by Sam Sisavath
“Thank you for the reminder.”
Parker chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Allie asked.
“You,” Parker said. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were walking inside the mall right now, enjoying the air conditioner and window shopping for a new dress.”
Maybe I am window shopping.
For information…
They were almost at the end of the hallway when a door on their right opened without warning. One of the civilian employees at the station rushed out, almost bumping into Parker in the process. The woman jerked back just in time. She was clutching a stack of folders to her chest as if her life depended on them.
“Oops, sorry, Parker,” the woman said.
“Where you running off to in such a hurry?” Parker said.
“They want these files right away.”
Then the woman glanced down the hallway at Allie and almost lost her grip on her precious bundle.
It was the girl from outside the Don’t Stop In, who Allie had saved from the two Devil’s Crew MC bikers. She was wearing glasses, a pencil skirt, and white blouse, and Allie might not have recognized her if she hadn’t run into the girl just one night ago. Then again, the last time Allie saw her, the woman was wearing cut-off shorts that barely hid her butt cheeks and a T-shirt that was a size too small, not to mention how wild her hair had looked after being tossed around by Mitch and his buddy. She had all those blonde locks in a tight, very conservative bun this afternoon. She looked like a secretary. A mousy one, at that.
Parker must have noticed the way the young woman was staring at Allie and vice versa, because the deputy said, “You two know each other?”
“No,” the woman said quickly. Probably a little too quickly.
“You sure?” Parker asked.
“Yes.” Then, turning, “I have to go.”
“Then go.”
The young woman hurried up the aisle and pushed her way through another door without looking back once.
Small world, Allie thought.
Then: Smaller town.
Parker flashed Allie a wry smile. “That’s one strange girl. Wish I could say today was different, but she’s always like that.”
“Who is she?” Allie asked.
“Melissa. Works in the records department. You two know each other?”
Allie shook her head. “No.”
“You sure about that?” Parker asked, with the same I think you’re lying look she’d given Melissa earlier.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Allie said.
“Okay then, if you’re sure.”
Allie didn’t think the deputy actually believed her, but Parker didn’t pursue it. Instead, Parker led her out the same door Melissa had just run through. There were no signs of the girl on the other side.
I guess she really was in a hurry.
Either that, or she wants to really, really avoid me.
Allie wasn’t sure if she should feel a little insulted by that.
Or maybe a lot insulted.
They walked through the same open lobby where Allie had been processed earlier. This time, even more pairs of eyes gawked at her from every side of the large room. One of those pairs belonged to Evans, the young deputy who Allie had had that standoff with this morning at the Don’t Stop In. Evans stopped what he was doing to straighten up from his desk and stare across the room at her. If Evans’s partner, Trent, was anywhere nearby, Allie couldn’t see him. She found it amusing to imagine the veteran deputy hiding from everyone, even her.
“Bill’s still trying to live down what you did to him,” Parker had said earlier.
Good luck with that, Bill. But at least you’ll always have Cynthia and her stacked chest.
She ignored the looks but couldn’t do the same to the group of people visible through the glass front doors. Reporters. They were camped outside, and when they spotted her being led out of the holding area, they attempted to storm the doors. There were too many deputies on guard for them to get past.
Camera lights flashed in the corners of Allie’s eyes as Parker grabbed her by an arm and quickly led her through the lobby and toward another hallway on the other side.
“What’s it feel like to be famous?” Parker asked when they were safely beyond the reach of the cameras. “Or is that infamous?”
“Either/or,” Allie said.
“You don’t seem very worried.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong, so I don’t have anything to be worried about.”
“Uh huh,” Parker said, not even trying to hide her doubt that time.
The deputy walked her to, then through a door marked Interview Room Two near the middle of the hallway.
“Make yourself at home if you can,” Parker said. “They’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
“Of course they will,” Allie said, and took a seat.
She made herself comfortable because no one was coming for a while, despite what Parker had said. She knew how all of this worked, just like she knew why it was so damn cold inside the room, so much so that the metal table felt like icicles against her skin.
Allie sat back in the hard metal chair and, with nothing else to do, waited.
Eighteen
“What’s your name?”
“Aubrey White.”
“That’s the name you gave us. But that’s not your real name, is it?”
“Of course it’s my real name. It’s on my driver’s license, isn’t it?”
“Then why doesn’t the California DMV have any record of you? Or, for that matter, why doesn’t any state in these United States have any record of you ever existing?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I exist. I’m sitting right here across from you, aren’t I? Besides, you know how everything’s in computers these days. One state employee downloads a file they shouldn’t have, and the next thing you know, records get lost. They’re just digital, after all. Ones and zeroes.”
“You know about computers?”
“Probably more than you do, Detective. No offense.”
The detective smirked. It was probably an involuntary reflex, because smirking at a suspect was not a very good interrogation technique. And that was exactly what she was: A suspect. Allie didn’t pretend otherwise. Pretending didn’t do anything to help her. Right now, she needed information, because as much as she hated to admit it, there was a lot out there that she still didn’t know.
And Allie hated not knowing.
Who set me up? Why?
The detective and his partner had entered the room about an hour after Parker dropped her off. They had a small digital tape recorder with them that they placed in the middle of the table and turned on. Two men, one in Levi’s and the other in khaki chinos, sporting identical white shirts underneath; ties and identical dark black blazers finished the ensemble. They weren’t armed, but they didn’t have to be; Allie could see the two hulking deputies that had been escorting her and Parker back and forth all day standing guard outside in the hallway when the door opened.
The men had come in with folders, maybe even the same ones that Melissa had been carrying. The older of the two identified himself as Dawson. His partner, who was younger by about ten years, was Shannon. They hadn’t bothered with first names. Dawson was doing all the talking as he sat across the table from her, while Shannon leaned against the wall next to the door, hands across his chest, eyes boring into her from the side.
Shannon was supposed to be intimidating. He was certainly big and broad-shouldered enough. In fact, he could have become the third member in the Big Deputy Boys Club that included the two outside.
Well, Shannon was supposed to be intimidating, anyway. Allie had no trouble pretending he didn’t exist, and instead concentrated on Dawson.
The older detective was clearly in charge. Watching him closely ever since he entered the interview room, Allie wondered if Dawson was trying to put on some kind of Columbo impersonation. Not that he was shabbily dressed like th
e famous TV cop, but in the way he asked his questions and spent more time staring at his files, scanning the contents behind thin bifocal glasses, than at her.
They wanted her to think this was routine for them. She didn’t buy the act for a second. Murder didn’t happen in a place like Wells City very often. Even rarer still, the murder of a man like Tom Marshall.
Dawson finally looked up from one of the folders he’d been flipping back and forth as if he were having trouble reading the small type on them. “So. You’re going with Aubrey White.”
“It’s my name,” Allie said.
“Where are you from originally, Aubrey?”
“I was born and raised in Anaheim.”
“So what are you doing up north?”
“Work.”
“The same work that took you to Seattle? And then later, on your way home to Tulsa, Oklahoma?” Something that almost looked like a gotcha smile. “So is it Anaheim or Tulsa?”
“Can’t it be both?” Allie said without missing a beat, even as she thought, Of course Deputy Trent would have made his report by now; and of course, he would have included all the lies I’d told him at the Don’t Stop In. So what else did he tell them?
“Can it?” Dawson was asking.
“A girl can live in more places than one, the last time I checked.” She leaned slightly forward. “How’s Deputy Trent doing?”
“He’s glad he got his service weapon back.”
“I couldn’t help but notice that I didn’t see him out there.”
“Are you concerned about him?”
“We spent some time together, got to know one another. I feel like we became friends.”
“You took him hostage.”
“That’s not true. I just took him along for a ride.”
Shannon smirked. Too loudly.
Allie looked over at him. “You have something to say, Detective Shannon?”
“Not yet,” Shannon said.
“Speak your mind.”
“Not yet,” the younger man said again.
“There’s also the matter of evading a police helicopter,” Dawson was saying.
Allie turned back to the older detective. “Is that what they said I did? I was just going out for a drive after dropping Deputy Trent off.”
“He said you put him in the trunk of your car.”
“Did he?”
“You deny it?”
“Of course.”
“So why did you fail to stop for the police helicopter?”
“I didn’t know it was a police helicopter. It was bright out there, and my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”
“What did you think it was?”
“Some idiot with a helicopter going around spying on people? I’m not from around here; I don’t know what kinds of crazy things you guys do for fun.”
“Really? That’s what you’re going with?”
“Anything’s possible these days.”
Dawson closed a folder and replaced it with another one. He didn’t look up at her when he said, “Are you sure you don’t want an attorney?”
“Why would I need an attorney? I just explained to you that this is just a big mistake.”
“So that’s your answer. No to an attorney?”
“I don’t need one.”
“I didn’t ask you if you needed one; I asked if you wanted one.”
Allie shook her head and leaned back in her seat. “Not yet.”
“Just so you’re aware of your rights. Whenever you’d like me or Detective Shannon to get you an attorney, all you have to do is tell us.”
“Thank you,” Allie said. She glanced over at Shannon. “You should take a seat, Detective. Take a load off.”
“I’m fine,” Shannon said.
“You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“It can’t be very comfortable standing like that. I have a feeling we’re going to be doing this for a while.”
Shannon forced a smile. “I’m…fine.”
“Suit yourself.” She turned back to Dawson. “It’s Deputy Trent’s word against mine about what happened at the Don’t Stop In.”
“Deputy Trent’s, Deputy Evans’s, and the bartender’s words against yours, actually,” Dawson said.
“Oh.”
Shannon snorted.
“Did you have something to add?” Allie asked the younger detective.
Shannon shook his head, but she could tell that he had a lot of somethings to add, but either he had been told to keep quiet or—Yeah, that was probably it. Dawson was the man in charge here. Shannon’s job was just to stand around and watch and, if possible, intimidate.
“Tom Marshall,” Dawson was saying. He had folded his hands on top of the folders and was watching her closely now.
“Who?” Allie said.
“Tom Marshall.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“You don’t know who Tom Marshall is?”
“No. Should I?”
“He was found shot to death in his home this morning.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Did you find out who did it?”
“We’re working on it.”
“I hope I’m not wasting your time. Time that could be better spent out there looking for Mr. Marshall’s killer.”
“Oh, we have plenty of time. Don’t you worry.”
“Plenty of time,” Shannon added.
Allie ignored the bigger and younger detective and said to Dawson, “I’m confused. Why are you asking me about this Tom Marshall? I thought this was about that misunderstanding at the Don’t Stop In.”
“Because your car was seen outside his house very early this morning,” Dawson said. “It’s the reason Deputies Trent and Evans went into the Don’t Stop In to look for you.”
“My car? My exact car? Are you sure about that?”
Dawson opened another folder and adjusted his glasses to read the contents, as if he hadn’t already read it, probably a dozen times before coming in here. “White Ford sedan. Isn’t that what you were driving this morning, and then later this afternoon when the police chopper spotted you on the hillside?”
“There’s a lot of white sedans out there. A lot of white Ford sedans, too.”
“That’s true.”
“I’m glad we can finally agree on something. So this is all just one big misunderstanding? Someone saw a white Ford sedan outside this Tom Marshall person’s place, and you think it’s mine?”
Dawson ignored her question and asked instead, “What about Sarah Marshall?”
Finally. Sarah.
Where are you, Sarah? And did you have something to do with setting me up?
She said, “What about her?”
“Do you know who she is?” Dawson asked.
“No. But I’m guessing she’s related to Tom. Same last name and all. Who is she?”
“Tom Marshall’s wife.”
“Ah. Is she okay?”
“We don’t know yet; we can’t find her. Or her baby.”
“They’re missing?”
“Yes, they are.”
“Shouldn’t you and Detective Shannon be out there looking for them instead of wasting time in here with me?”
“We don’t consider stealing a police officer’s gun and taking him hostage to be a waste of time.”
“Surely it’s nothing compared to a missing mother and her child.”
“No, you’re quite right about that. Finding mother and son is our top priority.”
Yours and mine, Dawson. Yours and mine.
“But speaking of Sarah Marshall, you sure you don’t know who she is? You’ve never met her before?” Dawson asked.
“That’s right,” Allie said. “Just like I’ve never met her husband, Tom. Or know anything about what happened to him.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely.”
“So when the forensics lab comes back with th
e results for those bloodstained clothes we found in your cabin and all over one of the bathroom sinks, they won’t belong to Sarah Marshall?”
Allie didn’t react. She had already expected this. A bloodstained Sarah Marshall had been at the cabin last night, so of course she was going to leave evidence of her presence everywhere.
“When are those results due back?” Allie asked.
“Soon,” Dawson said.
“How soon?”
“Sooner than if this wasn’t a case involving a family with the surname Marshall.”
“Weren’t,” Allie said.
“Excuse me?”
“Sooner than if this weren’t a case involving a family with the surname Marshall. It’s not wasn’t.”
“I thought you were a medical equipment saleswoman from Tulsa—or is it Anaheim?—and not a grammar teacher.”
Allie smiled. Deputy Trent again. What else did the veteran cop put into his report? Was there anything in the files about the conversation she’d had with the deputy during their long ride together? Would Trent even remember or care to include those?
“No, but I paid attention in class,” Allie said. “Besides, what does the name Marshall have anything to do with how fast lab work gets done?”
“You don’t know?” Dawson asked.
“Why would I know?”
“You sure?”
“Yes. If you ask a third time, I’ll answer the same way: No.”
Dawson was trying to scare her, but it wasn’t going to work. The lab results wouldn’t come back for days. Twenty-four hours at the soonest, and it hadn’t been twenty-four hours yet. It didn’t matter if the Marshalls were whispering in all the right ears. Money wasn’t going to rush forensic science.
“Right. Because you’re not from around here,” Dawson said. “Naturally, not being from around here, you wouldn’t know who the Marshalls are.” The way he had said it told her he didn’t believe her for a second and didn’t care if she knew it.
“I have a feeling they’re important people,” Allie said.
“They are.”
“Good for them. But what does that have to do with me?”
“It has a lot to do with you. When powerful people want something to happen, it usually gets done. Like, say, finding a missing wife and a child that shares the same last name.”