on you? Come on, Marshall . . .” He lets out a derisive snort. “If you can’t keep one cop quiet for the good of this department, Canning won’t be so quick to tap your shoulder for that assistant chief spot. Yeah, I know Canning wants a female. He needs to check off that box and get those diversity crybabies off his ass.”
I grit my teeth. Of course Mantis would assume that’s why Canning wants me there. That it’s not because I’m good enough to be assistant chief—and maybe chief, one day. “Abe and I aren’t exactly on good terms.”
“Why?” Mantis’s already beady eyes narrow even further. “What’d you do?”
“Who says I did anything?”
“Because Boy Scout never does anything wrong.”
My ears catch Noah’s voice, calling to me from inside the house. “Get outta here. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
“You need to shut him the hell up.”
“Or what?”
Mantis gets right into my face, looking ready to pick a fistfight with me. For just a second, I wonder if he’ll follow through. I wouldn’t put it past him. “Or someone else will.”
Not until he’s back in his car and peeling away can I release a shaky breath.
“Oh, Abe, what have you gone and started?” I mutter, heading back inside and straight for my bottle.
CHAPTER 36
Noah
“I’m sorry, miss. There wasn’t anything that even remotely resembled a video or computer file or anything like that found, from what I know. And, as you can see, the renovations were extensive.” The woman smiles kindly, though I sense her patience is waning as Gracie keeps pushing for a different answer. A possibility. A “yes, actually, there was a videotape found behind the drywall when we gutted the kitchen. I’ve kept it all these years. Here, let me get it for you!”
Wherever Abe hid this video, it definitely wasn’t in this house.
“Thank you, ma’am. We appreciate your time. We’ll let you get back to your lunch.” I clasp Gracie’s hand in mine and tug her away, feeling the woman’s amber gaze on our backs as we take the narrow path down. It’s the only part of the house that has remained the same. We drove up and down this street three times, in search of the small white bungalow that I remembered. It wasn’t until I saw the carved porch door on the place to the left that I realized this modern two-story house was what we were looking for.
I expect Gracie to shake my hand off but she doesn’t, allowing me to hold it all the way until we reach my SUV, not saying a single word of rebellion as I hold her door open, and then shut it behind her.
“Do you think they knew who lived here before they did?” Gracie’s gaze drifts over the peaceful neighborhood as we drive. It’s fifteen minutes from my house. It’s not the nicest, but it has a certain charm.
“If they didn’t, I’ll bet they found out pretty quick. And we just gave them something to talk about with their neighbors.” I spied a curtain or two drift as we pulled over in front of the house. And the lady three doors down, digging up her front flower bed, watched us curiously as we walked up the pathway.
“Good. Let them talk. Let everyone talk about Abraham Wilkes. Maybe they’ll finally start questioning what they should have years ago,” she mutters bitterly. “How could all these people buy that bullshit story?”
“Because they had no reason not to buy the bullshit story. Especially people who didn’t know Abe from Adam.”
Her plump lips curl with disgust. “Is it because my father was a black cop?”
“Plenty of people don’t trust cops and it doesn’t matter what color their skin is,” I remind her.
“So you’re telling me that if my father was white, people would have been as quick to write him off as a dirty cop?”
“I can’t tell you that, Gracie, because you and I both know there are dumb-ass people out there who think the color of your skin decides how you’re going to be. I wish it weren’t true, but it is, especially in Texas. Hell, there’s plenty of people who think women shouldn’t be cops. I never could figure out how my mom landed that job.” I turn onto Congress Avenue and head for Austin’s downtown core. I should at least try to take Silas’s advice and show Gracie around. “But what matters is that whatever evidence was collected and presented to the chief made Abe look unequivocally guilty, white or black. We need to focus on that.”
“Fine. Did you ask your uncle about getting the police report? The unsanitized one that actually tells us something?”
Dammit . . . “With everything else we talked about, I didn’t get a chance to ask.”
“I’m guessing he won’t be in a rush to get it for us anyway, seeing as he lied about everything else.”
“He didn’t lie!”
“Oh, right. I’m sorry.” She snorts derisively. “He just didn’t tell the truth. I mean, it wouldn’t look too good on him if word got out that he knew about the allegations my dad made against Mantis and did nothing.”
I try to keep my voice calm. “There’s got to be an explanation.”
“Well, that’s the only explanation I can come up with for how someone got away with murdering my father.”
“Silas isn’t like that.”
“He doesn’t look out for himself? Bullshit. Everyone’s like that. Everyone.” Gracie shifts her body to face the side window, settling her gaze on the passing buildings as I weave through Austin’s streets, her hands balled into tight fists of frustration.
I can’t blame her for being suspicious. But is she including me in that “everyone”? Does she think I’ve been looking out for myself all this time? Because the only person I’ve been trying to protect has been my mother.
A wave of guilt washes over me. I need to tell her about Klein, before she finds out on her own and shuts me out, permanently.
It takes several blocks to work up my nerve. “Listen, Gracie, there’s something important I need you to know—”
“We’re being followed.”
At first I’m sure I’ve misheard. “What?” I check my rearview mirror. “Where?”
“That gray car.”
“The Civic?” I relax a bit.
“When you took that last right turn, it cut off two cars to follow us. And I saw it parked outside the DA’s office.”
“You probably saw twenty gray Civics parked there. They’re everywhere, Gracie.”
“Yeah, but this one had a hundred tree air fresheners dangling from the rearview mirror. It reminded me of my nan’s car. She’d do the same, to try and mask the smell of cigarettes.” She squishes her nose in disgust.
“You’re being paranoid.”
She folds her arms in that haughty way. “Fine. Prove me wrong.”
Three turns later, I realize that I can’t, and my scalp begins to prickle with unease.
All I can make out are two forms in the front, likely male. Who the hell could be following us? And what do they want? “Do me a favor and write down the plate number if you can catch it.”
“And then what are we gonna do? Lead them home?” Her gaze flitters between her side-view mirror and the keyboard on her phone, her brow tight with concentration.
I see the sign up ahead. “I have an idea.”
CHAPTER 37
Grace
The UT campus is crawling with students, book bags slung over their shoulders as they travel between classes. Plenty of others are
scattered over the parklike setting, hiding beneath the shade of trees or lying on their backs on grassy patches, tuning out the world and soaking in the afternoon sun with either a book or music pumping through earphones.
“You went here?”
“Best years of my life.” Noah pauses to step behind me, making room for a group of girls to pass while, at the same time, covertly scanning the area around us.
We pulled into the parking lot and watched the gray Civic coast past, the visor strategically positioned to hide the driver from view. All either of us could make out was a faded blue T-shirt and a white man’s biceps, and then they were gone.
“What about you? Have you ever thought about going to college?”
I burst out laughing.
“What? You’ve never even thought about it?”
“No. I mean, I’ve thought about it, but . . .”
“But . . . ?” Again he shifts to the side to allow others to pass, this time setting a hand on the small of my back, steering me toward an elaborate fountain up ahead.
It takes me a moment to remember what we were talking about, his touch distracting. “But that’s it. I’ve thought about it.” Noah doesn’t get it.
My school guidance counselor, Ms. Bracken, didn’t get it either. I remember sitting across from her in her office my senior year. She was holding out a stack of college pamphlets and application forms, thinking she would change my life with a simple conversation. While my grades were far from Ivy League–worthy, she was sure I could get into one of the local community college programs if I applied.
I smiled and accepted the brochures, stuffing them in my backpack. I even let myself indulge in the idea of filling out a form that night. And then I came home to find the needles strewn on the coffee table. Before that it had been all pills.
“I guess I’ve learned to live more day by day.”
“It’s good to set goals for yourself.”
“Trying to keep my mother alive and pay our bills are goals.”
Noah’s face falls in that guilty way it always does when he’s reminded how different our upbringings were. “Well, now you can start thinking about your future.”
My future. That’s not a phrase that was tossed around much when I was growing up. My mom was too busy stuck in the past, and holding me there with her.
“Over here.” He leads me to a retaining wall, and I admire his measured strides, his sleek movements. I take a seat next to him, and try to focus on our surroundings rather than him.
“Wow, now that’s a fountain.” I’ve never seen anything like the elaborate sculpture beside us, of horses charging from the water, ridden by what I’d call mermen, guarded over by soldiers and a goddess. The entire piece is surrounded by a massive pool of water to feed into the jetting sprays.
Noah doesn’t answer, his gaze searching faces.
“Do you think we lost them?”
“I hope so. I don’t know what the hell they want.” With a heavy sigh, he begins fumbling with the leather band around his wrist. His thoughts are elsewhere.
And I remember that I’m not the only one troubled by everything we’ve learned today, so far.
“I saw a sign for a lake back there,” I offer, trying to distract him from his brooding.
“Lady Bird?”
“Sure. Tell me about it.”
He closes his eyes and tips his head back to face the sky. “It’s actually a reservoir from the Colorado River. You can rent kayaks and boats, and all sorts of things. And the Congress Avenue Bridge is there too. Every night in the summer, you can watch over a million bats fly out from their nests underneath it.”
“That’d be . . . cool?” I cringe at the thought.
“It is, actually. If you’re around, we’ll go see it.”
If I’m around. That’s months away. Does he mean still in Austin? Or living in his house, with him?
How long will I be here? It all depends on whether I’d have a reason to stay. My mother will be in rehab for at least one month. Ideally, three, though I can’t let Noah pay for more.
“I agree, the bats are cool,” a male voice says suddenly. I was so busy staring at Noah’s handsome profile that I didn’t notice the man take the spot on the other side of me. He could pass for a student, albeit an older one, in his worn jeans and faded blue Houston Texans T-shirt.
I’m about to turn my back to the stranger, to overtly dismiss him for listening in on our conversation, when I hear a soft “fuck” slip out under Noah’s breath.
The guy leans over to rest his elbows on his knees, his steely gray eyes shifting from Noah to me, and then back to Noah, amusement on his face. “How was your drive back from Tucson?”
Noah doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look the least bit pleased.
The guy studies me through a shrewd gaze. I’d put him in his early thirties. He’s decidedly attractive—his jaw hard, his nose sharp, his blond hair holding a wave. There’s a twinkle in his eye, and I can’t tell if it’s borne of arrogance or mischief, but I can tell that this guy is probably used to getting whatever he wants where females are concerned.
“Who the hell are you and why are you following us?”
“So you did see me.” He smiles easily, highlighting the small cut and bruising on his bottom lip.
“Hard not to notice such a terrible tailing job. Who are you?”
“Special Agent Kristian Klein. I work with the FBI.” He holds out a hand.
I simply glare at it. “Bullshit. You guys don’t creep around in Honda Civics and faded jeans.”
“You’d be surprised what we do.” Suddenly there’s a badge in Kristian’s hand, the golden eagle unmistakable and, just as quickly and smoothly, it’s gone again. “Ask Noah, if you don’t believe me.”
“You said forty-eight hours,” Noah grumbles by way of response.
Klein shrugs. “I also said I was bad with telling time.”
“Wait, when did you two talk?”
“Where’s Tareen?” Noah searches the grounds around us.
“He’s on the other side of the bush, listening while making sure no one else is listening.”
“How fucking clandestine of you.”
“So, which one of you spotted me?”
Noah nods to me.
“Nicely done, Grace Richards. Or are you going by Wilkes again, now that you’re back in Texas?”
“Okay, what the hell is going on?” How does the FBI know my name? And why does Noah know this guy? And forty-eight hours to what?
“I’m trying to figure out what happened to Abraham Wilkes and I’d love some help. I was hoping Noah here would tell me what he knows.”
I frown with realization. “Does this mean that the FBI is looking into my dad’s case?”
Klein leans forward and peers across to Noah. “Wow. You actually didn’t tell her.”
“Tell me what?” I demand, glaring at Noah as Klein casually taunts him.
Noah heaves a sigh, his face drawn with misery. “Klein is the guy who came to your mom’s hospital room. He came because my mom called him the night she died and told him that Abe had been set up. He was outside of our motel in Tucson on Saturday night.”
“And you weren’t going to tell me?” I hiss, my rage flaring.
He holds his hands up. “I was just about to when you noticed the car following us, I swear.”
“I don’t believe you.” Again. Noah was withholding from me again. I turn my back to him, to face Agent Klein. “What do you know?”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “A bit. But first, I’m curious about what you know, Gracie.”
“It’s Grace. And I’ll tell you everything. Every last detail.”
A smile of satisfaction fills his handsome face. “That’s what I was hoping for.”
* * *
Klein snaps his notepad shut. “We’ll be by to collect that evidence.”
“And the picture of Betsy, right?”
“Give me all the names and birth dates that she ma
y be going under and I’ll see what my people can find out.” His cool gaze drifts to Noah, who has been quiet, aside from a nod here or a grunt of agreement there. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you had anything to do with your mother’s death. I deserved this.” His gestures at his lip. “And I get why you covered for your mom with the cops in your statement. I’m not out to get you for that. But if I find out that you’re lying to me about anything—”
“Gracie’s told you everything we know about Abe’s death,” Noah says, his gaze locked on the agent’s.
“I believe you. Well . . . I believe her.” Kristian stands, and I see how tall he is. He’s lankier than Noah, but he has definition to his body. He gestures toward a man who suddenly appears next to him. “This is Agent Tareen.”
The dark-haired man nods once toward me, his near-black eyes skating over Noah with indifference, before handing Klein a letter-sized envelope.
“Have you seen the police report on your father?”
“No. I need to request it . . .” Wherever it is you request police reports. I’m not going to rely on Noah or Silas to get it for me.
“Don’t bother. It’s the one meant for the public. You won’t find anything in it of any use.” He scrawls something across the front of the envelope and then passes it to me. “Here’s the real one.”
Noah’s mouth drops open. “How did you get that?”
“A courier showed up at my house the morning after your mother died. She sent it to me. How she got hold of it, I don’t know, but she was the chief, so I’m sure it wasn’t too hard.”
The envelope in my hand feels like a brick. Is this truly it? Is this the tale of my father’s supposed fall from saint to criminal?
The report that’s full of lies?
“Why are you giving this to me?”
“Because you won’t get it any other way. And after what you’ve been through, especially with your mother”—pity flashes across his face—“you deserve to see it. And because this case isn’t going to be easy to solve. I need all the help I can get. So take a read. See if anything jumps out at you.”
