by Lisa Regan
Gretchen looked at her notes. “Whitney died in 1998.” For Josie’s benefit, she said, “Beverly would have been ten.”
“Right,” Josie said. “Vera continued to sell painkillers and other drugs after her daughter was born?”
Connie said, “I’m not entirely sure.”
“Why is that?” Gretchen asked.
Connie cleared her throat. “I, uh, I had an incident. It was before Vera got pregnant. I got so high on painkillers that I fell asleep. I was home alone with my oldest daughter. She was very young. I passed out for hours. Twelve, to be exact. My husband came home, found me unconscious on the couch and our daughter upstairs in her crib, wet and covered in filth, starving and crying.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Oh God, it was horrible. That was the end. The end of all of it. The drinking, the pills. I was so ashamed.”
For this she got another eye-roll from Marisol. “Oh please. You make it sound so dramatic. Your daughter was fine!”
Connie’s eyes flashed as she glowered at Marisol. “You don’t know what it’s like. You never had kids. You don’t understand how it feels to know your baby was suffering for all those hours, crying for you, and you didn’t feed or change or comfort her because you were wasted.”
Marisol snapped, “I went to rehab, too, Con.”
Gretchen held up a hand. “Ladies, please. Slow down. Connie, after the incident with your daughter, what happened?”
Connie shifted the dog in her lap, shooting Marisol one last dirty look before answering. “I went into a thirty-day inpatient rehab program. My mother came and cared for my daughter. My husband didn’t travel during that time or for the month after that. I haven’t touched anything since.”
Josie said, “You stopped going to parties with Vera and the girls as well?”
“I had to. The point of those parties was to drink and get high. Plus, I had a baby at home depending on me and a husband who supported me through rehab. I couldn’t let them down.”
“But you still maintained contact with Vera?” Gretchen asked.
“Well, Vera was the best stylist I ever had,” Connie explained. “She was a friend, I guess. I just didn’t see her outside of the salon anymore.”
“You were at her baby shower,” Josie said.
“Well, yeah. Like we said, Vera always wanted a baby. I was happy for her. It wasn’t planned, and it didn’t take the form she always wanted: marriage and then a baby, but she was thrilled. I did visit her a few times when Beverly was an infant. She was exhausted, as all new mothers are, and a little overwhelmed.”
Josie said, “We understand that Vera went onto bedrest early. Did either of you see her while she was on bedrest?”
“No,” Connie said. “She went to stay with her brother.”
Josie suspected this was a lie. A lie Vera had told to people who were supposed to be close friends. She would know for sure once she heard back from the police in Georgia with respect to their investigation into Floyd Urban.
Connie went on, “I saw her a few times after she came home with Beverly but after that, we drifted apart. Marisol stayed in touch with her, though.”
Marisol said, “You’re wrong. You stayed in touch with her longer than I did.”
Gretchen said, “I didn’t see you in the photos from Vera’s baby shower, Marisol.”
“I was in rehab then.” She laughed humorlessly. “We were all in rehab at one point or another. Except Tara, I suppose.”
“And Whitney,” Connie added.
Marisol put her wine glass down and folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t have a big dramatic story to tell. I just realized that I was taking so many pills that I was sleeping more hours a day than I was awake. I put on a ton of weight. I wasn’t myself. When my husband came home from traveling, it was a struggle to stay awake to spend any time with him. He was worried. He said he didn’t even recognize me. I think he was more worried that I was depressed than anything else. He didn’t even know about the pills. I had to come clean. I told him about everything—how I was bored while he was away, and I’d been getting together with the girls for drinks, which turned into us trying some pills and then me taking them on my own when I wasn’t with the girls. The whole spiral. We talked about it and decided I would go into rehab.”
Connie blurted, “Is that what you call it? That was a lot of rehab for someone who’s on her second glass of wine in the middle of the day.”
Marisol waved a dismissive hand at Connie and sipped her wine again. To Josie and Gretchen she said, “She’s just jealous that I got to really go away for rehab. I didn’t have kids so I went to a swanky place in Colorado.”
“Money well spent, obviously,” Connie spat.
“Oh please,” Marisol said. “I had a problem with pills, not with alcohol.”
Again, Josie tried to bring the conversation back to Vera. “So after you returned from Colorado, Marisol, did you see Vera?”
“Of course. I wanted to see her sweet baby girl. I knew how excited she was about being a mom. I didn’t understand it myself—I never wanted children—but I knew how she felt. I went to see them a few times. But then we lost touch.”
“You didn’t continue to see Vera at the salon?” Josie asked.
“No,” Marisol said. “My husband felt it best I make a clean break from all of my old habits. To him, the salon was the scene of the crime, as it were. So, I went to another one. Eventually, Vera and I fell out of touch. Life went on.”
“Did Whitney continue to see Vera?” Gretchen asked.
Connie said, “Probably, but I’m not sure. Whitney didn’t live around here, so we never saw her.”
Marisol added, “I couldn’t tell you for sure.”
“Did Vera ever tell either of you who Beverly’s father was?” Josie asked.
Connie shook her head.
Marisol said, “No. She just said he didn’t want to be involved. I got the feeling it was a one-night stand sort of thing.”
“Did the two of you stay friends?” Gretchen asked.
The two women looked at one another. Connie said, “We stayed neighbors.”
Marisol raised her glass of wine. “I didn’t have children. When you don’t have children and your friend does, you have nothing in common anymore.”
“We could have stayed close,” Connie said.
“Let me clarify that,” Marisol said. “I don’t like children.”
“These parties you had,” Josie asked. “Was it always just you ladies? Did anyone else ever attend?”
“No,” Connie answered. “Just the girls.”
“Do you know the names of anyone else Vera associated with or was close to? Any other friends, or perhaps the person who supplied the drugs to her?”
“No,” Marisol said. “That was part of the deal. We didn’t want to know. She just always had everything when we wanted it.”
Josie turned to Connie. “You said you went to Vera’s home to help her out when Beverly was small. Was there ever anyone else there?”
Connie shook her head. “No. Just Vera. But she was happy. Overwhelmed and sleep-deprived, yes, like all new mothers, but so happy.”
“We just have one last question,” Gretchen said. “Where were you two yesterday morning? Say, around seven a.m.?”
Marisol and Connie looked at one another and laughed. “At seven in the morning?” Marisol said. “We were home, probably still in bed. I know I was.”
“I was awake,” Connie said. “But yes, I was home.”
“Your husbands can verify this?” Josie asked.
“Well, sure,” Marisol said. “Mine can. What about Joe, Conn? Was he home?”
“He doesn’t leave for the office until eight-thirty,” Connie answered. “So yes, he can verify that I was home. Why are you asking this?”
Gretchen stood up and handed each woman a business card. “Just standard police questions. Thank you for your time. Call us if you think of anything.”
Marisol stared at them, as if s
he was going to ask for more of an explanation, but then she clamped her mouth shut.
Josie stood as well. “We’ll let ourselves out.”
Thirty-Four
“All right,” Gretchen said, once they were in the car headed back to the station. “Let’s go over what we know.”
Josie eased out of the Quail Hollow entrance, waving to the protestors and to the patrol unit now stationed between them and the residents. “Do we know anything? Really?”
Gretchen laughed. “It always seems like we don’t until we do.” She took out her notebook and flipped through some pages. “Vera Urban was a stylist at this upscale salon, Bliss.”
“A very good stylist,” Josie said.
“Yes,” Gretchen said. “Her clients, boss, and co-workers have agreed on that.”
“She was single,” Josie added. “If she had any significant boyfriends, no one remembers their names.”
“Right. She started peddling painkillers to her clients at the salon, unbeknownst to her boss and co-workers.”
“It seems like that started with Connie Prather. She starts getting them for her. They strike up a friendship. Vera starts getting invited to things. Starts providing more drugs for more women.”
“But keeping it within a pretty small circle,” Gretchen said. “But no one knows who was supplying her with these painkillers. Is there any chance that Mayor Charleston’s husband was supplying them? He’s a surgeon, right?”
“He is,” Josie agreed. “I asked the Mayor about that and of course, she denied it. I don’t trust her. I don’t trust her husband. He’s cheated on her in the past, which means he has no problem lying, but I’m not sure he would put his career in jeopardy that way. He would only have been a resident back then. Besides that, Vera also supplied pot and cocaine. She couldn’t have gotten those from a surgeon.”
“True,” Gretchen said. “We can check him out, but we’re not looking at him as the supplier. Also, if Marisol Dutton knew that Tara’s husband had supplied drugs to Vera Urban as a resident, don’t you think she’d tell her husband so he could use it against Tara in the campaign?”
“No,” Josie said. “I don’t think Marisol would want any of that exposed because of her own part in it. It would be terrible for Tara and her husband, but it would also make the Duttons look bad. Did you happen to see the bruises on Marisol’s wrist?”
“No,” Gretchen said. “I didn’t pick up on that. You think Kurt Dutton abuses his wife?”
“I can’t say for sure, but the bruises were suspicious. Anyway, we can probably rule out Tara’s surgeon husband as Vera’s drug supplier, which brings us back to someone in the local drug trade, most likely.”
“Connie said it was either Vera’s ex or a friend who was supplying her with stuff. So if that person had access to several different types of drugs then yes, he was probably known in the local drug trade. Okay, we’ve got Vera getting drugs from an unknown person, selling them to these rich housewives at parties at their houses while their husbands are away,” Gretchen went on.
“The Mayor claims she begged out of these parties early on,” Josie said. “Leaving Whitney, Connie, and Marisol although Connie and Marisol’s accounts dispute that.”
“Right,” Gretchen said. “At the very least, we know the Mayor didn’t stop going to these parties as early as she claims she did. But let’s say eventually her attendance drops off. Whitney dies. Connie and Marisol both go into rehab.”
Josie went on, “Vera had Beverly. The parties stopped. The women all fell out of touch although Vera continued working at the salon until Beverly was thirteen.”
“Beverly and Vera had a fight. Beverly pushed Vera down the steps, injuring Vera’s back badly enough for her to need surgery—”
“And go on painkillers,” Josie finished.
“If she was taking as many painkillers as your grandmother implied she was—enough for her to pass out when she was supposed to be at a meeting with the principal—then she wasn’t getting them from a doctor,” Gretchen said.
“She found someone to buy them from illegally.”
“Or she already knew someone who could supply them,” Gretchen argued.
“Exactly.”
“If she was spending a lot of money on painkillers from an illegal source, that might explain the issues with her making her rent.”
“True,” Josie agreed. “Her addiction gets worse. She’s broke. Beverly’s having behavioral problems. Beverly gets pregnant. Vera finds out.”
“Their relationship was already strained,” Gretchen said. “I’m sure news of the pregnancy didn’t help.”
“I agree. But now we’ve got a blind spot. A period of time in their lives where we have no idea what happened. The next thing that we can gather is that someone killed Beverly and buried her beneath their house.”
“Right,” Gretchen said. “Vera goes into hiding—whether she was involved in the murder or just a witness, we can’t say at this point—but she disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“There was no one in their lives to even notice they were gone,” Josie said. “Don’t you think that’s strange?”
She looked over long enough to see Gretchen shrug.
“You don’t think it’s odd?” Josie pressed.
Gretchen flipped her notebook closed, eyes focused on the outskirts of the city flying past them. “I don’t think it’s that odd. When I moved here, other than my work colleagues, no one would have known if I went missing.”
“Not true,” Josie said. “Your old partner from Philadelphia—he would have come looking for you when you didn’t check in.”
Gretchen smiled. “Guess so.”
Josie said, “At the very least, Vera’s drug dealer would have noticed. Or the guy my grandmother told me was giving Vera rides back and forth to school whenever Beverly got in trouble and she had to meet with the principal.”
“They might be one and the same,” Gretchen pointed out. “Her drug dealer and her only friend. For all we know, he’s the one who killed them.”
“Then we need to find him. And I know just who to ask.”
Thirty-Five
Noah stood next to his desk in the great room at the stationhouse, towel-drying his hair with an old sweatshirt. His jeans and Denton PD polo shirt were soaked. Mettner was nowhere to be found. The Chief’s door was closed. At the desk that had now become hers by default, Amber sat with her small laptop, tapping away at the keys. Josie wondered what she was working on. She smiled at Josie and Gretchen as they entered. They didn’t smile back.
Gretchen said, “Fraley, you know you can go home and get changed after emergency flood calls.”
Noah grimaced. “I wasn’t on a call. The water breached the sandbags out front, and we’re still short the tube barrier we were supposed to have for around the building. Lamay and I got plastic barricades from Dalrymple Township and put them out. I don’t know how well they’ll hold up, but it’s better than nothing.”
Josie said, “We haven’t had rain all day. Maybe the water will recede soon. Hey, you know those looters you picked up the other night? Are they still down in holding?”
Noah froze, the sweatshirt in both hands, his sandy hair sticking up every which way. “Uh, yeah. They are, but, uh—”
“I already know,” Josie said, cutting him off. “I know Needle’s down there.”
Amber had stood up and now inched closer to them. “Who’s Needle?”
Noah balled up the sweatshirt and put it on his chair. “This is a personal matter. Do you mind?”
Amber gave a wan smile. “Oh, sure, sorry.”
Josie kept her eyes on Noah. “I know that’s what you were trying to tell me the other night when you came home. It’s okay. He’s the person I need to talk to.”
Noah came around the desks and stood within inches of her. Lowering his voice, he said, “You need to talk to Needle? What the hell for?”
Gretchen, too, walked over, inserting herself into their small cir
cle. “It’s about the Vera Urban case.”
Noah looked at her. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Afraid not,” Gretchen replied.
Josie said, “He has information we need. He’s been part of the Denton drug scene since before I was born. There’s a very good chance he’ll remember Vera Urban and maybe who was supplying her with the drugs she was peddling to her salon clients.”
Noah said, “Send Gretchen. You don’t need to talk to this guy.”
Josie put a hand on her hip. “I don’t?”
Gretchen said, “He’s right, boss. I can talk to him myself.”
Josie looked from Gretchen to Noah, thrust her chin forward and said, “I’m talking to him.”
She turned to walk away, but Noah caught her hand. Quietly, he said, “You don’t have to do the hard stuff all the time. The last twenty-four hours have been… difficult.”
In the last twenty-four hours, Josie had watched biblical flooding swallow up her city; she’d been shot at; she’d been swept away; and she’d failed to save Vera Urban, the only solid lead they had in the Beverly Urban case. The culmination of those things had hollowed her out and pushed her to the brink of a mental breakdown, but she said, “Noah, it’s fine. Besides, we have a history of sorts, Needle and I. He’ll be more likely to tell me what we want to know than Gretchen. Trust me.”
He let go. “Okay, but let me have him brought up to an interview room. You can butter him up with coffee and cigarettes.”
“Fine,” Josie said.
Twenty minutes later, Josie and Gretchen walked into one of the interview rooms on the second floor. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Larry Ezekiel Fox, the man Josie had come to think of as “Needle” sat in a chair next to the metal table centered in the room. In front of him was a half-empty paper cup of black coffee and an ashtray that already contained two cigarette butts. Josie hadn’t seen him in three years, but he looked like he had aged a full decade. He was in his mid-sixties, but a hard life of drug use, homelessness, and criminal enterprise had aged him well beyond that. His skin was tanned and wrinkled. He had unkempt, stringy gray hair and a long beard that yellowed at the edges. In Denton’s holding cells, he’d been allowed to wear his own clothes which included a drab, olive green jacket that he’d owned for as long as Josie had known him. It was threadbare and faded now, worn over a black T-shirt, dirty jeans that had seen better days, and a pair of boots that were blackened with age and grime. He smelled as if he hadn’t bathed since the last time she saw him.
