by Tami Hoag
“Ha!” Hicks laughed. “That never gets old.”
The suspect fell all over himself saying he didn’t, hadn’t, never had, never could, it was all a big misunderstanding.
“Yeah, right,” Hicks said with disgust. “She misunderstood him swinging his fist and walked right into it with her face.”
“Lying sack of shit,” Mendez growled. “I pulled that asshole in here six months ago for the same thing. The wife wouldn’t press charges.”
“She should just take a gun and shoot him next time,” Hicks suggested. “Save us all the time and money screwing around with him. The guy’s a waste of skin.”
“Right,” Mendez said. “The DA would piss all over us to make a case against her.”
“Sometimes there’s no justice.”
Mendez thought of Lauren Lawton and her Walther PPK. He wondered how good a shot she was, and how many times she had imagined plugging Roland Ballencoa in the head.
“So according to the DMV,” Hicks went back on topic, “Avis owns the car. According to the Avis office in San Luis, they’ve never had the car on their lot. All the Avis cars with California tags are registered to the corporate office in Sacramento. The car could have come from anywhere in the state.”
Mendez scratched the top of his head. “Avis can track down the rental history on the car, right?”
“Yeah, but it’ll take some time. They have offices in 122 cities in the state of California—and multiple offices in a lot of those cities. Cars get picked up at one location, dropped off at another, rented out again. The paper trail is slow to come together. It was a couple of months ago, so that’s on our side. Still, it takes time on their end, and it’s not like we’ve got a warrant or anything.”
“If they had it all coordinated somehow on computers, that would be the ticket,” Mendez said, ever frustrated that all the great technology he kept reading about seemed always just out of reach.
“That day will come,” Hicks agreed. “But not today. At any rate, if Cal isn’t that excited about us spending hours on Ballencoa, then he sure isn’t going to give a shit if someone was spying on the guy in San Luis. It might be an interesting puzzle, but what’s it got to do with us?”
“Maybe something,” Mendez said. “I got a call from Lauren Lawton at two thirty this morning. Someone came onto the property she’s renting and left a photograph on the windshield of her car—a photograph of her in a parking lot, taken yesterday.”
Hicks furrowed his brow. “Did she see anybody?”
“No, but she’s convinced it’s Ballencoa. She says he stalked her in Santa Barbara.”
“She says?”
Mendez shrugged. “The SBPD wasn’t so sure about it.”
“What do you think?”
“I think she was pretty upset last night. And she didn’t take that photo of herself,” he pointed out. “And get this: She told me Ballencoa broke into her house in Santa Barbara and hung out just to freak her out.”
“That’s crazy.”
“No. Listen. She said she knew someone had been in the house. Someone drank a glass of wine and then washed the glass and left it where she would find it. He had touched things, moved things. He did a load of laundry—”
“What?” Hicks said, incredulous. “Are you smoking crack? Is this woman smoking crack? She says he broke into her house and did his laundry?”
“No! He did her laundry,” Mendez said. “She left a basket of dirty laundry on the washing machine. Underwear.”
Hicks closed his mouth as the meaning sank in. “Oh, man. That’s disgusting.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Mendez agreed. “He goes in her house, helps himself to the wine, touches her stuff, jerks off in her underwear, and does the laundry so there’s no evidence. Does that sound familiar?”
“The B and Es,” Hicks said. “Somebody breaks in, messes with their stuff, but doesn’t take anything.”
“This could be our guy,” Mendez said. “And if it is, he’s not just some perv, he’s a predator casing his potential victims.”
“Holy crap.”
“We need to pull those case files and take another look at who’s living in those houses.”
“Right.” Hicks narrowed his eyes. “Hey. Why didn’t you call me?”
“Last night? Why? We should both get dragged out of bed on a prowler call?”
“She called you at home?”
“I gave her my card. What?” he asked at the roll of his partner’s eyes. “She’s new here. She doesn’t know anybody. She’s been to hell and back. She doesn’t think anybody gives a shit.”
“You’re a regular Welcome Wagon, Tony. Is this something new for Oak Knoll? Every newcomer gets their own personal sheriff’s detective?”
“It’s not like that,” he said, irritated. “She’s got special circumstances. I’m just trying to be a decent human being.”
“Whatever you say.”
“That’s what I say.”
Mendez got up and threw half of his doughnut in the trash and dumped the last of his coffee in the sink.
“What’s your plan?” Hicks asked.
“I handed the photograph off to Latent Prints. We’ll see what they come up with,” he said. “I’m going to start calling utility companies. Maybe Ballencoa can live without a phone, but I’m betting he’s got electricity. I’m going to track this bastard down, and we’re going to have a chat about how things are done in Oak Knoll.”
24
“Mommy, I like Leah,” Haley Leone said, looking up at her mother as they walked hand in hand on the shaded path that surrounded the playground of the Thomas Center day care facility.
The day care had been open for nearly three years now, offering a service to the community and an opportunity for women in the center’s program to work in what was truly a nurturing environment.
Anne brought her children here every morning while she saw clients or tended to other work. It was a safe, secure environment with plenty of supervision and activities for the kids.
Never shy, Antony always made a beeline for the toddler sandbox, where he immediately set about building a mountain of sand to run toy trucks into. Haley, more reserved, liked to take her walk and have a few minutes of quiet time with Anne before she joined her little girlfriends on the swings.
Anne smiled. “I like Leah too. She’s a nice girl, isn’t she?”
“She’s really nice. She showed me how to braid hair. She said when she rides in a horse show she has to braid her horse’s hair a certain way, but she knows a bunch of different ways to do it. She said different kinds of horses get their hair braided all different ways. I want to learn how to do that. Can I, Mommy?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. We don’t have any horses to practice on.”
Haley was undaunted. “Leah said she would show me on her horse. Wendy wants to learn too. Maybe we could go watch Wendy ride again and then afterward Leah could teach us.”
“Maybe,” Anne said absently, distracted by her own thoughts of Leah Lawton—so quiet, so polite, but with such a tight grip on herself Anne thought she might just shatter at the slightest touch. She seemed almost to hold herself as if she was protecting a deep, raw wound—which, Anne supposed, she was. Not a physical wound, but an emotional one.
“Maybe?” Haley said with dramatic despair. She leaned against Anne and gave her most plaintive look, although there was a sparkle in her dark eyes. “Mommy, p-l-e-a-s-e.”
Anne chuckled at her daughter’s acting talents. “We’ll see.”
“Oh, n-o-o-o-o!” Haley wailed, though a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
This had been a little joke between them for a long time. When Haley had first come into her life she had told Anne that when her biological mother had said “We’ll see,” it almost always meant no.
Anne laughed, bent down, and kissed the top of her daughter’s head, breathing deep the soft scent of baby shampoo in Haley’s thick tangle of dark curls. Haley had done h
er hair herself that morning, catching it up in two slightly messy, uneven pigtails. She had also chosen her own outfit—a blue-and-white sundress. Always the girly girl.
“Maybe one day next week,” Anne said. “Daddy’s coming home tonight. He told me he wants to take us someplace special tomorrow.”
Haley’s face lit up with excitement. “Where? To the zoo? Are we going to the zoo?”
Anne shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a secret.”
“I want to go to the zoo!” she said, bouncing up and down on her toes. “Antony wants to go too! Are we going to the zoo?”
“I don’t know,” Anne said again. “We’ll see.”
Haley groaned and crumpled against her.
“Haley, come on!” The call came from a little redheaded girl on the swing set twenty feet away.
Anne kissed her daughter’s head again. “Go have fun, you. I have to get to work. I’ll see you at lunchtime. I love you.”
“I love you, Mommy,” Haley said with a wave as she trotted off toward her friends.
Anne watched her go, thinking—as she did every day—how lucky she was. She had looked death in the face more than once. Every day with her children was an enormous gift she never failed to appreciate.
She rested a hand on her stomach and said a little thank-you for the new life growing inside her. She was a lucky woman. She had a wonderful husband, beautiful children, a career she loved.
Then she thought of Lauren Lawton. Lauren had had a wonderful life too. She’d had a loving husband—now dead. She’d had two beautiful daughters—one gone.
She thought of Leah again, a trouble line creasing up between her brows.
Then, as if she had conjured her up, Lauren Lawton was walking toward her on the path.
“They told me at the desk you might be out here.”
She looked like hell, Anne thought. Pale and thin as a ghost, gaunt, with deep purple smudges beneath her eyes. She could have been a junkie strung out on heroin, or a cancer patient poisoned by chemotherapy.
“My morning ritual,” Anne said, showing none of the alarm that had struck her at the sight of the woman. “Haley and I have to have our little walk and talk before I can go to my office.”
Lauren looked over at the girls playing on the swings. “No one would ever guess she wasn’t your biological child. She looks just like you. Did you adopt her as a baby?”
“No,” Anne said. “Haley was four. Her mother was murdered. She was the only witness.”
Lauren looked at her, shocked, as most people were when Anne revealed her daughter’s tragic background. She had managed to shock Lauren twice now—with Haley’s story, and with her own—which she thought was a good thing.
In her experience, victims sometimes needed to be pulled out of their myopic self-absorption in their own terrible tales. Not to minimize what they had gone through, but to show them others had gone through terrible things too, and had worked their way through to move forward with their lives.
“Oh my God,” Lauren said. “Does she remember what happened ?”
“Some of it,” Anne said. “She used to wake up screaming every night. Gradually, we’ve worked through it with her. The most important thing she needed was to know that she was safe again.”
“I know the feeling,” Lauren said quietly, her eyes on Haley—laughing and happy. Anne suspected she envied the little girl that.
“When you’ve been through a nightmare, it’s hard to imagine ever feeling normal again, isn’t it?”
“Impossible,” Lauren murmured.
“Let’s go inside,” Anne suggested. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee. Have you slept in the last . . . year or two?”
“God. Do I look that bad?”
“I’m not one to pull punches,” Anne said as they started back toward the main building. “I’m sure you know the answer to your own question. I know I was well aware I looked like I’d been run over by a truck for the first few months after my ordeal. I didn’t care.
“Some women do, though,” she said. “I’ve seen people go to great lengths to pretend they’re just fine when they’re anything but. That’s a heavy lie to bear. They always crash eventually and have to start over from square one.”
“So are you saying I’m ahead of the game?” Lauren asked drily.
“I’m saying you might as well be honest. A perfect, controlled façade can be worse than a prison,” she said, thinking again of Leah, wondering what exactly the girl was trying so hard to keep locked within.
They went inside the building and down the cool, dark hall to Anne’s office.
“I just wanted to stop by to thank you again for letting Leah stay last night,” Lauren said. “Was everything all right? Leah hasn’t stayed over with a friend for a long time.”
“She did fine,” Anne said. “I checked on the girls a couple of times during the night. Once the gabfest was over, it looked like everyone slept soundly.”
“Good,” she said quietly. “She hasn’t gotten to have much of a childhood the last few years.”
Anne opened her office door and was greeted by the intoxicating aroma of coffee and fresh-baked blueberry muffins.
“Oh my God, smell that,” she said on a groan. “The kitchen staff is spoiling me into obesity.
“Leah is delightful,” she said, going to the coffee bar and pouring two cups without asking. Lauren was going to welcome the coffee, and she was going to eat a muffin if Anne had to sit on her and force-feed it to her.
“Any time Leah wants to come stay is all right by me,” she said. “Antony and Haley loved having her. If she ever wants to make a little money, she can help Wendy with the babysitting duties.”
Lauren frowned a little. Anne read her concern.
“Remember, my house is like Fort Knox. There’s always somebody watching if Vince is out. Even if it’s just date night. Nothing is left to chance.”
“That’s an interesting arrangement you have with the sheriff’s office.”
Anne pushed the cup of coffee into her hand and motioned for her to take a seat.
“They’re like family,” she explained, bringing the basket of muffins to the coffee table. She kicked her shoes off and curled herself into a chair. “Vince has done a lot of work with Sheriff Dixon and his detectives, but he won’t take their money, so they give back in kind.”
“Do you know a Detective Mendez?” Lauren asked cautiously. Unable to resist, she sipped at the coffee. The steam rising from it put a hint of color into her cheeks at least.
“Tony?” Anne said, surprised. “Absolutely. He’s my son’s godfather—and namesake, sort of. It’s a long story. Anyway . . . Do you know Tony?”
“We’ve met,” she said, carefully neutral. “He’s a good detective ?”
“He’s excellent. Vince wanted to recruit him to the Bureau back when, then life took some crazy turns for all of us, and here we all are still in Oak Knoll. Why do you ask? Is everything all right?”
Lauren looked down at the arm of the chair with the expression of someone tempted to burst into hysterical laughter. Clearly, everything was not all right.
Before she could peddle a lie or a platitude, Anne leaned forward and forced eye contact.
“Lauren, I know we’ve just met, and I’m sure you don’t trust people any easier than I do,” she said. “But when I tell you that you can tell me anything, I mean it. You don’t have to be a client. I feel connected to you through Wendy and Leah, and the fact that we’ve both had to deal with some rotten shit in our lives.
“I will never judge you,” she said. “I will never tell you you should or shouldn’t feel one way or another. And if there’s any way I can help you, I will.”
Lauren still wouldn’t really look at her. Tears rose in her cool blue eyes. Anne had never seen anyone more in need of a hug in her life, but she also knew better than to offer it. She suspected it would not be well received.
Lauren had spent the last four years fighting for her da
ughter, fighting to keep herself together, fighting the dark energy that stalked every victim of violence. She had taken on a warrior persona that would never allow vulnerability.
Anne knew at the heart of that lay fear—the fear that if she allowed a chink in her armor, that would be the end of her. She would crumble. The strength that had gotten her through every day of her personal hell would dissolve, and then where would she be? Who would she be? How would she get from one day to the next? How could she be a mother for her remaining daughter?
“No matter what it is,” Anne said, “you need friends to help you get through it. You will never find anyone more qualified for that job than me.”
Lauren tried to force a smile. She managed to nod, but she still looked away. In the smallest, tightest whisper she murmured a thank-you.
Anne wondered if this was what Leah looked like behind the wall she had built around herself—terrified, eaten raw by the acid of grief and guilt and uncertainty. She suspected so, and a part of her wanted to broach the subject with Lauren, but Lauren seemed so fragile . . . She would tread as carefully as possible.
“That offer goes for Leah as well,” she said. “The two of you are in the same boat. You’re both dealing with the same situation, and you both have to feel like you’re drowning in your emotions. One of you can’t turn to the other, but both of you need to be able to turn to someone. You need a place you can open the pressure valve and get some relief—so does Leah.”
Anne could see the mom alarms going off in Lauren’s head.
“You said Leah was fine last night,” Lauren said. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing, really,” Anne said, cursing herself.
“Did she say something?”
“No. I’m just concerned because I know girls her age tend to go one way or the other. They’re either drama queens or they’re afraid to show anyone anything they’re really feeling. Leah falls into the second group, and the feelings she’s holding in have to be huge,” she said. “Keeping that all trapped and bottled up can be toxic.”
To say nothing of dangerous—and she said nothing of the dangers. She didn’t say that girls wound as tightly as Leah had a risk of turning to self-destructive behaviors—everything from alcohol and eating disorders to cutting and suicide. She hadn’t seen any evidence, but the threat was there, lying under Leah’s very controlled surface. Her mother needed to be aware.