“Why the hell would a cop show up in her hospital room in Arizona all of a sudden, and start asking questions about a guy who died fourteen years ago, if not to cover up a murder?”
I drop my voice to a whisper. “Come on, Gracie . . . Do you really think a cop showed up in her room today? Think about it; you heard her back there. She couldn’t remember what he looked like, or if he was even in uniform. She was asleep, pumped full of medication. The nurses didn’t see anyone . . . And you’re right. Why now, right after my mom died?”
Gracie won’t admit it, but I see it in her eyes: she considered that Dina might have been delusional, too.
“Look, I believe her about what happened in your house that night. But nobody else will.”
She stops fussing with Cyclops’s collar and grabs the copy of the news clipping. “We have this! And a bag of ninety-eight thousand dollars! And my father’s gun holster!”
“The money isn’t going to prove anything.”
“Yes, it will!” She sputters, “Fingerprints!”
“Yeah, mine.”
Gracie’s not to be swayed, though. “We have a suspicious timeline—a drug bust that my dad observed on video and had a newspaper clipping about and ten days later, he’s dead, in the same motel where that bust happened—and then some guy is breaking into our house, threatening my mom about a video. How can you call that ‘nothing’?”
“Fine. It’s something.”
“And if someone could break in to threaten my mother, who says it was the first time? The same guy could have also planted the money and drugs that the cops found!”
Maybe. But . . . “None of this is enough, Gracie.”
“Then we find enough!” Her voice has risen, and Cyclops bolts from the bed, eyeing her warily. “We find Betsy. If she was in Austin at that time, then she’s his alibi for all those other nights. Maybe she knows something.”
“Do you know what kinds of things happen to those girls?” I don’t want to come right out and say it, but the chances of finding Betsy alive—fourteen years later—are not good.
“I’m not going to sit in Tucson and do nothing.”
“And you can’t go to Austin and stomp around, waving your knife and accusing people of framing your dad.”
“Not people, Noah. Cops. Or a cop.”
“Even more reason not to!”
She pauses to study the newspaper clipping. “I’ll bet that Mantis guy stole money or drugs from this bust, and my dad found out about it, and that’s why Mantis killed him.”
“We can’t prove that. We don’t even have the original case evidence.”
“Yeah, that’s convenient, don’t you think?” Her tone is dripping with sarcasm. “Plus, I heard what my mom said—that Jackie and my dad were ‘at odds.’ Why? What did Jackie do? Why would she not care about what happened to him—or us—after he died? Why would she be so quick to believe he was dealing drugs when anyone who knew him knew there was no way it could be true? Huh?” Her eyes narrow as she fires off accusation-laced questions. “There’s only one reason I can think of. Guilt over something she did, or something that someone else did that she knew about and kept quiet. I’ll bet she knew my father had been set up right from the start!”
I collect the collar from the bed. Surprisingly, Cyclops comes to me unbidden. I focus my attention on fastening the thin leather strap and hooking the end of the leash, all while trying to come up with a suitable response. “You know what? Maybe my mother is guilty of something. And maybe that money is the only way she knew how to make it right.”
I give the leash a light tug and Cyclops hops off the bed, looking as ready to get out of this suffocating motel room as I am.
But Gracie’s not ready to let me leave yet. “When I was eleven, thugs robbed the convenience store down the street where Nan bought her cigarettes. They shot the nice man behind the counter three times and he died. His name was Ahmed. He had a mole above his right eye and he always threw in a candy and a wink for me when he handed my nan her change. He had been working there for six months when it happened. For three years, every time I went into that store, I’d ask if the police had caught the killer. I hated that this person was running free, that Ahmed didn’t get the justice he deserved.” Gracie stands there with her arms folded, watching me.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because he was just Ahmed—the nice man who I saw two to three times a week, who gave me candy. He wasn’t the man who played basketball with me in his driveway, who coached my team, whose wife cared for me almost every day. He wasn’t a part of my life. But my dad was a part of yours—a big part. How can you not be furious? How can you not be fighting to make the people responsible for his death pay?”
“Because what if one of those people is my mother?” My voice cracks with emotion.
Sympathy flickers in her eyes, but it quickly vanishes. “My dad deserves to have his name cleared. What exactly does she deserve?”
Part of me is desperate to know the answer to that.
The other part hopes I never find out.
I march out the door, Cyclops on my heels.
CHAPTER 24
Officer Abraham Wilkes
April 23, 2003
“How’s your Coke machine doing, Isaac?”
“Nobody messin’ with it yet. Maybe having you loiter around the parking lot has helped scare ’em away.” The Lucky Nine’s maintenance man rests his forearm on the hood of my car. “Still no luck findin’ that girl?”
I grimace. “And no leads.” Every time my phone rings with an unknown number, my heart races. I’ve gotten a few calls, but they’ve led nowhere. Gutsy hookers, thinking they can bait me into coming to their rooms. I’m not going to track them down and arrest them. Not much else to do except tell them not to call again and hang up.
Isaac’s gaze drifts aimlessly over the lot. “I can tell she’s important to you.”
“She’s my wife’s sister,” I admit, something I don’t tell anyone when I’m canvassing. But Isaac seems trustworthy enough.
“I’ve been keepin’ an eye out.”
“I appreciate that. But I’m beginning to wonder if I’m talking in the wind. I’ve got a little girl at home, crying herself to sleep every night because she wants her daddy home.” And a wife that I’m lying to, because I can’t explain how I lost Betsy in the first place. It’s bad enough that I won’t ever forgive myself for it; I can’t bear what Dina might think. It’s best she doesn’t know about my run-in with Betsy until I can bring her sister home. Then . . . I’ll admit the truth and pay the consequences.
If I find her.
“What’s your girl’s name?”
“Gracie.” I smile wide. “Gracie May. She’s six and stubborn as a mule. She wouldn’t understand this, even if I did tell her.”
“But she will one day, and she’ll love you for it.” He says it with such certainty.
“Hope you’re right,” I murmur as I watch a bronze Chevy coast into the parking lot. It pulls into a spot almost directly across from me, right in front of the vending machine. The driver, a thin white guy with a shaved head and ink marking his throat, climbs out, seemingly in a hurry, his eyes casting furtively back toward the parking lot entrance where a dark SUV races in.
I recognize the vehicle, even before it comes to a halt and the men hop out, the reflective police decal on their bulletproof vests gleaming in their headlights as they round the truck, guns drawn and pointed. Dwayne Mantis is in the lead, the same stony look on his face no matter where he is. He was always a cocky son of a bitch, but he’s become even more so since Chief Canning created this special task force against drugs in Austin and tapped Mantis to lead it. I guess he has something to be cocky about, given the DA’s office has put more dealers away in the last six months than the previous two years, thanks to him and his team. And, if it keeps Austin’s streets and schools clean for Gracie, then I’ll accept his inflated ego with a smile and a thanks.
Mantis and the others surround the driver of the other car with purpose. He looks like a cornered animal.