She all but rolled her eyes. "His one virtue."
Angry now, Will said, "What do you want me to say? I didn't like him? Well, I didn't. I didn't like the way he talked about girls, I didn't like the way he'd throw everything he could get his hands on in the locker room just because Coach pulled him from the game. I didn't care that his father was beating the shit out of him. Okay? I was filled with compassion. Can you tell?"
Flatly, she said, "You're describing someone who fits the profile."
Voice savage, he said, "You know what? I knew a bunch of other losers, too. Bigger losers than Gavin Husby. Did you make sure you got notes about all of them? Is every guy at the high school who couldn't get a date with Nita Voss suspect?"
Trina seemed not to have heard. "Will, did Gavin know you didn't like him?"
As if a fist had slammed into his gut, the air in his lungs rushed out.
"You mean," he said, low and harsh, "does he have a good reason to hate me?"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GAVIN?
Instinctively, Will shook his head. At the same time, he said, "Yeah. I stepped in a few times when he threw temper tantrums. And I told him to stuff it when he went off on what sluts some of the girls we knew were. Sure. He knew how I felt about him." His mouth twisted. "But we all made fun of Dirk Whittaker for being stupid, too. Jimmy McCartin knew I could hardly be bothered to remember his name. The truth is, I thought I was a good guy, but I know damn well I thought of myself as superior, and I doubt I hid it."
"Did you know," Trina said reflectively, "the crowd in the hall would literally part when you walked down it?"
He stared at her.
"You didn't?" She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. The point is, of course you had a big head! I mean, you were the quarterback, the student body president, the Homecoming King! Some students probably were jealous. But hate…that's a lot stronger."
"Doesn't arrogance automatically predispose you to being insensitive to other people's feelings?"
"Maybe." She waggled her hands. "But high school kids are not famous for thinking about other people."
A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. "You've got me there." He sighed and leaned back. "So, what are we looking for here?"
"Someone you really humiliated or bested in some way. The trouble is, you might not even have noticed."
He looked at the open yearbook with its rows of pictures. "It's hopeless."
"No. Gavin bears a closer look. You are describing someone with the kind of problems and personality that fit the profile."
Grasping for an out, Will said, "It sounds like he's been really successful as a car salesman."
"But how does telling people he's a car salesman sound compared to attorney and assistant D.A.? It doesn't help that two classmates were members of the U.S. ski team and Travis is becoming a widely known artist."
"Gavin probably makes more money than I do!"
"Does he know that?"
Will was silent.
"Some of these others sound like possibilities, too." She glanced at her notes. "Billy Landon, Jimmy McCartin." She named a couple of others. "Another thing for you to consider—frequently serial killers were bed wetters, set fires when they were young or tortured animals."
Repulsed, he said, "I wouldn't know about the bed-wetting. I didn't move here until I was fourteen."
"Okay."
"Fires…Yeah, there was a string of small ones at the high school. In teachers' wastepaper baskets. That kind of thing. Ended with one in shop that did some major damage." He swore at a memory. "My bicycle was set on fire when I was sixteen. This guy was after any Patton, and he did a bunch of stuff. Staged a couple of scenes to let us know he knew everything about us. We assumed he was the one to torch my bike, but I don't remember if he ever admitted specifically to it."
"Interesting."
"I don't know of tortured animals. Aren't there always some cases?"
"Yes, but if we could connect any to one of these guys when they were younger…" She made more notes, then lifted her head. "We've still got a ways to go in the yearbook. Let's finish."
He ran a hand over his face. "Yeah. Sure."
He talked until they'd turned the last page and he was hoarse. Closing the yearbook and pushing it toward Trina, Will wondered if he could ever stand to look at it again.
"Now what?" he asked. "Are you going to talk to them?"
"I'm going to try to do some fact checking first. I mean, obviously we have to find out whether they were in Elk Springs when Gillian was murdered. And, of course, whether they're here now. I might be able to look at their work history. Police record, of course. People with explosive tempers are likely to pop up with a few domestic disturbance calls, maybe a restraining order." She shook her head. "You know all this. Why am I telling you?"
"Because I asked. I'm finding that it's different, being on this side of the fence. Now I know why the victims' families and friends ask for so much reassurance."
She didn't, thank God, mouth the kind of platitudes he'd opened himself to. Maybe you'll be better at your job. More compassionate. Maybe.
"We'll try to narrow down where some of these guys were on the nights in question. Some aren't people we considered before. Like I said, I don't remember Jimmy McCartin or Billy Landon or several of these others. We had no reason to question them regarding either murder."
"And if you find they were all in Elk Springs at the right times, you won't be any further ahead than you were."
"Not unless something interesting pops up on their records."
Gavin. Yeah, Will could picture him beating his girlfriend or becoming enraged after a few too many drinks some night. Jimmy. Heck, he couldn't even picture Jimmy without that big grin on his face. Which didn't mean he wasn't brewing a real sick cocktail of anger behind that smile.
Wanting to think about anything else, Will asked, "Do you want more coffee? Wine?"
She made getting-up moves. "I should probably go."
He didn't think, just said, "Don't."
Her lips parted. "What?"
"I'd rather not be alone right now." He hunched his shoulders uneasily. "If you'd stay for a while, just to talk, I'd be grateful."
She looked spooked, but after a momentary hesitation nodded. "I…sure. For a bit. Um. In that case, I'd love some more coffee."
He pushed back from the table. "Let's go in the living room. It's more comfortable."
Trina chose the easy chair, kicking off her shoes and tucking one foot under her as she sat. She accepted the fresh cup of coffee from him and smiled uncertainly. He sat on the couch and they looked at each other.
Sick of thinking about himself—Well, isn't that a change! an inner voice mocked—and intensely curious about a woman who'd chosen a path so different from her family's, Will nodded at her. "Tell me about you in high school. Were you a good student? Did you do sports? Have a boyfriend?"
"There's about two minutes of conversation. The crowds did not part when I walked down the hall."
"Can we forget about me?" he asked, more harshly than he'd intended.
Her eyebrows rose. After a moment, Trina bit her lip. "I sound pathetically jealous, don't I? And honestly, I'm not. I wasn't," she corrected herself. "I never particularly cared if I was popular. I had a couple of good friends, I had a date to the prom—"
"Who?" he interrupted.
Her eyes widened, then shied from his. "A guy named Mark. Mark Dwyer. He and I went together for a while my senior year."
"What happened to him?"
"He went to Portland State and then off to some school in the midwest to become a chiropractor. I have no idea after that."
Will nodded.
"I played soccer in high school, but I wasn't good enough to play in college, except intramural. I did debate and Knowledge Bowl."
"Hey!" A pleased smile spread on his face. "So did I. Neufelt was one of my favorite teachers."
"Mine, too. I loved going to tournaments."
<
br /> Sipping coffee, they talked about good times and mutual acquaintances. Teachers, grades, college, first job interviews, living alone. He liked listening to her and watching her face, far more expressive than he'd realized. He'd been irritated by what he thought of as her cop mode—the poker-faced stare, the tiniest curl of her lips that masterfully expressed disdain. What he hadn't realized was that he had to look closely to catch the amusement that narrowed her eyes, the quick dilation of pupils when she was startled, the faint wash of color in her cheeks when she was embarrassed. When she laughed, a dimple quivered in one cheek, giving her a puckish look. And her laugh—he really, really enjoyed inciting it, because it was so unexpected. She giggled rather than guffawed. The merry ripple of amusement lightened his mood every time he heard it.
She was the one to glance at her watch and start. "Oh, no! It's one o'clock! How did that happen?"
He checked his own, equally surprised. "Wow. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you out all night."
Feeling for her shoes, Trina said, "No, it's okay. I'm one of those people who does fine on six hours of sleep."
"You'll be lucky to get that now." He fetched her parka from the closet and said, "I'll walk you down."
A crinkle between her dark arch of brows made her look vaguely puzzled. Apparently she wasn't used to being treated like a girl. "You don't have to do that."
"I want to."
The whites of her eyes showed. "Oh."
Will didn't bother with his coat; he wouldn't be outside that long. She fetched the yearbook and her spiral notebook from the table and dug keys from her pocket. He followed her out onto the cold landing and down the stairs, where each footstep thudded hollowly. A blue Subaru was in a slot marked for visitors not far from his garage. She hit the remote control and the lights flashed. After opening the door, she hesitated and then turned to face him, waiting with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.
"Thank you for dinner, Will. I think I'll still vote for the spaghetti as number one, but the ginger beef was great, too."
She was six or eight inches shorter than he was, which meant she had to tip her head back to look up at him.
"Any time," he heard himself say. "I really appreciate you staying tonight. The walls were closing in."
"I know the feeling."
"I guessed you did. Maybe that's why I like you." Without giving himself time for a second thought, he bent and brushed her cheek with his lips. It was silky-smooth and cushiony, her startled breath warm, her scent surprisingly exotic for a hometown girl. To avoid temptation, he stepped back. "Good-night."
She gaped, then blushed. "Um. Sure. I'll, uh, let you know if we turn anything up." She leaped into her car and slammed the door. It was a second before the engine roared to life and the headlights came on, making him wonder if she'd had to fumble with the keys.
He lifted a hand and went back to the foot of the stairwell, watching as she backed out and drove away.
What, he wondered, seeing her brake lights flicker, would she have done if he'd turned his head just a little and transferred that kiss to her mouth?
He was moving to go up the stairs when he heard a second engine roar to life in the next row over and saw red taillights before this vehicle turned the same direction Trina had. He caught only a glimpse when it reached the street—he thought it was black, a big pickup with a canopy, maybe, or a huge SUV.
Funny, he thought, frowning after it, that he hadn't heard anyone come out of an apartment or the slam of the driver's side door when someone got in. It was as if the driver had been sitting there, waiting for her to leave.
Hair on the back of his neck stirred. Had someone been watching when he kissed Trina good-night?
* * *
"BETH." Will accepted a hug from his stepmother, then went down the hall of his father's house to poke his head in the media room to say hi to Lauren and Steph. Lauren was playing a computer game, Steph reading The Invisible Man.
"AP English?" he guessed.
She groaned.
Laughing, he went to the kitchen. His dad was making dinner tonight, as he often did. Jack Murray had been a bachelor until he was thirty-seven, plenty long to have become accustomed to doing the cooking.
Will paused a few steps into the kitchen, feeling something at the sight of his father that he hadn't in a long time. His heart seemed to lighten and then swell. He'd wanted a father so bad, and then he'd gotten a prize one.
Jack had never once argued that Will couldn't be his son—how could he, when they looked so much alike? After his immediate shock, he'd taken his role seriously. Will had gotten to know his grandparents and the rest of the family on his father's side. Jack had introduced him to camping and fishing. He'd become Will's biggest fan, rarely missing a game.
Will could still feel the shadow of terror from that time his father had violated every rule and offered himself up as a hostage in place of a sixteen-year-old girl. Ben Shea had called Will over at Willamette to let him know what was happening. He'd been able to turn on the television and watch his father walk across the street, no hesitation, face so serious and disappear inside the garage of the house belonging to a deputy he'd just fired for drinking on the job. The door had rolled shut behind him, swallowing him. A few minutes later, the front door opened and the girl fell outside onto the porch, then picked herself up and ran, face wet with tears. SWAT team members swept her up and carried her back behind the police line to reunite with her parents. Will had been able to do nothing but wait, sick with fear, thinking, I haven't had him long enough. Please God don't take him. Please God. Newscasters kept chattering away and Will sat frozen on the old battered couch in his fraternity living room, staring at the TV, waiting, waiting, desperate to know what was happening behind the closed blinds of the ordinary house on which the cameras were trained. And then the distant crack of gunshots and consternation among watching police officers, the excited leap of the newscaster's voice. First the deputy's wife, also held hostage, had walked out the front door, splattered with so much blood Will felt sick. Cops wrapped her in blankets and led her away while the camera focused on the open front door and the newscaster kept saying, "It's not clear yet what has happened inside the house. All we know is that gunshots were fired." And then his dad walked out, bloody, too, looking like he hurt, but lifting a hand toward the cameras to say, I'm fine.
Having parents in law enforcement, Will had always known they sometimes risked their lives, but seeing it play out on television was different.
Standing here now, Will thought, I came closer to losing him when I told him he'd as good as murdered Gilly as I did that day, when he offered himself up to die in someone else's place.
"Will?" His father turned from the stove. He wore jeans as old as Will's, a sweater and a white apron.
Shutting out the dark reflections that were his constant companion these days, Will nodded at the apron. "Cute."
"Didn't want to ruin the sweater Beth bought me for Christmas." The craggy, near-homely face Will saw in the mirror every morning gained character with the years, it appeared. His dad had acquired ruts and grooves that deepened with anger or worry or laughter. He was smiling now, but with a reserve that gave Will an ache under his breastbone.
He deserved that reserve.
"What are we having?" he asked, straddling a stool.
"Nothing fancy. London broil and new potatoes."
"Sounds good. Thanks for inviting me."
His father checked the potatoes and turned on the burner under another pan. "How are you settling in at work?"
They talked like that for a while, nothing special. They could have been two people getting to know each other. Or else it was the natural way of catching up. Will hardly knew anymore. He always felt this barrier now, a wall of reserve that had bothered him even when he was nursing anger. It had been childish, he realized now. Parents were supposed to take any amount of acrimony from their offspring and remain open to more, apparently.
Well
, that might be true when offspring was a thwarted five-year-old or a resentful sixteen-year-old, but he'd been a man when he said what he did, not a child even if he'd acted like one.
Jack called the family for dinner. Three or four conversations were going on before they even sat down. Stephanie moaned about having to wait until April to hear which colleges had accepted her. Lauren admitted to a new boyfriend, which from the narrowing of Jack's eyes didn't seem to delight him. Will was amused but found himself bristling as well at the idea of some punk pressing his little sister for sex.
"How old is he?" Jack asked.
"Noah is a junior," she said blithely. "He has his own car. How cool is that? You know how much I hate the school bus…"
"You're not getting in the car with a kid who just got his license," her stepfather said. "Especially not with the roads still icy."
"He's a good driver!"
"For a sixteen-year-old? Don't care," Jack said.
"Mo-om!" she wailed.
"Nope," her mother said placidly. "You're not going anywhere with any new drivers. You know the rules."
"Maybe I should stop by the high school and check this guy out," Will said.
"You wouldn't!" Seeing the laughter in his eyes, she kicked him under the table. "Noah is nice! You guys all just think I shouldn't date until I'm thirty!"
Pushing his plate back, Jack said easily, "Works for me."
She huffed in indignation, but had too much to say to let the conversation move on without her. "Coffee?" Beth suggested when their plates were clean and nobody was reaching for thirds.
Stephanie excused herself to go back to her homework and Lauren said, with a pointed sniff, "I have phone calls to make," and left the table, too.
Will thanked Beth when she put a mug in front of him, then, scarcely aware when she left the room, looked at his father. "You knew my grandfather. Was he as bad as Mom says he was?"
Jack raised his brows at the question, but answered. "Oh, yeah. He was a son of a bitch."
"But you worked for him."
"I knew he was a hard-ass. He beat the crap out of me when he caught me with your mother. He was angry, but also icy cold. Seriously scary." Jack shook his head. "But I didn't know how malevolent he could be until years later. You remember that poor bastard Jim Cronin?"
Dead Wrong Page 19