The Elizabeth McClaine Thriller Boxed Set

by Catherine Lea

  “Why would I? I’m not her personal keeper.”

  Glassy was right, Nyla was playing games with her. “I thought she was a friend of yours.”

  Nyla shifted in her seat, clearly amused. “Lady, you don’t make friends in this shithole. You make allies, or you make enemies. That’s it. Nothing in between.”

  Elizabeth reined in her mounting irritation. “Nyla, I’m pretty sure you know what’ll happen when the police find her. If there’s anything you can tell me that could help Stacy, this is the time. Now, do you have anything for me or not?”

  Nyla rocked her head right back and studied the ceiling a moment. “Umm, maybe. Maybe not.”

  A bolt of anger flashed through Elizabeth. “Then, I’ll take that as a no,” she said, and stood up, picking up her briefcase. “If you have nothing to tell me, then I don’t have time to waste playing games. Goodbye.”

  But just as she turned for the door, Nyla called after her. “Hey, maybe you’re just not asking the right questions. Ever think of that?”

  Elizabeth hesitated. Was this another game? She turned a glare back on Nyla—one that said, I’m listening, but you’d better not be wasting my time. Then she spoke aloud. “So what happened between you?”

  “We’re talking three years here. Can you be a bit more specific?”

  Elizabeth raised her eyes to a point just above Nyla’s head. “Quit screwing around, Nyla. I lobby politicians for a living. You think I can’t play this game? I’d leave you for dead. Now, the fight you had with Stacy. You broke two of her ribs. Talk to me or I’m out of here.”

  A sly grin curled up one side of Nyla’s mouth. She looked off towards the windows, and slipped her hands in her pockets. After a long breath, she brushed something off the leg of her prison uniform. “It was nothing. Just prison shit, that’s all.”

  Elizabeth crossed to the table, and stabbed her finger onto the scratched surface, midway between them. “Nyla, I didn’t ask to see you, you asked to see me. I’m trying to help Stacy. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

  The other woman grinned, seemingly enjoying the moment. “Or what?”

  “Or you can go back to your cell and I’ll find someone that will help me. Last chance, because I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

  “Fine,” she said and leaned forward with her upper body across the table, arms folded, eyes fixed on Elizabeth. “When you find Stacy—and you will—tell her I said, Amy’s got what she had coming to her. Tell her that, word for word. Then watch the look on her face. I wish I could see it myself.”

  Elizabeth brushed herself off, as though that would rid her of the past ten minutes. “What a complete waste of time,” she told Trish as Nyla was escorted from the room.

  “I told you. She’s playing you. Kathy Reynolds has gone to get Cissy. Might take a while, her work detail ends in a half hour.” Trish dropped her voice and angled herself a little closer. “Watch her as well. She’s all sweetness and light. But she’s a whole different animal to Nyla. You gotta watch for the subtext.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take that into consideration,” Elizabeth said.

  When the radio on Trish’s left shoulder crackled into life, she excused herself and stepped aside to answer it. She snapped a few comments, then ended the connection with the flick of a switch.

  “Nancy Pattrenko, Stacy’s parole officer just called in. Looks like they’ve got a location for Stacy May Charms’ ankle bracelet.”

  Elizabeth rocked her head back, shoulders sinking in relief. “Oh, thank God. Where is she?”

  “The bracelet has been traced to within fifty or so feet of the corner of Walton and Cane Streets up near Cleveland Heights. The police have been notified and they’re on their way. I doubt they’ll find Stacy there, though. The guy tracking her said the device is registering that someone’s tampered with it, and the location is stationary.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning she’s removed it.”

  Elizabeth turned away from Officer Tomes, squeezed her eyes shut, and cursed under her breath.

  CHAPTER NINE

  DAY ONE: 5:45 PM—STACY

  Gayleen’s car was a heap of junk. The steering was heavier than Stacy remembered, and the driver’s seat suspension had given way under a succession of drivers’ rear ends over the years. Stacy had to sit up, back ramrod straight with her head lifted high just to see over the steering wheel. She drove slowly, sedately, down every back street she knew, until she located the rent-controlled apartment block where Curta Brixton lived and parked across the street.

  Again, she waited, checking the street before getting out. Parking right outside Curta’s probably wasn’t the smartest move. If time was on her side, she’d have parked further away and walked back. But every minute she wasted, the closer they’d get to Tyler. So she entered the Terrence Street lobby and went straight for the stairs, taking them two at a time until she reached the sixth floor, where Curta was last registered in the phone book. She exited the stairwell and walked quickly along the first hallway, checking over her shoulder every now and then while counting off apartments until she got to 6F.

  She paused, held her breath, and knocked.

  No response, so she knocked again, harder this time.

  “Hold your damn horses,” she heard Curta’s voice call from inside. “I only got one pair of feet.” At which point the lock clicked, the door opened, and Curta stood framed in the doorway with a waft of air smelling of freshly baked cookies rolling out around her. At almost sixty, she was still as wide in the girth as she’d been the previous year when Stacy last saw her, gray hair still a mass of coarse curls pinned back from her face with a clasp, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. She wore a cotton flowered dress to just past her knees, house slippers, a dish towel clutched in one hand. She peered out, face set in a scowl until realization hit her. Her eyes widened in surprise and she clapped a hand to her mouth. “Stacy May? That you under that hair, girl?”

  Stacy glanced around and whispered, “Yeah, it’s me, Curta. Can I come in?”

  “Oh, my Lord, it is you.” Curta grabbed Stacy in a bear hug, squeezing the breath out of her. When she released her, she took Stacy by the shoulders, holding her at arm’s length, looking her over. “What in heaven’s name are you doin’ here, girl? They let you out? Last I heard you was in some kind of program for early release. But what you doin’ here?” Then remembering herself, she glanced around, shoving Stacy past her through the door, then followed behind, saying, “Get inside, outta the hallway there. There’s all kinda lowlife in this here block. How nobody got killed yet, I don’t know.”

  After another quick check along the hallway, she closed the door and turned to Stacy, fists on her hips. “Now, lemme get a good look at you. You lost more weight. You been pumping that iron? I tol’ you, you ain’t never gonna wind up looking like Arnie. You gonna wind up all scrawny, with them veins all stickin’ out like you see in the magazines.”

  Stacy snatched the wig off and ran a hand through her hair. “Curta, I can’t stay long. I need some help.”

  Curta’s expression became serious. She took Stacy’s hand. “Come over here inta the kitchen and tell me what’s happened. I got some cookies in the oven and I don’t want them to burn. Sit down over there,” she said, pointing back to a tiny dining table with two chairs set on either side while she waddled across to the stove. Using the dish towel to open the oven door, she slid out a tray that she set on the stovetop. A wave of heat rolled out of the oven, filling the kitchen with the smell of cookies so delicious it made Stacy’s mouth water. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, hadn’t even thought about it until now.

  Tossing the dish towel on the countertop, Curta pulled out a chair, and sat facing Stacy, her cheek resting on the knuckles of one hand, face set in concern.

  “Now, what’s happened? What do you need?”

  Stacy hardly knew where to begin. She took a deep breath, eyes searching just above Curta’s head, then said
, “I got out on the program. You heard about that, right?”

  “It’s been in all the papers. My, oh my, you shoulda seen what some of them political reporters are saying about that Elizabeth McClaine. They’re saying she don’t have any right saying who gets released and who doesn’t, and asking what does she know about anything, anyway. Then there’s others thinks it’s a great program, helping young mothers get back with their kids again. Been seesawing like that for months now.”

  Stacy waved it away. “Doesn’t matter. The program’s gonna get shut down anyway. No one else’ll get out after this.”

  Curta sat back and folded her arms and frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “’Cause I ran. I broke parole, cut off my leg bracelet and ran.”

  The older woman’s mouth dropped open. She glanced around as if an explanation might come from elsewhere before pinning Stacy with a challenging glare. “Are you crazy? Why would you go and do a stupid thing like that for?”

  “It’s a long story, and even if it was short, I can’t tell you. You know Amy died.”

  “Yep. Heard about that, too. I’m sorry. I thought she was doing good.”

  Stacy leaned forward, met Curta’s gaze, dropped her voice. “She was doing good. She was murdered.”

  “I heard she overdosed. That’s what they said.”

  Stacy shook her head. “Amy was clean. She promised me she wouldn’t go back to drugs. And she wouldn’t have. She found something. And I think she was murdered because of it.”

  The skepticism was clear on Curta’s face. “You know who?”

  “Nope. But it’ll be the same person who gave me this.” Stacy reached down the front of her sweater, pulled out the photograph of Tyler and handed it to Curta.

  Curta picked up a pair of green plastic-rimmed eyeglasses and slipped them on, adjusting the angle of them before lifting the photograph to study it through narrowed eyes. After some moments, Curta flipped the photograph to read the scrawled words on the back. When her eyes lifted, her disgust was clear. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Curta handed the photograph back, then removed her eyeglasses, folding them and placing them back on the table. “He is such a sweet boy. Looks like you all the way down to his toes and back. You know who took the picture?”

  “Nope. It wasn’t the one who left it for me. It’s someone on the outside.”

  “So there’s two of them?”

  “Has to be. This means if I ever open my mouth or get out from where they can keep an eye on me, I’d never see Tyler alive again. They gave me this to prove they know where he is and that they can get to him.”

  The older woman leaned back hard, placing both hands to her face and dragging them down her cheeks before folding her arms across her broad chest, regarding Stacy with concern. “So why didn’t you tell someone? Why didn’t you go to the warden, tell her what you knew?”

  Stacy gazed at the photograph, feeling a physical pain cut through right from her chest to her throat, pin pricks threatening to draw tears in the corners of her eyes. She tucked the photograph down into her bra again.

  “I did. I went to Glassy straight after Amy died. I told her Amy wouldn’t do drugs. I told her she’d spent so much time trying to get off them, it’s the last thing she’d do. But she said she’d done an investigation and the evidence was all there. She said Amy must have gotten hold of some of the drugs and overdosed.”

  “Was there any drugs?”

  “Oh, yes. They found a spent syringe in Amy’s bed. But she wouldn’t have done that. I know she wouldn’t.”

  Curta leaned forward and gently placed a hand over Stacy’s. “You sure? Wasn’t the first time that girl got clean. She had the devil inside her. You put drugs in front of her, she’d have stomped her own mother to death to get to them. That’s how it takes a hold. Addicts ain’t the same people they was before they started using.”

  Stacy was shaking her head. “I don’t believe that. She wouldn’t have. She was murdered.”

  “Did they find any other drugs in the place?”

  “Yep.” She met Curta’s gaze, and said, “There was a stash in the clinic, in Lois Hankerman’s locker.”

  Curta’s mouth dropped open in a gasp. “Lois Hankerman? Why in sweet Jesus’s name would Lois do a thing like that?”

  “She didn’t. She was set up.”

  “So what are you gonna do now?”

  Stacy lifted both shoulders and dropped them. “Find Tyler. Run. What else can I do? I don’t know what I’m up against. I don’t even know who’s coming after us. Could be anyone.”

  “What about that Mrs. McClaine? Can’t she help?”

  Stacy made a dismissive face. “Like I said, I don’t know who I can trust. Maybe she knows all about it. And if she doesn’t and she finds out, she’ll go asking around, and maybe she’ll be the next one down in the morgue with a tag on her toe.”

  “So what you gonna do? Soon as you show your face, they’re gonna throw you straight back in the can, no questions asked. Maybe if you tell me what happened, I can go and tell the police, explain it like you did right now.”

  “I can’t ask you to get involved. And seriously, do you think they’re gonna listen to you? No offense, Curta.”

  “Where you gonna go next then? I’m assuming you got a car.” Curta angled her head, eyes narrowed on her. “You do have a car, don’t you?”

  A hesitation while Stacy looked away. “Not exactly. I borrowed my mom’s.”

  Curta drew her head back, chin down and mouth puckered in silent reprimand. “And by borrowed, I’m thinkin’ she don’t exactly know.”

  Stacy winced. “I’m thinking she does by now.”

  “Then knowin’ your mama, so will the police.”

  Curta twisted her mouth while she considered the situation. Then she heaved herself to her feet and crossed to the dresser where she fished through the contents of a glass bowl before returning and placing a key on the table. “Then you’re gonna need this.”

  “What’s this for?”

  Curta pushed the key toward her and sat down again. “My car. It’s old, but you can use it till you get yourself organized. It’s a blue Toyota, the license plate number’s printed out there on the tag.”

  The key lay on the table between them. Stacy pushed it back. “Don’t be stupid. I can’t take your car.”

  “Don’t you start arguing with me, girl. You take it. I ain’t taking no for an answer.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me? I hate driving the thing. I take the bus everywhere. Do the car good to have a run.” She leaned forward, expression serious. “Now you take it, y’hear?”

  Stacy picked up the key and put it in her pocket. “Thank you.”

  Curta reached across, laid her hand over Stacy’s. “I wish you’d let me help you. There must be something—”

  “Please don’t ask. I can’t let you do anything else. I shouldn’t have even come here, except I need you to do something for me.”

  “Name it.”

  Stacy took out the scrap of paper where she’d noted the phone number for Janice Lettes and handed it to Curta. “Call her. Ask her where Wayne’s living now. Make something up, like he’s won a prize or something.”

  “So who’s this?”

  “Wayne’s mother. If I call, she’ll slam the phone down or call the police or something. If you call, she won’t recognize your voice. Just ask where you can find Mr. Wayne Lettes. Better still, tell her you’ve got a parcel for him, and you need to redirect it from his old address,” she said and wrote the last address she had for Wayne on the note.

  While Curta made the call, Stacy went to the window, tweaked back the lace curtain, and looked out. Down in the street, it looked all the same as usual, no cops, no sign of anything amiss. Just business as usual. Maybe they hadn’t thought to look here. Maybe they were still searching the gully where she tossed the bracelet from the car and her luck was holding out.


  Curta put the phone down, and Stacy turned to her. “What’d she say?”

  “I told her I was from the mail department. I hid my number like they showed me when I got the phone, and she said he lives down in Rainbow Drive. Here’s the number.” She gave it to Stacy. “So what’s Wayne going to do? Last you told me, he was a good-for-nothing waste of space.”

  “I need him to locate Tyler. It’s the only way I’ll find him. And thank you.”

  Stacy folded the notepaper and stuck it in her pocket.

  “You’re leaving already?”

  She nodded. “I have to. If the cops turn up, you haven’t seen me.”

  “Wait up a second. You’re gonna need these.” Curta went back to the kitchen and returned with a brown paper bag of cookies.

  “Thank you. I mean it.”

  Curta’s face began to crumple. She rubbed the heels of both palms into her eyes and said, “You need a bed, you need anything at all, you come back here, okay?”

  “I can’t ask you to do anything else. You’ve done too much already.”

  “Anything I do for you, girl, is cause I want to. I never got a chance to thank you for what you done for me in Carringway.”

  Stacy met her gaze with an annoyed frown.

  Curta held up both hands in surrender. “Now, don’t look at me like that. Blame Nyla Guthrie. She told me what you did, keeping Cissy off my back with all her poisonous stories. Then getting Nyla to stick up for me when I was down. I swear, there was days I could see the very bottom of that pit. I wouldn’t’a survived another minute in that place if it wasn’t for you.”

  A tense silence spooled out. “Nyla should have kept her big mouth shut.”

  Curta lifted her head, unrepentant. “She told me the day I got out, and I’m glad she did. She said I owed you big time. I already knew that.”