Don't Believe a Word (18 page)

E
den waited patiently at the windowless polic
e lab, in the dank, cinder-block basement of the building, which smelled of antiseptic. When the gunshot residue test was completed, she spoke to the technician, a young man in a lab coat with thick black hair and tobacco-colored skin, who had performed the test. He wore a name tag that said Rishi Vasu. ‘How did I do?’ she asked him.

The young man looked at her warily and shook his head. ‘Can’t tell you that. You’ll have to wait for the results.’

‘I don’t have to wait,’ she said firmly. ‘I know I haven’t fired a gun.’

The young technician avoided her gaze, concentrating on his notes. ‘I just do the test,’ he said.

‘Right. Never mind,’ said Eden. ‘So am I finished here?’

Rishi Vasu nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you for your cooperation.’

‘Thanks,’ said Eden, getting up from the chair and gathering her belongings. Her suitcase was becoming a positive nuisance to wheel around. She wondered how long it would be until she could rebook her flight home. As soon as she had checked on Flynn’s condition, she intended to be gone from here. Part of her wanted to stay long enough to find out who Flynn’s assailant was, but, given her recent experience with the police, she knew that their investigation could take a while. The important thing was that they would soon realize, when they saw the results of the gun residue test, that whoever had shot Flynn, for whatever reason, it had nothing to do with her. When she had rushed from the airport to the hospital this morning, propelled by the shock of the news, she had not realized that it was a decision she would come to regret. But now, she had no car, no place to stay, and no business being here any longer. When she thought about it, she could imagine many people who might want to take a crack at Flynn. She did not intend to stick around until she found out which of the many it was. She was weary and discouraged, and all she wanted to do was to get on a plane back to New York.

‘Oh, by the way, I have a message for you,’ the lab technician said. ‘You are asked to return to the office of Detective Burt. Follow Officer Welch.’ He nodded toward the sturdily built, good-looking black patrolman in uniform who had escorted her to the lab.

‘Why?’ asked Eden, balking at the request.

‘Don’t know,’ said the young man, edging away from her, his gaze still on his clipboard.

Eden sighed but she did as she was asked, following Welch to the elevator and returning with him to the detective’s office. Detective Burt hailed her as she entered. ‘I just got a call. They think they’ve found the weapon,’ he said. ‘In a storm drain, about a half a mile from the scene. They’re bringing the gun in to forensics now.’

‘Good,’ said Eden. ‘I hope this will lead you to whoever shot him. I don’t like the man but still … I’d like to know that myself.’

‘I must caution you,’ said the detective, ‘that while you are not under arrest, you have not been ruled out as a suspect.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ Eden said. ‘I don’t even know how to shoot a gun. I had nothing to do with this. Why are you focusing on me?’

‘Do I have to remind you, Ms Radley? You had motive, and opportunity. You came here and volunteered the fact that you suspected Mr Darby of killing your mother to collect her insurance money.’

Eden hesitated. ‘I no longer believe that,’ she murmured.

Detective Burt was not interested in her professed change of heart. ‘Ms Radley, I’d appreciate it if you would stay in Cleveland for the time being. I may have some more questions for you once we have given the gun a good going over.’

Eden shook her head in exasperation. ‘Stay where? For how long?’ she asked. ‘I already dropped off my rental car and checked out of my hotel.’

‘I’m sure you’ll work it out,’ he said, uninterested.

‘Why don’t you call down to the lab? I’m sure, if you ask, they’ll tell you that I was not the one who fired the gun. I’ve never fired a gun. It simply wasn’t me. There is no possible way.’

‘This is about more than the gunshot residue. There are other considerations,’ he said stubbornly. ‘Our investigation is ongoing.’

What considerations?
she wanted to demand of him. But she did not. Eden had never had anything to do with police in her life, other than the occasional motor vehicle stop for a broken taillight, or an expired registration. But she knew that there was no way that arguing was going to serve her purposes. ‘How long do I have to stay?’ she asked.

‘Until we have answered a few questions for the purpose of our investigation.’

That’s enlightening, she thought. But she kept her opinion to herself. ‘Look, right now I need to go back to the hospital.’

‘Thank you for coming in,’ Burt said.

Eden nodded. ‘Can someone drive me?’ she asked.

Burt looked at her in surprise. ‘We’re stretched a little thin around here,’ he said.

‘When we left the hospital you said someone would bring me back,’ Eden reminded him. She knew she was being nervy, but she didn’t care. They had made her come in here. They could now go out of their way to take her back.

Burt’s expression was unreadable. ‘Someone will,’ he said.

Officer Welch was tagged to drive her back to the Cleveland Clinic. On the ride he was pleasant, and even a bit flirtatious, or so it seemed to Eden. She thanked him for the lift as they reached the front entrance to the clinic.

‘Anytime,’ he drawled, smiling at her. Eden smiled back in spite of the fact that she was not, at that moment, feeling very friendly toward the police. Once inside the front doors, she headed for the elevator and made her way to the fifth floor. She walked down the clean, characterless hallway to the surgical wing and pushed open the double doors. She bypassed the hallway which led to the recovery room and went up to the desk, then waited patiently for the nurse to get off the phone.

Finally, the pony-tailed woman in scrubs finished the call and looked up at Eden. ‘Yes. Can I help you?’

‘I was here earlier,’ she said, ‘but I was called away.’

The nurse nodded, but her gaze was indifferent.

‘My … stepfather was in surgery this morning. His name is Darby. Flynn Darby. He suffered gunshot wounds.’

‘Oh sure. Mr Darby,’ she said.

‘I assume he’s out of surgery by now.’

‘You assume right,’ said the nurse pleasantly.

‘How is he?’

‘He’s in guarded condition, but he came through the surgery all right.’

‘Good,’ said Eden, exhaling. ‘Good. I wonder if I could go in to see him.’

‘He’s not conscious,’ said the nurse.

‘From the anesthetic?’ Eden asked.

‘He’s in a comatose state right now.’

‘Oh. Is he going to come out of it?’ Eden asked, alarmed.

‘I don’t know any more than that,’ said the nurse. ‘Will you excuse me?’ Eden nodded and stepped away from the desk. The nurse began handling several matters at once, between visitors, paperwork and the phone, but finally she looked up and gestured for Eden to return to the desk.

‘Why don’t you go home and get some rest?’ she said. ‘We’ll call you if there’s any change. Do we have your number?’

Eden hastily wrote down her cell phone number on a slip of paper and handed it over. She stood there, looking helplessly at the nurse.

‘You can always call the nurses’ station,’ the nurse said kindly. ‘We’ll let you know how he’s doing when you call.’

People behind her were forming a queue, anxious for news of their loved ones. Her time was up. ‘Thanks,’ Eden mumbled. She maneuvered her suitcase out of the way, then walked over to the waiting area and sat down, keeping her suitcase close by.

Go home? she thought. Get some rest? Where could she go? How could she rest? She felt suddenly overwhelmed by the situation she was in.

‘Eden?’

She looked up and saw a woman in Muslim garb bending over in order to search her face. Her beautiful, dark eyes were full of concern.

‘Aaliya, hello,’ Eden said, surprised.

‘What are you doing here? Are you waiting for news of Flynn?’

‘I just heard that he got through the surgery all right, but he’s in a coma.’

Aaliya nodded gravely. ‘I have heard the same thing.’

Eden moved her leather bag off the seat beside her. ‘Here, please. Sit down.’

Aaliya sat, arranging her flowing hijab around her. ‘I’m a little surprised you are here. I must be honest with you. I know you were not on the best of terms with Flynn, after what happened with his book. Did you lose your job because of it?’

‘My boss recommended that I try looking elsewhere for work.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Aaliya. ‘I’m sure that was never Flynn’s intention.’

Eden sniffed. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘What will you do now? Will you go home?’

‘I’d love to,’ said Eden. ‘No offense, but I’m so over this place. Once I leave here I will never look back. But the police won’t let me leave Cleveland. Not yet. They are treating me like a suspect in the shooting because I expressed … concerns about Flynn’s role in my mother’s death.’

Aaliya looked at her, wide-eyed. ‘Surely not. You couldn’t really suspect him. Your mother committed suicide. She took her son with her to Paradise. Flynn would never have hurt them.’

‘I no longer know what to think,’ Eden sighed. ‘But I suspect you’re right. I don’t think he had anything to do with their deaths.’

Aaliya looked consoled by this admission on Eden’s part. ‘So you will be staying in our city for a while.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Eden. ‘I’m stranded here. I just don’t know what to do next. I turned in my rental car and checked out of my hotel. I only came back to the hospital because I heard the news while I was waiting for my plane at the airport. I’m wandering around Cleveland with this suitcase like the ancient mariner.’

‘You mean like in the poem. By Samuel Taylor Coleridge,’ Aaliya exclaimed.

‘Exactly,’ said Eden, smiling at the girl’s obvious pride in her literary knowledge. ‘I’m adrift.’

‘Hmmm …’ said Aaliya thoughtfully, and Eden assumed that her attention had shifted back to thoughts of Flynn. Or her own complicated family problems. Then she said, ‘I have an idea.’

‘What?’ Eden asked.

‘Well, there is no one at Flynn’s house. That was also your mother’s house, as you know. So, you are family. And Flynn is not leaving this hospital anytime soon. Why shouldn’t you stay there? The house is in a state of disarray, but you can probably find a bed that’s still made up. And you can use his car. You might as well. I have all the keys.’

‘Are you sure Flynn wouldn’t mind that?’ said Eden. ‘I don’t want you to get in any trouble.’

Aaliya smiled bashfully. ‘He’s always telling me, “Aaliya, you have to be bold in this world. You have to make choices.” I’m sure he would be in favor of it, if he were able to give his opinion.’

The thought of Flynn’s place, piled high with boxes and stinking of cigarettes, was not the most appealing prospect to Eden. But she was not awash in prospects. It would mean a free roof over her head and access to a car. She figured she could open a window and find a chair and a place to sleep. Right now, that seemed like a lot. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘That would really be a help.’

‘I’m sure it’s what he would want me to do,’ said Aaliya.

Eden tried not to grimace. Aaliya saw Flynn differently than she did. Eden was beginning to understand why, but she still had a long way to go. ‘I would really appreciate it,’ she said.

‘We just have to pray that he recovers,’ said Aaliya.

‘I will,’ said Eden.

I will try, she thought.

T
he wind had pic
ked up, and it whipped Aaliya’s hijab around her neck as they arrived at the street. Eden followed her across the street and down the block until they reached a bus stop.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Eden. ‘We’re taking the bus?’

Aaliya looked confused. ‘Of course.’

‘Look, if you don’t have a car,’ said Eden, ‘why don’t you take Flynn’s car and use it while he’s in the hospital? Why should you leave it for me?’

Aaliya shook her head. ‘I don’t drive,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ said Eden.

‘Flynn is always promising to teach me, but I’m a coward. Anyway, I think I’d rather take the bus. I like to make my way across the city, looking out the window.’

‘Okay.’ Eden shrugged, and shivered in the biting wind. They did not have long to wait. The city bus pulled up and the doors opened. Eden followed Aaliya up the steps. Eden’s suitcase was a nuisance and she had to apologize to the other passengers for the whole length of the bus. They found a seat together near the back. Eden gave Aaliya the window seat so that she could look out. Eden threw the suitcase in the rack overhead and sat down beside her.

‘Is it far?’ Eden asked.

‘Not too far,’ said Aaliya. ‘I’ll tell you when we get there.’

The bus groaned and edged out into traffic. It was overheated, and Eden suddenly grew sleepy from the warmth of it. Her eyelids felt heavy, and then they closed. She was jerked awake by a stop, and looked around in confusion. Outside the window, the tall buildings in the densely packed downtown had given way to rows of modest houses, some well-kept, others shabby. Aaliya smiled at her. Then they rode in silence for a while, Aaliya’s gaze taking in the passing city life, while Eden studied the girl surreptitiously.

‘You know,’ said Eden, ‘I have to admit I find your loyalty to Flynn rather … surprising. I know what he did in Toledo.’

Aaliya looked at her, startled, then looked away. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Aaliya, I spoke to the person he hired. I know what happened. Flynn was so far out of line by anyone’s lights. You were lucky you were able to extricate yourself from that situation. You could have had him fired for doing that.’

‘I had no wish to have him fired,’ she said calmly.

‘Well, he’s lucky that you are such an understanding person.’

Finally Aaliya said, still gazing out the window, ‘He was not wrong about me, you know.’

Eden looked at her in surprise. She thought she should feign shock, but the girl’s frank admission deserved better. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. I … didn’t know.’

Aaliya’s nod was so slight as to be almost unnoticeable.

‘Still, it was beyond … presumptuous,’ Eden observed.

Aaliya turned her face from the window and looked at Eden thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes it’s a relief. To have one person from whom you do not to have to hide,’ she said.

Eden nodded, chastened. ‘I guess that’s true.’

Aaliya looked out the window again. ‘We’re almost there,’ she said softly.

She reached up and pulled the cord to indicate that they wished to get off at the next stop.

They descended from the bus. The neighborhood looked dreary in the twilight. The blue house was dark. Flynn had left no lights on when he departed this morning, expecting to return in daylight. Not expecting to be shot. To be in a coma. To be at death’s door.

Eden followed Aaliya up the walkway to the house and waited while she unlocked the door. Aaliya went in first, turning on the hall light. She turned around to Eden and said, ‘Mind the boxes. Don’t trip over anything. Everything is torn apart.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ said Eden, picking her way past the tower of cardboard cubes with the contents written on them in magic marker. She could smell the odor of stale cigarette smoke in the air.

Aaliya made her way through the house, turning on other lights as well. When she had the place sufficiently lit, she came back to Eden. ‘This way. Bring your bag to the guest room.’

Eden did as she was told. The guest room was a sliver of a room halfway down the hall with a neatly made bed, covered by a faded red corduroy bedspread, and a closet thrown open, as if to prove that it no longer held anything inside.

Aaliya turned on the bedside lamp and looked around. ‘This room is pretty well cleared out. You can use the dresser if you want.’

Eden put her suitcase on the bench under the window. ‘I’ll leave it here,’ she said.

‘As you wish,’ said Aaliya. ‘Let me show you where everything is. Come this way.’

Eden followed Aaliya down the hall, past the master bedroom and the bathroom next to it, past the room which had been Jeremy’s. The room smelled moldy and there was still medical equipment scattered across the rug, though it was piled haphazardly, as if the room were in an abandoned field hospital in the jungle somewhere.

They went back down the hall and through the galley kitchen to the dining area. The dining table was stacked with newspapers. Eden looked around curiously. ‘Doesn’t Flynn have an office?’ she asked.

‘It’s a little room at the back of the garage,’ said Aaliya.

‘Is that where you worked with him?’ Eden asked.

‘Yes,’ said Aaliya. ‘It was the only quiet place.’ She picked a set of keys from a bowl on the table. ‘These are for the office, although I don’t imagine you’ll need them. These are the car keys, and these are the spare keys to the house. Front door. Back door.’

Eden nodded, trying to keep all the keys straight. ‘Is there anything I should know about the house?’

Aaliya frowned. ‘I can’t think of anything offhand. If you have a question, you can call me. Here is my number.’ She wrote a number down on a piece of paper. Eden put it into her pocket.

‘Well, now that you’re settled, I had better be going,’ said Aaliya. ‘My aunt needs me. There is a service tonight at the mosque. The women will come to our apartment for refreshments.’

‘How are you getting home?’ Eden asked.

‘On the bus,’ said Aaliya.

‘No. Let me drive you home,’ said Eden. ‘That’s the least I could do …’

Aaliya shook her head, smiling. ‘I’m used to the bus,’ she said. ‘It’s no problem. But I must be on my way. Make yourself at home. As much as you can.’

‘I can’t thank you enough. For thinking of this. For coming out here …’

‘That’s all right,’ said Aaliya. ‘It’s a way of making myself useful to my employer, even if he can’t give me instructions. I’m sure this is what he would want me to do.’

I’m not so sure, Eden thought. But she nodded in agreement as she followed Aaliya to the front door. As Aaliya walked briskly to the bus stop, Eden waved after her, calling out her thanks, and warning the girl to stay safe.

A bus pulled up and Aaliya disappeared inside. Eden watched until it had pulled away and then, reluctantly, she went back inside and closed the door. She looked around. Was it possible that her mother, who loved flowers, and rooms neat and orderly, had ever lived in this house? It looked like a dilapidated warehouse with boxes piled in every room. It would certainly have been very different when she lived here, Eden thought. But that did little to dispel the gloomy feeling which came over her as she looked around.

She went into the living room, thinking she would sit down, but there were canyons of cardboard boxes on every side. She glanced at the overflowing ashtray and thought about emptying it, but it seemed like too much trouble altogether. She went into the dining area and looked at the array of keys on the table. She could take the car and go somewhere. But where? It was like being a prisoner without a cage. This city was her cage. This house was her cell. She had no idea how long her incarceration was going to last.

She put the car keys into a pocket at the front of her pocketbook, and slipped the house keys inside the bag. The keys to the office in the garage were still lying there on the scarred dining room table. She picked them up and dangled them thoughtfully from her thumb and forefinger. Flynn’s retreat, no doubt, from the day-to-day struggle of his life with his dying wife and son.

Flynn. Someone had been angry enough at him that they had gunned him down early this morning and left him to die in the street. It was true that he had a talent for giving offense, but who could he have offended so much that they wanted to execute him for it? And did it have something to do with the deaths of Tara and Jeremy? No, it couldn’t. Even she, who had the most reason to dislike him, no longer suspected Flynn for that.

She looked around at the chaotic house. There was nothing appealing about staying in here, she thought. There was nowhere to even sit down that wasn’t already blocked by a cardboard box or two. Perhaps, in Flynn’s private lair, she mused, there was an empty chair. A desk, and a computer. Perhaps there were answers as well. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look.

She opened the kitchen door which led into the attached garage. This was the door which had been left open the night that Tara and Jeremy died, she thought. Now, Flynn’s car was parked there. Eden peered at it, thinking about Flynn being gunned down in the street. He obviously had not been in his car at the time. And he hadn’t been in the house. Apparently he was out walking in the neighborhood. Why? There was nothing odd about that, she reminded herself. Lots of people took walks. To stretch their legs. To clear their heads. But at that hour of the morning?

She went down the few steps into the garage and walked over to the office door. She inserted the key and opened it, turning on the lights from the switch that was on the wall. She gazed in at the cramped, windowless room.

There were three empty boxes piled in the corner, but the office had not yet been dismantled. The Mac sat on the desk, the printer on a cart beside it, along with piles of books. It looked like a no-nonsense workspace. Eden sat down in the swivel chair, and imagined Flynn sitting there.

She reached over to the mouse and tapped it. The desktop came alive, with dozens of documents, as well as a photo file, which had a photo of Tara as its icon.

Eden was a little surprised that the computer was not locked with a password, but obviously Flynn had gone out expecting to return in a short time. He had certainly never expected to end up in a coma.

She began to peruse the icons on the desktop. All the documents were named with abbreviations, and she was not surprised to find that some of those abbreviations were impossible for her to decipher. She opened a few files at random and found business correspondence and lesson plans. There was nothing illuminating about the documents which Flynn had saved. There was a master file with chapter documents from Flynn’s book. There were critiques of students’ work, and she came across a short story that Aaliya had written. Ashamed of her own curiosity, she read the story. It was written very delicately. Very poetically. But Flynn had not been stretching the point when he presumed that it revealed the author’s attraction to her own sex. Even if it was fiction. Then she came across a file entitled T. Alz. It only took a second for her to realize that the file name referred to Tara and her Alzheimer’s diagnosis.

Eden opened the file and looked through it. The file was filled with research on Alzheimer’s Disease. One page had been highlighted by Flynn. It referred to the short amount of relative normalcy that Tara could expect after her diagnosis. One report suggested six months to two years. It was painful to read.

Eden shook her head. How could Flynn have faced that? She knew how people were supposed to feel. They were supposed to be willing to care uncomplainingly for their loved ones for as long as it took, and never waver. But who actually felt that way in their secret heart? Who wouldn’t feel dread, and horror and depression, at the prospect? It was only human.

She exited the file and clicked on the photo file, just so that she could see pictures of her mother and Jeremy. It seemed as if they might be consoling to look at. And indeed, there was a raft of such photos. Tara holding Jeremy. Tara waving her son’s limp hand at the camera and beaming. Jeremy smiling through his pain. Love abounding. Tears came to her eyes as she looked through the pictures. There were photos of Flynn as a young man, full of swagger and defiance. Pictures of him in sexy poses with various young women, or hanging out with a few guys who were not his equal in terms of attractiveness. Several of him with Tara, when they were first together, gazing rapturously at one another. In among these were several photos from long ago. Eden could tell that they were from Flynn’s childhood, because they had the vanishing quality of Polaroid pictures which someone had attempted to save. An elderly couple, watching a toddler at play. She looked at it more closely. It was Michael Darby and his wife. Flynn’s grandparents. So the child must be Flynn. Eden mused that people used to look so much older in their fifties and sixties than they did today. Flynn’s grandfather was unsmiling, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes filled with something that looked very much like loathing.

There were several folders of photos, organized by date. She clicked on the folder entitled ‘S’ with the most recent date. The folder opened like a blossoming flower into an array of photos, all ivory and flesh tones on a gray background. The photos were curved compositions, shadows and light, bunched fabric, and dark hair. In one glance, Eden realized what she was looking at.

Lizzy Jacquez was in a bed, nude, asleep, partly covered by the folds of a sheet, stripes of light falling across her glowing flesh, shifting from one shape to another as Flynn chronicled her slumber. Toward the end of the series, Lizzy’s eyes are opened, and she looks back at the camera, surprised at first, then grave, her gaze softening to tenderness.

Beside her, her cell phone on the desk rang. Eden cried out and jumped. Her heart pounded as if she had been caught spying, which, of course, she had. She looked around, half expecting to see someone in the room with her. But she was alone. Lizzy, she thought. Her mother’s champion. Eden struggled to compose herself before she picked up the phone. It was her father. ‘Hello,’ she said, her voice shaky.

‘Hi, sweetheart!’ said Hugh.