I can only imagine. "Do tell. Please.”
“I got to him the same way I did you.”
“By being an unrelenting pest?”
“Ha. Funny, Rose. But no. Turns out, the officer likes cupcakes that are only available on the East Coast. I have a friend in Delaware.” She shrugs. “I traded cupcakes for Sanchez’s number.”
I do love a resourceful young woman. No wonder the ladyfingers worked on me. She’d already tested bribery-with-food on the officer who gave her Detective Sanchez’s contact information.
"Was he willing to speak to you?" I ask.
"Yes. But since he didn't know me, he wasn't all that forthcoming. Maybe with you here—and the case being so old—he’ll help."
We reach the front door and I hold my hand out to Rae, giving her the go-ahead to ring the doorbell. Two minutes later, the door opens and Gabriel Sanchez stands there. His once jet-black hair has thinned considerably and what's left of it is more salt than pepper. In his younger years, he'd been handsome in a chiseled cheekbones and lean athletic build way. Now, in what I assume must be his early sixties, his body has filled out and his cheeks followed.
This older version of him drives home how long it's been and all I can think about is those poor souls who died in that inferno with no justice.
Someone has to pay. Finally. And, I guess I’m going all-in on the task.
He studies me for a long moment, his gaze fixed on my face, and I imagine he too is tumbling back in time, trying to place me.
"Hello, Detective Sanchez," Rae says.
She’s more than ready to bulldoze her way in and extends her hand. Detective Sanchez tears his gaze from me.
"I'm RaeLynn Demming. We spoke on the phone a couple of months back regarding the Grande."
He stares at her and she drops her hand, giving him a few seconds to let her words register.
He shakes his head. "How did you find me?"
"I searched the Internet,” Rae says. “I did some detective work of my own and here I”—she gestures to me—"we are. You remember Mrs. Rose Trudeau."
He faces me again, his eyes widening. "It is you. I thought…My God."
I nod. "It's me. How are you, Detective?”
He steps back, holding his hand out. "Forgive me. Please come in. I'll get you something to drink."
My wily cohort’s plan to use me seems to be working splendidly. We step inside and immediately land in a sunken living room that’s neat and…functional. Sofa, love seat, television, and a framed print of a racehorse hanging on the wall. It’s either a bachelor pad or his wife enjoys a utilitarian look.
The living room adjoins a dining room and kitchen just beyond, leaving the entire area open. Perfect for entertaining a larger group. The bedrooms must be at the back end of the house.
"Please sit,” he says, gesturing to the sofa. “Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
We both shake our heads. I’ve already had two espressos and fear additional caffeine will do more harm than good. I need to focus and being hyped up makes me twitchy.
Detective Sanchez settles into the love seat on the other side of a battered oak coffee table. I glance at Rae and she nods, obviously urging me to start the conversation. She’s already mentioned that the good detective wasn't forthcoming, so my taking the lead might be the best course. I swing my gaze to Sanchez and wait for him to make eye contact. “I know this visit must come as a shock. Believe me, I understand. This is the first time I've been back to the island since the fire.”
“It’s changed.”
“It has, indeed. It’s still lovely, though.” I do my best to smile. “I’m reminded why I cherished my time here. At least until—”
My mind snaps back to the burning Grande and the angry, spitting flames pouring from the windows. All those people. Gayle. I can’t go there. Or maybe I should. Maybe Sanchez needs to see the pain. I don’t know.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Tragic.”
I clear my throat, lifting my chin. “It is. Which is why we’re here. I was hoping you might be able to share any new developments. If there are any."
He shoots his gaze to Rae. “You're a reporter, you said.”
"I am. This is a freelance story. Not for any one publication. Mrs. Trudeau is the focus. She thought it would help if we came back to the island.” Rae rolls her hand. "You know, for background."
"It's been many years," Sanchez says. "I've been retired nearly ten now."
He’s waffling. Ready to tell me, no matter how devastating it might be, that he can’t—won’t—help. Apparently, he’s forgotten how persistent I can be.
"Yes," I say. "But I remember how passionate you were about the case back then. How determined to see it through and get justice. I imagine, with so many lost souls, the case stayed with you."
"Some cases haunt. It was so long ago, most of us have retired. The others have passed on."
Beside me, Rae leans in. “You've left the force. There is nothing keeping you from sharing what you remember. Or at least giving an opinion. We’re all entitled to opinions, aren’t we?”
The corner of his mouth quirks. There’s something about Rae that’s adorable when she’s being pushy. Maybe it’s her innocent, heart-shaped face or her big brown eyes. She may look like a wholesome co-ed, but she’s a lioness underneath. Poor Sanchez. He’s toast.
“Officially,” he says, “it's still an open case. No one has ever been charged."
"But you have your suspicions. I have pages and pages of research regarding the union members potentially starting that fire."
He nods. "That was one lead."
"There were others?"
By now, I half expected her to drag out that notebook she tucked in her messenger bag, but she remains still. A wise move, considering the detective’s apprehension. He’s gone silent again, but his eyes dart between Rae and me. The quiet lingers, charging the air with an awkwardness that hangs heavy.
After spending so many years in Hollywood, I find that awkward is nothing new. Awkward, to me, is practically a first cousin and when it comes to cousins, I don’t flinch.
I want answers.
And I think Sanchez has them.
"Detective Sanchez," Rae says, her voice firm, "it's been thirty years. The victims deserve their justice. And Mrs. Trudeau deserves the truth. Don’t you agree?”
RaeLynn should move to Hollywood. With all that drama she’s spewing, she’d fit right in.
A telephone rings from the other room and the detective, clearly relieved, leaps from his seat. "Excuse me."
He moves toward the kitchen with a slight limp I hadn't noticed earlier. Makes me wonder if it's an injury or possibly a knee replacement. Maybe that's what drove him from the force. I can't be sure. What I am sure of is that Detective Sanchez isn't exactly a chatterbox when it comes to the Grande. Certain things never change.
I swing my head to Rae. "You've heard the old saying about beating a dead horse?"
"I have."
"Good. Because that's what we’re doing here. Our horse has been dead thirty years.”
"Funny," she says, her chocolate eyes sparking with mischief, "that's what my editor told me about you."
At this, I have to smile. She's a persistent little bugger. The very fact that I'm sitting here with her is proof of it.
“Ha!” I say. "Then, by all means, do your best."
19
Rae
* * *
Now that I have Ms. Negativity beside me somewhat on board, I peer down the hallway where Detective Sanchez disappeared. Obviously, he knows more than he's willing to share. Once a cop, always a cop. The lifers, for me, were always the toughest to break. Too many years on a job where sharing details could derail a case.
Not a problem. I’ll work around it by dropping a convenient little phrase: unnamed source. Charlie Carter was brought down that way.
Then again, that hasn’t turned out so well for me personally. Somehow, doing a good job got me exiled
. I still can’t wrap my mind around that. Not that I expected a Pulitzer, but hard work—and excellent reporting—shouldn’t make me a leper. If I’d worked for one of the bigger metros, I’d be a superstar.
Sanchez appears in the hallway again, but instead of returning to us, he hooks a left heading to the rear of the house. I take this moment to give Rose my plan.
"Roll with me,” I whisper. “I'm not leaving until he tells us something."
She smiles at me, but it’s not one of those you-go-girl smiles. This is more of a yeah-good-luck-with-that one.
Whatever.
I'm not about to give up on this guy and I think she likes that about me. Well, she likes it when I'm not using my aggressive tactics on her.
"Poor man," she says, sarcasm scoring a solid ten. "He has no idea what he's in for."
Sanchez reemerges from the rear of the house with a letter-sized bankers box in hand. I cut my gaze to Rose and raise my eyebrows. I don't know what's in that box and it may not have anything to do with us, but a burst of excitement makes my fingers tingle.
He sets the box on the coffee table between us and it takes everything I have not to whip the lid off. "I apologize for the disruption.”
“No problem.” I point to the box. “What's this?"
"Notes. From the Grande fire."
Someone give me a towel because I may be drooling. Instinctively I raise my hand and swipe it over my chin because holy, holy cow. “You smuggled these out?"
"No. I wouldn't jeopardize the investigation. But some cases never leave me. I have three. Two murders and the fire. I worked from home a lot. The quiet helped me focus.” He taps the box. “These are copies of my personal notes about witness statements, talks with other detectives, evidence. You can't take it, but I’ll give you an hour to look and ask me any questions."
Yes! When we get back to the hotel, I’m giving Rose a giant high-five. Without her, I’m convinced, this wouldn’t be happening. Damned near giddy, I meet Sanchez’s eye. “This is great. I'll keep it confidential. I promise."
Beside me, Rose scoots to the edge of the sofa. “Thank you. I’m sure this has to be difficult for you."
"What's difficult is remembering all those people dying."
20
Rae
* * *
An hour later, Rose and I are still at Sanchez’s dining room table, the two of us rifling through stacks and stacks of paper. We've developed a system: I unload the box, scan the material, and pass her anything I determine is safe. Meaning nothing too emotionally devastating.
This system is mine and Rose may or may not be aware of it. Figuring I didn't need to clue her in, I started handing her things to read. She's not dumb, though, and more than likely figured it out.
While she’s busy studying three pages of notes about a witness interview, I reach into the box for a fresh stack. What comes out are a few yellow legal sheets, a typed report, a mishmash of paper scraps with scrawled notes and a 5 x 10 headshot of a clean-cut man in a suit. His hair is short and trimmed with military precision. He’s wearing a sparkling white dress shirt and blue tie and both are pristine.
I hold the photo up, drawing Detective Sanchez's attention. "Who's this?"
Sanchez slides his gaze to Rose and immediately ping-pongs back to me. What was that about? Could Rose know this man? She looks up, studies the photo, then slowly shakes her head.
"Secret Service agent," Sanchez says. "He was in the management office behind the casino. Died in the fire."
Whoa. A Secret Service agent. This is a juicy tidbit I'd never heard before. "What was he doing there?"
He does that shifty-eyed thing with Rose again and something jabs against the base of my skull. What the heck is going on? Rose just said she didn’t know him and I haven’t pegged her as a liar. But something is…weird.
"Detective," Rose says in her Haughty Rose voice. “You can continue to give me the eye all you’d like, but I assure you, whoever this man is I didn’t know him. Please, feel free to talk openly. You won't send me into hysterics."
Haughty Rose. Had to love her.
Sanchez clears his throat. “Yes, ma’am. We, meaning local police, didn't know he was here. They were after a counterfeiter."
Oh, my Spidey sense is raging now.
"He was here from DC?" I ask.
Interesting. In college, I'd taken a course in Government Studies. In one class, we discussed the Treasury Department and the fact that the Secret Service investigated counterfeiting crimes.
"Yes. He'd been here just over a week."
"Do you know who the counterfeiter was?"
Again, Sanchez sweeps a gaze at Rose and comes back to me. The whole thing is starting to creep me out. Not necessarily a bad thing. "Detective, what does the Secret Service agent have to do with Mrs. Trudeau?"
Rose's head snaps back and she gawks at me. "I just said I don't know him."
"I know what you said, but Detective Sanchez keeps looking over at you. It doesn't take a genius to figure out he knows something and he may not be comfortable sharing it in front of you."
For a quick second, she pinches her lips together. She’s not too happy with me.
She drops the notes she’s been reading and folds her hands on the table. “All right. Let's take care of this right now. Detective Sanchez, I've come all the way down here to find out what happened in that hotel. I appreciate your wanting to shield me from whatever information you think will wound my delicate nature, but trust me, I can take it. Now spit it out."
Sanchez wags a finger at the box. "There are reports in there. After the fire, the Secret Service provided us with certain information that might help our investigation. A joint task force, if you will. The agent was investigating counterfeit money streaming through the island. Mr. Lisbon—the Secret Service agent—died before the investigation was complete. We know from notes provided by his superiors that he'd questioned George Hopper and…others."
Dammit. That’s just dirty. Leading me on like that. “What others?"
"Employees from the business office and anyone in contact with money from the casino."
The business office. I tick back to my conversation with Rose’s son. Wait. “Rose, didn't Jeremy work in the business office?"
Her lips are pinched again and now she’s sitting straight up, shoulders pinned back. “He did."
"Did he ever mention this to you?"
She meets my gaze and cocks an eyebrow. “Never."
The word spills out of her mouth like acid and I’m suddenly clenching my butt cheeks. Being the coward that I am, I turn to Sanchez. Save me. Please.
"He was questioned," the detective says.
"I'm sorry.” Rose’s voice is an icy stab. “You must be mistaken. Perhaps you confused him with someone else. His father was an attorney, for goodness’ sakes. If he'd been questioned by a Secret Service agent, Simon would have known."
“He was questioned by the Secret Service and, after the fire, the La Paradisio police. Your husband did know. He was present.”
21
Rose
* * *
The words hit me like an ax splitting wood. Only this time, it’s my head and my temples throb accordingly.
Detective Sanchez has just told me that my husband, the absolute love of my life and the man who'd promised to never—ever—keep secrets from me, did so.
For nearly thirty years.
Preposterous.
My Simon wouldn’t lie to me. He wouldn’t. I lift my chin and stare down my nose at the detective. “You must be mistaken. Simon would have told me. Perhaps it was someone else in the meeting.”
Sanchez does the one thing I despise. He tilts his head and his eyes soften into what I call the pity stare. I’ve seen it a lot this past year from well-intentioned people trying to ease my grief, but somehow managing to insult me by making me feel…weak. Vulnerable. As if being Simon Trudeau’s wife is all I’ve amounted to.
That, I won’t tolerate. Not when
I helped make his career what it was.
Sanchez points at the box. “The notes are in there. The interviews were all recorded, but the tapes are in evidence. I don’t have those.”
Before he even finishes speaking, Rae is on her feet, rifling through the remaining contents of the box.
"I'll find it. Give me a sec."
The only sound is the crinkle of paper and the thud of something hitting the inside of the cardboard. If there is a God in heaven, Rae won't find whatever these notes are and Detective Sanchez will have to admit he was mistaken. That his memory failed him.
Simon would never have kept something like our son being questioned from me. Not after how hard I’d worked to win Jeremy over. From the start, I’d treated him as my own, rallying for him with dogged determination when teachers or coaches wronged him.
Let’s not forget those times when he was the one needing to be set straight. I handled that, too. Simon’s absentee-father guilt prevented him from being an effective disciplinarian while Jeremy’s own mother lacked the fortitude—and desire—to say no.
Why would she deny him when it was easier to give in?
One of us had to teach the boy that life wasn’t a free ride. That was me. Always.
Rae lifts a half-inch stack of computer paper from the box and a stinging sensation shoots up my arms. No. Please no.
She skims the first page, rolls her lower lip out, then moves to page two. Flip, flip, flip. Over and over and over, she performs the same routine, occasionally jutting that lip out and leaving me to wonder what exactly she’s found.
Simon, what have you done to me?
Finally, she meets my gaze. Our eyes lock and the longer I sit here, the thicker the air grows. I open my mouth to speak, but the words are trapped, stuck just below my throat.
I lift my hand and snap off a give-it-to-me gesture while I keep my damned chin up and try to pretend my life isn’t falling apart.
Again.
Into the Fire Page 9