by Beverly Long
“I’m in,” he said. “House is secure.”
“We’re on our way,” she said. “Expect us soon.” She desperately wanted to ask about the kiss, wanted an explanation. Like, maybe they’d had an oxygen issue in the hot-air balloon and that he was having trouble remembering the letters of the alphabet, too. But she kept quiet.
She watched Tess turn into her drive, raise the garage door and pull in. Nobody on foot tried to sneak in behind her. She waited and saw that Tess was turning on lights as she made her way into the house. Just as she’d be expected to.
She waited one more minute and called A.L. “Everything okay?” she asked.
“We’re good.”
“Okay. I’m taking the first shift, and then Ferguson is going to replace me around 3:00 a.m. He’ll text you when he’s in place.”
“Okay. Watch your back.”
“You, too, A.L.” She hung up. In more ways than one, she thought.
* * *
“Want a tour?” Tess asked. “Wait, I forgot,” she said. “You’ve already been inside. You did a decent job boarding up the garage window.”
She was still a little pissed about that. He understood. “It’s a nice house,” he said.
“Thank you. Are you hungry?”
“Nope.”
“Thirsty?”
He shook his head.
“Well, then, I’m going to bed. You can take Marnee’s room. The sheets in there are clean.”
“I’m not worried about dirty sheets,” he said. “How are you doing? Really.”
She shrugged. “Well, I’m glad to be home. That may seem odd, but I missed my house. And...I’m glad that you’re here.”
“Wouldn’t be good to be alone,” he said.
“I’m glad that you’re here.”
“Still bad circumstances,” he reminded her.
“I’m sorry if our kiss in the car made you uncomfortable.”
“No need for regrets,” he said. “Be bold or go home.”
She smiled. “I’ll ruminate on that while I sleep.”
“Ruminate on this.”
And he kissed her again. He felt the heat of her body, the scent of her skin, the shape of her lips. And still kissing her, he backed her up, until her spine was pressed up against the wall. “Tess,” he murmured, before sinking into her mouth again.
And when it ended, and his chin was resting on her head, and her lips hovered at his collarbone, and their bodies were pressed together, he wanted her in his bed. Bad circumstances be damned. But he was not a fool. Or an eighteen-year-old boy who couldn’t control himself.
He stepped away. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll sleep on the couch rather than in Marnee’s room.”
“Sleep wherever you want,” she said, sounding a little dazed.
He smiled. So perhaps he was not the only one who felt a little punch-drunk. “Good night, Tess.”
“Good night, A.L.”
Twenty-Three
Thursday, May 19, Day 9
Rena got four hours of sleep, and while that was brief, it was also magnificent, because after she’d finally crawled into bed around three-thirty in the morning, Gabe had pulled her close and tucked her in. They’d slept that way the whole night.
She stretched. “You’re going to be late,” she said to him. “It’s almost eight.”
“I’ve got an offsite appointment. I’ll be fine.” He was propped up on one arm, and with the other, he smoothed her unruly hair away from her face. “It’s May 19.”
“I know. We’re going to get him tomorrow.”
“I worry,” he said.
“I know. But I’m careful. And A.L. is the best partner I could ever have. He has my back. Always.” She had not mentioned Tess to Gabe. Which meant that she now could not admit her suspicion and perhaps concern that A.L. might be falling for the woman.
“I know that,” he said, leaning down to give her a kiss.
She wound her arms around his neck. “You really don’t have anywhere you have to be right now?”
“I do not,” he said, slipping his hand under her T-shirt and cupping her breast.
“That is excellent news,” she said, opening her mouth for his tongue.
* * *
Rena was on her way to the office, the glow of morning sex still hanging at the edges, when her cell rang. It was the analyst from the state. “Morgan,” she answered.
“I came up with a match between one of the volunteers for the Baywood Historic Preservation and tenants of Gizer Hotel when it was low-income housing,” he said without any preamble.
“Who?”
“Marie Devine.”
Rena almost forgot to steer the car. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“When did she live there?”
“From 1971 to 1975. The application was submitted in January of 1971, and her family moved in three months later. I didn’t see it until I opened the tab for Dependents. Her grandmother had completed the application and she had a different last name.”
Damn. She’d scanned the list that first morning it had arrived. Had looked at only the main sheet, not the other tabs. “Is her age listed?”
“Let me check.”
She could hear the rustle of paper.
“She was eight.”
That meant that she’d have been ten in 1973. Ten. When a very traumatic event occurred at the Gizer Hotel. “Thank you very much.” She hung up.
She pulled into the police department parking lot, but didn’t get out. Instead, she called A.L.
“McKittridge,” he answered.
“Guess who lived at the Gizer Hotel in 1973.”
“I’m not guessing,” he said.
“Marie Devine.”
“I swear to God, that woman’s name keeps surfacing. From the very beginning, we thought she was hiding something. We need eyes on her. From this point forward.”
“Agree. I’ll talk to Faster. Everything okay?”
“Tess is fine. She walked her dog this morning with Regina Heller. A thirty-minute, highly visible stroll up one side of the street for many blocks and then back the other direction.”
Ferguson would have switched from watching the house to watching her, and they were getting assistance from the state at all access and egress points. Nobody was getting onto her street without being monitored. And the danger was tomorrow, not today. But still, A.L. would have been nervous because, for that brief period, he would not have been in control. “You’re doing okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t elaborate. She didn’t expect anything different.
“I’m at the office. Blithe gave me the high points of the case file yesterday, but I want a chance to look at it myself. I’ll check in again tonight, still from BHP, right?” She assumed the plan hadn’t changed, but wanted to make sure.
“Yes. It’s a go.”
“Great. Thanks.” She hung up. Dropped her phone inside her shoulder bag and walked into her office, stopping for coffee on the way. She sat at her desk, thinking about Marie Devine living at the Gizer Hotel. But then got immediately distracted when she saw the Sands case file. She opened it and read the summary. It was pretty much what Blithe had told her. Then she started flipping pages. Witness statements. One from Gracie Sands. When Rena read it, she got a very eerie feeling. It was close, so very close, to exactly what Gracie Holt had told her. What was the likelihood of that? Gracie had said that she rarely thought of Baywood and had reminded Rena that it had been more than forty-five years since the shooting. But still, her recollection was almost word for word to the statement she’d given to the police all those years ago.
She flipped another page. Next-door neighbor. A man named Brian O’Grady, age twenty-nine. Well, that would have been in 1973. That would make
him seventy-five or seventy-six now, depending on when his birthday fell. She kept reading. At the time of the shooting, he’d been in his apartment. He’d heard a gunshot, but hadn’t realized that it was next door. He’d thought it might have been outside because it wasn’t all that unusual for shots to be fired in the neighborhood. Then he heard a second shot. He had an open window in his kitchen that he thought he should close. When he did that, he saw...what? She reread the sentence. He’d looked outside and saw the boy who lived next door running down the alley. Then he’d heard sirens, and pretty soon cops and EMTs were running up the stairs.
The boy who lived next door.
Sean Mallor? Who else could it be? Was it possible that he’d meant a boy who lived on the other side of his apartment?
Rena silently cursed the officer who’d done such a shitty job of getting the witness statement. It was a critical error not to clarify statements if there was any ambiguity about what the person was attesting to. And if he had seen Sean Mallor, why was there no note of it in the summary section? Anybody who’d been at the crime scene at the time the crime occurred warranted a mention.
Gracie Holt had said that Sean was at the store, buying ice cream.
What the heck was the truth? If Sean had been inside the apartment when it happened, why would his mother and sister lie about it? Why would his sister continue to lie about it?
She desperately wanted to talk to Brian O’Grady about what he’d seen. Was the man still alive? Mentally astute? She turned on her computer, leaned forward and started looking.
It took her just a few minutes to learn that he had a criminal record. Low-level drug offenses in the 1970s and ’80s. Had done ten days in the county jail, but other than that, fines and probation. None of that helped her locate where he was right now.
A few more clicks and she’d identified that he’d held a driver’s license in North Dakota since 1996. She fired off an email to one of the support staff who helped her with these kinds of requests.
In the meantime, she was going to go see Marie Devine.
The drive took twelve minutes. The parking lot of the church was empty and she took the first spot. Like before, she knocked on the door. “Detective Morgan,” she yelled immediately, not waiting for an acknowledgment. She heard the slide of the bolt lock, and the door swung open. And there stood Marie Devine Wallace. And while it had been less than a week since the first time she and A.L. had conversed with her, the woman looked as if she’d aged five years.
Her eyes were dark, and her hair hung straight, as if she couldn’t be bothered to pick up her curling iron. “How may I assist you, Detective?”
“I have a few more questions for you, Marie.”
“I’m busy,” she said.
“Do I need to find Pastor Rife and see if he can clear something off your plate?”
Marie shook her head. “Just please be quick.”
“Did you live at the Gizer Hotel when you were a child?”
“Yes.”
“Were you aware that there was a murder at the hotel in 1973?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know the man who was shot and killed?”
“No.”
“His family?”
“Yes.”
“Were you friends with them?”
“Acquaintances.”
“You would have been right about the same age as the son, Sean. Probably third or fourth grade. Maybe even in the same class.”
“I don’t remember.”
That was certainly possible. Rena definitely didn’t remember all the kids in her various classes. And even then, there was probably more than one grade school in Baywood.
“Do you remember his sister, Gracie?”
“No,” she said, her tone a little sharp.
Again, possible. But Gracie had been only two years older. How many kids had been in the building during that year?
“Thank you, Marie. I appreciate your time.”
The woman’s chin went into the air. “Why are you asking all these questions?”
Rena decided to lay it on the line. “Four women have been killed in the last forty days. We’re trying to prevent that from happening to a fifth woman. And we have reason to believe that the killings are associated with the Gizer Hotel. We’re going to figure it out, and when we do, anyone who has anything to do with these senseless killings is going to pay. And pay dearly. I can promise you that.”
Marie said nothing, but she shifted her gaze to the door, as in, Don’t let it hit you in the ass on the way out.
Rena left and was halfway back to her office when her cell rang. She did not recognize the number, so she let it go to voice mail. Then hit a button to play it back.
Detective Morgan, I found Brian O’Grady. I’ve sent you an email with all the contact information.
* * *
Tess did her afternoon walk with Regina Heller. It was almost six by the time they finished because she had to wait until Regina got home from her job driving the school bus. What they talked about, she could not recall as she entered her house.
“Everything okay?” A.L. asked. He was standing just inside the door, out of sight from anybody on the street but close enough that she could reach out and touch him.
So she did. A soft touch on the side of the cheek. He’d not shaved this morning, and he had a sexy bristle. “Yes. It’s a lovely spring night. Many things are in bloom, and Tabitha is absolutely exhausted from all her sniffing.” As if to prove her right, the dog had already bounded up on the couch and found her pillow.
“I’m not as concerned about the dog as I am about you,” A.L. said.
“Don’t say that so loudly,” Tess said. “She’s very sensitive.”
“We leave here in forty minutes.”
“I thought I might wear something red, kind of flashy. Neon signs are out this year, but I’ll do the best I can.”
“Tess,” he said.
He did not appreciate her sarcasm. He was thinking it meant she wasn’t taking this as seriously as she needed to. But it was her coping mechanism, had always been her coping mechanism.
Of course she was scared. Both of her walks today, her call to Clark at the title company, her appearance at the guest lecture at Baywood Historic Preservation—they were all the equivalent of a public service announcement that Tess Lyons was back in town.
Come get me.
“I’m ready,” she said, her tone more serious. “Ready for tonight. Ready for tomorrow. And then it will be over.” One way or the other, she added silently in her head. She really did trust A.L. and the plethora of other officers who were protecting her. But, sometimes, things just didn’t go according to plan. She was a poster child for that.
She got halfway down the hall before turning. “Maybe we should have sex. Might take the edge off.”
He smiled. Or grimaced. Hard to tell which.
She made a show of looking at her watch, which she’d started having to wear on her right wrist, and it had yet to feel comfortable there. “Like you said, forty minutes.”
His eyes were hot. “You’re going to be a handful.”
She opened her door. One last look over her shoulder. “Do you always have to bring up hands?”
* * *
She’d been joking about the hands. He was pretty confident. Didn’t think she’d been as blasé about the should have sex comment. All day in the house together, they’d both tried to keep it light and easy: playing cards, making a ridiculously complicated lunch with phyllo dough that required six hands versus the three they had and watching old movies on TV. But the want had been there, the almost frantic need to scratch a goddamned itch.
Rena had checked in when Tess had been on her walk. She’d brought him up to date on her latest conversation with Marie Wallace and her attempts to contact the Sands’s next-door
neighbor, Brian O’Grady, who was living in Fargo, North Dakota. So far, her phone messages had not been returned. She would be at the BHP as planned.
* * *
Rena had taken a seat in the back row, on the outside chair closest to the door. She counted the backs of heads. Twenty-four. Then there was also her and Matt Connell, who was standing at the front of the room at the podium. His presentation included a series of black-and-white slides, and everyone’s attention was focused on the screen.
Neither Diane Crate nor Gavin Rice had recognized her when she’d entered. She was confident of that. With a short blond wig, big glasses, padding around the waist and clothes right out of the ’80s, she’d transformed her look.
Tess was in the second row, almost in the middle. She was wearing dark slacks, a long black tunic top and a black-and-blue striped poncho that could have been for warmth but likely wasn’t. She looked nice. And seemed relaxed. Before the program had started, she’d been chatting with the woman next to her.
The plainclothes cop, playing the role of cell-phone-camera-enthusiast, had been snapping away. Rena knew that he was sending the pictures back to the state lab, and they were being run through facial-recognition programs.
And Matt Connell was killing it. His jokes were hitting, his stories had heart, and she could feel the patriotic pride of the audience start to swell. Their little city had been instrumental in equipping ships that had made the difference in WWII. He’d been talking nonstop for over ninety minutes and nobody showed any sign of being bored.
The only thing that was bothering Rena was a woman in the back row on the far right. Several times, Rena had glanced her direction, only to see the woman’s gaze focused not on the screen, but rather on Tess. She was young, probably not even thirty. Pretty. Dressed in leggings and a big sweater.
When it was intermission time, Rena stood and stretched. Like most everyone in the audience did. Diane Crate had put out cookies and punch, and people started to quietly mill around. Some were talking to their neighbor, some checking their cell phones. The woman who’d been staring at Tess walked over to the cookie tray.