by Jason Parent
As Masterson spoke, a shadow emerged on the staircase behind him. Someone was at the top of the stairs, listening to their conversation. Tessa, Sam assumed. Good.
“Where’s Tessa now?” she asked.
“I rarely know with her. Do you have children, Detective?”
“No.”
“Well, I can assure you, keeping tabs on a teenage girl is no easy task. The tighter I close my grip, the more she slips through my fingers. She’s probably out with friends, smoking or causing more trouble.”
“Is anyone else here? I would like to talk to you in private.”
“No, it’s just me.”
He’s lying. Tessa was upstairs and had likely been instructed to stay there. He doesn’t want me to talk to her. Sam set her jaw. Let’s find out why.
Masterson shifted in his seat. “The suspense is killing me. What has Tessa done this time?”
“Nothing. Not yet, anyway. Mr. Masterson, I don’t know how else to ask you this, so I’ll just come out with it. Can you think of any reason why Tessa might want to kill you?”
In her years of interrogating suspects, Sam had learned that sometimes the best way to evoke a genuine response from her target was to sandbag him with a seemingly out-of-the-blue question that struck close to the heart. Reactions, particularly those from criminals harboring guilt or the fear of getting caught, were usually impulsive and defensive.
Yet Masterson didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Sam had implied that his daughter had given some indication that she planned to kill him or at least had wanted to, but Masterson took the news as if it were idle chitchat. Sure, he didn’t get defensive, and he didn’t cry foul. There was no fear in his eyes, no blubbering of the guilty. But his was not the response of an innocent. His was the response of one without compassion. Without a soul.
“None.” Masterson’s voice was low and steady. His hands remained folded in his lap; he was calmer than a windless sea.
Sam sent the next question out like a bullet to throw him off guard. “Do you know Gloria Jackson?”
“No,” Masterson replied without missing a beat. “Should I?”
“Ms. Jackson is a guidance counselor at Carnegie High School. Her calendar noted a meeting with Tessa last Saturday at two p.m. Was Tessa home Saturday?” She didn’t speak of Gloria Jackson in the past tense, not wanting to offer any implication that Jackson might be dead, hoping instead that he would slip up and let that fat cat out of its bag.
Masterson smiled wryly. “Like I said, teenage girls are impossible to keep track of, but let me think.” He shifted his gaze to the ceiling and put on a thoughtful expression.
This guy thinks he’s good, Sam thought, confident he was putting on a show for her. But I’m better.
“Saturday. Hmm… I saw Tessa in the morning. We ate breakfast together. I made pancakes. After that, I can’t be certain.”
“And I suppose Ms. Jackson never visited?”
“Not unless she came by when I was out back raking leaves.”
“So you were home then? All day?”
“Yes, all morning and afternoon.”
“And in the evening?” She wanted to lock him into a story, one he couldn’t squirm out of later.
“I may have run some errands.”
“Where?”
He shrugged. “The grocery store. McDonald’s to pick up dinner. What’s this all about, Detective? What does this Gloria Jackson have to do with my daughter?”
“Ms. Jackson was murdered. Witnesses say that they last saw her here.” That was a lie. She had no witnesses, yet. But it wasn’t the first time she had lied to get at the truth.
“Well, your witnesses need to get their eyes checked.” Masterson widened his eyes. The shock on his face looked real enough, but Sam wasn’t buying it. “Wait. Are you saying that I’m a suspect? I’ve never even met the lady.” He paused as if he’d had a sudden epiphany. “Oh. Do you think Tessa’s done something?”
“At this time, I’m not accusing anybody of anything, Mr. Masterson. I’m simply conducting a murder investigation, interviewing anyone who may have knowledge of Ms. Jackson’s whereabouts in the hours leading up to her death. Your cooperation has been appreciated.”
He jumped to his feet. “This conversation is over. I was happy to speak with you, but your questioning has become grossly inappropriate. Tessa is a troubled girl, yes. But murder? No, she’s not capable of it, and before you ask, neither am I.”
“Well, you see, the curious thing is that so many people knew Ms. Jackson was coming here, yet nobody saw her leave. Tessa couldn’t possibly have dumped a woman of Jackson’s size all by her lonesome. She’s not strong enough.”
“I know what you’re driving at. You’re gravely mistaken. I would like you to leave now.” He pointed at the door.
“If your only part in this was aiding in the disposal of the body so you could protect your daughter, I can understand that. I may be able to convince the prosecution to go easy on you if—”
“I’ve heard enough of your silly accusations!” He marched over to the door and opened it. “Unless you’re going to charge me with something, it’s time for you to leave. I will not answer any more of your ridiculous questions without a lawyer. Neither will Tessa.”
“Have it your way.” The conversation had run its course, but it hadn’t been fruitless. Masterson had invoked his right to an attorney even though he hadn’t been charged with a crime. Sam had learned plenty, not so much from what was said but from what wasn’t. “If you think of anything else you would like to tell me—”
“I wouldn’t wait by the phone for that call. Go,” Masterson said, jabbing a finger at the open door.
Sam grinned smugly. “Thank you for your time.” She buttoned her overcoat and headed out into the cold. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you,” she said as she passed him. As she walked down the steps, she heard the door close behind her.
After getting into her car, she glanced back at the house to check the windows. She thought she saw a curtain drop in one upstairs, but she couldn’t be sure. She almost waved, in case Tessa was looking, but she kept her hand on the wheel, in case Masterson was, too.
As she drove away, Sam knew she had her man. Christopher Masterson was guilty of murder, as well as kidnapping and torture. But as Sam had found out early in her career, her cases were never about what she knew but what she could prove. Just then, she didn’t have a whole lot of proof. The evidence she needed was probably in that house somewhere. Maybe it had been right under her nose. But she would need a search warrant to get it.
Unless… maybe the key to solving this case is Tessa. Whatever is going on between those two, one of them is in danger. I better build my case fast before I have a second homicide to solve. Masterson’s not going to let me anywhere near his daughter, but maybe there’s another way.
Sam closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was reluctant to go down that road again, but the urgency left her with little choice. Preventing murders was something altogether new to her, but for sure, she had to try. If Masterson was the type of man she thought he was, it was only a matter of time before he did to someone else what he had done to Gloria Jackson, if he hadn’t already.
People like him, once they start, they can’t stop. Sam cursed. She had to play her new trump card sooner and more often than she had intended.
Damn it. Michael is going to be so pissed.
Chapter 18
Michael had walked away several times already, but each time, he returned to that same spot against the concrete pillar. What the hell am I doing? He couldn’t understand what had possessed him to go through with his plan. Again, he thought to leave. Again, he reminded himself that if he did, he wouldn’t get another chance to enlist the help he needed.
The final bell separated most students from the hallowed halls of Carnegie High. Only athletes, m
usicians, and troublemakers stayed after it, and Michael didn’t fit into any of those categories. Carnegie was the last place he wanted to be.
The football team was nearing the end of its season. With its successful romp against their Turkey Day rival, the New Bedford Whalers, and with seven players already named All Stars and another three just waiting for the official announcement, the Carnegie High Hurricanes were going to compete at the state competition. They were gearing up for a fistfight against a vicious team over in Rockland. After they were given the Friday after Thanksgiving off, the student athletes were back to running drills and slamming into big blue punching bags that Monday.
Under the guise of being a freshman interested in joining the team next year, Michael went to the practice and watched from the bleachers. The sport seemed barbaric. Any grace it might have had at the college level was undermined by its pimply teenage practitioners ramming into each other like stubborn goats and trying to muscle each other without heed to leverage. Phrases like “bootleg” and “I formation” made little sense to Michael. When he saw one kid snot rocket on another after tackling him with what looked like a crippling hit, he turned away, disgusted.
Some of the athletes noticed Michael in the stands. They began yelling insults at him, calling him every slur he knew for “homosexual,” then twice as many more he’d never heard. Their meathead minds conjured barely intelligible threats, and they promised all sorts of graphically painful penetrations as they grappled and groped each other, constantly slapping each other’s asses for the most minor of accomplishments. Michael wondered if half of them were in the closet, acting overtly homophobic to cover up the fact they were getting boners from touching each other. The rumors of what went on in the locker room just might be true.
Coach Pelletier looked on with seeming approval. He kept his players on a leash, but it was a long one. He kept them safe from each other when the ’roid rages hit, but anyone not on the team was fair game. His silence pretty much encouraged their hostility toward Michael.
Michael ignored the taunts. None of them mattered. He hadn’t gone there to see idiots fight over a ball. He wanted to see only one player, Robbie Wilkins.
Unlike his teammates, Robbie went about practice with cool-headed methodology. If he saw Michael, he never let on. Given his teammates’ constant hazing of Michael, Robbie’s ignorance of Michael’s presence had to be willful. The team’s starting center, he towered over most on the field, yet he seemed the meekest.
Coach Pelletier dismissed the players, and they headed for the showers. Michael got up and walked over to wait outside the locker room. When the door opened, he braced himself for more hazing.
One by one, the athletes filed past him. Oddly, their mouths remained closed as they passed. A few gave him strange looks; most ignored him altogether. Robbie was one of the last to come out. With a gym bag slung over his shoulder, he walked by Michael without even glancing his way.
He’s going out of his way to pretend I don’t exist. Michael again doubted his reasons for being there. Maybe I should just let this volcano stay dormant. But Michael’s fear wasn’t as potent as it once might have been. He’d seen what true evil looked like, and Robbie wasn’t it.
“Robbie?” he called.
Robbie froze. For a moment, he seemed to be debating how to respond or whether to respond at all. Slowly, he turned to face Michael.
Is he afraid of me? That would be weird. Maybe he thinks I’m going to shoot him.
Robbie’s obvious discomfort made Michael feel much more at ease. He felt surprisingly in control of the situation, as if Robbie might actually listen to him and maybe do what he requested. To think that so soon after bullying Michael in the school restroom, Robbie was now scared of him almost made him laugh.
“What’s up?” Robbie asked, obviously trying to sound casual but tough. The slight squeak in his voice betrayed him.
“Hey. I just wanted to talk a second, if you got one.”
Robbie’s shoulders dropped. He exhaled a long breath. “Michael, I feel terrible about what I did to you. If I could take it all back, I would. But I can’t.” He glanced around the empty area, then asked, “Are you going to shoot me now?”
“What?” Michael laughed. “No, I’m not going to shoot you. Look. You said that if I ever needed anything, well… I need your help with something.”
“Okay.” Robbie seemed a little relieved but not much. “What do you need help with?”
Michael took a deep breath. “This is going to sound crazy,” he said, thinking too many of his conversations were starting the same way lately. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about my, um… dreams?”
“Are you kidding me? Who hasn’t?” Robbie stepped closer. “That must be so awesome. What’s it like?”
“It’s not nearly as fun as you might think.” Michael rolled his eyes. He supposed he should be thankful Robbie at least believed him. The conversation would be a lot harder if Robbie scoffed and thought the rumors were nuts.
“Anyway, I had one about this girl, Tessa. She’s in your class.”
“Tessa Masterson? Yeah, I have dreams about her, too, but I doubt they’re the same as yours. She’s hot, dude.”
Michael shrugged. “I guess. I really didn’t notice.”
“Are you gay or something? I mean, it’s okay if you—”
“Can we get back on track here? Tessa’s in a bit of trouble. I need to warn her. She needs my help, but I can’t do it alone. I’m… scared.”
Michael hoped Robbie would see helping as a way to make amends for all the crap he’d pulled with Glenn, not to mention the literal crap he’d put Michael through. He didn’t seem like a terrible guy, just impressionable. Maybe playing the good guy might actually suit him. Michael didn’t care as long as he helped.
Robbie stood straight, confident, and ready for business. “When?”
“The sooner the better.”
“I got practice all week, then I gotta go straight home to babysit my baby sister. How about Saturday afternoon sometime? I have practice in the morning.”
“If that’s the earliest you can do it…”
“It is.”
“Then that will have to be soon enough.” I hope it will be soon enough.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Nothing dangerous. Can you come with me to Tessa’s house this weekend so I can tell her what I saw?”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing specific,” Michael hedged. He certainly wasn’t going to tell Robbie that he’d seen Tessa kill her own father. And Robbie also didn’t need to know what Sam had told him about Ms. Jackson’s murder and Tessa’s possible connection to it.
“Find out what you can as discreetly as possible,” Sam had told him. “But do not go anywhere near that house.”
Michael had promised to do both, but the instructions were at odds with each other. What better way to learn more about Tessa and her father than to go to their house?
He knew the excuse was weak. But ever since he’d met Tessa, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. His heart went out to that fragile, quiet girl. And he was filled with terror at the thought of what she might become. He didn’t want that for her, though he couldn’t understand why he cared so much. Michael felt responsible for Tessa, whether she was a victim or a murderer. Even if his practical side could dismiss it, his conscience couldn’t.
His plan was easy enough: go in and get her out. But Robbie might screw it up if he knew any more than necessary. Worse, if he knew about the murder, Robbie might decide not to help at all. Michael didn’t like keeping the truth from someone who willingly offered his assistance, even a mongoloid like Robbie, but he wasn’t brave enough to do it alone. He needed Robbie there with him, no matter how he had to paint the truth to get him there.
“I just know she’s in trouble,” Michael said. “We’ve g
ot to help her.”
“All right. I’ll go with you. But after that, we’re even. And you’ll forgive me for what happened in the restroom. Sound fair?”
Michael felt the tiniest bit sorry for Robbie. He knew he was about to lie to the guy again. He doubted he would ever forgive Robbie for dunking him in that toilet, his most humiliating life experience to date.
“Yeah, we’re even. And I’ll, um… try to forgive you. I can at least promise to never try to kill you.”
“Deal,” Robbie said, smiling goofily and holding out his hand.
As they solidified their bargain, Michael’s hand looked like a gumball inside a catcher’s mitt. Robbie had committed himself without even knowing what he was supposed to do, not that it was a long way off from what he used to do for Glenn Rodrigues. Cheap muscle.
“Meet me at the top of the Seven Hills at three o’clock on Saturday. President Avenue is only a few blocks from where she lives. We can ride our bikes from there.” Michael hated having to wait until Saturday, but he had seriously doubted that going alone was a good idea, and Sam wouldn’t allow him anywhere near the place. If he wanted to help, and he did, he would have to wait. In the meantime, he would have to rely on Sam’s squad’s emergency response time.
“I don’t have a bike.”
“Then we’ll walk it. You’ve got feet, right?”
Robbie nodded. “Three o’clock. President Avenue. Got it.”
“Good. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.” Robbie turned and walked away.
I hope not. Michael sighed as he watched Robbie leave. I hope he’s more honest than I’ve been.
Chapter 19
Tessa was in her bedroom with the door closed when the doorbell rang. She’d been pretending to do homework while listening to Taylor Swift as loud as she dared. Swift and other upbeat pop singers were her favorites, though at the same time, their songs choked her up. She wondered what made them so happy they wanted to sing and dance about it. She swallowed. I never feel like dancing. Not that anyone would want to dance with me. She would have given her soul to be like all the fabulous people—the singers, the actresses, the models. They were living real-life fairy tales. She thought she might like to see Hollywood someday but doubted she would ever get much farther than her front door.