by Lisa Bork
Ray finished his call. “Catherine is going to have one of her associates see what he can dig up on FLM. It will take a few hours. She’s going to call ahead to the jail for us so that we can get in to see Heather even if it’s not officially visiting hours.”
“I found a church that paid Abigail Bryce one hundred dollars and sent her a 1099 at year end.”
Ray snapped his cell phone open and punched in a number. “Let me call the Canandaigua P.D. I can’t believe they didn’t follow up on identity theft if the Bryces reported it to them.”
I listened to his conversation. It became obvious within minutes that the police were never informed of this 1099. Ray ended his conversation with them and dialed another number.
“Who are you calling now?”
“Mrs. Bryce. I want to see if she remembers this 1099.”
She didn’t, but she also confessed that, by that time, she’d started to throw out any correspondence addressed to her daughter, assuming it to be junk mail.
Ray clicked his cell phone shut. “Another dead end. Let’s head over to the jail and see what Heather can tell us about Barclay.”
As I packed a diaper bag for Noelle, Ray brought the car up close to the front door, then stood watch with his hand on his gun while I strapped Noelle into her car seat. Luckily, Noelle was ready for a nap and fell asleep minutes out of the driveway, allowing the ride to the jail to pass in blissful silence.
When Heather entered the jail conference room and saw Ray and me, she hesitated, looking back over her shoulder as though she might prefer to return to her cell. Then her gaze moved to Noelle’s face and she seemed to change her mind, moving toward where I sat with Noelle in my lap.
“Can I hold her?” Heather’s voice was so quiet I almost didn’t make out her words, but her outstretched hands told me all I needed to know.
“Of course.” I settled Noelle in Heather’s lap. Noelle touched Heather’s face and giggled. When Heather kissed her cheeks over and over again, my heart broke.
Ray, on the other hand, managed to keep it together. Sometimes the man was more machine than human. “Heather?” He waited until her gaze met his. “Do you know Dave Barclay?”
Heather’s eyes widened and her lips parted. She blinked rapidly. Seconds later she buried her face in Noelle’s curls. “No.”
Ray sighed. “You’re lying.”
She didn’t raise her head or bother to argue. The wall of silence was back. She started a game of peek-a-boo with Noelle instead.
Ray stood. “Jolene, take Noelle and wait for me outside.”
Surprised, I took a second to respond to his request. This time when I took Noelle from her, I thought Heather’s eyes widened in fear.
In the lobby, I waited, pacing back and forth with Noelle in my arms. She started to fuss, pulling my hair and crying. I dug her squeaky toy out of the diaper bag and gave it to her, crooning “Hush Little Baby” in her ear. She chewed on the end of the dog’s tail as though she was teething.
I wished I had something to chew on myself, other than my fears.
Five minutes later, Ray appeared, strapping his shoulder holster in place.
I darted over to him. “What happened?”
“I pressed her. She gave me nothing. Damn stubborn girl.” But Ray sounded almost appreciative. Most of the petty criminals he arrested folded quickly under the lamps. Heather had chutzpa and Ray admired chutzpa, even when it cost him.
On the drive home, Ray tapped his long fingers incessantly on the steering wheel until I snapped. “Ray!”
Startled, he looked over at me. “What?”
I stared pointedly at his fingers.
“Oh, sorry.” He curled them tight around the wheel. “I’m thinking about the gambling and the racetrack. The guys at the racetrack identified Theo before anyone else. They said they’d paid him winnings the week before you saw him, then Heather had a winning ticket for that day. What are the odds that they’d win two weeks in a row?”
“I have no idea. I suppose if they won the week before, they’d be more inclined to come back and bet again at the same track.”
Ray shifted his weight and pulled his cell phone out of his right pocket. “I don’t question that. What I’m questioning is the frequency of the wins.” He handed the phone to me. “Scroll though the numbers, would you, darlin’? Find the number for the track. I want to call them.”
When I passed the phone back to him, Ray asked the operator at the track to page his contact.
“This is Ray Parker from the sheriff’s office again. I need more information on the winnings you paid Theodore Tibble and any paid to an Abigail Bryce. Can you check your records and tell me which races they won, the favorite horse for the race, and the odds on their winning horse?”
He smiled. “He put me on hold. I can hear the race results.”
We drove for ten minutes while Ray waited. I started to wonder if he’d been disconnected and just didn’t realize it, but then his contact finally picked up again. “Okay, let me grab a pen.” Ray looked at me. I pulled a pad and pen from my purse.
“Go ahead … Two winners this month. Okay … Sire Burg and Major Ed were the front runners for those races … Okay … Three months ago, two winners … Sire Burg and Speed Demon.”
My pen slid off the page. Speed Demon. I knew that name.
“Okay … and the odds? Big payoffs on all these races?” Ray whistled. “You don’t say. All right, thanks for your help.”
Ray dropped his cell in his lap. “Theo had a winning ticket once this month, and Abigail had it a second time. Three months ago, Theo had a winning ticket. All combined, they’ve won over seventy-five thousand dollars at this track in just three races, betting against the odds. How lucky can you get?”
I underlined the front runners’ names. “Maybe it’s not luck. Maybe it’s fixed.”
“Yeah, but three different horses, three different owners?”
“No, Ray, not three different owners. One owner. Dave Barclay.”
____
Noelle and I spent the afternoon in the conference room at the Sheriff’s office, a bare, humid white-walled room that smelled of burnt coffee, shoe polish, Brute, and maybe a hint of stale body odor. Ray hadn’t dared leave us home alone, and he wanted to bring Dave Barclay in for questioning himself. I didn’t dare let Noelle play on the floor, no matter how clean the vinyl looked, so she spent the afternoon on top of the table I’d wiped down with spray cleaner.
When she tired of patty-cake, peek-a-boo, airplane, pony, and even her squeaky toy, she slept in her car seat carrier, which I rocked back and forth long after she’d dropped off. With my other hand, I dialed Isabelle, hoping she was still a friend who would talk to me, even after I’d ignored her for days.
She was.
All she said when I apologized was “Tell me everything.”
So I did. It took me a while, and the story didn’t come out chronologically. But Isabelle interrupted so many times to ask questions that I don’t think she noticed, and I still managed to cover every last detail of the past few days.
She summed the mess up nicely when I finished. “So everything’s up in the air: the adoption and the trial. And you and Noelle are chained to Ray.”
“That’s about it.”
“And Cory’s watching the shop?”
I gave myself a mental head slap. “I assume so. I forgot to call him this morning.”
“You better call him as soon as we hang up. I’m sure he’s on the job, but the least you could do is thank him.”
“I will.”
Isabelle heaved a huge sigh that reverberated over the phone. “Geez, Jolene, what can I do to help?”
“Nothing, Isabelle. That’s what’s so frustrating; it’s all out of our hands. Heather is the key, and she refuses to talk. But if Dave Barclay is the one threatening her, maybe Ray can find enough evidence to have him locked up. Once he’s locked up and the threat to Noelle is gone, she should be willing to talk.” But I di
dn’t sound too confident of that, even to myself.
“Maybe.” The doubt in Isabelle’s voice mirrored mine.
“What are you thinking?”
When Isabelle spoke, she sounded hesitant to be the bearer of bad news. “It’s just that if someone threatened Cassidy, I would be afraid now and forever, especially if he’s the vindictive sort. Even prison can have a long arm, you know?”
I did know, and as I hung up, I felt only more discouraged. In the end, would the best place for Noelle be a new home and a new name, far from here? As Catherine had said, Ray couldn’t watch her 24/7. Eventually, life would have to go on. And when it did, would Ray and I be the best thing for Noelle?
My hand rocked her seat more rapidly, causing her to stir restlessly. I forced myself to let go of the car seat and reach for my cell phone again to call Cory, fearing another strained conversation with him.
The door to the conference room flew open and Ray blew in like a typhoon. He crossed the floor and poured himself a cup of coffee, stirring in that nasty powdered cream and a spoonful of sugar. He took a sip and turned to face me.
I could tell his interrogation of Dave Barclay hadn’t gone well from the twitch in his cheek. I set my cell phone down and waited for him to tell me.
He took the seat across the table from me and held his coffee cup between both hands. “Barclay admits to owning the horses. He admits to giving the bail money to Tibble’s parents. He said Theo worked as a messenger in his office, off the books, before he ducked his arrest. He said he felt sorry for Theo’s parents and Theo, so he decided to front the bail money. I’m sure that’s a load of crap, but it’ll be hard to prove otherwise, especially if any of his other employees can place Theo coming and going from the office. I’m sure Barclay knows that.”
Ray took another sip of coffee and continued, “He won’t admit to throwing the races, although his wife looked a little nervous when I pushed him on it.”
I interrupted, “His wife?”
Ray smirked. “She’s his attorney, for the moment at least. She practices general law. She demanded to be present for the whole interrogation.”
“How’d that go?”
“I asked him about his relationship with Heather Graus. He said he knew her, because she and Theo were dating. I asked him if he had any other relationship with Heather, and his wife started to fidget in her chair. Her face got real pinched, like she was sucking on a lemon.”
That sounded normal to me. “So what do you make of that?”
Ray shrugged. “Maybe Heather and Barclay had something going on before she met Theo. Maybe that’s why Heather moved here from wherever she came from. From Kim Barclay’s reaction to the question, it wouldn’t surprise me if Barclay has a pattern of other women.”
Yet another possible explanation for why Kim Barclay looked so strained.
Another thought occurred to me. “But according to her sister, Heather only turned nineteen a few weeks ago. Over a year ago, it would have been an underage relationship.”
Ray nodded. “Exactly. For now, he denies any direct relationship with Heather Graus or any threats to her. Without her cooperation, we could never make a case for statutory rape. If we did charge him, the fact that she’s given birth to another man’s child already will not make for a sympathetic jury. But he’s already looking at big trouble with the gaming commission. If we can prove his involvement in Theo’s death, he’s finished.”
“Can we?”
“I don’t know, but it makes more sense to me that Barclay would front the bail money to prevent Theo from turning State’s evidence. He doesn’t want anyone to testify that he’s been throwing the horse races. Maybe Theo blackmailed Barclay, and Barclay took the opportunity at the track to kill him. Of course, Barclay and his wife claim they never left each other’s sides at the track the day Theo was killed … and naturally they swear they didn’t kill him.”
“What about the threat to Heather and Noelle? Did you ask the Barclays where they were the day Marcia’s house was shot at?”
“I did. They both claim to have been at work. I’m going to have to make some calls to verify. But with his money, he wouldn’t do that kind of dirty work himself. He’d hire it out.”
Ray stood. “I’m going to call the racetrack and ask them to look at their security footage again, see if we can spot Barclay elsewhere on the premises when Theo hit the dirt or if he left by a different exit and beat you to Theo in the parking lot.”
Another thought occurred to me. “You know, Ray, Kim Barclay is a cold bitch. She doesn’t like children. She made that readily apparent when she visited the shop and Noelle was there. I don’t think she’d have any trouble threatening Noelle’s life.”
He leaned on the table. “So what are you saying?”
Kim might have killed to protect Dave. She wouldn’t want Heather to expose Dave as a statutory rapist, nor could I imagine her allowing Theo to blackmail him. I pictured Kim Barclay holding the broken beer bottle that took Theo’s life. The image came to mind easily, perhaps because the woman’s permanently pursed lips oozed malevolence.
“Ask the boys at the track about her whereabouts, too.”
When Ray and I left the sheriff’s station with Noelle hours later, the Sheriff had decided to hold Dave Barclay for a few more hours, much to his wife’s, or should I say attorney’s, outrage. Ray’s contacts at the racetrack were combing their security footage as fast as they could, comparing photos of Dave and Kim to the tapes. Ray wanted to drive over and pick up the tapes to do it himself, but the guys at the track assured him they were better equipped for the task. I knew Ray didn’t like to rely on anyone else to get such an important job done, but he conceded defeat and drove me home instead.
He flicked on the television and held Noelle while I fixed a bottle for her. She’d been an awfully good sport about her incredibly boring day at the office. I planned to insist to Ray that we take her on a walk around the block before her bedtime. Maybe we’d stumble on one of the cats she loved so much, and Ray could pick it up this time to show her.
“Dammit!”
“Language, Ray. Language.”
“Get in here now. You gotta see this.”
I carried the bottle with me and handed it to him. The television was playing a cheese commercial. “What?”
Ray gestured to the television set with the remote in hand as he fed Noelle with his other hand. “Just listen.”
I sat on the arm of the couch and waited for the commercial to end. Then a perky blond news reporter wearing a turquoise suit looked into the camera, a slight frown creasing her forehead.
“A new twist today in the case involving Heather Graus, the young woman accused of killing her boyfriend, Theodore Tibble, in the parking lot of a Canandaigua racetrack earlier this month. You may remember that Graus was living under the stolen identity of Abigail Bryce, a seventeen-year-old hit-and-run victim from Canandaigua, for months prior to her arrest and subsequent identification by her sister.
“Today, the sheriff’s office brought prominent Wachobe businessman Dave Barclay in for questioning. Barclay, a thirty-five-year-old native, owns Finger Lakes Marketing, an umbrella company that includes a home furniture and accessories export business, as well as three racehorses. When Heather Graus was arrested, the sheriff’s office discovered a winning ticket in her personal effects for a long-shot horse in the same race Barclay’s horse was projected to win the day of Tibble’s death. According to our sources, Barclay hired Tibble and Graus to bet against his horse in that race and other races here and across the state in a scheme to defraud the tracks involved. The sheriff’s office will contact the Gaming Commission to continue the investigation into whether or not Barclay deliberately threw those horse races.
“Channel Eleven News has also learned that Theodore Tibble fathered a child with Heather Graus, a child currently residing in a Finger Lakes–area foster home. The foster parents are believed to be a local sheriff’s deputy and his wife.
> “Graus’ father and sister requested custody of the child this a.m. after learning of reports of shots fired at the home of the child’s daycare provider. The Department of Social Services has declined to comment at this time.”
Her eyes wide with amazement, the blond reporter turned to the young Brad Pitt look-alike sitting beside her. “This story just keeps growing.”
The man shook his head. “It’s the stuff soap operas are made of. We’ll continue to follow the story and provide updates as they become available.” He smiled at the camera. “And in other news tonight—”
Ray clicked the television off and flung the changer onto the coffee table. “Not good. Not good at all.”
I could see the media circus in our front yard already, even though the wire service probably hadn’t picked up the story yet. And I’d been worried about local stigma. National headlines never crossed my mind. Noelle could be the next Baby Jessica or Elian Gonzalez, hounded by this story for the rest of her life.
The phone rang.
Noelle stopped sucking on her bottle and looked from Ray to me as we continued to let it ring, avoiding each other’s eyes. On the seventh ring, the answering machine picked up.
“Hey Ray. Hey Jolene. It’s Greg Doran. I’ve been trying to reach you. I received a call from Social Services this afternoon. Heather Graus’ father and sister have requested custody of Noelle, and based on the six o’clock news, it appears they’ve released the whole story to the press. Call me.”
The living room was silent except for Noelle’s steady suck on her bottle. She clasped it tightly in her hands and tried to wrench it from Ray. He let her. The nipple slipped out of her mouth as she dropped the bottle. She wailed. He picked up the bottle and inserted it in her mouth again. This time she let him hold it.
I slid down the arm of the chair onto the seat cushion next to him, resting my head against his shoulder. How did Heather’s family find out about the shots fired at Marcia and Jeff’s house? Another leak in the sheriff’s office like last year? Just some dumb junior deputy who told his mother, who shared the secret tantalizing tidbit with one of her friends, who told one her friends, and on and on? This town never could keep a secret for very long.