“That is such typical male bullcrap,” she said. “A woman dies and everyone blames her.”
“Her car was parked on the tracks,” I pointed out.
Jill said nothing.
“And she’d been drinking,” Mac added.
Jill’s sawing grew more vicious. “So there you go. Step one in the blame game. Raya didn’t drink. Not ever. She saw what drugs did to her mom. She saw all the booze and drugs out in LA. She swore she’d never be dependent on anything other than herself.”
“You’re saying the coroner falsified his report?” Mac asked.
A muscle jumped in Jill’s cheek. “Is that why you’re here, to bring up all that horrible stuff again? And somehow that’s supposed to help Raya?”
“Is there something you know that we should know?” I asked.
The tears returned, spilling over this time. Angrily, she wiped her face against her shoulder. “What I know is that Raya—”
She stopped speaking but kept sawing away at the bobcat. I got the sense there was a battle going on, and it wasn’t the one between the human and the dead predator.
“That Raya wouldn’t have killed herself?” Mac asked softly.
But Jill shook her head. “I’ve got nothing to say.”
Instinctively, my hand went into my pocket where I’d slid the picture of Lucy. I rubbed my thumb along the paper.
“Mrs. Martin,” I said, “there’s another life at stake.”
“No kidding. Mine.”
“What?”
In silence, Jill finished the incision along the cat’s spine, then set down the knife and, with her gloved hands, gripped the skin on one side and began pulling on it. The skin separated reluctantly from the flesh underneath. Like peeling a particularly stubborn orange.
I swallowed and tasted Iraqi sand at the back of my throat. Stay, I told myself.
Mac moved around so she had a better view of the bobcat. I gladly stepped back.
“My father did some taxidermy,” Mac said.
“Okay,” Jill said with determined disinterest. She began working the skin down along the hips, like she was trying to help a woman shimmy out of pants two sizes too small.
“He tried to teach me,” Mac went on. “But I was hopeless. I was a good hunter but a terrible taxidermist.”
“It’s more fun as a hobby than a business,” Jill said, engaging reluctantly. “My damn arthritis. There’s gotta be a better way to skin a cat. If you’ll pardon the pun.”
“How did you get into it?”
Mac’s voice was intimate, coaxing. This was a side of her I hadn’t seen.
Jill’s eyes darted to Mac before she returned to her work. “My husband. He died in a car crash three summers ago. I was still with the railroad but decided to retire early and put everything into the business. This place mattered so much to him, you know? I couldn’t let it go. But it was a bad decision. I’ve been working my ass off ever since, trying to help my daughter with her kids and keep the bank from taking my house.” She gestured with her chin. “Since you know what they are, hand me that tail stripper. If I’d stayed with SFCO, I’d be a few short years from enjoying my pension.”
Mac picked up something that looked like a fat pair of pliers and passed them over. “My dad used to say, ‘You pays your money and you takes your chances. We never know how things will turn out.’”
“And my mom used to say, ‘You made your bed, now sleep in it.’”
Mac’s voice stayed soft as she looked around the room. “Seems to me you and your husband built something good here.”
Jill’s hands went still and she followed Mac’s gaze. She puffed out a breath. “Yeah? Maybe.”
Mac moved in for the kill. “It sounds like you know something, Mrs. Martin. That maybe there was more to Raya’s death than a tragic accident or suicide. Special Agent Parnell and I aren’t about defending the railroads. We’re about finding the truth. This could be your chance to let the world know what happened.”
Jill frowned. “You think I stayed quiet all this time because that’s what I wanted?”
“Did someone threaten you?” Mac asked.
“Tell me why I should trust you.” She glared at me. “You work for the railroad. I know who your boss is.”
“I’m a cop, Jill. And a Marine. The only thing I’m interested in finding and protecting is the truth.”
“And damn the consequences?”
She went back to work on the tail. The raw flesh glistened under the bright work lights. Shadows jumped and shifted on either side of the cat, creating an eerie sense of motion. I angled my head away and found myself looking into the black eyes of a badger standing on a shelf. He looked sad about the entire mess. I closed my eyes, but then all I saw was the video of Samantha staring into the TIR in the seconds before she died. And Lucy on the swing, smiling.
I opened my eyes. “Mrs. Martin—”
Jill said, “She called me that night, Raya did. Before she left work. She was scared.”
“Of what?” Mac asked. “What was she afraid of?”
“I’ve spent twenty-eight years being scared, too. And I’ll tell you something about fear. It’ll wear at you until it takes you down to nothing.”
The bobcat’s naked tail popped free.
“That’s excellent work,” Mac said.
I locked sympathetic eyes with the badger.
Jill set the pliers down on the bloody tabletop. She said, “I’m the reason Raya died.”
At Jill’s request and to my relief, we relocated to a family restaurant three doors down. Food, she said, would help calm her nerves. The hostess seated us in a corner, far from the restaurant’s three other customers. A waitress brought Jill a bowl of green chili, a side of corn bread, and a soda. For Mac, she returned with a grilled cheese sandwich and iced tea, while I had black coffee and a ham sandwich. After asking my permission, the waitress also brought Clyde a small piece of steak, winning his immediate and undying devotion. Men and dogs—it’s all about the food.
Jill pushed her chili around in the bowl for a time, took a single bite, then set the bowl aside. She drew in a deep breath. “I’ve sat on this story for almost thirty years. Now I have no idea where to start.”
“Wherever feels right to you,” Mac said.
Jill rubbed her upper arms as if she were cold. Her face grew pensive and her eyes went far away; whatever she was seeing wasn’t in the restaurant with us.
“Raya and I were friends for most of our lives,” she said. “She stayed at my house a lot when we were kids. Her home life was horrible. Her dad gone, her mom crazy as a loon. In some ways, I blame Raya’s mom for what happened, because Esta was never anything like a mom should be. Raya had to grow up too fast.”