A Killer Past

by Maris Soule

  ‘It’s Shannon.’ Clare brushed the hair back out of her eyes. ‘You’ve got to stop telling her about your adventures in Europe. Maybe your parents didn’t care what you did, but I do. Robert and I do.’

  Mary smiled. It was always Robert with Clare, never Robby.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Clare said, her words clipped and her posture rigid. ‘Shannon needs to go to college next year.’

  ‘I fully agree.’ Shannon was the one with other plans. ‘Clare, it’s not me who’s enticing her to go to Europe. Are you aware that her boyfriend will be in Paris next summer?’

  Clare’s nostrils flared slightly, and she raised her chin. ‘It’s you she talks about.’

  Which pleased Mary, but not if Shannon had lied to her mother. ‘She asked me to go with her. I refused.’

  ‘She’s sure you’ll change your mind.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I won’t.’

  Clare Worthington Harrington said nothing for a moment, her eyes focused on Mary’s face, then she gave a deep sigh. ‘Well, I hope not. Robert said you fell or something. Are you all right?’

  ‘Getting better every day.’

  ‘Good.’ Clare gave a slight nod.

  Mary knew that would be the extent of Clare’s concern, and sure enough, Clare changed the topic.

  ‘I was tracing our family tree the other day,’ she said. ‘I found a lot of information about Father Harry’s relatives, but I couldn’t find anything about yours. Of course I’m not really surprised, Smith is such a common name. I mean, I did find a Carl and Joan Smith who lived in Washington D.C. They would be around the right age for your parents, but it didn’t show them having a daughter, just two sons. And they didn’t die in a car crash. Perhaps you could give me a bit more information.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mary said, inwardly groaning. Now she not only had that damned detective poking around in her past, but also her daughter-in-law. Using Carl’s and his wife’s names for her imaginary parents had been a mistake. She should have made up names, should have used Jones for her last name.

  ‘Perhaps?’ Clare looked down at her. ‘I would think you’d want to provide that information; after all, it is your family.’

  Mary caught the derision in Clare’s tone. It would serve the woman right to discover just exactly what kind of a family tree she’d married into. Instead, Mary bluffed. ‘I’ll see what I can find. By the way, did you happen to notice if Carl Smith was still alive?’

  Clare’s look was suspicious. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Just wondered.’

  Clare glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I need to be on my way.’ She took a step back. ‘I’ll check with you later this week about your parents’ information.’

  ‘You do that.’ And if I’m still alive, I’ll see what I can come up with, Mary thought, then waved as her daughter-in-law headed for her car. ‘Have a nice day.’

  Standing in the open doorway, Mary glanced down the street, then sucked in a breath. Halfway down the block, on the opposite side of the road, sat a black sedan.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MONDAY, JACK TOOK time to clear some of the paperwork on his desk and checked his emails. Most were follow-up responses to emails he’d sent to other precincts, one was from his son Richard, who, as usual, simply said he was fine and little more, and one was a request for information about a business in Rivershore that, as far as Jack knew, didn’t exist. Later that afternoon, Jack did another interview with Friday night’s mugging victim. Mrs Irene Baker, aged sixty-eight, white-haired and slender. She looked older than her age; older than Mary Harrington. A widow, Mrs Baker normally lived alone, but now she was staying with a daughter, Gwen Pedrors, who lived close to the hospital. As Jack questioned Mrs Baker, the daughter hovered nearby, standing in the kitchen doorway. The younger woman was obviously worried about her mother.

  Irene Baker looked a bit better than the last time he’d seen her, but Jack could tell she was still in a lot of pain. The side of her face had taken on a variety of colors, ranging from a muddied brownish-purple to yellow, and she carried the cast on her arm like a badge of honor. She sighed with every movement she made.

  ‘I’m sorry to keep bothering you,’ Jack said, knowing the daughter didn’t want her mother disturbed. ‘I’m just trying to get a better image of what the boys who attacked you looked like.’

  Irene Baker’s voice quavered. ‘I told you Saturday, I don’t remember. All I know is they were Mexicans.’

  ‘And how do you know that?’

  ‘Because they spoke Mexican.’

  He was tempted to say ‘Mexican’ wasn’t actually a language, but he didn’t, and considering the way she said the word, he had a feeling Mrs Baker didn’t care if her attackers were from Mexico, Central, or South America. From his earlier interviews, he’d gathered she lumped all Hispanics together, good or bad.

  ‘What about height? Tall? Short?’

  She seemed to cringe a little. ‘Tall. Taller than me, that is.’

  Which would put them anywhere from five-four up. ‘How about tattoos? Friday night you said they had tattoos.’ A feature she had conveniently forgotten when he talked to her the next day. ‘Do you remember now what those tattoos looked like?’

  She looked at her daughter. A pleading look that said Make him go away.

  He wasn’t about to. Not yet. ‘Any letters? Numbers?’ he persisted.

  She looked back at him and shook her head, her lips squeezed together as if blocking an answer, and her eyes taking on a watery film.

  ‘Did someone threaten you?’ Jack asked, leaning toward her, sure she had been threatened and that was why she’d changed her story. ‘You don’t need to be scared. We’ll protect you.’

  ‘No! Now stop! Leave my mother alone,’ the daughter demanded, coming into the living room to stand by her mother’s side. ‘She’s had a traumatic experience.’

  He sat back and faced the daughter. ‘Don’t you want the boys stopped who did this to her?’

  She shook her head. ‘And what do you plan on doing to protect her? Are you going to give her a bodyguard? Have someone walk with her when she goes out?’

  They both knew that wasn’t possible. ‘If we have a good description, we can pick the boys up. Arrest them and put them in jail.’

  She snorted. ‘And what about the others in the gang? You’d need my mother to testify in court. Do you really think they wouldn’t stop her from doing that? I’ve read the papers. You people are letting gangs take over this town. Pretty soon it’s going to be every man – or woman – for themselves.’

  You people. Internally he cringed, knowing a part of what she said was true. Nationally gang violence was on the decline, but in smaller communities it was growing. Perhaps it was Rivershore’s proximity to Grand Rapids, where gang violence had exploded over the last few years, or maybe it was the budget cuts that kept diminishing the number of officers they could hire. Either way they had a problem.

  ‘I hope you’re not considering playing vigilante, Mrs Pedrors,’ he said. ‘That would only get you in trouble.’

  ‘I’m a nurse,’ she said, resting a comforting hand on her mother’s shoulder. ‘My job is to help people get better. But maybe we do need to start standing up for ourselves. Maybe we need to be like that old lady who beat up the two gang members the night before this happened to my mother.’

  Jack perked up. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘At the hospital.’ She smiled. ‘Nurses do talk to each other, you know.’

  ‘And what did you hear?’

  ‘That an old lady – that’s what they called her – caused their injuries. They swore it was… . That is, until their buddies showed up and told them to shut up. After that they said it was a guy dressed in black, and then they changed their minds again and swore they tripped and fell.’ She laughed. ‘Maybe one of them could have dislocated his knee and broken his nose when he fell, but both of them falling and getting those kinds of injuries?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t
think so.’

  ‘You hear if they said anything else?’

  Again Gwen Pedrors shook her head. ‘One of the nurses said she wouldn’t want to be that old lady, that she’d bet those gang members wouldn’t let her get away with beating up two of their members.’

  She stopped talking and looked at her mother.

  Jack knew she’d made the connection.

  ‘What did that woman look like?’ she asked.

  ‘A lot like your mother.’

  ‘So they thought…?’

  ‘What?’ Irene Baker asked, looking up at her daughter. ‘What are you two talking about?’

  ‘That maybe those boys went after you, Mom, because you looked like someone else.’ Gwen Pedrors looked back at Jack. ‘You’ve got to stop them, Detective. Next time they might kill someone.’

  Which was exactly what he was thinking.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  MONDAY, MARY KNEW she couldn’t skip going to the gym, no matter how she looked or felt. She’d worked too hard to achieve the muscle strength she’d acquired to allow a few bruises, aches, and pains to erase those gains. She’d experienced the danger of relaxing her training schedule when Harry started getting sicker, the cancer spreading through his body. She’d stayed home with him back then, read to him, talked with him. She did everything she could to ease his suffering.

  Then there was the funeral and the days that followed, days when simply getting out of bed took all of her energy. The day she returned to the gym, she almost quit. Twenty minutes on the treadmill had her panting. Weights she’d lifted with ease became impossible obstacles. It took her months to regain the vigor and strength she now possessed, and even that was only a fraction of what she’d had in her twenties.

  Back then, she could take down a man twice her size before he knew what hit him.

  She smiled as she stepped out of her car and started for the gym. It was good to know she hadn’t lost all of her fighting abilities, that she could still defend herself. And defend herself she would, she’d decided.

  She’d spent most of Sunday considering what to do and came to one conclusion. Thursday night’s incident had nothing to do with what had happened in her past. Those boys would have attacked anyone they perceived as helpless, just as they’d attacked the woman Friday night. They were in the wrong, and dammit all, they needed to be stopped.

  Near the gym door, she paused and looked back at her car. She’d picked it up that morning. Ella had driven her to the repair shop, chattering on and on about the meeting she was organizing for a Neighborhood Watch. ‘I’ve talked to the Van Dykes and the Hoffmans,’ she’d said. ‘They’re interested. And you’ll come, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Mary promised, although her plans for ridding the neighborhood of gangs didn’t include involving the entire neighborhood.

  Ella was gung-ho on the idea. ‘I’ll try to contact the others on our block this week, and I’ll call the police. I’m sure they have guidelines for something like this.’

  Mary doubted their guidelines would include her methods.

  ‘If we don’t do something, it’s not going to be safe for any of us to go out of the house.’

  That was one thing they agreed on.

  ‘Also I need to find a meeting place.’

  Ella looked at Mary, and Mary had a feeling her friend was waiting for suggestions … or maybe for her to volunteer her house.

  ‘I’d have it at my house,’ Ella went on, ‘but you know … the cats.’

  Mary did know. Too many cats. The smell was disgusting. She couldn’t imagine holding a meeting there. ‘Maybe the elementary school,’ she suggested. ‘Or a church.’ They had several churches within a five-block radius and one elementary school.

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ Ella said with a nod before letting Mary off at the auto shop. ‘Do you want me to wait?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine.’ She’d thanked her friend as she grabbed her gym bag. ‘They said it’s ready.’

  And it was.

  She’d left the auto shop and headed for the gym, but before she’d gone a block, she saw a black sedan directly behind her. Not sure if it was the same black sedan she’d seen near her house, Mary purposefully changed directions, turning off the main road and taking several side streets. The car didn’t follow her.

  At least, she didn’t think it did.

  Except now, in a fast-food parking lot across the street from the entrance to the gym, sat a black sedan.

  She stared at it, trying to figure out the make. Was it the same as the one following her earlier … the same as the one she’d seen Sunday and Friday night? Back in the days when knowing if she was being followed or not was important, she would have known. Back then she could identify all makes of cars. Doing so had helped her avoid mistakes. Kept her alive.

  Two teenagers came out of the restaurant, their jeans low on their hips and hoodies covering their heads and torsos. One walked with a limp. The other held his arm by his side.

  The two from Thursday night?

  She wasn’t sure. Her eyes weren’t as sharp as they used to be.

  They were talking to each other, walking slowly toward the black car. Mary stepped closer to the gym door, triggering the automatic opener. Without looking away from the boys, she stepped inside, and then stopped. A girl came out of the restaurant behind the boys, half-running until she caught up with them. The boy who’d been holding his arm by his side handed her something – using that arm – and she pulled his hood off his head, rose up on her toes, and kissed him.

  He had blond hair.

  Not the boy from Thursday night. The three didn’t even stop when they reached the black sedan, simply kept walking.

  With a shake of her head, Mary turned and headed for her locker. She was getting paranoid in her old age. Gang members wouldn’t be driving a sedan. Not one as new-looking as she’d been seeing. They’d be driving an SUV, or a truck … or a beater.

  And how could a car following her – one she was sure she’d lost – know where she was going?

  Think things through, Carl used to tell her. Don’t let your emotions rule your head.

  Of course, if she’d listened to her emotions on her last assignment, a young mother would still be alive.

  And so would Pandora Coye.

  Mary considered that as she spun the dial on her lock. If she hadn’t killed the wrong woman, if the agency hadn’t agreed to allow her out, where would she be today?

  Probably dead, she decided.

  Back when she turned thirty, she’d already become disillusioned with the agency, and had started questioning her assignments. She should have questioned her last assignment, done her own research. Never again would she allow someone else to control her actions.

  Jack stared at the report Police Chief Tom Wallace, known by all as Wally, had just dropped on his desk. With their limited number of officers, the Rivershore Police Department wasn’t large enough to have special units devoted to homicide, drug enforcement, vice, or gangs. Jack handled the majority of those cases, which up until a few years ago hadn’t been an overwhelming assignment.

  Not that Rivershore didn’t have problems before the economy went bad, but those cases were usually confined to misdemeanors. Now, along with the increase in robberies, there’d been a spike in drug arrests. The meth labs were his biggest concern. He’d seen too many of Rivershore’s citizens wasted on the drug. He worried about the impact on the families, especially the young children. Marijuana busts had also increased. He found it amazing how many farmers swore they had no idea how marijuana plants had popped up in their back yards or cornfields.

  They’d rarely made an arrest for cocaine or heroin until Jose Rodriguez moved into town. Jose had been twenty-two when he decided to take up residence in Rivershore, Michigan. With him he brought a prison record and an attitude. In the two years since his arrival, gang violence among the Mexicans had increased, along with the drug problem.

  Jose’s parole offi
cer swore Jose wasn’t involved, that the man had turned over a new leaf. Neither Jack nor Wally believed that was true, but so far they hadn’t been able to prove otherwise.

  Jack put down the report he’d been given and looked up at Wally. ‘Is this Pedro Rodriguez any relation to our boy Jose?’

  ‘That’s for you to find out,’ Wally said. ‘The guy had a kilo of cocaine in his car when Stewart stopped him. Stu says he couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘How’d he find it?’ Jack asked. ‘Did he get a tip?’

  ‘Nope.’ Wally pointed at the report. ‘Started as a routine stop. Car was going so slow, Stewart thought there might be a problem. First thing he noticed was how nervous Rodriguez was acting, and when asked where he was going, the kid didn’t seem to know. Stu could smell marijuana, so he asked Rodriguez to step out of the car. There weren’t any obvious signs of drugs in the interior, so Stu asked Rodriguez to open the trunk. That’s when the kid got really nervous, and at first he refused, but when Stu threatened to bring in a drug-sniffing dog, Rodriguez complied.’

  Wally chuckled. ‘Blew Stu’s mind when he saw what the guy had under a blanket. Just under a blanket, mind you. Not even well hidden.’

  Jack glanced over at the two holding cells. Both doors were open. ‘Where’s Rodriguez now?’

  ‘In the Van Buren County Jail. They’ve got the car over there, too. Although Rodriguez was picked up within our city limits, I’m letting the county boys handle this. They’ve got the manpower and equipment to take that car apart and see if there might be more drugs hidden in its frame. But I told them I wanted you to talk to the kid. I’m hoping you can find out where he was headed. And while you’re there, see if they found anything on the boy’s cellphone that connects him to Jose. Maybe this is our break, our chance to send Jose back where he belongs.’

  ‘Oh, now Wally, you know Jose doesn’t need to go back to prison. He’s turned over a new leaf. Just ask his parole officer.’