Smoke and Mirrors (Sloane Monroe Book 8)

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “We know the car is black, vintage, and in perfect condition. Tommy said the car was shiny enough for him to see his reflection when he was standing outside of it, and that the trunk smelled like vanilla and honey.”

  “How long did they drive for?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t know. He was too freaked out. He tried counting while he was in the trunk to figure out how much time had passed, but he was so shaken up, he had to keep restarting.”

  “So the guy could have taken him anywhere,” I said.

  “I’m just telling you both what we know so far.”

  “Was the guy wearing a disguise?” I asked.

  Charlie shook his head. “Hard to believe, but the guy didn’t mask his face or anything. You would think this would be a major break in the case. But the hard thing is Tommy hasn’t been great on a lot of details.”

  “What happened when they arrived where they were going?” James asked.

  “Once Tommy heard the guy kill the engine on the car, he had a moment of bravery. The guy opened the trunk, and Tommy started kicking him. The guy got verbally aggressive and shut the trunk, leaving Tommy to wait it out. He returned to the car several minutes later, told Tommy to get out of the car, and they walked into the house together. He put Tommy in one of the bedrooms, locked him in, and said he’d be back.”

  “Did Tommy say anything about what the house looked like? Did he recognize the area they were in?”

  “The house was surrounded by rainforest on all sides. It was a single level and made of wood paneling of some kind. There was a greenhouse off to one side with a bunch of stuff growing in it, and off to the other side was a two-car garage. It was open, and another car was parked there. It was red, small, and round in shape, similar to a Toyota Prius. It looked new.”

  “What did Tommy say about the inside of the house?” I asked.

  “It was clean. Everything was in its place. Minimal furniture, neutral colors. A record player was playing opera music in the background. While Tommy was in the room, he heard the guy talking to someone in the kitchen, but he was too far away to hear the actual conversation.”

  “Could he tell whether it was a man or a woman?”

  Charlie shook his head.

  “What did the guy who took him look like?” I asked.

  “Tommy is sure they are the same height because he said he could look right into the guy’s eyes when he stood in front of him. He described the guy as ‘old,’ but when police asked how old, Tommy said ‘about as old as you.’ The cop he was talking to is forty-nine. We know the guy has salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes, but Tommy didn’t notice any distinguishing features that set him apart from anyone else. He said he looked like every other guy that age.”

  I shook my head. The lack of details was frustrating, but at the same time, it was better than anything we knew so far.

  “What was the man wearing?” I asked.

  “All black. Tommy said he looked like he was dressed to work in an office, but not as a worker—more like as a manager or someone in charge.”

  “So we’re looking for a murderer who’s clean-cut and professional-looking,” I said. “His taste in music, the fish dish he made, and the Shakespeare references tell me he’s clever, and most likely has above-average intelligence, or he perceives himself as someone who is intelligent and enjoys the finer things in life. He’s efficient at using a knife, so I’d guess he either works in the medical field now or in the past or has some kind of medical training, which may even be self-taught, but I’d lean toward actual classes ... a skill set he’s picked up from somewhere.”

  Charlie stared at me for a moment. “There is one other thing I need to mention.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “The kidnapper asked about you, Sloane. He wanted to know all about you.”

  It didn’t come as a shock to me at all.

  “What about me?”

  “He was most interested in why you’re here and what you were doing at Tommy’s house.”

  “And did Tommy tell him?”

  “He did, which means you need to be even more careful. There’s a good chance he’ll come after you again.”

  And this time, he wouldn’t be generous enough to let me go. I didn’t fit his moral sense of murder before. Now, I probably did, and he’d have come up with a justified reason to kill me—self-preservation, the most basic of human instincts, the very reason we survive.

  “I expected this to happen,” I said. “Was anything else discussed between them?”

  “The kidnapper’s main interest in taking Tommy was to find out what really happened the night he killed Caroline and why he had been blamed for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  “Why is this guy so fixated on this?” James asked.

  “If his murders are predicated on the moral high ground he’s set for himself,” I said, “he may see what he’s doing as ethical, just, and good. What happened to Hugh isn’t something he sanctioned.”

  “Hugh wasn’t a great person, though,” Charlie said.

  “The killer might not know that.”

  “So, in the end, after Tommy gave the guy all the information he had, the killer just let him go?” James asked.

  “He flipped a coin and told him one side he lived, the other he died.”

  James shook his head. “The guy’s crazy. He’s absolutely crazy.”

  “He stuck to his word, though,” I said.

  “Tommy won the coin toss,” Charlie said. “Afterward the man gave him a sandwich, put him back in the trunk, and drove him to the city. He took him to the same spot where you two were found, waited until it was quiet, tied him up, staged the scene, and told Tommy to count to fifty. When he got to fifty, he could scream, but if he screamed too early, the man promised he’d come back and end his life for good. Tommy counted to one hundred just to be safe. He was found, and now we’re here.”

  I stood in the doorway, watching James bend down next to Grace’s bed. He smoothed a hand across her cheek, and her eyes fluttered open. She threw her arms around him and smiled.

  “You’ve been gone a long time,” she said, “like forever and ever.”

  “I know,” James said. “I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?”

  She looked around him at me and said, “I liked the hamburger you brought me.”

  “I’m glad,” I said.

  She pointed at the sack in my hand. “What’s in the bag? Another burger?”

  “It will be an ice-cream sundae once you put it together.”

  Her eyes widened. “For breakfast?”

  I nodded. “Your uncle said it was okay.”

  She threw her blanket to the side and hopped out of bed. “Okay, let’s make them. Let’s make them right now!”

  The three of us walked to the kitchen, and I spread the topping options on the counter. Grace chose what she wanted and moved them to one side.

  “Do you want to make it, or do you want me to?” I asked.

  “You can do it,” she said. “You’re having one too, right?”

  “Not right now,” I said. “Maybe later.”

  She looked me up and down. “Oh, come on. We didn’t get to eat the burgers together. And ... uhh ... you’re too skinny. Are you eating?”

  Not enough. Since I’d arrived, I’d probably lost five, maybe ten pounds. Some people ate to feel better when dealing with stress. I fasted. Not because I wanted to, but because my stomach tended to reject food when it was in knots.

  I stared at her, realizing it didn’t matter what I wanted or didn’t want right now or that food didn’t sound appetizing. The only thing that mattered right now was her.

  “You’re right, I do need it,” I said. “How about I make yours and you make mine? Put in whatever you like, just don’t make it too big, okay?”

  She nodded and opened the lid to the ice cream. “What’s the catch?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never been allowed to have dessert for brea
kfast before, not even on my birthday.”

  “Well, you do today.”

  I glanced outside. James and Noel were talking on the back patio, talking. James was coming clean about everything he hadn’t told his father. While I made Grace’s sundae, I’d stolen a few glances outside. James looked apologetic and sheepish, unlike the person he had been before his life melted down. Noel looked like he needed an air vent in his head so he could let the steam out. James talked, and Noel threw his hands in the air, shouting at James and scolding him.

  Grace ignored it at first, and then when she’d had enough, she hopped off her chair and walked to the sliding glass door. She pulled it open and said, “Stop it. Stop fighting. You can’t be angry when you eat ice cream. Ice cream is for happy people, and if you can’t be happy, you can’t have any. Got it?”

  James and Noel looked at each other, and their debate stopped. They walked into the house, but the tension that remained between them was thick, clinging to the air like a dense fog that refused to be lifted. And yet, in her best interest, they’d agreed to an unspoken truce. The harsh words could wait for now. Grace quickly whipped up two more sundaes for the boys.

  We sat at the counter and dove into the ice cream, and for a moment James, Noel, and Grace seemed to put away their cares and remember what life was like when it was simple, at a time when Caroline was still alive and they were an entire family again.

  When the bowls were empty, James looked at the time and sighed. Grace was due at the police station in less than an hour. If he was going to prep her for what was to come, it had to be now.

  “Well, that was good,” Grace said. “What should we do next? Can we go to the trampoline place?”

  James looked at Grace and smiled. “Do you remember the talk we had about Hugh?”

  At the mention of Hugh’s name, Grace shoved her hands in between her legs. “Uhh ... which one?”

  “The one where I told you not to talk to anyone else about what really happened.”

  She looked at me and then at Noel. “But ... I thought you said ...”

  “It’s okay, Grace,” James said. “They both know.”

  Grace bowed her head. “Oh.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you not to talk about it to anyone,” he said. “I was wrong.”

  She shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  “No, sweetie, it isn’t. It’s better to talk things out, and it’s better to tell the truth.”

  She stared into her empty bowl. “Oh ... kay.”

  “We all care about you. Sloane and Grandpa want to help as much as I do.”

  Grace looked at Noel. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”

  He grabbed her hand, rubbing the outside with his fingers. “Of course I’m not mad, darlin’. I could never be mad at such a brave girl. I know what happened the night your mum died is hard. No matter what, I’ll always be proud of you.”

  “No, you won’t. I saw you outside. What I did was wrong, and you know it.”

  “I wasn’t mad at you. I was mad at your uncle for not telling me before now. It’s never good to hold a lie inside.”

  “It can be, sometimes,” she said.

  “Not this time.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sometimes we want to protect the person we care about because we love them. I did that once when your grandma was still alive.”

  “You lied to Grandma?”

  Noel nodded.

  “Did she ever find out?” Grace asked.

  “She did. When she realized I’d been keeping something from her, it hurt her more than if I would have just told her the truth in the first place. You understand what I’m trying to say, don’t you?”

  She gave a slight nod, and I tensed, knowing what was coming next.

  “Is there anything you have lied about that you want to confess?” Noel asked. “It doesn’t matter what it is. We won’t be mad. We’re all here to protect you.”

  Grace let go of Noel’s hand and began rocking back and forth. “I ... I guess so. There is one thing.”

  “Will you tell us what it is?” Noel asked.

  “I ... guess I could tell you. It’s about Tommy.”

  “What about Tommy?”

  This was it. The moment she revealed what she hadn’t been able to say before. The moment she released herself from the burden she’d been carrying over the past few weeks, so she could begin healing.

  “Tommy used to come to my room at night after Mum went to bed,” she said. “It was only because she said he couldn’t come over. He missed me, and I missed him. I know it was wrong, but I like him so much. Please don’t be mad.”

  It wasn’t the confession we’d hoped for.

  “And?” Noel asked. “Is there anything else?”

  “He slept next to me in bed. He just wanted to make sure I was all right. And Mum wouldn’t let me see him, and I know it was wrong, and now she’s dead, and she can never forgive me for what I did.”

  “Tommy’s a good person,” Noel said. “Your mum knew it too.”

  “How do you know she did?”

  “She told me. She was just worried about you because you’re growing up so fast, and she wasn’t ready. She was going to let you start seeing him again.”

  Grace’s eyes widened. “She was?”

  Noel nodded. “I appreciate your honesty. Is there anything else you haven’t told us?”

  She raised a brow, looking at Noel, and then James, and then me. “Uhh ... nope. Do you guys have anything to tell me?”

  Even now, she remained steadfast as Tommy’s protector.

  “Grace,” James said. “Did Tommy push Hugh down the stairs?”

  “I already told you. I did it. Why would you say that?”

  James paused, and I could tell he was trying to decide how to word his next statement. He started with, “I don’t want you to worry about what I’m going to say.”

  “I am worried because you told me not to worry, which makes me worried.”

  “This morning, Tommy told the police he was at the house the night your mum died. He said he pushed Hugh, not you.”

  Grace’s face went still, like she’d just been paralyzed.

  “Did you just hear what I said?” James asked.

  No response. No movement. She didn’t even blink.

  James placed a hand on Grace’s shoulder. “Grace, did you hear me? Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Where is Tommy?” she asked. “Where is he right now? I need to talk to him.”

  “He’s with the police, I believe. I can call and find out.”

  When James didn’t take his cell phone out fast enough, Grace huffed in frustration.

  “Why aren’t you calling yet?” she asked. “Hurry up.”

  James grabbed his phone. “I’ll do it right now, all right?”

  He left the room and returned a minute later.

  “Well?” Grace asked.

  “He’s still at the police station.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They can’t just let him go.”

  “Yes, they can, because Tommy’s wrong. He didn’t do it. I did.”

  “Grace,” James said, “I know how much you care about Tommy. But you don’t need to protect him anymore.”

  “I’m not protecting anyone!” she yelled. “I don’t want him to be locked up with bad people who do bad things. He’s not bad. I don’t want him to go to jail.”

  “And I don’t want you to go to jail.”

  “I don’t care what you want anymore. I don’t care about any of it. I want to talk to the police. I want to talk to them now.”

  “We will, but first I think we should—”

  “No, Uncle James. I want to talk to the police ... right ... now.”

  She stepped off the stool, grabbed a long, black cardigan sweater off the back of the chair, and wrapped it around her nightgown. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  “Now just a minute. Grace,” James said. “You need to get rea
dy, and we haven’t finished talking about this. There’s more I need to—”

  “I’m ready, and I’m done talking.”

  She walked outside, slamming the door behind her, and for a moment, the three of us sat in silence, stunned at what just happened and realizing we no longer knew what to believe anymore.

  While James and Noel accompanied Grace to the police station, I hung back and watched the surveillance video James had taken from Caroline’s house on the night she died. James was right. The video showed a terror-stricken Grace running out of the house with bloodstained hands, but even after rewinding, pausing, and watching it again and again, I never saw even the slightest hint of the killer or of Tommy.

  I grabbed the book on hypnotic regression, searched the internet for Dean Eugene Palmer, and found his website. He was in his sixties and lived in Sydney with his wife and their five dogs. I sent him a brief email, mentioned Caroline’s murder, and gave him my number, asking if it was possible to speak by phone.

  Next I searched the name Evan Hall, the boy whose obituary I’d found inside Caroline’s jewelry stand. It took some digging, but I located the names and addresses of his parents. According to the internet, they owned two homes, were still married, and were in their early seventies. I jotted down both addresses and tried to wake myself up with a cup of coffee—on a day like this, there was no chance tea would come close to cutting it.

  Then I hit the road.

  The first address took me to a building of condominiums. I found the right one and knocked, but it seemed no one was home. The second residence was a much farther drive. About forty-five minutes later, I arrived to find a modest, older house with a roof that looked like it leaked when it rained and a car in the driveway that may have still been running but was made of spare parts. One of the tires was even a different size than the others. Even though there were many visual imperfections, the deck on the side of the house was perfectly clean and lined with a stunning array of tropical plants and flowers. There was a bright, striped hammock on one end and a wicker seating area on the other, which offered impeccable views of the rainforest.

  The front door opened, and a sizable woman stepped out. She had a pleasant face, rosy cheeks, and a smile that warmed my insides.