“She did not say that.”
“Hmph.”
“Did she?”
With a click of JB’s finger, Jimmy Durante cut in halfway through “Frosty The Snowman.” “Always thought this was a sad one. I mean, did the damn snowman really have to say goodbye? Couldn’t the kids have put him in a walk-in fridge or something?”
“So, what did Olivia say about me?”
JB smiled, shook his head, pitying. “Exactly what I thought. You’ve got yourself a full-fledged schoolboy crush. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her you let the bad guy get away last night. But I did mention you got clocked in the head real good. Told her that might explain why you were actin’ a fool in there.”
Will drove the rest of the way seething as he endured JB’s impromptu Christmas concert. Midway through “Little Drummer Boy,” their phones dinged simultaneously, mercifully.
“It’s from the chief,” JB said. “You’ll never believe it. That theater creep came to the station and agreed to talk.”
“Do we have a name?”
“Yeah. And it ain’t the first time we’ve heard it today.”
Will pulled the car to a sudden stop in the parking lot. “Warden Blevins?”
“Nah. Sergeant Hank Wickersham. Or as your psychopath buddy, Drake, likes to call him, Handsy Hank.”
An unsmiling Chief Flack met them outside the interrogation room and followed them into the adjacent office located behind the one-way mirror.
Hank sat straight as a board, tapping his foot like his life depended on it. His eyes darted everywhere but the mirror. Will didn’t blame him one bit. Even though he did the interrogating, that glass pane always made him feel like a lab rat caught in a maze.
“So what do we know about this guy?” Will asked the chief.
“Sergeant Hank Wickersham. Never married, no kids. Works in the Mental Health Unit at Crescent Bay. He accepted a transfer and moved here from Studio City a few months ago. I talked to the warden down at the Los Angeles Women’s Institution and apparently the guy was walked off grounds after they caught him with a female inmate in a janitorial closet in a state of undress. Said he was showing her how to mix the chemicals for mopping the floors when the bucket spilled on his pants. Hers too.”
“Jeez. Desperate times.” JB peered through the mirror, leaving a spot where his nose bumped the glass. “He’s not a bad-looking guy. Surely he could’ve found a broad in the free world to mop his floors. If you know what I’m sayin’.”
Chief Flack groaned. “Does anybody ever know what you’re saying?”
“Not usually,” Will answered for him. After the morning he’d had, he relished the chance to get a few jabs in at his partner. The chief’s encouraging laugh sweetened the deal, the cherry on top. “And if they do, they wish they didn’t. I speak from experience.”
“Alright, how are you boys gonna play it?”
“City Boy’s the bad cop,” JB said. “Comes natural to him.”
“Let’s go over your story one more time,” Will prompted.
Hank slumped down further in the hard metal chair. As if he wanted to disappear beneath it. The power of the interrogation room—small, sparse, and soundproof—still amazed Will. You stick most guilty guys in there for a while, with just two chairs and a desk, and they’ll start singing like canaries to get out. Not Drake, of course. Drake relished it. Being center stage. Two detectives captive to his show.
But Hank was no psychopath. When they’d first begun, the tremor in his voice gave that away. Now, he looked beaten down and on the verge of tears.
“I’ve already told you exactly what happened. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“My partner’s old and cranky and forgetful.” Will nodded at JB, cramped in the corner, pretending to take notes. His watch read ten past noon, so the scribbles on that pad were more than likely a lunch order. “Humor us, Sergeant. Then we’ll get you out of here and on your way home. I promise.”
Will learned best under duress. Interrogation 101 at the kitchen table with his father as the bad cop and the belt as the looming death sentence for missing curfew. Don’t look to the left, Ben had told him. He’ll think you’re lying.
“Like I said, I got pretty drunk that night. Feeling sorry for myself, I guess. Fog Harbor is depressing in the winter. The rain, the cold. Nothing like Studio City. I used to do comedy down there on the weekends. Like a side gig. Now, my only audience are the crazies in the MHU.”
Hank made an unconvincing attempt to smile. Instead, his face looked pained and tired.
“Half the time, they’re laughing at the voices in their own heads. Anyway, I drove out to the Hickory Pit around nine. Met up with a couple folks from Crescent Bay. I stayed there till closing.”
“And what time was that again?”
“One or one thirty. I can’t say for sure. I know I should have called a taxi but I didn’t have far to go. I was headed home, and I saw the theater all lit up. Vertigo on the marquee. It’s one of my all-time favorites. The ticket taker had gone home for the night, and it was pouring cats and dogs, so I just let myself in through the side door and found a seat. That’s when I spotted Bonnie a few rows ahead of me.”
“And you say she didn’t recognize you?”
“I don’t think so. If she did, she didn’t say. It was pitch black in the theater and I had pulled the hood of my jacket over my face. To be honest, I didn’t want her to see me. I don’t think she liked me too much.”
“What makes you say that?”
Hank eyed the door with longing. Like he’d been lost in the desert for days and saw a pool of crystal-clear water up ahead. If only he could make it there.
“Did you flirt with her or something?” JB asked. “Maybe get a little too touchy-feely?”
“So, I guess you heard then. One of the inmates started it. The nickname. Handsy. And it stuck. A lot of the ladies avoided me after that, as you can imagine. Bonnie included.”
“Are you?” Will asked. “Handsy?”
“I’m just a friendly guy. I don’t mean anything by it.”
Will nodded sympathetically. He’d been saving this one. His ace in the hole. The way his father had always done with him and his brothers. I smell beer. You boys been drinkin’? or, Is that lipstick on your collar, Petey? or, Your teacher told me I signed that report card. Sure as hell don’t remember a C in Algebra.
“Is that what happened at your last job? Just got a little too friendly?”
“Jesus Christ. You know about that? Am I a suspect or something?”
As a boy, Will had always reacted the same way. His stomach bottoming out, his mind blank. Sheer panic.
“We’re not saying that. But you’re the last person we know who saw Bonnie alive. And we’ve got to turn every stone.”
“Ever heard of Diana Holden?”
Of course he had—who hadn’t heard of Diabolical Diana?—but Will only shrugged. “Holden. Sounds vaguely familiar.”
JB whistled low under his breath. “She’s a real looker.”
“Yeah. A looker who played me like a fiddle. Told me I was the nicest, funniest fella she’d met in the joint. Said she was lonely. Next thing you know we’re in the closet with our pants down.”
“They didn’t axe you for that?” JB asked. “Man, I’m in the wrong line of work.”
“State job. They just move you along to another one. You’ve practically got to kill somebody to get fired.” A rash crept up Hank’s neck. He laid his head in his hands. “Bad choice of words,” he mumbled.
“Where were you early Tuesday morning? Between 4 and 6 a.m.?”
“I didn’t kill Laura either, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Will raised his eyebrows expectantly, his question unanswered.
“I was dead asleep. Probably still hungover.”
“Anyone who can vouch for that?”
Hank sighed. “Not unless my pillow can talk.”
“I guess that means you’re single. But they call yo
u Handsy. What inmate did you say started that?”
“I didn’t say. God, I hate that guy. If I was gonna kill anybody…” Will sat, stone-faced, as Hank’s words trailed off. Olivia’s voice’s nagging in his head. He’s being set up. “Drake Devere is always stirring up trouble. You know what really gets me? The guy offed five women, right? And he’s got all these ladies at Crescent Bay championing him.”
“What do you mean?” Will asked.
“Well, Bonnie for starters. She helped him publish that novel. Olivia Rockwell, the chief psych. She’s always telling me to cut him some slack when he shows up without a ducat, demanding a therapy session. Leah, Shauna, Dawn… all the gals who work over in the MHU. It’s like he’s a fucking rock star.”
Will could relate to Hank’s clenched fists. To the set of his jaw. To the palpable sense of unfairness emanating from his pores. Drake had gotten off easy pleading to a life-without-parole sentence. He should’ve been at San Quentin on death row, waiting for his one-way ticket to hell. Instead, he’d spent the last few years writing books about murder and telling Olivia his problems.
“You ever think about doing anything to him?” JB asked. “Getting even, so to speak.”
“Every goddamn day. But the last time, the warden really laid into me. Made it clear Devere is not to be messed with. Unless he’s the one doing the messing.”
“Did he give you a reason?” Will asked.
“Some bullshit about Devere being a celebrity now. We don’t want him blabbing to the media about harassment. That kind of thing.”
Will raised his eyebrows at JB before he took a breath and continued. “You have any tattoos?”
“None I want to tell you about.”
“Gang stuff?”
“Hell, no. Do I look like a gang member?”
“Then what is it?”
Hank stood up and loosened his belt, dropped his pants before Will could stop him.
“Easy there,” JB said. “Keep all your bits covered.”
He stretched the waistband of his boxers down to reveal MOM in a heart, smack-dab on the center of his right butt cheek. “Anything else you’d like to see?”
“Must’ve been three sheets to the wind that night,” JB muttered. “I love my mom too, but jeez.”
Will took a breath, tried to restore some decorum. “Tell us again what happened after you left the theater.”
“I remember it was raining, so I hightailed it outta there. That must’ve been when you saw me on camera. I got in my truck and drove home.”
“No stops?”
“Not a one.”
“Anybody who can vouch for your whereabouts that night?”
“There were a few folks down at the Hickory Pit that might remember me being there. The Murdock twins stuck around till closing. Emily Rockwell. Shauna Ambrose.”
“Rockwell, you said?” JB repeated, with a pointed glance at Will.
“Yeah. Her sister, Olivia, is the one I mentioned. Drake’s shrink. She’s a real ballbuster. A couple of the COs from the MHU were there too. But after I left I didn’t see anyone.”
“Except Bonnie?” Will asked.
“Right. Bonnie. Guess you can’t talk to her, huh?”
JB hopped up, mouthed starving to Will. Then he turned to Hank, unmoved. “If we could talk to the dead, Sergeant Wickersham, we’d be the best damn detectives this side of Eureka.”
JB reached for the trash can and spit out a wad of chewed granola bar. His upper lip curled back in disgust, he studied the wrapper and Will with suspicion. “Chocolate chip cookie, my ass. Don’t you have any real food?”
“I’ve got a bag of almonds.”
“Salted or unsalted?”
“Un.”
“Might as well eat my notes.” He flung the small pad of paper on his desk. “Can you believe that guy? Gettin’ it on with Diabolical Diana. I mean, she’s hot. But not that hot. Not overlook-the-dismemberment hot.”
A quick Google search produced a mug shot and a myriad of articles about the woman who’d stabbed and dismembered her three children, burying their remains in the backyard, because they’d gotten on her boyfriend’s last nerve.
“Do you believe him about that night?”
JB shrugged. “Seems like your run-of-the-mill creep with a mommy tattoo on his ass, but I say we check out his story.”
“What about the warden?”
“What about him?” JB asked, hiding the beginnings of a smartass grin with a nibble on the Health-Zone Chocolate Chip Dream.
“His name keeps coming up.”
“Sure does, City Boy. But I thought you ripped that one to shreds, so to speak.”
Will pointed at the half-eaten bar in JB’s hand. “And I thought you’d rather eat your notes. Guess we’re allowed to change our minds.”
“You gonna tell Doctor Rockwell that? ’Cause I can bet ya this Puke-Zone Chocolate Shit Dream tastes a helluva lot better than humble pie.”
Lieutenant Wheeler cleared his throat from across the room and walked toward them, carrying a red Santa hat in one hand and the UBO in another. “How are you lovebirds gettin’ along?”
Mouth full, JB chuckled. “I’m not his type. He prefers—”
“Fine,” Will said.
The lieutenant laid the evidence bag on Will’s desk, the wheelchair footrest inside. “I heard back from Forensics on your, uh—what’d ya call it, JB?”
“UBO.”
“That’s right. Your UBO. Anyway, Forensics tracked down that serial number. It’s an old model Golden Driver. Sold and distributed to healthcare facilities all over the US in the late nineties, including in our very own Fog Harbor.”
“Do we know where?” Will asked.
“Sure do. Fog Harbor General, Willow Wood Psychiatric Hospital – but it’s been closed for years now – Sundown Nursing Home, and good ole Crescent Bay State Prison.”
Will examined the footrest through the heavy plastic. “Looks pretty worn. Maybe bought secondhand.”
Lieutenant Wheeler nodded. “Hey, before I forget…” He opened the red hat and held it out to them. “Secret Santa for the staff party on Monday. Pick a name.”
JB stuck his hand in first and ogled his selection. “You think it would be poor form to get the chief a vibrator?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The sight of Emily’s curls bobbing toward her office, the consternation on her face, quieted Olivia’s nerves in a way she couldn’t explain. Even big sisters needed soothing sometimes. Even big sisters like Olivia.
“I’m sorry about last night. And about Dad,” Emily said, before she’d gotten both feet inside the door. Olivia surrendered to the waiting arms of her sister, inhaling the smell of mint tooth polish. “Why didn’t you come find me? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Olivia let go first. She left the dad bit alone. Too many listening ears around here. “I didn’t want to bother you. I’m sure whatever you heard sounded a lot worse than it really was.”
“They’re calling it a riot.”
Olivia sighed. “Exactly.”
“Your face is all red and puffy. Morrie was right, you did get pepper-sprayed.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Olivia laughed it off to ease her worry. She’d warned her sister before about talking to Morrie. Em never understood the fine line between friendly chitchat and overfamiliarity. “Probably won’t be the last. What did Morrie say?”
“He said you rescued him like a knight in shining armor.”
“More like a shrink in a sweater set.”
Emily’s eyes danced, alight with mischief. “You know what else he said?”
Olivia groaned and slumped back into her chair. She had no doubt it had to do with Deck. The singsong in Em’s voice reminded her of high school—Olivia and Erik sittin’ in a tree—confirmed it.
“He told me some detective came and saved you, practically carried you out on his shoulders. It wouldn’t happen to be the same detective who asked you out to the Hick
ory Pit last night, would it?”
“First of all, nobody got carried. And second, he didn’t ask me out. It was a work thing. Trust me, I’m not his type. And he’s certainly not mine.”
“So you’ve thought about it then?”
Olivia busied herself rearranging perfectly stacked piles of patient notes on her desk and replaying the conversation she’d had with JB after Deck left in a huff. You know somethin’ funny, he’d said. I met my first wife in fifth grade science class. Couldn’t stop pullin’ on her braids, and she couldn’t stop kickin’ my shins. We hated each other somethin’ awful till I hauled off and kissed her. Think about it.
“No. I have not thought about it. Not for one second.”
“Mm-hm.” Emily stepped around the desk, leaning over her to Olivia’s keyboard. “What does he look like, anyway? This Will Decker. Is he on Facebook?”
Olivia grabbed the keyboard, holding it just out of Emily’s reach, as Leah cracked the door to the office, already laughing.
“He looks like a detective,” Olivia said.
Leah grinned at Emily. “Yeah. A ruggedly handsome one.”
“I knew it!” Em celebrated Olivia’s utter humiliation in the tradition of little sisters everywhere, with a ceremonious high five to Leah. “He’s gotten under your skin.”
“You two are…”
“Absolutely right?” Emily suggested. “Brilliant? Spot on?”
Then, Leah chimed in. “One thousand percent accurate?”
“Impossible. I was going to say impossible.”
Deck did not have a Facebook page. Olivia confirmed it for herself after she’d ousted Emily and Leah and holed up in her office, waiting for the effects of her mid-morning pepper spray to subside.
She studied the candid photo accompanying the San Francisco Post article she’d already read, captured as Detective William Decker left the courthouse after delivering damning testimony in the trial of his brother, Benjamin. Decker Delivers a Blow to Brother in Blue. He’d shielded his face from the camera with one hand but they’d caught him from the other side. His face, so cleanly shaven she could see the clench of his jaw. His eyes, focused straight ahead, invisible to her. But she imagined them anyway. She zoomed in closer, leaning in toward the screen.
Watch Her Vanish: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller (Rockwell and Decker Book 1) Page 15