When I drove away, the SUV driver was standing beside his vehicle with his cell phone pressed to his ear. His scowl followed me out of the parking lot, but I was pretty sure the scowl was all that had followed me.
Just to be cautious, I headed back to the QE2 highway and merged onto its busy northbound lane. A few miles of high-speed driving brought me to a small highway where I turned off and zigzagged west and north. After half an hour with no sign of pursuit, I relaxed into the enjoyment of driving the back roads and reached into the bag for my lukewarm burger.
Soon after I had devoured my food, I was fighting sleep. The relentless sun blazed in the driver’s side windows, overwhelming the cool breath of air conditioning on my face.
I blinked hard and patted my cheeks. Wake up and concentrate.
Now that I wasn’t distracted by evading Labelle’s man, my worries turned to my upcoming interviews.
What should I ask? Dammit, I shouldn’t have let Kane drive away without at least giving me some guidelines. There was probably some established technique for interviewing witnesses, and if I were a real agent, I’d know it. Mumbling curses under my breath, I made a mental note to look for a course on that, too. But in the meantime, Daniel’s life might depend on my investigative skills.
That disturbing thought held sleep at bay for the rest of the trip while I compiled mental lists of questions only to discard them and start over.
With a few minutes to spare before my first meeting, I pulled into a supermarket parking lot in Stony Plain and read over the police reports, then leaned my aching head against the headrest.
God, I wasn’t looking forward to this interview. Contrary to Hellhound’s optimistic prediction, Selena Bruner had been reluctant to agree to our meeting. And who could blame her? Over a year after her son had been abducted and presumed murdered, why would she want to revisit the trauma?
When I finally pulled up at the address Kane had given me, my nerves were strung tight.
A little old house sagged dispiritedly in a yard overgrown with weeds. The lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed all summer and a torn screen hung from the front door like a grey flag of despair.
I moved cautiously up the cracked walk and mounted the peeling front steps to rap on the door above a grubby note that stated ‘Doorbell broken. Knock.’
No answer.
Dammit.
I checked my watch. Seven o’clock, as agreed. I knocked again.
After a third attempt I was turning away when the door opened and a dead-eyed woman in a stained bathrobe regarded me without expression. Even from several feet away the stench of alcohol carried to my nose.
“Hi, Selena? I’m Aydan Kelly,” I said, and offered my hand. “We spoke this afternoon…” No comprehension lightened her face, and I added, “About Peter’s disappearance…?”
She shrugged and turned away, mumbling something that might have been ‘Come in’.
The entrance opened onto a kitchen to the left and a living room to the right, and she shuffled into the living room to drop into a faded recliner. In the corner, the television blared some inane talk show. The sour scent of unwashed dishes emanated from mounds of pots in the kitchen sink.
Selena didn’t invite me to sit, but I picked my way around the empty Doritos bags and rolls of fluffy dust on the floor and squeamishly relocated a mound of laundry to perch on the edge of the couch. At least the heap of clothes didn’t smell. Probably clean laundry waiting to be folded and put away. I hoped.
I eased out a breath and began, “So Peter disappeared last year in June…?”
“No, he was murdered by my rat-bastard ex last June.” Her words came out with weary venom. “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time talking to me. I don’t know a damn thing except my only kid is dead and that asshole isn’t convicted yet. I’m going to live exactly long enough to watch him get sentenced and then I’m going to slit my fucking wrists.” She gave me a baleful bloodshot glare. “And don’t hand me any bullshit about how I’ve got so much to live for. Without Peter I’ve got nothing!”
She reached down beside the recliner and extracted a half-empty vodka bottle from the heap of crumpled fast-food wrappers. Noting the size of her gulp, I decided to ask my questions fast while she was still capable of replying.
“I’m sorry to make you go through it again,” I began. “But five other boys his age have been abducted and we think it might be… a serial killer.” I hesitated to speak the words, but Selena didn’t react.
“I don’t give a shit,” she mumbled, her words slurred from what had undoubtedly been the first half of the bottle. “Peter’s dead. Nothing’s going to bring him back.”
“But I thought you wanted to see his killer convicted,” I argued. “What if it turns out it wasn’t your ex at all?”
“Oh, it was him, all right.” She slugged more vodka. “They found Peter’s blood on his shoe. Him and his bullshit about how I couldn’t raise Peter right ‘cause I’m only a woman. So he took him away from me. Took him out in the woods and murdered him and got rid of his body so I couldn’t even say goodbye…”
Tears leaked down her cheeks and she took another savage swig. “Everything. He took everything I had. Peter. Lost my job ‘cause I couldn’t get my shit together. Now I’m gonna lose my house. He shoulda jusht… just killed me, too…”
Sickness filled my soul as I looked around at the devastation of her life. Under the patina of dirt and despair, heartbreaking glimpses of a happier time shone through. Delicate watercolours on the walls; a cabinet displaying pieces of fine china through the dusty glass; colourful plant pots that must have once housed cherished greenery instead of the withered sticks that remained. The only clean area was a small table with two candles flanking a framed photo of a grinning freckle-faced child that could only be Peter.
“But Peter loved you,” I said softly. “Wouldn’t he want you to-”
“Peter doesn’t want anything ‘cause Peter’s fuckin’ dead!” She lurched to her feet and the vodka bottle described a dangerous arc toward the door, its contents sloshing. “Get out.”
“But, Selena…”
“Out! Get the hell outta here.” She advanced unsteadily, scowling through the tears that still trickled down her cheeks. Her hand shifted to a white-knuckled grip on the bottle’s neck, and I took the hint.
Backing toward the door, I tried again. “But you might be able to help the other boys…”
“I look like I give a shit about any other boys? I only give a shit about Peter, an’ he’s not coming back!” She swung inaccurately at me with the bottle. “An’ don’t you come back, either! Jusht leave me… Leeme…” Her arms fell to her sides and her chest heaved with sobs. “Alone…”
My heart breaking, I reached toward her but the threatening bottle swung again.
“Okay, I’m going. I’m so sorry for your loss…” I retreated and closed the door, the broken screen settling behind me with a flat slap of finality.
Chapter 27
Drained by the despair I’d left behind at Selena’s little house, I steered my car toward Edmonton dreading my next interview. God, I was barely going to make it in time for my eight o’clock appointment. And I’d be lucky to get to Red Deer before ten PM, but at least the woman I’d spoken to there had assured me she’d be willing to talk to me at any time of the day or night.
I had to do better. I’d learned exactly nothing from Selena, and Kane was counting on me. I crossed my fingers for luck. Maybe Leila Hammond would be more help.
When I pressed the security button for her apartment, she answered immediately and buzzed me through the vestibule doors without hesitation.
By the time I had climbed the stairs to her second-floor apartment she was already hovering in her doorway, a thin strained-looking young woman with her ash-blonde hair scraped away from her face into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. The heat in the corridor was stifling, but she wore black leggings with ballet flats and a long-sleeved cotton sweat
er.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, taking my hand in her ice-cold one to draw me into her apartment. “When it got past eight o’clock I was so afraid you weren’t coming.”
I followed her gesture to a wall clock that read precisely eight-oh-five, and apologized, “I’m sorry I’m late. I’ve had a lot of driving today and I wasn’t sure how long it would take me.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay, it’s fine! I didn’t mean… I just meant I’m really glad you came…” She knotted her fingers together anxiously. “Would you like a glass of iced tea? Or Coke, I have Coke. Or Seven-Up or…”
She trailed off uncertainly, regarding me with wide hazel eyes, and I put on a smile. “Just a glass of water would be great. Thanks.”
“Oh, of course! Please sit down, make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right there…”
She hurried into the small kitchen alcove and I shucked off my runners and stepped into a tiny spotless living room. Two chairs and a loveseat, old but clean, were arranged at right angles. All the pictures were inexpensive but precisely level on the walls, the coffee tables worn but gleaming. A plastic bin of brightly-coloured toys was topped with a teddy bear, its arms open as if begging for a little boy’s hug. My heartstrings quivered and I looked away.
As I took a seat in one of the chairs, Leila hurried in only to stop, holding the glass up critically to the light. “Oh, I’m sorry, there’s a smudge on this one,” she said. “I’m so sorry! I’ll be right back with a clean one!”
“No, it’s okay…” I began, but she had already vanished into the kitchen again, and the sounds of clinking glassware made me wonder if she was sorting through every glass she owned to find one that was pristine.
A few moments later she rounded the corner again, holding out a water glass with a smile. My fingers had almost closed around it when she snatched it back, eyeing me worriedly.
“I’m so sorry, I should have asked if you wanted ice…” she began.
“It’s okay, just plain water is great,” I soothed, holding out my hand for the glass. “Thank you. Why don’t you sit down and let’s talk.”
“Oh, of course. Here. Sorry.” She scurried over to the sofa and sat, drawing up her knees to hug them. That lasted only long enough for me take a sip of water and open my mouth to ask my first question before she sprang off the sofa again. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll get you a coaster.” She whisked off to the kitchen again and returned moments later with a coaster she aligned carefully with the edge of the table beside me.
“Thanks. Leila, what can you tell me about the day Ethan disappeared?” I asked before she could rush off on some other mission.
“I wrote down absolutely everything I could think of!” Off she went again, returning seconds later with several sheets of lined paper covered with neat round handwriting.
I skimmed her organized and detailed narrative while Leila fidgeted on the sofa across from me, picking nonexistent lint off her sweater and springing up to adjust the curtains by a quarter-inch before sitting again. Her written version matched the police report almost exactly, and I suppressed a sigh. Nothing new here.
When I looked up, her knees were clasped to her chest again, her knuckles whitening under the strain. “What do you think, Ms. Kelly? Do you think…” Her knuckles went even whiter and her lips trembled. “You said on the phone that somebody might have… taken… Ethan. Do you think… there’s… still hope?”
God, the poor kid. She was barely more than a child herself. Twenty-two according to the police report, so she’d been only sixteen when she gave birth to Ethan.
My throat tightened. More than anything I wanted to reassure her that everything would be all right, but the lie wouldn’t leave my lips.
“I don’t know,” I said instead. “I guess as long as his body hasn’t been found there’s always some hope, but… after two and a half months…”
I trailed off as tears filled her eyes.
“I won’t give up hope until I know for sure,” she said firmly. Then her brave façade shattered and she dropped her forehead onto her knees with a cry so gut-wrenching that my heart stopped in my chest.
“Oh, God!” she cried. “It’s all my fault! They were right; they were all right; I should have given him up for adoption but I loved him so much and I tried so hard…” She curled tighter into herself and I slid onto the loveseat beside her, wrapping my arms around her and rocking her while sobs tore her body.
“I thought I… c-could do it,” she hiccupped between sobs. “I worked so hard… to make a good h-home for my baby boy… b-but I was… so stupid! If I wasn’t so stupid… I wouldn’t have let Rico take him camping… what kind of h-horrible mother… lets her baby go off alone…”
“Shhh, it’s not your fault, you’re not a bad mother,” I comforted, but she was still weeping and choking out her self-hatred.
“…he was right, I d-didn’t deserve Ethan… and I was b-bringing him up all wrong… I’m just a stupid loser… and I didn’t know how to b-bring up any child let alone a boy… and I should have stayed with Rico… then Ethan would have had a f-father… and I would have been there on that camping trip… it’s all my f-fault…”
At last my shushing and rocking began to work, or maybe Leila was simply cried out. Trembling, she blotted her face with a tissue.
“I’m s-sorry,” she quavered. “I’m such a loser.”
“Leila, you’re not a loser.” I rubbed a soothing circle on her back. “This wasn’t your fault. Kids go on camping trips perfectly safely all the time, and you had no way of knowing what would happen.” I indicated the obsessively tidy apartment with a wave of my hand. “You’ve made a good home here. You’re doing the best you can and nobody expects you to be perfect.”
“B-but it wasn’t good enough. I’m never good enough…”
“Who told you that?” I asked gently.
“Rico. My m-mom and dad…” She sniffled and blotted her eyes again. “They kicked me out… wh-when… I got pregnant. They said… I was just a stupid little whore. B-but I’d never even been with a guy before, it was my first time…”
Deep anger filled me, but I managed to keep my voice gentle and reassuring. “You’re not stupid, I can tell by the way you write and talk. You’re not a loser, and you’re certainly not a whore. Those are vicious lies.”
Her chin went up. “I never took anything from any of them. I worked two jobs and I got this apartment all by myself and I made a home for my baby… b-but Rico went to court to get access to Ethan because he’s his biological father…” Her head fell to her drawn-up knees again. “Oh, God, I should have stayed with Rico; if I’d been camping with them he couldn’t have lost Ethan!”
I rubbed more circles on her back. “If Rico was putting you down all the time, then you did the right thing by making a life without him. That was the right choice for you, and the right choice for Ethan.”
Leila shook her head without raising it from her knees, and I kept gently rubbing her back.
“Do you really believe he lost Ethan?” I asked. “He wouldn’t… hurt Ethan, would he?”
“Oh, no!” Her head came up again, her reddened eyes wide with sincerity. “No! The police never charged him, and I just know Rico would never hurt Ethan. He was just… just… When he woke up and realized Ethan was gone he nearly went out of his mind, he felt so guilty! But he was so drunk…” She hesitated. “And probably stoned, but I didn’t tell the police that. He passed out and when he woke up Ethan was gone.”
“If he was a drunk and a stoner, why did the courts grant him access?” I demanded.
“Oh, he wasn’t! Isn’t. He just… I don’t know why he got so drunk that night. I guess he was partying with the guys…”
My heart thudded into my ribs. “There was nothing in the police report about anybody else at the campsite.”
“Oh… I thought he’d said some friends dropped by. But I’m probably wrong.”
My cynical mind added, ‘…or if they b
rought drugs he might not have mentioned them in the police report’, but I didn’t speak the words aloud.
Leila regarded me uncertainly. “You have the police report? I thought you said you were a private detective.”
Shit.
“Uh, no, I’m just helping a private detective. But he’s been working with the police,” I lied uncomfortably. “So he saw the reports.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry, I got that wrong,” she said, and then let out a tremulous sigh. “See? I can’t even keep simple things straight. I’m such a lo-”
“You’re not a loser,” I interrupted. “It’s normal to have trouble concentrating when you’re this stressed. Have you been seeing a psychologist or a counsellor? Or is there somebody you trust that you can talk to?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t afford a psychologist.”
She left the second question unanswered, and I filled in the blanks. Her shitbag parents and boyfriend had abandoned her, and worse, made her believe she deserved it.
And there was absolutely nothing I could do to help. That kind of destructive programming went far deeper than a few minutes of encouraging talk could cure.
I glanced at my wristwatch and sighed. “Leila…” I squeezed her shoulder. “I have to go. But you need to know that you’re a good person. You’re strong and brave and smart, and it was wrong of your parents and Rico to make you believe otherwise.”
Pink rose in her pale cheeks, and she cast her gaze down. “Th-thanks. It’s nice of you to say that. But-”
“No buts,” I interrupted gently. “You’re strong and brave and smart, period. I know psychologists are expensive, but you’re going through a really tough time and you shouldn’t have to do it alone…”
I fought down the urge to tell her to call me if she needed to talk. What number could I give her? And what would happen if she tried to call and I didn’t answer because I was undercover as an arms dealer?
“Call the Crisis Line,” I said instead. “Just tell them what you’re going through and talk to them for a few minutes. Will you do that?”
The Spies That Bind Page 22