Screaming To Be Solved

by Lauren Hope

  “What’s been answered about Evan?” She moved to the edge of her seat. “Have you found out more? Have you talked to Detective Carter?”

  “No.” He waved his hand, put it on the desk so he could lean back with support. “I haven’t talked to that guy. Truth be told,” he lowered his voice, pursed his lips, “I’m not sure I trust him all that much . . . Or his investigatory skills.”

  “Did you find errors in his paperwork?”

  “His paperwork?”

  “Yes, Detective Carter said the dispatcher at SCMPD’s department emailed you most of the files on the investigation.”

  “Yes, I got the files. And no, there were no mistakes from what I could see. But you can only beat a dead horse for so long, know what I mean?”

  No, she didn’t know exactly what he meant, but she did wonder if you had to keep repeating questions because someone was evading them and bypassing answers, did you call that beating a dead horse?

  Chief Raines stared down at her and put a hand to his chin, thoughtful. “That detective of yours seems like he’s lacking work to me, has too much time on his hands. Poor boy thinks that the break-in at your place and Evan’s death are connected. If that’s not the strangest thing I’ve ever heard . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.

  “To tell you the truth, Chief, I kind of had the same idea.”

  His eyes shot to hers. “See,” he started, shaking a finger, “that’s what I mean. You’re scared—rightfully so I might add—but it doesn’t help when you’ve got an over-anxious detective making you paranoid and looking for connections when there are none. That’s the easiest way to keep a closed case open.”

  “And Evan’s is closed to you?”

  “Of course, dear.” On a resigned sigh, he came to her, bent in front of the chair. “You have all the information you need, Marxie. I know you got it a little late, and I’m sorry about that. But it was a necessary omission. And you know now. Evan died that night, doing his job. Does it really matter if it was drugs or theft, or if he was shot or died in the crash? The outcome is the same.”

  He lowered his head, brought his hands up to cover hers that sat in her lap. “I still feel for you . . . and always will. He was on my watch when he died. All my men are. But it’s especially hard when you lose a young one, and one as good as Evan. But he chose it, he wanted to do this job. And the job requires putting yourself in danger. It was his choice, Marxie, his sacrifice. Don’t try to take that away from him.”

  Her heart panged with hurt and a beat of defensiveness. “I-I’m not. I never would. I just wanted to make sure that he was getting the truth. That his murder was justly punished.”

  “It is,” the chief said gently. “Already has been . . . years ago. We just didn’t know then that we were wrong about the method and the order of things.”

  “Mmmm.”

  To her knowledge, Chief Raines didn’t know about Grant’s visit with Chaz, or the new information Grant had gleaned from that. For some reason, Marxie hadn’t the strength or purpose to tell the chief right now.

  She nodded and rose, went to the window to look out at the coming storm. The weather reports were saying it was going to be a big one, heavy thunder and lightening with showers throughout the area for several days—repercussions of Hurricane Betty hitting the gulf.

  “Are you going to talk to Detective Carter, tell him what you think? He says he’s been trying to reach you.”

  “Sure, I’ll be glad to if you’d like. I’ve been slammed here,” he gestured to the piles of paper on his desk, “but I’ll get to it soon. All I’ll say to him though is that he needs to close this case and let you be. Move on, Marxie.” He came to her and put tender hands on her shoulders. “It’s time. Evan would want it.”

  She nodded and when he hugged her, she let him press her head against his chest. But wrapped in his arms, she had to wonder what Evan really would want. If only he were here to tell her, guide her. He always knew the right thing to do. Who to trust. Who would he trust now?

  ****

  Grant rolled over in his bed, wondering if Marxie had made any progress with Chief Raines. She promised she would call if she knew anything, but she hadn’t yet. So that meant she didn’t know anything, right? Maybe she was coming up as empty handed as he had in talking to the chief.

  Or maybe she was just keeping it from him. And that thought was almost as disappointing as the evasive Chief.

  Grant had hoped he and Marxie were back on the same page. After his apologies and admissions about Caroline, he’d thought for sure she would come around, be on his side again. She had a soft heart, no matter what she tried to show on the outside. But had the concern she’d displayed at her parents’ home been real? Had her sincerity been genuine?

  Of course it was, he told himself irritably, you saw it for yourself, Carter. Felt her soft hands around your neck, saw those blue eyes get misty.

  She just hadn’t gotten to speak with the chief yet, he assured himself. It had only been two days since his visit to Pembroke anyway. He had to give her time.

  But if Grant had his guess, he’d bet Chief Raines was clamming up, giving Marxie the same runaround he’d given Grant. One way or another though, that man was going to have to talk.

  Grant had been telling Marxie the truth when he’d said he wanted a court order to be the last resort. He would really hate if he had to subpoena a Chief of Police. He’d been mulling over it ever since the chief began to show sings of being uncooperative, but Grant didn’t want to make a stink if he didn’t have to. He knew if it came to that, the hounding by a detective to another, higher ranking official, it would be all over the news—in Pembroke and Savannah.

  But if it must be done, it must. He had to satiate these feelings and solve this case before time ran out. And some uncomfortable, eerie feeling in his gut told him there wasn’t much of that left—for him or Marxie. Though he was glad it had been low-key for her these past weeks, something about that didn’t sit well with him. Busting those two kids who’d broken into her and Liz’s home had seemed too easy, too staged. After going to all that trouble to search through the house, specifically take her ring, and take the time to leave the message, why would they leave their prints? And why, if someone was so determined for her to leave Evan’s death alone, had they just faded into the background the last few weeks? It wasn’t jiving. Something there was definitely off.

  On top of all that, the department had demanded he take on another case yesterday. They were of the opinion that the Vaughn case hadn’t produced enough new evidence as of late to merit him spending all his time on it. So they’d thrown a cold case at him, one buried for over ten years. It would take hours upon hours just to sort through all the preliminary evidence and files.

  He threw back the covers and rolled out of bed. If he was going to have to spend the next few days searching through mountains of paper, he might as well get out and do some active detective work now.

  It was a weekend; the chief couldn’t be that busy. He might just pay the old man a visit. Pop by tonight, see what he could hunt up at the station, find a motel and hang around until tomorrow morning when the chief could make it in. Yes, enough foot dragging. It was high time Grant found out what was keeping Chief Raines, and his department, so quiet.

  Who cared that it was nearing ten-thirty at night and Raines wasn’t at the office? He’d just have to speak to the dispatcher on night duty . . . and pray she was a female. Somehow, when Grant flashed his badge and his smile he always got a lot more out of the female gender than the male.

  As thunder rumbled in the distance and rain began to peck the old roof, Marxie lay in the room where she’d slept most of her childhood, unable to fall asleep. She could go rouse Liz in the guest room across the hall, but she knew her friend needed rest. Six days at fashion week, seven more at meetings and consultations, endless shopping, and who knows how many dates were bound to wear a woman out.

  Plus, Marxie knew that the cause of her restlessn
ess couldn’t be helped by Liz. Only she could fix the problem. In order to get a good night’s rest, or have any peace for that matter, she would have to put her mind at ease over Grant’s suspicions. They’d been harassing her, tugging at the back of her mind, pulling on the corners of her heart so she hadn’t had a true moment’s peace since his visit.

  She hated to think it, didn’t even want to consider that her sweet chief had anything to do with even covering up a smidge of truth concerning Evan’s murder. But Grant’s words made her wonder. And the chiefs actions nearly gave her confirmation.

  Maybe he would relent after all and be willing to talk about Evan. But probably not. He’d made himself pretty clear at yesterday afternoon’s visit. The case was closed to him. He wouldn’t reveal to her, or to Grant, any of those files he had tucked away in that cabinet. Unless of course the court got involved and demanded it.

  But by then, it might be too late. They, like so many other facets of this case, might have just magically disappeared.

  She couldn’t let that happen. She had to check. Had to know.

  Evan would want her to know what was in those files, his files.

  Quietly, so as not to wake anyone else in the house, she slipped out of bed and began to dress.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Through the light wash of sprinkling rain on her windshield, Marxie watched, hunkered down in the driver’s seat of her SUV in a dark corner of the parking lot, as Rita closed up the station. She knew on weekends the crew usually packed up by eight and were gone by eight-thirty. Rita must’ve stayed late. That was like her, always making sure the weekend staff were set to go. She was definitely heading out later than normal tonight, even for her, at ten forty-five. The nighttime dispatcher must be new. Perfect. That would make Marxie’s entrance and exit even easier.

  Through the double glass doors, Marxie saw the dispatcher sit back in her chair and relax, a gossip magazine in hand. The newbie waved bye to Rita as she walked out the door.

  Marxie watched Rita drive away and exhaled a big sigh of relief that she hadn’t been spotted. She would hate to have to lie to an old friend about what she was really doing here.

  But now was the time. Now or never.

  She sucked in a breath, checked her keys to be sure the one she needed hadn’t disappeared, and moved her vehicle slowly to the side of the building.

  She parked in the last corner spot, furthest away from anyone’s view driving by the front of the station. Here, she also didn’t have to worry about someone detecting her from behind; the long, low building backed up to a heavily wooded area with low, overhanging trees, branching thick limbs and broad leaves. Just in case, she checked her rearview and side mirrors, scanned out the front windshield, and both the driver and passenger windows before quietly opening the door and jumping to the ground. Thankfully, she wasn’t under the glare of streetlamps here either, and the darkness engulfed her, masking her petite, dark-clothed frame.

  She walked with quick steps through the misty rain to the one and only door on this side of the building. Only employees had a key to this entrance. She’d never returned Evan’s.

  Her hands trembled, making the set of keys tingle like little bells as she pushed the slim gold key through the bolt and unlocked it with a snap.

  The lights on this end of the building were off, the long hallway dark and silent. She stepped through the doorway, holding her breath, and shut the door behind her.

  She walked lightly. She’d worn tennis shoes to keep the noise of clicking heels or slapping sandals from echoing down the long corridor, but she was still cautious, especially now that the soles were slicked with rain.

  When she reached Chief Raines’ office, she knocked softly, and called even softer. “Chief? You in there?”

  She knew he wasn’t but wanted to call anyway, for defenses sake . . . in case someone actually was watching she could say later that, technically, she had knocked. Like that would make it better, her conscious abruptly buzzed. She ignored it and tried the knob, hoping by some miracle the chief or an inept janitor had forgotten to lock it. It twisted slightly in her hand, but didn’t budge on turning all the way.

  She paused and demanded steadiness from her shaky hands. Oh, she felt so guilty! She had to physically push that sick feeling out of her gut if she was going to do this. Rita wasn’t the only friend she was lying to in this crazy adventure.

  Oh, who was she kidding? This wasn’t an adventure; it was snooping, plain and simple. Breaking in, actually, she thought as she pulled the slim credit card from her back pocket and slipped it through the door’s paper thin crack.

  Marxie wiggled the knob, turning the card this way and that near the lock, all the while shunning the guilt, anticipation, and nerves that wanted to swallow her. The emotions collided, causing her stomach to roll with queasiness, her breath and hands to quake.

  Then the door clicked open, and banishing all else but her ultimate goal, she slipped through the narrow opening.

  Silently, she closed the door, waiting for its soft snap to tell her it was closed and she was safe, behind a secure wall where no one could see her instead of idling vulnerably in the hall.

  When it complied with a reassuring click, she walked stealthily to the small lamp on the chief’s desk, clicked it off with a tug to the hanging metal chain—she couldn’t risk her shadow being cast in the room.

  Okay, she had to make this quick. That wasn’t a problem as she probably wouldn’t find anything, anyway. After which she’d of course feel worse than ever that she’d even suspected her old friend of any wrong-doing, not to mention the added guilt of snooping through his things.

  She was cursing Grant forever for putting these thoughts in her head.

  She scanned the room, eyes resting momentarily on the computer atop the chief’s desk. She knew technology wasn’t his friend; he much preferred hard copies he always said. The one time he had shown her physical proof of Evan’s reports, they’d come from an in-hand file, not an electronic one.

  Spotting the long, narrow file cabinet, she decided that was the place to start. She scurried to it, surprised that the small key was in the lock and turned easily when she gave it a twist. She gave the third drawer down a slight pull.

  It rolled open with a small clatter and immediately, she froze. Maybe it was the metal rolling against metal, the memory of something horrific sliding out the last time she heard that noise, but she was nauseous—very nauseous—as her mind replayed the scene from the morgue. She could swear that awful, gut-wrenching aroma of death penetrated her nostrils, the hollow air and harsh lights certainly before her once again. Her knees buckled under her and she almost went down, but her arms caught on the protruding drawer, and she collapsed on it with a thud.

  Oh, no. Her head snapped up. Was that as loud on the other side of the door as it seemed here? Could it be heard down the hall? She stayed deathly still, counted to sixty, and when she heard no sounds, saw no movements, she prayed she was still in the clear.

  Close call, Marx, she reprimanded herself, sucking in a breath.

  Too close for her comfort. What if someone found her? How much trouble would she be in if she was caught searching through confidential information? She hadn’t stopped to think that not only was she invading a friend’s privacy, but the law’s as well.

  She needed to get what she came for and bolt. Tonight, once and for all, she was putting these ridiculous assertions to rest. After she found out nothing was going on, she was getting out of here, calling Grant, and telling him to back off—permanently.

  She just had to look at a few things first.

  Clearing her mind, she focused on the task at hand. Willing away the previous awful images, she began to flip through the row of folders, mumbling softly to herself.

  “B. Turnball, H. Valley, E. Vaughn.” Yes! She pulled out the file labeled, Vaughn, Evan James, in the top right corner.

  Crouched in front of the metal cabinet, she opened the folder, scanned the pages i
nsides, hunting through them quickly as her eyes searched for anything useful.

  June 28, 2009 . . . Explosion . . . Two teeth positively identified . . . White male, twenty-six years . . .

  All these things looked normal to her. Information she knew, had seen and been told a dozen times.

  Then, thumbing through the last of the papers in the file, her fingers ran across a thicker bulk. With careful hands, she pulled out a fat stack of bound documents. CONFIDENTIAL was stamped in red across the front of the packet.

  She stopped and looked up to the empty office briefly, her eyes wild with fear and anticipation. Would she be arrested if she looked at this? Thrown in jail? But she had a right to see it, didn’t she? The files might be confidential, but they pertained to her husband. She was the widow of the man whose last moments were detailed in these papers.

  Without hesitating any longer, she ripped off the clip holding the stack together. Small writing was scrawled on pages and pages of documents. In the dark, it was difficult to make out what any of them said. She bowed her head, put her eyes inches from the black-inked words.

  And sucked in a shaky breath. This was about Evan’s undercover work. Dated entries—in Chief Raines’s hand—about the ongoing investigation.

  Putting a wobbly hand to her mouth, she read quick and intent.

  May 5: Officer Vaughn has successfully infiltrated the suspects and their ring. Officer is currently at the home of one Glenn Sparks, conversing with Sparks and associates.

  May 17: Officer has become friendly with most, if not all, members in standard meeting group. Officer Vaughn has witnessed drug purchase and use by fifteen members. (Names and ages listed below).