by Alex Barclay
Ren arrived back in Breckenridge and talked through the grim hospital encounter with Bob on the drive to Blue River. They pulled up outside Cal and Connie Royce’s pristine little ranch house.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ said Bob, ‘apparently young Owens had a very good cry along with them.’
‘Gary fed him to the lions,’ said Ren. ‘Was this his first notification? Telling the parents of a missing sixteen-year-old that their only daughter was found naked and shot?’
‘Toughen him up,’ said Bob. ‘In fact, no it wasn’t his first. I think he told a little old lady that her cat had made it down out of a tree in the worst way possible.’
‘Sniper?’
Bob laughed.
‘I guess there had to be some tempering,’ said Ren. ‘Gary slash Owens.’
They got out of the car.
Cal Royce stood up from shoveling snow.
‘You’ve got to keep going …’ he said as they walked toward him.
‘You sure do,’ said Bob. He shook Cal’s hand. ‘How are you holding up?’
‘Not good,’ said Cal. ‘Not good at all. Not even as well as can be expected.’
‘It’s a very tough time,’ said Bob. ‘You remember Agent Bryce.’ He turned to Ren.
‘I do,’ said Cal, shaking her hand.
‘I am so sorry for your loss,’ said Ren.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you for everything you did. Is there something in particular I can help you with?’
‘We’d like to take a look around the house, and at Shelby’s room if that’s OK,’ said Ren. ‘We’d like to piece together a few things.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Cal, ‘you can do whatever you like, anything that helps.’ He walked up the path, and let them into the house.
‘I’m right out here, if you need me,’ he said. ‘Connie’s inside, she’s just laying on the sofa, won’t talk to no-one, won’t accept visitors. You can go up ahead.’
An hour into the search, Ren found an oversized bag stuffed into a laundry bag and wedged in the bottom of another laundry bag that was filled with Cal Royce’s dirty clothes. Ren took it out, and laid it on the bed. She unzipped it. A red-and-white cheerleading uniform was folded neatly on top. She pulled it out. It wasn’t a regular cheerleader uniform: the top was a tiny racer-back bra-top, the skirt was extra short, and the matching panties were not quite complete. Ren laid them out on the bed. She pulled out the next outfit. It was a tiny sailor suit, with cutaways at the sides, and other places, places that meant that neither of these costumes were for a regular costume party.
Ren looked into the bag to see the rest. It was filled with lingerie: red, black, stockings, suspenders, lace, satin, rubber.
Sixteen years old …
31
Ren called Bob in to the bedroom. ‘How did nobody find this?’ said Ren. ‘It was tucked away like Russian dolls in the laundry room. Size 2, so they’re not Connie’s. They’ve got to be Shelby’s. And, unless Shelby was planning on getting arrested for indecent exposure, these little numbers were for private viewing only. And there are more.’
As she opened the bag wider, a sweet smell wafted out. She stared into the bag. ‘You know something,’ she said, ‘I stumbled on a TV show for teens recently – regular day-time scheduling, and the nanny in it caught the fifteen-year-old daughter watching porn, because the guy she liked had a previous girlfriend who was “really experienced” and she didn’t want to let him down when they had sex for the first time. So … yup, things are different these days. But … this … this is like a stripper’s bag.’
‘Surely, our pretty little cheerleader wasn’t a stripper …’ said Bob.
‘I hope not,’ said Ren. ‘Bob – maybe it’s just us. I mean, is this just a teenage girl’s bag for a night at her boyfriend’s house? I know I always hid my … things … from my mother when I was younger.’
Bob raised an eyebrow.
‘Not these kind of things,’ said Ren. ‘When I say things, I mean any underwear that was not white and one hundred percent cotton.’
Bob smiled.
‘One of the Royces obviously found this bag,’ said Ren. ‘And I’m guessing it was Connie.’
‘We need to go talk to her,’ said Bob. ‘Do you think Shelby ever even brought this bag out of the house?’
‘It’s a very cool bag,’ said Ren. ‘I wouldn’t just use this as storage if I were her.’
Ren turned the bag sideways. ‘I didn’t see this bit,’ she said. She unzipped a section at the bottom of the bag that was meant for laundry. She reached in and pulled out the contents. Bob looked down, then they both locked eyes.
Children’s picture books. The dual roles of Shelby Royce.
‘There’s our answer,’ said Bob.
‘In this kind of bag,’ said Ren, ‘well that’s just a whole pile of wrong.’
Connie Royce sat on the edge of the sofa, shattered, not looking at the bag beside her.
‘I found it at the back of her wardrobe on Saturday night,’ she said. ‘I was going to ask her about it when she got back, but …’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘And after everything that happened, I just … they were very private things, I didn’t want you to think badly of her. She’s a good girl. I didn’t want to think that her underwear … or whatever you would call these … was relevant.’
Ren laid a hand on Connie’s arm. ‘I understand why you kept this from us,’ said Ren. ‘But you really need to be honest. You need to tell us everything – no matter how bad it might sound to you. Nobody here is going to think ill of Shelby. We don’t judge anyone, we couldn’t do our jobs if we were in the business of judging people. Everyone we’ve spoken to says such lovely things about Shelby, she seems to have been a very special young lady. That’s all that matters.’
‘Thank you,’ said Connie. She held a tissue up to her nose. ‘Thank you. I … I was Shelby’s age when I met Cal … I was young. But we fell in love. That man out there is the love of my life. I’ve had a wonderful life, I don’t regret a thing … I didn’t regret a thing. But I still wanted Shelby to do more, to go out and see the world …’
‘Can I ask, did you have a reason for looking in Shelby’s wardrobe on Saturday night?’ said Ren.
‘For cigarettes,’ said Connie. ‘I know she smokes. Cal was at work, and I wanted to sneak a cigarette. I haven’t smoked in years …’
‘Was there anything else going on with Shelby that you can think of?’ said Ren.
‘No,’ said Connie.
‘You said in your interview that Shelby didn’t have a boyfriend,’ Ren said. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘As sure as any mother can be with a girl that age,’ said Connie.
‘Did you have any suspicions that she might?’ said Ren.
‘No,’ said Connie.
‘What did you think when you saw the bag?’ said Ren.
‘I thought, well, me and Shelby are going to have to sit down and have a talk.’
‘OK, we’re going to take this bag away for now,’ said Ren. ‘We’ll return it when we’re done.’
‘Saturday night,’ said Connie, ‘I was looking at my daughter, thinking how cute she is, with the ponytail elastic thing wrapped around her wrist, and I knew she’s going to twist her hair into a high knot later, and wrap it in that thing, and there’ll be little wispy bits spiking out the top, and she’ll be reading stories to whoever’s kids she’s looking after. And a couple of hours later, I find this bag. I’m just … so confused. And then she’s gone. She’s gone. And here I am with a bag of … this. And she’s gone.’
‘These are just clothes,’ said Ren. ‘Remember that. They don’t change a thing about your relationship with Shelby.’
‘Secrets change relationships,’ said Connie. ‘Secrets do.’
Bob and Ren walked into the command center and laid Shelby Royce’s bag on the table at the top of the room.
‘This is Shelby Royce’s,’ said Ren.
Everyone went
over to it.
‘Yikes,’ said Cliff.
‘Gloves please, people,’ said Bob, eyeing his men.
‘There are kids’ picture books in the compartment underneath it,’ said Ren.
‘What was going on with her?’ said Gary.
‘We don’t know,’ said Ren. ‘Her mom had found it in the back of Shelby’s wardrobe on Saturday night and hid it in a bag in a laundry bag in a laundry bag. She didn’t want us to be affected by it, to think badly of Shelby, which is understandable. I wish I wasn’t thinking about the “whore” poster right now.’
‘We all are,’ said Gary.
‘But what was she doing with all this?’ said Robbie.
‘Thanks for directing that my way,’ said Ren.
Robbie blushed. ‘Sorry … I … just …’
‘I’m kidding,’ said Ren. ‘She could have been wearing it for someone in particular, she could have been photographing herself, videoing herself, doing stuff on line, or … selling herself …’
‘A lot of visitors come to Breck,’ said Gary. ‘If she had links in a hotel … she could make herself available.’
‘That creepy Labati kid could be lining men up for her,’ said Ren. ‘When he’s not too busy trying to line himself up for her.’
‘She didn’t have the bag with her on Saturday night,’ said Robbie. ‘Does that mean she had no plans in that sense? Could Mark Whaley have expected she would, and got mad at that? Maybe he had been here before and we just didn’t know.’
‘We have to get these high school kids to talk,’ said Gary. ‘I think I’ll go with an unorthodox maneuver …’
Gary and unorthodox?
‘Mark Whaley raped her, or she was a ho and seduced him, he shot her, killed himself, Laurie Whaley’s been returned safe,’ said Colin. ‘The end.’
Gary stared at him. ‘Colin, I’d like you to go to the autopsies with Ren, Robbie and Bob.’
‘But—’ said Colin.
‘It matters what happened in that room,’ said Gary.
Colin’s jaw twitched.
You can’t hide behind your computer screen now, you dickhead.
32
Taber Grace still had the client file. It was fatter than it used to be. For days it had been like a lump lodged in his throat. Now it was sitting on top of his shredder, where he stockpiled papers until he could bear the sound of the motor grinding through secrets. Or when he needed a little more time to think about whether he really wanted to make something disappear.
He checked his phone. There were seven missed calls from Melissa. And five messages.
‘It’s me. We need to talk.’
‘Tabe, where are you?’
‘Taber, wherever you are, please call.’
‘Call me, please. I’m starting to get worried.’
‘Taber, it’s Melissa again, I don’t care if you can’t talk right now, but just let me know you’re OK. Just send me a text …’
He called her. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘It’s me.’
‘Thank God,’ said Melissa. ‘I was worried. So was TJ.’
‘I texted TJ. He’s fine.’
‘Well, TJ and I haven’t exactly been on speaking terms …’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Missy. He’ll come around.’
‘I just wanted to know that you’re alive. You’ve kinda disappeared since … everything. I was afraid you’d never want to talk to me again.’
‘No,’ said Taber. ‘No.’
‘I was worried about you.’
‘There’s no need, but thanks for your concern.’
‘OK … thanks for letting me know,’ said Melissa. ‘Thanks for calling.’
‘Take care.’
‘You too.’
Taber Grace closed his eyes and the scene in the kitchen kicked off again, like a movie, the images even tinted and sharpened, the voices like surround-sound.
Taber Grace had locked himself away since he walked out on Melissa and TJ that morning, sitting at his laptop, reading about what Cerxus had done to the children it had been prescribed to: some had attempted suicide, others had violent outbursts, some had complete personality changes. Melissa was right – Cerxus was still on sale. The makers, Lang Pharmaceuticals, had just put a black-box warning on the insert saying that it could cause suicidal thoughts and psychotic episodes in children.
Taber Grace didn’t stop with Cerxus – he was sucked into one article after another about drugs that had been rushed to market, marketed illegally, over-prescribed, reacted badly with other medications, increased the risk of strokes or heart attacks, caused fatalities. Every pharmaceutical company he had ever heard of had been sued because of one drug or another, and between them they had paid out billions of dollars to settle claims. And he knew a settled claim meant sealed documents that the public was unlikely to see.
Taber Grace got up from his desk, his head filled with images of TJ’s terrified nine-year-old face, and Melissa bleeding and clutching him, and telling him what to do, and how to lie.
Replace the sound, replace the images.
He walked into his bare living room. He sat on the sofa, and turned on the television. He watched microphones being pushed into the face of a man called Bob Gage, Summit County Sheriff. Behind Sheriff Gage and back a little, was definitely an FBI Agent. A BuBabe. A Bureau Babe. He knew that case agents weren’t authorized to speak to the press, but she would have been a better face for the camera.
The sheriff was speaking: ‘At four a.m. on the morning of Tuesday, November 17, the bodies of Mark Whaley, 49, and Shelby Royce, 16, were found on Wildcard Drive here in Breckenridge. Following yesterday’s autopsy results, we can confirm that Shelby Royce died of a gunshot wound to the chest. Mark Whaley died from a gunshot wound to the head which evidence confirms was self-inflicted. At nine a.m. on the morning of November 17, Mark Whaley’s daughter, Laurie Whaley, was reunited with her family and is recovering at a private location.’
A reporter asked: ‘Sheriff Gage, can you tell us the extent of her injuries?’
‘Laurie Whaley is recovering well. That is the last comment I will make on her condition.’
‘Sheriff, is it true that Shelby Royce was sexually assaulted before her death?’
‘Our investigation is ongoing.’
‘Was this a murder-suicide?’
‘All evidence points to a murder-suicide. Thank you for your time.’
‘Sheriff Gage—’
‘Sheriff Gage—’
‘I have no further comment at this time.’
Taber Grace stood up from the sofa.
‘Hate to break it to you, people – that was no murder-suicide.’
He hit the red button and the screen went black.
‘But you’re going to have a hell of a time proving otherwise.’
He walked over to the shredder, took the file from on top of it, and laid it on his desk.
33
Ren Bryce sat at her desk with her handbag open, throwing in everything she could see that belonged to her.
Gary called her over to his desk. She leaned over the partition, then quickly checked her shirt.
‘I cleaned it,’ said Gary.
‘Good for you, not suffering in silence.’
He smiled. ‘I wanted to ask – how was your appointment with Dr Lone?’
‘Did you know that his sessions are all an hour long?’ said Ren. ‘Not fifteen minutes, not even half an hour. How does that work? Financially? And missing-work-wise?’ And boredom-threshold-wise.
‘You just concentrate on making the most of that hour,’ said Gary.
‘But—’
‘If it makes you feel better,’ said Gary, ‘he only charges a fifteen-minute fee for a one-hour session.’
‘What?’ said Ren. ‘Who does that?’
‘People who like to help people, I guess.’
‘No wonder he can’t afford full shoes …’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Gary.
‘Jus
t … he wears sandals,’ said Ren.
‘Jesus, Ren. Maybe if your approach was not to stare at the floor, you wouldn’t notice his footwear.’
Helen Wheeler had beautiful shoes.
Gary looked up. ‘Are you OK?’ he said. ‘Did I say something?’
‘No,’ said Ren. ‘I’m fine.’
But Helen had beautiful shoes.
Paul Louderback stuck his head in the door.
‘Ren, could I have a word, please?’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind, Gary. I just have to clear something up.’
‘Sure, go ahead,’ said Gary. ‘We’re done here.’
‘Hey,’ said Paul, when she walked out, ‘as we will shortly be parting company, would you like to go for dinner tonight?’
‘Ooh,’ said Ren. ‘I would. Here? Would that be wise?’
‘Wise now that I know your boss is traveling to Denver tonight.’
Ren smiled. ‘Dinner it is, then.’
Her cell phone rang on her desk.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Paul.
Ren ran over and grabbed it.
‘Agent Bryce, it’s Kevin Crowley from The Lowry Hotel in Boston – I just sent you an email – the details you wanted, if you’d like to take a look at it.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ren. She hung up, and opened the email and clicked on the attached files. There was one PDF, and six JPEGS. She started with the PDF. It was Mark Whaley’s bill from his stay.
For three nights. Even though his last meeting was on Friday, he stayed on in Boston Saturday night.
She looked at the photos. In the first, a short, smiling blonde was leaning over The Lowry’s reception desk.
Ren clicked on the next photo. It was the lobby bar on the same night. A man was sitting on a sofa in the corner with the same smiling blonde. Her coat was off, and she was dressed in a short, dark-colored, low-cut dress.
‘Gary,’ said Ren. ‘You need to see these.’
Gary came over to her desk.
‘It’s Mark Whaley,’ said Ren, pointing. ‘In The Lowry Hotel in Boston.’
Gary leaned in closer to the screen.
‘So there is a hotel-room precedent with Mark Whaley,’ said Gary. ‘Underage blondes.’