“He’s a sick, sick person,” I said. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Ortiz’s pen had paused over his notepad.
“Okay.” Clover took a ragged breath. “I know you just need the facts. Ryan got up and started finding boughs from the trees, leaves, pine needles and stuff, and he started tossing them over the cliff onto Zayne’s body. After a couple minutes, he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me back to his car. All the way home he made up the story and told me what we would say.”
The lawyer was making notes now.
“He said it would be up to me to convince everyone that we all three came back from our hike that day. I was to say my sister was alive and perfectly well. I was to go out with her friends and pretend to be her. Once we were sure no one was questioning anything, we’d come up with another story—tell people Zayne had gone away to school or that she’d met a man. He stayed at our house for three days, drilling me on the story, making sure I wouldn’t change my mind. We even went to a party the next day, with me posing as Zayne, to establish she was fine.”
“You used Zayne’s phone to make calls, even to your parents, and you imitated her. You posted to her social media accounts and everything.”
“Yeah … how did you know?”
I turned to Ortiz. “Several people became concerned—neighbors, the girls’ aunt—so I started trying to spot the two girls together.”
“You were spying on me?” Clover seemed shocked.
“They just wanted verification you both were okay, sweetie. You didn’t really think you could keep Zayne hidden forever, did you?”
“We thought the story of Zayne going away to school would work. Then we’d say she’d met an older man and moved away with him. Ryan said if her body was ever found, the other man would be the natural suspect. We—” Her face crumpled and tears flowed. “We just couldn’t think past the next few days at a time.”
“How did Ryan treat you after that day?” Ortiz was clearly looking for something he could build into a defense for her.
Clover dissolved into hysterical sobs and buried her head in my shoulder.
Chapter 50
Clearly, the girl was exhausted. The harrowing events on the mountainside and reliving the tragedy had taken a huge toll. I convinced the attorney to let the rest of the story come after giving her a break, although I knew Clover would have to repeat the events many times—to the police, the court and her own family, before it was done.
It all came out in grueling detail over the next few weeks. The media leaped on the “Twin-Killer” story as if it were the trial of the century. I’m sure a bad terrorist attack could have redirected attention from the local story, but for now it was Albuquerque’s moment in the national spotlight.
The Subro family hired a famous attorney, who proceeded to paint Zayne and Clover as vixens who’d led their wholesome son into a life of sin and crime. So, naturally, the Delaney family rallied. Rick and Jane flew home and started volleying cannons of their own toward the Subros, making it known all along that they’d left the set of a major Hollywood motion picture to be at their daughter’s side.
Both young people were out on hefty bonds. I didn’t know about Ryan, but Clover had become basically a prisoner in her own home because of the media vans out front. Endless shots of the two Corvettes in the driveway were about the only thing of interest they could broadcast, but lack of compelling video didn’t stop them.
I had to hand it to our local legal system and the hardworking people who ignored the media and the chest-thumping of the families and took the time to ferret out the clues and evidence. The charges were manslaughter and obstruction of justice against Clover. Ryan’s DNA on Zayne’s clothing still had the authorities deciding whether his actions were to be considered manslaughter or pre-meditated.
I visited Clover a couple of times before the trial, times when we mainly reminisced about playing Candy Land at Elsa’s house and about the year I’d helped hide the Easter eggs. I’d thought she and Zayne were so adorable in their fluffy pastel dresses as they hunted them. One talk turned serious when she asked what I thought would happen to her.
“I don’t know. No one does, at this point. I do think if you’d reported Zayne’s fall as an accident right away, the police most likely would have believed it. The elaborate hoax is what makes it look so bad.”
“I know. I should have never gone along with Ryan. Even now, my folks say he’s trying to make it look like I caused everything, right from the beginning.”
I nodded.
“He’s really twisted, you know.” She stared down at her hands. I knew she was wondering whether she would be going to prison.
“Yeah, he is.”
I didn’t talk about the stuff that was being said in the media. None of it made either family look good.
Back at the office, I found Ron in the conference room with Bobby and Marcie Lorrento. I tried to make myself invisible so I could sneak up the stairs unnoticed, but that didn’t work. Ron called out to me and I stepped to the open doorway to say hello. Two men I didn’t recognize sat with them. Ron introduced them as court-appointed officers.
“Jay Livingston negotiated a plea today,” Ron said. “He gives up the valuables and cash found in his apartment in order to make restitution to his victims.”
I nodded, seeing part of the picture. Bobby and Marcie were victims. It was almost hard for me to see them that way, but in the eyes of the law I supposed they were.
“Mr. Lorrento’s Super Bowl ring was among the items retrieved,” said one of the court officials.
Two jewelry boxes sat open on the table. The spectacular ring, which nested inside one of them, clearly outshone the other. If I’d been able to see the two rings side by side when I met with Livingston, the choice would have been obvious.
The man who hadn’t spoken yet was counting cash onto the table. When a significant stack had accrued, he called everyone to attention and counted it again so all could see. Although I had work to do upstairs, I had to admit the scene with all the loot held my attention. I watched as the money and the larger of the two rings were passed to the Lorrento’s side of the table before excusing myself.
A half-hour later, Ron came up to my office.
“What a mess,” he said.
“Looked as if they all got what they needed.”
“Yeah, Livingston is doing a short prison term—three to five years. I don’t envy the cops, trying to figure it all out. Bobby and Marcie were only a tiny piece of the puzzle. Now they have to meet with the person the other Super Bowl ring belonged to and return that item. And then there are a couple hundred more things.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Livingston had been at this for years—buying, selling, collecting. There were two old-fashioned trunks full of jewelry and other goodies. And the cash—suitcases of it. While he does his time, the authorities have to sort out the mess. Even Jay himself can’t seem to remember where each and every item came from. He’s lived all over the country, so his victims are all over the place. It’s an unbelievably complicated mess.”
Some of the targets had most likely filed insurance claims for their losses, and those companies would have to be reimbursed. When I thought of the complex web of connections, it boggled my mind.
“At least we’re done with them,” I said. “We are finished, once and for all, with the Lorrentos, aren’t we?”
“Yeah.” He leaned against the door frame. “I have no idea how things will eventually go for them. Aside from the fiasco with the ring, there’s still the infidelity and their general crappy attitude toward each other. The court recommended they get counseling, which I think is a fine plan—if they’ll stick to it.”
Basic respect for each other would have gone a long way toward saving the relationship. I wondered if they would ever get it back.
I finished my computer work, called out to my dog and left. All the way home, I thought about the twins and the still-unsettled mess the Delaney
family had become embroiled in. It was such a sad story, all around.
Drake met me at the kitchen door with a glass of wine in hand. “I’ve got steaks ready for the grill,” he said.
I set the wine aside and gave him a long, appreciative hug. “And I have a birthday gift for you.”
“I thought we weren’t making any birthday fuss this year,” he said.
I went to the dining room china cabinet where I’d stashed a blue gift bag. “It’s not exactly a fussy thing.”
He pulled out the tissue-wrapped photo frame. A soft look came into his eyes as he studied the picture of Freckles and me. “I love it.”
“The rest of the gift comes later,” I said. “There’s another bag in the bedroom, one with something red and lacy inside.”
He gave an eyebrow-wiggle and set the framed photo on the kitchen table.
“I can’t stop thinking about these two recent cases,” I said, picking up my wine glass again. “Basic respect between people, especially for the opposite sex, would have kept either situation from getting out of control.”
He nodded as he tossed the salad.
“This boy, Ryan, who basically blackmailed two girls for sex—is this a new thing, or was it always that way? I remember guys pressuring girls, back when I was in school. I just don’t remember it going so far. The pictures, the text messages …”
“Hon, as long as kids have hormones, there’s going to be desire between them. What you said about respect—that’s the key. If someone says ‘no’ you leave them alone.”
I thought back to the day of the backyard barbeque at Ron’s and my conversation with his son, Justin. He’d denied sexting with girls, but said he knew boys who did it. Maybe I should make time to get together and discuss it with the nephews. I suspected many of the kids who found themselves caught up in it didn’t feel they could talk with their parents, and they didn’t have the confidence to walk away from so-called friends who put pressure on them.
A knock came at the back door.
“I invited Elsa for steaks, too,” Drake said. “She seemed a little lonely out in her garden when I got home.”
I kissed him as I went to open the door. “You’re the best.”
Later—after we’d polished off a filet each, plus baked potatoes, fresh asparagus, salad and a portion of birthday cake—we three sat around the table, trying not to groan from overfill.
“Gram, thank you for putting up with me as a teenager. Watching the kids nowadays, I can’t imagine how you did it.”
“Kids today. I blame it on those smart telephones,” Elsa said. “I saw a whole TV show about those app things they use. They say programmers design those things to get kids addicted to their phones because there’s huge advertising money aimed at keeping them on those pages. The kids can’t live now without having people like them. It’s a reward system for being beautiful or popular or whatever, and they get real upset when they don’t receive good feedback.”
I had to wonder. Clover had definitely made a point of telling me how many positive comments her photos were getting. I’d seen the way she followed the apps with complete, rapt attention. Perhaps addicted wasn’t too strong a word for it.
“Another thing—the kids now will say anything to anybody. In my day, you had to stand in front of the other person and say what was on your mind, face to face. It kept us all a lot more civil. If these kids had to do the same, a lot of problems would never happen.”
I smiled at her wisdom. She definitely had a point.
Chapter 51
We rolled into one of the hottest summers on record, but Drake and I had our little cabin project to keep our spirits up. By August, we’d signed our closing papers and received the key. The route by air across the city was becoming familiar. Most often, though, we drove around the east side of the mountain; the cost of jet fuel was simply too much to be practical for everyday trips up there.
In the cooler mountain air we took stock of the little house’s needs. The big ones were reinforcing the flooring, applying fresh paint, adding indoor plumbing and buying modern kitchen appliances. We discovered it would cost a small fortune to have the electric company run a line up to the place, so we investigated and opted for a solar system. Sunshine is one thing we have lots of in our part of the world.
Back in the city, I kept track of what was happening to Clover Delaney. The attorneys insisted Clover and Ryan stand separate trials, which I thought was a good thing. Clover was required to spend the duration of the trial in a jail cell, and it seemed the telling of the story dragged out far too long. In the end, the jury found her guilty of obstruction of justice.
Her parents’ behavior was off-putting because of their arrogance and frequent mentions of their Hollywood connections. At least, that was my perception from the media coverage. I never was able to get one of the few seats in the crowded courtroom.
Luckily for their daughter, the judge had a kind heart and ignored the media’s “trial by television” and stayed with the actual facts. She sentenced Clover to the jail time she’d already served and probation of two years, stipulating that Clover couldn’t leave New Mexico and she needed to find gainful employment during that time.
Rick Delaney sputtered a little at the idea of his daughter actually working for a living, but the judge’s lecture on the subject was clear. An affluent lifestyle the girls hadn’t earned, in the judge’s opinion, was part of the cause of their getting so far off track. Ben Ortiz, the Delaney’s attorney agreed, at least in private, and told the family they’d better be grateful they hadn’t lost both daughters. I learned all this from Clover when she rode up to the cabin with me the day after she was released.
As for Ryan Subro, his father’s high-power attorney pulled out all the stops and managed to get his son completely off the hook for his actions. However, in a karmic way, the negative publicity surrounding the case sank the Subro auto dealerships way into the red financially. With little fanfare, Mr. Subro gave them up and the family moved out of state. Speculation in the neighborhood was that they went to Texas because it was big enough to get lost in. Personally, I didn’t think Ryan had learned a lesson at all and, knowing the law-and-order mentality of Texas courts, I was betting the destination was somewhere else, somewhere the Subros could count on leniency for their wayward son.
In truth, none of us cared enough to check. We were thrilled to see Clover get out from under Ryan’s control.
Clover received a few job offers, but all of them scared her—hostess in a popular bar, television traffic reporter, publicist for one of her dad’s upcoming films. She wisely realized all of them only wanted her for the notoriety her face would bring to their businesses. She wanted out of the limelight, so Drake and I offered to pay her to help us with remodeling the cabin. She jumped at the chance, although I warned her she would have rough hands and broken nails within a week. I found it heartening to see the flighty girl disappear and the genuine one show up each day to work.
As the weather cooled toward autumn, carpentry for the porch seemed in order—we decided to enlarge it into an actual deck where we could cook and dine outside. Clover quickly learned how to use the power tools and worked alongside both of us as we built the flooring and added lattice around the bottom of the deck to keep larger critters out. The wood siding needed new paint and I decided to stick with the colors that had appealed the first time we saw the place. Drake teased me about being a sucker for rustic charm. It was true.
Although I loved the look of the old woodstove Sarah Locke had used for cooking, the hassle and extra heat generated by it soon convinced me to bring in a microwave for summer meals. We could keep the old one for winters, and I pictured myself making big pots of stew on snowy weekends.
The biggest indoor project involved partitioning the one room to create a separate bathroom and a cozy bedroom alcove. Drake drew up plans, we all helped dig a trench from the well house, and we installed pipes and a pump. Clover built two-by-four framing for the new ro
oms and delighted in the praise when we saw what a great job she’d done.
“You do realize this whole project would be way different within the city limits,” Drake told us. “Codes exist for absolutely everything, building inspectors, the whole works. We’re getting by with this because it’s out in the sticks and it’s not a full-time dwelling.”
“Sarah Locke lived here just fine,” I reminded him.
“In a whole other era.”
It made me sad to realize a lot more than fancy phones had changed in the space of a couple of generations.
“How about taking a break?” I suggested. “We’ve subsisted on sandwiches and chips for weeks now. Let’s drive down the road and see if there’s decent Mexican food to be had.”
Truth be told, I missed Pedro’s more than I wanted to admit.
We hiked down the hill to where I had parked the Jeep then headed toward Madrid. I’d driven through the little art colony more times this summer than in all my previous years, but aside from the day we discovered our cabin, when the photographer had been with us in the helicopter, I hadn’t stopped to meet the locals who would soon be our nearest neighbors.
Next to the general store stood a little café whose sign announced: Burgers, BBQ, Mexican, Vegetarian. Something for everyone. We patted the sawdust off our clothes and walked in. The woman behind the counter looked familiar—long blonde hair, tortoiseshell glasses and a ready smile.
“Oh, hi,” she said. “Haven’t seen you folks around in awhile.”
“The food and wine festival.” It clicked. She was the one who, back in the spring, had been offering samples at the wine tasting booth. Seeing her nametag—Susie Scott—reminded me.
“Did you catch up with the guy you were looking for that day?” Susie asked, bringing three sets of flatware to a table near the windows.
“Wow—what a memory. I barely remembered it myself.” It was at the beginning of the Lorrento case, when I’d spotted the football player with the other woman. “Yeah, we did catch up with him.”
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