Joel shuddered. “How old was she?”
“Seventeen or eighteen, as I recall. She was set to attend Yale in the fall.” Skeet said it in a tone that showed just what he thought of Yale, which wasn’t much.
It wasn’t that Skeet had anything against Yale; he simply didn’t like Ivy League, period. The old guy had been impressed that Joel had stayed local and gone to a state school, although his regard for Joel’s choice had been somewhat tempered when Joel explained that it was only because his father had been ill and needed Joel’s help.
“They must have had some theories about what happened to her,” Joel said.
“Oh, there were theories, all right. That she’d run off. That she’d committed suicide. Even some speculation early on that she’d been kidnapped for ransom. But the one theory that jelled involved a young man from town, the last known person to have seen her the night she disappeared. Pretty soon it was more or less accepted fact that he’d killed her.”
Joel was intrigued. “Did they arrest him?
“They did, but they couldn’t hold him. Wasn’t any evidence of an actual crime.”
“Until now.”
Skeet smiled. “So here’s the thing. The big media guns are going to be all over this thing. But you’re local. It’s too bad you didn’t know her—”
“How could I have known her?” Joel blurted. “I was only five years old when she disappeared.”
Skeet brushed the air with his hands. “As I was saying, even if you didn’t know her, you know the town and you know the people who were here then.”
“I do?” Joel’s father had worked as a fisherman. He doubted his father would know anything about the world of the St. Johns and the Saxtons, even if his mind was lucid enough to remember anything from twenty years ago.
“You know me,” Skeet replied. “And Chief Holt—he was a detective then. I can put you in touch with others. This is your chance, kid. Your chance to make a mark. That’s what you’ve been pining for, isn’t it?”
Damn! Skeet had seen through him so easily. He’d tried to hide his impatience with small-town news. “You want me to cover the story?”
“More than that. Yes, of course, cover it for us. But you’ll be in a position to coordinate for the other folks. You play this right, you might get national coverage.”
Joel’s heart was racing. He was both excited and afraid. And a little uneasy. “It doesn’t seem right to build a name on the bones of a dead girl,” he said after a moment.
“That’s journalism, son. Get over it or learn to love selling insurance. You with me on this?”
“Yes.”
Skeet handed him a thick folder. “Here’s what I could pull together from the files. The coroner and Chief Holt are expecting your call. Don’t make me doubt my confidence in you.”
“No, sir. I’ll do my best.”
“That’s the spirit.” Skeet hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his slacks and grinned like a man who’d just bagged a five-point buck. “You absorb what’s in those files, and anything else you can find, and we’ll talk again.”
Joel beat a hasty retreat back to his desk. What if he wasn’t up to this? It was one thing to chase after a dream when you knew it was only a dream. It was something else entirely to be put to the test and come up short.
He was terrified he’d discover he’d been deluding himself all along. But he had to try, didn’t he? If he failed, well, like Skeet said, he could learn to love selling insurance.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants legs as he recalled the words of his dear, deceased mother paraphrasing Yoda. There is no try, there is only do.
Chapter 11
When Chloe got home from work Tuesday evening, Trace was sprawled on the couch in front of the TV, watching a rerun of The Simpsons. Dirty dishes, potato chip crumbs, and three empty beer bottles littered the floor nearby. From the looks of things, he’d probably spent a good part of the day anchored to that same spot.
“How are you doing?” she asked, bending to kiss him.
“My shoulder hurts like hell when I move,” he grumbled, “and like heck when I don’t.”
“You think it’s infected?”
“How should I know? But don’t start bugging me about seeing a doctor, okay? If my arm doesn’t fall off, I’ll probably live.”
He did look better, even though he hadn’t showered or shaved in two days. Or changed his clothes. Still, he seemed more alert, and the color had returned to his skin.
“Has there been any stuff in the news?” she asked. “About, you know, what happened?”
“There’s not going to be anything more. You worry too much.”
And Trace didn’t worry enough.
“You didn’t say anything to anyone at work, did you?” Trace asked sharply.
“No, of course not.”
Chloe hadn’t wanted to go to work that morning, but it wasn’t like either of them had cushy jobs with sick leave and time off. If they didn’t work, they didn’t get paid. She’d been nervous the whole day, especially when she was working the register. Once, a guy in a dark blue uniform came into the shop and she just about bolted out the back door. Turned out he was parking enforcement looking to buy some poster paint, but she’d been sure he’d come to arrest her.
Her friend Velma, working the other register, remarked that Chloe seemed jumpy.
“I’m not totally over the flu,” Chloe had explained.
“You should have stayed home then.”
“I’m better, just not a hundred percent.”
Velma had eyed Chloe with concern, her eyes very white against her dark skin. “You didn’t take any meds, did you? It’s not good for the baby, you know.”
“I know, and I didn’t take anything.”
“You think it’s hard being pregnant,” her friend said with a laugh, “just wait till you’ve got a kid to take care of.”
Chloe was waiting, eagerly. Or she had been until Sunday. Now she was worried she’d end up in prison and never see her baby.
With effort, Trace pushed himself to a sitting position on the couch. “You positive you didn’t say anything about what happened? I know how girls get with one another sometimes. They don’t know when to shut up.”
“I would never say anything,” Chloe protested.
“Maybe not on purpose, but you can’t be too careful.”
“I am careful.” Just talking about it caused a flutter of panic in Chloe’s chest. “They could still find us, you know. Cops have ways.”
“You always go right to the worst case in everything.” Trace aimed the remote at the TV. “I’m out of beer. Why don’t you run down the store and get some more.”
“No.”
“What?”
She cringed inwardly. “I can’t. What if I get caught? They might recognize me from something that witness said.”
Trace threw the remote on the floor. “You’re a goddamn black cloud of worst-case worry.”
“I’m sorry, Trace, but we need to be careful.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s why I told you not to yap to your friends about what happened. Oh, never mind. We have any pain pills left?”
“A couple.”
“Get me one of those then.” His eyes raked her flesh with their displeasure. “If you’ll be so kind.”
*****
When Trace dozed off, Chloe went to the linen closet in the bathroom and retrieved the DA’s gym bag from under the extra blanket where she’d hidden it. First thing, she wanted to get rid of the gun she’d found in the bag. Trace and guns were a bad combination.
Guns scared Chloe so she lifted it carefully with the barrel pointing to the floor, and stuck it in her purse. She would dump it in the trash somewhere on her way to work tomorrow. Then she went through the remaining contents of the bag. She knew there was nothing valuable there because she’d looked Sunday evening, but now she wanted to see what was in there.
She pulled out a wadded-up pair of grease-streaked khaki
s and an equally unkempt T-shirt. The DA wasn’t much of a clotheshorse, although he’d looked decent enough on Sunday. She added some gum and stick deodorant to the pile, along with an Oakland Raiders baseball cap. She wondered if a cap with a football team logo on it was actually a baseball cap. But she’d never heard of a football cap.
At the bottom of the bag were a couple of photos and a key ring with five keys. She turned the bag inside out and shook it because she’d once read a mystery book where the main character did that and found secret papers. But there was nothing more in this gym bag except a quarter that clattered to the floor.
She held her breath, hoping Trace hadn’t heard. His snoring continued, uninterrupted.
She turned to the photographs. One was a snapshot of four people—two men and two women. She thought the man on the left might be the DA who was shot but she couldn’t be sure. One of the women was probably his wife and the other two, friends or relatives.
There was a second, smaller, photo—a woman and a young boy about twelve. The woman had her arm around the boy’s shoulder and they were both squinting into the sun, grinning at the camera. Chloe imagined an adoring father behind the camera, laughing and pleading with the two of them to hold still. She patted her belly and mentally added camera to the list of things she needed to get before the baby arrived. Trace was right about one thing. They needed money.
She stuck the contents back into the bag and returned it to the closet. The gym bag was a real disappointment. There was nothing of value in it. Nothing of interest, even.
She lay on the bed with the library book she’d gotten last week. It was a best seller, which had to mean that a lot of people thought it was really good.. But Chloe was finding it hard to care about any of the characters, even the main character who she was pretty sure she was supposed to be rooting for.
Chloe liked to read. She went to the library regularly and usually checked out several books at a time. She liked mystery and romance best, but she read what the librarian called serious stuff, too. Books about people in poor countries or with horrible childhoods. Chloe thought you could learn a lot about the world by reading.
She heard Trace call her from the other room.
“Hey, baby,” he said when she came into the room. “I’m feeling so much better.” He reached out his good arm and pulled her onto the sofa next to him, favoring her with one of his goofy smiles. She loved it when Trace smiled at her like that.
She laughed. “You’re high from the medicine.”
“Probably so, but it’s better than being in pain. Soooo much better.” He leaned closer and kissed her under her ear, a spot that always made her tingle with pleasure. “You’re my gal and I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“We’re going to be okay, Chloe. I know things are a little rough now, but we’ll work it out.”
Trace’s optimism soothed some of the worry she felt. “As long as we’re together,” she said, “you, me, and the baby. That’s all I want.”
Trace leaned his head against the back of the couch and lightly stroked Chloe’s forearm with his fingers. “I’ve been thinking,” he said after a few moments. “I’m going to have to quit my job.”
She sat forward. “But we need the money.”
“I know we need money but I can’t load pallets with a bum shoulder. And how am I going to explain it, anyway? I take a couple of days off for the flu and come back with only one good arm? Doesn’t make sense. People are bound to be suspicious.”
“But what I make doesn’t—”
“Cut the whining, okay? Things might be different if you’d gotten that DA’s wallet like I told you to.”
“I couldn’t, Trace. It was under him. And there was blood . . . everywhere.”
“You’re pathetic, Chloe.” Trace sounded almost amused.
It had to be the pills, but Chloe was glad he wasn’t angry. “It’s getting late,” she said. “Are you hungry? You want some dinner?”
“Nah, I made a can of soup earlier. But you go ahead and make something for yourself. Maybe I’ll have a couple of bites.”
Chloe hesitated. “About your job—”
“I can’t go back. You see that, don’t you?”
She supposed Trace was right. People would ask questions. But they needed Trace’s income.
“I’ve got an idea, though,” he added.
“What?” Chloe didn’t trust Trace and his ideas. That’s what had gotten them into the fix they were in.
The doorbell rang, followed by a loud knock. Chloe rose to answer it. She’d barely turned the knob when three tough-looking guys shoved past her and into the apartment.
Trace’s face whitened. He struggled to his feet. “Go into the other room, Chloe!”
She didn’t recognize the men but Trace must have known them. They weren’t much bigger than Trace but they looked meaner. There were three of them and only one of him. And Trace was injured.
“Go on,” Trace commanded. “For once, do what I tell you.”
She glanced at the three men and then nervously back to Trace, but he didn’t take his eyes off the three men.
Reluctantly, she retreated to the bedroom.
“Close the door,” Trace called after her.
Chloe closed the door.
Only then did she remember the gun in her purse, still in the living room. If only she’d brought it with her.
But would she have used it? Could she have used it? Someone smart and brave, like women she read about in books, would have come up with a plan. But Chloe wasn’t able to wrap her mind around anything but pure panic.
She heard them talking and leaned close to the door.
“It didn’t work out,” Trace was saying apologetically. “I couldn’t get there the way we planned.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“My girlfriend, she’s pregnant, has to pee all the time. Stop here, stop there, and it takes her forever. We never made it to the store. Figured we’d just do it another day.”
“You just figured, huh?”
Chloe didn’t know which of the men was speaking, but she imagined it was the weasel-faced one with the shaved head and the skull tattoo.
“You think about us at all, asshole? You said you’d get the money.”
“I will.”
“Funny thing,” said a second voice, low and menacing. “You didn’t get there Sunday but someone just happened to hold up the store. What a coincidence.”
“Weird, huh?” Trace muttered.
“You’re not holding out on us, are you?”
“No, I swear. I’ll get the money. I got other options.”
Chloe was afraid her heart would race right out of her chest. What had Trace gotten involved in now?
“You’re a piece of shit, Trace. You owe us. Just get the money.”
“I will. I promise.”
“And if it turns out you’re pulling a fast one,” added the third voice, “you’re screwed. You got that?”
“Yeah. I hear you.”
Chloe heard a series of loud clatters and she stifled a scream. The sound of shattering glass followed.
“Geez, Trace,” said the weasel-face voice. “Looks like you’ve got a bit of a mess to clean up here.”
The apartment door slammed shut.
Chloe slowly opened the bedroom door and peered out, afraid she might find Trace bleeding or knocked out on the floor. But he sat on the couch, breathing hard.
“You okay?” She rushed to his side.
“No, I’m not okay.” He stood up and backhanded her across the face. “Why didn’t you just stay in the fucking car like you were supposed to?”
Chapter 12
At six-thirty the next morning, Diana dragged herself out of bed after a mostly futile effort at sleep. Her body felt stiff and sore, as though she’d physically fought off every fear and doubt during the night.
She threw on her robe and called the hospital, even before she brushed her teeth. She knew she�
��d have heard if there’d been a change in Roy’s condition. Still, the measured, dispassionate voice of the duty nurse confirming that there was no improvement sent Diana into a pit of unexpected despair. Roy was never going to get better, the shooter would never be caught, and she would never learn why Roy had lied to her.
Groggily, she downed a couple of ibuprofen and showered quickly, refusing to let her gaze linger on the haggard face she saw in the mirror. This was one of her days to volunteer in Jeremy’s classroom—a twice-a-month commitment she always enjoyed. But today, her usual enthusiasm had deserted her.
She didn’t have to go. It wouldn’t be the first time a parent hadn’t shown up. They probably didn’t expect her anyway. Not with Roy in the hospital. But if Jeremy could go to school at a time like this, shouldn’t she be as strong?
She dressed for a day in the classroom—an easily washable T-shirt and old jersey pants she wouldn’t miss if they were ruined. Paint and dirt, and occasionally blood, were all part of a day spent with seven-year-olds.
Downstairs, she fed Digger and poured cereal into a bowl for Jeremy. Diana knew she should eat something herself, but she had no appetite. Over breakfast, she told Jeremy that they’d visit Roy together that afternoon.
“What if he’s still sleeping?” Jeremy asked, picking a single Cheerio from his bowl with his fingers.
“I’m pretty sure he will be, honey. But he’ll know we’re there, anyway.”
Jeremy popped the Cheerio in his mouth and munched it slowly. “And that will make him feel better, right?”
“Absolutely.”
It broke Diana’s heart to see her little boy looking so sad. She wondered if she was doing the right thing taking him to the hospital. The visit would be hard on him, but it might be harder in the long run if she didn’t take him, especially since he’d been asking repeatedly to go. And just maybe, Jeremy’s visit might be the jump-start Roy needed to start healing.
*****
Diana made it as far as the classroom door, where shrieks of laughter and a swarm of eager faces greeted her. Normal life abuzz, not ten feet in front of her. But the chasm was so great it stopped her cold. She couldn’t cross it. She could no more go in there, bristling with good cheer and encouragement, than she could fly to the moon.
Lying With Strangers Page 7