“She’s my daughter and she’s drunk.”
“So what? You didn’t serve her booze or tell her it was okay to get pickled. She made that decision on her own.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s precisely the point. She’s not some computer you can program. She’s a teenage girl. She’s going to make errors in judgment. When she does, you have to realize it’s not your fault. It’s hers.”
My anger faded as I realized what she was trying to do. Still, I couldn’t accept her rationale and told her why.
“You don’t have kids,” I said. “You don’t understand what it’s like to raise a child. Emily’s my responsibility. Mine. Any decisions she makes, any values she has are a reflection of me. What I’ve instilled.”
She listened calmly as I spoke, giving the impression that she empathized with my position.
Not quite.
“Fine,” she said mockingly. “You’re right, Marty. You’re absolutely right. I don’t have kids. I can’t possibly know what I’m talking about. I haven’t a clue what it’s like to be a teenage girl and you do—”
Not again. “Amanda, all I’m saying—”
“I heard you, Marty. And I’m holding you to what you said. You want to blame yourself for Emily getting drunk, be my guest. God forbid she ever tries pot or has sex—don’t look at me like that. She’s a teenager. These things happen. When they do, you can really screw yourself in a circle. Hell, you’ll probably spend a year in therapy, trying to figure out where you went wrong. It’s a shame. It really is. Someday you’ll wake up and realize life is a lot more enjoyable when you’re not laying guilt trips on yourself.”
I didn’t reply. There wasn’t any need. We both knew the guilt she was referring to had nothing to do with Emily. Rather, it was the rationale she’d used to justify her martyr comment.
She’d once told me that she believed the main reason I’ve held onto my wife Nicole’s memory so long was because I felt guilt over her death. That I considered myself somehow responsible.
The truth was, I did feel guilty for one simple reason that made perfect sense to me. I was alive and Nicole wasn’t.
“Who are you calling now?” Amanda asked.
Sara Winters was my neighbor who had driven Emily home from the dance. She’d intended to call me in the morning, to tell me about what happened with Emily. “The news mentioned you’re working on the murder of Congressman Talbot’s nephew and I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Tell me now.”
At this, Amanda again pressed close to listen to Sara’s account.
It wasn’t as bad as we thought.
When Sara arrived at the dance, she couldn’t locate Emily. With the help of her daughter, Sara learned Emily had gone with a group of friends to Larry Nelson’s place. Larry was a farmer and had a couple of high school sons who were pretty wild.
“Larry and Marge were out of town,” Sara said, “so the boys decided to have a party in the barn. Must have been fifty, sixty kids there. Most were drunk or close to it. I called Deputy Haney and he shut the party down. He said he’d talk to you tomorrow. If it helps, there was a big bowl of fruit punch that some of the girls were told contained no booze. But it did. Quite a bit, according to Haney. So, does it, Marty? Help, I mean?”
“It helps, Sara,” I said.
“You ask me, that’s probably what happened with the younger girls. They’re all good kids like Emily. They’d never had alcohol before. They didn’t know what they were drinking.”
“I appreciate all your help, Sara.”
“Anytime. I’m just sick about this, but you know how it is with kids. Lord love ’em. Anything else you want to know?”
I asked her how bad off Emily was.
“I had to stop the car so she could throw up. She felt better afterwards. She’ll be fine by morning, other than a hangover.”
“Thanks again, Sara.”
“Night, Marty. Try not to worry, huh?”
“I won’t,” I lied.
As I put my phone away, Amanda stepped back, looking as relieved as I felt. Her response was understandable. In some respects, she was closer to Emily than I was. She certainly had a better rapport. She said, “Guess we should have known better. Checked the facts before overreacting.”
We, not you. I smiled my appreciation to this gesture. “She still shouldn’t have gone to the party.”
“Chill, Dad. She’s paying for it. It’ll be a long time before she touches booze again. You got off easy.”
When I thought about it, I realized I had.
I pushed away from the fence and reached out to unlock the gate. Amanda had the same idea and our hands met on the latch. This time neither one of us jerked away.
Her fingers lingered on mine longer than necessary before she withdrew it. She said softly, “You’re a good father. You have no reason to ever feel guilty about the way you’re raising Emily.”
“I know, but sometimes it’s difficult to—”
“Or about anything else.”
In her gaze, I sensed rather than saw the message it contained. I nodded I understood and she smiled. I waited for her to turn away, but her big eyes remained focused onmine. Standing so close to her in the semidarkness, it occurred to me that this might be my last opportunity. I had to ask her now.
Gathering my nerve, I drew in a breath—
She turned away. “You hear something?”
Someone was calling to us.
Enrique jogged across the pool decking, shouting for us to stop. Behind him, we could see Simon striding briskly, talking on a cell phone. Under an arm, he’d jammed the folder I’d given him and in his free hand, he carried—
“A pillow?” I said.
“Must be evidence,” Amanda said.
Approaching us, Enrique slowed to a walk, speaking rapidly. “Change of plans. Officer Hannity called. Simon’s talking to him now. If it pans out, you’ll only need to question General Baldwin to verify. The problem is getting there without tipping off the press. They know Simon’s limo and are sure to follow. Simon’s got an idea that should work. I’ll drive the limo and—”
So much for being deliberate. Enrique’s words were bouncing around too fast for me to understand. I told him to take a breath and he sucked one in, loud enough for us to hear.
I said, “I assume Hannity was one of the cops conducting surveillance—”
“Right. Major Coller. He just came home.” He grinned. “Officer Hannity says our boy is toasted. Took him forever to get his key in the door. But, hey, if the man was sober enough to drive, he can talk.”
I found myself getting caught up in his excitement and forced myself to calm down. Even if Coller knew who orchestrated the killing, that was still a long way from proving murder.
“And Simon’s idea?” Amanda said.
Enrique explained in under a minute. By then, Simon had joined us. “We’ll be there in ten minutes, Hannity,” he said into his phone.
As he ended the call, he said to Amanda and me. “Hannity will advise Coller we’re on our way. You understand what to do?”
We nodded.
Eyeing the pillow, she said, “You sure you’ll be comfy enough?”
“I think so. The ride shouldn’t take long and—” Simon stopped; he realized she was teasing him. His face frosted over and he stiffly turned away, walking through the gate toward the cars.
“Not smart, Amanda,” I said. “You know how sensitive he is.”
She grinned. “Oh, come off it, Marty. He’s taking a pillow. Who does that?”
Only Simon.
Amanda pulled her Saab up to the northwest edge of the house, just far enough to provide us with a view of the front gate. I sat beside her in the passenger seat, and as she braked to a stop, we both hunched forward, watching the limo continue down the drive ahead of us. Approaching the gate, it slowed, tucking in behind a phalanx of uniformed officers who began clearing a path through the crowd of media.
“The fish are biting,” Amanda said.
Through the fence, we could see a number of press types bolting for their vehicles. As the limo turned onto the road, cars and vans began pulling in behind it. Several almost collided. Horns blared.
I checked the dashboard clock: 11:23.
Precisely three minutes later, I said, “Okay.”
Amanda tapped the gas and we rolled down the driveway. Ahead, the gate which had closed, was beginning to open. The cops were again positioned in a wedge, ready for battle.
“What do you think?” Amanda said. “Got rid of about a third?”
A reference to the press. “Maybe a little less.”
“Show time,” she said, seconds later.
We crept through the gate and the flashes began to pop. Because of the cops, no suicidal cameramen threw themselves at the car. Once we cleared the crowd, I looked back. No one bothered to tail us. A given. Simon was the lead investigator and we were his helper bees. We didn’t count.
As the car picked up speed, I settled back for the short ride and wondered what Major Coller could tell us.
28
The drive to Major Coller’s should have taken around eight minutes. Amanda kept the pedal to the metal and turned into the townhouse complex in a shade under six. To call it a complex was an exaggeration. Actually, it was an Lshaped pattern of no more than two dozen town homes located on a quiet street, across from a wooded park.
Coller’s residence was easy to find. All we had to do was look for the police cruiser and glance to the right. Number sixteen was the fourth residence from the end, the one with an American flag hanging out front.
Amanda swung in beside the cop who was leaning against his car, waiting for us. He pushed upright as we emerged. He was a baby-faced black man with forearms the size of my thighs. His nametag confirmed he was Hannity.
Amanda and I flashed him our flip-top IDs. I said, “I understand you spoke to Major Coller…”
“Right. Passed the message about you coming.” Officer Hannity squinted as if puzzled by something.
I said, “How drunk is he?”
“Drunk enough. He’s damn lucky he managed to drive here in one piece. Look, I thought Lieutenant Santos was coming.”
“He’s here,” Amanda said.
“Oh?” Hannity’s eyes shifted to the back seat of the Saab. It was obviously empty. He returned to us, appearing even more confused.
Just then, we heard a tapping sound. It was followed by a muffled and angry voice. As we focused on the trunk, a flicker of comprehension crept across Hannity’s broad face. “Ah, hell. You’re not telling me—”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
The tapping and shouting continued. We stood there, listening to it.
“He’s getting pissed,” Amanda said. “Guess we better let him out.” She sounded disappointed.
“And me without my camera,” Hannity said, grinning. “Shit, I come back with a picture of the lieutenant crawling out of a trunk, I’d be a hero. I wouldn’t work nights for a month.”
I looked at Amanda. She always brought a camera on an investigation.
She hesitated, tempted. But she ultimately shook her head. A sensible decision. Hell hath no fury like a Simon scorned.
As we stepped around to the trunk, Amanda thumbed the release on her key chain. The lid popped open and Simon sat up, looking like a furious, albeit immaculately dressed, jack-in-the-box. For an instant, I thought he might be angry enough to swear.
“This,” he seethed, “was not amusing.”
I said, “It was your idea.”
He glowered and thrust up the pillow. This generated another grin from Hannity. Bad move. Simon cut him a look and the grin vanished.
After Amanda and I helped Simon out, I tossed the pillow in the trunk and shut the lid. We watched as Simon went through his primping routine. Appearance, of course, was everything.
Pocketing his comb, he held Hannity in a menacing stare. “Not a word. You understand. Not a word.”
Hannity didn’t quite snap to attention, but he came close. “No sir,” he barked.
Simon pivoted and headed across the parking area toward Coller’s residence. As Amanda and I swung in behind him, we heard Hannity say, “Uh, Lieutenant—”
Three heads turned.
Hannity nervously appraised Simon. Gun-shy.
“Go on,” Simon said impatiently.
Hannity began, “It’s…it’s about what you said. If I saw anything suspicious…”
“Yes, yes…”
“It’s probably nothing, but…when I was walking over to talk to Major Coller, I saw this BMW. A black M5. It slowed like it was going to turn in, then sped up and continued on by.”
Simon said, “And you think it was because he saw you?”
“Not only that, sir. You see, one of the reasons I noticed it was because I’d seen a black M5 parked over there, when I first arrived.” He pointed to spaces at the far end of the asphalt, perhaps thirty yards away. “When I showed up, it sat there for maybe a minute, then pulled out.”
“Did you have a description of the driver?”
“Windows were tinted dark. I could tell there was one person in the car. I think it was a man.”
“Think?”
“It had to be a man. See that light—” He pointed to a lamp pole, behind where he’d indicated the car had parked.
“I saw the guy’s outline. After I parked, I noticed him sitting there, looking at me. Kinda made me wonder, so I kept my eye on him. I was thinking about checking him out, when he drove off. Anyway, he was a pretty big guy. That much I could tell.”
“A license number?”
“I tried to get it, the second time. The problem was I had to run out to the street to see it. By then, the car was almost a block away. It had temp tags, though. Like from a dealer.”
Simon asked if that’s how he’d concluded it was the same car he’d seen earlier, because of the temp tags.
“Actually, Lieutenant,” Hannity said, sounding a little embarrassed, “I never paid attention to the tags the first time. But can’t be too many people afford an M5 who live here. Those go for seventy, eighty grand, easy.”
Simon gazed out across the rows of moderately priced vehicles and nodded as if he agreed. He didn’t; he was pondering the same thing Amanda and I were.
What if the driver didn’t live here?
“How long ago did you speak to Major Coller, exactly?” Simon asked suddenly.
Hannity fingered the radio mike clipped to his lapel. “Maybe two minutes after we spoke. Not more.” He checked his watch. “Call it eleven twenty-five.”
“It’s eleven forty-one,” Amanda said, her eyes rising from her wrist.
Sixteen minutes.
And Coller’s townhome had a back door.
I took out my pistol, eyeing Simon. “Better safe than sorry.”
He issued instructions. Because Simon had gone to Kennedy Center, he didn’t have his weapon so Hannitypassed him the shotgun from the patrol car. He and I continued to Coller’s front door, while Amanda and Hannity ran around to the rear.
“I’ll cover you,” he said, chambering a round.
I nodded and rang the bell.
Footsteps.
When I was sure, I stepped away from the door. “Someone’s coming.”
Simon was partially turned, scanning the parking area. I kept my gun trained on the door.
The sound of a lock clicking open. The door opened a crack and a handsome blond man tentatively peered out, swaying slightly. It was him, the man from the video. His eyes popped wide at the sight of my pistol. “Jesus.”
By then I was lowering the barrel and reaching into my jacket. “It’s okay, Major Coller. Sorry for the scare. I’m Agent Collins of the OSI. This is Lieutenant Santos.”
He relaxed. “Right. You got some questions for me. Man, you guys don’t screw around.” For someone who was pickled, his voice was surprisingly steady.
&
nbsp; After an attempt to focus on my credentials, he gave up with a shrug. “Looks good to me. What’s this about, fellas?”
He opened the door and stood there smiling. I started to ask him if we could come inside when I felt a stinging sensation on my ear. It wasn’t particularly painful. It felt like a bee sting or the prick from a pin, but I knew it wasn’t either.
Because an instant later, Major Coller’s throat exploded in a sea of red.
Time slowed and mist touched my face.
I saw Coller’s startled expression as he pitched violently back. I saw him collapse to the floor and clutch for his throat. I saw the blood spurt between his fingers as he frantically tried to stop the bleeding. I heard his wheezing gurgles as he struggled to breathe. I saw and heard it all.
Right up until I felt Simon shove me in the back, screaming at me to get inside.
29
I sprawled through the doorway, stumbled over Coller and fell onto the hallway floor. From behind, I heard the sound of splintering wood. I rolled over against a staircase railing, just as Simon dove in beside me. His shotgun banged off my head and I swore. An instant later, something thumped into the carpet, inches from Coller, who was rolling around, clutching his throat. Another thump. Coller’s shoe jerked and blood spurted from it. He tried to scream and gurgled instead. Simon yelled at me to pull him back, out the way. I hollered back that I was fucking trying.
I’d jammed my pistol in my holster and was reaching for Coller. He squirmed and thrashed wildly. I finally managed to grip him under the armpits. His shirt and chest were soaked with blood. I pulled as hard as I could and we began sliding back. Another bullet struck the carpet where he’d been lying. Simon joined in by pulling on my arms and we dragged Coller into a small living room, bullets thumping behind us.
We lay there panting, ears straining. But it was silent. There were no more thumps.
From the rear of the house, someone began banging on a door. Simon and I sprang to our feet, raised our weapons—
“Simon, Marty!” Amanda called out. “What’s going on in there? What’s wrong?”
A Slow Walk to Hell Page 17