"11:30," he said. "Are you sure you're okay, Maggie?"
"Of course I'm sure," she lied. "I hardly knew Lauren. And I have nothing to do with the case. I just happened to be a witness. That's all." The lies poured out of her, blithely, and she knew he didn't believe them any more than she did, but then she heard a voice come back into the room with him, apologetic but insistent, and she heard him take a breath to get mad at them, and she stopped him by saying, "now hang up and go be charming. I'll talk to you tonight. Don't worry. I'm fine."
After that she sat there in the car and waited for a long time. During the phone call people had gone in and out of the little cabin, and a lot was happening. But it was all out there, on the other side of the windshield. And she was in the car, sitting in the front passenger seat, with the dogs snoring in the back seat behind her and the sky outside getting darker as the light faded, and the trees closing in on the little clearing, and the door to the cabin open wide and light spilling out onto the yard where all the people she'd ever met at the police station stood.
She watched the tableau as if it were a silent movie. The voices were muffled by the closed car, and by more than that. They all seemed to speak quietly, in respectful voices, not like the harsh, professional tones they usually had at crime scenes, with their dark humor and sarcasm relieving the tension of their work.
Now everyone looked shocked. Even Chief Randall seemed to have had his pomposity knocked out of him. He was somber and quiet, occasionally barking orders to his team, but mostly standing there, seemingly at a loss. It made the normally preening and annoying police chief appear almost human.
Ibarra had met the team when they arrived. She had seen him pointing and explaining, and then he led them into the cabin and was in there for a long time. As the head of major crimes for the Carita PD, he was the logical one to head up the homicide investigation, and he had immediately put everyone to work.
Maggie saw Chief Randall take Ibarra aside. They stood under a big tree at the corner of Lauren's yard. It was a redwood tree, tall and straight, and Ibarra put a hand out and rested against the trunk as if he were very, very tired. He bent his head down, watching his feet, and Maggie could see his hand, pale against the tree trunk, with fingers clenched on the bark. The men spoke softly, and Randall seemed to be giving Ibarra some bad news in a compassionate way.
The two never got along. Maggie despised the arrogant chief, and she knew Ibarra felt the same way.
But this was a different kind of exchange between them. Chief Randall spoke softly to Ibarra, and patted Ibarra on the back kindly. Ibarra nodded, accepting what was said, and appeared to thank Randall at the end of the conversation without a trace of his usual scorn.
Then he came back to the SUV and got in the driver's seat beside her. He put his hands on the steering wheel, and watched the team, and said nothing. Maggie saw his knuckles turn white as he gripped the wheel, and it reminded her of this morning, which seemed so long ago, and Reese's hand gripping his suitcase.
But Ibarra didn't explain what his tension was about.
"What's going on?" Maggie finally asked when he didn't speak.
"Chief Randall is supervising the case personally."
Maggie bit back a sarcastic retort. Given his history, she automatically assumed Randall wanted to make a big show for the press, building up his reputation and taking credit for a quick solution to the crime. But that exchange she'd witnessed between them didn't fit that theory. It had been cordial, even kindhearted.
"What did he tell you?" she asked.
"When?" Ibarra asked, still watching out the window at the silent scene playing out in front of them.
"When Randall spoke to you just now. It was odd."
Ibarra sniffed, then put his key in the ignition and started the car. "I told you. He's going to run the case. It's one of our own, and he wants to make sure everything is done by the book."
"Why did he pat you on the back?" she asked.
Ibarra smiled faintly. "You don't miss anything, Maggie," he said quietly. He put the car in reverse and made a U-turn around the other vehicles. They headed down the driveway, leaving the crime scene behind.
She waited for him to answer her question, but he didn't.
He just drove, watching the road ahead, and neither of them spoke the whole way back to town.
Chapter Nine
Police chief Kent Randall was a supercilious jerk, a shallow tinpot dictator whose only standard of success was how quickly he could mark a case closed, and how good he looked in his TV press conferences.
Or so Maggie had always assumed. She was getting an uncomfortable feeling she had misjudged him. She didn't like that. The sense that she was wrong about someone rocked her self-assurance. She thought she was a good judge of character, and if she was wrong about Randall, was there anybody else she had misunderstood?
"Have a seat, Ms. McJasper," the chief said very quietly, ushering her into his private office at the police station. It was about an hour later, and she'd spent the time cooling her heels on the hard bench in the lobby while waiting.
Ibarra had driven her to the station, then disappeared after telling her to wait for someone to take her statement, and she hadn't seen him since. Or anyone else, except for the same young officer who'd been on lobby duty when she'd come to the police station earlier that day.
The officer had finally called to her and buzzed her in, where Chief Randall had met her at the door and led her to his office so he could take her statement himself.
His office was a stark contrast to Ibarra's cluttered, lived-in converted closet on the other side of the squad room. She had been to this building many times, but this was her first time in this room.
The police chief had a corner office with big windows that looked out onto a stand of birch trees where birds twittered in the dusk. The soft leaves rustled in the ocean breeze, and the bark of the straight trunks was starkly white against the rich green of a close-cropped lawn.
The office was as elegant and serene as the view out the windows. The furniture was sleek and modern, bleached wood tones accented with steel, and the surfaces were bare, with any stray papers neatly corralled into black leather letter holders and custom folios imprinted with the Carita PD logo.
On the corner of his desk was an award, crystal with gold accents, that marked some civic achievement.
She didn't bother to read the engraving on it. He had received a lot of awards, and in her more cynical moments she had thought that mattered more to him than the crime victims he was supposed to care about. She wasn't thinking that now, though.
Because right now the chief's immaculate suit pants were wrinkled from crouching down in that isolated little cabin in the woods where he'd had to examine the body of the young employee he'd probably mostly ignored during her working hours.
Randall took off his suit jacket and hung it up on a coat rack in the corner. Then he sat down behind his desk and motioned again for her to take one of the plush leather seats positioned across from him.
Maggie sat.
"Would you like a cup of coffee?" he asked, then froze.
The question hung there in the air, echoing in Maggie's mind.
Her startled expression made his eyes widen too, as he realized that the person who had usually fetched coffee was now in the morgue.
He stood up quickly. "I'll get it. What would you like?"
Maggie shook her head. "Nothing for me. Thank you."
He nodded. Then sat down again. They looked at each other a bit awkwardly.
"I'm sorry," he said honestly, breaking the ice. "I hardly knew her. But I know she was your friend."
"Thank you," Maggie said.
It was probably the most polite exchange she'd ever had with the police chief. She had actually met him for the first time a few years ago, when he first moved to Carita after being hired as their chief of police. Her ex-husband used to host the fancy police charity fundraisers that greased the wheels in Carita.
Randall had quickly made himself buddy-buddy with all the rich citizens who lived on The Row, the exclusive street where Casablanca and the other millionaire's mansions paraded along the oceanfront cliff.
Randall knew how to play the game in town. How to get on the good side of the people who "mattered" in Carita. How to get funding for his pet projects. How to look the other way when a wealthy man's son went for a joy ride. How to quickly find the culprit when the local golf pro had his clubs stolen from his unlocked car. How to smile and make small talk with the people who valued such things.
And in exchange, he had no trouble getting a bond passed to pay for additional officers and a new police building. He scratched their backs and they scratched his, and everybody was happy.
It was all part of the phoniness and class-based special treatment that Maggie despised. And she'd despised Randall for enthusiastically participating in it, though she supposed that was the only way he'd been able to get things accomplished.
She had never liked special treatment for the insiders over the outsiders. But now—now that Lauren was dead and someone out there was responsible for it—Maggie wanted every bit of special treatment Randall could bring to bear on the case.
So when he cleared his throat and opened up a portfolio to a pristine new white sheet of paper and began to ask questions, with a hesitancy that made it clear he hadn't done this sort of thing in a while, she didn't act snarky. She didn't smirk or sneer or roll her eyes as he stumbled over the personal questions that made him as uncomfortable as they made her.
She answered as openly and as honestly as she could, giving Chief Randall every bit of help she could so he would be able to fill out his report and make a start on solving the murder of Lauren Douglas.
When it was all done, he thanked her for her time, without a bit of his usual sarcasm, because he had always disliked her as much as she had him. This new truce between them continued as he stood up and opened his office door, and again offered his condolences for the loss of her friend, and then told her, still in that subdued tone he'd had throughout the interview, to please go home and not discuss the case with others.
"And don't get involved, Ms. McJasper," he said at the last. "Not this time. Please. I know how you like to think of yourself as an amateur sleuth, but not this time."
She didn't point out that she had solved several cases when the police had fingered the wrong person.
He knew she was holding back from saying it aloud, and he nodded. "I know you have an insatiable curiosity about police work, but please keep it in check. This time you could do some real harm. When we find the killer we want the case to stick. We're going to do every single thing exactly by the book. So when we catch the person who murdered Lauren Douglas, we'll make sure they get everything they deserve."
And for once she agreed with him.
Ibarra was standing on the steps as she left the police station. She got the sense he had been waiting for her. He peppered her with questions, seeming to want to go over every question the chief had asked, and every one of her responses. She tried to answer him, but finally said, "Just read the report, Will. I'm too tired to answer any more questions. Too tired and too depressed, okay?"
He shrugged. "Okay. So I'll drive you home," he said.
"It's not necessary," she answered. "I can walk home. It's only a few blocks."
But he pointed out that the dogs were still in the back seat of his SUV, which she'd been too stressed to even remember. So she followed him to his car and got into the passenger seat.
She turned around and apologized to the boys, who had been sleeping on the back seat in the cold, dark vehicle. They didn't seem worried at all, though Hendrix still let out an occasional whine that made her wonder if he had finally realized his person wasn't coming back. But there was nothing she could do about it, so she turned around and faced the front and tried not to think.
And Ibarra drove her home.
He switched on the radio to fill the silence. Not the police radio (which chattered softly on low in the background as soon as he started the car), but the FM radio. It was tuned to the local rock station, and they listened as a Tom Petty song ended and then segued into the booming chords of Girl, You Rock Me Right, the first hit by the band Deep Creek. Deep Creek had been Reese's band, back when he'd been a sexy teenaged rock star, and the song had long ago entered the lexicon of California beach song classics, perfect for a top-down road trip on an endless summer day.
Neither of them said a word as Reese's inimitable teenaged baritone belted out the lyrics about a pretty girl riding shotgun in the passenger seat of a small-town boy's car while he swore his love to her. The song had been the hottest thing a long time ago, in some faraway place filled with sunshine and happiness. A fantasy world where no one got hurt, and no one would ever die.
She reached over and switched off the radio, finding it all unbearable.
Ibarra's smile was wan. "I'd expect Charm Boy's song to be your favorite," he said as they pulled into the driveway of Casablanca. He always called Reese Charm Boy, and usually she found it funny. But not today.
He parked the SUV. She got out and so did he. She opened the back door and the dogs jumped down and went to water the shrubs at the edge of the driveway.
"I'm not in the mood to hear about true love and happy endings right now," she said.
He followed her up onto the tiny house porch. The two dogs finished their business and came up onto the porch to preen and bump against them.
She put the dogs inside and told them to go lie down. Then she sat down on the steps outside and Ibarra sat next to her.
The sky was dark now, and she vaguely wondered what time it was. Not anywhere near 11:30, she was sure. Still early evening. The first evening of a world with no Lauren Douglas in it.
She put her head in her hands. "I just wish I understood," she said. "I wish I knew what Lauren was doing when she left Hendrix with me and disappeared. It was deliberate. I'm sure of it. She was planning something, and she needed me to take care of Hendrix while she did it. But I swear I got the feeling she believed she might not come back from it, whatever it was."
"And she was right," Ibarra said quietly.
"But what was she involved in? Was she planning to meet someone? Who could it have been?"
She turned to Ibarra but he didn't say anything.
"I know you aren't allowed to tell a civilian about police business, but do they have any idea what happened?"
He shrugged. "I really don't know."
"I mean, did they find her phone? Had she called anyone? Did she have a, I don't know, a diary, or a computer or something?"
He shrugged. "I don't know."
"This isn't the time to pull that with me, Will!" She was tired, and she knew it was unfair to snap at him, but she couldn't help it. "I know you have to hold some evidence back from the public, but I'm not the public. I was the one who got this whole thing started. And you know you can trust me not to tell anyone stuff I'm supposed to keep secret."
"I don't know anything," he repeated.
"Of course you know," she said. "You know everything the police are doing."
"I mean," he said carefully, "I truly don't know. I've been taken off the case."
"I know Chief Randall is leading the team, but you're still part of the team, aren't you?"
He shook his head, "I told you, I've been removed from the case."
"Oh," she said, getting it. "You mean because you discovered the body?"
"No, Maggie. Because I dated her."
Chapter Ten
"You what?" She leaned back against the steps and felt the wood against her back, harsh and uncomfortable, like the news she was hearing.
Ibarra shrugged. "I went out with her."
"You went out with her?" Maggie shook her head. "With Lauren? Really?"
"Just once. It was nothing." But it wasn't nothing. Maggie could see that from his expression. She thought about his red eyes at the crime scene, and h
is odd behavior.
"When was this?" she asked.
"When Lauren first came to work for the department. It must have been nearly a year ago?" He shrugged. "I forget exactly. She was new in town. She didn't know anyone. And she was cute. So I asked her out. And she said yes. So we dated."
He glanced at Maggie. "Don't give me that look."
"What look?" she asked. But she knew which one. The one that said she hadn't known her friends as well as she thought she had. She had seen Lauren and Ibarra together at the police station many times, and she never picked up any romantic vibe between them. "Wow," she said.
"It wasn't a love affair," he insisted. "It was just a date, and it was a long time ago. We didn't hit it off. Romantically, I mean. I liked her. Liked her a lot. And I hope it was mutual. She was smart, and had a sly sense of humor she didn't let out very often. Every once in a while, she'd let you see what she was thinking, and it would make you laugh."
"Sounds like you," Maggie observed.
"I guess," he admitted. "But there was no spark between us. She was… closed-off. All our conversations were very superficial. You know?"
"I know," Maggie said. She sure did. There was a whole secret life Lauren hadn't shared with the people around her.
"So we just went out once," he finished, and she noticed how he kept emphasizing that it was just a single date. Why was he doing that? "And then went our separate ways," he explained. "We liked each other, but not in that way."
"But then why are you being taken off the case?" Maggie asked, wondering what he wasn't telling her. She had a sneaking suspicion he wasn't being totally honest. Maybe he had stronger feelings for Lauren than he was admitting.
But he just said, "I'm off the case because Randall wants this done by the book."
"That's what he told me," she agreed. "By the book. So the killer can't go free on a technicality."
"Exactly," he said. "My past personal relationship with her could be brought up at a trial. It could be used to cloud the case and make it look like the police have some sort of vendetta against whoever did this. It would look like I was out for revenge. I could be accused of not acting professionally, of railroading the eventual suspect because of my personal feelings. Randall doesn't want there to be anything that a defense attorney could use to get an acquittal or a mistrial."
Maggie and the Whiskered Witness Page 6