Healing Sands (41 page)

“So how long would you say you were here from the time you pulled up in your car until the police arrived?”

“Not more than five minutes altogether.”

The detective rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Would you be willing to come down to the precinct and give us an official voluntary statement?”

Sully was surprised, but he nodded. “Sure. Anything you need.”

Baranovic pulled his foot from the bench and looked at the house as if he were trying to make a decision. “Let's go in my car,” he said. “I'll have somebody bring you back for your vehicle when we're done.”

“Can't I just follow you?”

His green eyes swept over Sully. “You're still pretty shook up. Let's do it this way—for your own safety.”

Safety
, Sully thought as Baranovic led him back through the orange doorway. Was there really any such thing?

A sizable crowd had gathered by the time I reached Calle de Santo. Nobody seemed too distraught—nothing there to shoot. Curious neighbors titillated by homicide didn't make for good photographs.

What I wanted was somebody concerned. Somebody with a story. I squirmed under my camera strap. Or did I want that—now that I had been that somebody?

A high wall fronted the house, and there was going to be no getting past that from the looks of things—although when I got about ten feet from it, the orange door that hung in its center swung open. Even as I raised the camera, Ken Perkins from the
Sun-News
bolted from the crowd. I focused just outside the door so I could get whoever stepped out. I could hear Perkins calling out, “Detective Baranovic, can you tell us what's happening?”

I kept the camera up. Didn't matter if I couldn't stand Baranovic. This was professional.

Or it was, until I saw who he had with him. The man Detective Baranovic was leading to his unmarked white car was Sullivan Crisp.

“Is this a suspect, sir?” Perkins yelled.

Baranovic just tucked Dr. Crisp into the car. I couldn't take a single shot as I watched the car weave its way among the parked vehicles and down the street.

Perkins turned back to the crowd and called out, “Does anyone know that man?”

A large woman waved a Thermos at him, and Perkins went to her, pad in hand. Another man had also waved at him to offer information, and I was about to turn away in disgust—and find somebody who
really
knew what was going on—when I realized I recognized him. Slim, youngish, sharp dresser. I'd seen him at Crisp's clinic, hadn't I? Hanging out with that child at the reception desk?

Letting the camera fall against my chest, I went for him. He saw me before I reached the curb and pulled away from the crowd, who all seemed mesmerized by the story Thermos Lady was telling. As he got closer, I could see the sheen of shock in his eyes.

“Hi,” I said. “Look, forget the camera. I'm—”

“You're a client of Dr. Crisp's, I know.”

“Do you have any idea what's going on?” I could hear my voice shaking.

“I just know Sully could be in trouble,” he said. “Looks like they're taking him in for questioning.”

“About the murder? I don't understand.”

“I don't either.” He tilted his head at me, just the way Dr. Crisp himself did. I could see my own fear matched on his face. “I don't know what you can do about giving him a fair shake in the paper.”

“What are you saying? They think he
killed
this person?”

“I don't know, but they're scaring me, taking him off like that. I just don't want bad press for him—I mean, there's no way he was involved in this.”

“Look,” I said, “if you talk to the reporter, tell him only what you know—don't embellish. And say just what you told me, that Dr. Crisp couldn't—”

“Okay, yeah. Good.”

He seemed so shaken, I wasn't sure he could even do that much. We were both basket cases.

“Listen, thanks,” he said and started to move away.

“Wait,” I said. “Mr.—”

“Neering. Kyle Neering.”

“Can I take your picture—as a concerned friend? It could help.” He shook his head. “I'd rather not do that. I'll just go talk to the reporter.”

“Well . . . please, if there's anything I can do for Dr. Crisp—help with bail—anything, please call me.”

“I will.”

“My name's Ryan Coe. He has my number.”

Neering came back and squeezed my hand with his damp one. “I'll tell Sully,” he said. “That'll mean a lot to him.”

I watched him go, my camera still motionless around my neck. All the pictures were in my head—the interview room at the police station—metal tables, fluorescent lights, Detective Baranovic slapping the table. I didn't know how much anything I said or did could mean to Sullivan Crisp right now.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

W
hen Detective Baranovic offered a cup of coffee in the interview room, Sully thought of Tess, telling him he didn't know how to drink the stuff. That seemed like a long time ago now. He'd just lived another lifetime in this place.

When he'd arrived, they'd taken his fingerprints—elimination prints, they told him, since he did touch the doorframe and the doors themselves, and they wanted to be able to eliminate his when they took prints from the murder weapon. If they found it. Sully still didn't even know what the murder weapon was.

Another detective had asked for his cell phone, which he promised to return before Sully left the building. At this rate, Sully wasn't sure that was ever going to happen. It was eleven o'clock, and his numbness had given way to sickening horror. He wanted to get away and sort this out. Talk to Porphyria. Tess. Anybody but these people who had asked him the same set of questions no less than three times.

Detective Baranovic sat across from him now and pushed a cup of water toward him.

“I'm sorry for all this,” he said. “I know you've had a rough evening.”

“You could say that.”

“I just want to go over a few more things with you, and then we'll see that you get home.”

Sully just nodded. He was finding it harder to be congenial. He hadn't smiled for hours.

The detective turned the tape recorder on again. “Mr.—I'm sorry. I understand it's
Dr.
Crisp. Why did you go to Belinda Cox's residence tonight?”

“I knew her from years ago. I had some unfinished business with her that I wanted to clear up.”

“And what would that be?”

Sully bristled. “It was personal.”

“Okay. And who knew you were going there?”

“One of my associates, Kyle Neering. And my mentor—who is back in Nashville—we talked on the phone earlier. And a friend of mine.”

“And that would be?”

“A friend.” Sully suddenly felt stubborn. Why did he have to bring Tess into this?

“Does this friend have a name?”

No, idiot. She goes by number
. Sully smeared his hand over his mouth and hoped he wiped off any of the surliness that might have seeped out of his thoughts.

“Tess Lightfoot,” he said.

Baranovic's brows lifted. Of course he would know her. Sully wasn't sure if that was good or bad. Holy crow—why should it be either one?

“How can we get in touch with Mr. Neering?”

“You can't,” Sully said. “He went out of town—Little Rock. He left earlier tonight.”

“No cell phone?”

“The number's in my cell phone—which you still have.”

Baranovic nodded and pulled it out of his pocket. “If you'll bring it up for me, I'll write that down and you can be on your way.”

Sully flipped open the phone and read off Kyle's number. Why did he feel like he was betraying Kyle somehow? Why did he feel any of the things that were tying his stomach into knots?

“I'll have an officer take you back to your car,” Baranovic said.

“I'll call a cab,” Sully said.

And the sooner the better.

Sleep was out of the question. I sent Frances a couple of shots of the outside of the crime scene. With that done, I wrapped up in Jake's Chicago Bears blanket and spent the night in the chair by the kiva, moving in images from Jake to Alex to Sullivan Crisp and back again until the sun crept in among rare early-morning clouds. There were a few in my head, too, but I was clear enough on two things I had to do.

At seven I was in Frances's office. Fifteen minutes later I came out with a new lawyer. We were set up for a meeting at four, at the jail so Jake could be there. I was already liking this William Yarborough—and he had to be better than the pointless Uriel Cohen.

My morning assignment wasn't until nine, which gave me time to get to J.P.'s to do the second thing before Alex left for school.

J.P. lived not far from Dan in a double-wide no one would have dared call anything but a bona fide house. It was neatly fenced, and the yard was alive with pots of fiery chrysanthemums and a pair of young cottonwoods.

J.P. and Poco and the three boys were all outside, backpacks stacked like carry-on luggage for boarding. Alex spotted me and ran to the car, and then stopped as if he were having second thoughts about giving me a hug. I grabbed him anyway and held on until I could get control of threatening tears.

When I held him in front of me at arm's length, he grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

“Did you come to get me out of school for the day?” he said.

“In your dreams. But I did come to talk to you.”

“Aw, man.”

I waved to Poco and J.P., who were sipping at their mugs and visibly dying to know what was going on.

“How much longer till they have to leave?” I said across the yard.

“Until Victoria gets here to pick them up,” J.P. said with a grunt. “Which could be anywhere from two minutes to half an hour.”

I turned to Alex. “Let's hang out by the fence for a minute.” I leaned. He swung his foot along the line of rocks that bordered J.P.'s flower bed and pretended he wasn't watching my every nuance.

“I'm not sure what anybody has told you about Jake,” I said. “But I promised you that
I
would tell you if he had to go to jail.” “I know. He's in juvie.”

“No, he's in real jail.”

“How come?”

“Because Miguel died, Alex. That means the police think Jake killed him.”

He did what I hoped he would do, what I'd wrestled with half the night because I had to make him do it. His face drained of color, except for two red panic spots on his cheekbones. The foot stopped swinging, and his eyes were now two stormy pools of fear. He was clearly beyond just being sorry for Jake.

A horn blew and jerked us from the stare we were locked into. Alex turned away from me, but I caught his sleeve.

“Is there something you need to tell me, son?” I said.

“I gotta go.”

“I
will
take you out of school if you want to talk about something.”

“I got a test,” he said and bolted for his backpack.

I waited until he was on his way in Victoria's van before I joined J.P. and Poco on the porch. Poco gave me a cup of coffee. J.P. gave me the old disapproving stare.

“What?” I said.

“I don't know what you just dumped on your kid,” J.P. said. “But he hasn't looked like that the whole time I've had him. I've been making sure he doesn't watch the news or anything that would freak him out.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. “And if he's too much for you when he comes home, let me know.”

“For Pete's sake, what did you say to him?”

My hackles were too tired to stand up, even under the what-kind-of-mother-are-you voice I'd thought J.P. had stopped using with me. So I told them.

J.P. looked at me, to use another of my mother's similes, like an old mule staring at a new fence. “I just don't think I would have done that to the kid right before he left to go to school.”

“I need for him to tell me what he knows—not just for Jake's sake, but for his. He doesn't need to be burdened with the kind of information I think he has, and that's the only way I know to get it out of him.”

J.P. swatted back her straying hair. “I still don't think I'd handle it that way.”

“J.P. Leave it.”

Our heads turned to Poco in unison, like prairie dogs attending to an unfamiliar sound.

“You don't know how you'd handle a thing like this,” she said. “I sure don't.”

J.P.'s pause told me she was as taken aback as I was.

“This could be the only way for Ryan to handle it,” Poco said. “So just leave her alone.”

I prayed she was right. Because if this wasn't what God was telling me last night, then I
really
didn't know what else to do.

“I don't know anything about kitchens,” Sully said.

“No kidding?” Tess wrinkled her nose at the bottle of A-1 sauce he was about to pour on a pair of raw rib eyes. “That goes on after they're cooked, Crisp. Go sit down and have a Frappuccino.”

Sully grinned for the first time in almost twenty-four hours. “You have a Frappuccino in this house?”

She opened the refrigerator and produced one. “It gave me great pain to buy it, but I thought you'd need comfort food.”

Sully took it gratefully and leaned on the wood counter across from her. She chopped tomatoes with the same grace with which she cruised across a room or told him he had the taste of a ten-year-old boy.

“What were you going to say about kitchens?” she said.

“I was going to say this one is . . . it's you.”

“Yeah, it is.” She kept chopping, keeping up a rhythm that soothed him. “I had the cabinets made from old New Mexican furniture I collected. And I love having the pots all hanging out in the open like that.” She pointed the knife above her head without looking up. “I like to see everything at once so I know what I have.”