Small and quirky, not unlike its owner, the house was more of a bungalow. When the house was built in the mid-1800s, it stood alone, west of Vernonville. Now, it was on the edge of the Vernonville town center; the town had expanded to swallow it up. Painted a soft blue, it had lavender trim Kyra hated and, reputedly, a resident ghost, a woman killed for allegedly helping slaves escape their owners via the Underground Railroad.
“Hm.” Kyra licked mint ice cream off her spoon and kicked out her foot to make the porch swing rock. “Well, family. Look at how you take such good care of your grandpa—”
“I think it’s the other way around.”
“—and the way you stay in touch with your folks, even though your dad drives you crazy sometimes.”
“More often than not,” I agreed.
“And you’re definitely into fitness.” She eyed me assessingly. “But I’m not sure it’s really fitness that’s important. It’s more about control, I think. You being in control of your body. That’s why this whole knee thing has weighed on you so much. You can’t control it.”
Whoa, this was probing a bit deeper than I’d anticipated. “Can’t you just say, ‘Duty, honor, country,’ or ‘Family, friends, and chocolate ice cream’?” I complained.
“You asked.”
“Silly me.” Kicking off my shoes, I folded one foot under me on the floral-cushioned wicker chair.
“What about me?”
I regarded my friend. “Honesty.”
She nodded.
“Men.”
She grinned.
“Power.”
She crinkled her brow. “What’s that mean? You think I want to rule the world?”
“Nah, just your corner of it. Kidding!” I said as she threatened to launch a gob of ice cream at me. “No, I mean that it’s important to you to have people’s respect, to be in charge of your own destiny. That’s part of why you didn’t marry Parker, right?” I asked, referring to a man she’d been in love with as a college junior. “You were afraid if you married him, you wouldn’t finish college, wouldn’t be self-supporting, wouldn’t achieve what you knew you were capable of achieving.”
“He wanted a wife to play Mrs. Big-Shot Lawyer,” she said, tacitly conceding my point.
“Maybe ‘power’ is the wrong word,” I said, still thinking it through. “Maybe ‘self-sufficiency’ or ‘independence’ would be better.”
“Nah, I’m into power.” With a smile, she crushed the empty ice cream container, spurting drops of melted green ice cream on her white sweats. “Damn, that was dumb,” she said, disappearing into the house. She reappeared a moment later, sponging at the spots with a damp paper towel. “So what’s next on your investigatory agenda? Talk to the other wives?”
“I suppose so,” I said with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “I don’t suppose I’ll get much of anything from them.”
“You’re convinced Captain Was-a-bitch shot the Arriaga kid?”
“He had the smoking gun, quite literally.” I shrugged.
“What if… what if Woskowicz’s death had nothing to do with Arriaga’s?”
I twisted my face into a combination scowl-pout. “The timing’s awfully coincidental,” I objected.
“No, think about it,” Kyra said, dark eyes sparkling. A large dog woofed from a neighboring yard. “The whole ‘car in the park’ thing feels like a lover’s rendezvous to me. What if one of his ex-wives found out that he was getting it on with the other ex-wives and went mental? Or, maybe he was meeting a new woman and this Aggie wife, who was still married to him, went ’round the bend.”
“She said she left him,” I insisted, realizing as I said it how weak it sounded.
“That’s what I’d say, too,” Kyra said, “if I’d shot my philandering son-of-a-bitch, almost ex-husband.”
“I’m going home to bed,” I said, standing. The ice cream weighed heavily in my stomach and I was thirsty. “I have exceeded the day’s quota of thinking. Maybe the truth will come to me in a dream.” I hugged Kyra, then lugged myself down the steps and into my car.
“If it’s not about women, it’s about money,” Kyra called after me. “Sex or money.”
Nineteen
On my way to the mall the next morning to teach the self-defense class, a news bulletin on the radio caught my attention. “Chief Baker of the Vernonville Police Department is holding a press conference any moment now,” a reporter said, “to announce an arrest in the case of the young man, Celio Arriaga, who was shot dead a week ago and left outside the Fernglen Galleria. Fernglen has been in the news recently as—”
I turned off the radio and pointed the Miata downtown. I could attend at least part of the press conference and still make it to Fernglen on time for the class. How would the police have made an arrest if Woskowicz killed Arriaga? The courthouse, a graceful building with a clock tower like the one hit by lightning in Back to the Future, dominated one side of a square that faced a park. In summer, lush grass carpeted the park; today, winter’s tan grass still dominated, although clusters of purple and white crocuses added splotches of color. Half a dozen geese pecked at grubs, honking and shaking their tails when someone strayed too close.
A small crowd gathered in front of the courthouse steps, mostly reporters and police. Flashes of green, white, and red from the far edge of the crowd told me there were also some Niños Malos in attendance. The chief of police, gussied up in his dress uniform, complete with medals, stars on his collar points, and braid on his sleeves, emerged from the courthouse as I eased into the back rank of the crowd. Flanked by the district attorney, a sharp-looking woman in a gray suit, and a few officers, he moved toward the bristling bouquet of microphones set up on the bottom step.
He stayed two steps above the microphones, to look taller, I thought, but spoiled the effect by having to lean over to speak into the mikes. As he started to speak, I noticed Detective Helland standing off to the chief’s right, patrician features set in an expressionless mask. His gaze drifted toward the gang members standing stonily silent and then raked the crowd. He spotted me and I offered a small smile. I couldn’t read his expression before his attention shifted back to the chief.
“… confession from Cruz Guerra, who admits shooting the victim, Celio Arriaga”—he stumbled over the Hispanic pronunciations—“during the course of an argument. It is up to the DA’s office whether or not to try him as an adult since he is only fourteen. She can speak to that…” He stepped aside so the DA could reach the mike. She made a point of extending it, emphasizing that she was taller than the chief.
One of the Niños shouted something I couldn’t understand, and three police moved quickly to impose themselves between the gang members and the rest of the crowd. It was clear they were ready for trouble, but after the one outburst the gang members fell silent.
After a couple of questions about the arrest—most of which the chief and DA fielded with “We can’t reveal specifics”—a reporter asked, “What about the missing girl? Any word on that case?”
A broad smile creased the chief’s ruddy face as he elbowed the DA aside and craned his neck to speak into the microphone. “I’m happy to report that the young lady is safe and staying with a family member.”
Thank goodness! Relief washed over me so suddenly my knees trembled. I hadn’t realized just how much I’d been blaming myself for Eloísa’s disappearance and dreading that she wouldn’t be found alive and unharmed.
“—just one of those teenage girl things,” the chief was saying with a tolerant chuckle when I tuned back in. I’d bet he wasn’t really feeling very tolerant since department resources had been expended trying to find her. I wondered exactly what he meant by “teenage girl thing.”
My gaze fixed on Helland, who had his lips tightly gripped together. Admittedly, I didn’t know him well, but he didn’t look happy about the press conference. Or was he unhappy with the arrest? The chief and the DA fielded a couple of questions from the reporters and ended the press conference b
y saying there would be another statement “shortly.” I wiggled my way through the departing crowd and reached Helland’s side while he was trying to fend off questions from a persistent reporter. With a start, I recognized her as the reporter Woskowicz had been “dating.” His term was cruder than that, and I reminded myself I only had his word for it that they were an item. She did have red hair, though—more of a strawberry blond.
Helland excused himself when he saw me and actually muttered, “Thanks,” as he took my elbow and steered me away. “I’d rather take down a meth lab than talk to reporters,” he said. “It’s the part of the job I like least.” He looked down at me and sighed, a resigned smile barely curving his lips. “Buy me a coffee.”
I was so relieved that he’d gotten over his anger, probably because Eloísa had turned up unharmed, that I practically dragged him into the nearest Starbucks. When we had our cups of caffeine, we wormed our way out of the packed shop to enjoy a little more space and quiet outside.
“I got your messages yesterday,” Helland said, prying the lid off his cup to blow on the liquid. “We picked up the wagon for testing. Interesting theory.”
“But not too germane if you’ve arrested some kid.”
Helland’s gaze tracked a goose that was hissing and snaking its neck angrily at a lawn guy trying to fix a sprinkler head in the park. “He walked in yesterday. Alone. Announced he’d shot Celio Arriaga.”
“You didn’t believe him!”
His eyes, a slate blue, slewed to mine. “I didn’t say that. Let’s say I found it problematic that he showed up only after it leaked that we had ID’ed the murder weapon.”
“Were his prints on it?”
Helland shook his head.
“What did he say about it?”
“Said he dropped it at the scene.”
“The mall?”
Helland nodded.
And Captain Woskowicz happened to wander by, discover the body, pick up the gun, and not report the murder? That didn’t pass my giggle test. Another thought occurred to me: “But that’s not where Celio was killed. Where does he say he shot Celio?”
“He doesn’t,” Helland said with an edge of bitterness. “His brother and lawyer burst in about then and shut him up. His brother, by the way, is one Enrique Guerra, mero mero of the Niños Malos.”
“Ooh. So you think Enrique did it and baby brother’s taking the blame for some reason? He’s not even old enough to drive, so he couldn’t have transported the body alone.” I took a contemplative sip of my coffee, then asked, “Did young Cruz say anything about shooting Captain Woskowicz as well?”
“Nope.” Helland sounded disgusted. “Denied all knowledge of Woskowicz. Never heard of the man, he said. I believed him.”
“About Woskowicz,” I clarified, “but not about killing Celio.”
“I didn’t say that,” Helland said in a way that confirmed my reading of his expression. “The chief likes him for it. Which is to say, the chief likes closed cases.”
“Aah.” I gave him a disillusioned look. “Now I know why I’m suddenly privileged to buy you coffee. As far as the department is concerned, you’ve got your murderer, so no one wants you spending time on the case anymore, upsetting the apple cart. But you don’t think the Guerra kid did it, so you’re hoping I’ll keep poking around and maybe come up with something concrete you can use to reopen the case. Don’t look so stunned,” I added kindly, amused despite myself by his expression. “The police department doesn’t have an exclusive on office politics, you know; the military had its fair share, too. You could’ve just asked me.”
The idea of asking someone else to spearhead the investigation, especially someone he considered only a centimeter higher than a civilian, had obviously never crossed his mind. He stared into my eyes for a moment, clearly uncomfortable, and then said, “I underestimated you.” He looked like he’d have been happier if I were the dullard he thought me.
“Happens all the time,” I said, tossing my cup into a trash can. “It’s the uniform.” I gestured to my black-and-white outfit. “People hear ‘mall cop’ and they think ‘minimum-wage Paul Blart,’ kind of like when they hear ‘police’ and think ‘donut-eating, gun-loving storm trooper.’” I smiled, enjoying his discomfort. “Stereotypes are so limiting, don’t you think?”
“I think you’d be a handful for any man foolish enough to take you on,” he said, a look in his eyes that made my core muscles tighten. Was it possible the refined and reserved Detective Anders Helland found me attractive? Part of me tingled at the possibility, but the sane part pointed out that he was in the habit of using me when it suited him and ignoring my input the rest of the time. Not a great basis for a relationship.
Tucking a lock of chestnut hair behind my ear with a hand that trembled slightly, I said, “If I’m going to be your unofficial, unpaid investigator whom you will ‘disavow all knowledge of’ or however that line from Mission: Impossible goes, you might consider sharing a few more details with me.”
“Like?” His tone promised nothing.
“Like the gun. It’s the only real link between Arriaga’s murder and Woskowicz. The news said it came from a gun amnesty program. What else do you know?”
Helland took another sip of coffee before answering, his eyes studying me over the lip of the cup. Finally, he said, “The Mantua PD does this twice a year. They put out a call for guns and accept any that come in, no harm, no foul. They log them, run them to see if they’ve been involved in a crime, and contract with a private company to destroy them and recycle the materials. They get everything from old shotguns to AK-47s. Mostly, though, it’s a collection of handguns.”
I took notes as he spoke. “Who’s in charge of the program?”
“A Sergeant Merrill Stubbs.”
“And the company that destroys them?”
“Allied Forge Metals.” Chucking his empty cup into the trash can, he muttered under his breath, “I must be an idiot.”
“Second thoughts?”
“And third and fourth,” he said, his eyes drilling into mine. “I can’t do this. I can’t involve a civilian.” He suddenly put his hands on my shoulders and gripped them, hard. I met his gaze without flinching. “Forget about it, EJ,” he said. “Woskowicz’s case is still open. I’ll find a way to the truth about Arriaga’s murder through that investigation.”
I blinked at him, unsure what to say, and he gave me a tiny shake. “I’m sorry,” he said.
I was still fumbling for a reply when he was half a block away.
Twenty
I trotted up to the assembled self-defense students a couple of minutes late, apologizing. Grandpa gave me a cocked eyebrow that asked where I’d been, and I mouthed “Later” at him. All the students from Monday had returned, several complaining of sore muscles, and two new women had joined us. One was clearly the Rock Star manager’s sister, and the other was a woman who looked to be at least seventy. I thought she worked part-time at the fabric and yarn store on the first level. Despite a slight hump that suggested osteoporosis and a metal walker left at the edge of the mats, she gamely warmed up by marching in place and stretching with the rest of us. For the newcomers’ benefit, and to help the moves sink in for the others, I ran through the highlights of Monday’s lesson. “Your response needs to be automatic in a threatening situation,” I said as they practiced side kicks and elbow punches. “Your brain will freeze up; muscle memory needs to take over. Practice these moves at home, on spouses, friends, your teenagers… anyone who’s willing. The key word here is ‘willing.’”
A couple students laughed, and we moved on to palm-heel strikes. “Twist your wrist back so the flat of your palm faces your attacker,” I said, demonstrating, “and pull your fingers out of the way by folding them up. You’re going to hit, or strike, with the hard, bottom part of your palm.” I smacked the base of my right palm against my left hand. Several students jumped at the loud popping sound.
“If you’re standing, aim for the nose or ne
ck.” I beckoned Grandpa forward, and he rushed toward me like an attacker would. Thrusting my arm out sharply, palm first, I halted the strike just shy of his nose. “Don’t really hit each other with this one,” I cautioned. “You can do serious damage. If your attacker has managed to throw you to the ground, aim your palm heels at his groin or diaphragm, thrusting upward.” Grandpa and I demonstrated another couple of times before turning the students loose to practice on each other.
Starla, hair held back with a cloth headband, had paired up with Nina, who was making a game out of dodging Starla’s wimpy strikes. “My four-year-old granddaughter hits harder than that,” Nina said as I approached. “Like this.” Nina snapped off an impressive palm-heel strike that grazed Starla’s neck and sent her staggering back.
“Don’t make contact,” I said sharply.
“Accident,” Nina said, looking pleased with herself. Rotating her shoulders to loosen them, she backed off half a step. “Too bad I never took a class like his before. It would’ve been useful with my husband.”
Starla gasped, and my gaze fixed on Nina’s face. I could think of only one interpretation for her words. “Are you saying Captain Woskowicz beat you?”
“Not Beaner.” She shook her head. “My first. I met Beaner at my gym while I was still married to Ron. We got to talking, and after a couple of months I told him about Ron hitting me. He helped me buy the gun that persuaded Ron not to mess with me anymore.” Her gaze strayed to a canvas tote sitting next to stiletto heels just off the mats. “I still carry it.”
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