by John Hart
16
Beckett got two pieces of bad news in the first ten minutes of the new day. The first was expected. The second was not. “What are you saying, Liam?”
He was in the bull pen. Seven forty-one in the morning. Hamilton and Marsh were behind the glass in Dyer’s office. Liam Howe had just walked up from Narcotics. The place was a madhouse. Cops everywhere. Noise. Movement.
“I’m saying it sucks.”
Howe dropped into a chair across the desk, but Beckett was barely paying attention. He was watching the state cops, who’d left his desk sixty seconds ago. Now, they were giving Dyer the same earful they’d given him. No sound came through the glass, but Beckett knew enough to catch the big words like subpoena and Channing Shore and obstruction. Playtime was over. They were gunning for Liz and they were gunning hard. Why? Because she wasn’t talking to them. Because in spite of their attempts at understanding and moderation, she was still telling them the same thing, which basically amounted to fuck off. “You know what?” Beckett swung his feet from under the desk. “Let’s walk.”
He tossed a final, sour look at the state cops, then guided Howe out of the room and into the back stairwell. Outside, they stood in the secure lot, white sky going blue at the edges, heat stirring in the pavement. “All right, Liam. Tell me again, and give me details.”
“So, I did what you asked, right. I pulled some sheets; asked around. There’s no indication the Monroe brothers ever sold steroids. Alsace Shore may use them, but if so, he’s getting them somewhere else.”
Beckett chewed on that for a second, then shrugged it off. “That was a long shot, anyway. What’s the twist?”
“The twist is the wife.”
Something in the way Howe said it. “She’s a user?”
“Oh, yeah. Big-time. Prescription meds, mostly. OxyContin. Vicodin. Anything in the painkiller family. Cocaine on occasion.”
“Does she have a sheet?”
The drug cop shook his head. “Everything is scrubbed at the source: connections, favors, whatever. The few times she’s been implicated, the charges went away. I only know as much as I do because I took the question to some of the retired guys. Turns out a lot of wealthy housewives walk on the dirty side. The unspoken rule has been to look the other way. Too many frustrations over the years, too many powerful husbands, and too much weight.”
Beckett could see it because small towns were like that: connections and secrets, old money and old corruption. What’s the harm in a few stoned housewives? Forget the hypocrisy, that drugs were tearing half the city down. “Where did she get the dope?”
Howe shook his head, lit a cigarette. “The story doesn’t have a happy ending.”
“Tell me.”
“We’ll call it the story of Billy Bell.”
* * *
Beckett was at the Shores’ house by eight fifteen. Two kinds of bad news. Two different reasons. Alsace Shore knew about the first one. “I’ve already spoken to the state police, and I’ll tell you exactly what I told them. I don’t know where Channing is. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Fuck your implications and fuck your subpoena.”
The man looked huge in a tailored suit and glossy shoes. In the house beyond him, every light was burning. Beckett saw people in the study to the right: other suits, a woman, small and blond in pink Chanel.
“I’m not here about the subpoena.”
“Then why?”
Channing’s father leaked aggression like an old tire leaked air, but again, it was hard to blame him. State cops had a subpoena for his daughter and tried to serve it when the sun was still below the trees. It was a cheap trick. Beckett would be angry, too. “She’s really not here, is she?”
“Like I told the state cops.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
“Do you know, at least, if she’s safe?”
“Safe enough.” It was grudgingly offered, possibly sincere. “Her mother got a text saying she was okay, but wouldn’t be home for a while.”
“Is that normal?”
“The text, no. But, she’s left home before. Parties in Chapel Hill. Clubs in Charlotte. There’ve been some boys. Teenage stuff she thinks is dangerous.”
Beckett sifted the words, came up satisfied. “May I come inside?”
“Why not? Every other cop in the county has.” Shore showed his back, knowing Beckett would follow. In the study, he lifted an arm. “These are my attorneys.” Three different men stood. “You remember my wife.”
She sat on a sea of dark velvet as if she’d been weighted and sunk there. Pink suit rumpled. Makeup smeared. Stoned, Beckett thought. Numb. “Mrs. Shore.” She did not look up or respond, and from the reactions of everyone else in the room her condition was obviously no surprise. “I’m glad you’re here. This concerns you.”
That was a bomb in the stillness.
“In what regard?” one of the lawyers asked.
He had white eyebrows and ruddy skin. One of the big firms in Charlotte, Beckett guessed. Five hundred an hour, minimum.
“Let’s call it a story for now.” Beckett kept his voice level, though he was angry deep down. “A story about dead brothers, bored housewives, and a town full of dirty little secrets.”
“I won’t allow you to question her.”
“I’ll do all the talking, and right now we’re talking about stories.” Beckett pushed past the lawyer, the husband; towered over the wife, instead. “Like all good stories, this one revolves around a central question, in this case the question of how two low-life brothers like Titus and Brendon Monroe ever came into contact with a girl like Channing. Drug dealers. Kidnappers. Rapists. I suspect you know this story.” Beckett was unflinching. Mrs. Shore was not. “I’m guessing that it started with drinks over brunch. Five years ago? Maybe ten? Brunch became afternoon wine, then cocktails at five, more wine with dinner. Four days a week became seven. There would be parties, of course. Weed from a friend, maybe. A doctor’s prescription or two. All harmless fun until we get to the stolen pills and the cocaine and the low-life dealers who go with it.”
That was his hardest voice, and she looked up, bewildered. “Alsace—”
“You have a gardener,” Beckett interrupted her. “William Bell. Goes by the name Billy.”
“Billy, yes.”
“The last time Titus Monroe was arrested for dealing drugs, he was selling OxyContin to your gardener, Billy Bell. That was nineteen months ago on a Tuesday. Not only did your husband post Billy’s bond, he paid for the lawyer that helped him stay out of jail.”
“That’s enough, Detective.” That was Mr. Shore. Close. Physical.
Beckett ignored him. “Channing wasn’t plucked off a street, was she?”
“You said no questions.” Shore’s voice was loud, but had nothing to do with anger. He was begging, pleading, as his wife sank more deeply into the sofa.
“It’s a common enough story.” Beckett lowered himself before the broken woman. “Except for the ending.” She didn’t move, but a tear spilled down a sunken cheek. “Do you know the Monroe brothers, Mrs. Shore? Have they been to this house?”
“Don’t answer that.”
Beckett tuned out the lawyer. This was about truth, responsibility, the sins of the parent. “Will you look at me?”
Her head moved, but the lawyer pushed between them. “This is a temporary restraining order signed by Judge Ford.” The attorney snapped a paper in Beckett’s face. “It protects Mrs. Shore from police questioning in this matter until such time as her attending physician is brought before the court and the matter is heard.”
“What?”
“My client is under a doctor’s care.”
Beckett took the paper, scanned it. “Psychiatric care.”
“The type of care is irrelevant until a judge rules otherwise. Mrs. Shore is in a fragile state, and under the protection of the court.”
“This is dated the twelfth.”
“The timing is also irrel
evant. You cannot pursue this line of questioning.”
“You knew about this days ago.” Beckett dropped the paper and squared up on Mr. Shore. “She’s your daughter, and you fucking knew.”
* * *
Outside, the day was too hot and blue for Beckett’s mood. The abduction was not random, the bad guys not some passersby who saw Channing on the street.
And the father knew.
Motherfucker …
“I didn’t know until after.”
Beckett spun on a heel.
Alsace Shore had followed him out. He looked smaller and shaken, a powerful man begging. “You have to believe me. If I’d known while she was missing, I’d have told you. I’d have done anything.”
“You withheld evidence from me, Mr. Shore. It wasn’t some accident your daughter was taken. What happened to Channing is your wife’s fault.”
“You don’t think I know that? You don’t think she knows that?” Shore stabbed a finger at the house, and Beckett remembered the man’s talk of grief and grieving and things forever changed. “I can’t undo what happened to my daughter. But I can try to protect my wife. You have to understand that.” Shore’s hands rose, clasped. “You’re married, right? What would you do to spare your wife?”
Beckett blinked; felt sun like a palm on his cheek.
“Tell me you understand, Detective. Tell me you wouldn’t do the same.”
* * *
Liz was on her second cup of coffee when the banging started. Beckett had left two messages, so she knew it was coming. Another day. Decisions. She opened the door after about the twentieth knock. She was in faded jeans and an old red sweatshirt, her face still pale from sleep, the hair loose and wild on her head. “It’s a little early, Charlie. What’s the problem? No coffee at the precinct?”
Beckett pushed inside, ignoring the sarcasm entirely. “Coffee sounds good, thanks.”
“Okay, then.” She closed the door. “Come on in.”
Elizabeth poured a cup of coffee and added milk the way he liked it. Beckett sat at the table and watched her. “Hamilton and Marsh got their subpoena. The girl will have to answer their questions about the basement. She’ll have to do it under oath.”
Liz didn’t blink. “Take this.” She handed him a cup and saucer and sat across the table.
“They tried to serve it this morning, but Channing was gone. Her parents don’t know where she is. She sent a text, though.”
“That was considerate of her.”
“They say that’s not her normal behavior. Sneaking out, yes. Not the texting.”
“Hmm.” Elizabeth sipped from her own coffee. “How odd.”
“Where is she, Liz?”
Elizabeth put the coffee down. “I’ve told you how I feel about you and this girl.”
“She doesn’t exist. I remember. Things are bigger, now. You can’t protect her. You shouldn’t.”
“Are you saying it’s wrong to try?”
“She’s a victim. You’re a cop. Cops don’t have relationships with victims. It’s a rule designed for your own protection.”
Elizabeth looked at her fingers on the china cup. They were long and tapered. The fingers of a pianist, her mother once said. If Elizabeth closed her eyes, though, she’d see them bloody and red and shaking. “I’m not sure about rules, anymore.” She said it softly and left out the rest. That she wasn’t sure about being a cop, either, that maybe—like Crybaby—she’d lost something vital. Why was she doing it if not for the victims? What did it mean if she became one? They were hard questions, but she wasn’t upset. The feelings were more of calm and quiet, a strange, still acceptance that Beckett—for all his abilities—didn’t seem to notice.
“If I take Channing in, I can keep your name out of it. No obstruction charges. Nice and clean.” He reached for her hand, and she watched his fingers on hers. “She can tell the truth, and this can end. The state investigation. The risk of prison. You can have your life back, Liz, but it has to be now. If they find her here…” He let that hang between them, but his eyes were deadly serious.
“I can’t give you what you want,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“And if I force you?”
“I’d say that’s a dangerous road to walk.”
“I’m sorry, Liz. I have to walk it.”
Beckett rose before the last word died. He moved down the short hallway, surprised when she didn’t try to stop him. He opened one door and then another, and at the second stared for a long time at tousled hair and pale skin and tangled sheets. When he returned, he sat in the same chair, his features still. “She’s asleep in your bed.”
“I know.”
“Not even the guest room. Your bed. Your room.”
Elizabeth sipped coffee, placed the cup on its saucer. “I won’t explain because you wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re harboring a material witness and obstructing a state police investigation.”
“I don’t owe the state cops anything.”
“What about the truth?”
“Truth.”
She laughed darkly, and Beckett leaned across the table. “What will the girl say if they find her? That she was wired on the mattress when it happened? That you shot them in the dark?”
Elizabeth looked away, but Beckett wasn’t fooled.
“It won’t work this time, Liz, not with autopsy results, ballistics, spatter analysis. They were shot in different rooms. Most of the bullets went through and through. There are fourteen bullet holes in the floor. You know how that plays.”
“I imagine I do.”
“Say it, then.”
“It plays as if they were on the ground, and no threat at all.”
“So, torture and murder.”
“Charlie—”
“I can’t have you in prison.” Beckett struggled, found the right words. “You’re too … necessary.”
“Thank you for that.” She squeezed his hand and meant it. “I love you for caring.”
“Do you?”
He tightened his grip enough to show the strength in his wide palm and in fingers that stopped an inch from her cuff. Their eyes met in a pregnant moment, and her voice caught like a child’s. “Don’t.”
“Do you trust me or not?”
“Don’t. Please.”
Two words. Very small. He looked at her sleeve, and at the narrow flash of china wrist. Both knew he could lift the sleeve, and that she couldn’t stop him. He was too strong; too ready. He could have his answer and, in its wake, find helplessness and truth and the ruins of their friendship. “What is it with you and these kids?” he asked. “Gideon? The girl? Put a hurt child in front of you and you don’t think straight. You never have.”
His grip was iron, his hand squeezed so tight she had little feeling left in her fingers. “That’s not your business, Charlie.”
“It wasn’t before. Now it is.”
“Let me go.”
“Answer the question.”
“Very well.” She found his eyes and held them, unflinching. “I can’t have children of my own.”
“Liz, Jesus…”
“Not now, not ever. Shall I tell you how I was raped as a child? Or should we discuss all that came after, the complications and the lies and the reasons my father, even now, won’t look at me the same? Is that your business, Charlie? Is the skin on my wrists your business, too?”
“Liz…”
“Is it or isn’t it?”
“No,” he said. “I guess it’s not.”
“Then let go of my hand.”
It was a bad moment that caught like a breath. But he saw her clearly, now. The children she loved. The string of broken relationships and the withdrawn, cool way she often held herself. He squeezed her hand—once and gently—then did as she asked.
“I’ll try to keep them away.” He stood and seemed every inch the clumsy giant. “I’ll do what I can to conceal the fact she’s here.” Elizabeth nodded as if nothing were wrong; but Beckett knew
her every look. “Channing’s scores are public record,” he said. “You can’t hide that she’s a shooter. Sooner or later someone will figure it out. Sooner or later they’ll find her.”
“All I need is for it to be later.”
“Why, for God’s sake? I hear what you’re saying, okay? The kids and all. I get it. I see what it means to you. But this is your life.” He spread the same thick fingers, struggling. “Why risk it?”
“Because for Channing it’s not too late.”
“And for you it is?”
“The girl matters more.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin, and Beckett understood, then, the depth of her commitment. It wasn’t a game or delay for its own sake. She would take the heat for Channing. The murders. The torture. She would go down for the girl.
“Jesus, Liz…”
“It’s okay, Charlie. Really.”
He turned away for an instant, and when he turned back he was harder. “I want a better reason.”
“For what?”
“Look, I’ve made mistakes in my life, some really big ones. I don’t care to make another one now, so if there’s a reason you’re doing this—something beyond childhood wounds and raw emotion—”
“What if there is?”
“Then I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
Elizabeth measured his sincerity, then pulled up both sleeves and lifted her arms so he could take it all in: the fierce eyes and conviction, the raw, pink wounds and all they implied. “I would have died without the girl,” she said. “I would have been raped, and I would have been killed. Is that reason enough?” she asked; and Beckett nodded because it was, and because, looking at her face, he knew for a fact that he’d never seen anything so fragile, so determined, or so goddamn, terrible beautiful.
* * *
When he was gone, Elizabeth pushed the door shut and watched him all the way to his car. His stride was slow and steady, and he drove away without looking back once.