Kitabı oku: «No Sanctuary», sayfa 5
7
It was the last chance Bay and Duncan had to talk one-on-one. Once they arrived at the house, Madeleine took over again leading Bay from one guest to the next. Contrary to Madeleine’s earlier criticism, she liked Odessa Davis best. Diminutive, eternally sunny and as plump as her husband, she exhibited a genuine affection for him even when gently chastising him about his sermon as Madeleine warned she would.
Despite having left the church first, Holly arrived shortly after the Davises and didn’t participate in any conversation unless asked a direct question, something no one seemed eager to do. Lyle Gessler appeared from somewhere else in the house and planted himself behind Madeleine like a substitute guardian angel. Bay caught him watching her several times and, while his expression remained lawyer passive, his aura of disdain for her brought a chill that made the air-conditioned room almost too cold to bear.
Granger Patterson was the last to arrive and offered no apology or explanation for delaying lunch. Tall enough to tower over Duncan, his sun-streaked blond hair also bore interesting silver highlights, a close match to his eyes. Bay guessed him to be in his mid-sixties, except that his hands and neck suggested a decade beyond that. Cosmetic surgery? From what she’d read in the news, an increasing number of men were opting to go under the knife for business reasons. Bay disliked him on sight, but not for that reason. Once they were introduced, the man simply gave her no other choice.
“Ms. Butler.” He shook her hand in a firm, but brief exchange. “Tyler’s lady of the hour.”
“Closer to a reluctant fifty-nine seconds if I’m lucky.”
“Clever soundbite, though it wouldn’t work as well in print as on TV.”
“I didn’t realize I was being interviewed.”
“Would you like to be?”
“Absolutely not.”
“All right, we can talk price.”
“That wasn’t an attempt at negotiation.”
The slight duck of his head signaled his cynicism. “I don’t put much stock in modesty. I care about the story, not politics or agenda.”
“Okay, then you know I haven’t voted in several years and my only agenda is to stay away from carnivores. If you can manage to insult me accurately, we might end up having a conversation.”
His laugh sounded like someone strangling. “I’ll have my secretary set up an appointment.”
“Not about a story.”
“It could be lucrative for you. Madeleine tells me you’re an artist as well as craftsman.”
“One who’s booked to September.”
“You’ll be old news by then.”
“Lucky me.”
Being rejected didn’t phase Patterson. At lunch he sat on Madeleine’s left and Bay on her right, and while their hostess did her best to keep his attention, he remained doggedly intent on including Bay in their dialogue. Not only was Madeleine visibly annoyed, but it kept Bay from speaking to Lyle Gessler. Intercepting sharp looks from Holly at the far end of the table beside Duncan made it all worse.
Rich food and stress took its toll and Bay excused herself before dessert could be served hoping to find aspirin in the guest bathroom to ease her throbbing head. The perfect hostess, Madeleine had several pain relievers displayed on a crystal tray for guests. Two tablets and a few moments with a cool washcloth against her forehead gave her the ability to head back to the others.
On her way past the sunroom, she spotted Holly at the wheel-cart bar. “Could we talk for a moment?” Bay asked, as the young woman poured herself what looked like vodka from a crystal decanter.
Ignoring her, Holly downed the double shot of liquor. “No need to practice your ‘Free at last, free at last’ speech on me. Unlike the very interesting Mr. Patterson, I’m not buying theatrics. I get enough at my day job.”
So much for Madeleine’s claims. How could she misread Holly this badly? “It’s true. I really want—”
“To be friends? Nice trick, considering we were never going to be that when Glenn was alive.”
“I wanted to, so why not? We both cared about him.”
Sheer hatred flared in the other woman’s eyes. “I loved him. You threw him away.”
“We were friends, Holly. It was never meant to be anything else. He understood in the end and I was so happy for him when he met you and recognized that he was really in love.”
“Ms. Butler, Holly,” Lyle Gessler said in the doorway. “You’re about to miss dessert. Mrs. Ridgeway would like you to return to the table.”
Rejecting the arm Lyle offered her, Holly did that immediately. Bay saw her opportunity and tried to delay him.
“Mr. Gessler, a moment, please. My case file,” she told the attorney as he paused. “I’d like to see it.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have it.”
“Who does?”
He nodded toward the dining room.
“You haven’t kept a copy?”
“There was no reason to. I was the liaison. My area is corporate law, not trial law.”
“Thank you,” Bay replied despite his condescending tone. “I’ll speak with Mrs. Ridgeway then.”
She wanted to leave there and then, but somehow got through the white chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce, and the tedious wait for the other guests to depart. Finally, as Martin Davis and Odessa took their leave, she let Madeleine walk her to the door—only to be handed another rejection.
“It’s over, darling. What good is reminding yourself of the unpleasant? It’s certainly not going to help your future.”
“I’m still searching for clarity and perspective. I know Mr. Gessler gave me the abbreviated facts, but this is my life we’re talking about. I went from no future, to unlimited possibilities in a matter of minutes. I’m still coming to terms with how that happened.”
“I agree. Let her have it,” Duncan said coming up beside her.
Madeleine looked as though he’d encouraged her to burn down the house; however, she recovered admirably. “I happen to know Bay’s sensitive and artistic side and I think exposing her to any additional unpleasantness would only be detrimental to her creativity.”
“That’s complete rot, Mother. Look at her—Bay is as levelheaded as you are. She’ll be fine.”
“Well.” Madeleine clasped her hands in an inverted V. “I see I’m outnumbered. Then you get the file for me, won’t you, dear? It’s on my credenza, I believe.”
As he left with a quick arm squeeze for Bay, Madeleine’s smile grew rueful. “Promise me that you won’t spend the rest of the day on that thing?”
“I won’t.” Bay didn’t feel so much as a twinge of guilt at voicing the lie. “I’m sorry about Holly.”
Madeleine sighed. “Holly reminds me of a bird determined to fly straight into a window convinced that what it sees is continuing sky. We’ve paid for her therapy, made all sorts of compromises and adjustments so she could continue with us, but—” she shrugged “—I’m close to being out of ideas and, I fear, at the end of my patience.”
“Maybe if she could meet someone else, she could move on.”
“What’s the likelihood of that under the circumstances?”
To Bay’s relief Duncan returned, saving her from having to respond. “Thank you,” she said hoping they didn’t see the slight trembling of her hands as she accepted the folder, which somehow looked thinner than the one she’d seen Lyle Gessler page through at Gatesville.
“What’s your schedule like later in the week?” he replied.
She didn’t know what her expression looked like, and Madeleine’s wasn’t much better in that she’d now mastered her emotions. “I…well, I’ll be working, I suppose. I owe your mother the gate she’s been waiting for.”
“You can’t work around the clock and you have to eat. I’m out of town until Wednesday. How about if I call you Thursday and we’ll see about dinner? You haven’t committed me to something, have you, Mother?”
“Of course, not.” Madeleine embraced Bay. “You two work it out. I have some calls to return. Thank you for making my morning so enjoyable, my dear.”
As she retreated into her office, Bay frowned at Duncan. “She doesn’t approve.”
“She’s annoyed with me for forcing her hand and giving you the file.”
“Speaking of being upset…you don’t have to take up where she’s leaving off. I’m not in need of constant entertaining, never mind caretaking.”
“Good Lord, is that how you see this?” With a new gleam in his eye, he took hold of her upper arms. “I see I have my work cut out for me.”
A part of her, the ghost of the awkward schoolgirl, didn’t want to be having this conversation. The injured woman warmed with secret triumph and feminine curiosity.
“You’re staring at me as though I were under your microscope,” Duncan said, touching the tip of her nose. “This is where you make my day by giving me something refreshing to look forward to instead of another ghastly dinner meeting.”
“You’ll be disappointed.”
“Try me.”
8
The phone was ringing as Bay returned home and opened her front door. Not bothering to take the key out of the lock, she grabbed the receiver.
“Hello?” She placed her slim shoulder bag and the folder from the Ridgeways onto the kitchen counter. “Hello?”
Once again she heard subtle but indistinguishable background noises to assure her that someone was there.
“Not today, thanks,” she muttered hanging up.
She’d had enough, enough of people pushing her buttons, of those trying to play mind games and all of the manipulation. All she wanted to do now was slip out of what she would heretofore call her “torture slippers” and change into the loosest, skimpiest outfit she could find.
“Mercy, that air conditioner is cranking away,” she said carrying her things down the hall. At the register she found out why.
The temperature was set all the way to the coldest setting. How had she managed that? What an idiot, she thought quickly adjusting it back up to seventy-nine. She must have knocked it somehow as she was hurrying to leave and wobbling in those shoes. Dreading what this would do to her electricity bill, she continued to the bedroom…and froze in the doorway.
The window nearest the bathroom was open.
Sultry air was seeping into the room, offsetting the chill in the hall and yet goose bumps rose on her bare arms. Now that she knew she hadn’t done.
Her heart slamming against her breastbone, she retreated to the kitchen for some kind of weapon—the heavy-duty flashlight kept by the door for her left hand to deflect a blow, and a knife with the longest, sturdiest blade for her right. Once leaving Gatesville, she’d hoped she was putting this part of her life behind her. She should have known that was too good to be true.
This time Bay checked room by room, starting with the kitchen’s broom closet and the linen closet in the hallway. At the same time she looked for other signs that someone had left taunting clues of his visit. Once she got as far as the bathroom and determined she was the only one in the house, she closed the window, tested the lock and began checking drawers, her imagination in overdrive.
Everything else appeared untouched. In a way that upset her more than if she’d seen her things ripped or soiled. And now what did she do, call the police? That was a joke.
“Hi, this is Bay Butler, former convicted murderer. Could you send someone out here to fingerprint the place? I just got home and my bedroom window is open and my air conditioner is heading for cardiac arrest.”
No, aside from there being no provable crime, the word would go out on the police radio and with her luck some ambitious reporter would join in the rush out here. That would cinch her being the joke of the day on the morning TV and radio talk shows. As for calling anyone else for help, to what end? There was nothing anyone could do unless she’d had a video camera operating here in her absence to catch the person in the act. Madeleine would insist she move into the big house after all or send Elvin out here to play bodyguard and both of those ideas were unacceptable. The camera idea was a good one, but a luxury she simply couldn’t afford.
“Damn it!” she seethed. She’d earned the right to live alone, to maintain her privacy. So think. What was the point of this?
Intimidation.
Jack Burke? That speech the other day could have been a crock and if he couldn’t get her back behind bars, he wanted her out of Tyler worse than Holly did. As for her, she’d been at church with the rest of them. No, whoever called minutes ago had been her intruder wanting to see if she’d gotten home and how she was taking this. Likely that wasn’t Burke, because he hadn’t known where to find her that first day. Several others did, but everyone she could think of had the alibi of being at the church. Could she be guilty of not checking that window after all?
Brooding over that, Bay changed into a loose night-shirt and panties and in the end concluded that the biggest favor she could do for herself was to study that file and see if there were any clues.
Minutes later she leaned back on the couch and stared at the papers spread across the coffee table. Something was very wrong. There were things missing. Unfortunately, she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what. Besides not having a college degree, she was no student of the law. All she knew was that the file wasn’t as thick as the one Gessler brought the day he’d come to speak to her. From her perspective, there should be a report on Tarpley’s testimony, another from Razor Basque’s case file, and Nick Martel’s statement…Shouldn’t there be a notarized, thumb-print-in-blood something or other?
As the day took its toll, Bay rubbed her face with both hands. How could it be that Gessler’s memo to Madeleine summarizing everything—almost as abbreviated as his verbal report to her—was the closest thing to information in there aside from her own trial record? The court edict vacating her verdict was nice to see in black and white, but of no other help. Where was any of the background paperwork from that trial lawyer Gessler referred to? Had Gessler removed it before turning the file over to Madeleine? Why? A woman like Madeleine would want all of the data, since she’d financed this endeavor.
The implications made Bay’s stomach roil. If Madeleine removed or had someone remove documents, she would have to know Bay would ask for the file. She’d looked so surprised and unhappy about it…Surely that hadn’t been “strategy” as Duncan put it? As for him, he’d been quick to retrieve the file, had supported her right to have it. Her suspicious mind had them pulling a good-cop-bad-cop routine. Ridiculous.
The most direct way to get answers would be to ask. Bay headed for the kitchen phone, but stopped before picking up the receiver. Calling was out of the question. Madeleine would see this as an outright accusation, and Duncan probably would, too. Bay would have to be ready to walk away from this property, maybe lose The Iron Maiden contract once and for all.
Oh, God, she thought. Pulling away from her would subsequently cost her business from any other church member too, forcing Bay to Dallas or Houston where there were larger metal shops. Getting answers about Tarpley, Basque and Martel long-distance would be more difficult yet.
Returning to the living room, she paced in front of the coffee table, eyeing the unsatisfying spread. She needed a break. She needed a real ally, someone to point her in the right direction even if he didn’t have the answers himself. Maybe Nick Martel had only been a fringe principle in all of this, but he was a detective and could give her some advice.
Jack Burke’s less-than-glowing remarks about the Vice cop replayed in her mind, but she pushed them away. “I don’t want to date him,” she said, with a growing sense of commitment to the idea. “I just want to pick his brain.”
And if he seemed at all sympathetic, maybe she’d ask for his advice about her intruder.
9
Monday, June 3, 2001
While she’d had a profitable day, thanks to another walk-in customer, Bay was anxious to lock up and head across town.
Shortly after four, she tucked the money into her hind pocket and crossed the driveway to the house. Another few customers like the one who’d just left, she thought, and she could consider that camera after all. Walk-in traffic rarely challenged her as an artist, but as a craftsman, she enjoyed testing her skills against practical applications, as well as doing the best job for the customer. Usually, she knew more about what metal could and couldn’t do than the person asking for her help, and that had been the case with the guy whose truck, full of franchise auto parts, had been broken into overnight. She showed him how simply repairing the damage would leave him vulnerable to additional vandalism and various options to discourage that. The guy didn’t blink at the cost—a smart move considering what he stood to lose in inventory.
After a quick shower, Bay changed into a white T-shirt and jeans, stuck a pencil under the miniblinds on the door and carefully locked up again. The concept behind the poor man’s burglar alarm was that if she got home and was equally careful unlocking the door, she’d find the pencil exactly how she’d left it—or know she needed to use caution before proceeding any farther.
Driving to the Loop, she passed three gas station/convenience stores before stopping to use a pay phone, following the theory, “better neurotic than traced.” After putting in the proper change and dialing the number on the scrap of paper she’d brought with her, she waited for the connection.
“Yes,” she said to the central switchboard operator, “I’d like to talk to Detective Nick Martel, please.”
There was a pause on the other line. “I’m sorry,” the woman replied slowly. “I don’t seem to…do you know which department he’s in?”
“Vice.”
“Let me connect you with them. This is a new list and I don’t see him on here. But I’m pretty new, so hold please.”
The phone rang and rang. Finally a man’s curt voice snapped, “Vice.”
“Nick Martel, please.”
Once again she was subjected to one of those telling pauses that suggested this wasn’t going to be easy.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me he’s gone for the day?” She hoped whining in the little girl’s voice worked.
“Who is this?”
Bay hung up. Maybe she could have pulled this off giving the guy a fake name, but something in his tone warned her not to. What to do next? she thought, watching the traffic speed by. There had been no listing in the phone book for any Nick or N. Martel, and while she appreciated the ironical link between names and occupations, she couldn’t assume Martel’s Welding was any relation to Nick.
Disappointed, Bay decided to drive around downtown to see if inspiration would strike again. Taking the next left meant passing where her old shop had stood. Madeleine had warned her that it had been torn down and replaced with a used car lot. Just as well, Bay thought. Likely Glenn would have approved, considering that he’d been a vintage car junkie and hated the new models that got progressively more expensive to buy and costlier to repair.
She drove around the square and then inspected some of the side streets, using the opportunity to refresh her memory and note the changes as she had in other parts of the city. As she passed a grill, she saw a couple of cops exit their private vehicles and enter for what she assumed was an early dinner. Or a few beers, she amended, remembering that though the churches had succeeded in keeping liquor stores out of the city, restaurants could sell drinks on a membership basis. Thinking it might be a cop hangout, Bay slid into the first parking slot available. She could go in and order takeout. If things didn’t get uncomfortable, she would ask the uniforms if they knew Martel.
Once her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting in the brick-walled restaurant, she counted at least five officers. Relieved that she didn’t recognize any of them, she placed her order and went to the first table.
It took a few tries to be heard above the fifties rock-and-roll music, but finally two of the men shook their heads. The third eyed her with curiosity. “Why don’t you go to the station and ask there?” he suggested.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
The three exchanged knowing glances, and losing nerve fast, Bay thanked them and moved on to the other table where a man and woman in uniform sat. Neither of them were of help; however, as Bay began to leave, the woman called her back.
“You look familiar. Have we met?”
“I get that all the time,” Bay replied and quickly withdrew. She spent the next several minutes sweating blood waiting for her order to be ready. About ready to lose her courage and sacrifice her purchase, the waitress pushed the white box across the counter at her.
Snatching it up, Bay took the longest strides she could to get out of there…and came face-to-face with Jack Burke.
He looked from her into the eatery and then at her again. “What are you doing here?”
She held up the box.
Jack lifted his left eyebrow. “You passed any number of burger joints coming here. I know better than to hope you were looking for me, so that leaves who?”
“That’s my business.”
“Did you specifically ask for Martel in there?”
“What if I did?”
“What kind of luck did you have?”
She looked away. “None.”
“Because he’s gone.”
“What?”
“I just found out myself. He’s left Tyler, left Texas and moved his family to Portland.”
Bay gripped her foam box until it began to crack. “I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us. Did anyone recognize you in there?”
“They’re working on it.”
“All right, hit the road. I’ll pick up something myself and meet you back at your place.”
“No. I told you, stay away from me.”
Before she could step around him, Jack gripped her arm. “With Martel gone, you need me more than ever.”
It was a mistake to look up into his face. Their close proximity allowed too much—intimacy, a full awareness of his strength, what a clear rich brown his eyes were…how hard his heart pounded against her hand. Nothing spectacular that she didn’t see or experience before, and yet her body responded as though she’d been in incubation for thirty-two years and had tasted fresh air for the first time.
When his gaze shifted to her mouth, she jerked free and escaped to her truck. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack Burke continue inside as though nothing had happened.
“There’s a lesson for you,” she muttered shifting into reverse.
If he showed up at the house, she wouldn’t let him in. She would shut the miniblinds tight and pretend she didn’t hear him. The only thing she liked worse than being embarrassed was realizing she’d been wrong. She wasn’t a lost cause. She could feel temptation.
Her alternate fuming and self-chastising came to an abrupt halt as she pulled into her driveway and saw Madeleine’s car in the driveway and Elvin about to put a key in the door lock. It set her heart pounding for an entirely different reason.
She beat her palm against the horn. It stopped him and he waited for her to drive around the sedan and into the carport.
“Where’ve you been?” he demanded as she came around the corner.
Bay stopped, disliking his tone as much as she did knowing he had access to her house. Hadn’t Madeleine signed the deed over to her?
“Mrs. R. called. Repeatedly,” he continued.
Grateful that she hadn’t stopped on the way home to toss her dinner box into the trash, she held it up for Elvin to see. “I ran an errand and picked up dinner.”
“The refrigerator’s empty already?”
What was this, Prison Lite? Holding his gaze, she countered with her own subtle accusation. “What are you doing with a key to the house?”
“Mrs. R. felt we should keep one in case of an emergency.”
Then she should have told her. Bay didn’t like this at all and, inevitably, thought of the window and thermostat. Here was someone who was exposing his access, but why would he do something so taunting and costly? Did he think her undeserving of his employer’s generosity? No, Bay reminded herself, Elvin had been at the church, and he wasn’t stupid. All she had to do is mention what happened to Madeleine and he would be exposed. There was one thing she did have to make clear.
Bay held out her hand. “Could I have it, please?”
“Not without Mrs. R.’s say-so.”
“She deeded the property over to me. Are you aware of that?”
The stocky man shrugged, his lower lip beginning to protrude. “Not any of my business. All I know is she wanted to keep a key and she sent me over to check on you.”
“Then let’s call her, shall we?”
“Go ahead.”
That wasn’t the reaction Bay wanted. Chances were he would follow her, and aside from not wanting to be alone in the house with a virtual stranger who might have a side to him that his employer didn’t know about, there was that pencil. She wasn’t about to give away her secret tricks or expose her concern.
Hoping her confident pose could outlast his, she nodded to the phone in his shirt pocket. “I’m sure you have that thing programmed, go ahead and use yours.”
With a flash of impatience, he spun away from her. “I don’t need this crap. I’m off to take care of the rest of what I gotta do. You’re still breathing and Mrs. R. needs me back at the house to drive her to a function this evening. The rest is your problem to settle with her.”
“Elvin, do not leave here with that key.”
“If that’s what she wants, you’ll get it,” he replied over his shoulder as he headed for the car. “Next time.”
After he’d had a chance to make a copy? “No. Now.”
He stopped just as abruptly and, staring at his back, Bay felt a flicker of doubt. She’d provoked him, she could sense it in the tension in his back muscles against the white cotton of his shirt. Idiot, she seethed. She knew better than to challenge an unknown commodity.
As she fingered her keys, adjusting them in case she needed the self-defense, a white pickup pulled into her driveway. The problem was she didn’t know whether he was an answer to a prayer or more trouble. How had he made it here so fast?
Jack took his time emerging from the truck. “Everything okay?” he asked, casually approaching them.
“Just peachy, Detective.”
As soon as Elvin resumed his retreat, Bay understood: like a cunning coyote, he was cutting his losses, meaning to use Jack’s arrival to avoid further dialogue over the key. No way could she spend another night here knowing he or anyone else had that kind of access.
“Elvin.” When he paused again, she continued, “The key, please.”
“Oh, right, right.” Pursing his thick lips, he pretended to dig into his right pants pocket and came up with the single key, then brought it back to her. “You be sure and call her, hear?” he said winking as he handed it over.
“Oh, I will.”
“No hard feelings. I was just doing my job.”
That’s what she wanted to believe; however, watching him drive away, Bay wasn’t convinced. Unable to resist scratching the itch where the key touched her skin, she met Jack Burke’s serious scrutiny and forced herself to stop.
“Where’s your takeout?”
“I changed my mind.”
“You never meant to eat there in the first place. You spotted me.”
“What was the deal with the key?”
“Like he said, a misunderstanding.”
“Try again. He covered it well, but I know he didn’t want to hand it over. I also know he’s Madeleine Ridgeway’s driver, Bay.”
“What a coincidence. By his reaction I’d say you were no mystery to him, either. Translation—if I don’t phone Madeleine fast, how long do you think it’ll be before she calls me demanding to know why you’re here?”
“And what will you tell her?”
“That I can’t decide who’s the bigger pain in the backside, you or my good friend Elvin.”
Once again Jack held her gaze. “Confess, Bonnie B. You were relieved to see me.”
“I’ll be equally relieved to see you go.” Casting him an ominous look, she returned to her truck to get her dinner. If there was one thing that ticked her off, it was being taunted with her idiotic first name, the result of her mother buying a paperback version of Gone with the Wind at a garage sale during her pregnancy.
When she rounded the corner again, Bay found him at her front door. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I can wait until you’ve made your call.”
“You can leave.”
“We haven’t discussed Nick Martel yet.”
“You said he’s gone. There’s nothing else to say.”
“Do you suppose your friends the Ridgeways are aware of that?”
“I have no idea.”
“Then they didn’t suggest you approach Martel?”
“Hardly. Madeleine didn’t even want me to have—”
When she didn’t continue, Jack said, “Go ahead.”
Bay shook her head, unwilling to mention the missing file documents. She didn’t want to make something out of what could be a simple misunderstanding, until she knew the truth.
“Nick Martel had nine years invested with the Tyler PD,” Jack said. “You don’t walk away from that so easily, uproot kids from school—”
“School is over for the summer.”
“But they had friends, activities…his wife worked. They owned a house.”
“Where?”
He lowered his head like a bull lining up his next victim to charge. “Forget it.”
“I have a right to know. He’s not listed in the phone book.”
“If he had been, would you have walked to his front door and introduced yourself?”
“What would be so wrong with that? The man helped me. At the least I’d have liked to thank him.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want your thanks. Maybe he wouldn’t want you on his front steps saying things he didn’t want his family to know about. You’re street smart, honey, but you’re still a puppy.”
That was one dig too many. “Overincubated,” she snapped back, “that’s me.”
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