Dirty Truths (23 page)

“Farewell, Amy. I hope you rot in Hell.”

He backed away from the car; the sound of her screams a sweet symphony to his ears. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a long slim barbeque lighter and clicked it a couple of times until a small flame glowed at the end. Thomas turned the dial. The flame danced and grew to a long flickering tongue. He walked to the back of her car, pausing when she dissolved from murderous screams to a pathetic whimper. Shaking his head, Thomas knelt next to the rear tire and tipped the flame into the moist earth behind it. For a moment only a faint spark caught the gas-soaked grass but slowly it grew, eating the gas as it licked across the ground and up toward the tank.

He backed away. The flame below lit up the belly of the small car, the one Wade had bought for Amy’s thirtieth birthday, the one she had to have or else. As he edged toward his vehicle, he gazed at the blue-orange glow willing it to ignite the tank before he moved on to the final step. It danced along the underside of the vehicle, reaching around to caress the wheels and then the doors. A crack and then a hissing sound.

Amy’s screams sounded again and grew and grew.

Thomas waved. “That’s for me, and everyone else you’ve fucked.”

The car ignited. Flames burst beneath and up over the crushed hood. Amy’s voice drowned out by the sudden roar of fire that enveloped her. Thomas took the phone from his pocket and flipped it open, punching in the number he’d memorized. It rang three times and he hung up. The person on the other end, the one waiting outside the Mac’s Milk store in Laighton, would call 911, and inform them of a crash on Highway 7. Too bad the call would be anonymous, and too late. The informant panicked and ran upon seeing the crash. Then, feeling guilty, he had stopped at a payphone and done the right thing. Odd though, the payphone the police would trace the call to—if in fact they managed to do that—would be wiped clean, the cleanest payphone on the damn planet.

Thomas flipped the phone around in his hand before letting it fall on the ground. A booted foot on top, he twisted his heel to a satisfying crunching sound. Bending over he picked up the mess of plastic and wires, slipped it into his pocket and walked to his car.

Flames lit the night sky as he eased onto the road, black smoke billowed up, disappearing into the darkness above. Thomas glanced in the rearview. Headlights flashed in the distance. He pressed his foot down on the gas.

CHAPT
ER 30

Several cars inched along ahead of Daniel’s. He tapped the wheel as they moved forward and stopped again. Seething, he punched the button on the radio. The static in his favorite station wore on his already frayed nerves.

What the hell was wrong with people? He didn’t understand how they managed to pack this particular section of the highway every single day. It didn’t matter what time he left work, an hour early or an hour late, he managed to catch the snarl of traffic at the same time, just as his exit came into view. He’d considered taking the main road out of Salach, past the hospital to the highway and then driving through the Indian reservation to get to Laighton. God knows he would have saved a lot of time. But the damn road was covered in gravel and littered with ruts big enough to lose a small child in. The rocks never failed to scratch his truck. No way.

He hated that he had to go to Laighton in the first place, but that’s where Carl kept the main office and he had to check in every goddamn day before going home. Their business was in Salach, even the showroom was there, and Daniel couldn’t figure out why the stupid prick insisted on keeping anything in the shitty little town. Probably so his wife would have something to do that kept her out of his hair.

Large grey clouds rolled in as evening approached. It looked like it might rain, which pissed him off even more. Daniel hated driving in the rain, especially with all the fuckups on the road panicking because the roads were a little slick and increasing the risk one of them might slam into him.

He’d been stuck on the same twenty or so feet of highway for almost one hour. At this rate he wouldn’t make it home until well after dark. Normally he didn’t give a shit, but he hadn’t been able to get Desiree on the phone all day. She’d had a doctor’s appointment in the morning, to confirm what they already knew. She was pregnant. It shouldn’t have taken all day. She didn’t have the damn thing turned on; it went straight to voicemail each time he tried to call.

Running one hand over his face, Daniel leaned his head back on the seat and counted to ten, as they’d taught in the class he’d been forced to take after divorcing Kristina. He told them he didn’t have an anger problem, he could deal with his emotions just as well as anyone. What was he doing right now? A man out of control would have jumped out of his car, walked up the road to figure out who was causing the delay and dealt with them. Not Daniel Riley. He patiently waited with the rest of the suckers, counting to ten and resisting the urge to break someone’s nose.

They didn’t understand the actions he’d taken when dealing with his ex-wife had nothing to do with anger. No one did, it seemed. It was about her refusal to see his way on things, and her determination to ruin what he’d worked hard to build. It was about showing her the way he expected her to behave. A smile tugged the edges of his lips and he rolled his window down, thinking of the last time he’d stopped by his old house. She learned a thing or two that day. At the time, he’d been frustrated because she didn’t react as she always had—with apologies and pleas for mercy—but he figured she’d realized she had done wrong and he’d finally gotten through her thick skull.

Still, Daniel stayed away, allowing her time to think about things, to want to make amends. That she didn’t call the cops said everything. She loved him, no matter what she said to the contrary. Kristina needed someone strong, someone not afraid to take charge, and that someone was him. Too bad Desiree got herself pregnant; it complicated things a little, but he saw no reason why he couldn’t go back to his wife and take care of Desiree.

The car ahead moved forward more than just a few feet and Daniel let out a sigh of relief. Finally, whoever clogged the damn road had gotten their shit together. Probably some dickhead truck driver who couldn’t stay awake. The line progressed faster until up ahead, about four cars from Daniel, blue lights flashed and two police officers peeked in windows before waving the vehicles through.

“Fucking cops and their drunk driving campaigns. Brilliant,” Daniel grumbled.

What the hell did they think they’d find on a Wednesday evening? The cops seriously needed to find better ways to spend their time. Is this what his tax dollars paid for?

He inched forward. The cop in front glanced at his plates then spoke into the radio on his collar. Why were they calling in plates? Stolen car? Daniel tapped the wheel as the two cops conferred with each other. He pressed the gas lightly and attempted to follow the other cars out of the blockade but the cop closest to him, a fat pig who probably sat around all day eating donuts rather than catching criminals, held up his hand.

“Jesus,” Daniel muttered and stopped.

Fat Cop walked to Daniel’s car and leaned in the window, shining his light over the interior of the truck and then in Daniel’s face.

“Problem?”

“License and registration please,” the cop said.

Daniel reached up to the visor, pulled a little wallet down and handed it over. If he shined the light in his eyes one more time, he might give them a reason to take him in. Fucking jerk.

The cop walked away, Daniel’s license in his hand and motioned for another cop to join him. Daniel slammed a fist on the wheel.
This is ridiculous.
They had no reason to treat him like this. His license was valid, he didn’t get traffic tickets, and he’d certainly never stolen a car. His truck lit up from behind, blue and red flashed in the rearview and a sickening chill coated his gut. Two more cruisers pulled up behind him.

Kristina. Had she called the cops after all? Why not just go to his house? Of course, he had no known address, the apartment was listed in Desiree’s name and he hadn’t told Kristina where it was. But Carl knew. Why wouldn’t they call his work if something was up? Carl would have given them the address and Desiree would have told them—Daniel paused. Unless…

“Miserable lying bitch,” he cursed. Desiree had turned her phone off. Had they gone to his place after all? What did Kristina tell them?

The fat cop came back and opened Daniel’s door. “Step out of the vehicle please.”

“What’s going on?”

“I said step out of the vehicle please, sir.”

“Okay, I just don’t understand what the problem is.” Daniel climbed out of his seat and stood.

“Hands above your head.”

Bitch.
Daniel raised his hands, his gaze roaming over the scene before him. One cop leaned into his truck his flashlight searching the glove compartment, under the seats, and behind the visors. Two more spoke in hushed tones behind them, more than once they bent their heads to murmur into their radios.

The fat cop nudged Daniel to the side of the road and ran his hands down his sides and up his legs. Why were they searching him? “If you could just—”

“Mr. Riley, you have the right to remain silent,” the cop recited his rights.

Daniel’s mind reeled.

She really did it. The fucking slut had called the damn cops on him. When he was through with her, they’d have to call the morgue.

***

Three hours. Long, wasted hours where Daniel sat in the tiny room alone. Now and then, a cop would come in and offer him coffee, water, a smoke, but Daniel refused. They could get him a goddamn lawyer, that’s what he wanted. They arrested him for murder, possession of something or other and drug trafficking. He’d told them how ridiculous all of it was and demanded to know where they’d gotten their information but they weren’t forthcoming. If he agreed to an
interview
then they’d explain, but he’d asked for a lawyer. Until he talked, apparently they weren’t offering him anything except beverages and cancer.

He’d called Carl after they booked him, but he was a blubbering mess. Something about Amy, Daniel stopped listening after Carl said he couldn’t help him.
After all he’d done for that man, when Daniel needed help the asshole didn’t come through. Cheap bastard.

The steel door opened. Daniel looked up, his position relaxed, lounging in the uncomfortable chair. The table, a cheap Formica topped nightmare, filled most of the room. Shit, it couldn’t really be called a room. They probably cleared out a broom closet or something.

“Mr. Riley?” a small man in blue suit asked.

Daniel nodded and prayed this was not his lawyer.

“I’m Timothy Chambers. I’ll be your Duty Council for now. If you wish to retain your own attorney you may, but I’m under the impression you don’t wish to proceed without representation and have not been able to secure your own.”

“I can get my own lawyer. These pricks won’t let me call anyone.”

Timothy nodded, his curly black mop bouncing as he did so. He looked intelligent, and if Daniel didn’t have to pay a lawyer for this bullshit it would be better. The small man opened his briefcase and pulled out a yellow legal pad and a pen. Also in the case was a file, which he opened and glanced through while biting his lower lip.

Daniel gritted his teeth and looked away. If he could stop that nasty habit then maybe he’d consider giving him some work. “So, what if I accept you as my lawyer? Do I have to pay you?”

“I work for the Crown, sort of. I provide free council to those who can’t afford it otherwise. In cases like yours, I am sort of an emergency contact, here for you until you retain your own council. The government pays me in most cases. We’d straighten out the money issue before this goes to trial anyway.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s see what you can do.”

“Good, shall we begin?” Timothy clicked his pen and sat down.

“First, I didn’t do any of what they say I did. I know everyone says that, but I’m telling the truth. I don’t even know where they got the idea I could kill someone.”

“Possibly from the assault charges filed against you by your wife?” Timothy didn’t look up as he spoke. Instead, he continued to read the documents in the file.

“Those were lies. She exaggerates.”

“Hmm, there are pictures.”

“Fuck off, I don’t need you.” Daniel crossed his arms and glared at Timothy, wondering how the idiot thought accusing him of this shit helped at all.

“I’m not against you, Mr. Riley but you have to be honest with me. If this goes to trial, and judging by the evidence it just might, I need to know what the Crown Attorney is going to pull out in order to build his case against you so I can defend you accordingly.”

Timothy met his gaze, his face serious and calm, as though he were talking about the weather or something. The fluorescent light hanging over the table did nothing for his pasty complexion. His skin looked downright green. Daniel looked to the door. Two officers stood outside, probably listening to every word.

“Okay, we had some problems but we’re working them out. I love Kristina very much.”

“Indeed? Well, that’s not for me to judge. The evidence they have was given to them by a friend of yours, an Amy Bowen. She claimed your ex-wife hid it for Wade Bowen, her husband. When questioned about it, your ex-wife claimed it belongs to you. It’s a sordid mess, but your wife also led the police to believe you and Mrs. Bowen had an affair.”

“What evidence?” Daniel couldn’t imagine what she could have given them to justify these charges. Murder? Did she kill someone just to fuck him over? He snorted. The idea that Kristina could hurt anything was too much. She could barely wipe her own ass, let alone construct such a complicated plot to trap him. But Amy and Wade…

“Apparently there is a box containing evidence linking you to two murders, possibly more if they dig, and two illegal weapons. I have a list here.” Timothy passed a paper to Daniel and waited.

Daniel read the list, his chest tightening as his eyes ran down the items. A finger? A fucking finger? Jesus Christ, where would Kristina get a finger? What the hell was happening?

“That’s not my shit, none of it. I swear to God, it isn’t mine. Amy gave it to them?
Fuck, I haven’t had anything to do with that slut in a while. Once, just once, I slept with her and that was enough. I don’t know where either of them got this stuff but it is definitely not mine.” His voice rose, and he knew he sounded hysterical. Hell he was hysterical.

Timothy nodded and took the page back, replacing it in his file. “So, here’s what we do now. You need an alibi, at least three, the week of August 19, 2003, the week of December 12, 2005, and the last week of July this year. If you can give them this, then they will have little to discuss with you.”

“I didn’t do anything, so I hardly established alibis. Fuck, three whole weeks? Isn’t it supposed to be a night or something? Can’t they narrow it down a little?”

“Think on it for a bit. We can come back to it later.”

“You’re obviously misunderstanding me. How am I supposed to remember where I was for three fucking weeks? Two of them were more than five fucking years ago, for crying out loud. Who can remember what they did that long ago?” Daniel raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. Fuck, he could use Desiree, maybe. If they’d let him call her then he might be able to get something worked out. But he hadn’t known Desiree for the first two dates. Shit.

Timothy cleared his throat and continued. “The police will question you. I advise you to answer the questions they ask, and only that. Don’t elaborate, don’t ramble, and above all remain calm. You tell them the truth and we’ll work out the rest later. Answer the questions, and if they don’t believe you that’s fine. You don’t have to convince them, you have to convince a jury.”