Last Girl Standing

by Lisa Jackson

  Delta hadn’t really gotten that far in her thinking, but she didn’t want him to know that. “Did you?”

  His grin widened. “We mighta . . . hit a few gentleman’s clubs, y’know.”

  Delta recalled catching Tanner in a lie and learning he’d gone to an adult club with someone. Probably Woody, she saw now. She recalled her husband grinning at her and saying, “The devil made me do it.” A favorite line.

  “Who’s this confidante you shared with Tanner? Maybe she knows something about my husband’s murder,” Delta said.

  “Tell McCrae to come and talk to me. I have a few things to say he might be interested in.”

  “About Tanner?”

  “About West Knoll High School. It’s not just about the students, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Timmons had his tongue hanging on the ground for all the girls.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “I know a horndog when I see one. Maybe he hid it from you, but it was there. I know Zora married him for the bucks, but he married her because he couldn’t get the one he really wanted. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.”

  The phone on the counter started ringing, and Woody gave it a sidelong look. He reached for it, and over his shoulder, he said, “Nice seeing you, Delta. Stay safe.”

  * * *

  McCrae bumped along the Crassleys’ weed-choked drive a second time. He had no warrant, but he didn’t plan on going inside the house again. Instead he pulled to a stop outside of the yard with the parked jalopies and, ignoring the baying dogs, opened the gate and walked in.

  He’d just passed by the first row of dust-shrouded vehicles when Booker and Harry poured out of the house and started yelling.

  “What the fuck you doin’? Get the hell off our property!” Booker screamed.

  “I’m getting the shotgun,” Harry snapped, but he didn’t move.

  McCrae kept a careful eye on them as he wandered among the rust buckets. He’d be surprised if any of them worked. The sun was beating on them, refracting heat off the metal in waves.

  Booker and Harry were poised, waiting for McCrae to do something.

  Then he saw the faded red hood of the car with the truck back. “El Camino,” he marveled, reading its name in the metal script that was still in place. If the guy at the bar was right—and he had no reason to doubt him—the vehicle was a 1987 model or earlier.

  “What the fuck you doin’?” Booker repeated in a low growl as McCrae brushed past them and back to the Trailblazer.

  McCrae turned around and left. He didn’t think the two morons realized what he was looking for, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. He pulled his cell from his pocket and placed a call.

  “Quin,” he said into the man’s voice mail, wishing he were there to pick up. “There’s a car at the Crassleys that I need to bring in as evidence. El Camino. Faded red hood.” He debated about saying more, but if this was the car outside Lundeen’s the night Bailey and Penske were shot, the one where the driver stopped to talk to the guy Tracy thought was keeping tabs on them . . . then he couldn’t afford for it to disappear. Tracy might not be the liar people had accused her of being. So far, she was batting a thousand. And the burner phone . . . the “job” Penske was doing . . . it didn’t add up to murder/suicide any way you cut it.

  He was almost to the station when Delta called. Surprised, he answered, “Chris McCrae.”

  “Hi,” she said diffidently. “I just thought I should let you know that I . . . uh . . . went to see Woody, and he said I should have you call him. I guess he thought I had a direct line to the cops.”

  “You went to see Woody?”

  “I wanted to ask about Tanner’s fender bender, but he’d already talked to Mr. Quintar—Chief Quintar,” she corrected herself.

  “He wants me to call him?” McCrae was having trouble with the thought of Delta going to see Woody.

  “We talked about the past . . . the barbeque . . . a lot of things.”

  “What things?” He was keying in, now.

  “He said that . . . a lot of things about Tanner that I already knew. His cheating. With my friends. Sounded like Woody went with him to men’s clubs, maybe. And he mentioned that Brian Timmons . . .” She heaved a sigh. “You should talk to him. I don’t want to say anything about Brian. I don’t even think it’s true.”

  “What did he say?” McCrae asked patiently, even though he wanted to yell at her to stay the hell away from the investigation. It was bad enough already. He didn’t want her doing anything that anyone could misconstrue.

  “He said he was a horndog. That his ‘tongue was on the ground’ looking at the teens.”

  “I don’t remember that,” McCrae murmured, wondering what Woody’s angle was. “I’ll call him. But, Delta, stay away from him and anyone who has anything to do with Tanner’s homicide. Leave the investigating to us.”

  “I can’t just sit around,” she said with a note of belligerence. “I feel set up, and I can’t just sit around. And I think someone was following me, and I don’t want to go home yet.”

  “Following you?” he snapped.

  “Maybe . . . I don’t know . . .” She backed down quickly.

  McCrae slowed before he was about to turn into the station, then sped up and drove past. “You know where I live? My dad’s house.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Meet me there. I’m on my way now.”

  “You think that’s a good idea?” she asked after a weighty pause.

  Hell, no. “Just be there, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  What are you doing, buddy? What are you doing?

  His phone rang. Quin. “Hey,” he greeted his boss. “You get my message about the car?”

  “Yeah, what’s it about?”

  McCrae tersely gave him a rundown of the vehicle and what it meant to Bailey’s case. “The Crassleys are involved. I don’t know how yet, but I will.”

  “Goddamn,” Quin said soberly.

  “I know. We’re getting traction on Bailey’s case, finally, but there’s something else.” He then told him about Ellie’s encounter with the Crassleys and taking Gale Crassley to the county jail.

  Quin sounded flabbergasted. “I’m sorry I haven’t been available. I’ve been putting out fires on your behalf. Hurston had a whole list of reasons why he wants Delta charged with her husband’s murder, and he wants you off the case.”

  “He doesn’t have any jurisdiction! This isn’t his investigation!” McCrae exploded.

  “I told him that. Reminded him I was the chief. He’s got Mayor Kathy twisted around his finger, but until I’m removed from office, he can flap his arms and fly around like a headless goose, which is what he’s doing. Don’t come in. Keep doing whatever you’re doing. He’s been ready to pounce on you all day.”

  “Okay.” McCrae felt a little better about meeting Delta instead of going into work.

  “This is good work, McCrae,” Quin added. “And I’m sorry about Ellie. Is she okay?”

  “I think so. I’ve checked in. I’ll keep making sure.”

  “Those Crassleys . . . ,” he muttered coldly.

  “I’m going to pin them down,” said McCrae. “Find out what really happened that night.”

  “It never was a murder/suicide,” he said.

  “No.”

  “McCrae,” he said suddenly, when they were about to end their call.

  “Uh huh?”

  “Be careful of Delta Stahd. I don’t agree with Hurston on much, but he makes some good points. She’s a prime suspect and may have very well killed her husband. I know you like her. But don’t forget to keep your eyes and ears open. If anything further should come to light about her, we’re at that tipping point. I’m not saying for sure that she did it. I’m just saying be careful.”

  McCrae hung up, his mouth dry. Quin didn’t know about the knife. He didn’t know McCrae was meeting De
lta at his house.

  * * *

  Ellie thought about it and thought about it and thought some more. The Crassleys were somehow involved in Bailey’s death. Penske had made her his “job.” She didn’t have enough for a full story, but she had some of it.

  She was driving to the Channel Four station to track down Andy, a producer who’d always had a thing for her. You could just tell these things. Last year, she’d run into him at a hotel function, and his eyes had been all over her. She’d been with Alton then, but she’d taken note.

  She put a call in as she pulled into the lot. She was told he wasn’t in, but she left her name and number, and he called right back. The chickenshit. Screening his calls.

  “Hey, Andy, I’m right outside,” Ellie said, putting a smile into her voice. “I want to come work for you, and I’m bringing a couple really good stories with me.”

  “I heard heads were rolling at Seven. Sorry.”

  He didn’t sound sorry at all.

  “I can get an interview with Delta Stahd,” she lied. “One on one. Her side of the marriage.”

  “That would be good.”

  “And I also have a story to tell about myself. Today, and I mean today, I was held at gunpoint by Gale Crassley, who’s currently in the county jail over the incident. He had me strip naked.”

  “You were held at gunpoint.”

  “Yes. I was held at gunpoint.”

  He whistled, surprised. “Wow. That is a story.”

  “But I need a job. And I want to come to Channel Four.”

  “Well, Ellie, I’m not in charge of that, you know. You’d have to talk to the big boss, and he hates being talked to, which you probably also know. And you gotta check with HR, of course.”

  “I also think I’ve got new information on that cop killing five years ago, the current chief’s daughter,” said Ellie, undaunted.

  He chuckled, sounding a bit embarrassed. “That would be something, for sure.”

  “You don’t believe me,” she realized, aghast.

  “We’ve got some good reporters already, and there’s not a lot of room. You know how it is. Staff gets overblown and you gotta cut. Maybe you could talk to one of ’em, in fact—”

  “This is all bullshit about the ‘big boss.’ You’re giving me the runaround and don’t have the balls to admit it.” Andy was supposed to be her friend!

  He said, pained, “Ellie . . . I’m going to be straight with you. You have a reputation as hard to work with.”

  “Who said that? Alton?”

  “And, well, that’s another thing. The, er, bonds of matrimony don’t seem to matter a lot to you.”

  “You piece of shit.”

  “You’re a darn good reporter, Ellie, but it’s that kind of attitude that gets you in trouble. And at Channel Four, we do real news. Not biased innuendo. Not stunts, and—”

  “Stunts?” She couldn’t breathe.

  “—not incomplete stories with half-baked theories masquerading as fact.”

  “My life was in real danger, you asshole.”

  He clucked his tongue. “Name calling is counterprod—”

  She clicked off. Tossed her phone into the passenger seat but overthrew, and it smacked into the window, bounced down to the seat and then the footwell. Real news? Real news?

  She fumed for long moments. Her life had been in danger. In real danger! And Andy was talking about stunts?

  She let out a primal scream that made her ears ring and pounded the steering wheel. How much was she expected to do? Save the twins from the vile Crassleys? Save her own self—with McCrae’s help, okay, but hello? Fucking Gale Crassley could have raped her! Crassley was a prick, but McCrae was an asshole. All men were assholes. It was just a fact.

  And she’d given him what Nia had said about Penske’s interest in Bailey being a job. Just given it to him. Bestowed it on him with barely an acknowledgment. Now he was out playing cops and robbers with the Crassleys, and she was persona non grata at Channel Seven and Channel Four.

  Well, Andy was going to be sorry. She was going to delve some more, get all the facts, all the pieces, everything and write the story of the century, maybe film it on her camera, put in on YouTube.

  She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel until she came up with a plan. She would get that interview from Delta . . . Dee . . . chase her down if she had to, force a confession out of her, and tape it on her phone.

  What time was it? 4:30. The longest day of her life. Delta would most likely be picking up her kid from pre-K soon.

  Time to go wait outside her house.

  Chapter 27

  Delta had never been inside McCrae’s family’s house and had expected a somewhat neglected home with years of deferred maintenance. But the kitchen was warm and bright, with honey-colored cabinets in good repair and refurbished oak floors that gleamed. He’d kept what was good and teamed it with a farmhouse sink and quartz countertops.

  “Someone did some nice work here,” she said.

  The dog stayed stiff and unmoving. Not growling. Just not accepting.

  McCrae snapped his fingers, and the animal came to sit at his side.

  He’d been just turning off his vehicle, one of the West Knoll blue-and-gold Trailblazers, when she’d pulled in the drive behind him. The first awkward moments were eased by him opening the door and greeting the frisky little dog, who’d changed his position upon seeing Delta. His obvious joy had instantly developed into threatening silence.

  “Don’t mind Fido,” McCrae said. “He’ll get over it.”

  “Fido?”

  “Was Bailey’s dog. I took him in.”

  “Oh.”

  Now he looked around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. “Had to fix it up after Dad died. Hired an interior designer who had a lot of ideas. Took some talking to, but we eventually saw eye to eye.”

  “It’s really good.”

  “I called Woody after I got off the phone with you.”

  “What did he say?” Delta asked curiously.

  “He couldn’t give a straight answer if it was his ticket out of hell.”

  “Do you think he knows something?”

  McCrae shook his head. “I felt like he was . . .”

  “What?”

  He glanced at her, and she remembered thinking how blue his eyes were all those years ago when they were at the river and he was stripping down to his faded cutoffs. They looked exactly the same now. Deep, deep blue.

  “. . . throwing shade at everyone else. Brian Timmons. His ex-wife. Tanner.”

  “Tanner, for certain. I knew he was a cheater; I mean, I turned my back on it, but I knew. But I didn’t know how much.”

  “He brought up going to adult clubs, like you said.”

  Delta looked away. “Whenever he was in trouble, he would lie and try to squirm out of it. He’d say, ‘The devil made me do it.’ Like that’s all it took to be absolved.”

  McCrae frowned. Fido, looking up at him, started whining, and McCrae absently reached down and petted his head. Fido pushed into McCrae’s hand. His eyes closed, his tongue slipped out, and he started panting happily.

  “You want something to drink? I’ve got water . . . and coffee, tea . . . beer . . . ?”

  “Thanks, no.” Delta smiled. “It’s just kind of nice to make it stop for a minute. Oh, I saw Brad Sumpter today. He came up to me at Danny O’s and sat down in my booth. He told me he knew I didn’t kill Tanner. That was nice to hear.” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “He said he never wanted any of the bad stuff to happen to me and Tanner.”

  Fido took a few steps forward, and Delta leaned down, holding her palm open for him to sniff. He looked up at her with those doggy eyes and pushed his head into her hand, hoping for a pet or a scratch apparently, and she obliged.

  “That’s pretty good,” McCrae said. “He’s fairly picky about who he thinks should be allowed in the house.”

  “I’m going to have to go get my son soon. I’m . . . I thi
nk I’m taking him to my mom’s. I’m meeting Amanda tonight. She has some things to go over.”

  “You trust her to do right by you?”

  “I do. Why? Don’t you?”

  “Yes, she should.”

  “I’ve heard so much stuff lately, about the barbeque, and how she was in the woods with Tanner and everyone saw, apparently.” She paused, wondering if she should take this further, then decided, why not? “You were with Ellie.”

  “Um, yes.”

  “And there I was, waiting for Tanner, being this good, good girl, I thought, while the rest of you were having fun.”

  “Ellie and I . . . that was . . .”

  “Not fun?” She lifted her brows, calling him a liar.

  “Not a good idea. We’ve been at odds ever since.”

  “Maybe it’s true love.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  That confession warmed Delta’s heart. It was way too soon to be having the feelings she was having. Transference, yes. But it felt great, and she needed to feel great, just for a little while at least.

  “I thought I was being followed, but now I don’t know. They kept switching lanes like I was, but they shot on by when I turned off to go to Woody’s Auto Body.”

  “What kind of vehicle?”

  “Oh, I don’t think it was anything. I’m just getting paranoid. It feels like everybody’s out to get me.” Seeing he was waiting, she said, “Big. Black. Big sidewalls, and I think it was like a Suburban? Something like that.”

  “If you see it again, call me.”

  She nodded. “I’d better go. It’s nice to talk in person, though. And not at the police station . . . or the hospital.”

  “Agreed.”

  They started to walk to the kitchen door at the same time and bumped into each other. He reached out a hand to her arm to steady her. The contact felt electric against her bare skin. She remembered him holding her at the hospital and wanted to be held again. She looked up, and those blue eyes were steady and full of something primal that he probably didn’t know she could see.