A Cold Christmas (12 page)

He sure could use his cap; his ears were getting numb. Hours had passed since he'd told Sam and Jo to go home. They'd be inside now, warm, having supper probably like nothing had happened. It was completely dark, maybe getting on toward six.

How dangerous was the mess his dad was in? Dangerous enough that he'd bought a gun. Baines had a gun. The dead guy'd been shot. Whose gun? Dad's? Baines's? At least Mom'd been keeping doors and windows locked since the dead guy. Mostly. The Littles weren't very good at remembering. And the house was so old, sometimes windows looked locked and weren't. Maybe they could just pack up and move to Seattle.

Why did he feel so guilty? All he did was sneak into somebody's house. Big deal. The door wasn't even locked.

He trudged up the long driveway. Hey, count the good stuff. It hadn't snowed. The driveway didn't need shoveling. That was good. And weeds weren't growing through the cracks. That was good.

Yeah, right. Those were the only two good things in his life.

He went around back and climbed up to the tree house. Ollie, Mrs. Franken's big orange cat, was sleeping in a corner. “What are you doing here? Don't you know it's warmer in your house? Dumb cat.” Zach stroked him and listened to the loud purr. His bedroom window looked locked, but it wasn't. The lock was so old it wouldn't catch. He slid the window up and climbed inside. Unzipping his jacket, he shrugged it off and hung it way back in the closet. After sitting on the bed for an hour or two or ten or ten years, he went downstairs.

Mom, at the stove, looked up from the pot she was stirring. “Zach, what's wrong?”

Probably saw guilt in big red letters on his forehead. “Nothing.” He went back upstairs.

“Zach?” His mom came in. “What is it?”

“There's a lot of things to do in this world.” He threw out the first dumb thing that came to his mind. “With so many people doing so many different things. I don't know where I want to go. I can't even think of what I want to spend my life doing.”

She put an arm around him. What would she do if he told her about Dad and the money?

“You know,” she said. “You have an advantage most people don't have.”

That confused him. She was lots like a butterfly. Thoughts flitted through her mind and lit this place and that.

“You have, you know.” She sounded like she was trying to convince him. “You're smarter and you've grown up quicker than most. Partly it's your father's fault, but a lot of it's mine, I'm sorry to say. I should have been better, a more mature mom. You think things some adults never get around to. What I'm trying to say is, you don't have to know this minute. Where you are right now is—the best thing to do is just be there. Enjoy it as much as you can. I know things aren't easy, but try to let life just unfold for you. What'll happen is things pretty much work out if you let them. You know? If you don't get in their way and you try to think good thoughts when you can and do good things when you can.”

Was there some good thing he should do here about Dad and the money that he couldn't think of?

She put both hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Zach?”

He tried a grin. “You have to think I'm smart; you're my mom.”

“What kind of nonsense is that? Everybody thinks you're smart.”

A distraction was needed here before she went into cosmic worry.

“I went off and left Sam and Jo all alone on Falcon Road. How smart is that?”

“Where's Falcon Road?”

“Over by the river.”

“What were you doing way over there?”

“Looking at the river.” And seeing Dad give some guy named Baines a lot of money. Did Baines kill the furnace man? Would he come back here and hurt Mom or the Littles?

“Since Sam has lived here all his life,” she said, “and Jo is a pretty bright girl, I expect they have enough sense not to fall in the river. I've made spaghetti. Let's go eat.”

13

Roy Dandermadden watched his wife. She was curled up on the couch, her face drawn and weary. He hated to think he'd contributed to her tiredness. She was doing the nine to five while he was free for Christmas break. Well, hell, it wasn't as though he had nothing to do, and he was getting meals together for supper. Not that he was much of a cook, but that meant she didn't need to do it.

He was managing to have time with Jo. Even at eleven, she was already slipping away from him. Mandy, seventeen, was spending all her time with friends and giving him excuses when he wanted her to do something with him.

“I don't see why you don't call her,” Lillian said.

Because he didn't think his mother would go for it, that's why. Lillian thought it made sense, and he, honest to God, didn't know what they were going to do otherwise, but … He sighed.

“Tired?” Lillian's voice had an edge to it.

Lately, she'd been sharp instead of her usual sweet self. Did she know about Cindy? No, she couldn't. Even if she were to wonder … And why would she wonder? They'd been too careful, he and Cindy. Since her husband beat her so awful, Roy hadn't even smiled at her in the supermarket. He wanted to go and rip the skin off Harley, the bastard, but Cindy said it would only make things worse. He tried to get her to go to the police, but she wouldn't. So there they were. Cindy at home with that son of a bitch Harley and him sitting here with Lillian, who sent sharp-edged sarcasm in his direction. Ain't life grand?

Roy rubbed his face. Dishes needed doing. He might as well get to it. Mandy was supposed to, but as soon as supper was over, she'd disappeared into her room. She hadn't used to be that way, only since Lillian started acting like he was a leper. Where was the damn remote? After a long search, he found it under the paper and clicked on the television.

Lillian put down her book. “Have you even called her?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Lillian—”

“What?”

“She won't go for it,” he said.

“She wouldn't give you any money to help her granddaughter go to Stanford? The child has a partial scholarship. All she needs is some help.”

That “all she needs” was a mite misleading. It amounted to some thousands.

“The thing is, Lillian, Mom believes in people making their own way. She thinks making it easy for kids is bad for them. It makes them not appreciate what they get.” There was a lot more to it, but he didn't think Lillian would care to hear that, either.

“Give her a call, Roy. You're her only child and she has lots of money. It isn't as though that money won't come to you anyway when she passes on.”

Even knowing the call was a bad idea, Roy went into the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

“Mom? How you feeling?”

He listened through a long chain of ailments. “Well,” he said when she ran down. “The thing is, Mom…” He didn't want to do this. He knew she wouldn't go for it. “I needed to ask you about the fall.”

“What fall? I didn't fall.”

“No, I know you didn't. I mean next August. Mandy's graduating in the spring and going off to college.” He hesitated.

“I'm aware of that. You think I don't keep track of my granddaughters? Will you just go ahead and say what it is you want to say and get it over with? The way you go dithering on is as bad as your Aunt Rosie was before she died.”

“The thing is we could use some money to send her to college.”

There was a cold silence. Roy knew he shouldn't have said anything.

“Roy Dandermadden, you knew when that girl was just a little thing that she was bright as a button and would be ready for college at this very time. You should have been prepared.”

“We are. It's just that everything is very expensive and we did have to live along the way—”

“Your daddy Billy Forrester and I worked hard all our lives to provide for you. Now it's your turn to do for yours. I don't believe in handing things on a platter to young people. It's not good for them. They need to work for it, just like your daddy and I did.”

Mostly, the money came from Billy Forrester Dandermadden's daddy, but Roy didn't point that out. “I realize that, but—”

“I never did understand why she wanted to go all that far away anyway. California? We have a very fine college right here in Hampstead.”

“Stanford is an excellent school, Mom. She's been given an opportunity very few people get.”

There was another frosty silence.

“Okay, Mom. I'll see you Tuesday, then.”

“Don't be late, darling.”

“I won't.”

He didn't have to say anything to Lillian when he went back to the living room. One look at him and she knew. “Your mother said no,” Lillian stated.

“I knew she would.” He sprawled on the couch and clicked the remote.

“She is the most selfish old woman. After all you do for her. Over there all the time, fixing this and fixing that, and her granddaughter needs—”

“Let it go, Lillian.”

“I'm not sure I will. Ida Ruth Dandermadden is a selfish, tightfisted, mean old woman and she better watch her step or someday she just might get a great big shove.”

14

Shortly before eight, Susan went back to the shop to see if there was anything going.

“Hazel, what are you still doing here? Get yourself home! You've got to take care of yourself. Without you I'd have to pack up and leave. Find someone to take over and get some rest.”

“Not to worry. There was another burglary. Other than that, it's so quiet I'm sleeping while I sit here.”

“Where was the burglary?”

“Quail Creek Road.”

“What was taken?”

“Two gold watches, a camera, and cash.”

“Please tell me we got something on this bastard.”

“Nope.” Hazel yawned.

“How long have you been on duty?”

“Eeh, not even twenty-four hours,” Hazel said. “An old hen like me doesn't need sleep.”

“Sure, desert me. Serve me right for all my sins to be thrown into the lion's den. And if that doesn't make sense, nothing much does these days.”

“You might go home yourself. I don't want you sick, either. It'd get really lonely around here. Couple of phone calls came. I put them on your desk.”

When Susan got to her office with a mug of coffee, Demarco was waiting.

“Chief,” he said in his snide way.

She took a tired breath, a sip of very strong black coffee, sat down, and put her feet up on the corner of the desk. Demarco stood at attention in front of it. She rubbed her temples with thumb and fingertips, wondering if she should say, At ease, Sergeant. Had he been a sergeant? For all she knew he'd been a general in charge of the whole damn Marine Corps. Did Marines have generals? “Sit down,” she said.

“I'd rather stand.”

She looked at him, took a breath to say Sit or you're fired, and told herself she couldn't afford to lose him. “What did you find?”

He took out his notebook. “Holiday bought groceries at the supermarket. He rarely said anything beyond ‘Fine' if he was asked how he was. If he has friends, I haven't found them. All the businesses in that area are closed at night with the exception of the restaurant. Holiday was in there a few times, bought food to take out. Holiday went to the library a lot. Thackeray—the guy who works at the rare book place—saw him there.

“Holiday asked the flower shop woman about Caley James.”

“Asked what?”

“Does she work, where does she work, what times does she work? Does she have any friends? Who are they?”

When she was with the San Francisco PD, Susan had worked with officers who didn't like her, who didn't like females in the department, who didn't like females. Demarco seemed full of all three. Her old boss, who started out with the second, slowly came around. In eleven days, she had to let him know her decision about his job offer.

“One other thing,” Demarco said.

She waited.

“Nothing turns up on the name Tim Holiday anywhere. Driver's license is fake. Credit cards are fake. He doesn't exist.”

“What?” Susan let her boots fall to the floor with a thud. “What have we got here? A killer who doesn't want the victim identified and a victim who doesn't want to be identified?”

“That's what it looks like.”

“Can you explain this?”

“No, ma'am, I can't. Witness protection comes to mind, but Digger didn't run into any flags when he was playing with his computer. There just wasn't anything.”

“Holiday could have been running,” Susan said, and told Demarco about the bare apartment. “Or hiding.”

Demarco nodded. “If so, he knew how to set up a fake ID. And why would the perp not want him identified?”

“Both mixed up in some criminal action that, if we learned about it, would lead us to the perpetrator.”

“Yes, ma'am. That would indicate something serious enough to risk a murder charge.”

She rubbed the ball of her thumb from the bridge of her nose up her forehead. “You got any ideas?”

“Only that Holiday might have been a felon and would have been arrested if we had his name.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't explain why his face and hands were burned. Revenge? Hatred?”

“Or,” Demarco said, “finding the vic's identity would lead to his partner in crime.”

“I've sent the prints Osey got from the apartment to the FBI. Maybe they'll tell us something.”

“Maybe,” Demarco said. He marched out. She wondered if he marched to bed every night and to the bathroom in the morning. Would Parkhurst ever get back?

Of the three phone messages Hazel had mentioned, two were from the mayor. He wanted Susan to be one of the reindeer on the Santa Claus float in the Christmas parade. Crumpling both, she tossed them at the wastebasket. They fell in. Since she'd been chief, her basket success had gotten a lot better. The third said Ettie Trowbridge wanted to talk with her.