A Stranger Lies There (16 page)

The coffee was hot under my fingertips, and I dug my nails into the styrofoam. “I used the phone booth at the bank.”

Tidwell nodded at me to go on.

“The machine picked up.” The cup buckled inward, snapping. Hot coffee spread over the table, burning my hand. We both got up to avoid the spill, but it soaked Tidwell's legal pad. He got the tape recorder just in time.

“Sorry.”

“You said you were up to this.”

I didn't know what to say.

Tidwell shook his head. Picked up the tablet and turned it sideways so the coffee dripped off. Then he ripped off the wet pages and threw them into a trashcan in the corner. He was fuming, his voice low and calm. “That's all you get, Ryder. Next time I punch your ticket.”

“Understood.”

“Sit down.”

I did. Tidwell went out to the coffee machine and brought back some paper towels. He tossed them over the spill and I watched the coffee soak into the paper.

“Let's try this again,” he said.

The next few minutes were a painful recollection of the events this morning after my release, everything described in meticulous detail.

“How did you find her?”

I looked at him stupidly. “I walked into the bedroom.”

“No, I mean … I'm gonna have to ask you about the condition of the … how she looked.”

“You saw her.”

“You didn't—did you try to revive her?”

“She was cold.”

“Move her in any way?”

“No.”

“Hold her in your arms? Anything like that?”

“I lay on the bed with her until you guys showed up.”

“So we saw her exactly as you found her.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn't disturb anything in the room.”

“I used the phone. That was it.”

“How about the needle?”

“Didn't touch it.”

“Okay.” Tidwell wrote something down. “Did you see anything,
anything,
that made you think she was forced?”

The question hung in the air a moment. “She had to have been.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“I didn't do a whole lot of looking around.”

“But you didn't see anything?”

I knew the direction this thing was taking. “No. But I told you, the front door wasn't locked and the alarm wasn't set.”

“You sure you locked the door last night before you left?”

“Yes.”

“And set the alarm?”

“Absolutely.”

Tidwell studied me a few seconds. “But you were pretty wound up weren't you? You could have forgotten.”

“What are you saying?”

“It's possible you left without thinking.”

“No way. Not a chance. I can picture myself doing it right now.”

More scribbling.

“Look, I'm positive that door was locked and the alarm was on. Somebody was in that house.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. The guy I fought with last night.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He had enough time to do it. Probably went there right after I got stuck in that field. He'd be free and clear.”

“Uh-huh. Let's go back to last night. You called her from the motel.”

“Yeah. Right before the police got there.”

“How did she seem?”

“Tired. I woke her up.”

No response.

“It was after one in the morning.”

“And you woke her up.”

I realized what he was getting at—if it had gone the way I thought, the man should have been there already. “I got my car back on the road pretty quick.”

He nodded. “So she sounded groggy.”

“Only at first.”

Tidwell waited.

“She wasn't high.”

“And then what?”

“I told her where I was. Gave her directions.”

“She leave right away?”

“She said she would.”

“You get the feeling she wasn't alone?”

“What?”

“That someone was with her? Telling her what to say?”

I couldn't say I had. “No.”

He wrote that down. “Was she mad at you? For going off like that?”

“No. In fact, she apologized for something that happened earlier.” I wished I hadn't brought that up.

“What?”

“It was nothing. Just a personal thing.”

“Nothing to do with the murder?”

I didn't want to answer. “Look, I know what you're gonna say, but it wasn't like that.”

“What did you two argue about?”

“It wasn't an argument. She thinks—thought—I was getting too wrapped up in it. Because of Turret.”

“She was upset.”

“I'm telling you she had no reason to start using again.”

“You told me that in the car. But you've got to prepare yourself if she was. The fact remains that you were both dealing with a lot, even without Turret. And I don't have to tell you how addicts—or ex-addicts—sometimes handle stress.”

“I resent you telling me what my wife was about.”

Branson walked in. He looked at the coffee I'd spilled, then at me before sitting down. He'd washed the blood off his face and changed his shirt.

“We were just about done,” Tidwell told him.

Branson nodded and addressed me. “There's a hole in the wall in the kitchen, like someone punched it. You know how it got there?”

“I lost my temper last night when every reporter in the city was calling us. You'll find the phone in pieces.”

“That was my next question,” he said, and turned to Tidwell. “You wanna go on?”

“I think I got all we'll need for now,” he answered, switching off the tape recorder.

“We should be done at the house by tonight,” Branson told me.

“Doesn't matter. I don't think I'd make it through the night alone in there.”

Branson frowned. “Where did you plan on sleeping?”

“I haven't really thought about it.”

“We need to know where to reach you.”

“I'll let you know.” I felt like driving, and never stopping. “I'll need my car.”

“We're not done with it yet.”

I looked at Tidwell. “What about Deirdre's?”

“It has to be printed.”

That made sense. If the guy accosted Deirdre as she was leaving to meet me, he might have touched a door handle or something. But it left me in a lurch.

“I can't have my car. And I can't have her car either?”

They looked at each other, and Tidwell leaned over and punched a number into the speaker phone sitting on the table.

“Mitchell,” someone answered on what sounded like a cell phone.

“Steve. This is Tidwell. Print the car first, okay?”

“You got it. Anything else?”

“No. See you in a bit. And thanks.” Tidwell ended the call and turned to me. “You hungry?”

“I guess so.”

“I'll pick up some burgers,” Branson said, turning to go. Tidwell followed him into the squad room. I heard him ask if there was anything new at the scene before their voices faded. Then he came back in.

“You mind waiting in here?”

“I need a restroom.”

“Down the hall to your right. Come on back when you're done.”

He followed me out of the conference room and sat down at his desk. I took a short corridor to the restroom, which smelled of disinfectant. A bulletin board above the urinal had the sports page tacked to it, but I didn't read it. At the sink, I found the soap dispenser empty. I turned on the water anyway, splashed my face with cold water. Cursed under my breath when I saw they had one of those drying machines, forcing me to use toilet paper. In the mirror, I wiped the remaining water off my face and ran my fingers through my hair. None of it did any good. I closed my eyes. Gripped the sides of the basin and squeezed, putting my head down. The door opened behind me, and I realized I'd been knocking my head softly against the mirror. I looked up, embarrassed, as one of the detectives came in.

“How's it going?” he said without interest, eyeing my reflection before going into the stall. I caught the door and left.

Back in the conference room, I watched Tidwell doing some paperwork at his desk. The phones in there rang every few minutes, but otherwise it was pretty quiet. Then Branson came in, the smell of grilled meat and fries following him.

After eating, we went out to their car again. Neither of them spoke. Tidwell glanced back at me every now and then in the rearview mirror. It was late afternoon but the air conditioner was on full blast, whistling through the vents.

“Where's Turret?” I asked.

“He's not a suspect,” Branson answered.

“Why not?”

Branson turned around. “I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Ryder. But we work better without interference.”

Tidwell's eyes kept coming back to me in the mirror. “Turret was still in jail at the time of the first murder,” he said.

I couldn't believe my ears. “What?”

“Paperwork screwup. It happens.”

I wanted to rip the car apart. I wanted to grab both their necks and throttle them until my strength gave out or they crashed the car. I'd been chasing smoke, and now Deirdre was dead.

“My wife had a miscarriage three months into our first pregnancy,” I heard Branson say over the roaring in my head. “Took me a long time to convince her it wasn't her fault.”

I saw myself last night, working in the shop. Finishing up and going into the house. Stopping at the bedroom door as I'd done and seeing Deirdre asleep on top of the covers. But in my mind, I got into bed beside her, and watched the rise and fall of her chest until I fell asleep, no thoughts of Turret to invade my dreams.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“You coming?” Branson said, leaning into the car with his door open behind him. We'd stopped in front of the house.

I got out into the heat. Two of my neighbors were standing in the front yard next door, talking quietly. Most of the official vehicles were gone. The crime scene tape marking off the property was still there, and a white police van was parked in front. A man in shirtsleeves and slacks took a large toolbox from the back of the van into the house ahead of us. We ducked under the yellow tape and followed him.

“Anything I can do to help, Tim,” Ralph from across the street called out. I lifted my hand to him without turning around.

Inside had already acquired the sterile, clinical environment of a laboratory. Two technicians worked in the bedroom, gathering prints under a bright floodlight they'd put in the corner on a stand. The hot bulb must have added a good five degrees to the already warm room. It left nothing to the imagination, showering everything with a radiance so strong I half expected to see my bones through my hands. Deirdre's body had already been removed, and the bed seemed huge and empty without her. I looked away quickly.

Branson got the okay from one of the investigators for me to take a bag from the open closet and stuff it with some clothes. Next I went to the dresser, which was covered in fingerprint powder. I looked to Branson for approval. He nodded after the tech told him he'd finished with it. I took some underwear and socks out of the top drawer, then glanced around the room.

“You guys have her purse?”

“We haven't gone through it yet,” the second technician said.

“I need the car keys.”

“You don't have your own?” Branson asked.

“Not to hers.”

“You got spares somewhere?”

I nodded at the nighttable on her side of the bed.

“How about it?” Branson asked the guy.

“Let me see,” he answered, walking over to it. He opened the drawer with a gloved hand and looked inside. Pulled out the small key ring, holding it up for me to see. “These them?”

I nodded, and he looked to Branson. “Okay with me,” Branson said.

Tidwell, who'd been standing in the doorway, agreed. “I can't imagine finding prints on them and nothing else.”

I caught the keys as they were tossed to me. Told them I was ready to go, wanting to get out of there as fast as possible. Outside, I got in the car. Deirdre's scent lingered inside, a lavender soap she used. I put my head on the steering wheel, eyes squeezed shut to cut off the tears that threatened once again.

A knock on the driver's window. I looked up and rolled it down. “You okay to drive?” Tidwell asked. I nodded, started the car. “Hey,” he said, getting my attention. “Don't leave town, all right? We may need you.”

“Where would I go?”

“You're going somewhere now.”

“I just have to get outta here.”

“If I call in tonight, they'll know where to reach you, right?”

“Soon as I know,” I said, putting it into gear and backing down the driveway.

I drove without thinking. No destination in mind, a hot wind blowing through the car. Turning corners yet escaping nothing, the choices I'd made following me wherever I went. Last night at the kitchen table, Deirdre had sensed what was coming, that I wouldn't let go until it was too late. She'd known it wasn't Turret who tormented me, and I realized that even if we'd been told right away he couldn't have done it, things wouldn't have turned out any different.

I kept driving, the pain and loss I felt hardening into a tight knot in my stomach. Eventually I found myself on Highway 111 going back toward the city. The valley around it was bronzed with the fading evening light. Every day, from early morning to midafternoon, the sun was all-powerful and merciless. A glowering, unquenchable ball of fire. But as it neared its nightly resting place beyond the western peaks, it lost much of its ferocity, becoming more muted and buttery. The sky, bleached bone-white with the sun at its zenith, was now regaining its azure splendor, and the soil, pale and wrinkled in the noontime hours, reawakened like a ripening orange.

Just before Windy Point at the edge of the desert, I turned off into the packed hard sand by the side of the road, and the small, cleared circle of land a hundred yards into the scrubland was flat and empty and still. Tire tracks and the remains of campfires were the only signs that anyone ever came here. This was where I'd proposed to Deirdre three years ago, the Desert Angel looking down on us while the wind buffeted the car like something alive.