Every Time I Think of You

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  “Fuck you, Dale,” he screamed.

  He pulled into a gas station and used the browser on his phone to look up the number. He scrawled it on a napkin and filled his tank. After climbing back into his truck, he dialed the number and when the person on the other end answered, he said, “You might want to grab a pen and some paper. I have some information I think you’ll be very interested in hearing.”

  When he was done speaking, he chucked the phone in a garbage can and got the hell out of Dodge, because when this shit went down, he didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

  CHAPTER 55

  BROOKS

  There are several hoops to jump through if you want to visit someone in jail. Visits are only allowed Wednesday through Sunday, and the appointment has to be made one day in advance. Luckily, Nick had given me the heads-up in time, and my request had squeaked in under the wire. I had to arrive thirty minutes early to be searched. Cell phones, cameras, and recording devices of any kind were prohibited. I was required to dress appropriately and show a valid form of photo identification.

  I was up at six o’clock on Sunday morning, pacing the floor and drinking too much coffee. My appointment to see Daisy wasn’t until eleven thirty, and I had no idea what I was going to do with myself until then.

  Nick was meeting with the attorney he’d found for Daisy at ten. “The DA will file either murder or manslaughter charges Monday morning. I’m expecting him to file the more serious charge, so be prepared,” he said.

  Prepared.

  How did one go about preparing for something like this? How would Daisy? Though I wanted to have faith in the legal system, I couldn’t stop turning over worst-case scenarios in my mind. I’d done some research on the computer and wished I hadn’t. California had some of the toughest gun-control laws in the country, and Daisy’s attorney would have his work cut out for him.

  The padding of little feet interrupted my thoughts. I set down my coffee cup and turned around. Elliott was standing in the doorway.

  “Hey, buddy. How are you?”

  He didn’t answer. He walked over to me and when I picked him up he laid his head on my shoulder. “I is missin’ my mom again.”

  “Yeah, I miss her, too. She’ll be home soon, though.” With one hand, I pulled a carton of milk out of the refrigerator and poured some into a cup. I sat down at the kitchen table with Elliott on my lap. “I’ve got to go out for a little while later this morning. Theo told me he was going to take you fishing today. Would you like that?”

  He nodded. “I would wike that.” He might have answered in the affirmative, but I could tell by the tone of his voice that there was nothing I could offer him that would ease his pain.

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

  *

  My dad and Elliott left for the lake and I drove to the jail.

  “You’ll be separated by glass,” a guard said after I’d shown the proper identification and been patted down. “Just pick up the phone on the wall to talk. We’ll let you know when your time is up.” He pointed to a row of plastic chairs. “Wait here until we call your name.”

  The minutes crawled by as I waited for my name to be called. Daisy had now spent two nights in jail. Had she eaten anything? Could she sleep? Her body temperature ran cold and she was always reaching for a sweater or hoodie. She probably hadn’t been warm since she’d been arrested.

  Fifteen minutes later, a guard said, “Brooks McClain.”

  I followed him through a labyrinth of hallways, the stone walls painted a dull, dreary gray. He opened the door to a room with six chairs facing a wall of glass, each separated from the other by a low partition. Though she was looking down, I spotted her blond hair immediately and hurried forward to occupy the chair facing her.

  I picked up the phone. She wouldn’t look at me. Her shoulders were shaking and I knew she was crying. I’d been warned not to tap on the glass, so I waited, willing her to pick up the phone on her side. To set aside her shame and talk to me. Finally, she reached for the phone with a shaking hand and held it to her ear.

  “Look at me, Daisy Jane.”

  She lifted her chin. Her face was streaked with tears and the black circles beneath her bloodshot eyes were truly frightening. It was quite possible that she hadn’t slept at all. The bones of her face, prominent and sharp as glass, indicated she hadn’t been eating, either.

  “I love you,” I said. “I love you and I will do whatever it takes to get you out of here. I know why you’re doing it, but please don’t shut me out. There is nothing you could ever do that would make me walk away from you, especially when you need me the most. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, the tears falling rapidly. “How is Elliott?” she asked. Her voice was so faint that I only knew what she’d asked by reading her lips as she formed the words.

  “Elliott is fine. He misses you, but he’s safe and he’s doing great with Dad and me.”

  “I’m so afraid,” she said. “Nick’s trying to protect me, but I know what I’m up against. What if no one believes me?”

  “The criminal attorney Nick found is doing everything he can to build a strong case. But I need you to have faith, sweetheart. This isn’t over yet, not by a long shot, so you can’t give up now. Try to sleep and make sure you eat. I need you to fight with me, okay?”

  She nodded, but the look in her eyes told me she was barely hanging on. A guard appeared at my side, telling me to wrap it up.

  “I have to go. I’ll come back as often as they’ll let me. I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” she said.

  Though the sun was shining brightly when I walked out of that jail, I’d never been more depressed in my life.

  CHAPTER 56

  BROOKS

  We were sitting at the table eating lunch the next day when my cell phone rang. A glance at the display told me it was Jack. I shot my dad a look that said I didn’t want to take the call in front of Elliott and walked out of the kitchen.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “You are not going to believe what I’m about to tell you,” Jack said. “And keep it under your hat, because it’s big. I’m not telling you this as a cop, so you can’t act like a reporter. This is so far off the record the record doesn’t exist, okay?”

  I felt the first stirring of hope. “Agreed. I’m listening.”

  “We received some information via the tip line last night.”

  “I thought you said people who called the tip line were crazy.”

  “Most of the time they are. But in this case I feel confident that it’s worth checking out because the man who called it in knew a lot of things he couldn’t possibly have known unless he was a part of it.”

  I started pacing. “Like?”

  “Like Dale Reber giving some street kid an ounce of meth to intercept Daisy in that parking garage.”

  I sat down on the arm of the couch, but I had too much nervous energy flowing through me to sit, so I stood back up and resumed pacing. “What else?”

  “Like an old white sedan that’s registered to someone named Jim Watson.”

  I paced faster, my body vibrating as if all that energy was now looking for a way out. “I’d call that one hell of a tip.”

  “So would I.”

  “You’re going to bring him in, aren’t you? Today. Right now.”

  “You know better than most that we can’t rush in, guns blazing, without a little due diligence. A tip, no matter how good it is, is still just a tip. We’re moving as swiftly as we can, obtaining warrants and assembling a team. The earliest we’ll be able to do anything is tomorrow morning. We’ll bring Dale in first and round up anyone else who’s out at the house. I’ll send the CSI team to track down and impound the vehicle.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we lean on them. See who talks first. And listen, the chief will have my ass if anyone from the newspaper shows up out there tomorrow. It’s too risky. Who knows what we’ll be walking into?”


  “Will you be able to make an arrest?” I asked.

  “Hard to say. I’ll know a lot more after tomorrow.”

  “What about Daisy’s attorney? Can I let him know?”

  “That’s your call. But I think I’d wait to see what happens tomorrow. No use getting anyone’s hopes up until we know more.”

  “Scott DiStefano called it in, didn’t he?”

  “The tip was left anonymously, but if I were a betting man, that’s who I’d put my money on.”

  I stopped pacing because I thought I should sit down before I asked my next question. “Did Scott say what would happen to Daisy after they grabbed her?”

  Jack didn’t respond. Finally he said, “Come on. You don’t want to hear that.”

  “Probably not, but tell me anyway.”

  There was silence on the other end, but then Jack started to speak.

  He was right. I shouldn’t have asked.

  Because the things Jack told me that day would bother me for the rest of my life.

  *

  On Monday morning I wanted to drive out to Tweakerville and watch from the sidelines as the police hauled Dale and other assorted losers out of the house. I wouldn’t, though, because Jack had been good to me and the best way to help him was to stay out of his way.

  In light of what was going on in my personal life, Paul had told me to take the week off, which I felt bad about because I certainly hadn’t earned the time. If I could contribute in a way that would help Jack and also benefit the newspaper, maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty.

  I decided to do a little research on the owner of the vehicle that the crime scene investigators would be locating and impounding. Jack said his name was Jim Watson. Because it was a common name, I had to access three different databases to track down his address, and even then I wasn’t sure I had the right guy. I was even less sure the car would be there. Maybe Jack and his team would get lucky and find Jim—and his car—at Dale Reber’s.

  Two meth heads, one stone.

  After plugging the address into the GPS app on my phone, I went looking for my dad and Elliott and found them in the backyard playing catch.

  “I need to run out for a minute,” I said. “There’s something I want to check on.”

  “Go ahead,” Dad said. “We’ll be fine.”

  Jack hadn’t mentioned anything about staying out of the crime scene investigators’ way, so I decided there was no harm in taking a little drive out to Jim’s house, just to see if anything interesting was happening.

  *

  The house was located near the freeway, in a depressed neighborhood comprised of chain-link fences, litter that blew along the streets like tumbleweeds, random outbuildings, and sandy yards dotted with brush. The structure itself was severely neglected. The paint appeared to be white, but so much of it had peeled off I couldn’t be sure. The area was fairly deserted, so I parked at the end of the street and set out on foot, deciding I’d approach from the backyard a few houses down and then double back.

  I scaled the fence, landing lightly on my feet. Snooping was a whole lot easier in jeans and tennis shoes than it was in a suit and wingtips. I kept to the back perimeter of the yards, hoping no one would look out their window and wonder what the tall, dark-haired stranger was doing. I scaled another fence, which put me next door to Jim’s house.

  The one that had a tarp thrown over a large, car-shaped object in its carport.

  Seriously.

  At least this would make the CSI’s job easier. Feeling somewhat confident that this was the last place anyone connected with the crime would want to be, I quickly approached the house and then crept alongside it toward the carport. I would look under the tarp and when I spotted the car—because I was almost certain it would be there—I’d snap a few pictures for the newspaper and then hang out for a while and wait for the investigators to show up.

  To say that the gunshot took me by surprise would be a gross understatement, especially given the fact that it was accompanied by a shower of glass. The bullet splintered one of the carport beams behind me, just above my head, which meant that the shooter was inside the house and hadn’t bothered opening the window before he pulled the trigger.

  What these idiots lacked in common sense, they more than made up for in firepower.

  Then again, I was the one being shot at. And my gun was resting comfortably in its case under the front seat of my Jeep.

  I scrambled under the tarp and hurried around to the opposite side, putting the car between the shooter and me. Trying to calm my galloping heart, I took a few deep breaths and pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. My thumb scrolled through the log of my recent calls, and I jabbed unsteadily at Jack Quick’s name.

  Come on, come on, come on.

  I heard the click of his voice mail picking up and then the sound of his voice inviting me to leave a message at the beep.

  Okay, plan B.

  I hit the button for 911, just in case a friendly neighbor hadn’t already called in to report a gunshot in the neighborhood. Lowering the volume considerably so as not to announce my location to the person who had shot at me, I listened as the dispatcher said, “Nine one one, what is your emergency?” I remained silent, hoping the dispatcher would follow normal protocol, be able to trace the call successfully, and send an officer to the scene. The fact that I was outdoors weighed heavily in my favor. As long as my cell phone’s GPS connected with a satellite or cell tower, the dispatcher would be able to pinpoint my location.

  At least I hoped so.

  I peered out from underneath the bottom of the tarp to get my bearings. I had a straight shot into the backyard, but I’d have to be crazy to run out into the open like that. The odds of a gunman hitting you when you’re running are supposed to be quite low, but I wasn’t feeling especially lucky at the moment. I wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon and would have to rely on my hearing for the sound of approaching footsteps, which would alert me to the fact that the shooter had come outside to look for me. My only hope was that the police would arrive soon and take this mess I’d stumbled into off my hands before someone got shot, namely me. I resigned myself to staying put until they did.

  I would have gladly stuck to that plan had I not seen a man silently creeping along the fence line toward the house next door. And once I realized it was Dale Reber, there was no way I could remain hidden. If he managed to leave the area, Scott’s tip would be for nothing and Daisy would be no better off than she was now. Feeling extremely nervous about the possibility that the shooter was not Dale and was instead someone who was waiting inside for me to show myself so he could pick me off, I left the safety of the tarp and started running.

  Dale hadn’t been running very fast when I first began to chase him, but when he looked back to see where the loud, pounding footsteps were coming from, he took off like a shot and scaled the fence. And just to make it more interesting, the crack of a gunshot behind me told me that my theory about the shooter capitalizing on my being out in the open was alarmingly accurate. On a positive note, Dale and I were quickly putting distance between us and the house, and the shooter didn’t seem to be as fast on his feet as we were. I hated to admit it, but Dale was really hauling ass and I’d need to step it up a little if I was going to catch him. I called upon my anger, my absolute fury at what this man had tried to do to Daisy—what he would have done if he’d been successful in abducting her—and I gained some ground, closing the gap a little more. He scaled another fence, taking a second to look over his shoulder. I scaled it, too. My chest burned and I gulped at the air.

  I might not have caught him, but then he made another of his many bad decisions. He turned around and pulled his gun, but he’d been running so fast that when he slowed down he was off center, with no control over his stance or his aim. He fired and the shot went wide, coming nowhere near me. His second shot came closer, and I swear I heard something go whizzing by my ear. When he realized I was closing in fast, he abandoned trying to line u
p a third shot and took off again.

  He wasn’t fast enough this time. I had momentum on my side, and I plowed into him, taking us both down to the ground. I landed on top of him and was trying to figure out where the gun was when Dale threw some kind of meth-fueled super punch, which landed squarely between my eyes.

  Everything got a little hazy after that. I remember finally getting a good grip on Dale and slamming him repeatedly into the dirt.

  The sound of police sirens in the distance.

  The yelling and thunder of many footsteps. I didn’t snap out of it until two police officers pulled me off Dale, and Jack Quick’s face suddenly appeared in front of me.

  “I need a paramedic over here,” he yelled.

  “I don’t need a paramedic,” I said and then promptly sank to my knees. I wasn’t sure if it was the lack of oxygen from running so fast, the effects of the punch, or the aftermath of a massive adrenaline dump, but all I knew was that I really preferred to be closer to the ground. None of that stopped me from digging my phone out of my pocket, though, and snapping a picture of a policeman slapping handcuffs on Dale. It would take more than a teeth-rattling punch to the face—and possibly my impending shock—to make me miss a photo op.

  “Let me guess,” I said, gasping. “No one was home at Tweakerville.”

  Jack crouched down beside me and smiled. “Let’s just say no one came to the door when we knocked and leave it at that.”

  “You got here fast,” I said, taking deep breaths. I would never take air for granted again. Never.

  “We were already en route when you called my phone and left your cryptic non-message. Then the 911 dispatcher sent out an alert. I connected the dots.”

  “That’s probably why you’re a detective.” My head throbbed and I squinted through my rapidly narrowing field of vision. “There was another guy. He had a gun.”

  “Jim Watson. He’s already in the back of a squad car.”

  “Asshole shot at me. They both shot at me.”