Veronica Mars

by Rob Thomas

  The sun was now sinking behind the hills, brilliant as it died. She walked around the edge of the building. The motel lot extended back half an acre before the land started to climb, dense with buckwheat and sumac. An ancient chain-link fence ran along the property line, but it sagged in several places, and in one spot it’d tumbled altogether. The buzzards dispersed as she approached the site they’d been circling. She stepped over the fallen fence.

  Something hot and fetid washed over her in waves, getting stronger as she went. She covered her mouth and nose, breathing against her own palm as shallowly as she could. Her mind spun, throwing out desperate possibilities. It could be a deer, a coyote, even a bear. But she knew it wasn’t.

  She saw the hair first, a swath dark against the dun-colored earth, curling out from a haphazard tangle of branches. She took a few more steps and could see the body clearly then. She lay facedown under a low bush. It looked as if he had tried to cover her with leaves and twigs, but something—animals, most likely—had disturbed her. She caught a glimpse of a white dress so covered in dirt it blended with the ground. The distant and industrious buzz of insects sent electric prickles over Veronica’s skin.

  She’d found Hayley Dewalt.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  By 10:00 p.m., the area around the motel was swarming with cops. Bright yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the beams of the flood lamps. Three police cruisers made a barrier in the parking lot, their lights slowly rotating red and blue. Beyond the yellow tape a few onlookers loitered, and every so often a helicopter’s mosquito whine rose and fell.

  Veronica watched through the window of Lucy’s All Nite, sipping a cup of coffee. She could see her own reflection superimposed over the crime scene, her lips a pale, downturned curve in the glass. Behind her she could see the bright lights in the kitchen and the row of flannel-clad truckers sneaking looks at her every few minutes.

  She’d lingered at the crime scene long enough to make a statement, explaining who she was and how she’d retraced Hayley’s steps to the motel. A stocky, bespectacled officer whose name badge read MEEKS had confirmed for her that the body was Hayley’s; the girl’s purse had been tucked under one arm, with her ID inside.

  “That’s off the record,” he’d said, glancing sidelong at Veronica. “Don’t go repeating it to anyone before we have a chance to contact the family. I’m not supposed to talk about an ongoing case. But, as you found her …” He gave Veronica a strange look, part pity and part grudging respect.

  Meeks had made her sit in the parking lot of the motel while an EMT wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and checked her vitals. After an hour or so, the officer had escorted her across the road to the diner. “Would you mind staying close for a few hours in case we have further questions? If it gets late, we’ll get you a room in town and we can speak in the morning.”

  “Anywhere but the Bates Motel,” she’d said, trying to sound wry but coming out strained and shaky instead.

  In the diner, Meeks took Geena aside and spoke to her in a whisper, Geena’s hands flying to her mouth partway through the story. Then the cop had given Veronica a solemn nod and headed out the door into the darkness. Geena had come to Veronica’s table and put a hand on the back of her jacket. Veronica didn’t mind. It felt almost motherly. Then that thought made her want to cry.

  “What you want to eat, honey?” The waitress had a smoker’s voice, hoarse and a little phlegmy. “Anything you like. It’s on the house.”

  More to placate Geena than anything, Veronica had ordered eggs and toast. Now the plate sat untouched where she’d pushed it away, unable even to look at the congealing yolk and slick, greasy sausage. But she was on her third cup of coffee, and while she could feel the caffeine start to rattle her eyeballs in her skull, it felt good to cup the warm mug in her fingers. The hot, bitter liquid helped wake her up from what felt like a long bad dream, and she slowly came back to herself.

  Her phone sat to the left of her cup, set to vibrate. As if on cue, Mac had called her twenty minutes after she’d settled in the diner, talking fast.

  “Veronica, I feel like a moron. Chad Cohan’s credit cards didn’t have anything on them for that night—but his mom’s did. Her name’s Sharon Ganz—I guess she went back to her maiden name after the divorce. Chad charged the room to a card he has in her name.”

  “It’s okay, Mac.” She poured a packet of sugar into her coffee and stirred. A little slopped out onto her saucer. “We couldn’t have saved her. She’s been dead all along.”

  She could see a few of the patrons leaning subtly toward her, trying to overhear. She should probably care—she should probably try to protect Hayley’s privacy as long as she could. But everyone would know what had happened soon enough.

  “The motel clerk who worked that morning has already identified Chad Cohan as the guy who rented the room,” Veronica told Mac. “I’m still putting it all together, but I think Cohan saw the pictures of her with Rico and panicked. That was the idea—she was trying to make him jealous so he’d want her back. He called her and asked her to meet him halfway. I bet the idea seemed romantic to her.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Her girlfriends hated Chad. She didn’t want to tell them where she was going, so she got a ride from Willie. Willie seemed to be operating under the hope that they’d hook up—I don’t know, maybe she hinted they would, or maybe she just let him convince himself. But when they got to the truck stop, she slipped off to the motel.”

  “So Chad Cohan went down there with intent to kill?”

  “I don’t think so. Not consciously, anyway. I think he planned to talk it out, to win her back. But somewhere in the course of the morning he lost his temper. Maybe he talked himself into it all the way down from Stanford. Or maybe she just didn’t give him the answers he wanted to hear.” She pictured Chad Cohan, his handsome face twisted in anguished rage, his fist slamming into Hayley’s jaw and knocking her down on that dingy carpet. And by that time, hitting her felt good. Did he hit her again with his fists, slamming her head hard enough to fracture her skull? Or had he grabbed something to hit her with—a lamp, an ashtray? Something heavy and irrevocable? She supposed the autopsy would tell.

  “He must have realized he had to get to that eleven o’clock class. He didn’t have time to do anything really creative to the body. So he pulled it as far back into the bushes as he could and hoped no one would find it for a while. It wasn’t a bad plan. This is a place people drive past—not a place people go poking around. Maybe he planned to come back and move her when the heat of the investigation died down.”

  Mac was quiet for a few seconds. When she spoke again, her voice was low and tentative.

  “Do you want me to drive up and meet you? Wallace and I can carpool up, and one of us can drive you home in Logan’s car. Just so you’re not alone.”

  A rush of gratitude welled up in her. She caught a glimpse of her face in the window again. This time she was smiling, just a little.

  “No. Thanks, though. I’m okay. I’ll probably start home early tomorrow. We’ll have to talk to the Dewalts, obviously, and check in with the Scotts.” She paused. “I’m not sure what this means for Aurora. It’s pretty obvious the ransom note is a hoax—but it’s also pretty obvious Cohan wouldn’t have killed both girls. So we’re back to the drawing board.”

  “Have you called your mom yet?”

  She winced. “No. Do you think I should?”

  She could hear something rustling on the other end of the line, like Mac was shifting her weight uncomfortably. “I don’t know. As her PI? Yeah, probably. As her daughter … well, that’s your call.”

  Now Veronica stared down at her phone, still and silent on the gingham oilcloth. She knew she should call the Scotts to let them know they had to halt the ransom exchange. She wished Lee fucking Jackson would call her back so she wouldn’t have to.

  Out beyond the window, cars were slowing as they drove past, and a line of traffic extended down the road. A news v
an had pulled in across the street. It wouldn’t be long before more showed up—and they’d probably try the diner when the cops wouldn’t give them any information.

  “Look!”

  A cry went up from the counter. Everyone in the restaurant was turned now toward the TV bolted just above a framed poster of Buddy Holly with his guitar. On the screen was an aerial view of the freeway. A Range Rover roared up the middle of the road; an entourage of speeding police cruisers, their lights flashing, trailed behind. A caption along the bottom of the screen said BREAKING NEWS.

  Rosa picked up a remote control and turned up the volume. The rotating police lights at the motel seemed weirdly echoed by those on the TV.

  “… now we go live to a high-speed chase heading south on Highway 101 just outside of San Jose. We have reports that the driver is a Stanford student wanted in connection to a murder, though the police are refusing to comment at this time.”

  Veronica set her cup down with a hard thunk. She hoped someone had gotten in touch with the Dewalts, because if they hadn’t, the cat was out of the bag now. That was what happened in a Trish Turley world—everyone was waiting for a new Jodi Arias, a new O.J. They couldn’t wait to tell everyone that their worst suspicions about humanity were true.

  She rose stiffly to her feet, picking up her bag and her phone. Rosa looked up and met her eyes, giving her a pensive, searching look before turning away to refill a customer’s coffee cup.

  Outside in the parking lot, Veronica leaned against the BMW and pulled out her phone. The cool night air raised goose pimples along her skin. From here she could hear the crackle of radios across the street where the crime scene had been sealed off.

  Lianne’s phone rang only once before she picked it up.

  “Veronica, what’s going on? A reporter just came by the condo saying someone found a … a girl. What …”

  “It was Hayley.” Her voice was low and heavy.

  Her mother gave a gasping sob. “God. Oh, God.” Then, in a high, frail voice: “What’s this mean for Aurora?”

  “I don’t know yet. But, Mom, I don’t think kidnappers killed Hayley. I can’t talk about the details just yet—but I’m pretty sure her death was an isolated incident.” She took a deep breath. Her heart was beating almost as hard as it did in the scrub behind the motel a few short hours ago. “I know this is scary and … awful. But try not to panic yet. I’ll check in with you tomorrow when I get back to town, okay?”

  Her mother’s breath was heavy, and Veronica realized she was crying into the phone.

  “Did … you find her? Hayley? Was it you who found her body?”

  She closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

  Lianne was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice sounded steadier. “Drive carefully, Veronica. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  After hanging up, Veronica stood there for another moment, waiting for her heart to slow down. Across the street, dark figures moved around the motel, casting deep shadows beneath the floodlights.

  She couldn’t help Hayley. She’d never been able to help Hayley—Hayley had been dead before anyone even knew she was gone. Now, though … now she had to focus. Because Aurora Scott was still out there, somewhere. And Veronica needed to find her, more than ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Veronica caught a few hours of shallow sleep in a blessedly sterile Best Western in Bakersfield, five miles from the interstate. She didn’t dream, but she woke up several times and lay in the dark, picturing Hayley Dewalt’s hair spilling out across the ground, like dark waves rolling off the body. When the clock turned to seven she finally hauled herself out of bed, took a scalding shower, and drove to Officer Meeks’s precinct to answer a few final questions. He told her that the San Jose police had finally arrested Chad Cohan in the small hours of the morning. He’d made it as far as Morgan Hill before a hastily erected blockade forced him off the road. Then he sat in his car with a loaded Glock at his temple for three hours, until some smooth-voiced negotiator had talked him down. By 9:00 a.m. he’d hired Leslie Abramson as his defense. Veronica had a nauseated feeling he’d be out on bail in no time.

  It was nearly 1:00 p.m. when Veronica left the station. Before she hit the highway she called Margie Dewalt, ready to offer her condolences. It was a relief to get voice mail. She assumed they were en route to Bakersfield to identify the body, or maybe they were on the phone with family members back in Montana. She’d send something—flowers, a letter. She’d have to follow up. But for now, she’d leave them to their grief.

  When she arrived at the condo, Lianne was pacing the house like an angry cat, her shoulders back and sharp. Hunter sat at the kitchen counter, shaking a pair of heavy wooden maracas to the samba beat of a little Casio. Tanner occupied one of the deep white leather armchairs, and Lee Jackson stood with his back to the room, looking out over the cityscape beyond the window. She realized with mild annoyance that he hadn’t called her back the day before. He looked up and nodded at her when she came in the room, cool and professional as ever.

  On the coffee table sat a blue nylon duffel bag, unzipped. Bundles of twenty-dollar bills were neatly stacked inside.

  “Anything new?” Veronica asked before even saying hello.

  Lianne shook her head. “Nothing. We haven’t heard from anyone.”

  Veronica let out her breath in a sudden exhale.

  “Okay.” She shrugged out of her leather jacket and draped it over one arm. “How are you guys doing?”

  Tanner glanced up from where he’d been staring into space. His eyes looked bruised and exhausted; he didn’t look like he’d been to bed the night before. “Oh, Veronica, we’re just confused. Confused and worried and tired. None of this makes any sense.” He gestured toward the bag on the coffee table. “We’d just gotten the ransom ready to go when we heard the news.”

  She felt like she should pat his shoulder or offer a hug, but instead she just stood there awkwardly. “Look, I don’t know if you heard the news yet, but Hayley’s boyfriend has been charged with the murder. So Aurora’s disappearance seems to be totally unrelated to Hayley’s.”

  “That poor girl.” Lianne covered her face with her hands. “Her poor parents.”

  A tense silence fell over the room, underscored by the sound of Hunter’s maracas.

  “Mind if I get a cup of coffee?” Veronica finally asked. Lianne nodded, dabbing at her eyes. Veronica went into the kitchen, stopping on her way to lean over Hunter’s Casio and hit a few keys, playing a quick, modified “Chopsticks.” She winked at the kid, and he shook one maraca at her. It was painted bright red, with green stars.

  “So do you think it was some kind of copycat crime?” Lianne asked, resting her forearms on the kitchen counter. Veronica poured coffee into a pristine white mug, then held the carafe up to ask if Lianne wanted any. Her mother shook her head no and she replaced it in the coffeemaker.

  “Maybe. It’s possible that whoever took Aurora heard about Hayley going missing from that party and decided to take the opportunity.” She dropped a lump of sugar into her mug with a small plop and stirred. “As for the notes, the proof of life on Hayley’s ransom message was actually a story from her Facebook feed about five years ago. I’m guessing the notes were sent by someone who had nothing to do with either crime, trying to cash in.”

  Tanner spoke up. “Or maybe someone really did kidnap Aurora, and they were trying to con an extra paycheck out of the Dewalts in the process.” He stood up out of his chair and came toward the kitchen counter, standing between Lianne and Hunter. He held out an empty cup, and Veronica filled it with coffee, feeling a little like a waitress at Lucy’s All Nite.

  “Mr. Jackson?” she asked, holding up the carafe. He turned away from the window and shook his head.

  “Thank you, no.” He smoothed his lapels, hovering back by the sofas, away from the counter.

  “So what’s our next step?” Lianne asked. “What do we do now?”

  “Well, I’m going to start going through
all the evidence again,” Veronica answered. “The party pictures, anything that’s come into the tip line. Now that we know this has nothing to do with Hayley, something new may stand out.”

  Tanner set his coffee mug down on the counter and turned to Lianne. “We need to take the money to the drop. The ransom’s due tomorrow.”

  Lianne turned to face him, her lip curling in contempt. “Tanner, that’s insane. There’s nothing, nothing in those messages to make us believe whoever sent them has Aurora.”

  “There was the story about my relapse …”

  “Which she could have told to anyone: Adrian. Her therapist. Her teachers. Hell, I might have told it at AA, right to a whole crowd of drunks and junkies.” She shook her head and looked back to Veronica. “We should have listened to you, Veronica. You were right—we should have tried to find her. Not just throw money out there and hope for the best.”

  “But what if someone does have her?” Tanner argued. “What if it’s not a fraud? If that money isn’t there—”

  “Tanner, Jesus Christ. The ransom message was a con.”

  Hunter’s maracas sounded loudly in a syncopated beat.

  “God damn it!” Tanner turned on his heel and grabbed the maracas out of Hunter’s hands. His chest heaved, and for a single surreal moment Veronica thought he was going to hit the boy with them. But he didn’t. He just held them in his clenched fists. “Hunter, go play in your room. Take your keyboard. I can’t even hear myself think around this place.”

  For a moment nobody moved. Hunter looked over at his mother, his eyes large and confused. Lianne gave Tanner an angry, reproachful glance, but then she leaned around him to smile at her son.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. Go on. Maybe later we’ll call Adrian and see if he’d like to take you to a movie. Right now Mom and Dad are just upset.”

  Hunter gave Tanner a last, baleful glance before jumping down off the high stool, his Casio in his hands, and disappearing down the hallway.