No One Left to Tell

by Karen Rose

  “On the flash drive Elena gave you before she died,” Stevie said. “Okay. We’ll want one of the techies to verify the files haven’t been compromised. But given the events of the day, I’d say that’s pretty damn unlikely. I’ll also want the drive.”

  “First, I get the commander’s agreement to my terms,” Grayson said.

  “Then why did you even call me?” Stevie asked.

  “Because I trust you,” he said simply. “I need someone I can trust.”

  Stevie sighed. “You know I’ll stand with you, but first I have some questions of a more personal nature. How long have you known each other?”

  “We met today,” Paige said.

  Stevie looked incredulous. “If you’re not going to take this seriously…”

  “She’s not lying,” Grayson said firmly. “She came to court today to meet me.”

  “I’d seen his picture,” Paige admitted. “I had to know who I was looking for.”

  “I’d seen her on the video,” Grayson added. “Along with everyone else in creation.”

  Stevie pursed her lips. “That’s gonna be a hard sell, guys. I know the brass has seen that video of the parking garage by now. Along with everyone else in creation.”

  Grayson’s jaw clenched. “Damn that Radcliffe.”

  “Pictures don’t lie.” Stevie waved the copies. “You two can’t have it both ways.”

  “We. Met. Today,” Grayson said, gritting his teeth.

  “O. Kay,” Stevie replied tartly. “Are you two ‘in a relationship’?”

  “No,” they both said at the same time.

  “Okay,” Stevie went on, “do you plan to be in a relationship?”

  Paige opened her mouth to say no, but the word wouldn’t come. She chanced a glance at Grayson and found him glaring at Stevie, who clucked her tongue thoughtfully.

  “At least that’s honest. If this goes south, you could face sanctions, Grayson.”

  “Wait,” Paige blurted. “Then no. I answer no. He’s done nothing wrong.”

  “Too late,” Stevie said. “Grayson? Do you understand?”

  He cocked his jaw and looked away from both of them. “Yes. I understand.”

  “I don’t,” Paige said. “I don’t want anyone else to die. I don’t want to die. But I won’t let you sacrifice your career. This isn’t your fight.”

  He turned to look at her then, his eyes so intense that for a moment she didn’t breathe. “I watched you nearly get killed today, so yes, it’s my fight. And even if you weren’t involved at all, I knew something was off with Delgado when I put him on the stand.”

  Yes, you must have, Paige thought. Otherwise he never would have asked his assistant to track Delgado down. “How so?” she asked quietly.

  “I thought he was afraid of the community backlash, of not giving Ramon an alibi. He had a wife and a daughter. Maybe he was protecting them, maybe not. Whoever did this didn’t want Delgado to talk. That person manipulated my trial. Manipulated justice for Crystal Jones. Manipulated me. So hell, yes, this is my fight.”

  Paige nodded, moved. “Then we should make sure that nothing goes south.”

  “Coming back to the body in the tub,” Stevie said. “If the person who killed Elena also did Sandoval and Delgado to shut them up, what’s with the mirror? ‘Paid in full. RIP Elena.’ Makes it look like someone on Elena’s team did it out of revenge.”

  Paige shrugged. “It’s no secret in the neighborhood that Ramon’s family hated Jorge Delgado. They’ve already had one fight that ended in Delgado’s being forced out of town. Why not frame one of the Muñoz brothers for this? It worked the first time.”

  “It’s a theory,” Stevie allowed. “The hit itself looked professional.”

  “It was too formal,” Grayson said thoughtfully.

  “The hit?” Stevie asked and he shook his head.

  “That, too. But I meant the message on the mirror.”

  Paige remembered his words. Paid in full, she’d said. I know, he’d replied.

  “It said ‘Pago del saldo,’” he said. “That’s a more formal way to say ‘paid.’ If one of the Muñoz brothers had done this in a fit of anger, I’d think they’d say something more direct, like simply ‘Pago’ or an insult. ‘Pago del saldo’ is… almost respectful.”

  Stevie blinked at him. “After all these years… I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

  He looked uncomfortable. “I don’t advertise it. Sometimes it’s nice to have people think no one can understand what they say. They say a whole lot more.”

  “Huh. Just when you think you know somebody… Look, I have to get back, so let’s take care of the incidentals.” Stevie held out her hand. “Gun.”

  Grayson took his from his pocket and handed it to her, grip first. Stevie sniffed it and handed it back. “Last time you shot it?” she asked.

  “A month ago, at the range with my brother, Joseph. Permit to carry up-to-date.”

  “Okay.” She looked at Paige pointedly. “You’re carrying?” Paige nodded and Stevie extended her hand over the seat, making Peabody growl.

  “Easy,” Paige told him. She took the Glock from her shoulder holster. “Glock. Hasn’t been fired in two weeks. Firing range near Hopkins.” She reached behind her and pulled out her .357 with the two-inch barrel. “Smith and Wesson AirLite.”

  “Nice.” Stevie tested it in her palm. “I’ve been eyeing one of these.”

  “Fits anywhere.” Paige drew her knee to her chest and released the side snap on her right boot, withdrawing another AirLite. “They were having a sale,” she said dryly when Grayson’s brows lifted.

  Stevie sniffed them, checked cylinders and clips, then handed them back. “Permit?”

  “Of course. There’s a copy in my backpack as well as the one on file with Maryland State Police. You want to see the knives, too? I’ve got five.”

  “Not necessary,” Stevie said. “You’re remarkably well armed, Paige. Why?”

  “I was attacked last summer. Shot, along with my friend.” Paige waited for the tightness in her chest to ease. But it didn’t. “Thea died. I almost did.”

  Stevie looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry about your friend. But this is the kind of thing I want you to prepare yourself for. The suits will grill you about that night. They’ll have you relive every moment and they probably won’t be gentle about it. You’re producing evidence that possibly implicates cops. That’s a big hairy deal.”

  Paige systematically checked the safeties on each of her guns before reholstering, preparing herself to recount her assault yet again. It never got easier. “You need to understand one more thing, then. Especially you, Grayson, considering your career may be on the line.” She met his eyes. “Last summer, back in Minneapolis… Thea and I were attacked by a group of four men. Two of them were cops.”

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. She could see the furious questions in his eyes, but all he asked was “Did you get them?”

  “Not really. Three got away. One of them attacked me a second time. He broke into my house the night I got out of the hospital. Tried to finish the job.” Peabody made a rough noise and Paige realized she was clutching his neck too tightly. She released him immediately, stroking him instead. “I had a knife under my pillow.”

  “Did you kill him?” Grayson asked, his voice steady.

  “No. I wanted to. I got him in the side, but not deep enough to stop him. I was too weak. He didn’t know my friend was staying with me. She’s a cop. Real light sleeper. She woke up when he cursed me for stabbing him, found his hands around my throat.”

  “She killed him?” Stevie asked and Paige’s mouth curved bitterly.

  “No, but she wanted to, too. Liv followed procedure. Yelled ‘Police’ and everything. Got him off me and kept him on the floor until backup came. The next day our other friend Brie gave me Peabody. Brie used to be a cop, too. Now she trains police dogs. The two of them took me to the shooting range and I killed a lot of paper targets. Then we had major moj
itos and they let me cry. After I’d sobered up, I bought the guns.”

  “And the knives?” Stevie asked.

  “I had those before. I’m trained in weaponry. I can knock you on your ass with a staff, break your neck with nunchucks, carve you into pieces with a knife. But a gun trumps all of the above.” She rubbed her shoulder. “I know from experience.”

  “I guess so,” Stevie murmured. “Your hesitancy to trust a cop enough to reveal Elena’s evidence made sense before. It makes more sense now. It’s a wonder you’re even talking to me.”

  “My best friends back home are cops. I know there are good ones. I hope to heaven you’re one of them.”

  “I hope for your sake that I’m better than good.” She glanced at Grayson, who was way too quiet. His face was dark, his fury a tangible thing. “The suits will ask you why the cops did it,” she told Paige. “They may insinuate you were to blame.”

  “I know. I’ll tell them the same thing I told the cops back home. The truth. It’s all documented. They won’t even need to ask me. But they will. They always do.”

  “And for that I’m sorry. It’s hell to relive the moment again and again. What’s the name of your cop friend? The one who was with you the night of the second attack?”

  “Detective Olivia Hunter. She’s Homicide.”

  “Okay. I’ve got to get back. I’ll be in touch.” With a backward wave Stevie was out of the car, leaving Paige and Grayson alone.

  The car was silent again, the only sound the rain steadily drumming on the roof. Paige rubbed Peabody’s head, dreading the question even as she knew that he needed to ask and she needed to answer. “Ask,” she said. “Get it over with.”

  “Who did it?” He hesitated, then released a weary breath. “And why?”

  Tuesday, April 5, 7:30 p.m.

  “Adele? I’m home!” Darren called. “Are you here?”

  Standing in the kitchen, Adele Shaffer braced herself as the dog barked a frantic welcome. Tell him. It had been Dr. Theopolis’s advice. It’s the stress of living as a person separate from yourself that’s causing your paranoia. Just like before.

  Just like before, when she’d spent six weeks in a psychiatric hospital because she’d tried to kill herself. Before somebody else could. That “somebody” had been nobody back then. Just her soul crying out for retribution. For acknowledgment.

  For justice. But there was no justice then and she’d come to terms with that.

  At least she’d thought she had. Theopolis didn’t seem to agree. Adele knew he was right. Why else would she be so paranoid? So delusional? Why else would she be thinking someone was trying to kill her, for God’s sake?

  “In the kitchen,” she called. “Rusty, stop that barking.”

  Darren came in the kitchen, Allie squealing happily on his hip and Rusty following at his heels, happily wagging his whole wiener-dog body. “I was worried about you two,” he said. “I called all afternoon and you never answered your cell or the home phone.”

  Tell him. But where did she start? Hey, Darren, my life’s been a lie and now I’ve got paranoid delusions. You want Stove Top or potatoes with dinner? Hardly.

  “I turned off the ringer,” Adele lied. “I had a terrible headache when I came home.”

  “Must be this rain. Lots of people at work had headaches. How was your meeting?”

  “It went well.” Tell him, Adele. For all that’s holy, tell him. She opened the oven to check on the chicken, pushing Rusty out of the way. Stupid dog would eat anything not tied down. “She ordered three rooms, just like I’d designed them.”

  “Fantastic. We should celebrate. Why don’t I get a sitter for Allie and I’ll take you to that Indian place you’ve been asking about.”

  “No,” she said, so quickly that he blinked. “It’s just…” That I’m afraid to leave my house. “I still have a headache. I took some aspirin, so can we do it a different night?”

  “Sure. Go put your feet up and watch TV. I can feed Allie and finish dinner.”

  She hugged him hard. “I don’t deserve you.” Adele went to the living room, stopping by the little table near the door where she’d put the day’s mail. And she frowned. There was a box there that wasn’t there before. “Darren? Where did this box come from?”

  “It was on the porch when I came in. Looked like it was from one of your clients.”

  Adele stared at the box while her heart beat wildly. Tentatively she picked it up. It wasn’t that heavy. She held it to her ear. Not ticking.

  “Silly,” Darren said behind her. He produced a kitchen knife. “Open it.”

  Her hands trembled as she cut the shipping box open, revealing a smaller, foil-wrapped box inside. She lifted the lid, terrified of what she’d see.

  Then she let out her breath. “Chocolates,” she murmured.

  “Mmm. Truffles.” He reached for one and she smacked his hand lightly.

  “You’ll spoil your dinner.”

  He laughed. “You’re such a mom since Allie was born. I remember a time that box would have been inhaled, no matter what time of day. Who are they from?”

  “No card.” Adele checked the outer box. “Trammell and Trammell. I did their lobby six months ago. Why send chocolates now? It’s not a holiday.”

  “Maybe you got them by mistake.” He frowned, tipping up her chin. “Go sit. You’re looking even paler. I’ll bring dinner to you.”

  “Okay.” Adele sat on the sofa and put the box of truffles on the end table. She turned on the TV, mainly to make Darren happy. She was changing channels when her finger paused. There was the woman from this morning. The one who’d jumped like Wonder Woman. Adele’s eyes widened.

  Holy shit. She was being attacked. Unable to look away, Adele watched to the end, breathing a sigh of relief when they said the woman was okay. Glad I’m not her.

  Eight

  Tuesday, April 5, 8:00 p.m.

  Grayson had asked her to move to the front seat, but Paige had declined, saying she needed the physical space. Based on the way she clung to the dog, he suspected it was more the emotional space she needed.

  “I taught self-defense,” she began. “In Minneapolis. Most of my students were women, most had abusive spouses. A few were victims of random violence.”

  He’d put that much together on his own. “Who was Thea?”

  “One of my students. She was afraid to leave her husband, but she had a sister who convinced her to learn to defend herself.”

  “Did she ever leave him?”

  “Eventually. She got a job at the women’s center. Her husband gave her an ultimatum—quit or get out. She shocked him by moving in with her sister. Time passed, then one night he tried to grab her when she was walking from the women’s center to her car. He’d been leaving notes in her mailbox, ordering her home.”

  “Why didn’t she report him?” Grayson asked quietly, although he already knew.

  “He was a cop. She was afraid no one would believe her or, worse, that there would be retaliation. In the end, she was right. The first time I saw him grab her, we’d just finished class. I restrained him, threatened to report him if he didn’t leave. He did.”

  “Did you report him anyway?” he asked.

  “No. I was going to, but she begged me not to. Promised she would do it herself. I believed her. And I have to live with that, because she didn’t report him and he tried again a week later. She was outside her sister’s house, but the sister screamed and scared him off, then filed for a restraining order.”

  “What happened?”

  “We heard that her husband was facing disciplinary action by the department because of the TRO. She was scared, but what can you do? We went on as usual. I’d taught class that last night. Everyone was gone except Thea and me. I heard them break in, dialed 911 on my cell, dropped it in my pocket. The operator heard it all.”

  Her hands clenched and unclenched as she maintained an outward calm. But the look of raw panic in her eyes when she’d begged him not to hold h
er down in the garage flashed in his mind and he dreaded what he was about to hear.

  “There were four of them?” He’d wanted to ask gently, but his tone came out harsh.

  “Yes. But it’s not what you’re thinking. They didn’t rape me.” She blew out a breath as his shoulders sagged in relief. “The four guys wore masks. One of them had Thea, had a gun to her head. I knew it was her husband.”

  “He planned to kill his wife?”

  “I don’t know. To this day, I don’t know. He definitely wanted to scare her. And discredit me. He told his friends to ‘show the black belt a thing or two.’”

  Grayson swallowed back the anger. “Like you said to Bashears outside the ER.”

  “Yes. The men had drawn straws on who got to attack first. It was a big joke to them. Thea was so scared.” Her voice cracked, then broke. “I can still see her, staring at me. Begging me to do something. To help her. But I didn’t help her.”

  She was trembling, one hand pressed to her shoulder. “I couldn’t help her.” Her voice had become ragged. “I couldn’t even help myself. And I have to live with that, too.”

  To hell with space. He got out of the car and opened her door, pulling her out and into his arms. He guided her hands to his back, under his coat. “Hold on to me and breathe.”

  He wrapped his coat around her, laying his cheek on her head to shelter her from the rain. And camera lenses or, God help them, snipers’ scopes. She held on tight. He held on tighter.

  And admitted that he needed to hold her as much as she needed to be held. There was a loneliness in this woman that called to him. Because he was lonely, too.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled against him.

  “Hush,” he murmured, stroking his hand down her hair. “You’re fine.” He looked around, conscious of the danger of standing out in the open, wishing he were just being paranoid and knowing he wasn’t. “We can’t stand here. Get back in the car.”

  She got in the backseat and kept her head down until he’d pulled away from the parking lot. “What next?” she asked.

  “Same song, second verse. We find out who killed Crystal Jones.”

  Tuesday, April 5, 8:10 p.m.