“So you admit you blocked an intersection?” Sid asked.
“Yes, but it wasn’t my fault. I was in terrible traffic for the Rotary Auction, and I sat through three light cycles before I could finally go. Then some jerk cut in front of me! I couldn’t get out of the intersection. I was stuck!” Purse, purse went her lips.
“Couldn’t you explain that to Officer Brady?” The red glass in Sid’s high-school class ring looked like an albino gerbil’s eye.
“I did explain. She said she hadn’t seen the jerk ahead of me. All she saw was me in the intersection so she had to give me a ticket. I didn’t break the law. He did.”
“So you thought Officer Brady was unsympathetic? Callous?”
“I certainly didn’t deserve the hundred-and-fifteen-dollar fine.” Purse, purse. “Why wasn’t she directing traffic? Why did she have to give a ticket to a decent person who was just trying to follow the law?”
Rancor heated Andie’s face more than the oven had. She quickly switched to Animal Planet. A lion was running after a sumptuous Cape buffalo. Each time his massive paws thumped on the savannah’s grass, his muscles rippled and his mane shook. His teeth at the ready, he leapt in the air to pounce.
When Andie turned off the TV, she wished she could pounce like that on Sid King. Can’t he find someone else to torment? Does he have to hunt me every day of the week?
Just yesterday he’d called and asked when he could interview her. “You could tell your side of the story. No one’s feeling much sympathy for you right now. I’m giving you a chance to turn that around.”
Yeah, right. You’d unfurl your scorpion stinger. Andie had wanted to work her fist through the receiver and along the telephone lines to bop him in the nose. Posthaste, she’d turned him down.
She raked another cookie off the metal sheet onto the wire rack and was still fretting when Meghan called. Before she could ask Andie how she was, she blurted out, “I am so sick and tired of Sid King.”
“He is an awful man,” Meghan agreed.
“He found some woman I gave a ticket to years ago. A hundred percent of people like that aren’t happy about it, but I had no choice. I saw her break the law.”
“Take a breath, Andie.”
Andie could hear Rosemary meowing to Meghan for dinner—she was probably extra-hungry after her and Justice’s rigorous game of Chase the Cat Around the House that afternoon. Andie pressed her fingertips against her temple, as if trying to dislodge her distress, but that didn’t get Sid King out of her brain. “I’m sorry to dump on you,” she said.
“I don’t mind,” Meghan said. “But promise you’ll turn off the TV.”
“I just did.” For almost three weeks Andie had also avoided the San Julian Review and the Internet in general, where biased posts had grieved her. She was relieved she wasn’t on social media. After a slew of hateful e-mails, she’d stopped checking her Gmail account too.
“You need to think about something besides that man,” Meghan said.
“I’m baking cookies.”
“That’s not enough,” Meghan insisted. “You can’t stay home and brood till the investigation’s over. You need to get out into the world.”
“If I leave, someone might recognize me. Or I’ll run into Jane or Franz.”
“Don’t worry about that. You can handle it,” Meghan said. “Why don’t you take Justice for a walk?”
* * *
“No matter who Sid King digs up to disparage me, I won’t let him hold me captive in my own home. I will be tough,” Andie muttered to Justice as they followed her flashlight’s beam to the end of the driveway and onto Valley Road. “And you need to walk and get back your strength.”
Since tonight would be Justice’s first exercise since being stabbed, she would take him only past ten houses and turn around; then every evening she’d add another house or two till he got back his strength. If she met Jane or Franz on the road, she’d deal with it. As Meghan had urged, Andie would not sit at home and brood. Not anymore. No, sir.
Though limping, Justice was thrilled to be on the road. He skimmed his nose along the asphalt with the scrutiny of an anteater looking for dinner and searched for messages left by raccoons, squirrels, and neighborhood pets. He stopped and sniffed a sword fern’s frond to discern who might last have brushed against it. His nostrils flared around Kate Patterson’s mailbox post and Eduard Kraus’s garbage can.
Though Andie was determined to be tough, the closer she got to the Vanderwaals’ barn-red clapboard house, the shallower she breathed. She knew she should turn around and walk away, but just as curious drivers stare at a freeway wreck, she stopped in the shadows across the street and peered at the house.
Upstairs, a light shone from the window of one room and a TV flickered on the dark ceiling of another. Weeds grew between the stepping-stones to the front door, where a bare bulb was screwed into a porcelain socket that cried out for a light fixture. Attached to the garage’s front was a basketball hoop, its mesh limp and gray and worn.
The house looked sad. Like Sleeping Beauty’s castle, it seemed as if someone had cast a spell over it, but no handsome prince had come along and kissed anyone. Bushes grew over half the downstairs windows. Gloom seemed tucked into the roof ’s black shingles and the wilting azaleas by the front door.
I’m the one who cast the spell, Andie thought. She was to blame for the sorrow that permeated the house. “I wish I could snap my fingers and change everything,” Andie whispered to Justice, who was pressed against her in his ready-willing-and-able position, his triangle ears at attention.
Andie thought, If only Christopher and Joey could be playing Gone Home on their computers, and Franz could be upstairs, chuckling over a Seinfeld rerun. If only Jane could be chatting with hospital colleagues about an upcoming family ski trip. If only . . .
Andie reminded herself, You can’t rewrite history. Some stories don’t have a happy ending.
When someone turned on the Vanderwaals’ floodlights, Andie drew back into the darkness with a start. An electric charge shot down her arms into her hands. If Franz caught her there, it would be one more frame in the movie of her nightmare. She tugged Justice across the street to Miss Hawthorne’s hedge.
Perhaps on a study break, Joey bounded out the front door. He dribbled a basketball along the driveway and tossed it into the garage’s hoop. It hit the backboard, bounced around the rim, and fell through the net. Joey caught the ball and dribbled it back and forth around the driveway, dodging imaginary guards.
He seemed like a smaller Christopher with the same chiseled features and clean-cut look. He also moved with Christopher’s teenage gawkiness, so his uncoordinated limbs seemed out of sync. Andie stared at him till her eyes stung. He could be Christopher, she thought.
When Joey barged past an invisible opponent and dribbled the ball toward her, it felt like Christopher was coming at her—with the knife. She could almost see it glint in the floodlights and hear his shoes slap the wet grass. Each dribble of the ball sounded like a gunshot.
Andie’s ears rang. Her heart raced with the urge to run. She reached for Justice and wrapped her arms around his neck. He held her up.
Maybe this is a flashback like Dr. Capoletti mentioned. Maybe I have PTSD.
But then Andie caught herself. No! This is not a flashback. It’s just a bad memory. Nothing serious. I am fine.
With discipline like Justice’s, in the shadows she started home.
CHAPTER 24
TOM
Stacks of reports, photos, diagrams, transcripts, statements, and notes covered the Sheriff ’s Department conference table, which could seat fourteen husky deputies. It was the only space large enough for Tom to spread out all he’d gathered in the last three weeks for Brady’s case. As lead investigator, he had to organize the facts and present them in his own report, along with all documents and findings that might be needed at a trial. As if that weren’t pressure enough, Tom wanted to write it all up in a manner professional enou
gh to impress the many eyes that would see it.
The first eyes would be Alan Pederson’s. If he approved the report, Tom would send it to the County Prosecutor, who’d determine whether Brady should be charged with a crime and, if so, what it should be. The Prosecutor’s review would go to Chief Malone for his own judgment and sign-off. Were the shots good or bad? Was the homicide justifiable or criminal? It had to be one or the other.
Today Tom’s job was to present facts that would speak for themselves. The time had come to fish or cut bait; but since he’d never been a lead investigator before, he felt like his fishing boat was adrift. Pederson could disapprove of Tom’s results, the County Prosecutor could send back the case for more investigation, or Malone could upset the whole applecart. Plenty of hurdles needed jumping before Tom could breathe easy. Any trip-up could humiliate him, thwart his ambitions, and wrestle his pride to the ground.
He exhaled a long, slow breath and told himself to man up. He hadn’t gotten into this business to doubt himself. Over and out, Wolski. Get on with it. His high-school English teacher, Mrs. Casey, who’d drilled grammar and punctuation into him, would be watching over his shoulder. She’d keep him on the straight and narrow.
Tom settled down with a cup of coffee. All morning he studied photographs and diagrams. He read every view anyone had officially offered on the case and again went through the coroner’s and crime lab’s reports. Finally, he picked up his pen and yellow legal pad. To organize his thoughts, he wrote basic facts and listed the supporting evidence:
1. Christopher hid in the bushes on the north side of Brady’s property, and he was the only perp. Photos showed the soles of Christopher’s shoes and his footprints in the dirt around the bushes.
2. Christopher moved four feet and stabbed Justice with the knife found on the scene. Photos showed Christopher’s footprints. New interview notes from Jackson revealed that a teen matching Christopher’s description had bought the knife at DIY Hardware with cash the day before he attacked Justice and Brady. Forensic reports concluded that Christopher’s fingerprints and touch DNA were on the knife, whose steel blade matched Justice’s wounds. Photos of them and of Justice’s blood on the ground showed where he’d been standing when attacked. His blood matched blood found on Christopher’s jeans and hoodie and on Brady’s uniform.
3. Christopher ran toward Brady, who was standing near the northeast corner of her house. Photos showed his footprints in the wet grass and hers in the parking area’s moist dirt. A diagram revealed the distance between her and Christopher when he’d started toward her: twenty feet and seven inches.
4. Brady fired the gun found at the scene. A ballistics report had just come in showing that the residue on Brady’s hand and the bullets in Christopher’s arm and thigh were from her gun, and shell casings found at the scene matched up. Diagrams and photos of the casings on the ground were added proof of where Brady had been standing because, as was typical, they’d fallen to the right and just behind her feet.
5. Brady shot Christopher at close range; the first bullet didn’t stop him, and he kept coming. Photos of his blood showed where he’d fallen in Brady’s parking area. DNA of the blood on Brady’s uniform matched Christopher’s. Diagrams indicated the location of his head and feet and the distance between his body and the shell casings from Brady’s gun: seven feet.
Tom tossed his pen on the yellow pad and rubbed his eyes. He’d worked hard and lived through aggravation, but the findings made a verdict clear, as far as he could see. Brady’s shoot was good. She was defending herself. If she’d gotten mad before she pulled the trigger, so be it. No law against anger.
Tom was still pondering when Jackson walked in with a two-foot hero sandwich, which filled the room with onion and salami smells.
“So how’s it going?” Jackson pulled up a chair and sat across the table from him.
Colleagues had joked that Jackson should try intravenous feeding because he was such a sloppy eater. “Don’t get mustard on these papers,” Tom warned.
Jackson chuckled and pushed himself back a safe distance from the tabletop.
“Those sandwiches can fill you up for a day or two. You might ruin your Thanksgiving dinner,” Tom said.
“A side of beef couldn’t ruin my Thanksgiving dinner.” Looking gleeful, Jackson took a hearty chomp. “You reached any conclusions?” he asked, his mouth full.
Tom nodded. “The evidence supports her story. The kid stabbed her dog and came at her. He meant business, and she shot to stop the threat. When he kept coming, she shot again. The force was necessary to save her life.”
Jackson’s cheek bulged with another hefty bite as he looked warily at Tom. “Aren’t you forgetting her Taser? A blinding dose of Mace?”
“She said she didn’t have time, and I agree with her. Look.” Tom tossed a diagram of the crime scene toward him.
Jackson wiped his fingers on the paper towel he was using for a napkin and picked up the diagram. “What do you want me to see?”
“Christopher started over there.” Tom leaned over and tapped his pen at the spot where Christopher had stabbed Justice. “She’s over here.” He pointed to where Brady was standing in her parking area. “Twenty feet, seven inches. The Twenty-One-Foot Rule applies.” He didn’t need to explain to Jackson that if you were less than twenty-one feet from a perp armed with a knife, he could run up and stab you before you could draw your gun, aim, and fire.
“The kid was an immediate threat. All Brady had time to do before he could kill her was shoot,” Tom said. “It was Graham versus Connor pure and simple—her use of force was reasonable at the moment that kid came at her. If we’d been in her position, we’d have shot him too.”
“So you’re saying it’s justifiable homicide,” Jackson said.
“That’s where the evidence points.”
“It goes against my hunch.”
“I don’t know any other way to look at it. You’ve got to listen to the facts,” Tom said.
“Except we’re still not sure what was behind the whole damn thing.”
“Yeah . . . well. We don’t need the backstory to exonerate her.”
Tom had wanted badly to get every duck in a row before winding up this case and handing over his report to anyone. But no one knew why Christopher had been violent, and his family surely hadn’t shown any inclination to solve that mystery. Tom still didn’t have Christopher’s computer or cell phone, and he hadn’t managed to get inside the kid’s head. As much as Tom longed to congratulate himself for a job well done, he couldn’t. What happened to beginner’s luck?
“So you believe Brady didn’t know Christopher and she had no idea why he attacked?” Jackson asked.
“I’m starting to believe her. She told the truth about everything else.”
“She could have lied about their relationship.”
“Maybe. But I’m thinking she didn’t. We all know crazy things can come out of left field, and no cop with any sense would get mixed up with a San Julian High School kid.”
When Jackson took another bite, in the silent room Tom could hear him chew. Mayonnaise had found its way to his earlobe, and a bit of sausage rested on his eyebrow.
Tom’s eyes skimmed over the papers on the table. He’d done all he could to gather the facts; he couldn’t feel bad about his work. Still, though the criminal part of the case might be over, there was plenty more that needed investigation. Unfortunately, Pederson would say there was no budget for it and he’d tell Tom to step down from the case.
But Tom wished he could keep digging for a motive. Hell, he’d crawl over broken glass to look for it even on his own time just as a matter of curiosity and honor—though working on his own was not allowed. Still, walking away from an unfinished job did not sit well with him. It was like getting a call about arson and leaving before the fire was out.
CHAPTER 25
ANDREA
Justice had his own internal Global Positioning System, and he could read Andie’s mind. Aft
er she turned a few corners and stopped at familiar lights, he could figure out their destination when it was significant to him. If they were going to Mark Vargas’s veterinary clinic, Justice got his most dispirited expression, flattened back his ears, and visibly drooped. If the destination was the Barkery, which sold gourmet dog biscuits, such as Beef Delights and Peanut Butter Wonders, he panted and marched his front paws in place on the car seat, hardly able to contain his excitement.
Today he’d clearly concluded that they were headed for the police station, his place of employment—his job! The corners of his mouth turned up in a German shepherd smile, and he pressed his nose against the windshield to get a better view of the road. At a high and fevered pitch, he whimpered, Eeem! Eeef! His other comments fell somewhere between a gargle and growl: Grrrrrm! Mrrr! Justice was letting the world know, Wahoo! Hurrah! Hurry! Hurry! We’re going back to work!
Andie did not have the heart to point out to him that they might not be going back to work at all. Chief Malone had asked to meet with her, and he might fire or arrest her.
If she went to prison, she had no idea what would become of her beloved dog. Meghan would be the best choice for his family because he was fond of her and Rosemary. But he would want to continue as a K-9, and that would require teaming with an officer. Andie combed through a mental list of colleagues and weighed their pluses and minuses till her tortured thoughts became too much to bear. How could she ever entrust Justice to someone? She would be lost without him. He would never understand why she was giving him away, and he’d think she was casting him aside. He’d feel abandoned again. It would be unspeakably unfair.
Andie told herself, Don’t you dare cry. She coughed and blinked so Justice wouldn’t sense her sad thoughts. She gripped the steering wheel and drove on.
* * *
“Hey, Justice!” Bobbing in a swivel chair, Chief Malone patted him on the head as if he were dribbling Joey’s basketball. Each time his hand whomped down, Justice’s head bounced and involuntarily his upper teeth clicked against his lower.
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