by Terry Odell
Randy looked up, but at a point above Laughlin’s head. “Yes, sir.”
The chief gave him a brusque nod and left.
Randy gathered his belongings. Chief had said he was on vacation, but he didn’t say where he had to take it. He went back to the courthouse in time to watch Chris appear before the judge. When he entered the courtroom, there were few empty seats. Pine Hills didn’t see this kind of crime often. A cluster of his colleagues already sat on the spectators’ benches. He started to join them, but he found he couldn’t deal with the curious expressions he read in their faces. Instead, he gave a polite nod and found a place to stand at the rear of the room near the door.
Chris, in his orange jumpsuit, stood beside his attorney, handcuffed, his head bowed. Randy listened with numbed detachment as the judge read the charges. His fury was gone. The lawyers were in control now. The District Attorney listed all the ways she would prove that Chris was guilty. Chris’ attorney opened his mouth in protest.
“Your honor, my client is an upstanding member of this community with no prior record. I see no reason not to release him on his own recognizance.”
The judge glanced at the sheets of paper before him. “I seem to be looking at an awful lot of reasons, Mr. Gordon.”
“But your honor, there are explanations for all those misunderstandings.”
“Save them for the trial. I’m sure you know the procedures.”
The gavel slammed, the judge said, “Bail set at two million dollars.” Randy watched Chris being led out of the courtroom in defeat. Instead of elation, Randy felt completely drained. All he wanted to do was to get out of there.
Avoiding his colleagues, he worked his way out of the building and drove home.
He went straight for the music room and lost himself in the complexities of Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu. His tensions eased, he found himself playing the love songs and ballads people had requested during his nights playing in lounges during his college years. Each one reminded him of Sarah. He played “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and he was sitting in the dark with her again.
He stretched. He’d go for a run, burn off some of the nerves. But first, he retrieved a dust-covered box from the top shelf of the closet. Inside, he found the photographs of his grandmother, hidden away after she died, when the memories were too painful. He placed his favorites, a black and white picture of her as a young woman and a more recent portrait taken a few years before her death, beside the rest of the family pictures on the piano. He ran his fingers over her smile and touched the image of her brooch. “I missed you, Gram.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sarah awoke to bright sunlight and the smell of coffee. She lay in bed, muddle-headed and tried to get her bearings. Her own bed. She groaned past a thick tongue and squinted at the clock. Quarter to eleven. She raised herself to her elbows, and the room spun for a moment.
Memories of heart-pounding nightmares, of Maggie making her take a Valium, rushed back. She staggered to the bathroom and let the hot steam of a shower clear her head and ease her aching muscles. The bruise on her cheek had faded to a pale yellow and purple, and the swelling on her lip was barely noticeable. A little makeup and she’d be presentable.
On the kitchen counter, she found a basket of fruit and a bag of bagels, along with a note and a set of car keys.
Hope you got enough sleep. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll be taking care of your shop. I took the bus—you can use my car if you feel up to going in. Love, Maggie.
Up to going in? Of course she was. She knew once she was at work, everything would be normal. Still, she lingered a little longer than she needed to over a bagel and coffee.
She’d hurt Randy yesterday, but the unfamiliar sensation at his touch had frightened her. Not the revulsion she had felt with Chris, but not the tingle she expected. Because she couldn’t express her own feelings—not even to herself, much less to him—she’d sent him away. She told herself she’d deal with it later, chalked it up to exhaustion and emotional overload.
Sarah parked in the alley and entered the shop through the back door. The customers she’d had after the robbery were nothing compared to the bustling business she saw now. Maggie was in three places at once, smiling and bubbling. Aside from wisps of red hair that clung to her forehead, she seemed perfectly in control. Sidling her way through the milling customers, Sarah worked her coat off and put her things in her office, excited to get back to her life.
* * * * *
The next two days passed in a blur. Sarah was where she belonged, and despite Maggie’s not-so-subtle hints about support groups at the Women’s Center, she didn’t need anyone, or any drugs, to help her. A little time, that’s all she needed. During lulls in shop traffic, Sarah paced the floor, fighting to control unbidden tears and trembling fingers. She had to relax. It was over. She was in her shop. Nothing had happened.
At closing time, she’d stare at the register receipts and have no recollection of the sales. Another look confirmed that the merchandise had indeed been sold. She’d hyperventilate, afraid she was losing her mind.
Home was little better. Countless hours of Mahjongg did little to quell the nightmares. Chris and Randy kept swirling until she couldn’t tell who was who. She’d reach for Randy, but he would dissolve into Chris—or disappear—before she got close.
On Friday, after locking the shop door, she went through her closing routine on autopilot, unable to ignore the tears that fell from her cheeks onto the counter. She picked up the phone. “Maggie? Tell me about that support group again.”
Half an hour later, Maggie delivered Sarah to a cream-colored room at the back of the Women’s Center. Orange and blue plastic chairs were set in a circle, filled with women from a somber young girl barely into her teens, to a gray-haired woman with a crinkle-eyed smile. A tall redhead stood up when Sarah entered the room.
“Linda, this is Sarah. I know she’s in the right place.” Maggie squeezed Sarah’s hands. “I’ll be back for you at seven-thirty.”
“Welcome, Sarah,” Linda said. “Let me introduce you to the group.”
* * * * *
Randy spent the next few days wallowing in his own misery. Feeling like a first-class idiot, he’d even gone to Thriftway and bought a quart of Peach Blossom shampoo, only to pour it down the drain after using it once. Countless hours at the piano, endless miles of running, and still, he found no peace. Some inane sitcom blared from the television. Starsky and Hutch mewed from the floor.
“You feel like shit, too, guys? I’m sorry. I can’t seem to get it right, can I?” He picked them up and sat on the couch with them, their quiet purring resonating though his lap. “If I hadn’t been watching the damn game that night, you’d be able to jump up here on your own. Hang in there. Doc says you’ll be as good as new in a week or so.”
Would Sarah? She needed time, needed space, and he vowed to give them to her, although vowing and doing were at odds. Since Laughlin had banished him from the station until Monday, Randy picked up the single tie to Sarah he had—the report from Dobs. What the hell. He was on his own time and the case was closed.
After settling the cats in their bed, Randy grabbed his keys and headed to the Polk County Highway Patrol office.
It took him nearly an hour to match all the evidence in the boxes against the inventory list. Remembering what Dobs had told him about the road and weather conditions at the time of the accident, he wondered how much more would have been collected if it had been an easy scene. Photos showed the car balanced precariously on a tree before it slid the rest of the way down into the ravine. He whistled in appreciation of the investigators who’d braved the elements and danger to pick up bits of broken glass, candy and gum wrappers, fast food drink cups and a collection of hairs and fibers. According to the report, they’d collected about fifty fingerprints, none of which showed up in AFIS. When Arbaugh had decreed it a suicide, nothing else had been processed.
He stared at the evidence, stared at the photos
, and stared at the reports until his eyes burned, but nothing popped. Nothing he could take to Oregon Trust to reverse the verdict. But something grabbed him and wouldn’t let go. He went to find the property room officer.
After following protocol, which seemed to stop short of a pint of blood and a promise to relinquish his firstborn, Randy hefted the box to his truck. Maybe it would make more sense in the morning.
It didn’t.
By Monday, Randy was more than relieved to be back at work. He signed the box back into evidence and verified that the chain of custody hadn’t been broken. “Hang onto this. I keep getting the feeling I’m missing something.”
Of course he was. Sarah.
Laughlin had been understanding, but Randy knew the chief would be watching. He tried to lose himself in his job. Why, when he needed to work, had the citizens of Pine Hills become so law-abiding? He dug through cold case files, even closed a couple.
After two weeks, he stopped eating at Sadie’s for most of his meal breaks. After three, his heart no longer raced in anticipation when the phone rang. That Special Something seemed to be filled with customers whenever he passed by, and he felt glad for Sarah.
The emptiness inside wasn’t gone, but it didn’t ache so much anymore. He gave in to the urge to review the evidence from Sarah’s kidnapping. And as he reread the reports and examined what had been collected, his pulse quickened. Once again, he signed out the evidence from David’s accident. How had he missed it? Nothing conclusive, but a place to start.
Slowing down enough to follow procedure, he secured everything and went to find Connor. “How fast can you get a DNA analysis on this?” he asked almost before he was inside the lab.
Connor looked up, wary and defensive. “On what? Why?”
“Chill. I’m together.” He handed Connor an evidence envelope. “It’s a piece of chewed gum. Found in David Tucker’s car the day he died.”
“And you need DNA because—?”
“Because I think the gum might have belonged to Christopher Westmoreland. They found the same kind of wrappers at the cabin.”
Connor looked like he was going to protest, but he backed off. “I’ll see what I can do. State lab usually takes two to three weeks. But even if you’ve got Westmoreland’s DNA, how will that help you? It won’t show when he was in the car, only that he was.”
Randy stopped. “Lord, I don’t know for sure, but I’ve got to do something. Please? Anything to convince Oregon Trust to reverse the suicide.”
“Kovak know you want this? It was his case.”
“Do it, dammit. I’ll get Kovak to sign.” He went back to his office, unable to concentrate on anything for the rest of the day.
Now that he had something to wait for, the waiting became unbearable. If his interrogation techniques had become more brusque, nobody questioned him, and he was closing cases. He immersed himself in paperwork, grabbed more than his share of the calls, and had everyone giving him a wide berth. Even Kovak.
Five days later, Connor poked his head through Randy’s office doorway.
“Got a sec?” Connor waved a file folder. “I think you might be interested in this.”
Randy set aside the report he was writing. “Sure. Come in. You get results on the Horton TA already?”
“Yes on the traffic accident. No on the Horton.”
Randy looked more closely. The glint in Connor’s eyes said he’d found something good.
“Remember Holly?” Connor said.
“Holly, as in ‘legs to her neck and hooters like cantaloupes’ if I recall your description correctly?”
Connor grinned. “That’s Holly. She’s also married and six months pregnant now, but I suppose that enhances her hooters. Anyway, she works at the state lab and she called me with some DNA test results.”
Randy’s pulse tripped. “Are you talking about my request? I thought you said two to three weeks.”
“Holly moved it to the front of the line and babysat it through the process. I guess she still has fond memories of a certain weekend in Seattle.” Connor reversed the chair beside Randy’s desk and straddled it. His expression shifted to pure scientist.
“The DNA from the gum matched Westmoreland’s. That puts him in the car. Trouble is, that won’t put a date on it. But I took the liberty of including a hair for testing, too. They’d found a couple on the body that didn’t come from Tucker and I didn’t think you’d mind. They matched the hair to the gum.”
Things clicked into place. “So he must have been in the car or at least with David the day he died. Not likely a hair would be there the next day, or the next week, assuming the guy showered and changed his shirt.”
“That’s how I read it. I don’t know if it’s enough to reverse the suicide, but I thought you might be able to convince the insurance company. Or get the Highway Patrol to look again. You’ve been very—convincing—lately.”
“You’re damn right.” Randy reached for the file folder. “Report’s in here?”
“Yes, but there’s one more thing. When they ran Westmoreland’s DNA through CODIS, it matched an unsolved case from eight years ago in New Jersey, near Rutgers.”
Randy leaned across the desk. “Tell me more.”
“A hooker, beaten. Dead. Nothing to go on, nobody talking, but the DNA from under her fingernails went into CODIS and that’s what hit when Westmoreland’s came through the system.”
Too stunned to speak, Randy sat back in his chair and tried to absorb everything.
“Umm, I guess I’ll leave you the report and get back to the Horton investigation,” Connor said.
“Yeah, right. Wait.” Randy got up and reached for Connor’s shoulder.
“Hey, you’re not going to kiss me or anything, are you?”
Randy burst into uncontrolled laughter. “Not on your life. But if you want, we can go to the Wagon Wheel, and you can have the biggest steak on the menu.”
“You’re just saying that because you know I’m a vegetarian, right?”
“Go. Thanks. Really. Let me get going on this and we’ll all celebrate. My treat.”
Connor retreated, and Randy tried to keep from running on his way to Laughlin’s office.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Even before he could see her clearly, Randy knew it was Sarah leaving the DMV office in the Municipal Building. Her walk, the tilt of her head, the way she tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. He could almost smell the peaches, even though she was still thirty feet away. She dug through her purse, and for a moment, he thought about ducking to the back entrance.
Coward.
He took a deep breath and strode down the hall toward the police department offices, burying the desire to approach her.
She had her insurance check, he knew, although he’d made the Polk County Highway Patrol into the good guys. He didn’t want her coming to him out of gratitude. Kovak had done all the follow-up on her kidnapping. The fact that Chris was now a murder suspect had been all over the papers. He’d seen her on the news after that one hit the fan. She looked composed, like she’d finally made peace with David’s death.
It had been almost two months since she’d sent him away, and he’d dealt with the pain. Or so he’d thought. Without knowing exactly why, he stopped, turned, and glanced back.
She looked up from her purse, her gaze hesitating at his face. He saw the uncertainty in her stone blue eyes, the eyes he saw in his dreams every night, and he could see her trying to find an escape route. Her face was as transparent as ever. Damn, he didn’t know if he wanted to shake her or hug her. His promise to give her space kept him from doing either. He gave her a polite nod and a quick smile. Waited.
“Hi, Randy.” She stepped toward him. Looked at his chest, not his eyes. At least she wasn’t looking any lower.
“Hi yourself. You look good.” But not happy. Shadows under her eyes, and she was still too thin. Definitely hug, not shake. He dug for control.
“Started working out.”
“Good for you.” He saw the gears spinning before she spoke again.
She shifted her purse from one shoulder to the other. “Will you call me? I’d like to talk.”
“I can spare a few minutes.” He motioned to some seats in the lobby.
“Can’t. Jennifer’s waiting.” She hurried past him toward the door. He watched her stop, look over her shoulder, and his mouth went dry.
“Call me,” she said again, extending her thumb and pinkie to her face, miming talking on a phone.
So she could tell him it was over for good? He gave her another nod and walked down the hall. Despite the big lunch he’d just finished, he felt empty inside.
* * * * *
When Randy didn’t call that night, or the next, Sarah wanted to pick up the phone, to explain, but every time she reached for it, something pulled her hand away. She had tried rehearsing the words, but her voice kept breaking. If she couldn’t speak them aloud in an empty room, how could she say them to him? It wasn’t right. She’d sent him away. She should make the first move. But was she ready?
The memories she’d blocked had come flooding back and she was dealing with them. What if he couldn’t cope with someone who spent way too much time as an emotional basket case? Her support group said give it time. Time. How long would it take? Even the money from the insurance settlement hadn’t helped. Being her own Sarah didn’t feel the way she thought it would.
When she’d bumped into Randy the other day, her first instinct had been to race up to him and bury herself in his chest. But he’d looked so distant. Did he care? Probably not, or he would have called.
Sarah sat on the edge of her bed and looked at the pile of clean laundry in the basket beside her. Somehow, she’d managed to pair all her socks without regard for color or style. She dumped them onto the floor to start over when he called.
“Is this a bad time?” His voice was guarded.