And that’s when it hits me.
“Brad, hold on,” I say. “I think I know what the problem is.” I look around in search of a bathroom or a nook where I can do what I need to. But there is nothing. Resigned to either doing what I need to do here or walking back out to my car, I decide to go for broke. I reach up under my left sleeve, grab my bra strap off my shoulder, stretch it down my arm as far as I can, slipping my elbow and then my hand through it. I then do the same thing on the other side. With that done, I reach behind my back, using that awkward arm pose that only women and people who are resisting arrest are familiar with and unsnap my bra. Then I reach up under my blouse, grab the bottom of the bra, and tug it down and out.
Brad watches this with an amused expression, his eyebrows arching when I remove the bra. I’m not sure if it’s the size of the bra that has surprised him or the significant drop in the height of my bustline. When I’m done, I hand him the bra, which he holds by one strap like it’s state’s evidence he’s afraid to contaminate. I go back to the start of the metal detector and walk through it. This time it stays quiet. I give Brad a smug smile and go to grab my bra from him.
“I’m sorry,” he says, snatching it away from me. “You’ll have to get it on your way out, or else remove the metal stays in it.”
“They aren’t stays, Brad, they’re underwires. And I need them in my bra.”
“Doesn’t matter what you call them, they’re potential weapons in my book,” he says. Now it’s his turn to look smug. He walks over, grabs a plastic tray, and drops my bra into it.
I decide it’s not worth fighting this battle and move on. It’s a decision I come to regret rather quickly as the fabric of my blouse, which is made of a nubby cotton fabric, slides up and down over my nipples with every step. As I enter the main lobby and head for the check-in window, I realize my high beams are on. I roll my shoulders forward, trying to minimize the display, but I swear my nipples are more erect now than they’ve ever been. I show my ID again, and I’m given a clipboard with a form I have to fill out: a visitor’s application.
Wyzinski’s lawyer shows up just as I’m finishing the form. Joan Mackey manages to look both cute and professional, with her petite build, short blond hair, designer suit, and leather satchel. She checks in—making it through the metal detector just fine with those perky little breasts of hers—and I come up right behind her with my paperwork.
“Hello, Mattie,” she says.
The last time I saw her, we were adversaries, so I wasn’t sure how friendly things might be today, but her warm tone and smile seem genuine.
“Is it okay if I call you Mattie?” she asks.
“Sure.”
“And please call me Joan.”
I nod, and then our conversation ceases as we are buzzed through a door and led by a guard down a hallway to a small room with a table, four chairs, bare concrete walls, and a second door on the far wall. Joan and I take the two closest seats, her on the left, me on the right.
Joan sets her leather bag on the floor and turns to face me. “Detective Hurley, your husband,” she adds pointedly, letting me know she’s done her homework, “said you have reason to believe my client was wrongly convicted and that you want to ask him some questions.”
“Correct,” I say.
“Well, I’ve believed in Tomas’s innocence all along, so I’m willing to hear what you have to say or ask, but I also reserve the right to stop you at any point or tell my client not to answer. Though I suspect he’ll be reticent enough without any action on my part.”
I nod my understanding. “Is it true Tomas took and passed a lie detector test?”
“It is,” Joan says with a regretful expression. “Unfortunately, those tests aren’t admissible as evidence. Nor should they be. They can be notoriously unreliable. May I ask what questions you intend to ask my client? Because—”
She is interrupted when the door across from us opens. Tomas Wyzinski shuffles into the room, his wrists, waist, and ankles shackled, a guard on his heels. Tomas is wearing dark green scrubs, his name sewn onto the right breast with a gold thread that makes me flash back on our alien bones for a moment. He drops into a chair across from us after the guard pulls it out for him, and then the guard stands, hands clasped, back rigid, right behind him.
Joan smiles at the guard and says, “This is a privileged meeting with my client. Would you please step out?”
The guard nods, shrugs, and goes out the door he came in.
I focus on Tomas. His eyes still look creepy to me, but instead of frightening me like they did before, they now make me feel sad and guilty. I can’t help but wonder if I had something to do with the sorrow I see reflected there.
“Hello, Tomas,” Joan says. “Do you remember Mattie Winston? She works with the medical examiner, and she testified at your trial.”
Tomas looks up at me, but there is no expression on his face. He might as well be dead, or at the very least stoned out of his mind. I half expect him to snarl at me or to see a spark of anger in his eyes, but there is nothing. His gaze doesn’t linger on me long; his eyes drift off, glazed and unfocused.
Joan continues. “Mattie is here to talk with you. She says she has uncovered some evidence that leads her to think you might be innocent. I think we should hear her out.”
If I was expecting any sort of reaction to this declaration, I am disappointed. Tomas doesn’t move, doesn’t blink.
I lean forward, my hands on the table. “I think you were set up, Tomas,” I say. “I believe Marla’s death was arranged by the same people who had my coworker and his fiancée murdered last month. We know the person, the individual behind those killings, but we have reason to believe he was a killer for hire. We think he killed Marla, too, and then framed you for her murder.”
Still no response.
“This man committed those killings for the same reason I believe you are willing to take the rap for Marla’s murder, because the people who hired him threatened to hurt or kill his family if he didn’t do what they wanted.”
I think I see a slight shift in his eyes when I say this, but I can’t be sure. Encouraged, I continue. “I think the day I found you at your house, you were supposed to die. I don’t think you self-administered the insulin that almost killed you. And because you didn’t die, the people who wanted you dead had to find another way to ensure your silence.”
Still no reaction.
“They threatened to harm Lech, didn’t they?” I say. There is a flinch, a tiny, subtle twitching of his facial muscles. “They’re watching Lech very closely,” I go on. “His caregiver, the woman who visits during the week, said that some strange men have been coming around and talking to Lech. Your brother is convinced of your innocence, and he tells anyone who will listen all about it. I think the people who framed you are getting worried that Lech won’t shut up. They don’t want him making a lot of noise, stirring up trouble.”
I have his attention now. He turns his head and looks straight at me. I see a glimmer of something—fear, anger, distrust—in his eyes.
“I’m worried for Lech,” I tell him.
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, and his eyes narrow slightly. The muscles in his cheeks twitch.
“If he keeps talking like he is, I’m afraid the people who framed you are going to do whatever they have to do to shut him up. And then they’re going to arrange an accident for you because once they’ve eliminated the thing they’re holding over your head, they’re going to be worried that you’ll start blabbing.”
Tomas takes in a slow deep breath, easing it out. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, lady,” he says. “My brother isn’t right in his head, and he has a very vivid imagination. I wouldn’t worry too much about what he says. And while I appreciate your faith in my innocence, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. I killed that bitch, Marla, because she dumped me. And I’d do it again.” The level of venom in his voice as he says this is shocking, and I wonder if I have this all w
rong.
The two of us engage in a stare-down, and Tomas wins because I blink first. I smile, look over at Joan, then back at Tomas. “I get it,” I say. “You don’t trust me. You think I’m one of them, or that I’m testing your commitment to the party line.”
His expression doesn’t alter one whit.
“But I promise you, Tomas, I’m on your side here. Yours and Lech’s. These puppet masters have killed a lot of innocent people, and let’s face it, Tomas, they meant to kill you, too. If Richmond and I hadn’t found you when we did, you’d be dead. Clearly these people will do anything to keep you quiet.” I pause for effect. “You and your brother.”
Tomas shifts in his seat, and I sense that I’m finally starting to get through to him.
“We can provide your brother with protection,” I tell him.
Tomas’s withering look of doubt tells me what he thinks of this idea.
“Not us, per se, but the U.S. Marshals.” I clarify. “You know, the Witness Protection Program?” I think I see a gleam of interest in his eye, so I continue. “They can relocate your brother, and you, if we can get you out of here. Give you both new identities. You could go back to taking care of Lech, and it would be just the two of you.”
I have his full attention now, but I also sense a lingering wariness in him. I suspect he doesn’t trust me fully, though I think he wants to. He’s still not convinced I’m not part of the enemy group, here to test his willingness to keep his mouth shut.
“You used to work for a pharmaceutical company called Drake Industries,” I go on. “Were they . . . are they a subsidiary of the same parent company that once owned Miller-Weiss?” He doesn’t answer me, but he doesn’t look away, either. “Why did you leave your job there?” I ask, making him shift his position again. I sense I’m closing in on a nerve, so I keep going. “Let me guess,” I say. “You caught wind of some shady dealings there with regard to a new weight-loss drug the company was testing, outcomes that were unacceptable but were either buried or disguised as something else.”
I pause, giving him an opportunity to respond, but he remains quiet. “This drug is killing people, Tomas, but the company is covering it up, making the deaths look like they’re attributable to something else. And once you figured out what was going on, you became uncomfortable with it. Maybe you talked to someone, or maybe you simply started asking questions. Whatever the circumstances were, they were enough to get the company concerned and bring you up on someone’s radar. I’m guessing someone had a stern chat with you about it, perhaps with some thinly veiled threats thrown in for good measure. You resigned, thinking that leaving the company would end the problem. But they didn’t let you go that easily, did they?”
Tomas’s breathing is faster, and his feet are shuffling back and forth on the floor. I know I’m hitting a nerve, so I keep going.
“They delved into your life, looking at every aspect of it. My guess is they were hoping to find something they could use to blackmail you, but when that didn’t work, they seized upon your brother and your girlfriend. Did they hint at what they were going to do, or did they just do it and leave you for dead?”
He blinks three times, really fast.
“My guess is they gauged the strength of ongoing threats to both your brother and Marla and figured your loyalty to your brother would carry the greater weight. That made Marla the first victim. They killed her, cut off her head, put it in your refrigerator to frame you, and then gave you an overdose of insulin, assuming you’d be found dead and the assumption would be that you had killed Marla.”
I pause again and give a shrug of grudging admiration. “I have to say, the fact that these people thought things through well enough to use your brother as their contingency plan shows we aren’t dealing with your everyday, common criminals here. These people are smart, they’re desperate, and they’re keen to make sure their tracks are well covered. How long do you think they’re going to let your brother live if he keeps on babbling about your innocence?”
Though the man across from me is essentially still from his shoulders down, there are all kinds of subtle movements above his shoulders that tell me how worried he is: His carotid artery is bounding away in his neck, the muscles in his cheeks are twitching and dancing, and his Adam’s apple is sliding up and down, up and down.
“Lech showed me your diabetic log, Tomas. You were meticulous in managing your insulin and your diet, so unless the overdose of insulin you received was your attempt to commit suicide, there’s no way you can convince me it was an accident.”
I see Joan shoot me a curious look, but she says nothing.
“Stay away from my brother,” Tomas says. I suspect he’s trying to sound angry, maybe even threatening, but there is a slight hitch in his voice that reveals his true underlying emotions.
“Lech misses you, Tomas. He’s worried about you.”
There is a very quick, very subtle shift of Tomas’s eyes to my right, toward Joan, before he is back at me, staring unblinkingly. “I have nothing to say,” he says, straightening in his seat.
Something in my brain starts niggling at me, a clue, something that I’m missing here. And then I think I have it figured out. I reach into my pants pocket, take out a pack of gum I have in there, and remove a piece. I turn to offer it to Joan, and as she looks over at me, I let it drop to the floor.
“Oh, crap. Sorry,” I say as she bends down to pick up the piece of gum. I turn and look at Tomas, nodding my head toward Joan and then giving him a worried, questioning look. His nod is subtle but unmistakable. I give a quick nod back, and by the time Joan has retrieved the gum, straightened up, and handed it back to me with a polite, “No thank you,” I am looking at her, an apologetic smile on my face. She hands me the gum with a tolerant smile and immediately turns her attention back to Tomas.
I unwrap the piece of gum and fold it into my mouth. After chewing for a few seconds, I look at Joan and sigh. “It doesn’t seem like I’m getting anywhere, so I suppose I’m done here. Thanks for letting me talk to him.”
“No problem,” Joan says. She hollers, “Guard!” so loudly that it startles me. I’m amazed that much noise can come out of such a little body.
The guard reenters the room.
“We’re done,” Joan says.
Tomas pushes himself out of his chair and shuffles toward the door. But just before he turns away, I catch his eye. Joan has her back to us, already heading for our door. Tomas looks at me, and for a split second his expression is a pleading one. It’s there and gone so fast that later I’d wonder if I imagined it.
I follow Joan back out to the front reception area.
“That went about how I expected it would,” Joan says. “Sorry if you’ve wasted your time.”
“It wasn’t a waste at all,” I say, and Joan looks surprised. “Talking with him today has convinced me that the man is guilty. Clearly we’ve been barking up the wrong tree.”
Joan smiles. “That’s how it goes sometimes. You work in this business long enough and you learn not to trust or believe anyone.”
“Well, thanks for giving me the chance all the same,” I say.
We part ways, and I head back out to my car, stopping along the way to retrieve my bra. As soon as I’m inside my car, I call Hurley.
“I’m more convinced than ever that Tomas was framed,” I tell him. I then reiterate every detail of my visit, what was said, what wasn’t said, and the body-language cues I observed.
Hurley is less than impressed. “It sounds like you’re interpreting things the way you want them to be,” he says.
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d been there,” I argue. “I’d agree with you if not for the exchange Tomas and I shared when I dropped the gum on the floor.”
“Also consider the possibility that Tomas Wyzinski is guilty as hell and manipulating you to his advantage.”
I start to give him a quick and adamant denial, but stop myself. Was I being as open-minded as I should? Could Hurley be right
? But then I flash back to the subtle but distinct gestures and expressions Tomas and I exchanged, and I feel certain I’ve read it right.
“You’re going to have to trust me on this one, Hurley,” I say. “What’s more, I think his lawyer, and perhaps her firm, is in cahoots with whoever’s pulling the strings. Tomas is afraid of her. I think we need to do something with Lech, take him into some sort of protective custody.”
Hurley sighs.
“And maybe not tell anyone about it,” I add. “It might be interesting to see what happens if Tomas thinks his brother has suddenly disappeared.”
“That’s kind of mean if you’re right about him,” Hurley says.
“Yeah, I suppose it is,” I say. “But in this case, I think the end may well justify the mean.”
“Means,” Hurley corrects.
“Nope, I said what I meant.” And with that I disconnect the call.
CHAPTER 29
By the time I get back to town, it’s closing in on four o’clock. I check in at the office and chat with Otto, telling him about my visit with Tomas. I’m almost done when my phone rings, and I see it’s Emily calling.
“What’s up, Buttercup?” I say, answering the call.
“I wondered if you will have time to take me to Desi’s party,” Emily says. “I was going to ride my bike, but it has a flat tire.”
“Um, sure,” I tell her. “One of us will be by to pick you up.”
“Thanks!” With that she hangs up. Short and to the point.
“We need to get that girl some wheels sooner rather than later,” I tell Otto, shaking my head. “Some days I feel like I have a second job as a chauffeur.”
Otto heads home, and I start to do the same, but not before grabbing a donut from the pastry box I’d moved to Hal’s desk earlier this morning. I scarf it down as I exit the building into the parking garage, and I’m sucking in the last bit of it when a gust of wind blows through the garage. I’m reveling in sweet, cream-cheesy goodness when I realize I’ve caught a hair with my last bite. I grab it with my fingers and pull it free of the pastry mash in my mouth, and it comes out covered with half-chewed pastry. I try to flick it away, but it sticks to my fingers. So I walk over to the concrete column next to my car and scrape the hair off onto it. And then I stand there staring at it. My mind starts whirling, thinking, sorting, and I feel a trill of excitement.
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