Chasing The Dead (An Alex Stone Thriller) (21 page)

“Wrong about what?”

She looked at him, her fingers on the clasp, deciding. “It’s possible Ted killed Robin. I mean, I don’t know that for certain. I don’t have a smoking gun or anything like that. In fact, what I have is strictly circumstantial and can probably be explained. I haven’t said a word to Ted or my husband or—God forbid—the children, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it all weekend. Not after you told us what happened to Robin.”

“How about this,” Rossi said. “You tell me whatever it is you came to tell me and show me whatever is in that envelope, and I’ll figure out what to do with it. If it raises any questions about Mr. Norris, I’ll look into it.”

“But what about the children? Will they have to know?”

“It depends on what I find out. But you have to tell me first.”

She nodded. “I know. Robin and I have been friends since law school. I remember how we talked back then about all the things we wanted to do in our lives, but I never thought it would come to this. I represented Robin in her divorce. That was years ago before I began specializing in estate planning. It was an ugly breakup. Ted was drinking heavily and cheating on her. He started threatening Robin that he was going to get even with her, that sort of thing, nothing real explicit but enough that we got a restraining order against him.”

“Did he ever act on any of those threats? Did he ever hit her?”

“No, nothing like that. Mostly calling her in the middle of the night screaming what a bitch she was and how he was going to make her life a living hell. It was probably the booze more than anything else. One of the conditions for him seeing the kids was that he go to AA, which he did. He sobered up and stayed sober, most of the time, until the last few months.”

“What happened then?”

She tilted her head, shrugging her shoulders. “Well, he got laid off from his job selling restaurant equipment, and then he started drinking again. And then he started calling Robin, asking her for money, and she told him no. When he threatened to make her pay, she told me what was going on and I said we should go back to court for another restraining order, but she didn’t want to because of the kids and because she thought Ted was all talk, just like before, until the thing in the parking lot.”

“What thing?”

“Ted was stalking her, following her to work and back home, sitting in his car on her street. Then a couple of weeks ago, he rear-ended her in the Costco parking lot, you know the one off of Linwood?”

Rossi nodded. “That’s where I get all my canned tuna.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be funny, Detective? Because I don’t find any of this amusing.”

Rossi wasn’t trying to be funny. He wanted to see how she’d react to an out-of-place wisecrack. If she joined in the fun, he’d question her sincerity. If he offended her, she’d go up a notch on his credibility meter.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. When did this happen?”

“A couple of weeks ago. She called me, hysterical, and I said enough was enough and that I was going to file for the restraining order, but she begged me to wait because of the kids. So I did. But I drafted the motion and had her sign an affidavit so everything would be ready to go. And then she called me last Wednesday and said he was following her again and to go ahead and file it.”

She opened the envelope and pulled out a copy of the motion and handed it to Rossi. Robin’s affidavit, notarized by Sonia, was attached, detailing Robin’s allegations. There was also a copy of the court’s ex parte order of protection. The court clerk’s file stamp showed that the motion was filed at nine a.m., Tuesday, September 14 The order of protection was filed an hour later, ten hours before Robin was killed. It was a classic domestic violence timetable, the system playing a fatal game of catch-up.

“Were you able to serve the order on Mr. Norris?”

She shook her head, her eyes watering. “No. I went straight from the courthouse to his apartment, but either he wasn’t there or he saw that it was me and wouldn’t answer the door. I went back to my office and hired a process server to keep after him, but they couldn’t find him either.” She paused, chest heaving. “Then Donny called me in the middle of the night to say that Robin was dead and it didn’t matter anymore.” She took a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes. “The police said it was an accident, so I didn’t mention anything about Ted because I didn’t want to upset the kids any more than they already were. But then last Friday night, you told us Robin had been murdered, and,” she said, hands fluttering, “well, here I am, and I don’t know whether to wish that I’m right or wrong.”

Rossi studied the documents, pausing when he came to Ted Norris’s address.

“This says he lives on Roanridge Road. Where’s that?”

“North of the river, just off Barry Road,” she said.

Chapter Thirty-Six

ALEX DROVE TOWARD the Blue Ridge Mobile Home Park, thinking about how to approach Bethany Sutherland. Their encounter last Friday hadn’t gone well. Bethany had denied knowledge of the murder and had said nothing about her relationship to Joanie Sutherland. And she had sidestepped Alex’s questions about the girl.

Alex had given Bethany the benefit of the doubt. Even if the little girl knew something, that didn’t mean Bethany did, and since the victim’s next of kin hadn’t been notified, Bethany might not have known her sister was dead. She hoped that Bethany knew by now, not wanting to be the one to tell her.

Nor did Alex blame Bethany for not answering her questions about the girl, whom Alex assumed was her daughter. What mother wouldn’t shield her child from being drawn into a murder investigation?

Knowing that Alex was defending the man accused of murdering her sister, not some stranger, would make Bethany less cooperative, particularly regarding the little girl. Still, she had to try.

Bethany’s trailer was parked in the shade of two towering oak trees in the middle of a long row of mobile homes. It was an old Jayco White Hawk, cream-colored paint faded by years in the sun, pockets of rust visible on the undercarriage. The trailer sat on a concrete slab made out of sections pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle. There was a four-by-eight-foot flat-roofed metal storage shed next to the back end of the trailer, a pair of outdoor folding chairs in front of it, a couple of coolers, a bicycle, and a spare tire wedged between the shed and the chairs. The trailer might have been mobile, but its occupants had put down roots. This was home.

Alex parked on the street in front of the trailer. There was no sign of the Impala. She got out, scanning the area for Bethany and the girl, finding neither. Nor did she see any neighbors, though she imagined at least a few were watching her from inside their trailers.
Act like you belong
, she reminded herself, walking briskly to the trailer and rapping on its tinny door, not surprised when no one answered, then turning toward the street when she heard the Impala approach.

Bethany jerked the car to a stop, nose to nose with Alex’s, and got out with a bag of groceries in one hand, eyes narrowed, mouth set, her face creased with caution. The girl climbed out of the passenger side, following Bethany while keeping her distance, clutching a plastic spatula.

“How’d you find me?”

“I didn’t. My investigator did. She’s good at that. I’m sorry about Joanie.”

“You say that, but you’re the lawyer for the one that killed her.”

“He’s accused of killing your sister. That doesn’t mean he’s guilty and it doesn’t mean I’m not sorry for your loss.”

“Well, I got nothing to say to you.”

“I just want to talk with you for a few minutes.”

Alex kept her tone neutral but didn’t move from her position in front of the trailer door. She kept her arms at her sides and her stance casual, not wanting to appear threatening, while letting Bethany know that she wasn’t going anywhere. Bethany called her bluff, coming toward her, chin and chest thrust out, tugging the girl along with her, stopping when they were two feet apart.

“Well, I ain’t interested.”

Alex couldn’t let Bethany intimidate her. Neither could she ignore how the veins in Bethany’s neck were throbbing against her skin, her flight-or-fight instinct about to settle on kicking some ass. Alex diffused the tension by taking half a step to one side and squatting down until she was eye level with the girl, giving her a big smile.

“Hi, there. I’m Alex. What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t answer, instead drawing back and looking away. Her hair was pulled back in a long ponytail secured by a clasp adorned with an oversized butterfly. She was wearing jeans torn at the knees and a frayed One Direction T-shirt. Alex looked up at Bethany.

“She’s a quiet one.”

“She don’t talk.”

“Shy, huh? That’s okay,” Alex said, grinning again at the girl and tousling her hair as she stood, the girl crying out as if she were hurt, pounding the air with her spatula.

“She don’t like to be touched.”

“I guess not. Is she your daughter?”

“She’s mine.”

“When I asked you about her the other day, why’d you pretend you didn’t know who I was talking about?”

“There’s more than one little girl in this world, and why would I tell you anything about mine?”

Alex didn’t argue. She was right on both counts.

“What’s her name?”

“Charlotte.”

“I’ll bet she talks a blue streak when it’s just the two of you.”

Bethany gave her a warm look and a sad smile. “I wish she could.”

Alex grimaced at the awkward situation she’d created.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize she was deaf.”

“Oh, Charlotte’s not deaf. She’s autistic. The doctor at Children’s Mercy said some autistic kids never talk.”

“How do you communicate with her? Do you use sign language?”

“She understands me as long as I’m real clear. The doctor told me autistic kids take things real literal, like if I say hold your horses, she’s gonna look around for a horse, so instead I got to say slow down or stop. And don’t try to tell her a joke, ’cause she won’t get it.”

“But how does she communicate with you?”

“She’ll take my hand and pull me over to something she wants or shake her head, things like that. We’ve kind of worked out a system. Sometimes she throws a fit and I just have to wait till it passes. And if she gets scared, she screams bloody murder and there’s no stopping her till she calms down.”

They were talking now instead of trading punches. Bethany’s posture was more relaxed, making Alex hopeful that Bethany would open up.

“Why isn’t she in school? There are special education programs for kids like her.”

Bethany recoiled, squinting at Alex, their cease-fire over. “What are you? Her truant officer? Now, get off my property while you still can.”

Friendly but firm hadn’t worked, so Alex switched gears.

“Who needs a truant officer when I can get someone from Child Protective Services out here in an hour to find out why Charlotte’s not in school and when she last had a decent meal, a bath, and clean clothes.”

“Don’t even think about doing that,” Bethany said, setting down the bag of groceries and balling her hand into a fist. “Nobody’s takin’ this child away from me.”

Alex took her phone from her pocket. “I’ve got their number in my phone. I see a lot of this kind of thing.” She scrolled through her contacts, clicking on a number, holding the phone to her face. “This is Alex Stone from the public defender’s office. I need to report a possible child neglect case.”

Bethany gritted her teeth. “Okay! Okay! What do you want?”

“I’ll have to call you back,” Alex said, clicking off the call. “I want answers.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

ALEX FOLLOWED BETHANY into the trailer. It was twenty-four feet long and eight feet wide, not counting the pop-out dinette, which was like a restaurant booth with a cushioned horseshoe-shaped bench. A sleeping bag and pillow were laid out on the bench, turning it into Charlotte’s bedroom. There was an unmade sofa sleeper at one end of the trailer flanked on each side by a small wardrobe closet. A Murphy bed was mounted in the wall above the sofa, Alex guessing that Bethany got the sofa sleeper, leaving the Murphy bed for Joanie. The bathroom and shower were at the back of the trailer. Kitchen appliances were mounted on both sides in the middle, an ironing board leaning against the dishwasher, the iron on the floor. The air was stale with fast food and dirty laundry.

Charlotte scrambled onto the dinette bench, pushing the sleeping bag into a corner and hugging her spatula to her bony chest. Bethany set the grocery bag on the narrow kitchen counter.

“I gotta use the john,” Bethany said.

Alex leafed through a stack of mail on the kitchen counter, finding an open bank statement from the month before. She ran her finger down the transactions, noting the direct deposit of Bethany’s modest paychecks from Clay County and an ending balance of twenty-eight dollars. Beneath that she found an open envelope filled with cash, the top edge of a hundred-dollar bill sticking out. She picked the envelope up, doing a quick count that totaled five thousand dollars. She put the envelope and the bank statement back where she found them when she heard the toilet flush, glancing at the girl, who was watching her, expressionless.

Alex smiled, giving her a thumbs-up, smiling again when Charlotte balled her fingers together, her thumb poking up. Alex nodded, touching her forefinger to her thumb in the universal okay sign, clapping when Charlotte did the same. Encouraged, Alex shrugged, opening her palms out, as if to say,
What else?
Charlotte didn’t hesitate, giving Alex her middle finger.

Bethany came out of the bathroom. “Don’t worry. She doesn’t know what that means. She picked it from me flipping people off all the time.”

Alex laughed. “Thanks. I’d hate to think I made such a bad impression. Have you gotten Charlotte any therapy? There’s been a lot of progress treating kids with autism.”

Bethany shook her head. “Not that I don’t want to, but when am I gonna do that? I leave here at three thirty to get to work, and I’m there from four to midnight. By the time I get home and get some sleep, I hardly have time to do what I need to get done before I got to get back to work. And how am I gonna pay for it? The county’s insurance don’t cover it, and I ain’t poor enough for Medicaid.”