CHAPTER THIRTY
By 10:00 p.m., the area around the motel was swarming with cops. Bright yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the beams of the flood lamps. Three police cruisers made a barrier in the parking lot, their lights slowly rotating red and blue. Beyond the yellow tape a few onlookers loitered, and every so often a helicopter’s mosquito whine rose and fell.
Veronica watched through the window of Lucy’s All Nite, sipping a cup of coffee. She could see her own reflection superimposed over the crime scene, her lips a pale, downturned curve in the glass. Behind her she could see the bright lights in the kitchen and the row of flannel-clad truckers sneaking looks at her every few minutes.
She’d lingered at the crime scene long enough to make a statement, explaining who she was and how she’d retraced Hayley’s steps to the motel. A stocky, bespectacled officer whose name badge read MEEKS had confirmed for her that the body was Hayley’s; the girl’s purse had been tucked under one arm, with her ID inside.
“That’s off the record,” he’d said, glancing sidelong at Veronica. “Don’t go repeating it to anyone before we have a chance to contact the family. I’m not supposed to talk about an ongoing case. But, as you found her …” He gave Veronica a strange look, part pity and part grudging respect.
Meeks had made her sit in the parking lot of the motel while an EMT wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and checked her vitals. After an hour or so, the officer had escorted her across the road to the diner. “Would you mind staying close for a few hours in case we have further questions? If it gets late, we’ll get you a room in town and we can speak in the morning.”
“Anywhere but the Bates Motel,” she’d said, trying to sound wry but coming out strained and shaky instead.
In the diner, Meeks took Geena aside and spoke to her in a whisper, Geena’s hands flying to her mouth partway through the story. Then the cop had given Veronica a solemn nod and headed out the door into the darkness. Geena had come to Veronica’s table and put a hand on the back of her jacket. Veronica didn’t mind. It felt almost motherly. Then that thought made her want to cry.
“What you want to eat, honey?” The waitress had a smoker’s voice, hoarse and a little phlegmy. “Anything you like. It’s on the house.”
More to placate Geena than anything, Veronica had ordered eggs and toast. Now the plate sat untouched where she’d pushed it away, unable even to look at the congealing yolk and slick, greasy sausage. But she was on her third cup of coffee, and while she could feel the caffeine start to rattle her eyeballs in her skull, it felt good to cup the warm mug in her fingers. The hot, bitter liquid helped wake her up from what felt like a long bad dream, and she slowly came back to herself.
Her phone sat to the left of her cup, set to vibrate. As if on cue, Mac had called her twenty minutes after she’d settled in the diner, talking fast.
“Veronica, I feel like a moron. Chad Cohan’s credit cards didn’t have anything on them for that night—but his mom’s did. Her name’s Sharon Ganz—I guess she went back to her maiden name after the divorce. Chad charged the room to a card he has in her name.”
“It’s okay, Mac.” She poured a packet of sugar into her coffee and stirred. A little slopped out onto her saucer. “We couldn’t have saved her. She’s been dead all along.”
She could see a few of the patrons leaning subtly toward her, trying to overhear. She should probably care—she should probably try to protect Hayley’s privacy as long as she could. But everyone would know what had happened soon enough.
“The motel clerk who worked that morning has already identified Chad Cohan as the guy who rented the room,” Veronica told Mac. “I’m still putting it all together, but I think Cohan saw the pictures of her with Rico and panicked. That was the idea—she was trying to make him jealous so he’d want her back. He called her and asked her to meet him halfway. I bet the idea seemed romantic to her.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Her girlfriends hated Chad. She didn’t want to tell them where she was going, so she got a ride from Willie. Willie seemed to be operating under the hope that they’d hook up—I don’t know, maybe she hinted they would, or maybe she just let him convince himself. But when they got to the truck stop, she slipped off to the motel.”
“So Chad Cohan went down there with intent to kill?”
“I don’t think so. Not consciously, anyway. I think he planned to talk it out, to win her back. But somewhere in the course of the morning he lost his temper. Maybe he talked himself into it all the way down from Stanford. Or maybe she just didn’t give him the answers he wanted to hear.” She pictured Chad Cohan, his handsome face twisted in anguished rage, his fist slamming into Hayley’s jaw and knocking her down on that dingy carpet. And by that time, hitting her felt good. Did he hit her again with his fists, slamming her head hard enough to fracture her skull? Or had he grabbed something to hit her with—a lamp, an ashtray? Something heavy and irrevocable? She supposed the autopsy would tell.
“He must have realized he had to get to that eleven o’clock class. He didn’t have time to do anything really creative to the body. So he pulled it as far back into the bushes as he could and hoped no one would find it for a while. It wasn’t a bad plan. This is a place people drive past—not a place people go poking around. Maybe he planned to come back and move her when the heat of the investigation died down.”
Mac was quiet for a few seconds. When she spoke again, her voice was low and tentative.
“Do you want me to drive up and meet you? Wallace and I can carpool up, and one of us can drive you home in Logan’s car. Just so you’re not alone.”