The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (28 page)

“Who else has keys to the property?”

“Fairfax sons, Alex and Jeffrey. But they away in school. In college.”

The officer took down the boys’ names and schools.

“Anyone else?”

Lono shook his head. “Nobody.” We stood in silence, looking around.

“Oh, wait. Sure. Maybe other people have keys. Town Watch people, for security. You know, they watch the house. Also, maybe a lady from Mrs. Fairfax club. Mrs. Fairfax have good friend in her club.”

Nick asked the woman’s name, but Lono didn’t know it. He knew only that Mrs. Fairfax was an officer in the club and that meetings were often held in the house.

A contraction started, and I grabbed Nick’s arm.

He squinted at me. “Are you all right?”

I nodded, deciding that this was not the moment to tell him about falling off the fence. “Fine.”

“You look like hell.”

I smoothed my hair, self-consciously covered my stitches with my fingers.

“And Molly’s knees are all banged up. You need to go home.”

He was right. Again.

“I’ll drive you and have one of the cops take our car. I’ve got the key.”

“No. It’s okay. I’m okay to drive.” Why had I said that? I wasn’t.

Nick sighed. I could almost hear his thoughts. He was exasperated, wondering why I kept getting into scrapes, what the hell I’d been doing here, how I’d managed to take Molly to a dogfight. He was dumbfounded that, once again, I’d put not just myself, but also Molly and the baby in harm’s way.

I wanted to explain, but had no explanation. All I could do was apologize.

“Nick—” I began.

But he cut me off. “There isn’t a speck of evidence here.” He crossed his arms, deep in thought, gazing across the garage. Apparently, I’d been wrong about his thoughts. “I don’t see a single hair or drop of blood. Amazing. How could they clean up so fast? These guys are pros.”

“Detective Stiles?” A police officer gestured for him to follow.

Nick guided us outside and we stood on the grass, waiting as they took a walk around the outside of the garage.

Molly pulled on my arm. “Can we go?”

“As soon as Nick gets back.”

“What’s he looking for?”

“Evidence.”

She looked at me, the question still hanging unanswered.

“He’s looking for signs that those people were here.”

“Why?”

Why. Obviously I had some explaining to do. I knelt beside her and tried to figure out what to say. “Molls, the people who were here—they were criminals.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “That kid Brett was a criminal?”

“Well, Brett’s mom was.”

“Mom. Is it against the law for dogs to fight with each other?”

“Yes, you bet it is—”

“So Brett wasn’t lying? Those dogs were really here to fight?” Her eyes widened with disbelief.

I couldn’t lie to her. I nodded. “Yes, they were.”

“Like—how do they fight? Do they jump? Do they bite each other?”

I touched her face, kissed her forehead, sorry that she had to contemplate such ideas.

“Where are the dogs now, Mom? Are they hurt?”

“I don’t know. Nick is trying to find out.”

“But why do they fight?”

“I guess they’re trained to.” I thought about dogs and how driven they must be to serve their owners. Lettie Kinkaid’s dogs served her by guarding and protecting; others served their masters by attacking and killing.

“But why would somebody want their dog to fight? It could get hurt.”

She wasn’t going to stop asking questions, and I had no answers, no energy to think.

“Mom.” She tugged at me. “Answer me.”

“I don’t know, Molly.” That seemed to be my standard reply. “Some people are just mean. Maybe their dogs learn to be mean like them.”

That seemed to satisfy her. She stopped hammering me with questions and, deep in thought, wandered onto the lawn. I leaned back against the garage wall and closed my eyes, fatigue washing through me. I was exhausted, but I knew I shouldn’t have been so abrupt with Molly. I’d need to talk to her more carefully about the dogs, to help her understand. I didn’t want her to be afraid of them. But what should I say about something I didn’t understand myself? And, although I didn’t want to lie, I couldn’t bear to present her with so ugly a truth. Wearily, I took a deep breath and started to join her beside a cluster of bushes.

“Zoe.” Nick gestured for me to join him. “Think you’re strong enough to look at something?”

I told Molly I’d be right back and followed Nick around to the back of the garage, where several policemen stood in a row, staring at the ground. A detective crouched on the ground, examining something; just beyond him I glimpsed feet wearing dark sneakers.

Nick took my arm, led me forward, past the police. “It’s a body.” His whisper was raw. I braced myself, gulping air.

“Do you know this guy?” Nick waited for me to look.

I started at his feet, saw the gun lying next to him, expected him to be one of the thugs from the dogfight. I scanned his jeans, his black zippered sweatshirt bearing a glow-in-the-dark Town Watch logo. Finally, my gaze reached his face.

Even with his head half blown away, yes, I recognized Hardy, the muscle-bound hunk who worked for Lettie.

N
ICK WALKED
M
OLLY AND
me back to my father’s. Police cars lit our way, and neighbors watched out windows or from curbs as we passed. Lettie was among them, standing outside, watching. Was she looking for Hardy? Oh, God. What would we say to her? Were we going to be the ones to tell her he was dead? What had happened to him? I hadn’t seen him at the dogfight. When had he come? And why? Had Hardy been gambling on the fights? Not possible.

I couldn’t imagine that a man who worked with dogs, who trained them to guard people, would also enjoy watching them tear each other apart. Besides, Lettie wouldn’t hire someone like that. Lettie was devoted to her dogs. And she was committed to protecting her community from violence. Then it hit me: Hardy had been wearing a Town Watch sweatshirt. He must have been on duty, patrolling the neighborhood and, just as I had, walked in on the event. Maybe he’d approached Digger or his friends, trying to shut down the fight. Maybe he’d even threatened to call the cops. Maybe that was why they’d shot him.

Lettie saw us coming, and wrapping her cardigan tighter around her, headed toward us. “What the hell?” She hugged herself, probably cold in the night air. “What’s going on down there?”

I introduced her to Nick, hoping he’d keep walking, letting Molly and me escape. But he couldn’t help himself; he began questioning her right away. Did Hardy work for her? How long? What was his last name? Did she know what he’d have been doing up the street? Did she know why anyone would shoot him?

Lettie was stunned. She grabbed me for support, her bony fingers digging into my arm.

“Who’s shot?” Molly wanted to know. “Mom? Tell me.” She tugged on me, wanting an answer, while Lettie recovered her balance and began spewing questions directly into my face.

“What were they running up there? A dogfight? What happened? Who shot Hardy? Did you see it—”

“Why would you ask about a dogfight?” Nick interrupted. “Did you know about it?”

Lettie eyed him harshly. “What else would it be? They’re all over the place nowadays. Dogs are about the fastest-growing sport there is around here.”

Sport?

“You know who’s running them?”

She scoffed. “You want to know? Check out the cars.”

“The cars?” I looked up the street.

“Those fights bring big money. Heavy betting. The winnings buy fancy wheels. Among other things.” She gazed up the street. “So now they killed Hardy. Lord. They’re taking over. What next?” She shook her head, hugging herself, shaking.

“Lettie,” I suggested. “Why don’t we go inside? You need to sit down.” So did I.

She didn’t seem to hear me. “Where’s Craig? Was he shot, too? Or Jimmy?”

“We didn’t see them.” Nick frowned when I answered; I explained that Craig and Jimmy worked for Lettie.

Molly kept interrupting, asking what had happened, tugging on me, begging to go home.

“Soon,” I promised.

“You always say ‘soon,’ but you don’t mean it.”

“In a minute.”

“Okay. Sixty seconds.” She began counting, “One Mississippi, two Mississippi…”

“They were together, you see,” Lettie was saying. “All three of them. On patrol.”

“Patrol?” Nick didn’t follow

“For Town Watch.” Lettie looked up the street, as if trying to find Craig. “It was, you know, their turn.”

That was why Hardy had been wearing a Town Watch sweatshirt. “When did you last see them?” Nick asked.

Lettie fretted. “About seven. When they set out. We take turns patrolling.” She turned to me suddenly “Who’d you say was running that fight?”

“I don’t know.”

“Some guy named Digger,” Molly said. “He looked like this.” Again, she curled her lip.

“You know him?” Nick asked.

“No, no. I don’t know anyone like that.” Lettie closed her eyes, set her jaw. “He’s a new one.”

Stan Addison flashed to mind. What had he said? I heard his voice warn about gangs taking over the neighborhood.

She stiffened, her jaw set. “But they’ve gone too far this time, these newcomers. Now they’re not just intimidating us. Now they’re killing us. Killing Town Watch people. Well, forget that. We were here first. This is our neighborhood, our home turf, and Town Watch won’t stand for it.”

Nick was on the phone, calling for detectives to come interview Lettie. Molly kept asking questions, wanting to know who was killed and who killed him, when we could go home, whether the dogs had been saved. I answered her vaguely, indefinitely Finally, we walked Lettie up the long narrow path to her house. Dogs barked wildly. Inside, several meaty Rottweilers salivated at us from behind a hallway fence. Lettie scolded them and they settled down, sitting silent but alert, guarding her.

Police officers arrived. While Nick talked with them, I asked if Lettie was all right, if I could get her some tea or anything.

Her hands folded on her lap, Lettie clenched her teeth and shook her head. Then she answered, “It’s too late for tea, dear.”

It wasn’t that late. Not even nine o’clock. “Not really. I don’t mind—”

“They took Hardy. Hardy is gone.” She closed her eyes. “So this is the big time. This is war.”

A
T
N
ICK’S REQUEST, A
police car followed us and Carla Hollingsworth used Nick’s keys to drive our car and unlock the house, taking us safely inside. My contractions didn’t start again until Molly was getting into bed. They continued as I dealt with her never-ending questions about the dogfight, Lettie, Brett and Hardy. They got worse after that. Stronger, more frequent.

Call Dr. Martin, I thought. You’ve had more than four today. More than two big ones in an hour. But I knew she would want me to come to the hospital and be examined, and I couldn’t imagine going anywhere. I was completely spent, lacking the energy to do anything, much less go into labor, so I told myself that the contractions weren’t really that bad. That if I’d relax, they’d let up. If they didn’t in an hour, I’d call the doctor, wake Molly and go to the emergency room. But first I’d rest. Nothing much could happen in an hour. I lay down and closed my eyes, following Bertram’s hypnosis techniques. Breathe from the diaphragm, I heard him say. And relax your body, letting yourself sink into the mattress. Let the tension out part by part. I began with my toes. Moved on to my feet. My ankles. My calves. But when I released the tension from my thigh muscles, I felt myself lose my balance, falling, not safely into the mattress, but uncontrollably through empty air, toppling again off a fence toward hard, unforgiving ground.

Allow that memory, Bertram’s voice whispered. Allow it and then set it free. Keep breathing. Inhale deeply. Exhale slowly. Envision yourself in your happy place on the lake. But despite his soothing voice, the skies I pictured grew dark, and bloodthirsty faces swarmed around me with gleaming eyes. Salivating dogs snarled, baring their fangs, and they leaped at each other, tearing through fur and skin. Stop it. I opened my eyes and sat up. But Bertram’s voice persisted, urging me to get rid of the dogfight and everything else that happened today. To let go of all of those images and start over.

Okay. Why not? Once more, I lay back against soft pillows, hearing Bertram’s voice in my head, letting him command me to breathe, to relax, to suggest to my uterus that it calm itself down.

Maybe it worked. It must have. Because the contractions didn’t bother me as I lay there. I floated, unaware of my body, relaxed but doubting that I was hypnotized, and followed a path of memories that had begun earlier. I was a child, playing in my hiding place under the stairs. Voices rose in the hall, and I peeked through the paneling to see my parents.

“For God’s sakes, Louise,” my father pleaded. “Tell me.”

“It’s gone.” My mother shook her head, bereft. Her hair was tied back in a long loose braid. “It’s nowhere.”

“It’s not gone. You’ve hidden it.” He sounded desperate. “Tell me where.”

My mother didn’t respond.

“If I don’t pay, do you know what will happen? Not just to me. To all of us.”

She stared at him, her shoulders slumped. “You knew better than to marry me. You knew how it would be.”

“Don’t start that again, Lou,” he barked. “Just tell me where you put it.”

My mother stood and looked at him, shaking her head.

And now I wasn’t in my hiding place. I was invisible, following my parents, as in a dream. Watching my father rip the house apart, yanking pots out of kitchen cabinets, pulling drawers out of dressers, spilling flowerpots, checking the ledges along the tops of the walls. Meantime, unnoticed, my mother drifted toward the basement stairs, and I didn’t want to remember any more. I tried to stop the images, but I couldn’t; I was trapped, watching events unfold. But maybe this time I could do something about them. Maybe this time I could run after her—maybe even stop her.