A Stranger Lies There (25 page)

“It's just that—” Her voice hitched in her throat. “Goddamnit, I hate this. I haven't been to work since Deirdre. If this can happen to her … I almost scored the other day, Tim. I mean, what's the point?”

“What stopped you?”

“My ATM card.” I heard a wet laugh, then a sniffle. “The fuckin' picture on it. Deirdre always liked it. I was all set to get the cash.”

“A big part of her is still with you,” I told her, hating how hollow it sounded.

“I know.” She got herself together. “So why did you call?”

I told her about the funeral, asked if she could let everyone else at the clinic know. “There's a couple of her clients I was going to call myself. You find Terry's number?”

“Yeah. She wants to give the eulogy. I said okay.”

“God, I hadn't even thought about that.”

“Get some rest, Tim. You sound on your last legs.”

“What was the picture, Allie? On your card.”

A pause. “One of those nature shots. A dolphin leaping out of the water.”

We said goodbye shortly after that. As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again.

“You never told us where you were the other day,” Tidwell said when I answered.

“Must've slipped my mind. I'm here now.”

“I guess you've heard?”

“You mean about the boy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Just now.”

“Name doesn't ring a bell, does it?”

“Only—” I started, then stopped myself, not sure how much they'd said about him on TV. “No, it doesn't.”

“What were you going to say?”

“Only what I got from the TV report.”

“I assume Deirdre never mentioned the father before? Being from New York?”

“It's a big city, detective.”

“Yeah, okay. But you'll let us know if you think of anything, right?”

“I want to find her killer as much as you do.” Still nothing on the TV, except for talk shows, court TV programs and a soap opera.

“You called here earlier, right?” Tidwell asked.

“That's right. The guy I talked to didn't mention all this.”

“He wouldn't have volunteered it without consulting me or Detective Branson.”

I wanted to ask more about the victim and his father, but I didn't. I was sick of spinning my wheels with questions they wouldn't answer. My trip to New York was on the tip of my tongue, but I kept my mouth shut on that too. I needed time to think.

Tidwell interrupted my thoughts. “That's it for now. We have your wife's client files to see if anything jumps out at us. We'll let you know if we need you.”

I called Patrick Reed next, and left the information about the funeral on his girlfriend's voice mail, glad I didn't have to speak with anybody in person. There was too much on my mind. I wasn't so lucky with Michael D'Angelo, the man I'd gone out to see in Banning. He wanted to talk, but I brushed him off, saying we'd talk tomorrow evening.

The last of the phone calls done, I unplugged the phone and collapsed on the living room couch. What I'd learned today shed no light on who could have killed Deirdre, or who those men in New York were. The news had just started, and I waited for the story. It didn't take long. Clayton was answering questions in front of reporters, looking pretty shell-shocked. His son had taken a spring break road trip, and hadn't checked in or answered his cell phone. Clayton thought he'd been with a friend, but couldn't say who it was or where exactly they'd been going. He had no idea why his son could have been killed. I scanned the people around him, a few men in suits, but didn't see anyone resembling the pair who'd taken me from that club. The whole thing was baffling, raising more questions than it answered. None of the other stations had anything substantially different to report.

I turned off the TV, drained, and lay back on the cushions. Unable to shut down, I eventually stopped trying. The night in New York kept coming back. I had to make a decision about what, if anything, to tell the police. The men who beat me up were obviously on the wrong side of the law. But that meant less to me than the fact that they were obviously after the same thing I was. And I had to figure that if they were involved in either crime, I wouldn't have made it back here alive. I didn't give a damn what they were into if it couldn't tell me the identity of the killer. Even if I found out how they were linked to the first victim, that didn't guarantee an answer to the most important question. No, whichever way I looked at it, there was only one conclusion: to leave them alone right now. And by extension, not tell the cops anything yet either; I couldn't do much from jail.

Painful as it was, my interrogation by those men in that dockside warehouse had actually helped. Their apparent dismissal of a possible drug connection, along with their obvious interest in Turret, had pointed me straight back here. If they were interested in Turret, then so was I. And I wanted to find him before they did.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I slept on and off until late the following day, then had to hurry to get ready in time for the funeral. The drive to the cemetery was one of the longest of my life. I was wearing the suit I'd got married in, maybe for the last time. The late afternoon sun was directly ahead, blinding my eyes the whole way. Halfway there, the wind kicked up, bowing the trees at the roadside rest stop, where a line of eighteen-wheelers had pulled over to avoid being capsized. My car struggled through it for each mile like a swimmer going against a riptide.

Just past Cabazon the wind began to subside, and by the time I reached Beaumont the air was calm. From the freeway, I could see the cemetery lot starting to fill up.

In the back of the chapel, I greeted Deirdre's friend Terry, one of the late arrivals. She looked like she'd been crying. Her husband's name went right past me.

“Terry was always talking about Deirdre. Feel like I knew her pretty good. Don't know why we never met,” he said. Terry looked away, embarrassed, and her husband stared at his shoes awkwardly. Funerals were a killer.

“I guess we all get busy sometimes,” I said, trying to think of the last time I'd seen Terry. It had been a good while.

“I wish I'd kept in touch better,” she said softly, a tear rolling down her cheek. She wiped it away roughly.

“Stop it, Terry. You were her best friend.”

“I meant to call last week,” she said, her eyes searching mine. “After … after the first one.”

“That's okay,” I said with a smile I didn't feel. “You probably wouldn't have gotten through all the reporters anyway.”

She squeezed my hand gratefully and followed her husband to a pew. Patrick came in with his girlfriend, who looked radiant in her pregnancy despite the solemn occasion. He pulled me aside after introducing us and finding a seat for her.

“I wasn't sure if I should bring this up here,” he began hesitantly.

“What?”

“About what you asked me the other day?”

I nodded, waving my hand impatiently.

“It's nothing really. I talked to a few of my buddies—people I used to hang out with—”

“You mean drug buddies,” I said, shaking my head. “Deirdre would have killed me.”

“It's okay, man. I'm cool. They just told me they haven't heard jack. Nothing about any drug violence going down lately. As far as this thing goes.”

That jibed with the feeling I'd gotten in New York. “All right. I appreciate it. But don't worry about what I need anymore, okay? You have your own things to deal with.”

“I just … I had to do something. I owe it to Deirdre.”

Not like I do
.

The service started a few minutes later, a quiet and simple one. Terry gave the eulogy. She talked about her stay at Triumph Outreach, the work camp near Yucca Valley, drying out with Deirdre. The hotter it got up there, the more determined Deirdre became not to let anything beat her, ever again. I was proud to see so many of Deirdre's clients in the congregation nodding at the memory. Afterwards I sat in the empty chapel long after the others filed out, hardly aware of their kind words as they left. Eventually the funeral director put a hand on my shoulder and led me out into the oncoming dusk.

I trudged through the well-tended lawn to the large oak tree overhanging the gravesite. The hole was a perfectly proportioned rectangle, the mound next to it covered by a grass-green tarp. I took my place in front, acknowledging a few people I recognized. A white hearse with blacked-out windows slowly pulled away from the back of the chapel. Nobody spoke as it approached, engine idling softly, gravel popping under the tires. Leaves rustled in the tree above our heads. A solitary acorn dropped to the ground a few feet away with a soft
thunk
. I looked away as the attendants wrestled with the coffin.

The sun was setting behind a low rim of distant purple hills. Sprinklers
snipped
softly in a far corner of the property, throwing lazy arcs of water into the air, the breeze bearing random sprays of mist. Phantom rainbows shimmered in the dying sunlight.

I thought back a few years, to my father's funeral. Standing next to his coffin in an ill-fitting suit, wondering whether Mom would show up. They'd put makeup on Dad's face and groomed his hair perfectly. Hands folded peacefully on his chest. A rosary intertwined in the fingers, which were neatly manicured. He still wore the gold wedding band, hopeful to the end, and I'd fixated on that through most of the service. Then the tap on my shoulder telling me it was time to leave. I remembered being glad that my father's eyes were closed, so I wouldn't have to see the disappointment in them one last time.

The minister's voice brought me back to the present. I tried to listen, but his words all ran together. Behind him, the sun melted like butter on the horizon.

Afterwards, I mingled with Deirdre's coworkers, talking with several of her clients I'd never met before. D'Angelo hadn't made it, and I hoped he was all right. Allie found me and gave me a hug. “I'm so sorry, Tim.” She tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “And about yesterday. I didn't mean to burden you with my problems.”

I told her I didn't mind.

“We're going to have a thing at the clinic. We got some food and stuff.”

I was about to reply when I saw Branson and Tidwell a few yards away. They stood in the shadows of the tree, both dressed in dark suits and wearing sunglasses.

“Maybe I'll see you there,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. I approached the two detectives, noticing that the sprinklers in the background had shut off. The last of the sun was a pool of molten gold sinking into the earth.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked.

Tidwell took off his sunglasses. “We wanted to pay our respects, tell you how sorry we are.” He gave Branson an uncomfortable glance, then continued uncertainly. “We know how much good she did for a lot of people,” he said, gesturing to the departing guests.

“I appreciate that,” I offered, knowing there was something else.

“We also thought we'd see if there was anybody unfamiliar or suspicious hanging around,” Branson said. “Killers do that sometimes.”

“I thought the official line was that she OD'd.”

“It is,” Tidwell answered. “We're here on our time.” He glanced at the open grave and looked down quickly.

“Any progress on the first murder?”

Tidwell shook his head. “We're coming up zeros on that. Even with the name. Clayton hasn't been able to give us much so far.”

I briefly considered coming clean about New York again, but didn't want to risk it. Instead, I asked about something that had been brought up there, tried to put it as mildly as possible. “So where did they release Turret from?”

Tidwell put his sunglasses back on and Branson didn't move. They'd been hiding something. Something important. I tensed, hoping for an answer.

“Why?” Branson asked warily. “You remember what we told you.”

Who's kidding who?
I wanted to say. “Have you been able to track him down?”

“Not yet.”

“I was just curious if he'd ever been transferred out of Lompoc.”

They gave each other a quick glance; Branson shrugged. “He ended up at Calipatria. That's where he was released from,” he finally admitted.

Right down the road. “You didn't think we needed to know that?” I asked very quietly.

“We didn't want you muckin' around down there,” Branson responded.

Is that why you lied to me in the car the other day?

“He was supposed to be getting on a bus for El Paso. Knows some ex-cons who run a church down there,” Tidwell explained. “There was no reason for us to believe he didn't do that. Besides, he wasn't released on parole, he did all his time. We have no hold on him.”

“So what?”

“So the man deserves his right to privacy, wherever he is,” Branson replied. “Unless there was more than just coincidence to link him to a murder. And all that became irrelevant anyway.”

“We told you the truth about the mixup on his release,” Tidwell insisted.

“Tell me straight. Was he out in time for Deirdre?”

Branson didn't blink. “Barely.”

Maybe it didn't matter if they were lying. Maybe, from the start, I'd needed to find Turret for other reasons.

“What the hell was he doing at Calipatria anyway? Why there?”

“He developed some sort of respiratory problem,” Tidwell explained. “Almost died from it from what we were told. He needed the desert air to breathe.”

“Look, we know you're upset, but we didn't come here to talk about Turret,” Branson interjected.

“Fine,” I said. “I appreciate you still working on it. But I knew most of the people here, and the ones I didn't were obviously acquainted with Deirdre and the others. No quiet strangers hanging around.”