by Harlan Coben
"Yeah," I said, "I guess I do."
"So think it through while talking to me."
I didn't really want to, so I told her what I'd seen in the plainest "just the facts" language. Her mobile phone buzzed. Ema looked down at the screen. "It's my mom."
Still felt so weird--her "mom" being one of the most glamorous women in the world.
Ema picked up the phone with a sigh and spoke with lots of "I'm fine, Mom"s before hanging up and turning to me. "Your uncle is with her. They both want us to go home pronto."
That was okay by me. I wanted to be alone for a bit. I wanted to sort through this and consider my next step closely. Most of all, though, I wanted Ema to be someplace safe and away from me. I had already gotten one friend shot. I did not relish the idea of putting another in jeopardy.
So Ema and I went our separate ways. I got home, still lost in my thoughts. I had figured out what had happened in the Caldwell household. Most of it, anyway. I was having trouble making all the pieces fit. There was, I knew, only one way to get the answers I needed. It was going to involve putting myself in more peril. I didn't relish that either. There was a fine line between being daringly brave and foolishly suicidal. I wasn't in the mood to find out just how fine.
But what choice did I have?
When I got home, I headed into the basement and texted Rachel: Are you out of there?
Rachel: Just leaving Troy's now.
Good. I didn't even bother to reply. Knowing she wouldn't be there, I quickly dialed Rachel's home phone. As I did, the front door opened, and Myron entered. "Mickey?"
I put my hand over the phone. "One sec," I called back.
On the third ring a man picked up and said, "Hello?"
"Mr. Caldwell, this is Mickey Bolitar."
"Oh, hello, Mickey. Rachel isn't here right now."
"I wasn't calling for her."
"Oh?"
"I know what happened to your ex-wife and daughter."
There was an odd tightness in his voice now. "Then you should tell the police at once."
"You mean, like Chief Taylor?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, sure, I guess I could tell him, but we both know he'd just cover it up."
There was a pause. I could hear Mr. Caldwell's breath through the phone.
"What are you trying to say here, Mickey?"
"You and I need to meet," I said.
"Come by the house then."
"I'd rather meet somewhere else. Do you play basketball, Mr. Caldwell?"
"That's an odd question."
"I'll meet you by the outdoor courts in the center of town," I said. "Oh, and wear basketball clothes. Shorts and a T-shirt."
"Why?"
"Because this time," I said, "I want to make sure you aren't armed."
CHAPTER 46
Rachel kept buzzing my phone. I kept ignoring it.
From a tree about a hundred yards away, I saw Mr. Caldwell pull up in his BMW. The court lights were on, but no one was playing right now. He came out of his car carrying a basketball. I guess that was meant to give me comfort. He wore, per my request, basketball shorts and a T-shirt. It might be possible to hide a gun somewhere, but I doubted it.
We met up at half court. Henry Caldwell looked exhausted. There was enough baggage under his eyes to qualify for an airline surcharge. His hair had a wispy quality to it, as though a strong wind could blow it off his head.
"What do you want, Mickey?"
I was standing on the diving board now. Might as well just jump right in. "You were there when your ex-wife was murdered. I want to know what happened."
He looked at the basketball in his hands. "How do you know I was there?"
"Rachel said she heard voices, both male and female. One was you. One was your ex-wife."
There we stood, center court, him holding a basketball. I probably had four or five inches on him. He looked up at me with his dark eyes. "Are you wearing a wire, Mickey?"
"A wire?"
"Yes. Is anyone else listening in on this? Are you recording it? Lift up your shirt."
I lifted it so he could see that I didn't have a microphone or recording device.
"How about your cell phone?" he asked.
Uh-oh. "What about it?"
"Some people leave it on so others can hear on the other end of the phone."
I took my cell phone out of my pocket, secretly pressing the end button as I did, and then I handed it to him. Mr. Caldwell glanced at the screen. I wondered whether he saw all the texts and missed calls from his daughter. If he did, he didn't say anything. All he did was take the back off my phone, pry out the battery, and hand it back to me.
"Start talking," he said.
"Look, Mr. Caldwell, I saw the police report."
"How did you see it?"
"That's not really important."
"Did you break into Chief Taylor's house?"
"Mr. Caldwell . . ."
"Answer me."
"Your ex-wife had gun residue on her hand," I said.
"Excuse me?"
"Gun residue. That means she pulled the trigger."
His face lost color.
"What? Are you out of your mind?" His voice was full of bluster. Not rage, not anger--bluster. It sounded phony, like lines he was reading off a script. "Those two goons fired the shots."
I shook my head. "No, sir, your ex-wife did."
He opened his mouth to say more, but nothing came out. His shoulders slumped; his eyelids looked heavy.
"Your ex-wife committed suicide," I said.
Tears started to fill his eyes. When he lowered his head, I saw the police car slowly cruise up behind him. My pulse started speeding up.
"Is that Chief Taylor?" I asked.
"Yes."
"You called him?"
"You left the file open on his desk. He put it together himself."
My mouth felt dry.
"You forgot something, Mickey."
"What's that?"
"If Rachel's mother shot herself, who shot Rachel?"
So now we were down to it. I knew because in the end only one answer made sense. Our eyes met. I saw the pain there. No doubt in my mind anymore--Mr. Caldwell had been there. He had seen his own daughter shot.
But he hadn't been the one to do it.
"Your ex-wife," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Your ex-wife shot your daughter."
He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
"I don't know exactly how it played out. Rachel finds your gym bag and hides it. She tells her mother that she knows the truth now--that she believes her. You come home later. You find your bag is missing. You're angry. You confront your ex-wife. That's what Rachel hears--you two arguing. Your ex-wife whips out a gun. Rachel comes charging in the room. That was one of the things that bothered me. If Rachel was shot first, your ex-wife would never have stood still for the killer to press the gun against her head and fire like that."
"So maybe Nora was shot first," he said, but there was no conviction behind his voice.
"No, sir. Rachel was clear. She didn't hear gunfire. She heard voices and came down the stairs. She burst into the room. Your ex-wife is holding the gun. I don't know what happens exactly. She panics, I guess. Or maybe she tries to shoot you, but her aim is off. Whatever, she hits her own daughter. Rachel falls to the floor. Your ex-wife can't believe what she's done. She's distraught. The gun is still in her hands . . ."
I stopped. Chief Taylor parked the car, but so far, he hadn't gotten out.
"Do I have it right?" I asked.
"Close," he said. He took a few breaths. "Nora didn't shoot and miss me. Yes, she had the gun out. Yes, she had it pointed in my direction. But when Rachel came in, she just . . . she just turned and fired. Just like that. I saw the blood spurt. I saw Rachel fall to the ground." He closed his eyes, tried to gather himself. "I ran toward my daughter and tried to stop the bleeding. I didn't even look at Nora. Then I heard the gun go off again. I turned and . .
. I guess in hindsight I wasn't surprised. Nora was deeply disturbed with suicidal tendencies anyway. Now she had shot her own daughter. In her mind, I'm sure she thought Rachel was dead."
Chief Taylor got out of the car and started toward us.
I debated cutting my losses and breaking into a sprint right now. I knew enough. I knew now who shot Rachel. How would Chief Taylor react to my knowing the truth?
"People know where I am," I said. "They know the story."
"I don't think that's true, Mickey. I don't think you had time to tell anyone the story. It doesn't matter anyway." Mr. Caldwell looked up at me through wet eyes. "Are we done here?"
"Just about," I said. "Your daughter was injured. Your wife had killed yourself. You didn't call nine-one-one at first, did you?"
"No," he said. "I didn't."
"You called Chief Taylor."
"Yes."
"So he'd be first on the scene. So you could cover up the truth and try to pin it on a random breakin."
I didn't expect him to admit this, but Mr. Caldwell took a deep breath and then said, "Yes."
"You were afraid people would learn the truth about you. That you were a drug dealer."
"No."
Chief Taylor arrived. "Hello, Mickey," he said.
I ignored him and kept my eyes on Mr. Caldwell. "What do you mean, no?"
"I mean, you're wrong. I wasn't worried about what people would learn about me. If it was all to protect me, why do you think Chief Taylor agreed to help?"
"He's on your payroll," I said.
I saw the anger flash in Chief Taylor's eyes, but I didn't step back. "You think I'm a crook?"
"Take it easy, Ed," Caldwell said.
"Did you just hear what he said?"
"It's understandable from his perspective. Just calm down. He doesn't get it yet."
Taylor glared at me.
He was right. I didn't get it. "What are you two talking about?"
"I'm not a drug dealer, Mickey."
"And I'm not a cop on the take," Taylor added.
Then, with the three of us standing there, I saw the truth. In fact, when I stopped and thought about it, maybe I had known the truth before we all arrived here. There was a reason I set up this meeting without telling Rachel or responding to her constant texts. Subconsciously--or maybe not so subconsciously--I didn't want her to know the truth yet either.
"You covered it up," I said, "to protect Rachel."
Taylor kept his head down. "I don't like the way you put that. Covered it up."
"Mickey," Mr. Caldwell said, stepping in front of Taylor, "have you ever noticed the burn mark on Rachel's arm?"
"Yes."
"Do you know how she got it?"
I shook my head.
"Her mother did that to her with a clothing iron."
I didn't know what to say. I looked over at Chief Taylor. His head was back up now.
"That was the final straw really. Rachel's mother was unbalanced for years. I tried to hold on to her as long as I could." He blinked hard. "I loved Nora. When we first met . . ." His voice faded away. "But the illness robbed her of all that. You have heart disease, people understand. When the brain gets sick, well, it's almost impossible to comprehend. I lived in denial a long time. Friends warned me. Heck, Ed here warned me. They could see Nora was coming apart--that she wasn't right. I tried to get her help, but she got worse and worse, and then one day, Nora thought she saw little bugs attacking her little girl. So she went after them with a steam iron set on high."
I swallowed. "Does Rachel remember?"
"Maybe. I don't know. She may have blocked on it. Anyway, I couldn't risk it anymore. So I finally sent Nora away. She didn't want to go, but we had a judge commit her. It was the hardest decision of my life. I talked to a lot of doctors. They all agreed. She was a danger to herself and to our child."
I felt my heart start coming up to my throat. Poor Rachel.
Mr. Caldwell smiled at me but there was no joy in it. "I tried to tell Rachel. I tried to explain. But she was too young. Maybe she still is. Sometimes she got it. Sometimes she didn't. I probably should have spent more time with her. I shouldn't have remarried so fast. Maybe that would have helped, I don't know. It doesn't matter now. The years passed. Rachel started to need someone. A hero. Someone who would love her unconditionally."
"Enter her mother?" I said.
"Yes."
"And Rachel wanted now to believe her mother was okay?"
"Naturally," Mr. Caldwell said.
"So Rachel helps her mother get out of the hospital. She helps get her off her medications. She brings her home. She helps convince her mother that she isn't sick."
"But the irony is, she is," Mr. Caldwell said. "Nora was very sick. Don't you see what would happen if Rachel knew the truth--that her mother shot her and then shot herself? Can you imagine the guilt Rachel would feel? For bringing her home? For helping her off the meds? She'd never get over it. She'd blame herself."
I did see.
"But wait," I said. "Rachel did find drugs you were hiding. She did find that money."
"Yes."
"So maybe that was what caused the illness or at least exacerbated it. You were a drug dealer."
"No," Mr. Caldwell said.
Taylor sighed. "He works for us. Well, more for someone you know in the county office."
I thought about it and the answer was so clear now. "Detective Waters?"
"It was a sting operation," Mr. Caldwell said. "I was working undercover. Those drugs were supposed to be used to bring down Brian Tart and Emile Romero."
In the distance I heard the town's emergency whistle blow.
"I have to go," Chief Taylor said. He looked over at me. "Are you going to tell?"
I didn't reply. I had thought that Taylor was a creep of biblical proportions. Now I could see the truth. He had done what he had done--he had covered up the truth--to protect Rachel.
The fire whistle sounded again. Taylor looked at me again. I nodded at him. He nodded back. An unspoken understanding passed between us.
Mr. Caldwell moved closer to me. "I know you and the chief don't get along, but Ed did what he did for Rachel and me. He risked his own career to help us out. Do you see that?"
I looked at him. "Are you going to tell Rachel the truth?"
"About my working for the police? Yes. I'm going to tell her soon."
I shook my head. "Not about that. About what really happened in that den."
"No."
I said nothing.
"Listen to me, Mickey. I'm her father. I want what's best for her. You get that, right?"
I still didn't know what to say.
He put down the basketball and rested his hands on my shoulders. He leaned in close and made sure I was looking him straight in the eyes. "It would kill her," Mr. Caldwell said, his voice a plea. "Rachel did mess up. She messed up so big, her own mother shot her. It wasn't the contents of that gym bag that got her mother killed. It was the illness, yes, but Rachel isn't going to see that. Rachel is going to see that if she had left well enough alone, her mother would be alive right now. She is going to see that she helped facilitate her mother's delusions. She is going to see that she brought her mother here and that her actions led to her mother's death. She's going to realize that because of what she did, her mother shot her own daughter and was so pained by that, so tortured by that last vision, she ended her own life. Do you see, Mickey? I'm a father. My job is to protect my daughter. Do you see how I couldn't let Rachel spend the rest of her life with that kind of guilt?"
"Because she is to blame," I said, my voice sounding far away in my own ears. "There may have been excuses. It may have been understandable. But in the end, what happened was Rachel's fault."
"Yes," Mr. Caldwell said softly. "Which is all the more reason for those of us who love her to keep this quiet."
It felt like someone had scooped out my insides. "So you just let Brian Tart and Emile Romero take the fall?"
"They have so many counts against them, those two won't matter. The prosecutor could never prove it anyway. It'll be one of those cases where everyone knows who did it but there won't be a need to try it. The police won't look too hard because they don't want the truth out. I'm still a valuable commodity working undercover. If this became public, it would ruin that. A lot of criminals would go free."
I felt a fresh pang of sadness. "So we all stay quiet."
"For Rachel's sake. Can you do that, Mickey?"
But I didn't feel like answering that right now. I turned and walked away, toward a tree in the distance.
"Mickey?"
I didn't turn around. I just kept walking. Eventually Mr. Caldwell started back for his car. I stopped and waited for him to drive off. Then I finished my walk to the big tree.
Uncle Myron was standing behind it. "I got scared when he asked to see your cell phone."
"I hung up before I handed it to him," I said.
"I was going to move in, but, well, you never gave me the distress signal."
"I was fine," I said, heading with Uncle Myron back toward his car, "but I felt better having you here as backup."
CHAPTER 47
I had to start answering Rachel's texts.
When I got home, I told her that I'd found nothing significant in Chief Taylor's files. In short, I lied. Or at least, I bought more time because I didn't know what to do. Ema also wanted to know what was up. I wasn't sure what to do, but in the end, this was Rachel's private business, not mine, so I again kept it to myself.
The doorbell rang.
Myron was on the phone. "It's the pizza guy. You mind? The money's on the kitchen table."
I grabbed the money, gave it to the guy at the door, took the pizza. I dropped the pie on the kitchen table, filled two water glasses, and waited for Uncle Myron. He came in and sat down next to me.
Uncle Myron opened the box. The wonderful aroma wafted out as though conjured up by the gods we studied in mythology class. He gave me a slice first, then he took one for himself. He bit into it and said, "Heaven."
"Pretty much," I agreed.
He swallowed. "You still don't want to tell me what that was all about?"
"I appreciate you backing me up," I said.
"But?"
It was getting late. I was tired and confused. "Do you believe it's okay to lie sometimes?"
Myron put down the slice and wiped his hands on a napkin. "Sure."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. It's the eternal question--do the ends justify the means?"
"And do they?"
Myron smiled. "If anyone has a sure answer to that one, be wary. Anyone who answers definitely yes or definitely no is someone who isn't thinking things through."