by Lisa Jackson
“I know how you feel about Delta,” Quin said. “I don’t feel the same way. She’s beautiful and possibly deadly. She’s not the girl you went to school with.”
“I don’t remember saying she was.”
“All those girls . . . Bailey’s friends . . .” He looked grim.
The attack on Tanner was making Quin relive his daughter’s death. McCrae hadn’t told him he’d found the bartender, James Carville, not wanting to get his hopes up, but now he did.
“Where is he?” Quin demanded, half-rising from his chair.
“He recently landed in Eugene, apparently. He’s staying with a sister and working at a local bar, the Duck-Duck Inn. I’ll go see him as soon as we get a grip on the attack on Stahd.”
“I should be interviewing him,” he said tautly.
“You should not be interviewing him. You’re Bailey’s father. If the guy knows something about Bailey and Penske and that night, I’ll find out.”
Quin looked about to argue but kept himself in check. McCrae got up to leave again, and the older man added, “Corinne called Hurston.”
McCrae stopped short and gazed hard at Quin. “What?”
“You didn’t say anything to her about Carville, did you?”
“Hell, no.”
The idea of the special investigator in contact with Corinne left McCrae feeling unsettled. He didn’t want the man anywhere near him or West Knoll, especially now, when he was about to follow up on a lead that could prove that Hurston’s theory on Penske’s and Bailey’s death was incorrect. The man was a political animal, and if he felt Quin and McCrae were trying to prove him wrong, he wouldn’t take it sitting down. He cared less about right and wrong and more about how it would make him look, and an error this big would make him look bad.
McCrae drove to the hospital, his thoughts turning from Hurston to Corinne. Toward the end of their relationship, during one of their frequent fights, she’d yelled at him, “You don’t give a shit about anything, Chris! There’s nothing inside you. Nothing!”
This was her complaint whenever she deemed he wasn’t attentive enough, which had become more and more often over time. “I care about a lot of things,” he’d denied, sick of the accusation.
“People, Chris. You don’t care about people. Oh, no. I’m wrong,” she’d said, seeing he was about to fight her on that, too. “You care about people you don’t know. Anyone who has a problem, you’re right there for them. Any stranger in need . . . Officer Chris McCrae to the rescue!”
“It’s my job, Corinne. I—”
“But you don’t give one goddamn shit about the people you love . . . ,” she’d snarled. “You’re a hero to everyone. You suck it up like life-giving elixir. No, no.” She held out her finger when he was about to argue again. “Don’t say another word. I already know what you’re going to say anyway, and it’s just more bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit.”
“It’s bullshit,” she’d shouted back.
And then she’d picked up her sweater where she’d laid it over a kitchen chair and walked out the door. Two days later, she entered his house when he wasn’t there and gathered up the rest of her belongings and smashed a picture of them together that she’d had framed and placed on the end table beside his couch. He’d swept up the pieces and thrown them into the trash.
That was the end of their relationship, except for the fact that they worked together. Worked together, but seldom spoke to each other any longer.
But now she was talking with Hurston?
McCrae searched his feelings as he pulled to a stop in the hospital parking lot. Was he jealous over the thought of Corinne and Hurston together, whatever that relationship might be? No. What he felt was betrayal. She’d gone behind his back to the enemy and joined forces, and no matter what, it wasn’t going to be good.
He strode into the hospital reception area and toward the elevator bank. No one bothered him as he pushed the DOWN button for the morgue.
The elevator car opened with a ding, and he strode down the hallway. Outside the morgue door, he ran into Delta, who was talking to a man in a white coat, Dr. Evanston according to his name tag. She turned toward McCrae, and the look on her face told him everything he needed to know.
“He’s gone,” she said.
Automatically he reached for her, drawing her into the shelter of his arms.
* * *
Jesus Christ, Ellie thought, screeching to a halt as, barreling down the hallway from the elevator in search of the morgue, she came across Delta in Chris McCrae’s embrace. She’d left the hospital earlier to get a signal and reach Rob, who wasn’t picking up, but she’d stayed in the parking lot, determined not to leave until she talked to the doctors and staff about Tanner’s death. She wanted this story. It was hers, and she meant to have it.
The doctor with them saw Ellie, but not Delta and McCrae, who had their backs to her. She pretended to examine her watch, then shook her head and reversed direction, heading back to the elevator as if suddenly remembering she had somewhere else to be. She was determining whether she was going to push the button and call the car, or just wait till Delta and McCrae came back this way, so she could interview that doctor or anyone at the morgue without them listening in.
As she stood there, the elevator bell rang, and the doors slid open. She stepped forward, then was nearly run over by Tanner’s father, whose face was bright red with fury as he barreled into the hallway. An interesting emotion for a man who’d just lost his son, she thought, stepping out of the way.
He didn’t even notice her, but his wife did, as she followed him into the hallway.
“Dr. Stahd,” Ellie greeted him.
He shot her a quick look but didn’t stop walking until he recognized her. Only then did his footsteps slow. “You’re that reporter.”
“Yes.”
“You tell ’em. You tell ’em that she did it. She killed my son. Stabbed him to death!”
Ellie said cautiously, “You’re talking about Delta?”
“He should’ve never married her,” Lester Stahd railed. “Pretending she was pregnant. Fooled him, she did. Sucked him dry, and then wanted a divorce! My grandson’ll be with me, mark my words.”
“I’m not sure that was Delta,” Ellie said slowly. She didn’t really want to correct him, as she mostly agreed with what he was spewing, and it looked like it might continue, but Amanda had been the one who may or may not have been pregnant with Tanner’s child.
“Put him under a spell, that’s what she did. Used her looks and her wiles to get him!”
His wife grabbed onto his arm and held on tight, sending Ellie one of those proprietary looks that said, “Stay away from my man.”
“Don’t run off,” she told her husband. “It’s all just too terrible, and we need to stay together.”
“She with him?” Stahd asked Ellie, hooking a thumb in the direction of the morgue.
“I—um—Delta’s here,” she said, wondering if she should warn him that Delta was snuggled into McCrae’s embrace. But it might be over by now anyway. “Could I get a statement from you? I’m with Channel Seven.”
“My daughter-in-law killed my son,” he said. “That’s your fucking statement.”
“Oh, babe,” his wife cooed, pressing his head against her ample bosom, still eyeing Ellie. “Oh, babe.”
Lori, Ellie remembered. Who’d left him once, but it didn’t appear, by the way she was hovering over him, that she was going to make that mistake twice.
Tanner’s father paused for a moment, and Ellie watched a stunned look sweep over his features as if it had finally hit him that his son was really dead, gone from this world. But then he clamped down on those emotions and headed for the morgue once more.
“Would you like to give an interview?” Ellie called after him, injecting just the right amount of empathy into the question to allay the fears of his insecure wife.
Stahd stopped and thought a moment. “Yes,” he said. “Stay right
here. I’ll be back.”
Ellie watched him and his wife head down the hallway to the morgue together, Stahd moving at a half run, while wifey mewed platitudes and dogged after him in a pair of Manolo Blahniks that Ellie had lusted after herself but couldn’t afford. When they were out of sight, she tried Rob again, getting through this time with no problem—small miracle—and said she was getting a story to add to her piece from Dr. Stahd, who’d just learned his son had died from his injuries.
Rob said, “Get it.”
As Ellie clicked off, she felt a pang of something akin to remorse. Immediately she squelched it. Yes, she was very sorry that Tanner had been killed, and she sure as hell wanted Delta or whoever had done it brought to justice, but there was no reason to sit back and grieve when there was work to be done, work that could inform the public and, yes, help her career.
Probably Delta did kill him. Maybe she’d just had enough of his cheating, his narcissism, his lack of character . . . all the pieces of Tanner that everyone had ignored in high school but that had become self-evident over time. He’d still looked pretty good, Ellie could admit, and she sure as hell would’ve done him back in the day . . . maybe even more recently . . . but, well, it was too late now.
She spared a thought for the young man who’d been such a star in high school . . . but then her thoughts turned to Bailey and Carmen.
Amanda was right. They sure as hell were one unlucky class.
Chapter 18
Dead. Tanner was dead. Not injured and recovering. Dead. Delta wanted to burrow deeper into the comfort of McCrae’s arms, but it was a false safe harbor. Almost from the moment he reached out to comfort her, she could feel him pull back. It helped wake her from the alien world she’d been sleepwalking through.
“I saw him,” she said.
McCrae looked toward the door marked MORGUE. He’d seen enough dead bodies to know the wealth of feeling behind those three words.
“Are you related?” the doctor asked McCrae as he checked his watch.
“No,” Delta and McCrae answered at the same time, slowly pulling apart.
“Well . . .” He seemed momentarily stymied by their answer, then nodded to them as he returned to his duties, clearly ready to hand the matter of Delta over to McCrae, regardless of their relationship.
He’d barely gotten out of sight when Tanner’s father and Lori suddenly appeared in the hallway.
“Lester,” Delta managed through a tight throat.
The elder Dr. Stahd gave McCrae a hard look. Though he wasn’t physically comforting Delta any longer, the vibe must have been in the air, because Stahd’s mouth tightened and he glared at her.
“Already at it, girl?” he asked.
“Lester,” Lori protested faintly.
“I’m so sorry,” Delta said.
It wasn’t a confession, but Stahd seemed to take it that way. He drew himself up and looked about to launch himself at Delta. McCrae moved between them, on alert.
“You.” Stahd pointed a shaking finger at McCrae. “I’ll sue the police for protecting a killer! You’ll lose your job. Maybe you were even in on it.”
Lori groaned.
McCrae turned to her. “You all right?”
“You leave my wife alone,” Stahd growled.
“I’m fine,” said Lori, though she looked ready to collapse. Delta knew she probably appeared the same way.
“I’m going to my mother’s,” Delta said for McCrae’s benefit. “The press . . .” She lifted a hand and then wearily dropped it again. “This’ll bring them back.”
“You’re only concerned about yourself,” Stahd shot out. His jaw was thrust forward pugnaciously. Apparently, his only way to deal with grief was through anger.
“I can’t believe he’s gone.” Delta’s words were little more than a whisper.
Lester practically spit on the floor. McCrae stood by, watchful, a wall of protection, which only seemed to infuriate Lester more, though Delta was grateful for the support.
Lester ground out, “I’m taking my grandson. You’re going to jail. Owen needs a stable home.”
“Owen’s my son. He’s staying with me.” Delta was sure about that.
“You killed his father.”
“You don’t get to say that. You know I didn’t. I couldn’t. And Owen’s mine. I know you’re grieving, but stop it. This isn’t helping any of us.”
“I’m suing you,” he said, then, as if gaining strength from the very words, repeated them. “I’m suing you.”
“Let’s everybody take a breather,” said McCrae.
“Lester, let’s go home,” said Lori.
“I want to see my son,” the older man snapped. “And then justice will be served.”
Delta’s eyes were starting to sting. She wanted to protest her innocence some more, but Tanner’s father wasn’t listening.
“You took him from me,” he said, his voice wavering a bit.
“No . . .”
“Somebody has to pay!”
“Lester!” Lori was more insistent this time.
“I’m going see my son,” he declared belligerently, as an attendant, maybe hearing the raised voices, came to see what was wrong.
Delta turned away from them and headed blindly back toward the elevators. She was repeatedly smashing her uninjured palm against the button when McCrae came up next to her.
“I didn’t do it,” Delta said again. She’d lost count of how many times she’d said those words.
“Do you need a ride home?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Can’t keep depending on West Knoll’s finest,” she said, though the idea of having him take her was tempting. “I need to go to my mom’s. My son’s there and . . . and . . . I don’t know what to do. Get groceries?” She choked out a hysterical laugh.
“Let me take you,” he offered again, and this time she just shrugged and nodded. What the hell. He was right. She would probably crash if she had to drive now.
He drove her to Smith & Jones, and her mother—both of her parents, actually—swept her into their arms and hugged her tightly. The emotional response brought full-on tears to Delta’s eyes, and it was a relief to cry, to get it all out. She hadn’t been able to before, too shocked by Tanner’s dying. It still seemed unreal and probably would for a long time to come.
Owen appeared from the back room, holding a plastic T. rex. He regarded McCrae with silent suspicion, so McCrae took his leave.
Delta felt almost bereft when he was gone. She sensed she could rely on him. Was there something wrong with her that she wanted him around? Maybe she was evil, like Tanner’s dad seemed to think. Tanner had only been gone a few hours, and she was seeking comfort from another man? Was that normal? It hurt her head to even think about it, so she pushed those wearying thoughts aside and grabbed up Owen, squeezing him hard, closing her eyes, and drinking in the scent of him.
* * *
McCrae got back to the station in time to find there was a call on his voice mail from Dean Sutton. Before phoning him back, he checked on any new developments from the crime-scene team on the Stahd case, but no further clues had been found at the scene, and the only fingerprints and/or DNA picked up were from the current employees and Delta.
The killer wore gloves, McCrae figured, although he determined to look deeper into the backgrounds of Tia Marvin, Amy Panterra, and Nurse Candy to see if there was more there than met the eye. Quin might be leaning toward Delta as the killer, but McCrae’s belief that she was innocent had been bolstered even more by Lester Stahd’s enraged insistence of her guilt.
“Hello, Coach,” McCrae greeted the older man when Sutton picked up on the other end. “McCrae here.”
“Chris McCrae,” Coach responded in the “Can you believe it?” tone of someone greeting a long-lost friend.
They talked for a few minutes, with Coach Sutton fondly reminiscing and McCrae only listening with half an ear. Time was fleeting, and he had lots on
his plate. Finally, McCrae said, “Quin said you saw Delta just before Tanner was stabbed at his clinic.”
“I did. At the Bengal Room. You been there? It used to have a real tiger pelt on the floor, but that was years ago. Now it’s all fake stuff, but it’s nice. The whole place is better now, gentrified, as they say. It’s not far from Montgomery, where I coach, so I go there sometimes.”
“You didn’t talk to Delta.”
“Nooo . . . ,” he said. “She was involved with another man. Name’s Jonah Masterer. Comes in there a lot trying to pick up women.”
“Involved,” McCrae repeated. He’d already heard that Delta had been talking with a man at the bar of the Bengal Room, but Sutton made it sound more like a tryst.
“They were just flirting. Delta’s always been a pretty gal, but she was glowing under the attention. Made me wonder how things were going in that marriage, y’know? If Tanner recovers, I hope he’s nicer to her.”
McCrae didn’t tell him it was too late for that as he didn’t know when and how the family was going to make his death public.
“Anyway, after she left, Masterer bragged that he was meeting her later. I guess that didn’t happen, since she discovered Tanner.”
“No.”
“Thought you should know. I don’t believe she had anything to do with the attack on Tanner, but I guess she was there in the window of time of his murder, right?” He didn’t require an answer as he then waxed rhapsodic about Tanner’s prowess as an athlete and what an all-around talented guy he was—a doctor, no less. “Sure hope he recovers,” he wound up, and McCrae felt like a heel for not telling the truth, but he knew the older man would find out soon enough.
McCrae wrote Masterer’s name down. Just because he didn’t feel Delta was a killer didn’t mean he shouldn’t follow up.
