Aftermath Page 10

  I said, “How are you feeling, Captain Underpants?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I definitely prefer ‘Watson.’ Actually, I’m doing a little better. The aspirins are kicking in.”

  “You recall much from last night?”

  His expression turned wary, as if he were bracing for the worst. “What’d I do?”

  I wanted to run with it, tell him he’d put a drunken move on me, but I reminded myself not to tease so much. “Nothing bad,” I said. “But do you remember me going over to talk to David Stark?”

  As he nodded and stared at his coffee, I took the Admit One card from my purse. “He said you could tell me how to get to his place. I have an appointment with him at 10:15.”

  Tim drew a map and jotted directions on a napkin and slid it over. “I had to drop some documents there a few times; he’s a client of ours. The man likes his privacy—he’s way out in the country, a good twenty minutes from here.” He glanced at the time on his phone. “After we eat, I’ll take you home so you can get your rental car.”

  “Well, there’s a problem with that. Fortunately, I’ve got my dad’s cars.” I told him about the vandalized tires and lawn jockey.

  “Damn,” he said, “that’s cold. I hope it’s not because we’ve been hanging together.”

  Again with the persecution complex, but I knew I’d run into a brick wall pursuing that comment, so instead I asked, “After I get back from David’s, can I take you to lunch?”

  “Normally I’d say yes, but Mr. Pearson needs me to handle some filings—including all that paperwork you signed—up at the county courthouse today. It’s not exactly walking distance from Graylee, and I gotta get up there and back before the snow comes.” Even he looked a little panicked by the impending “snow-pocalypse.” A quarter-inch must’ve been a huge deal if one had never seen more than a few flurries.

  Envisioning the population of Graylee at their windows, counting every icy flake, I said, “I guess the town will shut down by noon, so I better file a vandalism report ASAP. Cade can drop me at home before I head to David’s.”

  Tim paused until Doris set down our meals and then departed. Squirting a lake of sriracha onto his plate, he said, “You going to tell him about your appointment with David Stark?”

  “I guess so. Any reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s just going to be an interesting conversation is all.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER 9

  After breakfast, Tim dropped me off at the courthouse. He said, “Good luck.”

  “Come on, give me a hint at least.” He merely grinned in response, so I said, “Okay, but just remember who has the kryptonite, Man of Steel.”

  “Jesus, I’m never going to live that one down.”

  “So spill.”

  “Nope—can’t wait to hear about it.”

  I shut the passenger door and headed up the concrete stairs. The clouds had thickened and lowered; it looked more and more like a snow sky. A cruel wind played havoc with my hair just before I made it inside, and I had to pat it back into shape—except, of course, for Mom’s renegade cowlick. Then I descended into what Cade had called the “dungeon.”

  The police chief was standing beside his chair when I entered, dressed again in a dark blue uniform shirt with black slacks. He must’ve heard my boots on the steps. “Morning, Ms. Wright.”

  “Janet,” I reminded him. “Good morning.” I made steady eye contact, partly to avoid staring at the open cell doors.

  “You have a good evening?” He indicated the chair across from him.

  “Just awesome,” I said. After draping my coat across the chair back, I sat and waited for him to do likewise before I added, “Someone jabbed a knife into all four tires of my car. I’ll need a police report to send to the rental car people.”

  With a grimace, the chief opened a file on his laptop. “I’m real sorry. This is the first vandalism problem we’ve had since the Zabriski twins graduated in May.”

  “Either they’re back or the property is cursed.”

  My joke fell flat as Cade continued to frown at me. “It’s hard for me to not take these things personally—like I told you yesterday, Graylee’s usually a safe, peaceful place to live.” He typed a few things into the form on his screen.

  “You need the address?”

  “Kind of hard for me to forget that one. I only had to type it about fifty times in July.” He clicked more keys and then pointed out a bulging manila folder on the corner of his paper-strewn desk. “That’s your copy of the case file.”

  He quizzed me about the timeline and details of my discovery. His questions were delivered gently, as if he understood how upsetting the incident had been. I appreciated the serious attention he gave something that, were I in a Manhattan precinct, would’ve been regarded as trivial. “Just kids screwing around,” they would’ve said before shooing me out the door.

  When I mentioned meeting David Stark at Azteca, Cade only grunted. Maybe he actually didn’t have any feelings about the author, and Tim was just getting back at me for teasing him so much. I downplayed how drunk my friend had gotten, but the police chief still made a point of thanking me for not letting him drive.

  As I continued to dictate my statement, Cade rapidly clicked keys, never once glancing at his fingers. When he wasn’t checking his screen, he was looking at me. I noticed details about him I’d overlooked in our two previous meetings. What I’d dismissed before as average brown eyes really were more complex: cappuccino blended with a stippling of olive. He had a generous mouth, and his nice smile revealed white teeth. Not so much of a Medium Man after all. Of course, there was his whole big-guy-in-charge vibe—strong, capable, powerful—but I also liked how his touch-typing and sensitive interviewing style punctured that cliché.

  He saved the file, printed two copies, and handed one to me. “Normally I take my coffee break at the diner now,” he said, glancing at his watch, “but let’s go up to your father’s place instead so I can see the car and that jockey statue.”

  “The scene of the crime?”

  “I was trying not to sound like a TV cop. Do you still have Tim’s car, or do you need to ride along with me?”

  I said, “I’m on foot patrol this morning. Walking the beat.”

  He shook his head, grinning. “Okay, you get one more of those but that’s it.”

  I stood and pulled on my coat. “I don’t want you to miss Billy’s coffee. We could stop by the diner first—I’ll spring for the donuts.”

  “Couldn’t resist, huh?” He got up and patted his stomach, which looked flat to me. Rock-hard, in fact. “Sorry, no more donuts for this fella.” He strapped his equipment belt with holstered gun around that trim waist, retrieved a leather bomber jacket from behind the door, and locked up behind us.

  From his jacket pocket, he withdrew a plastic placard with Velcro backing and tapped it in place against a strip on the door. The sign provided his cell number and a reminder to call 911 in case of emergency. As we walked up the stairs, I entered his information into my phone and saved it. Just in case. There were some emergencies 911 wasn’t meant to address.

  Though I once lived with an NYPD detective, I had never sat in a police car before. Cade’s was surprisingly clean and modern, each window meticulously scraped free of the morning frost. He drove a Chevy Caprice with what I assumed was the full police package, including a push bar in front and a light bar on top. When I climbed into the passenger side, I half-hoped I’d find a wet bar, too, but instead I saw a swivel-mounted laptop on the dash, a riot gun clamped upright between the front seats, and a plastic barrier sealing off the rear passenger compartment.

  The clear shield reminded me of New York taxis, but without the little pass-through window for cash and receipts. Probably no tiny TV playing back there either.<
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  I set the case file on the rubber floor mat and tried to get comfy. My shoulder blades found the cushion but there was no support for the lower part of my spine, which soon started to ache. “Fancy,” I said, wriggling my butt against the plush upholstery, “but my lumbar can’t quite settle in right.”

  “The seats are scooped out to make room for all the gear on our belts. It’s a nice touch—when I was a rookie in Atlanta, I couldn’t ever get comfortable in those old patrol cars.” He pointed at the purse on my lap. “Tuck that behind you. I bet it’ll hit your back just right.”

  I did get some relief that way, though the cosmetics, emergency phone charger, and all of the other stuff crammed into my purse made it feel like I’d propped myself against a jumble of building blocks. When I was younger, I never even noticed my lumbar. Welcome to forty.

  Gesturing at the laptop and the grime-free dash, I said, “This looks a lot better than I thought a small-town cop car would.”

  “Picturing that old Ford from The Andy Griffith Show?” He whistled a bit of the theme as he strapped in. I hoped he hadn’t noticed when I flinched at the mention of “Andy.” His gaiety seemed forced, so it wasn’t a surprise when his next comment came out much more somberly. “Actually, it was a gift from your dad. He didn’t want me and my deputies driving around in dusty rattletraps. Thought this would reflect better on the town, give people a sense of pride.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet the drunks you haul to jail on Saturday night comment about how proud they feel.” I turned sideways so I could face him and also peer through the plastic into the back. It looked as bland as the passenger compartment of any sedan—contoured fabric and seat belts—but something about the barrier made it exotic and dangerous, like a cage at the zoo.

  Cade checked his mirrors and reversed out of the diagonal parking space. We headed up Main Street at a funereal pace—I could’ve jogged alongside and kept up with him. In a weary voice, he said, “The answer is ‘no.’”

  “About the proud drunks?”

  “I reckon, but mostly about your next question: ‘Have I ever sat back there, can you sit back there, has anyone ever thrown up back there, have I ever had sex back there?’ Take your pick. Everybody asks at least one, sometimes all four.”

  I couldn’t help envisioning some backseat gymnastics with Cade—it was like being told not to think of a pink elephant. Playing the innocent, though, I said, “Surely no one really asks about, you know, getting it on.”

  “More than you’d think. I guess it’s the uniform, the gun, the badge. You know, power and authority.” He shook his head in dismissal of those things that, I had to admit, were part of his growing attraction to me. “Even as small as Graylee is, we’ve still got some groupies. ‘Hands off’ is the first thing I have to tell a new deputy.”

  “So much for the perks of the job.”

  The surprising sex talk made me want to wriggle again, but I contented myself with watching him and how carefully he drove. Slow and steady—I checked out the back seat again and wondered if he’d do everything that way.

  As if realizing he’d lingered on a taboo topic, he added, “Civilians ask about a lot of other things, too. ‘Have you ever pinned the speedometer, can we turn on the siren and lights, can we call someone on the two-way radio, can I touch your gun?’” He shook his head again.

  “Is it mostly the groupies who ask that last question?”

  “Very funny.”

  I summarized, “Pretty much, your answer to every question we ‘civilians’ ask is ‘no’?”

  “Yes.”

  He said it so deadpan I had to laugh. I liked this guy more and more. It must’ve shown on my face, because when he glanced over and met my eyes, he flushed and turned back so fast I heard his neck pop. A good sign.

  I asked what I’d thought was an obvious follow-up: “Don’t you think we all wonder the same things because most people are fascinated by cops?”

  Cade turned the car onto Brady Stapleton Boulevard, and his demeanor changed back to all-business again. “These days, most folks are more afraid of, than ‘fascinated by,’ the police. What they see on the news is a handful of officers gunning down the innocent and choking unarmed people to death. They never see the rest of us helping anybody or having to deal with idiots, the insane, or plain ol’ bad guys. Nobody can imagine what we really do or why we do it.”

  Wanting to get us back on happier footing, I said, “I think most cops are awesome. You’re doing a job the rest of us would be too scared to try.”

  Cade didn’t appear to notice the compliment. He plowed on, almost as if he were talking to himself. “Nobody likes to think about it, but there are evil people out there, and we’re the ones who have to deal with them.” His face had gone gray and a muscle now twitched beneath his right eye. “Sometimes that evil rubs off—I’ve seen it. Mostly, though, it just leaves scars.”

  He stared through the windshield as we approached my father’s house. His eyes seemed to be scanning the second floor, where he’d had to confront that evil six months earlier.

  My attention drifted to the rental car, settled on the gravel over its flattened tires. Sunshine had warmed the air a little, but frost still covered the back window of the sedan. On that glittering white backdrop, sometime in the past few hours, the maniac had returned and carved a single word there with his fingertip: “MURDER.”

  Cade stopped behind my rental, his gaze still fixed on the upstairs windows. I touched his arm and pointed at the word. We stared at it together. I couldn’t hear anything but the humming motor, the vents breathing heat on us, and the rapid thumping of my heart.

  The gritty city girl I so often tried to be would’ve trotted out some brassy quip, but I couldn’t find my voice. Fear and anger battled inside me again. Who would be so hateful that he’d want to remind me about Dad’s fate? Or was it a threat from a second killer, now coming after me? This time would Cade be able to stop him?

  He shut off the engine. “Stay here,” he commanded. Besides the no-nonsense tone, there was something else in his voice, a slight quaver. Was he afraid, too? He climbed out, removed his cell phone from a pants pocket, and took photos of the window.

  I expected him to walk around the vehicle and photograph every tire, but his attention shifted to the ground. It was a crime scene, I reminded myself; the car with its flat tires wasn’t going anywhere. Better to look for something dropped or another sort of clue before trampling all over potential evidence.

  Watching professionals do whatever they were good at always had appealed to me, from brokers to bricklayers. As Cade took his time, squatting often to examine patches of pea gravel and the skewered tires, I quelled my own fear and banked my anger. I didn’t have to deal with this alone. My father’s avenger would become mine as well.

  After taking pictures of the tires and the lawn jockey, the police chief moved to the rear of the sedan again and got some close-ups of the frost-writing. He was about to slip the phone back into his pocket when he froze. Then he backed off, peering at the horizontal surface of the trunk lid from different angles. Finally, he captured more images. A notebook and pen soon replaced the phone in his hands, and he filled three pages.

  Cade returned to the car and climbed in beside me. His bomber jacket radiated cold, making me shiver again. He said, “Whoever it was wanted to be sure you got that message, in case the frost melted before you came back. The same thing was scratched on the trunk.”

  “Like with a knife?”

  “Or the tip of a flathead screwdriver.”

  “But we know he has a knife, because of the tires.”

  He shook his head. “We don’t even know if it’s a ‘he’ or a ‘she.’ Someone could’ve used a screwdriver on the valve stems—pushed in the tip and let out the air from each one, then put the cap back on. Until we take the tires off and test them for cuts, we can’t say for sure.”


  I wanted a decisive sort of lawman, someone who would eagerly corroborate the drama I’d sketched out in my mind and plot a way to catch the creep. Instead, my avenging angel was indeed the slow-and-steady, deliberative type. Never enough data, always wanting one more piece of evidence before drawing what should’ve been an obvious conclusion. I snapped, “Why are you arguing with me about technicalities? Someone’s throwing ‘murder’ in my face.”

  My yelling didn’t appear to bother him—no doubt dealing with emotional citizens came with the job. Keeping his voice even, he said, “I’m not trying to start a fight with you. It’s just important that I follow the facts instead of jumping to conclusions.”

  I jabbed my index finger toward the hateful word carved into the frost. “What does that fact tell you?”

  “Not much, only that the person who did it knows how to spell.” He snorted at his attempt at humor, but I didn’t even crack a smile, so he added, “I don’t know the reason, the why. Yeah, it could be a threat. On the other hand, it might be a heads-up, a warning. Maybe it’s a sick joke about your dad. We can’t say.”

  He was so goddamn calm, I wanted to slap him. Instead, I whipped off my seat belt and bolted from the car. Glaring back inside, I said, “It’s a wonder you killed Wallace Landry—even with that smoking pistol in his hand. I’m surprised you didn’t ask him to stand there so you could fuck around with some test to see if he’d really pulled the trigger. Seventeen times.” I slammed the door and marched to the back of my rental car.

  The day had warmed a bit, and the frost was melting, slowly erasing the word. On the trunk lid, the maniac had scored “MURDER” deep into the black paint. The block letters glinted as silver as the knife blade that must’ve carved them. I scanned the trees ringing the hilltop, feeling someone watch me. Maybe laughing to himself and biding his time.

  “Come out,” I shouted at the pines. “Show yourself.” My voice echoed mockingly, making me feel even more ridiculous.

  Gravel crunched from behind, startling me. Cade murmured, “This is what I mean when I say nobody can imagine what we really do or why we do it. We solve puzzles, sift evidence, and analyze. We’re truth-seekers and keepers of the peace. We don’t go off half-cocked.” He stopped alongside me, my copy of the case file in hand. “Here you are, yelling at the woods, daring someone to show himself—or herself—knowing this person is armed with something sharp.”