Hush

by Nancy Bush

  “But that was new. Something she found that night. She and Yvette were arguing earlier, just like always.” She refilled her glass, but her aim wasn’t on the mark and she slopped a bit of wine onto the counter. “Oops.”

  Danner decided it was maybe time to make an exit, before Genevieve became falling-down drunk. She’d held it together at Annette’s party, but then she’d been with Jarrod and maybe he’d kept her from going too far.

  “Tell Jarrod I’ll see him tomorrow,” Danner said, setting his barely touched glass near the kitchen sink.

  “You’re going . . . to the club . . . the Cellar . . .?”

  “That’s right.”

  She seemed to have a little bit of trouble focusing on him. “Maybe I’ll go, too . . . then . . . as long as you’re gonna be there.”

  Danner said good-bye, realizing on the way out that she hadn’t eaten one piece of cheese or a cracker the entire night.

  Coby was in bed when her cell phone buzzed on her nightstand. Fumbling for the switch, she snatched up the phone and saw it was Danner. “Hi,” she greeted him. “You got my message?”

  “Yeah. Did I wake you?”

  “No, no. I was waiting for your call. Listen, I thought of something. I went to see McKenna’s act and believe it or not, Ellen Marshall and Theo Rivers showed up.”

  “Ellen . . . from the night at the beach?”

  “She’s back with Theo again.” Coby could hear the bit of incredulity still filling her voice. “Did I tell you about them? Well, never mind, I’ll fill you in tomorrow.” She stopped herself. “Are we still going to the Cellar to see Jarrod’s band?”

  “You bet,” he said emphatically.

  “Good. Anyway, I was talking to McKenna and Ellen and Theo about Annette’s death, and we got onto Yvette and Annette’s fight, and who Benedict’s father might be . . .” She heard his sound of surprise and asked, “What?”

  “I had a similar talk with Genevieve tonight. Go on.”

  “Anyway, then I thought about how when I called Dana and asked if she knew why Annette demanded, ‘And what about Dana?’ to Yvette, and Dana told me I must have got it wrong.” She paused. “Tonight I realized I did get it wrong.”

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t ‘what about Dana,’ it was ‘what about DNA?’ because the next thing Annette said was, ‘The truth’s going to come out.”’

  “So you think they were talking about a paternity test for Benedict.”

  “I do. And I think they were talking about a paternity test that had already happened,” Coby agreed. “They were fighting about it.”

  “So the boy’s paternity’s still a secret. I wonder why.”

  “Yvette let me know that it wasn’t Lucas, but that’s all she said. When she and Annette were fighting, she told Annette to keep her mouth shut, and then said that Annette was only eighteen when she first got involved with my dad. And Annette told her it wasn’t about her, and Yvette said it was always about her.”

  Danner mulled that over a moment, then said, “You know what it sounds like?”

  “Yeah. Like Yvette was involved with someone older than she was, because she was only seventeen when she got pregnant. If Benedict’s father was her same age, it wouldn’t really be the same issue. But if he’s older . . . like one of the dads, even . . .”

  “Who?”

  Coby had been thinking about it ever since she’d understood what she’d overheard. “Hank Sainer,” she said.

  “Why Sainer?”

  “Because he stopped me just before I left Annette’s memorial service and asked to meet me at my office on Monday.”

  “Ahh.” Coby could practically hear the wheels turning in his brain. “He didn’t say why?”

  “No. But I got the impression he wanted to talk about Annette’s death.”

  “If what you’re suggesting is true, it would ruin him politically,” Danner said. “People might get over the fact that Yvette was underage because she was seventeen, but this secret paternity for all these years. . . . That smacks of cover-up.”

  “He’s never acknowledged he’s the father,” Coby said. “Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he just found out.”

  “There’s Lucas Moore’s death wrapped into that, too. It was ruled an accident, but now with Annette’s death, there are questions.”

  “Danner, I know we’re just speculating, but . . .” She could feel her heart pounding.

  “But?”

  “What if Yvette was meeting Hank Sainer the night of the campout? What if that’s who she was with, and she just said she was with Lucas to hide her affair with Hank?”

  “Then I’d say your Monday meeting is going to be very interesting.”

  Chapter 20

  Charisse Werner called Danner at 10 A.M. the next morning as he was making himself a cup of coffee. Instant. Starbucks Via.

  The ADA didn’t mince words. “You read him his Miranda, right?”

  “If you mean Lloyd, no. I told him to tell me everything about Sheila and he just started talking.”

  “I just spoke with Lieutenant Draden. According to what you told him, Lloyd implicated himself in a double homicide last night,” she said in a voice that could cut glass.

  Danner stated tightly, “He’s on a seventy-two-hour hold. If you want him arrested, I’ll go down and read him his rights right now.”

  “You should have done it last night,” she insisted.

  “If I’d planned to arrest him, I would’ve,” he shot back.

  “Yeah, well, now we’re gonna have a bitch of a time in court, if he gets any kind of defense attorney. Remind me to send you a bowl of fruit and say thanks.”

  Danner held back a smart remark. Charisse was known for borrowing trouble and tossing around blame long before it ever became a problem. “I’m going to do my damnedest to track down the woman who killed Beth and Angie Lloyd,” he told her. “Jarvis said she just took him over. About a thousand times. I don’t care whether you can use that in court or not. I’m going to find Sheila, and when I do, I’ll read her her goddamn rights.”

  “Do that, cowboy.” She clicked off in a huff.

  Danner ran through the shower to cool off. Lawyers. Rules upon rules upon rules. Half the time the true issue got buried under layers of lawyer shit. He supposed he should be more concerned with an individual’s rights, but when it came to spineless worms like Jarvis Lloyd, he really didn’t care.

  As he was getting dressed—blue jeans, black shirt, black jacket, and yes, cowboy boots, thank you, Charisse—his cell rang. Glancing at the number, he almost hooted with joy.

  “Where the hell are you?” he demanded.

  Detective Elaine Metzger drawled, “Well, by golly, sounds like you missed me.”

  He could picture her short and tough frame and pugnacious chin. Somewhere between forty-five and sixty—she was cagey about her age—she scared people with her glare, though there was almost always a twinkle in her eye; you just had to know.

  “Are you back?” he asked.

  “I’m in town. Wasn’t planning on showing up for work yet, but from the sound of it, you might need a hand.”

  “I do. Come back early. Please.”

  “You know, I learned something about myself on this trip: I hate good weather. Hawaii . . . what a fucking waste of time. Everybody shows off their skin and guzzles fruit drinks with a squirt of alcohol and acts like they know how to party.”

  Elaine was a scotch drinker. She could nurse a glass all night, or gulp down three in succession; she never seemed to show the effects.

  “I need help with the home invasion case,” Danner said.

  “Honey, that’s what I’m here for.”

  Sending a thank-you to the gods, Danner brought her up to date on everything that had happened with Jarvis Lloyd since she went on vacation. He didn’t say that he wanted her to take over as lead dog because he wanted to spend his time elsewhere; she could figure that out on her own. Probably already had.

  In
the end, she proved him right by saying, “I’ll take the sketch of this Sheila to Mr. Prick . . . Rick . . . with the silent ‘p’ . . . whatever . . . and squeeze him. You go ahead and figure out what those bohunks in Tillamook are doing over the Deneuve murder. They need you more than they think they do.”

  “Not exactly bohunks at the sheriff’s department.”

  “Bohunks,” she insisted. “Anyone who lives at the coast . . . bohunk.”

  “Have an opinion, why don’t you.”

  “I’ll try. How’s Celek been helping out?” she asked, almost as an afterthought.

  “Fine. Working some burglaries.”

  “Off homicide? That your idea?”

  Danner thought about the implications with his brother’s band and the venues they played that had been burglarized. His gut tightened at the thought, and it took him a moment to drag his attention back. “Celek’s a terrier. Grabs hold and won’t let go, tail wagging all the way.”

  “You’re actually giving him a compliment?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Well, yeah. He’s got his moments.”

  “You got time to go with me over to Prick’s?” Metzger asked. “What the hell’s his last name?”

  “Wiis. Spelled with two i’s.”

  “And a silent ‘p’. Can’t wait.”

  “I’ll be at the station in about an hour.”

  “All right. Get your pretty on,” she retorted. “We got work to do.”

  The JJ&R offices were closed for all intents and purposes on Saturdays, but like the week before, Coby found herself working anyway. This time she had no client to deal with; she’d just come in to give a glance over Shannon Pontifica’s contract and another longer look at Rhys Webber’s written refusal to open the pocketbook for his ex-wife. Already one of the man’s numerous paramours had found her way to YouTube and had sent out a message about Rhys and his philandering ways in a both comical and scathing video that was enjoying thousands of hits. The ex-wife’s lawyer had called Nicholette and said gleefully that they would see her and her client in court.

  Rhys was said to be apoplectic. Coby had tried to warn him that when the shit hits the fan, it’s stinky and messy, but he hadn’t listened and now, well, it was stinky and messy.

  Her cell phone rang and she saw it was her dad. “Hi there,” she greeted him. “I’m at work, just kind of cleaning up and—”

  “They’re going through our bank records,” her father burst in. “Mine and your mother’s! And our phone records. All financials. It’s invasive and makes me feel like a criminal!”

  “Who?” she asked automatically, but she knew.

  “The sheriff’s department. I hear that your ex-boyfriend’s working with them. When I saw him with Faith, I wondered what the hell. Now he’s part of the investigation, for God’s sake. Is she still seeing him?”

  “Um . . . no.”

  “Good. I was afraid he was feeding them information about me.”

  “Dad . . .”

  “Do I need a lawyer? I think I need a lawyer. And your mother, too.”

  “Dad, I’m . . .” She’d been about to tell him that she was the one seeing Danner Lockwood, but his words knocked it right out of her head. “Are you and Mom . . . together?” she asked instead, her voice just short of incredulous.

  That stopped him. “How do you want me to answer that, Bug?”

  “Honestly, would be a good start.”

  “We’ve been seeing each other,” he admitted. “We understand each other. Always did.”

  “Good God.” Coby got up from her desk and stared out the window at the skyline. It was clear that afternoon, the low sun slanting against the downtown buildings, creating dark shadows that swallowed the landscape on their other sides. “I need to ask you a question.”

  “All right,” he said cautiously.

  “Were you seeing Mom before Annette died?”

  “No. Never. Not the way you mean,” he said quickly. “I loved Annette. But you know your mom and I have always been friends.”

  Not always, Coby recalled very clearly. “Could the police make a case that you were thinking about leaving Annette for Mom?”

  “No!”

  “Dad, I’m not fooling around here. I know Annette wanted a baby and you were less than excited about the prospect. Add that to the fact that you were seeing Mom and it’s a problem.”

  “It’s not like that,” he insisted.

  “I don’t care what it’s like,” Coby shot back at him. “That’s what it looks like. And that’s what prosecutors go for, when they’re making a case.”

  “I called you for some help,” he said, his voice sounding uncertain, like he was losing control of it. “That’s all I wanted.”

  “And I want to help you. One of the best ways I can is to point out reality. It doesn’t look good. It doesn’t. And if they’re going through Mom’s records, too, then they already know.”

  “Find out who killed Annette. It wasn’t me, Bug!”

  “I know, Dad. I know.”

  “Find him!”

  Or her . . .

  “Dad, Faith isn’t seeing Danner Lockwood. I am,” Coby admitted. “And Danner’s already doing his best to find Annette’s killer. Just be smart. Let the authorities do their job and stay calm.” And away from Mom.

  “You’re seeing him?” he repeated, sounding dazed.

  “Yes.”

  “What about Joe?”

  “You know we’ve been through a long time. Danner’s going to find out the truth, Dad. Don’t worry.”

  His answer was a short, disbelieving bark of laughter, then a mumbled good-bye and a hang-up.

  Coby replaced her receiver and wondered if interviewing her friends was a waste of time. Maybe she was making things too complicated. She wanted answers about Annette’s death, and it might have nothing to do with Lucas Moore or her group of friends or anything that happened in the past.

  Were her friends right? Was Yvette involved? Coby had resisted adopting their view for the very reason that Yvette felt like such an easy target. Too easy, maybe.

  But maybe she should rethink that attitude, because she was beginning to be worried sick about her father . . . and mother.

  She was gathering her purse, laptop, and some papers when she heard a knock on her half-open door. She’d thought she was alone in the offices, and her pulse skyrocketed in tandem with her worried thoughts. “Yes?” she called.

  Joe stuck his head inside. “Here you are on a Saturday again. Trying to get employee of the year?”

  She exhaled hard, forcing herself to relax. “I see you’re here, too.”

  “Yeah . . . about that . . .” He strode casually into her office, his hands in his pants pockets. “You know who Jarvis Lloyd is?” he asked.

  “Um . . . yeah . . . he’s the home invasion victim?” Coby wasn’t about to tell him that Danner was investigating the crime, though as it turned out she needn’t have worried about being so protective.

  “You’re looking at his new attorney,” Joe said, pleased with himself.

  Coby stopped in the act of zipping her laptop computer into its case. “Since when did you become a criminal defense attorney?” Coby asked, surprised, though she knew the answer only too well, which Joe immediately pointed out.

  “Oh, come on. You know my background,” he said.

  “But you prefer divorce cases. You purposely gave up criminal law.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to talk me out of this? Is it because of your relationship with Detective Lockwood, who’s been mercilessly dogging my innocent client, I might add?”

  Coby stuffed papers into her briefcase, feeling pressure building on all sides. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to deny, deny, deny. Instead, she counted mentally to five, then said in an even voice, “My dad’s looking for a good attorney. He thinks the police suspect him of his wife’s murder. Maybe you can fit him into your busy schedule.”

  Joe instantly dropped his act. �
�Jesus. Are you kidding?”

  “Take it up with my father. He likes you. Tell him you talked to me and I thought it was a good idea.” She brushed past him, then paused at the door. “And stop needling me. I thought we were over that.”

  “Are you dating Lockwood again?” he asked seriously.

  “Working on it.”

  “I miss you, Coby.”

  “Oh, Joe . . .” She would have laughed if she hadn’t been so worried about everything as she walked out of her office ahead of him. He didn’t miss her. He was merely a master at rewriting the past and making it seem better than it was.

  Punching the Down button on the elevator, she checked her watch. Almost one. She had the whole afternoon to catch up on work and then she would be seeing Danner.

  The elevator doors opened and she hurried across the echoing concrete chamber of Parking Sublevel B, her heels tapping rapidly. There were only a smattering of vehicles this afternoon, though Sublevel A was public parking. Digging for her keys, she was halfway to the Sentra when she noticed something wrong.

  Her steps slowed. The car’s rear tires were flat. As she drew nearer she saw the same was true of the front two, as well. All four tires were flat, and as she bent down, she saw a series of slash marks against the nearest rear tire, as if someone had been in an awful hurry, or a blind rage, before it had been punctured.

  And there was something on her windshield. A paper.

  Heartbeat racing, she moved forward and carefully grabbed the edge of the page. It was a piece of blank printer paper.

  Scrawled in black marker, it read:

  YOU DON’T BELONG, BITCH.

  Coby’s breath came in sharp gasps, matching her wildly beating pulse. She glanced around jerkily, certain someone was waiting for her behind the post, or the side of the elevator, or that huge black Tahoe.

  With a shaking hand she unlocked the Sentra, sliding the paper onto the passenger seat. Then she pulled out her phone, her eyes darting to every darkened corner. She punched in Danner’s number, and a heartbeat later clicked off. She waited. There were cameras, right? Maybe the perpetrator was on film.