They left Salsbury House’s gardens and walked down Lawyers Road, keeping quiet, both lost in their own thoughts. Until she remembered she had wanted to bring her tire marks photos over to the garage.
“Hey, do you mind coming on an errand with me? It shouldn’t take long, and it’s kind of important.”
He shrugged, staring straight ahead. “Yeah, sure.”
She waited for a block. Then another. Bash gave a chin lift to someone he knew. He smiled when appropriate, but he wasn’t himself. And it tore her up.
“Okay, I can’t stand it anymore. Tell me what happened.”
He grumbled. “She said she wants a solid relationship, someone she can count on.”
“Well, great! Because last I checked, you’re back home for good and next in line for fire chief. How much more reliable and solid can a man get?”
He gave her a look like she wasn’t getting it. “Not professionally. She thinks I suffer from FOMO when it comes to women.”
“You? Fear of missing out? But you’re totally loyal when you’re going out with someone.”
He sighed. “She doesn’t see it that way.”
“I don’t understand. She’s acting like you cheated on her.” A wave of dread iced her insides. “Please tell me you didn’t cheat on her, Bash.”
“No, of course not. I would never do that.” He blew out a frustrated breath, an invisible weight settling on his shoulders. “But she knew I broke things off between us in college so I could sow some wild oats. She learned I got around some.” His head drooped, and his eyes fixated on one foot in front of the other. “She says she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder, wondering when I’m going to go off on another wild hair.”
“But that’s not fair!” Quinn realized she sounded like a petulant child, but she didn’t care. The idea of Rachel blaming her brother for his adolescent idiocy was too much for her to bear. “How many people are ready to settle down at nineteen, twenty years old?”
“Apparently, she would have married me then, if I had asked. That’s how in love with me she was. I—I broke her heart.”
Think, Quinn. You know Bash. You know Rachel. You can help him figure out what to do. First, though, the obstacles …
“What about the other guy, the one we saw her with at the funeral? Is that serious?”
Bash looked like he was ready to spit nails just hearing about the guy.
“His name is Lyle Sapowitz. They met at some fundraiser a few months ago. He’s a lawyer, already a junior partner. He’s a Jewish parents’ dream and my basic nightmare.”
“Why?”
“Because she says it’s important to her family that she marry someone Jewish.”
Quinn was flummoxed. “But I thought her parents loved you.”
“They did, until …” He didn’t finish the sentence. There was no need.
Instead of going to Church Street, Quinn led them down Ayr Hill Road and then took a left on Mill Street.
“You know, Rachel gave me her great-grandmother’s old diary to rebuild.”
Bash was only half-listening. “She did? That was nice of her.”
“She told me she wants me to repair it so she can give it to her parents as an anniversary gift. She and her brothers are throwing a big party for them.”
“Her brothers are good guys, but useless when it comes to anything practical, which means she’ll be planning the party all by herself.”
She nudged her shoulder with his. “You should come by the store and read this journal with me.”
He blustered. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
Just because she was the younger sister, did that mean she couldn’t slap the stupid out of his head? “Ugh! You can be so obtuse sometimes! Daria was right.”
He stopped walking. “Wait, what did Daria say?”
It was her turn to blow out an exasperated breath. “She thinks you’re awesome, of course, but that you’ve never had to work at anything when it comes to women. They always make relationships easy for you. Too easy, apparently.”
Bash studied her face. “Is that what you think too?”
“At this precise moment? Kind of.”
“Nice,” he said, his voice sharp.
“Bash, instead of getting defensive, listen.”
“Fine—what?”
Quinn sought to find the right words, how to explain the heart of every woman to her loving, smart, popular, and totally clueless brother.
“Every woman is like a rare first-edition book. Some have all the bells and whistles—I’m talking fine Morocco spine labels, gilt titles and tooling to the spine, raised bands, fleuron cornerpiece designs, and inner dentelles—”
“Quinn, I love you. But what the heck are you saying?”
“I’m saying a woman wants to be read like she’s your favorite book, to be studied as if she were a classic novel. If she gives you an opening to know her in any way—a story, a paragraph even—she wants you to cherish her enough to take a shot, hold onto every word. Whatever it takes to know her better, to be with her, even if it’s not in the way you want. Do you understand?”
“Yeah. But she gave the journal to you, not me.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “All is fair in love and war. Take whatever of her you can get.”
“I don’t know, Quinnie … Rachel is still really pissed off at me, even after all these years. How do I get in there?”
“The same way you deal with any out-of-control blaze. What are you always telling me? Find the entry points, the weak spots. If she’s still that mad at you, it means she’s still in love with you. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t care anymore.”
“You think so?”
Quinn wasn’t used to seeing her brother this unsure of himself. “I know so. In the meantime, respect her boundaries and wait for an opening. Be patient. It’ll come.”
He offered his fist, which she bumped in return. “All right, I’ll wait—and read the diary while I’m parked in purgatory. Happy now?”
“No, but I will be when you win Rachel back. By the way, when you do finally have an opening, just remember it’s going to take more than you reading some old woman’s journal to win back her trust. You do realize that, right?”
Bash gave her his “I get it—now back off” look. “Yes, wise one. I understand.”
They were now in front of Frankie’s Garage, the place in Vienna for auto repair. If rumor was right, the owner knew everything about cars, and since Marisa Tomei’s My Cousin Vinny’s character wasn’t available, this guy would have to do.
“Good, now I need to talk to this guy.”
Bash’s brows furrowed. “Wait a second. You need to talk to Lucas? Why? Is something wrong with your truck?”
“No, I need his expertise about the tire marks left on Nutley Street the night Tricia died. They may belong to the car owned by Tricia’s killer. If not that, then the car belongs to the ass who dumped her body in the middle of the night in a little park, and he or she knows the murderer.”
His face brightened for the first time that day. “Hey, that’s just like from My Cousin Vinny.”
There’s hope for him yet.
Chapter Seventeen
“There are no strangers here; only friends you haven’t yet met.”
—William Butler Yeats, twentieth-century Irish poet
“You know, I usually charge a lot of cake for this kind of analysis, but since you’re Bash’s sister, it’s on me.”
To say Lucas Diaz was a unique character was an understatement. He was beyond handsome, in spite of the scar running along the side of his face from his temple down to his strong jawline. Maybe even because of it. He was about ten years older than her—four more than her brother, but Bash and Lucas had known each other for years, in spite of not traveling in the same social circles.
Her gaze volleyed back and forth between them. “It seems like you’re well acquainted. How did you two meet?”
The men locked eyes
before Lucas barked out a laugh. With the back of his hand, he gave a playful slap to Bash’s upper arm. “C’mon, man. Don’t look so freaked. If I still had a beef with you, you wouldn’t have made it ten steps onto my property.”
Bash tsked under his breath. “Oh, sure. You’re probably mapping out where to dump my body as we speak.”
His paranoia made Lucas bend over, laughing even harder. “Man, that look on your face! That’s payment enough.” He wiped under his eyes, shaking his head, still smiling. “Nah, no worries. For real. She set me straight. We’re cool.”
Quinn made a noise to get their attention. “Anyone want to clue me in on what you’re talking about?”
They both answered at the same time. “No.”
Ugh, boys are so annoying, even when they grow up. “Fine, have it your way.”
As the two caught up, Quinn couldn’t help but stare at Lucas. Her interest wasn’t romantic; he wasn’t her type. She’d just never seem someone as outwardly unique as him in lil’ ol’ Vienna. The town had plenty of characters, but most wore their eccentricities hidden well under their turtleneck sweaters and L.L. Bean vests. Lucas, on the other hand, was wearing a well-worn Black Flag concert T-shirt, broken-in Levis, and Doc Martin boots. Quinn marveled at his tattoo sleeves, arms inked from up past his short sleeves down to his wrists, and he wore his thick black hair styled in a stiff mohawk. She couldn’t imagine how much Aqua Net a ’do like his took to hold up. He was a throwback to DC’s early eighties hardcore punk scene in real time; a Latin Henry Rollins surrounded by mostly white people with easy-wear haircuts and really ugly, comfortable shoes.
“It’s a shame you didn’t come to me right after this happened. I could’ve done the photos myself.” He studied the tire mark pictures on her phone. “Nah, I can’t see a thing on your screen. I need my system.”
Quinn had no idea what “his system” entailed, but if Bash trusted Lucas, so did she. They followed him to the back of his garage, up the stairs, and to his home on the second floor.
If the downstairs was a typical garage with rows of tools, cans of motor oil, and cars hoisted up on hydraulic lifts, the upstairs was its polar opposite, with hand-scraped zebra hardwood floors covered with South American throw rugs. He had silver gelatin prints hanging on his walls, some from photographers she recognized. And sketchbooks. Teems and teems of sketchbooks in various styles and levels of completion. There were also a few in-progress metal projects lying around, upcycled parts of engines transformed into hanging clocks and nightstand bases.
“Whoa. This place is amazing.”
Bash nodded. “Oh, I know. He’s a creative genius. You should see his art studio down the street.”
That was surprising. “I didn’t know they had art studios in this part of town.”
“They don’t,” Lucas interjected. “I own the block. My studio’s the only one.” He opened a door on the other side of his living room. “This way.”
They walked in, and compared to the rest of the house, his office was sparse, void of personality. There were three computer setups and a real 3D printer. Like a surgeon, he held his hand out to her, saying, “Phone,” like he was asking for a scalpel, then proceeded to hook it up to his computer, uploading her photos of the tire marks.
“Quick question: How long-after this bro-hole took off did you get these photos?”
“The following morning. Why?”
He grimaced. “That’s too bad.”
Bash bent close to the computer screen, studying the photographs. “Why? What’s the problem? They look good to me.”
Lucas moved the rolling office chair, sat down, and grabbed onto the end of the desk, pulling himself forward. “It’s decent, but if other vehicles drove on it, it’s not a reliable sample.”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” Quinn told him. “That part of the street was blockaded by the police straightaway.”
He banged his hand on the desk, a brilliant grin beaming her way. “Fan-frickin’-tastic.” Then his face fell, his gaze darting back and forth between Quinn and her brother. “Donde están mis modales? Mi madre would kill me for being such a bad host.”
He bolted out of the room, like a toddler on a sugar high, swiping two chairs from the other room and carrying them in. He plopped them down. “Sit,” he commanded. “Are you thirsty? Hungry? Eva just dropped off some of her paella last night. Best you’ll ever have.”
“Eva?”
Bash squirmed in his seat. “Eva’s his sister. She’s a chef, has her own restaurant in Falls Church.”
Quinn really needed to get out more. “That’s cool.”
Lucas threw a wicked grin at her brother. “Worth it just to see your reaction.”
Bash grunted. “You are such a—”
“Hey, tu hermanita is here. Watch your language.”
Her brother avoided eye contact with her. Pfft. I’ve seen that before, she thought. Bash only got that way when confronted with his exes—or their disgruntled family members. She didn’t know the details, but she didn’t need them: it was obvious he had dated Eva at one point and, as with every other woman, it hadn’t worked out.
Guess that’s what they were talking about earlier. Lucas had remained true to his word: he was over it and was now more interested in the evidence in front of him. It was like Quinn could see his brain working as his eyes darted over the images.
Still staring at the photos, he began explaining: “Tire tread marks like these are classified as pattern evidence because each tire pattern leaves behind a unique impression.”
Quinn leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin in hand. “Makes sense. Go on.”
“Yeah, it’s amazing what we can learn; patterns like these can help police narrow down the brand, style, and size of the tires. There’s actually searchable databases law enforcement uses to narrow down the info.”
Bash cradled the back of his head with both hands. “Damn shame we can’t get our hands on a database.”
Lucas muttered something unintelligible under his breath. “Man, you think I’d have this whole setup and not have access to one of those databases along with a ton of others?”
The last thing Quinn wanted to do was get him into trouble. “Is this legal?”
“One hundred percent. I don’t mess with that. Not worth the risk.” He rubbed his chin in an absent-minded way as he continued studying her pictures. He then grabbed the computer mouse, using it to copy and paste different sections of the tire patterns into a separate document, then through another browser.
“Okay, so now I’ve sent marked sections of the tire patterns through. The system will analyze them and come back with what brand of tire left the impression. After we get that info, it’ll help me narrow down what type of vehicle the tires would be used on. What would be even better, if you have a suspect, we could match the tires of their vehicle to these markings, see if we have a match.”
Bash frowned. “There is no suspect. Not yet anyway.”
She kept her Scott Hauser theory to herself for now.
Lucas shrugged, the palm of his hand fanning back and forth along the edges of his mohawk. “That’s today. Something may come up soon. And when it does, we’ll really have something.”
“I need to write all this down.” Quinn grabbed her messenger bag, retrieved a little notebook and pen, and started writing. “There’s gotta be, like, thousands of tires, especially if it’s a popular model car. How does that help us?”
“Good question. Let me show you.” He enlarged the photos on the screen. “It’s nearly impossible for two vehicles to leave the same tire mark. As someone drives a car, the wear and tear on the tires changes the impression patterns. See over here?” He pointed, making an imaginary circle with the tip of his finger. “The outer edge of this tire is worn down. That means the alignment of the vehicle you’re looking for is off. Way off. And see these veins running through? That’s probably from twigs or thin branches stuck in the tire treads.
�
��Since we just have these photos, the only kind of prints we can use are visible prints. They’re visible to the naked eye and can be collected by photography without the use of any special equipment or powders. Hopefully, Vienna PD also got some plastic prints.”
Quinn kept writing, trying to keep up. “What’s that?”
He eyed her taking notes and smiled. “It’s a three-dimensional print, taking a cast by using a powdered stone material to make an impression. It’s a good way to render exactly what kind of debris and stuff got wedged into the treads. You’d be surprised at how much gets lodged in there. If criminalists really wanted to get their geek on, they would go for some latent prints, the kind not visible to the naked eye. They’re used all the time for flat surface samples, using an electrostatic and a gelatin lifter dust print lifting.”
The computer beeped with another pop-up screen.
Lucas rubbed his hands together like an evil genius. “Okay, now we’re cooking …” He scanned the database document. “The vehicle you’re looking for, besides being out of alignment, has a nine-rib tire—ribs are the traction elements of the tread—which means there is a good chance you’re looking for a vehicle with Parnelli Jones Firestone brand tires. Also, I’d eliminate the car’s two front tires as the source of the tracks because the design is so different. The two rear tires are of the same size and design as wheels on the road in 2013.”
Bash and Quinn glanced at each other, then back to Lucas. He wasn’t done.
“Based on the limited information I have, you’re looking for someone who drives either a 2013 Nissan Altima or a Honda Accord sedan—same year—who lives in a wooded area. My bet is they keep the car parked among the trees, not in a garage or driveway, since there’s a fair share of twigs in the treads. Also, see these thin lines with these attached globs, near the twig impressions?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Those are made by pine needles, but not just any pines. Those globs are sap—and there’s a lot of it. I don’t know what kind of pine trees produce that much this time of year, but find someone who does. It might help you narrow it down to certain parts of Vienna. And then look for where cars are parked under a cluster of the same pine trees. Maybe then you’ll find your Honda or Nissan, and hence your body schlepper.”
To Kill a Mocking Girl Page 19