Terminated (25 page)

“I don’t have to be so mean-spirited on Friday. After all, you’re my past, not my present.”

“But you’d like to see me rot in here forever.”

“I would. I won’t lie. But as much as I want that, you’re not my boogeyman anymore.”

Parker eyed her quizzically. “There’s someone else out there.”

Gwen nodded. “He makes you look like a choirboy.”

Parker laughed. It drew a couple of glances but was nothing that caused anyone any real concern.

“I doubt that.”

“Believe it. His cruelty is nothing you can match. I’m not belittling you. It’s just a fact.”

The remark brought Parker’s humor to a short-lived end. Gwen’s intent was sinking in. He knew he was being asked something. But for any bargain to be struck, it had to be said out loud.

“What are you saying?”

“I’ll be supportive of your parole at the hearing.”

Parker’s expression remained
stony. “In exchange for what?”

Gwen took a breath to steady herself. Now was the time. The communal room where they sat was a good place to ask this question. There were so many conversations happening, there was no way the patrolling officers would zero in on theirs.

“A coworker of mine,” she laughed, “an ex-coworker now, has been terrorizing my life. He threatened to kill me, he put my husband in a coma, and he’s threatened to kill my daughter. I can’t have that.”

“What are you asking me to do?”

“I want you to prevent him from hurting my family.”

Gwen expected one of two reactions. Parker would either laugh in her face, or he’d play it cool. She couldn’t go to jail and leave Kirsten exposed to Tarbell. She willed him to play it cool—and he did.

“Do you know what you’re asking?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“More than you know.”

“You think my parole is worth this?”

“Tell me you don’t want to get out of here.”

“I do, but not at any cost. If I get parole, I get a second chance. You’ve just given me that chance. I can go to Naylor right now and tell him what you just said to me. Your ass will be in jail faster than you can scream my name the way you did all those years ago.”

It was time to use a Tarbell tactic against Parker. “Call who you like. You don’t have anything on me. OK, I’ll have a few hard minutes explaining why I’m here today, but if you say I tried to buy your parole, I’ll deny it. It’ll be your word against mine—and who do you think will win that little battle?” She let the facts of life sink in. “What’s it going to be?”

Parker said nothing. He was weighing up his options. It played across his face. A month ago his parole looked solid, but not anymore. If Gwen spoke against
him at his hearing, he wasn’t going anywhere. She would put on the performance of her life to do it. He knew it. Gwen knew it. If he wanted out this time around, he didn’t have a choice.

Parker took a breath and released it. “Kind words at my hearing aren’t enough.”

“I didn’t think they would be. I know the risk you’re taking and the position I’m putting you in. I’ll pay you ten thousand.”

Gwen watched Parker’s resistance crack. He was counting the money and imagining his freedom.

“Are you in?”

Parker didn’t answer.

“There’s no time for thinking it over. Friday is only two days away. It’s either yes or no. I need the answer now.”

“Yes,” said Parker.

T
he detective was coming, but Tarbell was ready for him.

It would have been nice if his
father’s death could have been boxed up and forgotten. It was the least the son of a bitch could have done for him after a lifetime of misery, but his father being his father, it didn’t work out that way. He thought he’d done a good job of making the old man’s death look innocent enough. The paramedics hadn’t given the death a second thought, but procedure got in the way. He’d made one mistake. When they asked him if he’d been with his father when he passed, he said no. He wanted the official record to show he was nowhere near his father when he died. The second he’d suffocated the old man, he’d driven to Elk Grove, bought cigars, and driven back before calling 911. That way he could safely say he’d been away from the house for over an hour. It was a story the paramedics and the coroner accepted, but since his father had died alone, the county policy required an autopsy. The mention of an autopsy didn’t scare him, but the mention of a detective did.

He’d laid low after that. He was a grieving son. He did all the things he was supposed to do. He arranged the funeral and the service. He was cremating the old bastard. His dad hadn’t wanted that, but Tarbell didn’t care. The old man deserved to burn, and it also prevented anyone from
reexamining the body should they have second thoughts. He contacted everyone who needed to be contacted, which in his father’s case, wasn’t a long list. He’d alienated almost everyone during his lifetime.

Pace Pharmaceuticals had shown their support. They made a donation to a charity of Tarbell’s choosing and granted him bereavement leave. Deborah Langan had been so gracious to him. It was two-faced, considering she’d brought in Private Security International to investigate him. When this was all over, he should pay her a visit in some form or another. He kept the idea in the back of his mind on a low simmer. He couldn’t let that anger boil over right now or it might get in the way of the problem at hand.

The death certificate was the problem. The autopsy had been done, but the coroner wouldn’t release the certificate or even give him the unofficial findings. The fact that they wouldn’t tell him anything made the detective’s interest all the more obvious. Maybe they wanted him on the defensive. It was a dumb move on their part. Had they never heard the phrase “forewarned is forearmed?”

The detective arrived at ten thirty. Tarbell saw the unmarked Crown Victoria pull up in front of his house, but he didn’t acknowledge the detective until he rang the doorbell. He didn’t want to look eager—or possibly desperate.

“Detective Wilhoit, Yolo County Sherriff’s Department. Thanks for seeing me under these circumstances.”

Tarbell smiled and showed the detective into the house.

Detective Wilhoit was younger than Tarbell expected. He was no more than thirty. Either he was a highflier or this investigation was a simple one.

Detective Wilhoit sat in a lounger but leaned forward in his seat. He pulled out a notebook and turned to a page. “I just have a few questions about your father’s death. Is that OK?”

“Sure.”

“I understand your father was in poor
health, correct?”

Tarbell nodded.

“Would you say your father was a happy man?”

It was an odd question, but Tarbell took it in stride. It was better if he didn’t think about the questions he was being asked, just answered them. “No, he wasn’t happy. My father had been an active man, and for him to end up in a wheelchair was hard for him.”

Detective Wilhoit nodded his understanding but made no notation of Tarbell’s answer in his book.

“It must have been a burden for you—having to get a caregiver and all?”

Tarbell wondered if that question was as loaded as the gun on the young detective’s hip.

“Not really. My parents raised me. It was the least I could do, all things considered.” Tarbell hoped his answer wasn’t too saccharine. It wouldn’t take much digging to find out what a son of a bitch his father was.

“But your father was aware of the burden he was to you, financially and personally?”

“I guess so.”

Had his dear old dad left a note behind in case of this eventuality? Had he said something to Lupe? Tarbell didn’t think so. His dad never credited him with any balls. The last thing he would have suspected was that he’d kill him.

“Did you ever tell him how much his caregiver was costing you?”

“No, but I’m sure he had an idea.”

Detective Wilhoit nodded and smiled. His pen remained poised over virgin paper. Irritation spread over Tarbell like prickly heat.

“Could you afford to keep paying your father’s medical expenses?”

“Luckily, yes. I don’t have any dependents other than Dad. I live simply, and I have a pretty good salary.”

“But your father’s condition kept you
close to home. The caregiver told me you gave up your Saturdays to be with him.”

“I’m not a big traveler. My vacations are spent in my home or nearby. I won’t lie. I missed having my Saturdays to myself, but my dad was my dad.”

Tarbell saw where this was going. Son tired of supporting his father lashes out and kills him. It was a desperate crime that Tarbell wasn’t guilty of, and he felt confident he’d outrun any such accusation. Nevertheless, he had to tread carefully with Detective Wilhoit. He hadn’t become a detective at a young age by being dumb.

“Your father’s condition was never going to get better, was it?”

“No.”

“He still had years ahead of him in theory, but they wouldn’t have been fun ones, would they?”

“No, they wouldn’t.” Tarbell felt it was time to get to the point. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but why all the questions?”

Detective Wilhoit frowned. “I have some difficult questions that I need your full cooperation with. Is that OK?”

“Sure, I guess,” Tarbell said. He tried to relax, but playing his part in this drama made him irritable.

“Your father wasn’t supposed to drink, but the autopsy turned up alcohol in his system. Do you know how that happened?”

“I gave it to him. I know he shouldn’t drink, but he asks every time I visit. Usually, I’m more resistant to his requests, but he kept asking, and I gave in. It was something he did a lot when he was healthier. At this point in his life, I couldn’t see what harm a shot would do him. He was already hurting. I’m sorry I did it now.”

“No, that’s OK. I think I would have done the same thing in your position. So he used to bust your chops over a drink every time you came?”

“Pretty much.”

“Why did you give in this time?”

“This Saturday, he seemed more depressed
than usual.”

“His caregiver said he’d seemed preoccupied.”

“Yeah, that’s what she told me, and I saw it. So when he kept asking for a drink, I gave in. Did the drink contribute to his death? Please, tell me it didn’t. I would hate for it to be my fault.”

Detective Wilhoit held a hand up. “It didn’t. Don’t let it concern you. Many things contributed to your father’s death.”

Tarbell pondered the significance of “many things.”

“The coroner who collected your father’s body remarked in his statement that you went to Elk Grove to buy cigars.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Who were the cigars for?”

For effect, Tarbell took his time answering. “They were for him. He wanted a drink and a smoke. He’d gone without for a long time, and like I said, I didn’t see the harm in this one occasion.”

“I’m sure there are closer smoke shops you could have gone to than one in Elk Grove.”

“Yeah, there are, but Pop went to the one in Elk Grove, and he wanted me to get him a cigar from there. I didn’t see any reason not to.”

“So your father sent you out to Elk Grove, even though he’d be at home at least an hour without any supervision?”

“Yeah, but it was only an hour. He was sick, but he wasn’t that sick. It was OK to leave him that long. Well, that was what I thought at the time.”

Detective Wilhoit had begun taking notes. Tarbell knew that this line of questioning was important to him.

“So your father asked for a drink and for a cigar and you gave them to him.”

“Yes. Well, the drink anyway. I never had the chance to give him his cigar.”

“Any life insurance on your father?”

Tarbell shook his head.

“But he owned the house in West
Sacramento?”

“Yes. Look, tell me what’s going on. My sick father died. I don’t see the need for a detective.”

“Your father’s oxygen supply had been turned up high and as odd as it sounds, it caused asphyxia. This led to his death. We aren’t looking at natural causes.”

Tarbell’s pulse quickened, pumping panic through his veins. He couldn’t go to jail for his father’s death. It wasn’t fair. He had so many other things to do. He hoped it wouldn’t mean he’d have to kill the young detective. Detective Wilhoit was armed, but he wouldn’t expect a surprise attack. His gaze locked on the vase on the coffee table. It would be enough to immobilize the detective. It would be messy, and there’d be no way of covering it up, but there was no way he was leaving his home in cuffs.

“What do you mean? If it wasn’t natural causes, what was it?” Tarbell shifted forward in his seat on the sofa, bringing the vase within arm’s reach.

“Suicide.”

The word pushed Tarbell off balance, and all the thoughts of grabbing the vase flew out of his mind.

“Suicide?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to say. Your father saw an unenviable future ahead of him, and it depressed him. He knew he was a burden to you and everyone around him. It must have preyed on him, and it finally became too much to bear. He sent you miles out of your way to buy him a cigar when you could have easily gotten one down the street. It left him plenty of time to turn up his oxygen.”

Tarbell fought to keep a grin buried deep. He wanted to hug the detective for his stupidity.

“I’m sorry to be the one to break the news to you.”

“That’s OK, I guess.”

Detective Wilhoit rose to his feet, pocketing
his notebook. Tarbell followed him to the door as he saw himself out. He held out his hand, and Tarbell took it.

“I do have one last question for you, Mr. Tarbell. I don’t like asking it, but I have to.”

“It’s OK. Go ahead.”

“Did you know about your father’s suicidal tendencies?”

“No.”

“I understand if you took that drive to leave your father alone. I’ve known loved ones to do that. It’s a kindness, I guess. It’s something I can’t condone as an officer of the law, but as a son, I can take an answer at face value.”

Tarbell smiled. Detective Wilhoit was a nice guy. He was glad he didn’t have to kill him.

“I hear what you’re saying, but I didn’t know my father was planning to kill himself.” It was an honest answer that would pass any polygraph.

Detective Wilhoit said his good-byes and left. Tarbell closed the door, bristling with euphoria. Nothing stood in his way now. If he ever needed a sign of that, this was it. The world believed his father’s death was suicide. Fantastic. It set him up for what he had to do next.