by L. C. Warman
He just needed to get something off of his chest first.
“Whitney is having a hard time,” Eliza muttered. “She called me today.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She feels like she’s letting Becks down. Seems like she thinks—well. That it’s not going to go well for him.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, letting this sink in. Aaron shifted uncomfortably.
“We’ll just have to see,” he said finally. “We’ll hope for the best.”
Eliza sighed.
“I also want to talk to you,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ve been meaning to for a while.”
Eliza sent him a sideways glance as she drove. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s nothing that you don’t know already. Well—not the first bit, anyway. Obviously my wrist is going to get better, soon.”
“Yeah, if you ever let it heal properly.”
Aaron half-grinned. “Well, I’m working on it. To get these sponsorships. Thanks again for helping me out with that. You’re the only person—well, Lize, you’re frankly the only person I’d trust to do all of that. To not panic or tell anyone. The only person I’d trust to actually help me, no strings attached.”
“I bet you wish there were strings.”
Aaron snorted, not sure if he got the joke and not wanting to press it. He liked Eliza when she was friendly—he wanted to keep it that way. “Yeah, maybe. But look. There’s another part that I haven’t really told you.”
He watched Eliza’s expression out of the corner of his eye. Her fingers tapped against the steering wheel, and her face, though it still held the ghost of a passing smile, looked almost frozen. She was nervous, Aaron realized. About what?
“My wrist will be fine eventually,” he said carefully. “I just—some other stuff won’t be.”
“Other stuff?”
“I got some old injuries, Lize. You remember a bit—my knee? My right shoulder?”
“I thought those were fixed.”
He ran his tongue behind the back of his teeth. “Yeah—sort of. Nothing ever gets fixed when you’re playing pro football. Not really.”
Eliza snuck another sideways glance at him. “So you’re telling me that you’re going to retire soon. After you nab the sponsorships?”
“If I do—then yeah. Maybe.”
She nodded slowly, taking it in. Aaron tried not to fidget as he waited for her response. He hadn’t realized until he had spoken the words just how important her opinion was to him, just how much he wanted her approval, or at least, her acceptance.
“That sounds like it’ll be for the best,” Eliza said finally. “Have you thought exit strategies? What are you going to do after? What do your finances look like?”
Relief washed over him. “I’m working on it. I thought maybe—well, I wanted to brainstorm with you a bit. Get your advice.”
“As long as you’re not about to ask me for a loan.” She softened the sentence with a grin as she shot a glance at him. “Then yeah. Of course, Aaron. I’m here for you.”
I’m here for you, too, Aaron thought. Though maybe in some ways that you never wanted me to be. He felt a shot of foreboding. No, he wouldn’t think of it right now. He would get through this first. Then he would tell her.
They spoke a little bit about savings accounts and investments, about day jobs and transitions. Eliza had a few suggestions for him, some of which he liked and some of which he absolutely loathed. She offered to make introductions; they agreed to set up a few times in the next couple of weeks to meet up. It felt to Aaron like they were finally hitting their stride—they had been terrible in a relationship together, had brought out the absolute worst in each other. Eliza had become neurotic and compulsive to make up for Aaron’s laziness and procrastination. He had criticized her for being overbearing and unadventurous; she had criticized him for being childish and without foresight.
Now, though, they had somehow arrived back at the place they had first been when they had met each other: Eliza smart, organized, and clever, and Aaron agreeable, open, and curious. It could stay this way, Aaron thought. If they didn’t try to mess it up again by dating. If they just let each other be what they needed in each other’s lives—nothing more, nothing less.
Even if Eliza still was the best-looking woman he’d ever seen.
“And Greg, you remember him from the party, don’t you? He always hires athletes for his firm. You should follow up with him. You did meet him, didn’t you?”
“I’m sure I did. I talked to everyone at the party, practically. Except Gina.”
The mention of her name shattered the mood. Eliza stiffened, and Aaron cleared his throat self-consciously. “Sorry,” he said. “I just mean—well, I avoided Gina. Gina is…was…difficult.”
“Let’s not talk about her, please.”
“No, of course not. I just meant that, well, the whole family can be a lot to deal with, sometimes.” Aaron felt himself treading on dangerous water. “That’s all. And I did my best not to talk to her, really. As little as I could, anyway. She’s not…she’s just—”
“Let’s not speak ill of the dead.” Eliza’s knuckles were now white as she gripped the steering wheel. “That’s all behind us, okay?”
“Yes, but—” Aaron struggled. He didn’t want to speak poorly of Gina. He didn’t want to say what he really felt, that if he had to pick one person at the party to be offed that night, it would be her. Eliza might take that the wrong way. She might think that he thought…well. It was terrible of him, more terrible because of his past transgression. But Gina Tiller was a selfish and cruel person. He was sorry that she had been killed, but there was one part about her murder that he would never be sorry about.
Aaron swallowed. It was time.
“Look, Lize,” Aaron said, as she took the steep highway exit towards his condo. He knew she wouldn’t come up to chat if he asked her, knew that she just wanted the conversation done as soon as possible. He had to get this out now. “There’s one more thing that I have to tell you.”
“Oh, God,” Eliza whispered.
Chapter 35
Rick arrived at the police station and parked in the back, as instructed. When he had first moved to St. Clair, he couldn’t believe how close the place was to the high school, and at first thought it cute and almost quaint, as if the worst offenses in the town were kids smoking something questionable in the stadium bleachers.
Years in St. Clair had taught him otherwise.
But Rick was an infrequent visitor to the police station, and he wanted to keep it that way. The man who had agreed to help him owed a big favor to Rick’s sister’s best friend, who apparently had so little use for it that she had bequeathed it to Rick (after a copious amount of begging).
He walked inside and told the receptionist who he was there to see, then went and sat on one of the low wooden benches near the door. He could barely keep his legs from shaking, up and down, up and down. This one confirmation of Rick’s theory would be enough to run the story. From there, the police could deal with it as they may—certainly the cop showing Rick the evidence would take it to someone who could make use of it. Who could arrest Sam O’Nally and start the long process of securing justice for Gina Tiller.
And Becks would be free.
It didn’t matter if Whitney Becker blocked all of Becks’ devices so that Rick could no longer contact him. Rick would still do his duty for the ailing football player, and Becks would be able to tend to his health with a clear conscience. Whatever friendship they had struck up would have served its purpose, and both Becks and Rick could move on to new ventures with their heads held high.
Minutes passed. Rick began to worry that he had gotten the time wrong; he checked and double-checked his texts. He wondered if perhaps the cop wasn’t in today, or if some emergency had happened pulling him away from his desk. He debated whether he should get up and ask the receptionist to check on the cop, before resolving to wait another ten minute
s. As a rule, Rick tried never to piss off the receptionist.
The door opened. From the hallway walked a tall, ginger-haired cop with bright blue eyes, a crooked nose, and slumped shoulders. “Fales?”
“Rick,” Rick said, rising and extending one hand. The cop shook it warily. “Thanks again.”
The cop said nothing, only turned and walked back down the hallway. Assuming he was to follow, Rick hurried to stay on his heels. They moved to a small, windowless room with a beige carpet, a low wooden table, and two folding metal chairs. “Wait here,” the cop instructed Rick. “I’m going to get my laptop.”
Rick sat. There were also no mirrors in the room, so he didn’t have to worry about the whole two-way mirror scenario, but still his eyes wandered, looking for any little opening through which a camera might point. He thought about what it would be like to be interrogated. He thought about whether, in a few days or a week or more, he would be, in a space exactly like this, as cops pumped him for more information about what he had seen the night of Gina’s death. Except then, after today, he would feel confident about telling them everything he knew. He would have no problems explaining about Becks’ nap, about Becks’ disoriented state, just minutes before Gina Tiller was found. Because by then, the cops would have arrested the right guy.
The cop returned. Rick’s sister’s friend had referred to him as “Billy,” but Rick wouldn’t dare try to veer from “William.” Come to think of it, he wouldn’t even go for first names—Officer Heitman would be the safest bet.
“Okay,” Officer Heitman said, sliding into the seat opposite Rick. He tilted his computer so that both of them could see the screen. “I’ve got it all on here. You just have to tell me what exactly you’re looking for.”
“Exterior shots of the house,” Rick said. “Around the pool.”
“They’re all exterior shots. Security cameras, you know?”
“Right—well. The pool. The back of the house.”
The cop nodded and began to sort through the files. Rick wondered how much trouble the cop would get in if someone saw what he was doing. He wondered why the man had risked it at work, why he couldn’t have taken the laptop down the street and shared it with Rick at Wolf Claw Coffee, for that matter. Or would the punishment have been worse for taking evidence off of police property? He didn’t want to know and didn’t want to press.
Instead he watched as Officer Heitman sorted through clips of the many security cameras on the outside of the Eastwick mansion. They saw dozens of partygoers, strolling outside for a smoke, mostly, or else hurrying with their arms wrapped around their bodies as they moved from one door to another, crossing the wings of the mansion via the back courtyard. Rick recognized some of the faces, but most were unfamiliar. He waited as the tapes rolled on, at a fast-forwarded rate, moving inexorably to the time stamp that would clear Becks.
Rick had thought of it the night before. Where had Becks gone in the mansion, in those moments before he had come to rest on the staircase, sleeping? Upstairs killing Gina might be the obvious answer—but it was the wrong one. Becks had looked worn, and tired, and exhausted, all signs of someone who had been out in the cold too long. Rick hadn’t touched the football player, but he was sure that if he had, he would have felt the remnants of the chill on Becks.
Naturally, if Becks had wandered outside, where would he be found? In the backyard, on the surveillance tapes, almost exactly at the time of the murder.
And—though Rick wasn’t greedy, and certainly wouldn’t depend on it—he wouldn’t mind a little extra footage of Sam O’Nally after the murder. Maybe walking to the pool while pulling out his hair. Maybe leaning far enough over the balcony that the camera caught an image of his hand, and his cufflinks, and something identifiable.
“How much left?” Rick said anxiously.
“Halfway through,” grunted Officer Heitman.
They watched as the night deepened with impossible speed, moonlight streaming over the pool. Rick felt his chest tighten. Come on come on come on, he chanted to himself, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. One glimpse. One glimpse, at the right time—
“Stop!” Rick said, but Officer Heitman had already spotted the figure and was rewinding. Rick’s heart almost burst out of his chest. A tall man in a suit was just walking into the frame. “It’s him,” Rick cried. “It’s him.”
Officer Heitman leaned in closer, squinting. “It’s someone,” he said. “But that’s not Daniel Becker.”
Chapter 36
Whitney was keeping something from him.
That was all that Evan could conclude, after days and days of thinking about it. Of pondering why now, all of a sudden, Whitney was so eager to postpone the contract. She was trying to figure some way to get them out of it, perhaps. She had gotten cold feet. Or worse…
He would talk to her, soon. When he got the chance—whenever this whole Gina Tiller situation blew over. The frustrating part was that they seemed no closer to this end: Evan had received his first visit from a detective that very morning (and had been surprised it took them that long), and would not be shocked if they followed up a half-dozen more times.
He had to assume this: Whitney was afraid, because she thought that the police were circling around Becks. Why she should be afraid Evan didn’t know; even if the police did move in that direction, surely they’d realize over time how wrong they were. Becks would be cleared, if not in two days then in two weeks. And then? Would Whitney see what her delays had cost them?
These thoughts swirled in Evan’s head as he drove away from the police station and parked outside of Wolf Claw, where he said he would meet Sam O’Nally. Posting bail had not been his favorite experience—part of him wasn’t even sure if he would get that money back; he supposed it depended on Sam’s desperation.
But Sam also sounded like he knew something. And right now, Evan could use a little intelligence.
Heck, Evan thought to himself grimly, maybe he was having a drink with Becks out back and wants us to pay for the alibi.
It was a rosy-colored hope, but Evan clung to it as he waited. How wonderful it would be if in one fell stroke, the world could be righted! His hopes could be restored, his plans reinvigorated.
If only he could figure out what Whitney was keeping from him…
A knock on the car window sent Evan jumping. He smiled sheepishly and unlocked the door, and Sam O’Nally climbed in.
The man stank; he wore a stained white t-shirt and dark jeans, and his hair was a greasy mess, tied into a knot at the back of his head. He was entirely too large for Evan’s car; his head had to tilt forward so as not to hit the roof, and his legs came nearly up to his chest. Evan heard the familiar buzz of the seat adjuster: after putting the seat all the way back and reclining it as far as it could go, Sam O’Nally at least looked like he could sit for fifteen minutes without cramping—but probably no more.
Good, Evan thought. I don’t want him to get too comfortable.
“So you grabbing coffee for us or what?” Sam said.
“I thought you’d prefer to stay out of the limelight.”
“Could use a coffee.”
“Raincheck.”
Sam grunted. But he seemed to remember that Evan was responsible for his bail and his freedom, or at least, he decided not to push his luck. “Fine. You driving us somewhere?”
“Your place. What’s the address?”
Sam sighed loudly and gave it to him. “At least a drive-thru, man,” Sam said. “I’m starving.”
Evan agreed to go to the local burger drive-thru that was city-side, assuming that he would be paying for Sam and himself. They rode there in silence: Evan then ordered a small fries and Sam ordered two cheeseburgers, a large fries, an extra large soft drink, and five orders of chicken nuggets. “And do you have any pies?” Sam said, leaning over Evan to be heard on the drive-thru speaker.
“Apple, cherry, or chocolate.”
“Two apple and one chocolate.”
“T
hat’s all then?”
Sam pointed at Evan, who said, annoyed, “That’s all.”
Sam grinned.
“So you’re still eating like an athlete, I see,” Evan said, when they had driven away. He had considered asking Sam to wait to eat until they got to his place, then decided the battle wasn’t worth it. Still, he winced as Sam slurped noisily at the burgers and dropped a half-dozen fries on his first grab for them. “Still work out a lot?”
“This is half of what I used to get,” Sam said sullenly. “Hold on. I can’t talk and eat at the same time.”
They arrived fifteen minutes later outside Sam’s door. Evan was always surprised to see that all ex-footballers didn’t live like Becks did, though he knew he shouldn’t be. Sam’s apartment was part of a grungy, concrete complex with dirtied windows and crumbling roofs. Only the smallest green spider plant hanging outside the front door gave the place any sort of warmth. Evan complimented him on it as they parked, and Sam grunted, “Not mine.”
“So,” Evan said as Sam balled up his trash. “Before you go in. I had a couple of questions for you.”
“Figured,” Sam said, grinning. He still had ketchup smeared over one lip.
“You told me when you called that you had something important to say to me.”
“I said I knew some things you probably were curious about. That you’d have a vested interest in, if you know what I mean.”