by Rick Mofina
“This note.” Emma stepped closer, invading Marisa’s space, pulling the note from her bag, holding it before her to read. Then Emma thrust the note into her bag, letting Marisa see the gun she had there, as she slid her hand around it, while keeping it in her bag.
“Now, I want you to tell me who the fuck you are and why you’re threatening me?”
Marisa swallowed and looked around.
“Tell me what I need to know, Marisa. And don’t lie because I’ll find out.”
“How did you? I can’t—I just—I don’t know–”
“You’re not a cop—cops don’t do what you did. Are you a reporter?”
“No. I—please, I can’t—just leave me alone, please.”
“Do you know the others?”
“The others? Who? What? No, I don’t know anything.”
The dog barked and was answered by another dog’s barking.
“Hi, Marisa, hi, Bailey. Everything all right?”
They both looked to a silver-haired man across the street with a leashed German shepherd.
“Tell him you’re okay,” Emma whispered.
“Hi, Burt, thanks! It’s all good!”
“Mind if Skipper and I join you for a walk?” The man started to cross the street to them.
“This isn’t over,” Emma said to Marisa before she left.
“Sorry if I interrupted,” the man said to Emma as she strode away.
She said nothing, knowing he’d fully intended to intervene.
Emma got into her SUV and drove far down the street, disappearing into a driveway bordered with a hedge that concealed her. She got out and from that distance she saw Marisa walking toward her town house with her dog, talking on her phone while looking up and down the street.
Emma would wait this out.
* * *
Some fifteen minutes later, Emma saw Marisa get into her green car and pull away.
She began following her, careful to keep her distance as Marisa drove down Williams Street, then headed east on McFadden Avenue.
She went about three or four blocks to Pasadena Avenue coming to an intersection where the light had gone yellow. Fearing Marisa would speed through it, Emma accelerated only to find that Marisa had stopped and the van she had kept between them changed lanes, leaving Emma’s SUV directly behind Marisa.
No.
Waiting for the light to change, or the intersection to clear, Emma saw Marisa look in her rearview mirror, saw Marisa hold her gaze, then turn around in her seat.
It was clear. She knew Emma was following her.
Marisa sped down Pasadena, turned right on Sycamore, racing along the on-ramp merging into the lanes of traffic going north on the 55.
I can’t lose her. She could be heading to the answers I need.
Emma got onto the 55, keeping her eyes on the Ford but it pulled farther and farther away.
Traffic was heavy and Marisa kept changing lanes. Emma feared she would lose her at the upcoming exchange—not sure if Marisa would continue on 55 or take the Santa Ana Freeway.
Marisa was really moving and at the last minute had taken the Santa Ana Freeway, constantly changing lanes, cutting people off, accelerating and putting vehicles between her and Emma. For miles Marisa drove as if panicked, weaving dangerously from one lane to another. Horns honked, brake lights came on. But Marisa gained speed and distance, to the point where Emma could barely see her.
Then traffic began to congest as they came upon a construction zone with reduced lanes and options to detour.
Emma slammed her palms on the wheel and cursed. She had lost Marisa completely. Frustrated, she took an exit and headed back to Cielo Valle.
Twenty-Two
Eternity, Manitoba
2000
Lou Sloan’s unmarked Silver Nissan Rogue tottered and swayed along the rutted, unpaved section of road near the railway yards where Janie and Marlene Klassyn lived.
Bill Jurek surveyed the street’s tired frame houses, punctuated by vacant lots, looking at the low-rise apartments with blistered paint and missing shingles.
“It’s a rough side of town,” he said.
“I see that.” Sloan touched a finger to her nose as the SUV lurched. “I can smell it, too.”
“The slaughterhouse is just down there. A major employer,” Jurek said.
When they reached the Klassyns’ duplex, Sloan’s phone rang as she parked out front. She answered. It was Frank Cullen, sounding like he was in a moving car. Sloan put the call on speaker for Jurek’s benefit.
“Frank, I’m here on speaker with Bill.”
“Yeah, Lou, we spoke with Torrie Tullock and we’re on our way back.”
“Did she tell you anything?”
“Nothing, but it was weird,” Cullen said. “She gave us this sketch, maybe a self-portrait, maybe not. It was strange. The only thing she asked is if we knew who killed her family.”
“Did you confirm her whereabouts at the time it happened?” Sloan asked.
“We did. The director said Torrie hasn’t left the facility in the last two weeks, and can’t leave without an escort. I think we can cross her off.”
Sloan turned to Jurek for any other questions and he shook his head.
“Okay, Frank,” Sloan said. “Thanks for the update.”
Sloan made note of the call and got her bag. Jurek collected his zippered notebook, then they walked past Marlene’s parked car and knocked on the Klassyns’ front door.
* * *
Marlene Klassyn’s face was creased with worry. Her hair, tied back into a neat ponytail, exposed the anguish she carried.
“I’m sorry. I’m a wreck. This is so horrible for both of us,” she said after letting the investigators in. “I’ve got coffee, if you’d like some.”
“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Sloan said. “Coffee would be fine.”
Noticing shoes on a mat by the door, the officers began removing theirs.
“Please don’t worry about your shoes,” Marlene said.
Sloan glanced at Oxfords and sneakers there, before Marlene led them into the kitchen. Taking seats at the table, they saw Janie in the living room, on the couch, hugging a pillow, her chin buried in it as she consoled herself.
“Do you have any idea who would do this and why?” Marlene asked after setting mugs of coffee on the table then milk, sugar and spoons as if they were customers.
“We’re working on it.” Jurek fixed his coffee.
“We should get started,” Sloan said, opening her notebook.
“I understand.” Marlene sat at the table with them.
“How many people reside here?”
“Just me and Janie live here.”
“And you’re a server at the restaurant in the Eternity Country Club?”
“Assistant manager is my title, yes.”
Sloan turned to Janie. “And you babysat for the Tullock family?”
Janie nodded into the pillow.
“Marlene, can you think of anyone who would want to harm any member of the Tullock family?”
“I can’t. They were such a nice family.” Her voice weakened. “I know some folks resented their wealth, but that’s petty, small-town jealously. Roy was such a good man with a good heart. I don’t mind telling you that a while back I was let go for spilling a tray on him, but he stepped in and, being a club board member, ensured I kept my job. He’s a kind, fair man.”
“And how did Janie come to work for him?”
“It was out of that incident. Roy said he and his wife were looking for a new sitter and he asked about her because she sat for one of his managers, Marv Lander.”
“Marlene, have you ever heard of Ritchie Hicks?” Sloan asked.
She considered the name before shaking her head.
“Have you eve
r been inside the Tullock home on Old Pioneer?”
“No, but Janie has, many times.”
“You’re getting ahead of us.” Sloan turned to Janie, then back to her mother. “We’re going to need to collect Janie’s fingerprints, and yours.”
“Why do you need our fingerprints?”
Janie lifted her face from the pillow, worry blossoming on it.
“It’s okay.” Jurek smiled. “It’s routine. We create a set of elimination prints so we have a record of all the prints we’d expect to find in the house and run them against any others we might find there.”
Janie’s face had turned white, which Sloan noted.
“It really is routine,” Sloan said. “We’d like you to volunteer to have this done later today.”
Janie was silent.
“Yes, of course,” Marlene said. “Anything to help.”
“Thank you.” Sloan sipped coffee. “Now, I’d like to talk to Janie alone. We can go in her room and Bill can stay here with you, if that’s okay with you both?”
Marlene’s back straightened. “Why alone?”
“It’s just procedure,” Sloan said, “because she was in the house and one of the last to see the family.”
Marlene looked at the officers, then at Janie, assessing if her daughter could undergo questioning by Sloan without her present. It took a moment before she decided.
“All right,” Marlene said, then to Jurek, “I’ve got some fresh muffins, if you’d like?”
“Sure,” Jurek said.
“Thanks,” Sloan said. “Janie, want to take me to your room?”
Still hugging her pillow, she led Sloan into her bedroom, which immediately grew smaller when the investigator entered and shut the door.
Janie sat on her bed holding her pillow. Sloan pulled the desk chair over, taking stock of the room, its peach walls, and posters, her shelves with stuffed animals, pictures and keepsakes.
“You’ve got a pretty room,” Sloan said.
“Thanks.”
“I know it must be so hard for you, with all that’s happened?”
Nodding, Janie clenched her eyes, squeezing out new tears. Sloan spotted a tissue box and held it for Janie to pull out what she needed.
“I’ll try not to take too long. I really need your help. It’s important, okay?”
Janie nodded.
“How long have you babysat for the Tullocks?”
“I don’t know. I started in the spring.”
“So, for four or five months?”
“About that, I guess.”
“Did you like sitting for them?”
“Yes. I liked Linda and Neal.” Janie sobbed.
“You must’ve known the family fairly well?”
“I guess.” She shrugged.
“As far as you could tell, were there any problems?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did they argue or discuss anything that seemed to be troubling them?”
Janie shrugged again, shook her head. “I know they had their daughter, Torrie, put in some institution in Winnipeg.”
“Did they discuss that with you?”
“No. The kids told me, and everyone in town knew.”
“Did you ever meet Torrie?”
“No.”
“Are you aware of any times she may have visited her family?”
“No, her parents would go to Winnipeg to see her.”
Sloan made notes.
“Did you ever hear the Tullocks mention anyone who they disagreed with, or who had an argument with them?”
“No.”
“Do you know of Ritchie Hicks?”
“No.”
“When you sat, did anyone visit the house, or did you have a strange person come to the door? Or receive any strange calls?”
“No.”
“And how did you get along with the family?”
Janie looked at Sloan and her lips trembled. “Fine. I liked Mr. Tullock and the kids.”
“What about Mrs. Tullock?”
Fear flitted across Janie’s eyes and she took a breath. “I sometimes thought she didn’t like me.”
“Really? Why?”
Wiping at her tears, Janie thought. “Because we’re poor and because of where we live.”
Sloan looked at her for a long moment, absorbing her comments, then started a new page in her notebook. “I need you to think hard and help with a time frame, okay? When was the last time you babysat?”
Janie brushed her hair from her face, and her tears. Blinking, she looked at the calendar on her door. “It’s marked there with an X.”
Sloan looked. “So the Wednesday leading to the weekend when it happened?”
Janie nodded.
“That was the last time you were in the Tullocks’ house?”
“Yes.”
“And that was the last time you saw them?”
Janie blinked and nodded.
“You were aware they were going away to Regina to visit friends?”
“Yes, they told me.”
“Do you know who else was aware?”
“No.”
At that moment Sloan’s attention turned to the desk and the ring. She leaned closer to study the colorful skull.
“Interesting ring, Janie,” she said. “Looks like a sugar skull. I saw them on vacation in Mexico. Where did you get it?”
“At The Big Sky Truck Stop.”
Sloan let a few long seconds pass before she nodded and stood. “Cool. Okay, that should do it for now.”
As the investigators readied to leave, thanking Marlene and Janie at the door, Jurek reiterated the need for their fingerprints as Sloan’s attention went to shoes belonging to Marlene and her daughter. She zeroed in on a pair of white canvas sneakers with pink laces, pink trim, noticing that they had small brownish flecks on them.
“Are those your shoes, Janie?” Sloan pointed. “The ones you wear all the time?”
“Yes.”
“All right then, one last thing,” Sloan said. “In keeping with the point of fingerprints; we’d like you to volunteer Janie’s shoes.”
“You want her shoes?” Marlene said.
“Yes, we need to take them and process them as well, the same principle as the prints.”
“You want to take her shoes?” Marlene repeated.
“Yes, because Janie’s been in the Tullock house. She must have others to wear. Is that a problem?”
Marlene, surprised, looked at Janie, who stared through her tears at her shoes, saying nothing.
“We can get a warrant to obtain them,” Sloan said. “But that will take time. If you volunteer, we can process them quickly.”
“Yes, I guess that’s fine,” Marlene said.
“Thank you, I’ll get a bag from the car,” Sloan said.
In her absence, Jurek smiled at them, thanking them for their cooperation, assuring them that everything was routine for investigations of this nature. Sloan returned wearing blue latex gloves and unfolded a brown paper bag.
Marlene and Janie exchanged glances as Sloan placed the shoes inside the bag.
Twenty-Three
Cielo Valle, Orange County, California
Present day
“It’s astounding how you get into the minds of murderers,” a woman with oversize glasses told Ben. “It makes your stories incredibly compelling. You have a gift, Mr. Grant.”
He smiled, pen poised to sign her copy of Devil’s Dance in Paris.
“Please make it out to Edna,” she said.
“Thank you, Edna,” Ben said. “I never forget the toll of the tragedy, never excuse the criminal act. My job is to search for the answers, even in the darkest corners.”
After signing, Ben greeted the next person
in the long line of patient readers that stretched from his table at the outdoor book sale.
Row after row of folding tables, laden with boxes and crates of used books covered the parking lot of the One Light Redemption Church, thousands of donated books of every sort. Waves of book lovers streamed to the sale. Banners, balloons and flags flapped in the breeze that carried the smells of hot dogs and popcorn.
Ben was happy to be a part of it with his family. But between each signing he searched the crowds, dotted with volunteers in fluorescent green T-shirts, spotting Emma in hers, helping people find books.
For a moment he pondered how Emma was taken aback when he’d mentioned a possible case from Canada for his next book. Odd, but he shrugged it off because he was leaning to the Swedish case.
Watching Emma warmed him. He was amazed at how she had saved one of her students. She was a remarkable woman and he was glad she was his wife.
“Hi, Ben,” said a large bearded man with a canvas bag of hardcovers and paperbacks of Ben’s books, setting them on the table for him to sign. “I love your books. They’re better than any versions of these stories they’ve put on the screen. Can you sign them to Karl with a K?”
“Happy to, Karl.”
Before signing, Ben spotted Kayla in her glowing green T-shirt helping a woman lift books. His heart swelled with love and pride in how much she looked and acted like Brooke. She was every bit the reporter.
But he was concerned about how Kayla was struggling with her mother’s death and her inability to accept Emma—that she regarded her instead as a mysterious outsider in their lives.
He planned to raise it with Doctor Hirsch when they spoke.
* * *
Kayla grunted, hefting a box crammed with Game of Thrones and Harry Potter books, setting it before a woman who was using a cane. The woman slid on glasses to sort through the titles with delight.
“Bless you, dear,” the woman said.
Kayla dragged the back of her hand across her brow. While the woman piled her selections, Kayla looked for Emma, still troubled that she could find no reference to a deadly fire at a Tony’s Diner in Beltsville, Maryland.
Was Emma lying?
I’ve got to keep digging. I need to look inside that trunk in her closet. And there’s something else I can try. It’s dangerous but it’ll prove if she’s lying.