Flame Out (23 page)

Lucas stood his ground. “How are you going to get upstairs?”

“Officer Bascom carried me down. He will return me as well.”

Lucas bounced from one foot to the other, unsure whether to stay or leave.

“Go!” Natalya said, and he stopped hesitating, bounding up the steps. Once we heard the front door slam, we moved upstairs. I asked her about the blood the police had found in Bernie's trunk.

“Luisa cut her hand in morning before Bernie awoke,” Natalya said from her perch on Hale's back, the blocks from her orthopedic shoes dangling in front of my face. “She made marks inside.”

“Even with her blood phobia?” I called to her.

“Luisa had courage. More courage than you could know.” We had reached the top, and Natalya brushing her skirt after Hale put her down. “Luisa practiced a method recommended by a doctor she saw about her fainting spells—she clenched every muscle of her body. Only then did she cut hard across palm of her hand, and marked Bernard's trunk with blood. Only her blood would fool police. That stupid man never noticed. He never paid attention to anyone but himself.”

I didn't know how many people even opened their trunks on a given day, but I gave the women credit for anticipating the blood-type analysis, the latest in police forensics in 1983.

“What arrangements did Luisa make?” Hale asked. “And where did you keep your car, ma'am? Dave said it went missing four months before Luisa did.”

She walked over to the sink and rinsed off her hands. “From the moment we discovered Bernard's butchery, Luisa planned. We wanted to be sure she escaped and that Bernard was punished for his crime.”

“But he wasn't punished for his crime,” I said.

“He was punished for murder, was he not? I counseled Luisa on how to present false front, to influence those around her so that the worst was expected of Bernard. We planned escape route, and I took her to the hidden car, smuggling the two to freedom.” She gave a resigned
shrug, and her bun brushed the edge of the collar of her white blouse. “Driving Luisa's car back to her house, it was last time I drove car. I miss having freedom to travel but with this,” she indicated her hip, “my driving days ended.”

Natalya explained how they had intentionally picked that day to transport Luisa and Teddy to the garage in Troy since everyone would be on the Albany side of the Island, celebrating the groundbreaking of the new leg of 787.

“Everyone cheered at new road, Maxim preening at new jobs and money. We were cut off from Hopewell Falls but not from Troy.”

We heard Dave and his brother coming up the street. Not their steps, but their voices, loudly singing a Def Leppard song. Natalya picked up her purse. “Please let me explain it to Lucas and David. On the worst day of my life, the Black Raven took my brother and I never said good-bye. At least let me explain my imprisonment.”

Natalya was prepared for an arrest. I had other ideas.

“We need to get several things lined up before we consider arresting you. The purse alone, especially when it's been sitting in your basement for thirty years, is likely useless as evidence. And we don't want to tip off anyone yet, especially Dave and Lucas.” There were too many vigilantes around here already, and I didn't need more. “We know you can keep a secret, Natalya. Keep it for one more day.”

The front door clattered open, and Dave and Lucas fell rather than walked through the door.

“He wasn't there,” Dave said, hanging off his brother. He stood straight when he saw me. “Lyons.” He tapped Lucas on the chest. “Uh, oh. Now I'm in trouble.”

“We're not here for you, Batko,” I said. “Although don't think I didn't notice that you took off for the bar the second I left.”

“Sorry, June.”

“Hey, man,” Hale said. “Feeling no pain, I see.”

“G-man,” Dave said, propelling himself off his brother in the direction of Hale. “June told me you have quite a nice bedroom.”

It was time for Hale and me to leave. Outside, Hale walked me to my car, both of us facing the house to make sure we weren't overheard.

“You need help processing the handbag?” he said.

“No, I got it. I also want to have a conversation with Annie. I hope she's working.”

I booked the purse into evidence, calling Annie to let her know we needed a check for trace evidence, blood spatter or, if we were lucky, fingerprints. The fact that Natalya had removed it from the house thirty years ago wasn't good for the chain of evidence, but from here forward we would follow proper procedure.

Annie buzzed into the station fifteen minutes later. “What do you have for me?”

I held out the purse.

“Yes, very tacky. Are you offering me fashion advice?”

“This is Vera Batko's.” I explained where we had found it.

“Oh, joy,” Annie said, reaching for it. “I'm sure the courts will be happy to admit evidence that's been kept in a housekeeper's basement for thirty years.”

“It may not be admitted, but I need you to check.” I paused, trying to figure out a way to make my next request tactful. Then I remembered that Annie despised tact. “Tell Dave nothing about the purse.”

Annie was half paying attention, writing notes to herself on a pad. “He's not assigned to the case. I should be able to control myself.”

“That's right. So no access, no photos, nothing.”

She rested the purse on the table and carefully placed the pad next to it. “What are you implying?”

I told her about the photos Dave had on his wall.

Her elbows jutted out when she crossed her arms tightly. “I didn't give them to him.”

I held up my hands in surrender. “I figured. But you've been dropping off food, and I'd prefer to be safe rather than sorry.”

“No. No. Where's a computer,” she said. She pulled up Vera Batko's files electronically, tabbing through to the access page.

“So these photos have been accessed by you twelve times, and you printed them . . . three times? Are you trying to kill
all
the trees?” She advanced to another set of initials farther down the screen. “That's Dave helping himself to the same images, printing once.”

“Can you cut off his access?”

“I can't, but I know who can.” She opened her phone.

“Hi Brendan, it's Annie. No, surprisingly enough the network isn't down. But we need to cut off remote access for an employee. Last name Batko . . . yes, Dave. He's meddling . . . yes, his mom. Are you going to keep talking over me?” Annie blew out a sigh, the air ruffling her bangs, and I could hear a male voice speaking rapidly. “That is a challenge, Brendan. Do you think you could
find
a computer? Rumor has it you are the system administrator for the city.” She made the hurry-up gesture with her hands, not that he could see it. “No, I won't owe you a beer. I have presented you with the opportunity to help solve a murder and protect one of your fellow civil servants. Yes. Yes, much more gratifying work than resetting passwords all day. What, it's done?”

I could hear Brendan saying good-bye as Annie hung up.

“Done,” she said, and stood. “And now, the purse. That moron Dave is going to drink himself to death if we don't get this solved soon.”

She wasn't wrong.

T
HERE WAS NOTHING MORE TO DO TONIGHT, AT LEAST UNTIL
Annie analyzed Vera's purse, and I half suspected she wouldn't sleep until it was done. I went to my desk and typed up my report, getting every last detail in. It was the longest report I'd ever written, not because of the level of detail, but because I didn't want to go home.

The house was quiet when I walked in, no chatty Lucy, the TV off for the first time since we found Vera in the barrel. I secured my gun and hung up my coat, listening for my father. I found both my parents sitting in the dining room. A lit candle sat in the center of the dining table. Squat and pale yellow, the candle wasn't romantic. I would have normally pinned something like this on my mom, but my father had a secret fondness for Yankee Candle, and I bet this was his doing.

“Mom, I'd like to talk to Dad alone,” I said, standing in the doorway.

Dad put his hand over my mother's. “I'd like your mother to stay for this, June. Your mom helped me practice my apology, and I want to be sure I get it right.”

“You came up with the words, Gordon,” Mom said. “I helped
you set the intention, so you and June can both feel the healing light of the universe.”

My father stifled laughter, and my mother swatted him on the arm.

“Laugh all you want,” she said. “But this is important, Juniper.”

Dad patted the seat next to him. “C'mon, Juney. Sit down so I can apologize to you.”

I stayed standing. “I'm furious with you.”

“I know. And I deserve it. I'm going to make an apology that, yes, I practiced with your mom, and then you can say your piece.”

“Anything at all, June,” Mom said. “You don't have to worry about hurting our feelings.”

“She's never been one to hold back,” Dad said.

I sat. He closed his eyes, took a breath in and out, and said “Amen.” He was a very lapsed Catholic. If he was scared enough to pray, that alone made my wall of anger crack.

“Go ahead,” I said.

He talked quickly. “What I did was wrong, and I am heartily sorry for having injured you.” He didn't continue.

“Tell me exactly,” I said. My father was a wrecking ball these days, and I wanted to make sure he hadn't done damage I knew nothing about.

“Well, I shouldn't have read your notes. I felt shut out of my case—”

Even now, he wouldn't give it up. “It was my case, Dad.”

“It still felt like mine. Especially when I found out justice hadn't been served.”

My dad sounded like he was apologizing to the universe.

“There's something else. Something bigger,” he said. My mother knitted her brow—Dad was going off script—and I braced myself, ready for him to tell me he'd run over Bernie Lawler with a car earlier this evening.

“I'm sorry I forced you to be a police officer,” he said.

I sat back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Mom made you say that.”

“I didn't!” she said.

“I've heard you say those exact words, Mom.”

“She didn't make me, June,” he said. “I've thought it for a long time. I feel like I made you feel like this work was the only choice, and it's not. See what it did to me, Juniper?”

“What did it do, Dad?”

“It made it so I was never anything but the job.”

My mom jumped in. “You were also a wonderful father.”

“When I wasn't caught up in the job.”

“That was between you and me. Not the girls,” Mom protested. I could tell she needed the healing light of the candle right now. “Where is all this coming from, Gordon?”

I wondered that, too. As angry as I was about the notebook, he was still a good man. “Dad, you were a wonderful father. I know I'm back here now, but you didn't bully me, not into living here
or
law enforcement.” I pointed to the picture of my sister with her boys. “Catherine's a marketing manager at a biotech company. You gave us choices.”

My mother chimed in. “And you are a lifesaver with June, now. Without you here, day in and day out, someone she could count on—” at this she hesitated. “Well, she would have very few options.” She raised an eyebrow at my father. “Let's return to the original script, shall we?”

“OK,” he said and took a deep breath before meeting my eyes. “June, what I did was unethical. Even worse, I inserted myself into the investigation and made a mess of things. I'm sorry.”

No one said anything, and I realized it was the end of the apology. I wanted to say “thank you” and escape, but the problem would be here tomorrow, ready to ambush me at breakfast.

“There was no mess.” I thought of what Hale had said earlier. “You made a mistake. The one mistake of your career, as near as
I can tell.” Mom nodded along. “Whether you were a good father is not up for debate, because you were. And as a cop I will tell you that Hopewell Falls would be in a lot worse straits than it is if you weren't around. Despite the problems the city has”—and they were many—“you never gave up hope. You made it a community. You made people feel safe.”

“But not a place where you yourself would want to stay,” he said. “You never wanted to be tied here. You always wanted to go out and live your life.”

“Which I did. Before.” I threw out my hands. “This is my life now.”

“So why don't you go and do it again?” he said. “Does the Agent Bascom guy still want you to rejoin the FBI?”

Mom looked from me to my father, and back to me again. “Rejoin the FBI?”

“Consult,” I said. “It wouldn't be permanent. It would be on a shortened basis, and possibly project by project.”

I was half hoping Mom would start in on how I shouldn't be so law enforcement focused so we could have an old argument instead of a new one. I was disappointed.

“So you could possibly,” Mom offered tentatively, “work on a project-by-project basis?”

Dad looked triumphant. “She could. She could try it out, and if it doesn't work, return to the Hopewell Falls Police Department.”

I think I liked it better when my parents weren't speaking. “It's not that simple, Dad. And Mom. I like the small town policing. I do the job, and it's quiet except when there's an insane case.”

“Haven't there been two like that this year?” Mom asked.

“There have,” Dad said. “And you never know when you'll pull another.”

“Did Hale coach you two? It's different. As bad as the last few months have been, work wise, it's nothing like what it could be. Undercover work that goes on for months. Monstrous people telling me they were going to find where I lived and teach me a lesson.”

Mom looked shocked. “They said that?”

“No, Mom. They said worse. I was trying to spare your sensitive ears.”

“But if you consult,” Mom said, “don't you get some say in the cases you'll work? Can't you specify ‘no undercover work' or ‘no murderous thugs'?”

“Hale could
probably
swing the first, but not the second.”

“Do you not trust Agent Bascom?” Mom asked.

I thought of Hale, who had pulled me back from the edge of a snowy death a few months before, and who made me be honest today when I wanted to disappear into the work. “I trust him.”

“Is it me?” Dad looked upset. “Is it because you can't trust me . . . with Lucy?”

“No, Dad. As a father, as a grandfather, there's no one better.” My mother started to rub my father's shoulder, and I don't know if it was her touch or my words that helped him relax. “As a cop . . . well, if we were partners we'd be doing some rebuilding. But since one of us”—I pointed a finger at my father—“is no longer on active duty, that's not a problem.”

“So you trust your father, and you trust Agent Bascom,” my mother said. “Do you not trust yourself?”

I was ready to protest—“No! Of course not!”—but realized what she said had an element of truth.

“I'm rusty.”

My dad laughed. “Yeah, not so much.”

“No, it's true. Hale throws himself into cases. I used to be like that. Now I hesitate. I second-guess.”

“Deliberate and steady investigative approaches are better, not worse,” Dad said. “And honestly, after seeing how destructive rushing into action might be, it's not a bad way to go.”

“What if I moved back,” my mother said. “What if you had someone else, backup for your backup.”

“That is kind of you,” I said. “But that doesn't change the nature of the job. Plus, what would Larry say about moving back up North?”

“We could be snowbirds,” she said. “We're almost old enough. Summers up here and winters down there.” She laughed. “Actually, I kind of like the idea of getting out of Florida during hurricane season. C'mon, June. You always wanted to work for the FBI. Say yes to this opportunity.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Say probably,” Dad said.

“OK. Probably,” I said. I looked between the two of them. “Is this what it's going to be like if Mom moves back?”

“I promise to let you be an adult, make your own decisions,” Mom said.

“I don't,” Dad added. “You'll always be my girl.”

I stood up. “I should go to bed. I'm expecting results on a piece of evidence early tomorrow.”

Dad pursed his lips, withholding questions through force of will. I felt like I needed to throw him a bone, show my trust, at least a little bit.

“Between you and me, it is something that will ensure that we put Bernie Lawler away for the crime he DID commit.”

My dad held up his hand. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but don't get so focused on Bernie. The other bloody scene in his house, it couldn't have been him. He's not some ex-con. There's no pattern of murder.” He folded his hands in front of him, and I saw how a generation of police officers saw their chief. “You can do right by him, Vera, and Dave.”

“And you.”

“Whatever action you take will be right by me. I believe in you.” He patted my hand. “We good?”

“We're good.”

“Then I'm going to bed,” Mom said. Dad had set her up in the family room with an air mattress. It seemed she was here for the long haul.

Dad blew out the candle. “Spending those nights at you mother's hotel, it was nice of her, but in the end, it wasn't home.”

No, it wasn't. I checked the locks on the front door while my father checked the back. From the second-floor landing I heard my father jiggle the front door handle, unable to keep himself from making sure we were safe. While my father went in to brush his teeth, I went to say my good night to Lucy. Her purple bedroom had a low glow from the nightlight in the corner. She was tucked into her canopy bed—thanks to her grandfather—underneath her dream catcher—thanks to her grandmother. I went over, smoothing back her hair. She was still in her purple nightgown phase, refusing to give it up despite its cutting into her shoulders. She was getting too big for it. She would be grown up before I knew it.

I kissed her forehead and went and changed for bed, combing my hair out of its bun and brushing my teeth slowly, not out of any sense of fantastic personal hygiene, but because it was peaceful; normal, even. I flipped on the bathroom's nightlight and felt my way along the hallway to my room. Bumping my hip on the dresser, I slid along the side to my mattress, settling in and sinking into the softness. I took one breath and the second, and then was out.