Sense of Deception (29 page)

I made sure not to blink as I answered him. “Because everything else rests on it.”

In my peripheral vision I saw Matt's brow furrow and Bachman seemed impatient to be on his way, annoyed with us for engaging in idle chitchat, but Dennis held my gaze and his posture suggested that he understood exactly what I meant. “Noah,” he said in a croaky whisper. “His name is Noah.”

And there it was. I sat back in my chair and stared at him. Nothing he could've said would've stunned me more except for the fact that my own intuition had practically begged me to ask the question, which had been a huge hint in and of itself. But the answer still uprooted everything I thought I knew about Dennis Gallagher and what'd happened the night Noah Miller had been murdered.

Still, when I thought about it, I could understand perfectly why Dennis's attorney was insisting we get the DA on board with immunity over prosecuting Gallagher for obstruction. In this case it would've been a felony, and that would've sent Dennis away on his third strike for life.

“Is that it?” Bachman asked me, once again fiddling with the leftovers of his dinner.

I ignored him yet again. Leaning forward to rest my elbows
on the table, I said, “I'm going to honor my word, Dennis, and I'm not going to ask you a single question more, but I am going to say this: I know you were there that night. I know you saw who came out of that window. And I know you covered the killer's tracks. Why? I can't say. Maybe you peeked in the window, saw Noah dead on the floor, and freaked out, closing the window and putting the screen back out of panic. Maybe you saw Skylar run out of the house and developed a plan on the fly to make sure the police suspected her, to get back at her for yelling at you in the store, or maybe, maybe the killer saw you after he went back out the window and threatened to kill you if you ever told anybody. Whatever way it was, Dennis, Skylar's going to die on Tuesday.”

As I spoke, Gallagher's face went from pale to ashen. I could see Bachman's mouth open to say something, so I rushed on before he could get a word in edgewise. “Noah's death might not have been your fault, Dennis, although I know you feel guilty. You and Noah bonded at that Home Depot. The name you gave your only son shows how guilty you still feel about Noah's murder, but it wasn't your fault he died. That rests solely with the killer. But if Skylar Miller is put to death for a crime she didn't commit, a crime you witnessed and helped to cover up, then her death rests solely on your shoulders. And if that happens, Dennis, if that actually comes to pass, then I will spend the rest of my life—
the rest of my life—
making sure you're never out of jail long enough to father a daughter you can name Skylar.”

With that, I got up and walked out of the room.

C
andice met me in the hallway. “What the hell just happened?” she asked.

“He's not our killer,” I said.

She grabbed my shoulder when I kept moving. “What do you mean he's not our killer? Sundance, if he's not the guy, then who the hell is?”

I rubbed my temples. All the adrenaline and anxiety and stress were starting to catch up with me. “I don't know, Candice,” I admitted. “But Dennis does.”

Candice stared at me, confusion and frustration causing small lines to form around her eyes. “Okay,” she said at last. “How do we get him to tell us?”

“We lock him up for the weekend and let him think about it, and hope he does the right thing come Monday morning.”

“That'll be cutting it really close,” she said.

“It will. But his attorney's not gonna let him say a word tonight, and we can't ask him anything without the attorney present, so unless Dennis comes to us, he's a dead end.”

“So . . . what?” Candice asked me. “We just give up until Monday?”

I shook my head. “We give up only on tonight. I'm exhausted and my radar is also exhausted and I need some rest before I face a full list of clients tomorrow. After that, I'm gonna review every inch of Skylar's murder file and pray to God I can find something else in there to give to Cal.”

Candice sighed. All of a sudden she looked exhausted too. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

Dutch drove me home and put me to bed. I could barely form words—I was so beat. The next morning he drove me to the office, where the first thing I did was make a request for a video visit with Skylar for four p.m., and that meant that I couldn't go over the time limit with my last client, but I managed okay, and right after she left, I rushed to my office and clicked the screen until I was staring at Skylar.

“Hey there,” I said when she came into view. She looked thin and stressed. The Zen face she'd worn every time I'd seen her had vanished, and what remained was a very slight woman in personal agony. I realized when I saw her that she'd taken the news that the stranger in the Home Depot could've been the one to have murdered her son a lot harder than I'd thought she would. “First of all,” I said to her, “I need to tell you that we tracked down the guy from the Home Depot. He's currently in custody.”

Skylar's mouth fell open and she seemed to sag with relief. “You got him?” she asked me. “The man who murdered Noah? You really got him?”

I scooted forward a little, wanting to be closer to the screen. “No,” I said frankly. “And by that, I mean we have the man in custody, but, Skylar, I don't think he murdered your son. But I do believe he was there that night.”

She squinted. “I don't understand.”

I explained the path that had led to finding Dennis Gallagher,
careful to leave out the fact that he hadn't actually tried to attack us, and left it that we'd merely arrested him for a violation of his parole. An infraction that we could prosecute on a federal level if we pursued it. “But that isn't likely,” I said to her. I wanted to be frank, and there was no way I was going to let Oscar perjure himself when I was convinced that Dennis wasn't the one who killed Noah. “So the best we can do is let him sit in jail over the weekend and hope that his conscience gets the best of him.”

“Why don't you think he's the man who murdered my son?” she asked me.

“Because he's recently become a father,” I said. “And he named his son Noah.”

Skylar put a hand to her mouth. “He did?”

“Yes. And I know that doesn't exactly clear him of the crime, but trust me when I tell you that a man capable of murdering a little boy isn't going to name his own son after the victim. It's a thing he'd want to put out of his mind, not remember every single time he looks at his little boy.”

“But you said you also think he was there that night,” she said.

“I'm intuitively positive he was there,” I said. “But either he was with the killer as an accomplice to a B and E, and things got out of hand, or he came into the scene as the killer was sneaking out of the house, and he covered it up for some reason, although what that is, I'm not yet sure. That's what he's still feeling guilty over. Covering up the crime. And why he named his son after yours. A part of him is trying to make it up to Noah by being a better example to his son.”

“That's a lot of conjecture,” she said to me, and I could see she wasn't convinced by my logic.

“It is,” I told her. “But it's also backed up by a finely honed psychic sense that I'm absolutely on the right track.”

Skylar rubbed her arms as if she was cold. “So we still don't know who murdered my son?”

“No. It could've been someone Dennis knew, or it could've been someone from your past, or it could've been some random stranger, but I told you the day we met that I thought it was someone you knew.”

Skylar turned her head to look away from me. The guilt crept back into her expression. “But who? Who from my life would want to hurt my son?”

“Do you think Rico could've done it?” I asked, and then I reminded her about how Rico had come after Candice with a knife.

Skylar bit her lip. “I don't know, Abby. I mean, obviously Rico's capable of violence, but we hadn't seen each other in over two years, so why would he suddenly want to hurt me?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “How about Wayne Babson?”

Skylar immediately shook her head. “No,” she said. “Wayne was always great with Noah. He liked him a lot. And Noah liked him. It's just that Wayne had a record, and when I was fighting to get some of my custody rights back, Wayne's record got in the way. He took it really well, and I swear we ended things as friends.”

“Okay,” I said, hating that I was even going to ask my next question. “Do you think your mother could've been capable of it?”

Skylar didn't react like I thought she would. I expected her to gasp anew and maybe even get a little angry, but she shocked me by replying, “I've often wondered that myself.”

“She just seems awfully motivated to have you face the needle.”

“Oh, she'd like nothing better than to see me dead,” she said bitterly. “I have a feeling that the minute I'm carted off to potter's field, she'll make a bid for the part of Noah's trust that would've gone to me.”

I felt like there was more to the story, so I pressed Skylar a little. “Has she always been like that?”

“A narcissist with psychopathic tendencies? Definitely. She took my ex-husband's side in the divorce too. It ended up being just the motivation I needed to get sober, actually. Once I found out that she was caring for Noah while Chris was at work, I got serious about getting my act together. I couldn't stand the thought of her raising him. I mean, she raised me and look how that turned out.”

She then seemed to catch herself, and she eyed me in that way that all adults who grow up with an abusive parent look at other people—as if we're waiting for the judgment and doubt to come down on us like a hammer. “We have a lot in common,” I told her, and offered her a sympathetic smile. “Truly.”

She relaxed a little. “Most people don't understand.”

“Which is a good thing when you think about it,” I said. “Candice and I believe she struck a deal with Chris that in exchange for her testimony against you, he'd take care of her once the guilty verdict came in. She's currently living in the guest cottage on an estate.”

Skylar nodded. “I figured they'd come to some agreement. She sat next to Chris throughout the trial and when her turn came, Mother was a little intense on the witness stand. She's good at the theatrics. Whose estate is she living on?”

“An estate off Westlake Drive. I think, if I remember correctly, the owner was an Alicia Hudson.”

Skylar made a face. “Chris's godmother,” she said. “She was Lynette's closest friend and like an aunt to Chris.”

My brow shot up. “Ooooh, Skylar, I think you might've just given us something usable.” I then explained that if we could show the appellate court that there had been some sort of an agreement
between Faith and Chris to trade her testimony for his taking care of her, we might be able to get the death sentence reduced to life in prison, which would buy us time.

Skylar didn't seem to be so excited by the idea. Maybe because she'd been in jail long enough to know how the system worked. “Abby,” she said, “the appellate court isn't going to just take our word for it that my mother and Chris had an arrangement. There has to be proof.”

“I know, I know,” I told her. “And we're working on that.”

Skylar seemed skeptical. “You'll need a confession,” she said. “And neither my mother nor Chris is ever going to give you that.”

“But what about Mrs. Hudson?” I asked.

“Alicia? Good luck finding her, Abby. The woman spends most of her time out of the country.”

“Okay,” I said, taking that in. Every road kept leading to a barricade. It was frustrating as hell. “Is there anybody else you can think of, Skylar, whom you might've thought of over the years as the killer? Anybody with a grudge against you, maybe? Another ex-boyfriend? Someone in rehab? Even someone who could've taken an unwanted interest in you in your AA meetings?”

Skylar put her fingers up to her temples and closed her eyes. “There was a guy in one of the AA groups who was interested in me,” she said. “I only know his first name. It was Kyle. He asked me out a couple of times, but I always said no. I wasn't interested in dating. I just wanted to focus on Noah and get him through the summer and the next trial date.”

My ears perked up. “What trial date?”

Skylar shook her head. “The next custody trial date. We had one scheduled for the end of July.”

“But I thought custody had already been decided.”

Skylar sighed tiredly. “It was, but only on a probationary period. Given my track record, the judge thought it was best to take it three months at a time. She looped Noah in for his opinion on where he wanted to be and how well I was doing, which kept me honest. She really valued his input, which made her a great judge, in my opinion. And I gotta say that Noah took that responsibility seriously. He was always telling me that he couldn't lie to the judge, so I had to try my best.” Skylar's gaze was far away for a moment and there was the ghost of a smile on her face, and then it vanished.

I felt something stir in the ether. “And they used that against you at the murder trial,” I said.

Skylar nodded. “Chris claimed that Noah had hinted to him that night on the phone that he'd caught me drinking and that he was going to tell the judge about it at the end of the month. There was no way to defend myself against the lie. The minute he said that, I lost the trial.”

I cocked my head. “What
did
they talk about that night, Skylar?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. Chris called to talk to him about his day and I headed into the shower. I always gave Noah his privacy when it came to his nightly phone call with his dad. I suspect they talked about going to the Astros game. Chris was going to take Noah that weekend.”

“Did Noah love baseball?” I asked. It wasn't an important question, but I suspected that Skylar missed being able to talk about her son to anyone who wouldn't automatically judge her.

Her ghost of a smile returned, and while it didn't quite touch her eyes, it did give her face a pleasing lift. “He did. Chris played college ball, and Grant played in the majors back in the seventies. Noah was so proud of that. His prized possession was a baseball signed by Nolan Ryan that his granddad had given him for his last
birthday. He used to tap it before bed every night, like a good-luck charm.”

The yellow warning light illuminated above the video visitor's window and I knew that our time was about up. “Okay, Skylar, thank you so much. We'll keep working on our end. Just try not to lose hope.”

She looked me in the eye and sighed sadly. “You say that like I had any hope to begin with, Abby.”

The yellow light began to flash and a moment later the screen went black.

I spent that night with Skylar's file laid out on the dining room table. Dutch sat next to me and we went through it piece by piece. While he sorted through all the witness statements, I spent my time laying out all the photos of the crime scene. At some point Dutch got up, shuffled off to the kitchen, and came back with a couple of beers. Setting one down in front of me, he clinked the neck with his and said, “Take a break, Edgar.”

I sighed and lifted the beer in silent toast to him. “Thanks, honey,” I said, indulging in a nice long sip. “I keep feeling like I'm missing something.”

Dutch peered over my shoulder at the spread on the table. “Seems to me you've already pulled out a whole lot for Cal to work with so far,” he said.

I rubbed my eyes, and the images danced around in my mind. There was something I was missing. Something important, I just knew it. And then my lids flew up and I began to scramble through the photos. “Holy crap!” I said, pulling one of them forward.

“What?” Dutch asked, hovering closer as I showed him the photo taken outside Skylar's house. It captured the image of her, wrapped in a blanket, her hands and the bottom of her shirt
covered in blood. Behind her was a couple. The woman was plump with scraggly gray hair and the man next to her was tall, heavyset, and he wore a baseball cap. An Astros cap.

“Hold on, hold on, hold on,” I said, shuffling through the photos again until I came up with one photo showing blood spatter on the wall and dresser across from the bed. “Oh . . . my . . . God!” I gasped when I saw the image.

“Edgar,” Dutch said. “What are you seeing?”

I pointed to a small round disk on the dresser. “What do you suppose that is?” I asked Dutch.