A Desperate Place

by Jennifer Greer

  Closing the box lid, she replaced it in the drawer, then polished off the wine and switched off the light by the bed. Curling up next to Reggie, she immediately fell asleep. Her dreams were a riotous mix of the day’s events, with raging fires and buried bodies.

  Whit awakened drenched in a nightmarish sweat that soaked her hair and nightgown. Fumbling in the dark, she sat up and turned on the bedside lamp, utterly grateful to be in her bedroom, Reggie’s sleepy face a mask of confusion beside her. Grabbing her cell phone from the nightstand, she checked the time. She’d slept for only three hours. It was five AM.

  Groaning, she slipped out of bed and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Her class at the gym started in an hour, so she saw no point in going back to bed. She put on a pot of coffee and changed into gym clothes. No better way to start the day than caffeine and adrenaline.

  CHAPTER

  11

  MOSTLY MODERATE- TO lower-income single-family homes bordered the City Gym, where Whit stood with hands on hips, trying to cool down, eyeing the horizon. A hazy pink sunrise was just emerging over neighborhood rooftops. Even at seven AM the temperature was already eighty-six degrees. The stagnant air failed to cool her sweating skin. Diesel fumes from the four-way stop at the corner lodged in her nose and throat, clinging to the humidity like a damp, musty towel. The day promised to be another scorcher.

  The boot camp coach had singled her out this morning and paced the whole boot camp class on Whit’s tired efforts to keep up. The strenuous workout scoured away every last bit of yesterday’s stress marathon, but she still had a full day ahead of her. Running on three hours of sleep would be a trial.

  She had missed Katie this morning. No doubt she had spent the night chasing down leads and was catching up on much-needed sleep. Whit glanced at her phone lying on the bench next to her car keys. She’d had seventeen calls in an hour. The front-page article on Niki Francis had hit the streets and the internet with a loud, reverberating boom. True to form, Stu had posted the story on the internet almost immediately, forwarding it to the media networks around the world. Several of the ladies at the gym had carried newspapers from home with the front-page story, congratulating her. In a way it was validation for clinging to threads of courage and returning to journalism instead of cowering at home.

  Quickly gathering her things, Whit crossed the parking lot scrolling through her emails. She started the car and turned on the air conditioning, then collected pen and pad and called her voice mail, which had automatically attached to her car’s speaker system from her iPhone. A couple of messages were from other reporters at the Chronicle, praising her article. The rest of the messages were from a slew of major media outlets: a couple of old friends from the L.A. Times, colleagues from the New York Times, and broadcast journalists from CNN, FOX, NBC, et cetera, all wanting to interview her about Niki Francis.

  Her phone rang. The number was local and vaguely familiar. “Whit McKenna, Medford Chronicle.”

  “Miss McKenna?” a woman’s voice responded. “I’m Gale Delano. Bo Delano’s wife. You called last night and left a message.”

  The fire victim’s wife. Whit sat up straighter. “Yes, Mrs. Delano. I’m very sorry to have bothered you at a time like this.”

  “Thank you. I’m calling because I gave a statement to the police, but they appear to be obtuse. One would think our police force could hire officers with an IQ above seventy.”

  Whit’s brows rose at that. “What statement did you give them?”

  “I told them my husband was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Her heart skipped a beat.

  “Yes. By the way, I read your article about my Bo in the paper this morning. I hate what people are saying about him. People need to know the truth, not just hearsay.”

  Whit bristled at that. “I had multiple sources confirm my information. And if you recall, I did give you an opportunity to contribute to the article.”

  “That’s what I intend to do now. Do you have time to meet with me this morning?”

  She thought of the nine AM news briefing with the mayor. If she hurried … “I have an hour; that’s about it. Starting right now.”

  “I usually walk in the mornings. Can you meet me at the Bear Creek Path?”

  “Yes. In ten minutes?”

  “Very good.”

  Whit hung up and sat staring at her phone. Mrs. Delano did not give her warm fuzzies. However, if she was right and her husband was murdered, maybe Riggs would confirm it from the coroner’s report. Whit sent a text asking her for cause of death.

  Opening the glove box, she grabbed a box of towelette wipes and vigorously cleaned under her arms; grabbed another wipe and scrubbed her face. Fumbling through her bag, she pulled out a makeup case. She applied mascara and lipstick and ran a brush through her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail. Good enough.

  She arrived at the Bear Creek walking path a few minutes early, so she sat and waited in her car. The path, banked by tall trees on either side of the creek, ran the length of the city and meandered through neighborhoods, along the freeway, and behind the park. Joggers, seniors, and young mothers pushing strollers were already enjoying the sun-soaked path. At the base of a sloping hill was an amphitheater; to her right, a twenty-five-thousand-square-foot skate park and four tennis courts.

  Katie replied to her text.

  Sorry I missed the workout this morning. I’m on my way to collect an accident vic. Read both your articles. Nice. Delano? Haven’t released autopsy report.

  Anything suspicious?

  Why?

  Talking with Mrs. Delano. She thinks he was murdered.

  Inconclusive. Let me know if you come up with a trade.

  Will do.

  Inconclusive meant Riggs didn’t know yet. Talk of a trade meant it was possible. Maybe probable. Very, very interesting.

  Whit heard a car door slam. A sleek red BMW had pulled into the space beside her. It shone like glass in the sun. The woman who uncurled from behind the wheel was tall and slender, early sixties. She wore pale-yellow walking shorts, a yellow-striped tank, and spotless white tennis shoes. Her light-brown hair was cut in a neat bob at her shoulders. The perfect picture of a well-to-do lawyer’s wife.

  Whit grabbed her mini recorder and joined the woman on the sidewalk. They shook hands, the grip firm. After introductions, they fell into step together on the path.

  “Your picture doesn’t do you justice,” Mrs. Delano said. She carried a small packet of tissues. “The one in the Chronicle, beside your byline. I always wanted red hair, but not everyone can carry that off. Yours is very pretty.”

  “Thanks.” Whit had not expected compliments after the surly phone call. They walked facing the sun.

  It was a beautiful morning. The birds flitted through the trees, chirping gaily; the stream gurgled gently beside them as if the tragic events of yesterday had not happened. But the sordid scenario of Mr. Delano and his last days, in which he abandoned his wife, abused his girlfriend, appeared drunk and disorderly in his front yard, and blew up his house, had already been clearly documented in the Medford Chronicle. Whit hated to be a cynic, but she suspected the public account of Mr. Delano’s moral decline was the real tragedy for Mrs. Delano.

  She asked, “Do you mind if I record our conversation? It’s easier to walk and talk that way.”

  “Yes. Of course.” They veered to the right as a pair of skateboarders rattled past.

  Mrs. Delano, even in flat shoes, had to be close to six feet tall. Add the stiff, bridled way she carried her shoulders and the measured softness in her tone—intimidating right out of the gate.

  “So, why do you think your husband was murdered?”

  Mrs. Delano hesitated, turning her head to watch the stream. “Sorry. This is more difficult than I thought. If I think about Bo—the finality—if I think about the finality of it, I can’t breathe.”

  Whit’s throat tightened as she remembered last night’s forage through John’s memento box. Only
someone who had lost a loved one could truly comprehend how hard it was to face that brutal moment of acceptance. Irrevocable. Absolute. Never to be heard or seen or touched again.

  Stopping beneath the shade of an elm tree, Whit said, “If you’re not up to talking right now, we can reschedule.”

  Stu would call her a sap and shoot her if he ever found out she’d had a source on the hook and offered to let her go. Journalism aside, Whit refused to breach her own personal moral code on this one. She’d learned a few lessons about invasion of privacy since John’s death, when she’d faced a barrage of reporters on her return to the States. Intimate questions at vulnerable times.

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Delano replied firmly. “I insist we talk now. I have to do this for my husband and my sons.”

  They resumed walking.

  “Yesterday the police were insinuating that Bo was drunk and set the house on fire for insurance money. We didn’t need the insurance money. I think the house was set on fire to cover up his murder.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “You’d have to know something about my husband to understand. We were married thirty years. We had a very compatible marriage. Two children, both boys.” Her chin lifted with pride. “Bobby Junior is an English professor at Berkeley, and Joseph is in law school at UCLA. My boys have always admired their father.”

  “So what changed?”

  “He became obsessed with his health. Last year he joined a running club. Sometimes he ran ten miles before work. Then he began ordering very expensive water called Kona Nigari.”

  “Kona Nigari?”

  “Yes. It’s desalinated water from two thousand feet below the ocean surface near the big island of Hawaii. It cost over five hundred dollars a liter.”

  “Five hundred dollars? Does it have gold flecks?”

  “Outrageous. I know.” She shrugged. “I thought he was just in a midlife crisis.”

  “Expensive crisis.”

  They walked off the path toward a bench on the banks of the creek next to a large willow tree with branches that draped nearly to the ground, like emerald streamers. Tiny yellow birds darted about beneath the canopy. With a sigh of relief, Mrs. Delano sat on the bench, and Whit joined her.

  Her tone hardened. “Three months ago, without speaking to me about it, he withdrew fifty thousand dollars from our savings account. When I asked what he did with it, he refused to tell me.”

  “Fifty?”

  “Yes. Said it was personal and none of my business. None … of … my … business!” Her cheeks flushed with renewed anger. “That was the end of my trust. A few days later I cashed out some of our stocks and bonds. He was behaving so irrationally. I was scared.”

  Self-preservation, Whit thought. She might have done the same thing.

  “Suddenly Bo said he needed a rest and left for our cabin on the coast for two weeks. When he returned, he seemed different. After a few weeks I began to study him. I think Bo had a facelift. It would explain the missing money and his youthful appearance.”

  Having seen him only once, as a burned corpse with that frozen scream, Whit suppressed a shudder and simply said, “That makes sense.”

  “One morning he left his computer on and his Facebook page open. I took the liberty of reading it. He’d been having a conversation for weeks with a young woman from Czechoslovakia. There were several photos of her clad in only a bikini. A ten, if you know what I mean.”

  Whit nodded, although she’d gathered as much from barbecue boy.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “I’m jaded from hearing so many stories of a similar fashion from my friends, but I wondered if he had begun to view me as some men in midlife crisis view their wives of thirty years, with laugh lines, a little sagging around the chin area—a body no longer hard and tight in all the right places. Not that there was any excuse, but he was so exacting with his own body. Maybe he decided he needed a newer, brighter model.”

  “The typical cliché, but I hope that is more rare than it seems.”

  “Maybe. I would like to think so, but now I’m not so sure. Then a few weeks ago he became distant, unapproachable. More and more defensive. Volatile at times. Throwing things in fits of anger. Shouting. He was always such a controlled person; it was as if I was suddenly living with a stranger.” She shook her head as if she couldn’t bring herself to say the next words.

  Whit offered encouragement. “Go on.”

  “He … he asked me to move out. Evana was moving in. I … I was literally speechless.” She cleared her throat. “Of course I moved out.”

  Whit thought Mr. Delano sounded like a first-class jerk. Maybe he deserved whatever fate had dealt him.

  “He deteriorated quickly after that.” She frowned. “I tried to tell the police, but they kept insinuating that Bo had a drinking problem. He didn’t.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No.” She shook her head emphatically. “The day before he died, he called me from work. He complained of a migraine. He said, ‘It’s eating me alive.’ He started to cry, then got very angry, spewing obscenities, which was not at all like him. Then he said, ‘Stabbing. Stabbing at me. The pain is terrible.’ He sobbed into the phone and said, ‘He’s killing me.’”

  “Who was he referring to?”

  “I don’t know. He hung up on me. I tried to call him back, but he wouldn’t answer. Lizzy, his secretary, said he’d stormed out of the office. I thought he’d call back.”

  “Did he?”

  “No. I wanted to go see him at the house, but she was there. I shouldn’t have waited, because he died the next day.” Mrs. Delano choked back a sob, smothering it with a tissue. “What a terrible, terrible way to end a thirty-year marriage.”

  Whit tried to think of something consoling. “In all fairness to you, even if you did persist in reaching him in person, I don’t think Mr. Delano was in his right mind. From all accounts, he was hostile and abusive to his girlfriend and the neighbors. It doesn’t sound like the situation would have improved. It might have even been worse.”

  She nodded, tears on her cheeks. “In the space of two months he became a monster I hardly recognized. Oh, not physically. Physically he looked almost young and strangely vibrant. It was odd.” She reached across and clutched Whit’s hand. “You’re an investigative reporter. Please. I need to know what happened to my husband.”

  “Why not just hire a private eye?”

  “No. I need his reputation cleared by the press. Not a hired hand.”

  Whit stared into watery blue eyes pleading for help and almost lost her objectivity. What it must have cost this aloof woman to ask for help, a woman who seemed to have lived her life within the upper crust of society, above the fray, until the past few months, was hard to imagine. It was tempting to help her, but she’d be bound as a reporter to write the truth even if what she found demonized Bobby Delano, possibly implicating him in criminal activities.

  “I’ll seek and print the truth,” Whit warned. “If you’re comfortable with that, then I’ll need your full support.”

  “I expect nothing less.”

  Whit considered her obligation to the Niki Francis story and almost referred her to another reporter. She didn’t need any additional stress. Yet she felt an obligation, from one widow to another, to at least try.

  As if on cue, her phone buzzed with a text from Stu.

  All hell is breaking loose. Come in early.

  Great. The tempo for the day. Maybe that was an omen to pass Delano to another reporter, but she couldn’t let go. Not yet.

  “All right. I’ll pursue the story.”

  They stood and walked the path in silence, the sun’s penetrating heat on their backs, the soft tread of their shoes and buzzing insects accompanying their thoughts.

  Something dark and unsavory had happened to Bo Delano, of that Whit was sure. People didn’t drastically and suddenly change after thirty years of marriage. The catalyst might have been drugs, or maybe he’d gotten involved with the wrong ki
nd of people. She was going to find out. However, she wasn’t the only one investigating this story.

  Whit said, “We’ll have to work fast if we want to get ahead of the police. I want you to write down everything you’ve told me on a timeline for the past three months. Dates, places, names. All his personal contacts, like his accountant, broker, physician, counselor, et cetera, and give me all your financial records for the past three months. I’ll also need access to his Facebook if you have it. Don’t assume I know anything. Also, think long and hard on his client list. Anyone who might be out to get him. Even coworkers, past employees, opposing attorneys.”

  Mrs. Delano nodded. “I’ll get started right away.”

  “I’ll need the information tomorrow.”

  She stopped short and smiled. “You don’t mess around, do you?”

  Whit smiled back. “I’m kind of all or nothing.”

  “Good. Let’s meet around eight o’clock tomorrow night at my place. I’ll try to have everything ready by then.”

  When they reached the parking lot, Mrs. Delano added, “I knew you were the right one. It’s the red hair.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  DETECTIVE TUCKER YANKED back the tarp.

  The nude body sprawled across the textured concrete like a twisted and broken shadow in the predawn light. In contrast, her pasty white face, turned toward the underwater lights, appeared ghoulish with her mouth hanging open, long dark hair trailing eerily in the water. But this was no shadowy specter—it was the cold dead body of someone Riggs knew.

  “The neighbor she jogs with found her this morning at five AM,” Tucker said. “Standing appointment, twice a week, unless one of them cancels. Ungodly hour for jogging, but hey, whatever floats your boat.” He snickered at his own off-color joke. “The woman said she found her floating at the shallow end against the suction intake. This is as far as she could pull her out. The vic was long dead and past any CPR, so the neighbor left her here and called nine-one-one. Drug OD maybe. Boozer for sure.”