Ties That Bind (15 page)

Mrs. Tippetts stared at her anxiously, apparently not asking a rhetorical question. Since Sam was not on a first-name basis with God, she decided to sidestep the question.

“Were they friendly?”

“Well, not really, but she’s always polite when we chat. I ask most of the questions of course. She just answers them. She has a weird accent. And sometimes she has parties and they drink beer in the backyard. I’ve never seen the likes of it.”

“Have you ever left Kanesville, Mrs. Tippetts?”

“Oh, of course. Elmer and I went to Idaho Falls on our honeymoon. One year we took the kids to Yellowstone, and you know what? We didn’t see one bear. I don’t understand what all the hoopla is about bears up there, and boy, were the kids disappointed—”

“Uh, yeah, sorry about the bears. Does Martha Evans leave her daughter home alone a lot?”

“What?” Elva had apparently being thinking about the bears. “Oh yes, way too much if you ask me. Although she seems like a quiet girl. Never holds parties that I can tell. Not like her mom. Doesn’t really seem to have friends. She did for a while, some of our good Kanesville kids, but she must have had a falling-out with them. Now she just goes with her church friends.”

“You know it is legal to drink beer in Utah, right, Mrs. Tippetts?” Sam said, the words out of her mouth before she could stop them. “As long as one is of age, of course.”

“Well, of course I know that. It’s also legal to smoke, but our prophet let us know that is the wrong choice, and I guess it all goes down to free agency. Choices. Right ones and wrong ones.”

The pursing of her lips left little doubt in Sam’s mind which choices she considered right and which she considered wrong.

“I just don’t get why people don’t understand it,” Mrs. Tippetts said, her look of disapproval turning to confusion. “It’s so simple. God’s plan is so easy to follow.”

“Well, thanks for the cake and the information,” Sam said hastily, standing up. This conversation was headed in a direction she did not care to travel. And, as always, assumptions were made because everyone knew Sam’s family in Kanesville. She’d found out pretty early on in the conversation that years before her father had been “Sister Tippetts’s” home teacher. Back when he left the house for things other than the grocery store and the doctor’s office.

If Sam didn’t escape now, the prying questions would turn on
her
. Time to go.

She said her good-byes and thank-yous and then made her way to her car. Sitting down in the driver’s seat, she rubbed her stomach, groaning a bit, as three pieces of carrot cake settled heavily. She felt the familiar nausea and stomach rumbling, and she fought back against it. She tried to will herself to keep the food down, to not throw up, but the rich cream-cheese frosting was causing havoc with a system that rarely saw anything sweet or substantial.

She closed her eyes and thought of running, pounding the pavement, clearing her body of excess calories and sugar. The nausea passed.

Don’t accept anything, especially food, from strangers, Sammy. Don’t you know that is the best way to get into trouble? Mom and Dad taught you better.

“That could hardly include food from lonely little old ladies,” Sam said aloud, to hush the voice inside her head.

She felt a twitch in her muscles and the urge to run, long and hard. She fought back the desire, knowing that even though she often indulged in it, running at night was hardly safe, even if she carried her small personal pistol in a fanny pack. Yes, this was Kanesville, but the recent rash of deaths should make it perfectly clear that tragedy and violence come to call no matter where you live or what God you prayed to. She also wasn’t dressed for it, wearing her nice black pants and lightweight cream jacket that she often donned when interviewing witnesses. And her shoes were stylish, with enough of a heel that they would be murder on her feet.…

You’re a little crazy, you know that, right, Sam? You can’t really be thinking about jogging, the way you’re dressed
,
and at this time of night?

“I’m not really thinking about it. It would just be nice,” she said. Then shook her head. She didn’t enjoy hearing from Callie—it made Sam question her own sanity, worry she was a little nuts. And she especially didn’t like it when she felt compelled to answer back.

Sam would have to run an extra mile in the morning to make up for this indulgence. While it had been good cake, she’d eaten it because she had to, to keep Mrs. Tippetts talking. Was this why some officers got so fat? Food seemed to lower a person’s guard, and the willingness to eat at someone’s table—even a complete stranger’s—often did more to make a person open up than any truth serum ever could.

Sam’s cell phone jingled on the seat of the car. She reached over and snatched it up with her right hand, still navigating the car with her left as she pulled away from the curb.

“Montgomery,” she said.

“Nixon,” came the sarcastic retort, and Sam blanched as she recognized the nasal whine of the hard-edged reporter.

“Why are you calling me?”

“Guess,” the woman replied.

“No comment.”

“That’s not going to work with me, Montgomery.”

“Double no comment.”

“I’m going to run this story, and you know it and I know it. You can either speak to me—on or off the record—or I go with what I have, a little tidbit that tells me Kanesville has a nasty little serial murderer running amok, killing teenagers before they even have a chance to try their first legal drink.”

“By the time most of these kids are old enough to drink legally, they’ll be married or on missions for the Church.”

“Ah, you gotta love Utah. Still, you can either control how I play it or I can just unleash chaos on your department. You choose.”

“You’re a complete bitch, Nixon.”

“Takes one to know one, Montgomery.”

“I’ll meet you at Juniors in an hour. You’re buying.”

TWENTY

Juniors, located in downtown Salt Lake City across from the police station, was half cop bar, half reporter bar. It was an eclectic mix. Cops and the media who wrote about them—often unfairly and with wrong intent—seemed an unlikely combination, but at Juniors it worked. A lot of give-and-take went on here. The media was a necessary evil, and more than one seasoned detective had learned to work the system to his benefit.

Pamela Nixon spent a lot of time at Juniors. Lots of secrets were given away here. Most of them were given out in partial allotments, some truth, a little spin, and a lot of desperation tingeing their dispersal.

Rumor had it that Pamela Nixon would sleep with just about anyone if the information was good enough. Sam had heard enough talk in the time she had been on the SLCPD force to know it was true, to some extent. She understood it, in a way only another damaged woman with aspirations could. Nixon had her eye on a network anchor spot in one of the big markets, unlike many of the other Utah reporters who were happy to live and report in the place they had been born and the culture with which they were familiar and comfortable. Nixon was willing to do whatever was necessary to make a move on something bigger, somewhere better—mostly somewhere different.

Sam slid into a chair on the opposite side of Pamela, placing both elbows on the mahogany table and then immediately regretting it as the stickiness ever present in a bar—that deep adhesive feeling that came from decades of spilled drinks—assaulted her arms.

She pulled first one, then the other from the table, wincing as she considered “just exactly where” these tables had been.

Sam, don’t put that in your mouth. You have no idea where it’s been.

That particular memory floated up, compliments of her mother, because it was one of the few things Sam could ever remember her mother having to say to her. Before Ruthie slipped away forever.

Her phone rang again, and this time she didn’t look at it. It had continued to ring throughout the rest of the afternoon, and she had continued to decline the call. She knew it was Gage.

“Took you long enough to get here,” Nixon griped.

“I don’t exactly live around the corner, you know.”

“Why the hell did you ever leave the only bright spot in this state, anyway? To move to Hicksville? What is
wrong
with you?”

“I can’t explain it, and I’m sure not going to try to explain it to you. Besides, Kanesville is only twenty minutes from Salt Lake. That’s hardly Hicksville. You’d have to drive a lot farther to get
there
.”

“You know what I mean, Montgomery. Some places are better left behind, nothing but a distant memory.”

“I guess I’m not done with it yet.”

“You should have been done the day you left.”

“There’s still too much I don’t understand.”

“And you never will. I thought we went over this.”

“Look—”

“You’re not helping yourself, Sammy,” Pamela said with affection. “You are skinny as a rail, and it’s pretty obvious you are either working out too much or surviving on apples, coffee, and water again.”

“What can I getcha?” asked the perky waitress, ignoring some good-natured hoots and flirting from the cops at the table next to them.

“Vodka tonic,” Pam said.

“Diet Coke,” Sam said.

Pamela raised an eyebrow at Sam as the waitress sashayed off, giving backward glances to the table of young cops—obviously patrolmen fresh out of the academy—who were enjoying the show.

“I have to drive,” Sam said. “And this isn’t a social visit, anyway. You threatened me, and I’m here to talk you out of doing something stupid like trying to blackmail a cop.”

“It’s not blackmail, Sam,” Pamela said, a wry grin on her face. “It’s reality. I have a job to do, too. My job is at odds with your job. But they can work together. They can. But let’s get back to you for a minute. You’re at least five pounds lighter than you were the last time I saw you. Are you eating?”

“Yes, I’m eating regularly. Well, kind of regularly. And using protein shakes.”

Pam shook her head and Sam felt the anger rise up in her gut. She hated having to explain herself to anyone, ever. Especially to someone like Pamela Nixon.

“I’m using them, but I’m eating, too,” Sam said, her voice harsher then she liked.

“I’m just worried about you,” Pam said, the sarcasm, anger, and haughty air suddenly gone. Their eyes met, and they were just two women, in a tough business, trying to survive. Trying to survive without starving themselves to death. They had met in an eating-disorders support group and had formed a bond that belied their very disparate careers.

“I promised you I wouldn’t lose track of you just because you moved away, and I meant it.”

“I’m okay. Let’s talk about you. How are you doing? Eating enough?”

“Eating too much. I’ve gained five pounds and my boss called me curvy last week. Almost enough to send me over the top and back into a tailspin. I won, though. I didn’t let it derail me. Three squares a day.”

“I’m doing okay, too,” Sam said, reaching out with her hand to touch Nixon’s arm, the closest she ever got to physical contact with friends. And that was what Pam definitely was. A friend. Even when the other woman looked Sam in the eye and called her a bitch. Nevertheless, she pulled her hand back quickly.

“Good,” Pam said, a twinkle in her eye. Then her face hardened and her eyes narrowed. “Now, let’s talk about this case. The dead kids. Something rotten in your neck of the woods, Sammy. Is it a suicide pact?”

“Not that I can tell. There’s absolutely no indication that these kids—”

“But they were all friends,” Pam said, ignoring the moue of disgust on Sam’s face as she interrupted. “They all hung out in the same crowd. They could have had a pact. Maybe you just haven’t found the proof yet.”

“No. That’s not what this is,” Sam said, her voice stubborn. She didn’t intend to say more, at least not to Pamela Nixon. Friend or not, she was the press. Anything Sam said from this point on was fair game. She knew the rules, and friendship was on the back burner now.

“You have to give me something, Sammy, or I’m going to run with what I have. And what I have smells like suicide pact. Three kids. All from the same social group. All from the same little town. All the same age. All dead.”

“That would be jumping to conclusions, and some pretty poor reporting on your part,” Sam said sharply.

“Not really,” Pamela said, her eyes ablaze with the future she saw ahead for herself, in the not-too-far distance. “It really makes sense. All that’s missing is confirmation from the police that they found suicide notes at any of the three crime scenes. From there to suicide pact … Well, even if I don’t say that, and just raise the question, people are going to read into it that way. Everybody is thinking it, Sam.”

“People are going to think what they want. It doesn’t change the facts,” Sam said stubbornly.

“Yeah? I suppose so. But soon, you’re going to have a little bit of an issue on your hands, because everybody is going to be wondering, ‘Is my kid next?’ They are going to want some answers, and they are going to be looking at
you
to give them those answers. If this is a suicide pact, and you know it, these parents deserve to know it. They deserve to be able to stop it.”

Pamela’s face was shiny, her eyes focused, concern and passion on her face. An act. She just wanted the story, and Sam knew it.

But Pamela was right. These parents were going to freak out, and soon—the parents of the kids who were still alive. What was worse? Thinking your child might be on the verge of suicide or thinking that a killer was creeping through the back alleys and side streets of Kanesville, murdering teenagers and leaving little trace?

“When I know, you’ll know,” Sam finally said.

“Exclusive,” Pamela said, her tone harsh. “Don’t fuck with me, Montgomery.”

“Exclusive. Just keep a lid on it for a few more days.”

“Good thing I trust you. Now why don’t you have a real drink. And if you say ‘too many calories,’ I’m going to drag your ass to IHOP and make you eat endless pancakes.”

“Fine, when the waitress comes back, order me a vodka tonic. Just one. I really do have to drive home.”