chapter Four
Casey found a cheap motel on the edge of town, far from her old haunts, far from anything familiar, and in the morning she showed up at Don’s office, showered and wearing her last set of clean clothes, which, unfortunately, was a pale blue warm-up suit with white tennis shoes. Not exactly what one would choose to wear to confront the cops, but at least it was comfy, and she could move freely, should she need to.
Don was already at his office, and the front door was unlocked. He met her in the reception area, briefcase in hand, wearing a dark suit. At least one of them would look professional.
Death sat in Don’s waiting room, nose in a book, or, more accurately, in one of those new electronic tablets you can use to download things to read. Instead of a suit fit for court, Death wore footie pajamas with dancing bears on them.
“You ready?” Don said.
Casey stared at Death. “Seriously?”
Death blinked up at her. “What?”
“Um, yes,” Don said. “Look, I understand you’re nervous. But I believe it will be all right. Really.” He opened the door. “Shall we go?”
Only after they were in Don’s car with the doors shut did Death appear in the backseat, wearing a slightly more appropriate tan leisure suit and waggling the little computer beside Casey’s head. “This is amazing. Have you seen these things? It’s like a whole book in this skinny little pad.”
Casey looked out her window.
“Or, actually, it’s like hundreds of books. I’m never sure how to choose which one to read. This morning it’s that one about the girl, what’s her name, Scout? Her dad’s a lawyer, and there’s this guy they all think is guilty, and a weird neighbor who never comes outside and—”
“To Kill a Mockingbird,” Casey said.
“What?” Don flicked his eyes toward her.
“That’s it!” Death said. “It’s a pretty good story.”
“Why are you talking about that?” Don said. “Because you think they’ve arrested an innocent man?”
Casey glared at Death, who settled back into the seat. “They have arrested an innocent man. Anyway, why else would I be talking about it?”
Death gave a little cough, and Casey felt herself go hot. She knew she was grumpy. Knew it wasn’t Don’s fault.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m not exactly the world’s best company today.”
“To be expected.” Don smiled grimly. “It’s not every day you have to turn yourself in to the cops.”
She watched the houses go past. “You really think this will work?”
“I do. It was self-defense. You have a witness. The victim was a criminal.”
Casey closed her eyes and practiced some deep breathing she’d learned from her hapkido master. Speaking of whom, she wondered if he knew she was in town. He probably felt it somehow. He was like that.
“It was self-defense?” Don sounded casual, but Casey opened her eyes and could see how he was gripping the steering wheel.
“I swear. It was going to be me or him. And I didn’t mean to do it. It was his knife. Not mine.”
Don nodded once, sharply. “What I thought.”
The police station was gray and built onto the side of a hill. The perfect back wall for a building with a lock-up on the first floor. No way would anyone be getting out that way. Not unless they were half groundhog. Don pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. “Try to relax. Tell the truth, and it should be over soon.”
“Don, who are you trying to convince? I think you’re more worried than I am.”
“Could easily be.” He straightened his shoulders and gathered up his things. “Ready?”
They made their way to the building, Death walking right through the front doors, since the book—or reading device—was so fascinating. Casey, however, hesitated just outside, trying to picture Ricky’s face. That was all she needed to convince herself she was doing the right thing. Her little brother did not deserve to be in prison with a murder rap hanging over him. He’d never hurt anyone, let alone a woman he loved, either for self-defense or intentionally. All violent tendencies seemed to have manifested in his older sister.
The police receptionist looked up, and immediately punched a number on her phone. Casey stiffened. Was she about to be arrested? She looked at the posters on the walls, expecting to see a “wanted” sign with her face on it.
A buzzer sounded, and a heavy door to the left swung open. Casey spun around, instinctively balancing on her back leg, arms loose, ready for a pack of officers to charge through with drawn guns, or maybe they’d just go for a full-fledged SWAT team. Instead, a middle-aged man in a dark blue suit jacket and gray pants strode casually through the door, while a young, uniformed officer held it open. The suit jacket on the older guy didn’t look as good as Don’s; it was just a little bit shiny, and had gold buttons on the cuffs. It was wide, too, like the man had lost weight but hadn’t had the chance or the money to update his wardrobe. The pants were baggy, strengthening that theory, and his black shoes were scuffed. But he was clean and shaven and wore a tie—even though it was a little too fat and yellow.
The other cop was your typical young policeman. Dark blue uniform over a fit twenty-something body, shiny nameplate and shoes, wary eyes that couldn’t hide his curiosity. The sort of look that could make Casey want to either pinch his cheeks or just appreciate the view, if he hadn’t been waiting to arrest her.
“Don.” The man in the cheap suit held out his hand, and Don shook it.
“Thanks for seeing us, Lloyd.”
The man’s eyes sparkled, and his mouth twitched. “You’re welcome, I’m sure. Glad we could make the appointment.” He turned toward Casey, and the half-smile stayed on his lips. “Hello, Casey. Mrs. Maldonado. It’s good to see you again.”
Casey frowned, still thinking an armed take-down team must be hiding in the background. “Do I know you?”
“We met just after your accident. Detective Watts. I helped with the investigation, but wasn’t lead on it, since it took place outside the city limits.”
“I don’t remember.”
“There’s no reason you should. You had plenty of other things on your mind those days. I’m very sorry you had to go through that.”
Casey held still, not sure how to respond. He didn’t exactly sound like an arresting officer, or like he was even thinking of her as a potentially violent criminal. He sounded like he was giving her real condolences from a real person. Imagine that.
“Um, ‘thank you’ would probably be the appropriate response,” Death said, glancing over, a finger on the e-reader to keep a spot.
Casey swallowed, but didn’t get her voice to work before the detective was moving again.
“Shall we go through?” He held a hand toward the open door, where the uniformed cop made no secret of staring at Casey, like she was some specimen in the Crazy Wanted Killer Zoo. He apparently wasn’t sure if he should be ready to defend himself, or to chase her if she ran. Obviously not in the same camp as the detective. Casey felt like saying, “Boo!” but instead leveled her eyes at him, and he ducked his head, looking at the floor. Casey preceded the others through the door, then waited on the other side, her arms wrapped around her stomach as she stared at the scuffed gray walls.
“Punk,” Death said, pausing to look the young cop up and down. “Bet he doesn’t read at all, except for maybe Men’s Health.”
Casey thought that was probably true, but wasn’t ready to give the cop even that much credit.
“Right down here.” Watts led them to an interview room where there was a table bolted to the floor, four plastic chairs, and fluorescent lighting. Very flattering, Casey was sure. Her pale blue warm-up suit, along with the light, would be leaching any color from her face that might have found its way there overnight. But then, she wasn’t there to look good.
“Coffee?” Watts asked after Casey and Don had taken seats.
Don accepted, but Casey shook her head. Hot caffeine wouldn’t do anything for her rumbling stomach. Watts sent out the cop, who hurried back with two coffees, creamer, and sugar packs, along with water for Casey. Casey nodded her thanks, and the cop nodded back. Maybe he wasn’t so bad, after all. Just young, and inexperienced with dangerous criminals.
Watts took a sip of his coffee and made a face. “Terrible. Sorry about that, Don.”
“It’s fine.”
Watts grunted a laugh. “Whatever you say.” He pulled some of the creamer and sugar toward him, and took his time picking out a few packets.
“Ricky didn’t kill that girl,” Casey said.
The young cop jerked his head around, and Don widened his eyes, like he was trying to tell her to shut up. Watts picked up a sugar envelope and snapped it a couple of times to move the sugar to one end.
“He wouldn’t do that,” Casey said.
Watts stirred the sugar and several packs of cream into his coffee, and looked at Casey from under his brows. “Seems to me you’ve gotten your own self into some trouble these past few weeks.”
Right. Her stuff before Ricky’s. “It was self-defense.”
Watts nodded, still stirring. “That’s what I hear.” He jerked his chin toward the officer, who laid a piece of paper on the table. Watts pushed at it with the tip of his pen. “We used your friend Eric’s statement and came up with this one for you. Take a look and see what you think.”
Casey glanced at the paper, and then at the detective. “You’ve just had this sitting around, waiting for me?”
Watts sucked on his teeth. “You want to tell her, Don?”
Don cleared his throat. “I kind of called him last night.”
“Kind of? Him?” Casey frowned. “I thought we were worried about the cops hunting me down?”
“No. You were worried about that. I decided it would be better to be prepared. And there was no way they could find you last night, if you decided to stay hidden.”
Casey looked at Watts, and at the officer, who’d gone back to staring at her like she was an exotic animal.
Watts took another sip of coffee, pursed his lips, and shrugged. “Still terrible. But why don’t you take a look? See if the statement is something you can sign off on?”
“And if I can?”
Watts smiled. “Then I don’t have to arrest you. Which I really don’t want to do, anyway. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork.”
Casey hesitated.
“They’re offering you an out, darlin’,” Death said. “At least look at it. I’m scanning it right now on my reader, and it’s looking pretty good.”
Casey read the paper without touching it. Eric’s recounting of the event was clear and concise. Casey came off as the victim of an attack, who was just trying to save herself. It was close enough.
“It’s good,” she said.
Watts nodded. “Nothing you want to change?”
“Not about the statement.”
Watts studied her for a few moments, then handed her his pen. Casey signed. Watts handed the paper to the young cop. “You know what to do with that.”
The officer nodded, took one last look at Casey, and left.
Casey watched him go. “What exactly is he doing?”
“Setting you free, my dear.” Watts looked at her over the rim of his mug. “You do realize we’re not the only police department interested in your whereabouts.”
“Clymer?” Where she’d killed the guy.
“Among others. But this should satisfy them. Nobody—and I really mean nobody—wants anyone looking into this any further. The guy you killed wasn’t exactly a boon to society, and the other side, well, let’s just say they’re happy to have us spending our time elsewhere.”
She looked at Don, and back at Watts. “You mean that’s it? We’re done?”
“With that,” Watts said. “Sure.”
“But not with my brother.”
He set down his mug. “Look, Mrs. Maldonado—”
“Casey.”
“Casey. It’s not good.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“Yes, you said that before.”
“Obviously, he got involved with this woman—”
“Alicia McManus.”
“Alicia. Okay. But this has to be because of her, not him. He had nothing to do with it.”
“And your reasoning for that is?”
Because the woman was using a fake name? Because Casey knew there were three murderers who came to get her in the dead of night? No way could she say either of those things, when her source was the King of the Dead.
“Because he’s a sweet guy who stays out of trouble. Always has. What do we even know about the girl?”
Watts sat back. “Alicia McManus. Early thirties. Lived in the apartment where she was found. Came to town three months ago.”
“That’s it?”
“We have her rental agreement and job application at the restaurant. The information is…patchy.”
“How?”
“The Social Security Number and birthdate were fake, so we don’t know her exact age, and there was no phone number at which she could be reached. We didn’t find out about her cell phone until later. Your brother gave the number to us, actually. She included no references on the apps, no next of kin, no former landlords or employers, and there was nothing about education, place of birth, or insurance. Or even a middle name. We can’t find her anywhere in the federal databases.”
“I see. So this Alicia, if that really is her name—” she glanced at Death, who pointed a finger at her like a gun “—was full of secrets, and her life here was basically a lie.”
“You want to tell your brother that? Or do you think he found out on his own?”
“He did not do this! Look at the life this girl was leading. She probably dragged her past to town with her, and that’s what killed her. Her own lies. Not my brother.”
Watts smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “So you’re saying this woman—who your brother happened to be in a romantic relationship with, by the way—brought this on herself?”
“Well, it can’t have been Ricky’s fault. Who would he have in his life who could do something like that? He doesn’t know those kinds of people.”
Don and Watts stared at her silently. Death let out a laugh, for a moment forgetting Mockingbird.
Casey went hot, and ran her fingers through her hair. “Look. I don’t mean she got herself killed on purpose. Of course not. I feel terrible for her. I mean, the poor girl was tortured. And raped. No one deserves that. But you have to believe me. Ricky would not do that. To anybody.”
Watts looked into the bottom of his mug. “Can I show you something?”
“Nothing will convince me he’s guilty.”
“Please. Just take a look.”
“I won’t—”
“For heaven’s sake,” Death said. “Don’t make the man beg.”
Casey held up her hands. “Fine. Show me.”
Watts took his empty mug. “You stay put.”
“Well,” Don said when Watts was gone. “That went well.”
“You mean the part about me basically saying the poor woman was asking for it? I can’t believe I said that.”
Death snorted. “Like you’re usually a ray of sunshine.”
“You’ve been under a lot of stress,” Don said. “It’s understandable.”
“No,” Casey said. “It’s not.”
Watts was back soon. Casey expected him to be carrying folders with the same things Don had showed her in the office—grisly crime scene photos and notes explaining why her brother was the guilty one. But he had only one clear plastic bag. He set it on the table in front of her. “Any idea what this is?”
She did. It was one of Ricky’s old T-shirts, with Colorado U’s name printed across the front. She knew it was his because the collar had a blood stain on it from when she’d accidentally busted him in the face when he’d volunteered as her sparring partner. He hadn’t done that again. And he hadn’t thrown away the stupid shirt.
Watts held it a little closer. “Recognize it?”
“It’s my brother’s.”
“Yes. Guess where we found it?”
“The victim’s house, probably, since it’s in an evidence bag. But that doesn’t mean anything, assuming she really was his girlfriend. There’s bound to be lots of his stuff there.”
“I’m sure there might have been. But do you think all of his ‘stuff’ has this?”
He flipped the bag over. The bottom half of the shirt was spattered with blood. New blood. Not from when Casey had busted his nose.
Casey stared at it. “This is your evidence? A shirt from her apartment that anybody could have put on? Or maybe they used it to mop up the blood when they were done. Don’t tell me you haven’t considered that someone else wore it, then left it there to make Ricky look like the attacker.”
“Of course I would have considered that.”
“Would have?”
He set the shirt on the table. “We didn’t find it at the crime scene. We found it in your brother’s house.”