Veronica Mars

by Rob Thomas

  It happened so fast no one could stop it. Crane slapped the microphone away. Then he pulled back his fist and landed an uppercut right into Ken-doll’s jaw, sending the reporter staggering backward into his cameraman. Somewhere across the parking lot someone screamed. There was the sound of people running, and then four officers in Sheriff’s Department khakis came pushing out the doors. A moment later, Lamb came striding behind them. He must have sensed an opportunity to posture in front of the media—he wore mirrored aviator shades that he no doubt grabbed the moment he heard raised voices.

  “Stay away from my fucking sister,” Crane screamed, fists clenched at his sides. Behind him, Ella was crying silently, big blobby tears rolling down her cheeks. Mrs. Dewalt ran to her, pulling her close and staring wildly around. The reporter was on the ground, a dazed and distant expression on his face. A deputy touched Crane’s arm, and he jerked away.

  Other reporters sprinted across the parking lot as they scented blood, and already, cameras were flashing. One deputy helped the fallen reporter to his feet while Lamb himself stepped in front of Crane. “I’m going to have to ask you to step inside, Mr. Dewalt.”

  “Oh, you got off your asses for this, huh?” Crane sneered. The veins on his forearms strained against his skin, Hulk style. He stood, shoulders back, ready to take another swing if he had to. “I finally figured out what it takes, then.”

  A deputy kneeled down to inspect the reporter’s injuries. Another gently led Ella and her mother back toward the glass double doors. Crane’s chest heaved visibly. For a horrible, wonderful moment, Veronica thought he might swing a punch at Lamb. Then he seemed to collapse, the rage dissipating all at once. He held up his hands, both a surrender and a mark of disgust. Lamb watched one of the remaining officers lead him to the doors. Mr. Dewalt followed, flushed beet red.

  “It’s all under control, everyone.” Lamb turned toward the cluster of reporters, whipping his shades off with a flourish. “Just a scuffle. You all right, Langston? Come on, get him inside. We’ll go ahead and take a statement.”

  Lamb basked in the camera flashes for a few minutes until the reporters lost interest. As they started to draw away he turned to the doors. That was when he caught sight of Veronica. His eyes narrowed.

  “What are you doing here?”

  A hundred smartassed answers sprang to her lips. But for once she swallowed them. She forced a smile that could charitably be called “polite.”

  “I was hoping to ask Willie Murphy a few questions—”

  But Lamb was already shaking his head no. “Forget it, Mars. Even if I wanted to let you in—which, by the way, I don’t—Murphy isn’t taking any visitors.” He smirked. “And I doubt he’d talk to you, anyway. You don’t accuse a man of kidnapping and murder one day, then ask him out for coffee the next.”

  “I didn’t … Okay, there are so many things wrong with that statement I’m not even going to bother.” She gave him an exasperated look. Should have gone with the smartassed answer after all. At least then I’d have the satisfaction of a job well done.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go talk to young Mr. Dewalt about his attitude.” He gave her another smug little grin, turned to nod at Oxman, and went back inside.

  “They’ll have to book the kid. They can’t let him get away with that,” Oxman said conversationally. He yawned, revealing a mouthful of coffee-yellowed teeth. “Are you still working the case?”

  “Yeah, I am. At least until I find out what happened to Aurora and Hayley.”

  He adjusted his collar. She caught sight of the sweat stains beneath his arms. “The best thing you can do for the safety of these girls is to step back and let us do our thing.” He lowered his voice. “These cartels don’t play games. I know—I’ve been dealing with them for more than a decade.”

  “So you think the Milenios have her?”

  “I didn’t say that.” His eyes darted around the parking lot. Veronica blinked. The very word “Milenios” seemed to make him jump. “I don’t know who took Hayley Dewalt, and frankly, I don’t want to know. But I’ll tell you this. Three hours ago Murphy dismissed his public defender. Now he’s got Schultz and Associates representing him.”

  “Schultz? They’re huge. And expensive.” She frowned. “How is Willie Murphy affording that kind of firepower?”

  “Exactly.” He stabbed at the air with one index finger.

  Maybe Weevil had it wrong after all. Schultz and Associates were high profile, and they weren’t always easy to get even if you had the money. You had to be connected, important, and as far as she knew Willie Murphy didn’t even have a permanent home to call his own. Someone wanted him protected—someone with leverage. But did Eduardo and Rico want him protected to cover up murder and kidnapping—or something else?

  “Look, I can’t tell you what to do, kid, but proceed with caution.” Oxman rubbed his nose between his index finger and thumb, then sighed. “One of my colleagues got snatched down in Oaxaca last year. Disappeared without a trace while he was working a case. So they’re not above taking the so-called experts in order to keep us out of their business.” He shrugged. “And you might do us all a favor and wait until we have the girls back home before you go stirring up too much shit.”

  As he took a few steps toward the parking lot, an idea dawned on her.

  “Hey, did you catch the name of the public defender who got fired?”

  Oxman shrugged. “Can’t remember. But I understand it was some low-rent local guy.” He thought about it for a moment. “McSomething.”

  A slow smile stretched over Veronica’s face. Bingo.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The wind picked up as Veronica arrived at the Scotts’ condo later that day. Thin clouds skidded across the sky, and the trees murmured softly as their branches caught each gust. She grabbed a pink box from the passenger seat of the BMW and walked slowly toward the front door.

  At first Veronica hadn’t realized the date—not until she was leaving her third message on Cliff McCormack’s voice mail. “I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. It’s Sunday, March twenty-third, just after three. Call me back.” And as she hung up the phone, the date had burned on her lips. March twenty-third, her mother’s birthday.

  She really didn’t want to admit that she still remembered it. But there it was, written in indelible ink in some part of her mind. It went with a handful of memories she didn’t love to relive—Lianne, tossing back cheap martinis at the midrange steakhouse where they’d celebrated her birthday, getting so drunk she fell on the dessert cart. Another year, when they’d thrown a party for her at the house and she hadn’t even shown up. When she’d staggered in the door at three that morning she and Keith had had one of the few truly nasty fights. And other memories that were, in a way, even worse—the year they’d taken an afternoon dinner cruise, and the three of them had stood silent and peaceful on the deck watching whales play in the wake of the ship. The year Keith brought home Backup, a tiny, wiggly puppy with an enormous bow around his neck, and Lianne had carried him in her arms like a baby all afternoon.

  Veronica adjusted the box in her hands. Was it tacky to get a cake during a hostage crisis? What was the protocol? She pictured chocolate frosting with white lettering: HAPPY BIRTHDAY. HOPE YOUR DAUGHTER ISN’T DEAD. But this year was her fiftieth, a year with a zero. Veronica had to do something. So on her way to the condo she’d swung by a bakery and picked up a small German chocolate cake. It was her mom’s favorite—or at least it had been, a decade ago.

  Lianne jerked the door open moments after the doorbell rang, as if she’d been waiting for it. She gave a little jolt when she saw Veronica. Then she opened the door a little wider. “Veronica. Hi. Sorry, I was expecting … Come on in. We’re on the terrace.”

  She followed her mother through the house. It looked much the same, if a bit more lived-in. A hodgepodge of instruments was strewn across the living room floor—a plastic toy accordion, a miniature xylophone, a full-size tambourine with hal
f the zils missing. Half-empty glasses cluttered the coffee table, next to a small stack of newspaper crossword puzzles pocked with eraser marks. A greasy smell hung on the air, the remnants of a week of hastily eaten fast food.

  Lianne opened the glass doors and led her out to a balcony jutting out over the bluff. It was decorated with cool slate tile, a wrought-iron railing, and a retractable sunshade. Large earthen pots of bougainvillea and philodendron sat in every corner and cranny, giving the deck a lush, jungly look.

  At the far end of the balcony, Tanner sat submerged in a sleekly curving Jacuzzi tub, head resting back against an inflatable pillow. He waved as they came in. “Veronica! We weren’t expecting you.”

  “Hi, Mr. Scott,” she said. Then, as an afterthought: “Tanner.”

  Hunter sat at a round glass table with an ancient Casio synthesizer, the rhythm set to bossa nova, plucking at the keys one finger at a time. His hair stuck up in the back, and there was a smear of something—barbecue sauce, maybe—at the corner of his mouth. Veronica smiled at him as she set the box down on the table. “Hi, Hunter. How’s it going?”

  He shrugged, his eyes wary.

  “I thought you were the kidnapping specialist,” Lianne said, sliding the glass doors shut. “He’s supposed to arrive any minute.”

  “So you guys are going to pay the ransom?”

  “Of course we are.” Lianne took a few steps around the deck, aimless and tense. She wore the same FIND AURORA T-shirt Tanner had been wearing on Friday. Aurora’s face looked strangely stretched out, almost like it was warped with pain.

  Veronica watched her mother’s movements—simultaneously jerky and controlled, as if she was thinking about every step, every reach. Like she was just waiting for someone to jump out of the bushes and scream, “Boo!” It was familiar. Painfully familiar. That was how Lianne had always acted in the days before a relapse.

  “What’s this for?”

  They all turned to look at Hunter, who’d taken the lid off the box and was staring down at the cake. Veronica gave an uncomfortable little laugh.

  “Oh. That. Well …” She gave Lianne a nervous smile. “I know it’s not exactly a happy birthday, but I thought we should at least have some cake.”

  Lianne’s eyes fell on the box, then darted up to meet Veronica’s. For a moment they stared at each other. Lianne’s mouth fell open, her cheeks pink as well. “Birthday?” Tanner glanced from Lianne to Veronica and back again. “It’s … oh Christ, I forgot again, didn’t I?”

  He heaved himself out of the Jacuzzi, water slopping against the sides of the tub. His swim trunks were bright green with a palm-tree print all over them. A few old scars ran across his torso, white against his suntanned skin.

  “It’s fine, Tanner. There’s been so much going on. I almost forgot it myself.”

  “We should have planned something.” He toweled off, then put a damp arm around Lianne’s shoulders and kissed the side of her head. “Hunter, we forgot your mama’s birthday. We’re gonna have to make it up to her.”

  “How come she remembered it?” Hunter asked, staring at Veronica.

  The bossa nova drumbeat grooved its way into the silence that stretched out between them all. Was this the moment to tell a six-year-old that, by the way, his mom had another kid? To try to explain why Veronica wasn’t a part of their life? Hunter’s brow was rumpled up in a painfully familiar way—the family forehead, skeptical and anxious. The forehead of a kid who saw everything, heard everything, even if he didn’t understand what he was seeing or hearing yet.

  Veronica’s and Lianne’s eyes met over the top of the little boy’s head. Then Lianne slowly sat down at the table next to Hunter, putting a hand on each arm so that he’d look at her.

  “Hunter, we haven’t been totally honest with you,” she said, her voice trembling. “You know how Rory’s your half sister, from your dad’s previous marriage? Well, Veronica’s your half sister on the other side. She’s my daughter. She’s your sister.”

  Hunter’s little brow furrowed deeper. For a moment Veronica wondered if he was about to cry. She realized she was holding her breath, her heart racing, and she almost laughed. How was it, after the week she’d had, that a six-year-old’s reaction to the news that she was his sister could make her so nervous?

  Then Hunter looked back at the cake. “So are we going to eat it?”

  Lianne’s lips trembled. She leaned forward to hug Hunter, a single tear rolling down her cheek. “Yes, baby, we’re going to eat it. I’ll get a knife. Can you say thank you to Veronica?”

  “Thanks for the cake,” he said. Then he hit a few experimental keys on the keyboard and sang it. “Thanks … for the caaaaake.”

  Lianne went into the house to get plates and silverware, Hunter following at her heels and singing to himself. Tanner and Veronica were alone. The awkwardness was almost deafening.

  “Thanks so much for making sure your mom had a nice birthday, Veronica.” He shook his head. “I’d like to say I forgot because of … all this. Aurora being missing and all. But the truth is, I’m pretty bad at birthdays. It’s a flaw of mine. But it’s not for lack of caring. I just killed too many damn brain cells.” He gave a hoarse laugh and sat down across the table from her. His blue eyes were the only part of him that didn’t look somehow faded.

  Veronica wasn’t sure what to say. She’d never had that problem. Neither she nor her dad had ever forgotten a birthday. They took any excuse to appreciate each other. They’d taken any excuse to try to make Lianne feel loved. And it hadn’t been enough. It had never been enough.

  But somehow, here Lianne was, with someone new. And she knew it wasn’t fair—she barely knew Tanner—but she couldn’t figure out how Tanner had kept her mother when Keith hadn’t been able to.

  Tanner seemed to read something in her face, and he gave a crooked grin. With quick, careful fingers he picked up a pack of cigarettes from the table. When he lit up, he was careful to blow the smoke away from her.

  “I’d quit before all this,” he said, holding up his cigarette with a sheepish look on his face. “But, you know. Stress.” For a moment he stared out over the skyline. Then he turned to look at Veronica again. “Your mom’s worked real hard to keep clean. And I know … I know the two of you probably have a lot of unfinished business between you. If anyone knows that, I do. Me and Rory’s mom …” He trailed off, then took another quick drag. “You’re a grown-up woman so I’m not going to tell you how you’ve got to feel. And it’s not my place to interfere between a mother and her daughter. All I can say to you is that sometimes, it’s easier to be with your own kind. And your mom was never of a kind with your daddy. I’m not saying anything bad about him. Maybe the opposite, even. It’s hard to look the people you love in the face when they’ve seen you fuck up everything you touch. Sometimes, it’s easier to rebuild your life if you’re with someone who’s been as low as you’ve been.”

  Veronica was spared having to answer when Hunter came running back outside. “He’s here!”

  Lianne came out onto the patio, her hands empty, followed by a tall African-American man in a perfectly cut suit. Tanner stood up, and Veronica did too, a half second later. “Mr. Jackson?”

  The man held out a long, fine-boned hand and shook with Tanner. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Scott. I’m so sorry for all you’re going through.”

  He was in his midforties, clean-shaven, with a deep and reassuring voice. His broad shoulders stayed perfectly level, and he moved with studied economy. Next to Lianne’s anxious fidgeting and Tanner’s quick, aggressive motions he seemed unbelievably graceful.

  “And this is my daughter, Veronica Mars,” Lianne said. Jackson shook her hand too. His grip was firm and cool.

  “She’s a private detective,” Tanner added. “She’s been helping us with the case.”

  Jackson looked at her more intently now. “Interesting.” Then he released her hand.

  “Can I … can I get you anything? Water, iced tea? I can put on some coffee
if you like,” Lianne offered.

  “No thank you, Mrs. Scott.” He set down his briefcase and straightened his lapels. “Before we start, let me give you some reassurance. I know you’re both scared. You’ve been through hell. But I want you to know you’re in good hands. I’ve handled more than a hundred of these cases, in countries all over the world. These guys just want to get their money—as long as you trust me, and give me free rein to deal with them, I believe that we have a very good chance of getting her back.” He glanced at Veronica. “But that means we’ve got to play by the rules. And I don’t want to endanger Aurora’s life with any unnecessary poking around. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

  “So the plan is to give the kidnappers what they want? And then what?” Veronica frowned. “Don’t you want to know who it is so they can be held accountable? So we can stop them?”

  “The plan, Miss Mars,” Jackson said calmly, “is to bring Aurora Scott home. That is what I do. That is all that matters. And I would ask you to think very carefully about interfering with that plan. This is a delicate operation. One mistake could cost us everything.”

  His eyes locked on hers. Veronica didn’t flinch. She stared back at him, shoulders squared.

  “Veronica.” Her mother’s voice was brittle, shaking. “Please.”

  She looked up. Lianne’s eyes were wide and scared.

  For a moment she felt rooted to the spot. Everyone watched her, waiting, tense. Out below the patio, a gust of wind rattled the leaves in the trees. She picked up her purse.

  “Look, don’t worry. I’m not going to interfere with your negotiations.”

  She headed toward the door.

  “Good luck,” she said over her shoulder. “And happy birthday.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was nearly 11:00 p.m. when she walked into her bedroom to see if Logan was online. He hadn’t replied to her e-mail earlier in the week, but that didn’t mean anything. His schedule was as uncertain as hers, and she didn’t want to miss him if he did manage to score some computer time. So after watching the evening news with Keith—images of the dramatically interrupted press conference were being mined with a vengeance—she’d kissed his forehead and gone back to her room to get ready.