Fear No Truth

by LynDee Walker

  Erica murmured agreement, her gaze dropping to the pale hands she folded on the table in front of her.

  I kept my tone easy, though her posture change said she wasn’t as comfortable talking as she would have me believe.

  “Had you noticed anything different about Tenley in the past few weeks?” I asked.

  Brent shook his head, his eyes bright with new tears. “I honestly can’t say if that’s because there wasn’t anything or because I wasn’t looking hard enough, but I did not. I’ve been . . . preoccupied lately.”

  I jotted that down. Erica coughed over a snort on the other side of the table.

  “When was the last time you saw your daughter, Mr. Andre?”

  “Monday at lunch. I left for the airport early yesterday, and I got ready in her bathroom, but I assumed she was still sleeping.”

  He got ready in Tenley’s bathroom? I glanced at Erica, whose face plainly said she didn’t know that, and was thinking the same thing I was. If Erica didn’t hear Tenley in the bathroom at all Tuesday morning, that left a bigger span of time unaccounted for. I made another note.

  “Did Tenley have a credit card?” I asked.

  Brent nodded. “She’s got a card for my AmEx account. Uses it for gas and online stuff mostly. Food too.”

  “Can you tell me if there are any unusual charges to it in the past couple of months?”

  “I haven’t gotten any alerts, but let’s have a look.” He picked up his phone and poked at the screen.

  I rolled the pen back and forth between my fingers, the tension crackling between Tenley’s parents making me squirm in my seat.

  Brent’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a charge from Uber. Pending, dated yesterday.”

  I wanted to whoop and pump a fist in the air. The driver was likely one of the last people to see Tenley Andre alive. And might remember if anyone else was at the dam with her. I scribbled a big star and a note.

  “That’s how she got out there,” Erica blurted. “If Nicky dropped her at home, and then she called a car, she must’ve been going to meet someone. Someone she trusted enough to bring to her special spot.”

  Brent nodded along.

  Was that the story behind the cryptic Post-it? Tenley meeting someone?

  I pulled it from my pocket. “Graham told me you gave this to him this morning, Mr. Andre,” I said. “What can the two of you tell me about it?”

  “I found it last night, next to Erica in the study. She was . . . asleep,” he said, shifting in his chair. His tone said she was more passed out than asleep—but given all the hints about alcoholism people kept throwing around, I hoped I was reading it wrong.

  I turned to her. “Mrs. Andre?”

  “It was with her doll.” The words came out automatically, her eyes staying on Brent. She looked . . . odd. I couldn’t tell if she was mad or hurt, but she sure didn’t seem to want me to know about this note.

  “Doll?” I prodded.

  Erica seemed to snap back to the present. “I got it for her when she was a little girl. Her guardian angel. I worried over her driving around in that death trap convertible, so she hung it from her rearview mirror. Flipped my own trick against me.” She shook her head. “So smart.

  “The note was tucked up inside the doll’s dress. I knocked it loose last night, sitting in her car.” Her chin dropped to her chest, shoulders heaving with deep breaths.

  Brent reached across the table and picked the note up. “Why in God’s name would she hide it with her doll?” he murmured.

  “It had to be important to her,” Erica said. “I’d give anything to be able to ask her to explain.”

  “You’re sure it’s Tenley’s handwriting?” I asked. Because if someone was setting up a suicide story, this would be a brilliant play.

  They both nodded. “Her writing was so crazy. Loopy, but still kind of hard to read. Like a personal code,” Erica said.

  “Any idea what any of these words mean?” I asked. “Did yesterday hold special significance for Tenley or your family?”

  “I’ve been trying to think all day of anything that happened on that date, and this is all I can come up with,” Brent said. “It was never notable to me until Officer Hardin called me yesterday.” He glanced at Erica. “You?”

  She shook her head, taking the note from him. Her eyes welled as she stared at the letters, but she didn’t offer any more words.

  So, something, but nothing definite.

  Next up: those emails. How much money had Tenley pilfered from Stella? “Can you see recent activity on her checking account?” I asked.

  Brent shook his head. “She didn’t have one. Probably should, but I’ve never gotten around to it. We do everything on the cards, anyway.”

  The Wells Fargo envelope in Tenley’s desk was for what, then? I circled a question mark, but didn’t press. Maybe there was a reason she hadn’t told them about it. Better to find out before tipping my hand.

  “Any new people in her life?” I asked. “Nicky Richardson said she was seeing someone, but wouldn’t tell him who.”

  Erica’s face tried to scrunch, the Botox fighting back. “She wasn’t seeing anyone.”

  “Her friend says otherwise.” I kept my voice low and neutral.

  “I would know.” Erica’s voice assumed a steel edge, her fingernail beds going white as she gripped the edge of the tabletop. “She told me everything.”

  I didn’t reply. I didn’t know Tenley. Maybe she did tell her mother everything.

  But if she didn’t, maybe it was the thing she kept quiet that got her killed.

  Dammit.

  “It’s not uncommon for teenagers to have secrets . . . ,” I began.

  “He. Is. Wrong.” Erica’s tone left no more room for debate. Unless I wanted this discussion to be over.

  I let it go and turned to Brent. “I take it you haven’t heard anything about this, either?”

  “Not a word. You think she met someone who could’ve hurt her?”

  “It’s one possibility of many. Just on my mind because Nicky mentioned it, and we also heard she’d been getting frequent urgent phone calls. That’s all.”

  “Phone calls?” Brent sighed. “What the hell was going on with her? And why were we too busy to notice?” The last words were half mumbled at the table as he dropped his forehead onto one hand.

  “What ‘we’? There’s only been me, trying to juggle my job and the house and Tenley since . . . Christmas, at least.” Erica’s razor-sharp shout turned heads all around them and snapped Brent’s back up.

  Uh-oh. Round two. I sat up, putting one hand toward each of them.

  “Maybe if you acted like you ever fucking wanted me around, that wouldn’t be the case.” His tone was icy, his voice low.

  Erica sat back in her seat. “What do you mean act like I want you around? When have I ever not wanted you around?” The bewilderment rang clear in her voice, anger still snapping in the air around her.

  I let my hands drop—to them, they were the only two people in the world right that second. The best I could do was hope my badge would offer a measure of damage control—with me sitting between them, people were watching, but I didn’t see any obvious displays of recording. And I couldn’t blame folks for looking. The whole thing was morbidly fascinating, in a reality-show sort of way: From the outside, everything was perfect. They were good-looking, successful, had a fantastic kid.

  But behind the toothpaste-commercial grins and pretty pictures, things had gone about as wrong as wrong gets. Tenley had to know that. Did it have something to do with why she was out in the middle of nowhere alone in the dead of night?

  “You name a time you were genuinely glad to see me in the past three months, and I’ll eat my sneakers.” Brent locked eyes with his wife. “I try and I try and I try to make you feel special, and you don’t want me.”

  “You try to make yourself feel less guilty for fucking around on me, that’s what you try to do.” Erica spit the words like they were soaked in vineg
ar.

  Brent’s jaw went slack. “I what?”

  “Don’t you dare sit there and try to act insulted. I know you’re sleeping with that stewardess. I saw her texts. No woman texts a man she’s not intimate with as much or as familiarly as that one texts you. And you talk to her on the phone all the time, too.”

  Brent’s head started shaking the instant she started talking, moving faster as she went on.

  Erica’s hands trembled, her voice following suit. “Deny it all you want, but do not sit there and make me the bad guy in this. You found someone else. You gave up on us. And Tenley knew it, too.”

  Brent jumped to his feet, flipping the table and sending the whole room into chaos. I shoved my chair back, but coffee had already splashed over my boots and the hem of my jeans.

  Erica screamed. At least four customers called 911. The manager crept close enough to us to register in my left peripheral, stopping when I held up one finger. I wanted to see where this would go.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Erica sputtered, bending to tug on the table. I moved to help her, but Brent’s cold, flat glare stopped me before I got my hands to the tabletop.

  “My wife just accused me of having an affair, my daughter is in a locker at the morgue, and I’m pretty sure this woman is here because she’s at least curious if one of us is somehow responsible for the latter.” Brent’s arm swung toward me, his voice booming. “Let me assure you on the record, Officer, that I would give anything—anything you can name—to have my little girl sitting here with me this morning. I suggest you look elsewhere if you really want answers about what happened to her.”

  Anyone in the room could’ve heard a flea sneeze. I’m not sure a single soul even dared to breathe, every eye in the place on us, cameras forgotten in the commotion.

  Erica’s face twisted into a horrified mask. “Shut up, Brent,” she hissed.

  “I haven’t accused anyone of anything, Mr. Andre.” I stood up straight, the table still on its side.

  Should I? How deep did the imperfection seeping through their cracked façade run, exactly?

  “Shut up, Brent.” Erica tried again, a layer of calm almost covering the tremor in her voice. Almost. “She has been nothing but helpful since this nightmare started. If you want to yell at someone, yell at me.”

  Brent’s shoulders dropped, a sigh escaping his chest. “I don’t want to yell at you, Erica. I just want to be left alone. No more wondering, no more fighting, no more bullshit. Let’s bury our baby and just be done with this.”

  Erica raised her chin. “Fine.” The look she shot her husband would’ve wilted the hardiest cactus. “Can you take me to get my car?” she asked me, looping her purse over her forearm.

  I nodded. “Of course, ma’am.”

  She grabbed her bag and started for the door without another word or a backward glance.

  I watched Brent Andre pick up the table and the pieces of the broken coffee mug, a soft “Son of a bitch” sliding through his teeth when blood welled on his thumb. “Nothing’s ever going to be easy again, is it?” He let his head fall back. I couldn’t tell if he was asking me or God or the universe in general.

  All around us, murmurs floated in a sort of incredulous empathy before the coffeehouse came back to life, the staff and patrons resuming their normal, un-murder-interrupted Wednesdays with croissants and espresso and easy conversation.

  “Not for a while, no,” I whispered.

  Brent didn’t move. I turned to see Erica waiting on the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry, again, sir,” I said. “Please let me know if you think of anything that could help.”

  Tenley’s father nodded without looking at me, fresh tears disappearing into his short silvered sideburns as he clenched his eyes shut. Just for half a second, I tried to remember if the governor cried when Charity died.

  I knew better than to wonder such things. I patted Brent’s hand and strode after his wife.

  Erica’s face was tipped back toward the sun, her eyes closed, her breaths slow and even. I stopped next to her, giving her another moment to collect herself. She blinked, and I peered at her eyes from behind my sunglasses. Slightly bloodshot, but I couldn’t say it was more from drinking than crying.

  Just over her shoulder, my gaze landed on a slight man with graying, greasy hair cinched into a short ponytail against his neck. Almost-translucently pale skin hung on a thin frame covered by a dirty white T-shirt and jeans that had probably seen better days when Reagan was president. I scanned reflexively for a gun bulge under his ill-fitting clothes. Didn’t see one.

  The first minute of the first day at the academy, they start preaching about being observant, because not everyone is, and it’s that important. A good cop’s personal radar can pick up a scumbag at thirty paces, and this guy had mine pinging like a pinball machine in bonus. It wasn’t just the hair or the clothes or the scruffy face: some of the best people I’ve ever met are homeless folks who frequent Austin’s parks and shelters. I didn’t like something about him. I just couldn’t tell what from so far back.

  I took a small step to the side when he moved past Erica, my gaze staying with him. He turned our way. Took a step back. Scrubbed at his eyes with both fists and blinked. Rushed forward.

  I lunged for Erica. He was more agile than he looked, skipping to his left to brush right past my shoulder and put a hand on her forearm. “Sammy Jo?” a three-packs-a-day growl asked, red-rimmed, rheumy blue eyes searching Erica’s face. “You done real well for yourself, now didn’t you? Your momma, she—”

  I watched his eyes stray from her profile, to the streetlamp, to the stop sign on the corner, feeling my muscles uncoil. He wasn’t menacing, he was just on something. But today was not the day to indulge drug-addled rambling where Tenley’s mother was concerned.

  My eyes on the distance from his hand to her purse, I moved to slide between them and tell him to move along, but Erica’s face stopped me cold.

  It was the eyes. Botox-frozen eyes don’t move. Don’t emote. They just see, smooth and clear and line-free. But Erica’s had gone wide enough for me to see white all around the blue, her nostrils flaring with deep breaths as she tried to extricate her arm. “I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else,” she said. “My parents died a long time ago. Good day.”

  I stepped in. She was grieving, anxious, and now shaken. Women like Erica Andre don’t get themselves accosted by the unwashed masses every day. I put one palm on his shoulder, keeping my voice calm, but firm. “You heard the lady. I’m going to have to ask you to step back now.”

  He complied, shaking his head as he dropped her arm. “I could’ve swore . . . ,” he mumbled as he half stumbled back. “You got her eyes.”

  Erica scooted behind me as he disappeared down the street. When we couldn’t see him anymore, I turned back. “You’re having a bitch of a week, ma’am,” I said.

  “Almost makes you wonder what anyone could do to deserve this.” I couldn’t tell if she was talking to me or herself.

  “I’ve seen enough to know that’s not the way the world works,” I answered anyway.

  Erica flinched, then dropped her purple Prada sunglasses over her eyes, covering half her face. “I wish I had your confidence on that.” She started for my truck.

  I followed her, watching. Squared shoulders. Set jaw. Uneven breathing. Barely managing to balance the weight of the world on her thin shoulders. That she was upright was flat-ass astonishing. I slid behind the wheel and started the truck, leaving the radio off. Pressure to fill silence can be a good detective’s best asset.

  But not today: Erica didn’t say a word the entire ride to Marshall High, keeping her face turned to the window and her hands clenched in her lap. I let her out behind her Jaguar SUV in the parking lot and drummed my fingers on the wheel as she climbed into the car.

  Something wasn’t right with these people. Brent and Erica’s issues only mattered to me if they had something to do with why Tenley was dead, though. I wriggled my phone out of my
pocket and sent Graham a text before I pulled away: Pretty sure Tenley had an account at Wells Fargo her folks don’t know about. We need a warrant.

  Dropping the phone in the cup holder, I sped through the red light at the parking lot exit. It was only nine-forty. I could still make it.

  Buzz. Graham: Finally, something easy. On it.

  Thanks, I tapped after I hit my brakes in front of a wide midcentury ranch with gray brick facing and a dozen different kinds of plants trailing from iron hanging baskets lining the porch.

  “Officer, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” Stella Connolly looked up from watering a potted aloe as I ambled up her sidewalk. “Is everything okay with Lena? She never came back to the gym last night.”

  “Lena’s fine.” I walked up a wooden ramp to the porch, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I didn’t catch up with her until this morning, and she told me something I’d like to ask you about, actually.”

  Stella’s brows flashed above the plastic rims of her glasses. “What’s that?”

  “Why was Tenley blackmailing you, Mrs. Connolly?” I watched Stella’s face carefully. Sometimes shock makes people blurt answers they might otherwise hide. “And is that why you were trying to gouge more money out of her parents?”

  Stella tipped her head to one side. “Tenley was what?” She set the watering can on the concrete floor of the porch, stray droplets darkening the smooth gray finish. “I was gouging who? I haven’t the first clue what you’re talking about. Did Lena tell you something that made you think this?”

  “What if I told you Lena saw the emails Tenley was sending you? And the boy she went out with Monday night, he said he saw her emailing you hours before she died.”

  Stella shook her head. “I can’t recall ever having gotten an email from Tenley. And I haven’t had any contact with her parents in more than a year.”

  “Mrs. Connolly, this is not a difficult thing to check.” I skipped telling her I’d seen the emails to Erica with my own eyes, since I wasn’t technically allowed to know that. “With two witnesses, I can have a warrant in half an hour.” That was true. I leaned on the post at the top of the steps. “This will be easier on both of us if you just tell me the truth.”