Truth & Tenderness (6 page)

Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.

There was a quick mention in a Palm Beach society gossip column about Tripp’s parents’ ongoing divorce and how ugly it was proving to be. Assets needed to be divided, and lawyers were sharpening their knives for a money buffet.

What wealth of information might be hidden in those transcriptions, he thought. Much like the book Tripp wrote and the publisher killed, never to see the light of day.

Wide-awake at his desk, Jim started when his phone rang. Only one set of people would be calling him this late: the Heterosexual Power Cabal.

This time it was Ben. Jim’s former roommate (and onetime crush) lived in Portland with his wife and their thriving law practice, and he handled Jim’s personal legal matters, including coordinating all the other lawyers Jim had business with.

“I took a chance you’d still be up,” Ben said tensely as soon as Jim picked up.

Jim didn’t love that opening line; he dropped the spreadsheet in his hand, the one tracking Tripp Ingersoll’s residences over the past ten years. “Everything okay? Liddy all right?” Jim asked, already clicking his link for travel arrangements.

“Sorry, that came out wrong.” Ben sighed deeply. “Hi, Jim. How’s it going?”

“I’ll answer that after you tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s good news, actually. I heard from the PBA lawyer an hour ago. Ingersoll’s new council wants to settle.”

“Oh.” Jim relaxed back into his chair. “Wait, new council? Again?”

“He seems to bounce back and forth between Mommy’s and Daddy’s camp depending on who is paying for what. It’s been a hot mess. I talk to a different paralegal every week. But the PBA is convinced this one is going to pan out.”

Rubbing his left eye with his fist, Jim tried to add this piece of the puzzle. “They were trying to squeeze me for money and publicity. I’m surprised he’d give up his vendetta.”

“I’m gonna guess he needs fast money.”

“His parents have money.”

Ben hummed through the line. “Sure they do. Doesn’t mean they’re still sharing it with Junior. This divorce seems to be about getting every last dollar from the other, just so they don’t have it. How much time do you think they have for a grown-ass son with a black cloud over his head?”

Jim let that sink into his brain to stew.

They talked through business and then segued to Liddy and their new condo, brushing briefly upon Jim’s upcoming wedding. Forty minutes later, Jim sent his love to his former roommate and disconnected the call.

It took about a second before the pleasure of Ben’s company went back to being about getting Tripp.

Mom and Dad weren’t paying the bills. Tracey was gone, the suit getting settled. Tripp hadn’t had a job in about a year. How unstable would his life become? And what would he do if that happened? Would he snap again?

With a sense of urgency, Jim went back to his files and clippings and half-formed ideas. He needed to find the missing link, the thing that said Tripp Ingersoll was a murderer and not just misunderstood.

Jim sent out a flurry of e-mails—to old contacts in the media, to friends from college with high-ranking jobs, to retired detectives who dabbled in private investigation.

He waited for responses, refreshing every few seconds because maybe, just maybe, lips would be loosened by all the side-taking in the divorce.

Two hours later, Jim’s skin pebbled with the revelations laid out for him on his laptop screen.

The first answer came from a retired Seattle reporter he’d known for two decades. Word on the street was Tracey’s attempt to leave Tripp and live her life as she damn well pleased had backfired. Tripp wouldn’t leave her and her new boyfriend alone, skirting the edge of stalking but never enough to get himself in trouble, so she went underground, with some help from well-off friends.

Where, Jim’s reporter friend didn’t know. But if he was starting somewhere, it would have to be in Los Angeles, where Tracey’s trail ended.

Jim booked a ticket to LAX for the next day.

H
E
FOUND
Griffin asleep in bed, his glasses on the end of his nose, the television blaring a rerun of
Friends
. A roil of guilt made Jim a little sick to his stomach, but God. He was just going to Los Angeles for a day or two. Talk to some people—just make sure Tracey was okay. Encourage her to go to the police, maybe.

File charges.

Help him get Tripp one way or another.

Not telling Griffin wasn’t….

Wasn’t….

Except that it was. Shitty.

Jim stripped down to his underwear in the bathroom. Washed up in the dark because really, his reflection wasn’t anything he wanted to see at this moment. When he came back to bed, he found Griffin curled on his side, glasses on an open script on his nightstand and the light off.

Griffin was waiting for him.

Jim slipped under the covers, wrapping himself around Griffin in a desperate attempt to stave off the guilt.

“You okay?” Griffin mumbled, pushing back against Jim’s body, tucking himself tighter in his arms.

“Fine,” he said finally, whispering into Griffin’s shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

“Late….”

“I know. Sorry. Work.”

Griffin wiggled around then, turning in Jim’s embrace. They were nose to nose now, and Jim regretted the light on his side still being on.

“It’s okay, I did it to you enough.” Griffin’s eyes barely opened, but the downward tug at the corners of his mouth was unmistakable.

Jim pressed a kiss there, just because he couldn’t bear to see it.

“I’
LL
BE
home in two days. I just have to make sure the house is okay,” Jim said, throwing clothes in a leather duffel as Griffin watched him from the window seat of their bedroom.

“Can’t the handyman handle it?”

“I just want to make sure it’s okay.”

Griffin walked over and put his arms around Jim’s neck. His smile shook a little, but the sincerity of the words burned into Jim’s heart.

“I know what Ed meant to you,” he said softly. “I understand you need to handle this yourself.”

Jim kissed him until he stopped talking, then took a car to the airport.

T
O
ASSUAGE
at least a little of the guilt, Jim did drive up to Ed’s house.

The handyman kept things tidy: mowed the lawn and trimmed the hedges, swept up leaves and cleared the gutters. To the naked eye, it looked lived-in.

Jim stood in the driveway, memories pushing at him like angry ghosts trying to get his attention.

Ed and Delia Kelly, heartbroken and weeping on their couch.

Bringing Ed back here after the trial ended so horrifically, after losing Delia.

Getting the news of Ed’s cancer.

That knock on the door and first time he laid eyes on Griffin.

Ed’s funeral.

Standing in this driveway watching Griffin melt down as he realized the depth of Daisy’s betrayal.

“Oh Ed, I just want to fix this,” Jim whispered before walking to the front door and letting himself in.

T
HEY
TALKED
on the phone, he and Griffin, before he went to sleep that night. (In the guest room, the one that had been Carmen’s through childhood and her tumultuous teen years. It was like a little punishment for lying to his fiancé.) Chitchat, news. A reminder to call Terry and Mimi and kiss their godchildren when he stopped by.

Jim didn’t miss the way Griffin’s voice changed as he talked about Kelly and Jamey. Jim couldn’t avoid the stories about Sadie Griffin had to share, because she was growing up so fast, Jim, and wouldn’t it be great when she was old enough for sleepovers?

“I love you,” Jim said, when Griffin started yawning at his end, on the other side of the country. “So much.”

“What’s wrong? Why won’t you tell me?” Griffin asked finally.

“Just a lot of ghosts here.”

Griffin made a sad sound. “Let me fly out there. You shouldn’t do this alone,” he whispered.

“You have things to do.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Jim exhaled. He rolled over to stare at the picture of Ed and Delia Kelly cradling their little Carmen, posed in front of the fireplace one room over. They were just a normal family, excited about the future. Thinking about more Christmases and vacations and the happy times they would have.

Tripp Ingersoll had murdered that dream.

And Jim couldn’t let him get away with it.

“I love you so much, and I can’t wait to marry you,” Jim said finally, his voice cracking on every word. “I’ll be back on Friday.”

Griffin’s silence was loud. And angry. And maybe a little scared. He breathed for a few moments, then sighed. “I love you too.”

T
WO
DAYS
gave Jim little time to play around. He made dinner plans with the Ohs, then drove his rental car to the airport. Los Angeles beckoned, offering the chance to dig up some dirt on that piece of shit Ingersoll.

For lunch, he drove yet another rental to a hotel in downtown Burbank. His reporter contact put him in touch with a woman who claimed to know Tracey.

Who claimed to know how to get in touch with her.

Could it be this easy?
Jim thought as he walked through the bright lobby of the Tangerine Hotel. He checked his phone for a message. Apparently he was now meeting “Sybil” out by the hotel pool.

The strong smell of chlorine greeted him, along with a few kids splashing in the pool as three women ignored them in favor of chatting at a table with a large blue umbrella. Jim looked from one end to the other until he located a car idling on the other side of the metal fencing.

Someone waved at him from inside.

Sybil probably wasn’t her name. She looked like she’d been made from the same mold as Tracey—pretty, athletic build, expensive and classic clothing and demeanor. She leaned against the door of her late-model BMW, face obscured by wide sunglasses.

She checked his ID, twice, then crossed her arms over her chest.

“So you’ve known Tracey for a while.”

“She left him because she couldn’t be sure anymore, you know?”

“Sure?”

“That he wouldn’t hurt her. He always said he loved her too much to do anything like that,” Sybil muttered. “She believed him for a long time and then… she didn’t.”

Jim let his emotions simmer, scuffing his boot against the asphalt. Behind him, the kids continued to scream with their vacation abandon, utterly overjoyed to be in a crappy pool at an airport hotel.

“So she got scared and left. Seemed like she was okay for a while. New boyfriend and everything. We told her to be out as much as possible. Because if eyes were on her, then he would have to back off, right?” Sybil huffed.

That’s also how women get killed when they leave their abusers
, Jim thought, but he nodded to keep Sybil talking.

“Then all of a sudden she freaked out. Like—on the phone, screaming and crying and saying he would kill her. We tried to calm her down, but she wouldn’t listen. So we gave her some money—a lot, actually, my husband is gonna kill me.” She gave a nasty little snort. “And she, uh… she went off the grid.” Sybil pursed her lips and Jim got the idea that the young woman still thought her friend was being dramatic.

“Do you know how to get in touch with her?” Jim asked, his voice neutral.

“Yeah. I mean—I can get her a message.”

Jim reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card. He extended it to Sybil, then took a deep breath. “Ask her to please give me a call. Tell her I want to help her. Please.”

Sybil considered the card, then plucked it from his fingertips. “Okay. She’ll know who you are, right?”

Jim looked over his shoulder. The kids were diving now, running down the diving board and springing headfirst into the blue water. He turned back to Sybil slowly. “Oh yeah, she’ll know who I am.”

“H
E
DIDN
’
T
do anything,” Tracey Baldwin wept, head in her hands as they sat in the interrogation room. “He came home and he was fine! We went to bed like any other night!”

Jim and Terry shared a look over the sobbing girl’s head. Neither one believed her account of the evening, but she remained steady, even as they tried to break her.

“Ms. Baldwin, what time did Mr. Ingersoll come home?” Terry asked, sliding into the seat next to her.

“I told you, eleven!”

Jim checked his notes for the hundredth time. The coroner said Carmen died somewhere between ten and twelve that night.

“You’re sure?” Jim said sharply from across the room.

Tracey snapped her head up and gave him a fearful nod. “Yes! Eleven. I’m positive!”

They tried. Good cop and bad cop. Threats. Intimidation. None of it worked. They didn’t break her that night, and not in any of the nights that followed. Tripp’s alibi was solid.

J
IM
DROVE
back to the airport, hands shaking and eyes bleary from too much coffee and not enough sleep. Sybil might have been the start of the trail to Tripp or a dead end, someone looking to place herself in the middle of the drama. He wanted to crawl into a bed and sleep for a month, but there were still more things to check out.

Godchildren to play with.

He slept on the short flight from Los Angeles to Seattle, then took a cab to the Ohs’ apartment. It was a slow trudge up to the lobby of their building—he almost fell asleep waiting for the doorman to buzz him up.

Terry greeted him at the elevator, a wide and beautiful smile across his face. “Jim!” Jim had barely stepped into the hallway before Terry tackled him for a hug.

If Jim couldn’t be with Griffin at this moment, Terry made a nice platonic substitute.