Last Girl Standing

by Lisa Jackson

  But now she needed her. Maybe there was someone else she could call, but she didn’t know who that person was, and the one thing everyone said about Amanda was how good she was at her job.

  The driveway circled around to the back, but Amanda’s black Lexus SUV was parked outside the double-bay garage that sat back from the house and had once housed the golf cart they used to transport supplies to the barbeque. Delta pulled her Audi up beside it. Her car was nearly paid off. A blessing, as she had no idea what her future finances were going to bring. She’d asked about reopening the clinic at Candy’s request, although who the doctor in charge might be was a question. Elderly Dr. Gervais wasn’t anyone’s idea of someone who could run the business.

  She thought briefly of McCrae, whom she’d deliberately not contacted since the day before. She’d made a point of blocking him from her mind and keeping her phone off. It was just better to keep him at arm’s length right now.

  She rang the back bell off the patio; it wasn’t a house where anyone used the front entrance. A few minutes later, she watched Amanda approach through the back door’s glass panes. She wore a light gray blouse and a pair of black slacks, and looked cool and comfortable even though the July evening was hanging onto the day’s heat. She greeted Delta with, “Hello, there,” as she opened the door and gestured for Delta to enter.

  Delta’s pulse was running light and fast as she stepped inside. The last time she’d been here was the night of the barbecue.

  Amanda led her to the dining room. She sat down in an end chair, and Delta took the seat to her right. The rest of the table seemed to stretch away from them toward the interior of the house, an interior that felt empty and disused, which it probably was most of the time.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Water or a soda? Coffee or tea?” Amanda asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “You sounded kind of urgent last night.”

  Delta squeaked out a half laugh. “Well . . . yeah.”

  Amanda’s expression grew serious. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want an honest answer. Many defense lawyers don’t want to know if their client has committed the crime. That’s not me. I want to know the truth, exactly what I’ll be dealing with if I take your case.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did you kill your husband?”

  “No.”

  Amanda’s blue eyes stared into Delta’s. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  Delta could feel the heat rush to her face. “I loved him. Someone stabbed him over and over again. I want to know who that someone is. I can’t believe you could think it was me. I’m just . . . holding on by a thread.”

  “Did you see Ellie’s news report last night?”

  “If you mean Lester Stahd’s decimation of my character, yes.”

  “Before that. Ellie’s . . . eulogy. I believe she was trying for intimate and warm, but that’s a little out of her reach.”

  “I saw some of it.”

  “She made Tanner sound like a great guy, a wonderful human being. But we both know that’s not true, don’t we?”

  Delta eyed Amanda cautiously. She hardly knew how to respond to that, so she didn’t. “Are you going to help me?”

  “We need to work out a few things. Financial and otherwise. You’ve hated me for years. I’m just wondering if you can put that aside.”

  “I haven’t hated you,” Delta responded automatically.

  “I’m going to tell you something, and then we can move on.”

  “All right,” Delta said carefully.

  “I’m competitive.”

  “Really.” Delta was dry.

  “No, I mean deep-down competitive. On the edge of psychotic. . . competitive.”

  “You act like this is news.”

  Amanda gave a surprised laugh. “Fair enough. From the beginning, I wanted to beat you. Everybody, of course, but especially you. I wanted Tanner because you wanted him. I had to have him because he was yours. I didn’t think about it that way at the time. I’ve come to that realization a bit late.”

  “Why?” she asked, dumbfounded.

  “Because you were, and are, the best of us,” she said. “It’s just something I always knew. Ellie feels it, too, I’d wager. Watch out for her . . . and for Zora.”

  “Zora? What do you mean?”

  “Don’t trust any of us. We lie. You don’t lie . . . much.”

  “All I know is I need a defense attorney. I’m here because that’s what you are, and you’re a good one. I know things are going to get worse for me, and I’ve got a little boy to take care of who’s just learned his dad isn’t coming back.” Her voice quavered a bit, and she pulled herself together. “He’s doing okay. Wanted to go to pre-K today. I took him. I don’t really know what else to do, but another shoe’s going to drop.”

  Amanda gave a deep nod. “My job would be to do my best to keep you out of jail, but if I should fail, have you made arrangements for your son?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. But my mother and father, his grandparents . . . they would take care of him.” Amanda had put her finger on Delta’s deepest fear. She couldn’t believe she could actually go to jail. She was horror-stricken at the thought.

  Several long moments elapsed during which Delta could tell Amanda was doing some serious thinking. “All right,” she finally said.

  “All right?” Delta repeated.

  “I’ll represent you.”

  Delta let out a pent-up breath. “Oh . . . good. Thank you. Do you need a . . . retainer? I can write you a check . . .” As long as it’s not too much.

  Amanda named a fairly reasonable figure, which caused Delta’s brows to lift.

  “I’m doing this as a friend,” she told Delta.

  Delta’s throat closed, and she was glad to have to look down and search through her purse for her checkbook, a chance to gather herself. Once she’d written out the payment, she set it on the table between them.

  Amanda didn’t reach for it. She merely crossed her arms atop the table and settled in. “Now that we’ve got that taken care of, let’s go back over the last few months, maybe a year. Don’t leave anything out about your relationship with Tanner and your son and anyone else you deem important in your life. Your parents? Friends? Tell me about any fights you’ve had and what they’ve been over, money, the dynamics of your household—”

  “Other women,” Delta cut in.

  “Other women,” Amanda repeated, cutting off whatever else she’d been about to say, then picking up again, “What you told the police. Anything about his business, and yours. Financial issues.”

  “I don’t have a business.”

  “You wrote a book.”

  “Well, yes, but it’s barely made a blip on anyone’s radar.”

  “What’s the book about?”

  Delta drew a breath. “It’s a . . . thriller.”

  “And in one of the first scenes, the wife stabs her husband.”

  “You’ve read it?” Delta asked, her heart clutching.

  “Just know about it. Give me a recap.”

  “Well, my main character’s been abused by her husband, so she takes matters into her own hands. She . . . stabs him to death, and then basically gets away with murder. It’s not autobiographical.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Okay. Other people have read your book. The police are going to know about it. I’m going to read it.”

  She nodded. Her throat was hot.

  “Let’s leave it for now. Just start talking to me. If there’s anything I should know that makes you look bad, bring it out into the daylight.”

  The knife ...

  “What?” Amanda asked, reading her expression.

  Delta tried to tell her. She closed her eyes, gathering courage. But what came out was a blurt. “Were you even ever pregnant?”

  Amanda sat back in her chair. Delta held her breath, wondering if she’d blown it; she really, really hoped she hadn’t. Finally, Amanda leaned forward again. “I thou
ght I was, but probably not.”

  Silence fell between them, then Delta drew a breath and started in.

  Chapter 21

  McCrae looked at his phone, checking the time as he entered the third bar on Portland’s west side where Tracy Gillup had once worked. He asked to see the manager—Jimmy, he was told—who was in his twenties and sported a shaved head and the kind of hard body achieved from weight-lifting that looks like it barely fits in a shirt. McCrae started talking the talk, discussing working out as if it were his life. Jimmy immediately sought to one-up him, bragging about how many pounds he could press.

  “You sure you don’t have any information on Tracy Gillup?” McCrae put in.

  “Sorry, man. This place sold three months ago. I don’t have any records before that.” His gaze slid away, and McCrae determined he was lying about something.

  “Maybe you could get me a beer?” McCrae didn’t really feel like drinking, but he had some time before he was meeting Sutton. He pointed to one of the taps, and Jimmy directed one of the guys behind the bar to help him before he scooted into the back room.

  There were several waitresses, but two had dark, almost black hair, and one was a bleached blond. No medium brown and no braids, but then it had been five years since Bailey’s death, and Tracy could have certainly changed her hairstyle.

  He nursed his beer and thought about Tanner Stahd. Someone had stabbed him using a knife that was handy. No premeditation. After hours, though, so their meeting had been clandestine, but maybe not on purpose? Delta was coming to the clinic . . . did whoever was there know that? Was she meant to take the fall? Or was it just the heat of passion? A spurned lover . . . ? Which didn’t look good for Delta.

  There was no theft, as far as anyone could tell, so it didn’t seem like drugs.

  Jimmy came out once more and looked around, his eyes sliding back and forth. He didn’t like having McCrae there. It was in his body language. He disappeared into the back once again.

  McCrae was finishing his beer, deciding he didn’t have time to find out what was making Jimmy so anxious, when a guy at the end of the bar yelled at the short-haired blonde, “Giddyup, bring me another Cadillac margarita, no salt.”

  McCrae stared at the blonde, who signaled to the guy that she’d gotten his order. He’d only met Tracy Gillup once, and he wasn’t sure, so he said, “Tracy?”

  She turned and looked at him. “Yeah?”

  Jimmy came out of the back like a shot, as if he’d been listening, which he probably had. “You don’t have to talk to him,” he told her. “He’s a cop.”

  Tracy gave him a bored look. “You ain’t my dad, Jimmy,” she said, then turned to McCrae. “What do you want then?”

  “I want to know what you remember about the night of the murder at Lundeen’s five years ago.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Jimmy said.

  “Thought that was all decided,” said Tracy.

  “The cop that was killed was my friend,” said McCrae.

  “Giddyup!” Another guy called from the same group as the first hollerer. “Get me the same!”

  “Jimmy, you wanna get those Cadillacs?” Tracy said, hooking a thumb toward the loud group milling around at the end of the bar. Then she leaned forward on the bar in front of McCrae and said, “I wondered if anybody was ever going to get past that cop, investigator, whatever. He didn’t give a damn about the truth.”

  “Tim Hurston.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know what his name was.” She paused. “You look familiar.”

  “I talked to you first at Lundeen’s. I was the first investigator. You had longer brown hair in a braid.”

  “Huh.” She straightened and eyed him across the bar. “I told that other asshole what I knew, but he just blew me off.”

  “Tracy,” Jimmy said, hovering around behind her. She ignored him, and it was clear she didn’t like his proprietary attitude toward her.

  “He was talking to somebody. Making all kinds of plans. And she was barely hanging on to her stool. I don’t think she even knew he was on the phone.”

  McCrae said, “There were no calls on his cell that night.” Carville had called her a liar. Maybe this was what he meant.

  She gave him a “Really?” look. “It was a burner. Just a plain old phone. Nothing fancy about it. I know those kind when I see ’em. I noticed, ’cause most of the guys who have ’em around here use ’em to score drugs and stuff. Keep changing ’em out. Untraceable.”

  “Justin Penske, the man with Officer Bailey Quintar, was using a temporary phone, not his cell?”

  “Uh huh. And there was that other guy, too.”

  “What guy?”

  “The bigger guy who came in, looked around, saw the two of them and quickly turned around and bolted. Except he was hanging around outside, trying not to be noticed. Kept waiting for something, I guess.”

  “That was never in any report.”

  “I didn’t really think about it till later, after that asshole who wouldn’t listen to me anyway was gone.”

  “You’re sure this guy was watching Penske and Bailey?”

  “No. That’s the point, isn’t it? ‘The only sure thing is man is unsure.’ I don’t know. Fuck it. Don’t believe me. Nobody ever does.”

  She stepped back, nearly into Jimmy. “Jesus, Jimmy,” she said scornfully.

  She was helping so many people, McCrae had to wait for her to come back into his space. “I believe you,” he said, when he could get her attention again.

  “Bully for you,” she said over her shoulder, pulling a Stella for the customer seated next to McCrae, an older man.

  “Do you remember what he looked like? The big man who was watching?”

  “Yeah. He wore a trench coat and sunglasses and had a big birthmark on his forehead, six fingers on each hand, and wore red lipstick.”

  The older man beside McCrae snickered.

  “Anything?” McCrae asked, ignoring the gibe.

  Tracy didn’t answer for a while. Kept filling glasses of beer. Checking the time, McCrae was about to slide off his stool and head toward the Bengal Room, when she came back.

  “He was pretty anxious. On one foot and the other. And I thought I saw him talking to someone in a car for a while. An older car. Faded red. Like a truck of some kind, actually, maybe. Whole front of it was like dusty pink instead of red. Maybe one of those car trucks.”

  “El Camino?” the older man beside McCrae said.

  “Fuck if I know,” Tracy said. “That’s all I know. There ain’t no more. You want anything else?”

  “Chevy stopped making El Caminos in eighty-seven,” the guy said.

  “It was old, okay?” Tracy snapped at him as she walked away. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  McCrae dropped money on the bar with a sizable tip. The old guy looked at the bills hard, and before he left, McCrae gently reminded him it was stealing if he should slip a dollar or two into his own pocket.

  * * *

  The Bengal Room was just as Coach Dean Sutton had described it, with real-enough-looking fake tiger skins adorning one wall to make McCrae take a second look, a sleek mahogany bar sporting under-counter lighting, and blood-red leather club chairs nestled around a scattering of tables. The lighting was low, and there was an understated elegance that drew in a crowd of fortysomethings.

  “My condo’s over thataway,” the coach said, pointing west, after he and McCrae shook hands. Fifteen years later, Coach had short-clipped gray hair and had grown lean enough to hollow out his cheeks. His body was still fit, though the faint pudginess that had defined him was long gone. This man was sober and stingier with his smiles as he gestured for McCrae to take one of the club chairs at a table crowded close to the bar.

  “Oh, man, that’s tough about Tanner,” he said, his long face growing even more hangdog. “Saw on the news that he didn’t make it. Hard to believe. So much potential . . .”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Sutton was lost for a moment,
sorrowfully shaking his head. Then he drew a breath and looked around. “Hope it doesn’t turn out to be Delta.”

  “Yeah.” McCrae tried to sound somewhat noncommittal, even though he agreed completely.

  “Masterer isn’t here yet, but I bet he comes.”

  “You want me to see him.”

  “She was flirting pretty heavy with him, that’s all.”

  “How are you doing?” McCrae asked him, which sent him on a long story about how good the boys’ track team was at Montgomery and how it was a shame the fastest runner was more interested in soccer than football.

  McCrae had trouble concentrating. His thoughts were chasing each other around and around. He felt the need to be doing something more than legwork. He wanted something to grab on to.

  He let the coach go on for a while before he decided to bring the conversation back to the here and now. He wanted to call Delta again. It felt like a long, long day without any communication, which was probably another thing to think hard about, but that one he pushed away.

  “You wanted to talk some more,” McCrae reminded.

  “Ah, yeah. I didn’t know he was gone then.”

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “Feels kinda bad to say things about a guy who just died, yeah. But it wasn’t all about him. It’s about all of ’em, I guess. Been thinking a lot about Carmen Proffitt. She was a good girl. A really good girl. Did you know her?”

  “She was in my class,” McCrae reminded.

  “I mean really know her. Like a good friend.”

  McCrae shook his head. Carmen was the reverend’s daughter, and most of the guys had steered clear of her. She was tall, gangly, connected at the hip with Bailey, and not interested in any guy but Tanner.

  Sutton said, “She had a big crush on Tanner, but a lot of ’em did back then.”

  Tanner Stahd, the teenage god.

  “Yep,” McCrae agreed.

  “Some of the mothers, too. The way they looked at Tanner? You could just see it. They were as giddy as kids.” He paused, as if waiting for McCrae to fill the void, but when that didn’t happen, added, “Bailey’s mom couldn’t take her eyes off him.”