Cold Heart

by Karen Pullen

  June seemed relieved to be there. Her anger had vanished, and she told her story calmly. “Monday, I was watching a Cooper’s hawk through my binoculars, in the trees across the lake. It was around one o’clock ’cause Erwin had finally turned off the TV. He watches Dora the Explorer while he does his exercises. Anyway, right away I saw this tiny child, almost to the lake, in the underbrush. There’s snakes . . . a terrible place for a baby. I could tell she was crying.” June shook her head and Harry squeezed her hand.

  “I didn’t see anyone around so I figured I’d have to do something. I rowed across the lake, scooped her up. Poor little thing had lost her diaper and all she had on was a t-shirt. She had a firm grip on her boom box, though. She went nowhere without it, as I discovered. I wrapped her in my jacket and climbed up to the closest house, the Mercers’ house.”

  “Did you think she lived there?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t sure. I knew the Mercers had a little girl that Nikki took care of, but I’d never actually met her. So I went up the steps to the deck and looked through these glass doors. I could see this disgusting porn movie on the TV, and a man lying on the couch. He was—you know.” She squinched up her face.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “For the record, please?”

  “Masturbating. Gross. Well, I didn’t have a good opinion of him anyway. He had seduced my niece. I knew he was a repulsive jerk. But that baby could have drowned in the lake. He didn’t deserve to be her father. So I pounded on the door, and when he finally stood up and came outside I gave him what-for. But it didn’t seem to register; he was stoned—he kept smirking at me.”

  June paused and looked at Harry for reassurance. He nodded. “You’re doing fine,” he said.

  “So then I got angry. I sort of challenged him, you know, walked toward him. I was holding the baby, and he didn’t seem to care she was cold and scratched and mosquito-bit. I pushed him, he stepped backwards, away from me, and fell down the deck stairs. His reactions seemed slow, maybe because he was stoned, and he landed real hard on the patio.”

  “Was he hurt?” I asked. Had the mystery of Mercer’s concussion been solved? Maybe.

  “It was a hard fall. His head made a thunk on the flagstones and he just lay there unconscious. I felt his chest, his pulse. He was still breathing.”

  “You didn’t call for help,” I said. “Medical help.”

  “I thought he’d wake up in a few minutes. With a helluva headache. I sort of panicked. I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been there. So I stuffed a few items in a pillowcase to make it look like a robbery attempt, throw the police off the scent. I wasn’t thinking very clearly.”

  “And Paige?”

  “First I put her in her crib, but she started crying so I picked her up again. I couldn’t leave her there. Thought I’d take her home for a few hours until someone responsible could take over. I got some diapers, and made my way back to the rowboat. I rowed home. I—”

  “Excuse me, you took the child and the bag of stolen items with you?” From what I knew of Paige, it might have been difficult to restrain her in the boat.

  June nodded.

  “Could you please answer for the record?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure. Yes.”

  “Now the child is in your boat. Life jacket?”

  She flushed. “No. I hadn’t exactly planned a fun-filled outing. I put her in the bottom of the boat and she stayed there. With her boom box.”

  “How long did it take you to cross the lake?”

  “Ten—fifteen minutes. It was after two when I got home. Erwin was real excited when I brought home a baby! She liked us—we played for a while—then I fed her. When she fell asleep on the couch, I carried her into the spare bedroom. She’d had a terrible morning and I thought she needed a good nap. We all did. Then Iggy Curran called and told me Kent Mercer had been murdered. I thought I’d done it! Even though it was an accident, I freaked out.”

  Ah, Iggy. A better information distribution network does not exist. “How long did you keep the child?”

  “Until I left her in the supermarket. You know about that. But I sent you a text so everyone would know she was okay.” She sank against Harry as he squeezed her shoulder. She sighed, then straightened. “Are we done?” she asked.

  “Do you have the phone you used for the text?”

  June dug in her purse for the simple mobile and handed it to me. Her story was a huge piece of the puzzle, like a big piece of fluffy cloud in a picture of blue sky, but I didn’t know where it fit. Assuming she told the truth—a presumption at best—Mercer fell, hit his head, and lost consciousness. So someone else could come along and kill him, apparently.

  I had one more question for her. “Why did you decide to return Paige?”

  There was a long silence as June fondled her pearls. “Two things, I guess. First, I read in the paper that Kent Mercer hadn’t died from the fall, but from knife wounds. It was a big relief and I felt a lot better, not so crazy with guilt. The second reason was, I wasn’t great at taking care of her—we never had children. I couldn’t get her to eat anything except cereal and milk and she fussed and it was wearing me down to the bone. Between her crying to get what she wanted and Erwin grunting to get what he wanted, I was not doing so well, mentally speaking. When Fern suggested letting you find the baby, it was like the lights came on. Of course.”

  Harry and I winced simultaneously when she mentioned Fern. Maybe the DA would ignore it in the interests of inter-bureau harmony. I asked June if she had rifled through Mercer’s office, and she denied it. I thanked her, and clicked off the tape recorder.

  June’s statement placed the time of Mercer’s murder after two. Her behavior even had a certain logic. I was no closer to identifying the killer than I had been two weeks ago, but a sequence of events was beginning to emerge.

  We walked into the hall and Harry leaped ahead to open the door for June and escort her from the building. Anselmo leaned on the wall, his arms folded across his chest, his expression royally pissed.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  He scowled. “You didn’t tell me you’d been shot again.”

  I thought, you didn’t ask, but realized he was genuinely troubled and a smart-alecky retort would spoil the moment. As I murmured, “Just a graze,” he took my arm and pulled me into the nearest interview room.

  “Ow.” I pulled away. “That’s my bad side.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? What happened?”

  I gave him a brief version of the sniper attack at the Brenner Creek trailhead. “How’d you find out, anyhow?” I’d told Hogan and Fern, no one else.

  He ignored my question. “Dammit, Stella, you’re not always going to be so lucky. You’re not bulletproof!”

  I tried not to sound defensive. “I was tracking teenagers. Didn’t know they’d brought a sniper.”

  “Third time you’ve been shot at this week. What are you doing about it?”

  “I’ll avoid open spaces, okay?”

  His eyes searched my face, questioning. He shook his head. “Well, before you almost die again, let’s go over what we have. Tomorrow morning at ten.” He put his warm, strong hand on my shoulder, and if I turned just so, I could press against him and . . . wherever I was going with that thought ended as Anselmo handed me a folder and opened the door.

  “Be careful,” he said. He closed the door, leaving me alone in the interview room.

  I hoped I wasn’t blushing. I wanted to go home and talk to Merle about this futile adolescent crush on a married man. Also my other crush, the one on the wealthy, single-dad contractor Sam. And the lingering feelings for Hogan, the jealous pangs every time I saw him with Jasmine. Three lovely men. Merle might not understand, being a one-woman dog. But he would listen.

  I opened the folder. Lincoln’s statement. I read it three times before I realized what bothered me. It was nearly word-for-word what he’d told me on the drive back from Reston except for one thing I hadn’t heard before, tha
t he hadn’t mentioned. On the day of the murder, when he arrived at the Mercer home, he’d seen Kent’s car in the driveway. That’s how he knew Kent was at home.

  But, when Nikki and I arrived there, an hour or so later, Kent’s car was in the garage.

  I thought about that car the rest of the day. Who moved it? Why? It was such a small detail, but I couldn’t ignore it, and couldn’t decide what it meant.

  CHAPTER 30

  Friday afternoon

  It was time to execute my plan for Bryce Raintree. I drove north to Wesley’s house, where Bryce lived in a room behind the garage. His Mustang was gone, so Bryce probably wasn’t there.

  Wesley was up on his roof, blowing leaves from the gutters. He wore ear protectors and didn’t hear me pull into his driveway. I sat in my car until he noticed me and climbed down.

  “I want to talk with you about Bryce,” I said.

  He motioned me into his house. Before we sat on his squishy chintz chairs, he wiped his feet carefully and brushed off his clothing, still respecting his dead wife’s housekeeping rules. I told him my plan. “I’m going to arrest him, with you right behind me offering an alternative.”

  He nodded. “I’ll try anything,” he said. The tense muscles of his face showed strain. “But why do you care? What do you get out of it?”

  Excellent question. Bryce was a pestilence at this point, an unwanted and unnecessary complication. Since I knew he was dealing, I had to do something, though I couldn’t arrest him based on illegal recordings. And, in my opinion, an investigation would be a waste of resources.

  “I want it to end. Let’s get his attention and make him stop,” I said.

  “Like you’d train a puppy,” Wesley said.

  “Exactly. Aim him at the straight and narrow, give him a good shove.”

  Wesley grinned. “I like it. When do we start?”

  “How about today?”

  When Bryce’s Mustang pulled up, we went outside. Nikki had been driving. She walked around to the passenger side and pulled Bryce out. He stumbled to his apartment door and leaned against it, his eyes closed.

  “Mr. Raintree, Bryce isn’t feeling very well,” she said. I felt embarrassed for her; she was wearing a stretchy red tube top and might as well have been half-naked. Wesley stared at her, spellbound, as she took out her phone, then looked back at us. “Gotta run. See ya.” She sauntered out onto the street.

  “Can I give you a ride anywhere?” Wesley called after her.

  “Naw, thanks.” She waved at us and disappeared around the corner, probably to hitch a ride. I couldn’t stop her—I had another project at the moment.

  “Shall we help him inside?” I asked.

  “His room’s off-limits. That’s the agreement I hammered out with Dr. Soto.” He gave Bryce a nudge with his shoe. “I should just leave him here.”

  “I think this is a mitigating circumstance.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Wesley unlocked the apartment door and we managed to get Bryce upright. We aimed him, like steering a refrigerator with wobbly legs, inside.

  “Whaa? Whassit?” Bryce made it to the kitchen nook, fell to his hands and knees, vomited up a neat little puddle, then lay down on the floor. He was quite alive but moaning about it.

  Wesley gave him a push with his foot. “Might as well look around since I’m here,” he said.

  What he found didn’t surprise me. In the middle drawer of a small desk, dozens of little plastic bags each held a few to a dozen pills—blue, yellow, white, orange, all carefully labeled—Xanax, Vicodin, Klonopin, Tylox, Ketamine, Oxycontin. Different dosages of each. A veritable pharmacy. Wesley picked up all the pills and I didn’t stop him. “This was Sunny’s desk,” he said. “Is he taking them or selling them?”

  “Possibly both,” I said. We looked back at greenish-tinged Bryce lying on the floor. When Wesley yelled in his ear, Bryce opened his eyes and sat up.

  “Go to bed, son. We’ll talk when you’re more alert. Remember this—I took all your pills and you will thank me.” Bryce looked dazed, his eyes red and watery. Wesley helped him out of his stained sweatshirt and went through his pants pockets. No pills. After Bryce fell onto the bed, Wesley searched the kitchen and found six small bags of pot in the freezer. He flushed them down the toilet. “Now what?” he asked.

  “I’ll come back when he wakes up,” I said. “Call me and don’t let him go out.”

  “I’ll be right here. I have zero tolerance for this.”

  When I left Bryce’s apartment, about fifteen minutes had elapsed since Nikki walked off. I drove toward Silver Hills, hoping to catch her. About a mile up the highway, I spotted her walking. I pulled up and she hopped right in.

  “You weren’t hitching, were you?”

  She gave me a sour look. “I can take care of myself. I turned down one ride already. The guy was sketchy. But you’re no risk.”

  Well, not that kind of risk. But I didn’t give her a ride without a motive. “Are you going home?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I guess. Unless—where you going? Near the mall?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m going there right now,” I said. Shopping is a bonding activity. Away from her mother’s protective control, Nikki might unburden herself of a few secrets. We passed the turn-off for Silver Hills and headed north.

  “Something special you’re looking for?” I asked.

  “I might get this DVD. A Justin Timberlake concert.”

  “He’s really talented.”

  “I love him. You should see my room, like, I have his picture everywhere.”

  I remembered the enormous poster of JT’s scruffy visage that hung over her desk. “I think Kent Mercer looked like JT, don’t you?” I asked.

  There was a long silence. I hoped I hadn’t pushed her too far. I looked over and saw tears. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “You really cared about him, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.” She scanned her chewed-up nails for another bit to gnaw on.

  “It must be hard, not having anyone to talk to, now that he’s dead.”

  “We were going to be together,” Nikki sighed. “He had to get enough money.”

  And divorce his wife, leave his children . . . It was unclear to me how Nikki could think it was likely to happen. But as soon as she said “money,” I was very interested. “Where did he plan to get the money?”

  “He had some ideas. He was a good businessman. I learned so much from him.”

  This was a subject I wanted to explore. “Here we are,” I said, pulling into the mall entrance.

  I offered to buy her lunch, hoping to prolong our chat. We took our tacos to a table in the food court. Three hairy boys in baggy pants and ball caps sat down at a table next to us. “Nice hooters,” one said, and the other two snickered, grunting like chimpanzees.

  I opened my jacket to give them a glimpse of my shoulder holster and, in my special agent voice, suggested they might want to give us some space right now, that this wasn’t a good time for meeting new people. Like cooperative citizens, they ambled away with only a few grumbles.

  “Young guys are, like, totally lame,” Nikki said. She’d unbraided her hair so it covered most of her face and some of the red tube top.

  “Totally,” I agreed. We munched away companionably while I wondered how to keep the conversation going. Her remark about “lame guys” gave me an opening. “That’s another reason you liked Kent, isn’t it, he was more mature.”

  “He was so nice. He was never, like, gross.”

  “I want to find out who killed him.”

  She nodded, her mouth too full to talk.

  “Who would have a reason?” I asked. “He was well-liked, responsible. Of course, he was secretly recording people. Maybe someone didn’t like that.”

  Her eyes grew big and she put down her taco. “You know about the recordings? No one knew. How did you find out?”

  “He burned some CDs. Office calls. Bryce’s phone conversations.”

  “Oh. My. God. Does Bryce
know you know?”

  “I’m not sure. Nikki, do you know of anyone else he recorded?”

  “People who worked there. But listen: I think George Budd killed Kent.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “You know, Ursula’s husband? The big guy? She’s the book-keeper at Clemmie’s?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Because she had affairs and Kent found out. That’s why.”

  Not the most logical motive for murder, but I was intrigued nonetheless. “Affairs? More than one?”

  “With Lincoln Teller, Kent was sure of it. Plus, she gave away a baby girl when she was my age. Now the girl is hanging around, wanting to know who her father is. Ursula talked on the phone to George about it, whether she should warn the father that this girl was looking for him. She called the father TJ something. They were in high school together.”

  “Did Ursula warn him? TJ?”

  “I don’t know. The thing is, Kent thought TJ might be someone important. So it would be like a scandal if people found out? And TJ might pay to keep it a secret? Man, that was the best idea.” Nikki wiped her face with a napkin. I helped her clean taco sauce and sour cream out of her hair. I knew about the recordings of Ursula and Lincoln that Mercer had tried to splice together, but I didn’t remember one where Ursula talked to George about someone named TJ. The “baby” was Lauren, the young woman I’d seen with Ursula in the grocery store.

  I also realized there must be audio files I hadn’t heard. “Do you know where those recordings are?” I asked. “Maybe there are some clues in them.”

  “Uh . . . nope. Listen, I got to get going. Thanks for the ride and lunch. Good luck with, you know, the investigation and all.”

  I wondered whether she was thinking of the CDs I’d taken from her closet. I was certainly not going to mention them. “How will you get home?”

  “I’ll find a ride, don’t worry. See ya!” She pushed back her chair and I watched her walk away, a solitary figure in the crowd of stroller-pushing moms, mall walkers, packs of pre-teens squealing over the latest hallway melodrama.

  Pretty, lonely, lying Nikki.