Blood Ties (11 page)

black lacquer end table, and studied the metal coat tree by the front door before coming to rest on her ring again.

“You’re sure? Anything would help us at this point.”

“And nothing is going to bring her back.” She cocked her head; the necklace spilled over her shoulder. “Why are you here asking these questions? I know David hired you.

Ask him.”

“What do you think of David?”

“Why does that matter?” Th

e gist of Kevin’s question

slapped color in her ashen cheeks. “You don’t think
he
killed her?”

Kevin raised his hands.

“No way.” Fine hair moved back and forth, pale sea-weed, as she shook her head. “David loved her. David and I were the
only
ones that loved her. He wouldn’t hurt her.”

Kevin expertly worked Meredith over with silence.

“I’d never hurt her either, if that’s your next stupid 108

question,” she snarled.

“But aren’t you hurting her now by not being honest with us?”

Kevin’s gentle chiding never had good results with me either. I watched the wheels come off of Meredith Friel.

“Don’t you think if I knew
anything
I’d tell the cops?

Th

ey’ve been here.” Meredith jumped to her feet, folding her arms over her scant chest. “I want someone,
anyone
to care enough to fi nd the son-of-a-bitch that killed her. I want to watch him die for what he did to her. And I want my parents to live in hell for the rest of their lives because it’s their fault that Samantha is dead.”

In the ensuing silence, I wondered if she noticed my heart slide from my body and land on the fl oor at her tiny, fairy feet.

“Meredith . . .” Kevin began again gently.

She whirled on him, blond hair swinging a perfect arc.

“Don’t tell me you understand, because you don’t. No one can possibly know how I feel. I hate him. I hate them. I hate everyone. I hate that the only person I ever gave a shit about is gone forever.” Head buried in hands, her rapid-fi re gunshot sobs ricocheted off the dead walls.

Her outburst shrank the room. Th

e air shriveled, and

left my lungs. I was suff ocating, drowning in sorrow.

When she lifted her tear-fi lled gaze to mine, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t swallow either. In that instant, with my guard down, Meredith recognized that I
did
understand 109

her pain.

I wanted to tell her that living in a constant state of fury only postponed the inevitable breakdown. It would happen to her. If she weren’t strong enough to deal with the emotional backlash, it would destroy her, as it nearly had me.

I couldn’t let that happen. As much as Kevin knows his job, he knows little about the gut-wrenching grief that leaves you breathless. Meredith needed someone who knew it, who’d survived it, most days anyway. Grief 101, I knew it well. I’d come back. Another day. Regardless of the consequences to my mental well being.

“I don’t know anything else. I’ve got to pick up my little brother in a few minutes, so could you please leave?”

Kevin reached to squeeze her shoulder; she deftly dodged his touch without moving her feet.

“Anytime you want to talk,” I said lamely, completely out of touch.

She turned and fl ed into the kitchen.

We let ourselves out.

My sense of futility lingered. Inside Kevin’s car, I drifted into the deep pit where I stored the agony of living through Ben’s death. Also in that murky hole, I stumbled across the sharp pain of losing my mother. Somehow, I clawed my way back to the surface, but found myself still in the dark, staring at the orange glow of Kevin’s dash-board. Night had fallen, pitch black and moonless.

110

But Kevin hadn’t been driving aimlessly while I’d been brooding; we slowed to pull into Fat Bob’s parking lot.

Th

e metal building looked innocuous at night; tempo-rary banners boasted good times, cold beer and hot video games. Pick-ups, older sedans, SUV’s, and bikes, Harleys mostly, circled the perimeter, but the neon motorcycle perched on the roof drew my attention.

Kevin slammed his hands on the steering wheel. “Shit.”

“What? Forget your ID?”

“Ha. Ha.” He scowled. “Can we just forget this? It doesn’t feel right.”

“Why?”

“We haven’t exactly had an auspicious beginning to the night, Jules. First, Charles LaChance drops in, and then Meredith Friel freaks out. I’m thinking . . .”

“I know what you’re thinking, but forget it.”

“What monumental revelations do you think we’re going to glean from Dick Friel tonight?” Spooky, how his white teeth shone yellow against the orange lights. “A tearful confession?”

“He is guilty as hell.” I scooted sideways, pressing my back into the cool glass, kicking my Caterpillar boots up on the armrest dividing the bucket seats. “Okay, Ace Ventura, who’s on your short list?”

“We’re not looking for the killer. We’re only supposed to fi gure out where Sam spent the last two weeks.”

I rolled my eyes. “If you tell yourself that enough, 111

Kev, maybe you’ll believe it. Come on. If we fi nd out where Sam was and why, we both know we’ll have a better shot at fi guring out who killed her and why. So give it up.

Using your best educated guess, who do you think killed Samantha Friel?”

“Charles

LaChance.”

“Seriously?”

His lips parted on a short, frustrated puff of air. “I don’t know. Nothing has changed. We still don’t have squat.”

“Wrong.” I faced forward again, fl ipping open the lighted visor to apply a fresh coat of lipstick. “Charles LaChance may be a prick, but I don’t think he was lying.

Or he’d stoop to murder. What we need to fi nd out, is exactly who
else
was at the fair that night.”

In the mirror, I smoothed my top lip with the bottom.

“Maybe I’ll talk to Nancy Rogers since you think she’s a dead-end. She’s gotta remember something.”

Kevin gave me his “Barney Fife” look. “You expect people to remember details from one night more than seventeen years ago?”

Th

en it clicked. Details. If Shelley had been passed out, how could she have discerned any voices? Not to mention six or seven
separate
voices? When riding in the back of a pick-up? With a coat thrown over her head? She couldn’t have, especially if she’d been in that drunken, blurry state she’d claimed. So, why had she lied?

But what if she had recognized
a
voice? Or two? Th e

112

voice of my rapist haunts me still. Was that weasel-dick Charles LaChance right when he’d claimed Shelley had known her attackers? Who else had Shelley “shared” with?

Was the information important enough to kill?

“Jules?”

His voice startled me and the lipstick tube veered off course. “What?” I dabbed at the red smear on my chin.

“Th

ought I lost you for a minute there.”

“Sorry, not so good at multi-tasking when I’m deep in thought.” I wiped away a mascara smudge from under my left eye. “You and I both know that Shelley was keeping something from us.”

“What about Meredith?”

My hand stilled. “You can’t possibly believe Meredith is capable of killing her sister?”

“No, not that.” He rubbed the stubble on his jaw and raked a hand through his hair; his grooming ritual complete, lucky dog. “But her angry blast of shit didn’t hide my gut feeling that she knows something, but doesn’t trust us.”

“Would you? If you were fi fteen and your world had crumbled? By the way,” I pointed the lipstick tube at him,

“she didn’t seem so aloof to me.”

“You bring out the best in people, baby.”

I puckered and pressed my lips together. “Any more smudges?”

“Yeah.” He stared at my mouth. “Right here.”

113

His thumb delicately rubbed the sensitive skin under my bottom lip, fi ring every neuron. His breath, warm and sweet, fl owed over my cheek. Something indefi nable lurked in his gaze. Something I did not want to deal with tonight.

“Th

anks,” I murmured.

“Anytime,” he said. “Maybe Meredith isn’t aloof, but even you have to admit that she’s unstable.”

“She’s grieving, Kev. Of course she’s unstable. I still think our best bet is good ole’ Dickhead.”

Kevin didn’t smile at my attempt at humor. Instead, he cupped my face in his palms, turning my head back toward him.

“What if we’re both wrong? What if Samantha was a random victim? What if we never discover where she spent the missing two weeks?”

I didn’t respond because Kevin wasn’t expecting a specifi c answer. It helps him to work things out, out loud.

I wanted to off er whatever assistance I could, but I’d been rebuff ed once, so I subtly removed my chin from the tempting warmth of his hand.

Money, cigarettes, and my ID tucked into various pockets: I was ready to roll. “Well, then, it’s up to us, Scully, to uncover the truth.” I grinned, hoping to lighten the mood.

He

fi nally smiled back. “Fine, Mulder, we’ll do it your way. Still, I don’t see Jimmer’s vehicle. With our luck . . .”

“Our luck is bound to change, right? What else could 114

possibly go wrong tonight?” I patted his gun for reassurance.

Kevin’s groan reverberated through the dark night air as we exited the car. “You know I hate it when you say that.”

The mixture of cigarette and pot smoke blasted me in the face when we stepped into Fat Bob’s.

While a bouncer checked our IDs, I checked out his tattoos. I’d fl irted with the tattoo idea the year after I graduated from high school, seeing the markings as rebellious, a bold statement of originality. Th

e concept lost its appeal

when I realized a tattoo wasn’t unique if everybody had one. Here, everybody had one.

Th

e bouncer making change had a black and red snake curling around his wrist, traveling up his bulging bicep. Every time he fl exed, the body of the snake fl owed like water. Cool trick. Th

e snake’s head looked to be in

the middle of the bouncer’s massive chest, hidden under a ripped and faded black Harley Davidson T-shirt. Even though I hated snakes, I stepped closer, hoping for a peek at the rest of the workmanship.

116

An overgrown sow dressed in pink bulled her way beside him.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” she snorted, slanted eyes hidden in piggish folds.

“Just admiring the snake,” I said to the male bouncer.

“Any chance I can see the whole thing?”

He shook his head and Miss Piggy gargled, “Fat fucking chance. Roger don’t show that to no one, least of all to perky blondes.”

Perky? I’d been called many names, but “perky” was a fi rst. I purposely stared at the two inches of black roots which eventually morphed into her frizzy orange hair.

“Since
you
are a bottle blonde, I’m assuming you haven’t witnessed the wonders of his snake either?”

“Get inside or I’ll throw you out before you get drunk and give me an excuse.”

I was about to give her a decidedly non-perky suggestion when Kevin nudged my shoulder.

“Come on, let’s fi nd a seat.”

Her blubbery thighs rubbed against mine as I passed.

“I’ll be watching you, smart mouth.”

Th

e third bouncer turned our direction, swinging a butt-length braid around from a single strip of hair on the back of his head. Reminded me of a Shaolin Warrior from one of those 1970’s kung fu movies. His tattoos weren’t of the pictorial variety, but symbols. Recalling my failure of hieroglyphics in junior high, I imagined that if I questioned 117

him on the meaning of the black squiggles, he’d probably throw me out on my ass as an answer.

Once we stepped into the main part of the bar, the music didn’t stop; no one gaped at us like we’d intruded on a private party. We weren’t challenged to a gun or fi stfi ght.

Again, the real life of a PI wasn’t like on TV. But miracu-lously, the bouncers hadn’t patted Kevin down, so he still had his piece in case trouble came our way.

“Where to?” I yelled in Kevin’s ear over the bleating sounds of Th

e Allman Brothers singing “Ramblin’ Man.”

“I see an open booth in the back.”

I latched onto his belt loops, using the opportunity to press against his excellent butt. A girl had to take her thrills where she could get them.

We skirted the throng of sweaty bodies surrounding the pool tables. Just as we reached the booth, it fi lled with two very large, very hairy men, who immediately fell into deep in conversation or, I suspected, a drug deal.

Th

ey’d probably take notice if Kevin fl ashed his gun.

But that move was more Jimmer’s style and since he wasn’t here and I didn’t want to remind Kevin of that fact, I kept my “Dirty Harry” fantasies to myself.

“Now

what?”

Kevin scanned the area above my head. “Perfect. Two spots just opened up at the bar.”

We made a mad dash for the barstools only to be thwart-ed again, this time by a pair of bleached blondes in studded, 118

leather halter-tops. Two sets of cleavage rivaling Missy’s had brought bartenders scurrying from every direction.

But Kevin held their attention. Using his most devastating grin, he leaned over and spoke directly into blonde No.1’s breasts before gesturing over his shoulder. Skeptical glances gave way to dazzling smiles as they tossed teased hair and puff ed out already puff y chests. Ample butts slid from the barstools, an extra wiggle of generous hips, a high-pitched giggle and they were gone.

“So, slick. What pearls of wisdom did you impart?” I asked.

He seated me fi rst, signaling for two drafts. “Th ose

men in the back booth swore up and down they were models for
Juggs
magazine and they wanted to buy them a Slow Screw.”

“
Juggs
? You read
Juggs
?”

“Nah. Jimmer does. He’ll be disappointed he missed them.”

Didn’t know if Kevin was speaking of the women or their jugs. Th

e frosty beer hit the spot and I lit up to make the decadent taste complete. “Do you see Dick?”