The bus lurched to a stop at a corner four blocks from the apartment and Chloe got off, thanking the driver as she did every time. She didn’t always get a pleasant response, but she liked to think she was making an effort, however small, to make the world a happier place.
Two helicopters circled overhead and traffic was jammed. As she approached her own street, she saw it was cordoned off. Five or six police cars, as well as a number of news vans, were parked nearby.
She ran to a group of bystanders near the yellow tape. “What’s going on?”
“There were shots fired,” a man said.
“Shots?” Her mind fixed instantly on Weasel-face and his two friends. Had they come for Trace so soon? “Was anyone hurt?”
“I think there’s an officer down,” someone else chimed in, a boy about Chloe’s age, madly working his iPhone. “Wait, here’s a stream of the news.”
He held the iPhone at arm’s length so those around him could view the screen. Chloe pushed in closer so she could hear what was being said over the drone of the helicopter.
The anchor announced “breaking news” of a police-involved shooting. The picture cut to a shot of a male reporter just as Chloe spotted him and his camera crew in real life, standing near a uniformed officer to the left of the crowd.
“Thanks, Dan,” the reporter said on screen. “Here’s what we know at this point. Police were serving an arrest warrant when the suspect fired shots and then fled on foot. An officer was injured, and is now being treated at the medical center. The search for the suspect continues.”
An arrest warrant.
Trace? Had they come to arrest Trace?
No, Chloe told herself. Their crummy neighborhood was home to probably dozens of suspects. The warrant could have been for anyone.
Quickly, Chloe punched Trace’s number into her cell phone. It went straight to voicemail.
That proved nothing, she told herself. There were plenty of reasons he might not answer.
She pushed her way to the uniformed officer closest to the yellow tape. “What’s happening?” she asked.
“Stand back, ma’am.”
“But I live on this street.”
“Sorry. You can’t go in there, it’s too dangerous. We’ve got a gunman on the loose.”
“Gunman? On the news, they said a suspect.”
“Right. A suspect fleeing from police. The area has been evacuated. We’re not letting anyone back in until it’s safe.”
Chloe reached for her phone to try Trace one more time. Before she had a chance to hit redial, shots rang out. Four or five of them in rapid succession.
There was a flurry of police movement toward the yard of the house two doors down. The officer’s radio crackled. “We got him. We need an ambulance down here right away.”
Another voice over the radio. “Roger. On our way.”
An ambulance, which had been idling at the curb maybe fifty feet away, slowly moved forward, easing through the crowd.
Chloe punched her phone frantically but her call to Trace went unanswered.
Chloe’s knees felt weak. Her head swam. “Dear God, not Trace. Please.”
Even as she prayed, she knew in her heart it was too late.
Chapter 22
Over dinner—if pizza eaten straight out of the Round Table box could legitimately be called dinner—Diana made an effort to concentrate on her children rather than dwelling on questions about Roy. Or worries about money. It had begun to dawn on her that Roy’s deception might not be the most pressing problem she faced. With roughly half their financial holdings unaccounted for, Diana needed to give serious thought to how she`d support her family.
Despite the earlier outburst, when Emily had accused Diana of thinking only about herself, neither Emily nor Jeremy had much to say about Roy. Or about anything else. They sat at the table, silently eating the pizza as if performing a duty. Diana tried to draw them out, and then, finally, to simply fill the conversational void.
As dinner wound down, Emily began tearing off tiny pieces of her napkin and stacking them on her plate. “I should probably get back to school soon,” she said without looking up. “It’s hard to catch up if you miss too many lectures.”
“Of course.” Diana nibbled a piece of crust from Jeremy’s plate. He’d already polished off two pieces of pizza, sans the outer crust, and gone off to watch TV.
“If you wanted,” Emily added, “I could stay longer. I’m sure they’d grant me a leave of absence if I asked.”
Diana shook her head so vigorously she almost choked on the bite of crust. “No, absolutely not. You shouldn’t put your life on hold. College is where you belong right now.”
If Diana couldn’t work out the finances, it might be the last semester Emily got. But more than that, Diana knew that if Emily stayed at home, they’d be at each other’s throats within a week.
Then she remembered her resolve to be a better mother. “Of course, you can stay as long as you like, Em, if you don’t want to go back just yet.”
“It’s just that I feel bad leaving you—”
“I’ll be fine.” Diana squeezed her daughter’s hand. “We all will be, even though it may not seem that way right now.” The platitudes rolled easily off her tongue, but they rang hollow in her own ear. She felt certain that though she might carry on, she’d never really feel whole again. Fine was in the past. “It’s going to be hard, honey, there’s no denying that. Hard for all of us. But we can’t simply stop living.”
“I guess.”
“And you’ll be coming home soon for Thanksgiving. And then Christmas break.”
Emily took a small sip of her beer. After making her stand, she’d barely touched the bottle. Diana noted this fact with a private smile. Her daughter sometimes pushed limits simply for the sake of pushing. Like the time she was thirteen and had fought tooth and nail for months to be allowed to take BART into San Francisco by herself. When she’d finally been granted permission, she made one very quick round trip and never raised the subject again.
“My father died when I was your age,” Diana continued. “Well, a few years younger than you. I know how difficult it can be.”
“Roy wasn’t my father.`` Emily’s voice grew wistful. “I wish he had been. I wish you’d married better the first time around.”
Diana nodded. “Me, too.”
Garrick hadn’t been much of a father to Emily even before the divorce, but afterward, he pretty much severed ties altogether. That is, until he married for a second time when Emily was ten. His new wife had two children of her own, and ever competitive, Garrick suddenly discovered the need for a daughter. He began calling Emily regularly, sending her birthday and Christmas presents, and little gifts for no reason at all. He invited her to spend that first summer on Martha’s Vineyard with him and his new family, and then regularly sent her plane tickets for visits to their North Carolina home.
Emily could barely tolerate her stepmother but she adored having her dad’s attention. At long last, a father. And something of a fantasy life while she was with him. Garrick had money—and horses, and boats, and every electronic toy imaginable. Garrick didn’t have to deal with homework or discipline or teacher conferences or making sure Emily got to school on time. For four years, Emily’s semiannual trips east were the highlight of her life.
When she started high school, Emily announced she wanted to live with her dad full-time. Although Diana was heartbroken at the prospect, she knew Emily was having a rough time fitting in at school, so she relented. Garrick was not so amenable to the idea of having a daughter day in and day out. Neither, Diana suspected, was his wife. So Emily remained with her mother, and the plane tickets, presents, and invitations to come visit dried up.
Diana had tried to be evenhanded about the divorce, but for deserting Emily a second time, she could never, ever forgive the man.
“He doesn’t even return my phone calls anymore,” Emily said, brushing the table with her thumb. She didn’t look at Diana.
&nb
sp; “Honey, it’s not about you. It’s him.”
“But I’m his only real kid. You’d think he’d care just a little.”
“Your dad is so self-centered he can’t see beyond the end of his nose.”
Emily looked up. “Then why did you marry him?”
Diana considered her answer. She wanted to be honest, but she also hoped Emily would learn from her mistakes. “Because I wasn’t very smart. I was young and your father was my first real boyfriend. I was seduced by the idea of being in love. There was a lot I didn’t see, or didn’t want to see, and I think I believed he would change.”
“And then I came along and made everything worse.”
Diana sat up. “Absolutely not. Don’t ever think that. Nothing that happened between your dad and me is your fault.”
“But it might have been different if I wasn’t there.”
“Different as in empty.” She touched Emily’s cheek and brushed the hair from her face. “I can’t imagine my life without you. It pains me to think of it.”
“Dad has no problem with it.” Emily picked at the label on her bottle. “Did he ever love me?”
Diana’s heart ached for Emily. “He loves you still, honey. It’s just that love isn’t high on his list of priorities.”
“That’s true of most guys, isn’t it.” A statement rather than a question.
“No, most guys are not like that. Especially the ones who’ve had some time to mature. Don’t let your dad sour you on the male species. There are lots of good, trustworthy guys out there.”
“Like Roy.”
Diana didn’t hesitate. “Like Roy,” she agreed. But she almost gagged on the words. If Roy was such a good, trustworthy person, why had he hidden so much from her?
“I guess some people get lucky.” Emily sounded wistful again.
“You’re young, Em.. There will be plenty—”
But Emily had already pushed her chair back from the table and was sprinting upstairs. Diana was weighing whether or not to go after her when the doorbell rang.
Digger raced to the front door, barking loudly. Diana rose from the table and went to the door after him. Through the glass pane she saw Inspector Knowles on the porch, rocking back and forth, heel to toe. He looked tired and a bit unkempt.
Diana tensed. Had the police discovered Roy’s bogus identity? Or did the visit have something to do with the money missing from their accounts. A scandal involving bribes or some illegal activity. Her throat tight, Diana opened the door and ushered the detective in.
“I hope I’m not disturbing anything,” he said.
“No, we’ve finished eating. Can I get you some coffee?” Were you supposed to offer coffee, Diana wondered, or was that just on TV? In any case, it would give her something to do, something to counter her nervousness.
Knowles shook his head. “Maybe some water, though.”
“With ice or from the tap?”
“Tap’s fine.” The detective took a moment to look around the hallway, causing Diana a moment of panic. Was there something a trained eye might find significant? Finally, he followed her into the kitchen.
“I came to tell you we got the man we believe shot your husband. It will be all over the news soon and I wanted you to know first.”
Diana’s heartbeat quickened. She’d wanted answers and now maybe she’d get them.
Drugs? A woman? Something involving the missing money?
She braced herself, sure the black cloud she’d been under all day was about to open up in a deluge. Roy’s dark side would be revealed.
Filling a glass with water from the faucet, she handed it to Knowles with a trembling hand. “Who is he, this man?”
Knowles drained his glass in a few long swallows, then set it on the counter. “Some punk kid from Oakland by the name of Trace Rodriguez. He’s had a few run-ins with the law before, but nothing major. There doesn’t appear to be any previous connection between Rodriguez and your husband. Way it looks, your husband was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Totally random, in other words?” Diana felt shaken. It wasn’t what she’d expected, not with all she’d uncovered about Roy since his death.
“I don’t know if that makes it better for you, or worse. Either way, it doesn’t bring your husband back.”
That Roy was gone, really gone, forever, was something that hit Diana anew every time she thought about it. But she refused to let her mind go there now. “How’d you find him?”
“We got a tip. I told you that was probably how it would go. The kid undoubtedly bragged to his buddies and one of them turned him in.”
Was she supposed to feel relief? Some sense of satisfaction that Roy’s killer would pay for his crime? Mostly what Diana felt was confused. “You’re sure you’ve got the right man? What does he say happened?”
Knowles kneaded the back of his neck. “The suspect was killed resisting arrest.”
“You mean he’s dead? The person who shot Roy is dead?”
“He tried to run. Opened fire on one of the Oakland cops. We don’t have the final ballistics reports yet, but preliminary indications are that his gun is a match for the weapon that killed your husband and the clerk. And his car matches the description of the car seen leaving the convenience store. It’s got stolen plates. He switched them out with another car.”
A murder that had nothing to do with who Roy was or what he was hiding. A chance encounter with fate. Like being hit by lightning or struck by a falling tree limb. Diana should have found the explanation, in some perverse way, reassuring, but she didn’t. It left wide open the Pandora’s box of unanswered, and unsettling, questions.
“What was Roy doing in the Bayview district?” she asked. “Do you have any idea why he stopped at the convenience store?”
Knowles shook his dead. “We’ll probably never know. There’s nothing to indicate that he was involved with the holdup.”
Diana had been angry when the inspector first suggested that, so it should have made her happy to hear him admit he’d been wrong. But there were too many things that still made no sense.
Diana’s mind raced. Nothing would bring Roy back, but she couldn’t simply let this be the end of it. Jumbled fragments of information swirled in her head. Part of her wanted to tell Knowles about Roy’s assumed identity. About the money missing from their accounts. She wanted to pound her fists and shout at the detective, “There’s more to this than you think!”
But what if Roy’s death really was a fluke? She wasn’t eager to drag his reputation through the mud. She needed to consider carefully before she said anything to anyone.
“It’s too bad,” she said, gingerly testing the waters, “that the suspect died before he could tell you why he did it.”
The detective sucked on his lower lip and regarded her with a warm but slightly disdainful and aloof expression that reminded Diana of her old journalism professor.
“Mrs. Walker, I understand you want an explanation that makes sense. Believe me, I do. But even if the suspect was alive and we had a full-blown trial, chances are you wouldn’t have gotten that. Creeps like the guy who shot your husband don’t live by the same rules of reason the rest of us do. They steal, they kill, they threaten and maim, to get whatever they want at the moment, whether it’s money for drugs, recognition from a gang, or the satisfaction of following a spur-of-the-moment whim. This kid not only killed your husband and the store clerk, he resisted arrest and shot a police officer. I’m not the least bit troubled by the fact he’s dead. It will save us the trouble and expense of a trial.” Knowles paused and looked Diana in the eye before continuing. “And you, the agony of hearing the defense try to besmirch your husband.”
Knowles’s final comment put Diana instantly on alert. “Roy was a good man,” she insisted. “And a victim. How could anyone denigrate a man like that?”
“I’m not saying they’d succeed, but you’d be surprised what defense attorneys will try.”
And what, in th
is instance, they might have discovered. She ought to feel grateful the killer was dead. “In any case,” she said, “I’m glad you found the man who shot Roy. It would be so much worse if I thought he’d gotten away with it.”
“If anything new comes out of our investigation, I’ll be in touch. Like I said, the story will be all over the news soon. You’ll probably be contacted by the media. Whether you talk to them or not, is up to you.”
Diana walked the detective to the door and then stood staring out into the night after he was gone. The search for Roy’s killer was over, but her own questions about Roy weren’t going away.
Chapter 23
As Skeet Birnbaum had predicted, the discovery of Miranda Saxton’s remains attracted national attention. Journalists from the nation’s networks, newspapers, and tabloids swept into Littleton, fighting for interviews with Chief Holt and anyone else who’d lived in town twenty years ago. And because Joel Richards had talked to most of these folks first, managing somehow to get just a bit more out of each source than the out-of-town reporters, Joel himself was courted as someone with inside information.
But the interest was short-lived. Last week, five days after the media had descended on Littleton, a famous actor was charged with the murder of his pregnant girlfriend. Two days later, a prominent U.S. senator became entangled in a prostitution scandal involving underage girls. Interest in a twenty-year-old murder simply didn’t have staying power.
“Don’t let it get you down, kid,” Skeet told Joel between bites of an oversized glazed donut. He reached for the cup of coffee on his desk. “Keep your ears open while you continue working on other stories. As soon as Holt gets a lead on Brian Riley—”
“Or comes up with some new suspect,” Joel added.
“You don’t buy the theory that the medallion was Brian’s?”
“Just trying to keep an open mind is all,” A silver sun medallion on a braided leather cord had been found with Miranda’s remains. Rumor had it that Brian Riley had worn a similar medallion. The evidence further cemented the chief’s belief that their original suspect was the right suspect.
Lying With Strangers Page 15