by N L Hinkens
For once, Steve made it home in time for dinner. They were all seated around the table finishing up the pot roast and mashed potatoes Bridget had fixed, when the doorbell rang. Steve pushed his chair out from the table and stood. “I’ll get it.”
“Way to get out of the dishes, Dad,” Henry sneered.
“It's hardly child slave labor to ask you to rinse and load a few dishes now and then,” Bridget scolded, as she got to her feet and began to clear the table. “I bet you have chores to do at your house, don't you, Quinn?”
He shrugged, looking sheepish.
“No, he doesn’t,” Henry scoffed. ”They have a housekeeper who comes every morning. Maria does everything. Quinn doesn’t even take out the trash.”
“Do too,” Quinn protested, his cheeks reddening as he lifted his plate and carried it over to the sink.
Henry snorted and started stacking up dishes. Harper grabbed an armful of condiments and carefully carried them over to the refrigerator. Bridget wiped down the table, contemplating the ongoing air of hostility between the boys. She wished Henry would be a little more empathetic given the fact that his friend had just lost his mother.
A moment later, Steve reappeared in the kitchen doorway and motioned urgently to Bridget. She made her way over to him, an uneasy feeling stirring in the pit of her stomach.
“Who’s at the door?” she whispered.
“It’s Detective Wright and Officer Lopez.” Steve gestured to the family room. “They want to talk to us again.”
Bridget pressed a hand to her cheek. “What about the lawyer?”
“I’ve put in a call.” Steve grimaced. “He hasn’t responded yet. We might as well hear them out. We don’t have to say anything.”
A cold shiver ran across Bridget’s shoulders. The food she’d eaten lay heavy in her gut. She tried to reassure herself that this was merely another routine visit, but she couldn't quell the nagging possibility that the police had found some new incriminating evidence. She threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure the kids were still busy cleaning the kitchen. “Don't forget to sweep the floor, Harper,” she called to her, before following Steve down the hallway to the family room.
Detective Wright and Officer Lopez got to their feet and nodded in greeting when she entered the room.
“Sorry to disturb your dinner,” Detective Wright began.
“We were just finishing up,” Bridget replied, refraining from returning the smile gracing Officer Lopez’s lips.
“I assume there’s been a development,” Steve said stiffly.
Officer Lopez cleared his throat. “We've recovered some more CCTV footage.”
“That sounds promising.” Steve raised his brows and waited for him to continue. Instead, Officer Lopez turned to Detective Wright. “Do you want to show them what we’ve got?”
The detective pulled out an iPad and slid his finger across the screen before balancing it on the coffee table between Steve and Bridget.
At first the image was so murky that Bridget couldn't make out anything, but once her eyes adjusted, she realized she was looking at a dumpster. Her heart flinched beneath her ribs. The time stamp indicated that it was recording at 2:37 am on Saturday morning. It must be the dumpster where Jen's body had been discovered. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, not wanting to watch what she feared was coming next, but unable to tear her eyes away from the grainy footage.
For several minutes, nothing happened, and then, all of a sudden, a Mercedes pulled up next to the dumpster. The driver’s door opened and a tall, dark male figure wearing a balaclava stepped out. He threw a furtive glance up and down the street and then hurried around to the back of the vehicle and reached into the trunk. Bridget watched in horror as the man trudged toward the dumpster with what appeared to be a body wrapped in a blanket slung over one shoulder. He maneuvered the lifeless body over the side of the dumpster and shoved it in. Stepping back, he rubbed his hands on his pant legs as if in some misdirected attempt to erase the evidence of his crime.
After a moment’s hesitation, he peered inside the dumpster, and then reached in and moved something around, presumably in an attempt to cover up the body. When he was satisfied with the job he’d done, he closed up the trunk of the Mercedes and drove off.
The screen turned black, and Bridget swallowed down the fear rising up her throat. It was impossible from the shadowy footage to read the license plate number on the vehicle, but it was likely the police were already working on ways to enhance it. Time seemed to stand still as she waited for someone in the room to break the grip of terror that had rendered her speechless.
Detective Wright picked up the iPad and switched it off. Bridget remained frozen in place, staring mutely down at the carpet as she went over the footage in her mind again. Had she really just watched her husband callously toss Jen Carson’s body into a dumpster? The figure had moved with agility, a youngish man, and around Steve’s height. A tiny sob slipped through her lips. Slowly, she turned her head to look at her husband. He was white as a sheet, a dumbfounded expression on his face as he addressed the officers. “Why are you showing us this?”
Bridget shivered at the hard edge her husband’s voice had taken on. Was it the voice of a killer, who’d lurked beneath the surface all this time?
“Steve,” the detective said in an overly patient tone. “You were one of the last people to talk to Jen Carson before she died. You also happen to drive a Mercedes. Is there anything you want to tell us?”
A ruddy flush crept up Steve’s neck. “I didn’t kill her! That's not my Mercedes. It was parked here in my driveway last Friday night. My wife can attest to the fact that I was asleep in bed all night. Are you actually going to try and pin this murder on me?” He gritted his teeth. “I’ve nothing more to say to you without my lawyer present.”
The detective pursed his lips. “We just want to get to the truth. It’s my job to interview everyone who had contact with Jen Carson the night she died and follow the evidence wherever it leads. And so far, the needle’s pointing in your direction.”
“Actually, Steve,” Officer Lopez piped up. “What we’d really like to do is clear your name. Would you have any objections if we impounded your car?”
Steve shot him a look of disgust and threw up his hands. “What am I supposed to say to that without sounding guilty? I've got nothing to hide, but it’ll be a complete waste of your time, not to mention awfully inconvenient for me.”
“I can appreciate that,” Detective Wright was quick to reply. ”But Officer Lopez is right. It's important that we eliminate you as quickly as possible so we can concentrate on finding Jen's killer. I’m sure you want that as much as we do.”
Steve rubbed his jaw, a thunderous expression on his face. “Do what you have to do. She was my son’s friend’s mother—of course I want her killer locked up. How long is this going to take?”
“A week or two at most.” Detective Wright got to his feet. “We’ll notify you as soon as your vehicle has been released.” Without a moment’s delay, he pulled out his walkie-talkie and began issuing instructions to dispatch, along with the address of where to pick the vehicle up.
“Can I get anything out of my car, my charging cord, sunglasses?” Steve asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Officer Lopez said, his smile firmly fixed in place once again.
“We’ll wait in the squad car,” Detective Wright said with a final nod to Bridget.
After the officers took their leave, Bridget stared woodenly across the room at her husband, wondering how he could possibly have found it in himself to cold-heartedly toss Jen Carson’s body in a dumpster. It must have been him—same height, same vehicle. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The police certainly didn’t think so. Had he killed her too? She shivered as she pictured Steve with his hands around Jen’s neck, the same hands that had so lovingly cradled their children at birth.
“I’ll check on the kids,” Steve said abruptly, and stomped off to the kitchen before Bri
dget had a chance to say anything.
Fifteen minutes later, a tow truck pulled up outside the house. Bridget watched through the window as the stocky, bald driver exchanged a few words with Officer Lopez before proceeding to winch Steve’s Mercedes onto the back of his truck.
When the detectives finally drove off with the tow truck tailing them, Bridget sank back in her armchair and scrunched her eyes shut. It wouldn't take forensics long to confirm that Jen Carson had been in the trunk of Steve’s car. After that, they would come for him, handcuff him, and drag him off like the criminal he was. Because however deeply he was involved in this sordid plot, he was involved—that much she was certain of. Her life, and the lives of her children, would never be the same again. She’d started the wheels of this investigation turning by placing that anonymous call to the City Crime Line. But she didn’t regret it. She couldn't envision living with a murderer, or even a man who’d been an accessory to murder, for the rest of her life. She couldn’t continue to break bread with someone who’d discarded another human being like a piece of trash in a dumpster. Justice had to be served. Steve must pay for what he’d done.
Bridget grimaced when she pictured Quinn's reaction to the news. He would turn against Henry entirely—hate him for it. Her children would be ostracized in the community. But losing their childhood friends would be the least of their worries. They were about to lose their father—the man who’d patched up their skinned knees, taken them for ice cream sundae breakfasts, challenged them to water hose fights, and chased monsters out from under their beds. They would be both gutted and humiliated. They might have to move out of the area entirely. People did terrible things to the families of murderers; they could become scapegoats for all sorts of rage and violence bubbling just below the thin veneer of social civility.
She startled out of her depressing thoughts when Steve came back into the room and sat down opposite her. “That wasn’t me in the video. You do believe me, don't you? I wasn’t having an affair with Jen Carson. Someone’s setting me up. I need you to have my back.”
“Of course,” Bridget said, dropping her gaze under his intense stare.
Her words sounded hollow even to herself, and for good reason. She knew Steve was lying. She’d seen Jen’s lifeless body in the trunk of his car before he’d dumped it.
14
The following day, Bridget’s worst fears were realized when Steve was arrested and read his rights. She swept a trembling hand over her forehead as she stood helplessly by, watching the arresting officer escort her husband out of their house to the waiting squad car. Forensics had made swift work of determining that Jen Carson’s body had been in the trunk of Steve’s Mercedes. It remained to be seen if they would formally charge him or question him and release him. Steve’s lawyer had assured them the evidence was flimsy at best, consisting of nothing more than a single hair in the trunk of his Mercedes.
A hair I could easily have removed.
Bridget pressed her lips tightly together, fighting the waves of remorse that intermittently washed over her. Would she live to rue her decision?
She leaned against the front doorframe, one arm wrapped protectively around Harper who’d buried her head in the folds of her skirt. Henry and Quinn hovered uneasily in the background, observing the squad car as it pulled away with Steve staring dejectedly out the window at them.
“Okay, everybody inside,” Bridget ordered, eying the smattering of neighbors who had gathered on their porches to gawk. Word had spread quickly through the neighborhood that Steve’s Mercedes had been impounded. No doubt his arrest would unleash an even bigger storm of speculation about his involvement in Jen Carson’s death.
The kids sat back down at the kitchen table and retrieved their abandoned mugs of after-dinner hot chocolate.
“Mine’s cold, Mommy,” Harper whined.
“Shut up, Harps,” Henry growled. “Nobody cares about your stupid hot chocolate. Dad’s been arrested, don't you get it?”
Harper's face crumpled and tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “Why did they take Daddy away?”
Bridget reached out and patted her hand. “We'll find out soon enough. Don’t worry, Mommy will sort this out.”
She glanced across at Quinn who was frowning at his phone. ”I expect your dad will pick you up later on this evening,” Bridget ventured. “I’m sure the police will let him go now that they’ve made an arrest.”
Quinn and Henry exchanged a tense look. The knot in Bridget’s stomach tightened. Whatever had been putting a strain on the boys’ relationship before Steve's arrest this was only going to become worse now. How was Quinn supposed to feel toward a friend whose dad had killed his mother?
She got to her feet with a weary sigh. “Okay Harper Hartman, it's way past your bedtime.” She took her daughter by the hand and led her to her room, tucking her into bed without even bothering to make her clean her teeth. Somehow it seemed like a trivial endeavor in light of the fact that, after tonight, Harper would quite possibly be growing up without a father. On that somber note, Bridget closed her daughter’s bedroom door and made her way back down the hallway. She came to a sudden halt outside the kitchen door at the sound of Quinn and Henry arguing again.
“I told you my dad didn’t do it,” Quinn hissed.
“You heard what he said,” Henry countered.
“He didn’t mean it.”
“Well it wasn't my dad, either,” Henry spat back. “The cops don’t know squat.”
“They wouldn't have arrested him if they didn't have any evidence,” Quinn said. “The man who killed my mom was driving a Mercedes. And they impounded your dad's car. What does that tell you? Face it, Henry, your old man’s a killer!“
“Get out of my house, punk!” Henry yelled back.
Bridget heard a scuffle and then the sound of a chair crashing to the floor. Sprinting into the kitchen, she grabbed hold of her son’s arm. “Henry! Leave him alone!”
With a final shove, he released Quinn and glowered at him, his chest heaving.
“I think it’s best if I take you home now, Quinn,” Bridget said. “Why don't you call your dad and let him know. He’s probably already on his way back.”
With a wary scowl in Henry’s direction, Quinn pulled out his phone and tapped out a text. He stared at the screen for a minute and then read out his dad’s response. ”On my way home. Maria's there.”
Bridget locked eyes with her son. “I’m taking Quinn home. Go to your room. And no computer.”
For a tense moment, he stood glued to the spot, towering over her, before abruptly turning on his heel and disappearing out of the kitchen.
Bridget grabbed her keys and purse. “Let's get you back to your dad, Quinn. It’s been a long day.” She took a quick peek into Harper’s room to make sure she was asleep, and then headed out to the car.
As they drove, Bridget toyed with the idea of digging for more information on what the boys had been arguing about. “You understand why Steve’s been arrested, don’t you, Quinn?”
He scratched the back of his hand nervously. “Yeah, I knew it was either him or my dad who killed Mom.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There’s no evidence that either of them killed her. It’s all … circumstantial.”
“I know what I saw,” Quinn muttered.
Bridget threw him an alarmed glance. “What do you mean?”
“Dad told me weeks ago that Mom was having an affair, so I started following her.” He turned away and stared out the side window. “She went to your husband’s office, a bunch of times.”
Bridget gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Your mother needed some financial advice. Steve was helping her out.”
“That’s not what my dad said. He told me they were trying to steal the company out from under him. They were gonna run away together.” He let out a shuddering sigh. “I’m not sorry she’s dead. She didn’t care about me.”
Bridget took a shaky breath. “I’m sure that’s not true,
Quinn. Your parents may not have been getting along, but your mother loved you very much.”
“Not if she was planning on running off with your husband.” He threw her a sheepish glance as they pulled up outside his house. “I’m sorry you’re stuck in the middle of this, Mrs. Hartman. You’ve always been kind to me.”
Bridget smiled back at him, her eyes brimming with salty tears as she switched off the engine. “This must be difficult for you and Henry to navigate, but you’re always welcome at our house. Henry’s just stressed right now about his dad being arrested.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Hartman,” Quinn said as he opened the car door.
“I think I’ll just have a quick word with Maria before I leave,” Bridget said, climbing out of the car after him. “I want to explain what happened.”
Quinn shrugged. “If you want.”
She followed him up to the front door and waited while he rummaged around in his pocket looking in vain for his key. “Shoot, hold on a minute.” He walked over to a nearby planter and tilted it to one side, retrieving a spare key from beneath it.
“Maria!” he called out, as he opened the door and led the way to the kitchen. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“I’m in the laundry room,” a throaty, female voice called back.
Quinn steered Bridget through the kitchen and down a step into a spacious and airy laundry room with a small office at one end. He introduced her to Maria, the housekeeper, before retreating to his room.
“I just wanted to explain what happened and why I had to bring Quinn back home all of a sudden,” Bridget said wringing her hands. “I’m sure you’ve heard already that my husband’s been arrested.”
Maria listened attentively while continuing to fold linens in breathtakingly deft and expert maneuvers. “Yes, Keith called me a few minutes ago.” She stopped folding for a moment and fastened a perceptive gaze on Bridget. “Do you really think your husband did it?”
