I blotted my face dry and blew my nose, then lifted Elliott into my arms.
He laid his head on my shoulder. “I so tired, Mama.”
“I know you are, honey. Close your eyes and go to sleep.”
We’d just made it back to the bench when a harried-looking man walked up to us. Blond hair, tall, midforties. He wore dress slacks and a white button-down shirt that might have been crisp this morning but was now crisscrossed with wrinkles. His tie was loose and he made a halfhearted attempt to tighten it when he spotted us.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” he said as he opened the door to the office and motioned us inside. “There were a few things I had to take care of first. Please sit down. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thank you,” I said. “But do you have a plastic bag?”
He rummaged around in the drawers of his desk and produced a wrinkled Walmart bag. I shoved Elliott’s damp pajamas inside, knotted the bag, and tucked it inside my purse with the nebulizer and medicine. There was barely room, and the sides bulged.
“My name is Jack Quick. I’m the detective assigned to this case. I’m very sorry for your loss. I’ll make sure someone from our victims’ advocates program reaches out to you. They can help answer any questions you might have throughout this process.”
Ever since he was a baby Elliott had fallen asleep when I stroked his hair, so I ran my fingers through it and listened to his contented sigh as he snuggled closer, his eyes already half-closed.
“The preliminary report shows that there was no forced entry into the apartment, which means the perpetrator may not have been a stranger. It doesn’t mean he or she wasn’t, though. There are many ways to gain entry into someone’s home, especially if they’re caught off guard. I need the name of anyone you think might have been capable of such a crime.”
“Everyone loved my grandmother. I can’t think of anyone who would want to harm her.”
“What about you? Is there someone out there who might wish you harm? Maybe they thought you’d be home but confronted your grandmother instead?”
It was true that I didn’t know of a single person who would ever want to harm my grandmother, but I knew one person who was capable of just about anything if it came between him and his next fix. “My ex-husband is a drug addict.”
“What’s his name,” Jack asked, pulling a notebook from his pocket.
“Scott DiStefano.”
“What’s he addicted to?”
“Meth.” Though I had no reason to be, I always felt ashamed when asked about Scott’s drug use. Thankfully, Detective Quick spared me the look that said How did a nice, wholesome girl like you get messed up with a meth head?
“When’s the last time you spoke to your ex-husband?”
“About six months ago. When our divorce became final.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“Yes.” I gave Detective Quick the last known address I had for Scott, which I’d been told was a house in the desert that he shared with several men of equally dubious character. “I don’t know if he’s still there.”
“Why do you think your ex-husband would want to hurt your grandmother?”
“I don’t know that he would. They got along fine. My grandmother raised me, and Scott always treated her well and with respect. But that was before he stopped caring about anything other than drugs.”
“Did your grandmother have anything of value?”
“Not that I know of. She was a bit old-school when it came to her finances. She never really talked about that sort of thing.”
I’d never pressed her in that regard, not even when I got older and began managing my own finances. My parents had left behind an adequate life-insurance policy, and I had also received a monthly social security payment until I reached the age of eighteen. My grandmother had managed this money, and she’d done a good enough job that I never wanted for anything. There had been enough for clothes and dance lessons and school trips. Even a spring break vacation to Mexico with Pam’s family during our senior year of high school. My college tuition had been paid for in full, which pleased my grandmother immensely. She told me I had my whole life to work and that I should concentrate on studying hard and earning my degree.
“Will you talk to my ex-husband?” I asked.
Detective Quick nodded. “Absolutely. We’ll bring him in. Get a statement.”
“Okay.”
“Is there anything else I should know about? Strange phone calls. Threats?”
“No, nothing.”
“How communicative is your son? He wouldn’t tell us anything, and we didn’t push. He might have heard something but blocked it out. Or he may not want to talk about it at all because it was a stressful situation. Don’t force it, but if he opens up to you, see if you can draw a little more out of him.”
“I will.”
“We hope to have you back in your apartment by tomorrow afternoon.”
“I don’t want to go back there.” There was no way we could stay in that apartment. I’d never feel safe again.
“That’s understandable,” he said. “Under the circumstances, it might be a good idea to find a new place to live.”
“Do you think we’re in danger?”
“It’s hard to say at this point,” he said. “The crime might have been completely random, but it’s always a good idea to err on the side of caution.”
“How did… how did she die?”
“We won’t know until the autopsy has been completed, but it looks like blunt-force head trauma.”
“Someone hit her?” I asked. The thought was absolutely horrifying to me.
“She was found on the floor near a coffee table. She might have been shoved and then hit her head on it when she fell. It wouldn’t take much if she landed hard, especially at her age. I assure you we’ll do everything we can to find out who did this.”
Elliott was snoring softly. I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to escape the depressing confines of the small office.
“Can we go now?”
He gave me a sympathetic smile. “Of course. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”
“I have a friend I can call.” I dug my phone out of my purse, trying my best not to wake up Elliott.
“I’ll give you some privacy.” He plucked a business card from a plastic holder on his desk. “If you think of anything else or if your son mentions something, no matter how inconsequential you think it is, give me a call.”
“Okay. I will.”
After he left the room I took a deep breath and called Pam. I tried to hold it together as I told her what had happened and where I was calling from, but I broke down and started crying again. It was hard to believe she could even understand me.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Shane and I will leave right now. Just sit tight.”
I hung up and once again gathered Elliott in my arms and found another bench to wait on, this one located near the entrance of the police station. It was fully dark by then, but I could see the parking lot through the glass doors. Feeling miserable, I shivered, wishing someone would wrap me up in a comforter and hold me tight. My eyes stung, so I leaned my head back against the wall and closed them.
As I sat there waiting for Pam and Shane, I thought about my grandmother. Detective Quick hadn’t said whether her death had been fast or slow, and I hadn’t asked. I held tightly to the hope that it was quick, because knowing that the woman who raised me had suffered for any length of time before she died would have been more than I could take. The fact that my son had been spared would forever be the great miracle of my life.
What I didn’t know then was that another miracle would occur, but it would come much, much later.
CHAPTER 5
BROOKS
The crime scene was already bustling with activity. When I arrived, the TV stations were setting up lights and preparing to go live with a breaking-news update. Policemen milled about, keeping everyone behind th
e barricades. Unfortunately, it looked like most of the key witnesses had already been transported to the police station for questioning or to give a statement, and many of the residents were being allowed back into the building, which didn’t leave me much to work with. I had the additional frustration of not having any contacts on the police force. I’d spent years building relationships with patrolmen and detectives in San Francisco—people I could go to directly for information—but here I knew no one.
I spotted two elderly women standing apart from everyone else, lost in their own conversation. One of them was patting the other on the back. I might not learn anything crucial, but I could get enough to inject a little color into the story that would run with my byline tomorrow morning. They stopped talking when I approached them.
“Please excuse me for interrupting,” I said. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
“Are you with the police department?” one of the women asked.
“I’m a reporter with the Desert News. Did you know the victim?”
The woman who seemed less upset answered me. “Pauline was our friend. She was one of the nicest ladies you could ever hope to meet,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
I pulled out my notebook and pen. “Pauline…”
“Thorpe. With an e. I’m Karen Rose.” She motioned to the other woman. “This is Dixie Buchanan.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Do you know how old Pauline was?”
“Eighty-four. We just celebrated her birthday last month. I remember because we play bridge with Pauline every week, and one of the women in our group brought a pie.”
“Pecan,” Dixie added. “Because pecan was Pauline’s favorite.”
“What can you tell me about Pauline? Were you close? Did you know her well?”
“We weren’t as close to Pauline as Margaret was,” Karen said.
“Who’s Margaret?” I asked.
“She lives across the hall from Pauline. She was the one who called the police. They took her to the station,” Dixie said, as if a trip down to police headquarters was an enviable outing.
“What’s Margaret’s last name?”
“Parker.”
I jotted it down in my notebook. “Tell me about playing bridge with Pauline.”
“She always played fair, and she never showed up without a baked good,” said Karen. “Not something she picked up at the supermarket, either. Homemade.”
“And if Daisy was working—she’s a nurse—Pauline would bring Elliott with her. He’d draw us pictures while we played,” Dixie said. “I have all mine taped to my fridge.”
“Who are Daisy and Elliott?” I asked.
“Daisy is Pauline’s granddaughter and Elliott is Daisy’s son. Pauline raised Daisy. Brought that girl up right, too. Oh, how Pauline loved that little boy. He was in the apartment with her! If something had happened to that precious child…” Dixie burst into tears and produced a crumpled tissue from inside the sleeve of her cardigan, like a magician pulling a scarf out of a hat. She dabbed at her eyes and Karen comforted her, saying, “There, there.”
A child was in the apartment at the time of the murder? Now that was newsworthy.
“Are you sure Elliott was there?” I asked.
“I saw them bring him out and put him in the ambulance,” Dixie said.
“Daisy and Elliott live with Pauline,” Karen said. “They moved in after Daisy and Scott got divorced. Pauline watches Elliott while Daisy’s at work.”
I wrote it all down in my notebook: Daisy—nurse, granddaughter, single mother—lives with Pauline. Elliott— great-grandson. “What are their ages?”
Dixie had completely lost the battle with her tears, and her sniffles had morphed into giant honking sobs.
Karen took over as official spokesperson for the duo. “Daisy is thirty. I remember because Pauline mentioned it was a milestone birthday. Elliott recently turned three.”
I added the information to my notes. “What do you want people to know about Pauline?”
“I want them to know how kind she was,” Karen said. “How helpful. She wouldn’t turn her back on anyone, even if they didn’t deserve her help. And I think she’d want people to remember how much she loved Daisy and that little boy.” Karen’s voice had gotten softer and her lip began to quiver. It wouldn’t be long before she joined Dixie in an emotional meltdown, and I could only hope her cardigan came equipped with its own supply of tissues.
I had what I needed, for now at least. “Thank you, ladies. You’ve been very helpful. Please accept my sincere condolences.”
A representative from the police department gave a short statement to the crowd, naming the deceased as Pauline Thorpe, which meant that the next of kin had been notified and I could include the name of the victim in my story. I jotted down the other confirmed details in my notebook: eighty-four years old, cause of death to be determined. I had enough for a brief story, which was all Paul would be expecting. A glance at my watch told me that I still had a few hours before my deadline.
Plenty of time to drop by the police station to see if I could get someone to talk.
CHAPTER 6
BROOKS
When I’d applied for the job at the Desert News, I’d done some research and learned that the Fenton Police Department serviced twenty square miles and employed approximately nine officers. Violent crime was up almost twenty-five percent. Assault was the most common offense, followed closely by robbery and rape. There had only been one homicide so far that year; Pauline Thorpe was the second.
I arrived at the police department around nine o’clock, long after normal business hours. I didn’t expect to get far and my hunch was correct.
“Brooks McClain, Desert News,” I said to the uniformed officer manning the front desk. I reached into my pocket for a business card and then remembered I didn’t have any yet.
Great.
“I’d like to speak to Jack Quick.” It was imperative that I identify a contact and start building a relationship as soon as possible. A quick online search had told me a detective named Jack Quick should be at the top of my list. He would have returned to the station by now to begin interviewing witnesses or anyone who might have information about the crime.
The desk sergeant wrote down my name. “Can’t promise anything, but I’ll let him know you’re waiting.”
“Thanks.”
I was walking toward a bench to wait for Detective Quick when I spotted her. She was holding a child on her lap, and I could see the top of his blond head poking out of the comforter he was wrapped in.
“Daisy and Elliott live with Pauline… They moved in after Daisy and Scott got divorced.”
Her head was resting on the wall behind her, and her eyes were closed. The child appeared to be sleeping.
“Excuse me,” I said, speaking softly so I wouldn’t startle them. She opened her eyes and looked at me. She was wearing short-sleeved yellow scrubs and goose bumps dotted her slim arms. If I hadn’t already been told she was thirty, I would have guessed she was younger. There was nothing flashy about her, no heavy makeup, no complicated hairstyle. Her face was lightly tanned, as if she spent a considerable amount of time outdoors, and her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. A quintessential California girl. Despite her tearstained cheeks and swollen, red-rimmed eyes, it was hard not to notice that she was extremely pretty.
“I’m sorry to bother you. Are you Daisy DiStefano?”
She nodded.
“My name is Brooks McClain. I’m a reporter with the Desert News. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes about your grandmother.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding a little unsure.
“I’m very sorry for your loss. I had the chance to meet a few of your grandmother’s friends tonight, and they spoke very highly of her. I’ll be mentioning some of the things they said about her in my story. It would be great if I could include a picture. Do you have one I could use?”
She looked daze
d, and it took her a moment to answer. “Yes.” Taking one hand off the comforter, she dug her phone out of her purse and scrolled through it. “I don’t have many of her alone, but this is a good one. It’s recent.” She showed me a picture of an elderly woman wearing a blue dress and holding a little boy with blond hair. They were both laughing. “Could you crop it so that it’s just her?”
“Of course.”
“Where should I send it?”
“You can text it to me.” I gave her the number and she keyed it in.
“Do you need a ride,” I asked. “Or I could call you a cab if you’d prefer.”
“My friend and her husband are on their way.”
“I’d like to talk with you again in a day or two, when things have calmed down a little and you’re back in your apartment. Would that be okay?”
“Sure.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes again.
I took a seat on the bench farthest away from Daisy and Elliott. A few minutes later a man and woman walked through the door. The man lifted the sleeping child into his arms and the woman embraced Daisy and rubbed her back.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
Daisy started to cry and her friend grabbed the car seat that was sitting on the bench and led her by the hand through the door, down a short sidewalk, and to the back door of an SUV, which they’d parked in front of the building. After they pulled away, I opened my laptop and began writing about Pauline Thorpe’s murder. I finished quickly but didn’t send the story, hoping I might still get something from Jack Quick that I could add. An hour later, my back aching from sitting on the concrete bench, I’d all but decided to go ahead and file the story. But then I heard footsteps approaching and noticed a man walking toward me at a face pace. I could spot the wrinkled shirt and loosened tie of a detective from a mile away, so I stood.
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