Ice Shear (7 page)

“I know it would be good to get some help from the fellowship right now, but it's just . . . the AA meetings aren't the same. I just can't connect with the people in the rooms out here.” He caught me watching. “Look, man, I appreciate you taking my call, but I gotta go. I'll call you later.” He was silent for a moment. “Thanks for that. She was something else and”—his voice broke—“I don't know what I'm going to do.” Listening again, he started laughing. “Fine. I'll get my ass to a meeting.”

“You out?” Pete said, startling me. I'd been as lost in Marty as he was lost in his conversation.

“I'm out,” I said, as Marty hung up the phone.

Marty snapped his fingers in front of his brother's face until Ray swatted him away. “We should eat.”

“Marty, we need you to stay clear of the kitchen for a little while longer,” I said.

Marty sighed. “And of course none of you could arrange to feed us.” Before I could protest he continued, “Can we leave? Go get something?”

“McDonald's!” shouted Ray.

“No. Real food,” Marty said. “Bob's Diner, up by the arterial.” He turned to me. “That okay with you?”

I said yes. The two of them didn't wait, crashing down the stairs two at a time, sending the whole porch shaking as they waved away my offer of a ride. They turned right, and I headed across the street, where Bill sat in a cruiser.

He rolled down the window as I approached. “Ride? Dave's taking your car.”

“What fine collaborative police work.” I climbed into the passenger seat. I had plenty of room: the cruiser was new and outfitted with a laptop terminal, not that the city could afford the computers.

We made a U-turn, passing Marty and Ray as they trudged along. Marty rested his gloved hand on his brother's neck, guiding and comforting. I could see neighbors watching the brothers, some openly but most half hidden, peering from behind curtains or through gaps rubbed in the condensation from the ancient steam radiators. The neighbors didn't want to get hauled into this murder, not when they had troubles of their own. Outsiders caused
this
trouble. As long as it didn't touch them, they were fine.

C
HIEF DONNELLY'S LONG-SERVING WOODEN
chair creaked under the strain of his aggrieved suffering.

“Can we get another seat in here?” he said.

“And put it where?” Jerry demanded.

Much as I hated to admit it, Jerry was right. The office comfortably sat three, and five exhausted people were a strain. I felt rested having spent the afternoon with Lucy, drifting in and out of sleep on the couch with her nestled next to me. Usually she wouldn't have sat still that long, but I let her watch SpongeBob and she was riveted.

Perched on one of the deep windowsills, I felt lucky to avoid the crush around the desk: Chief Donnelly, Jerry, Dave, and Special Agent Hale Bascom. I couldn't see Hale's face from my seat, which was fine with me. I had hoped never to see him again. I slid backward on the sill until my shoulders were pressed against the window. The chill seeped through all four layers of clothing I was wearing. “The Brouillettes wish to have the body released,” Jerry said, brandishing his cell phone, a proxy for the congresswoman and her husband. “They want to have the wake tomorrow night.”

“We want to accommodate any parents of a murdered child,” Dave said. “But the truth of the matter is that the coroner might need to keep the body up to forty-eight hours. A case this high profile—we can't afford to make any mistakes.”

“And do these plans sit right with your partner?” Hale asked. I slid forward and faced him. The first of what no doubt would be a cadre of feds, he appeared every inch the FBI agent: fit body in a no-longer-required black suit, undoubtedly made by a tailor who'd worked with his family for six generations. Close-cropped hair, so conservative you wouldn't know he artfully applied product to tame the cowlicks. He had a handsome face, with a square jaw, and intelligent green eyes. The only thing that was out of place with his G-man image was the lips: full and currently set in a half smile.

I addressed the room. “The wake will be a good place to meet those close to her, people who might—”

“Officer Lyons,” Jerry interrupted, “is assisting on an as-needed basis. Correct?” He glared at the chief.

“The Bureau would like to request,” Hale said, “that she be assigned as a full-time liaison on this case.” Hale's voice sounded rough, the southern accent absent, but I knew it would come out the moment Hale wanted people to trust the dumb good ol' boy.

“Any particular reason?” Jerry asked.

“I'd think it would be obvious. However, to state it plainly: With the FBI's involvement in the case, it would be good if we could have someone on your end who understands what information our agents need. And when.”

Great. Hale had announced to the room that he wanted me on the case so that I could spy on my fellow officers. Dave seemed fine with my new role, nodding along with everything Hale said.

Jerry was having none of it.

“As the person responsible for prosecuting this case, I need to ensure that we have the best possible—”

Ignoring Jerry, Hale stood and motioned me up. He raised his right hand and signaled for me to do the same.

“Repeat after me,” he said: “I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic”—I found myself speaking the FBI oath from memory, sometimes speeding ahead of him—“that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter.” I took a deep breath. “So help me God.”

Hale winked at me, and I couldn't help grinning at him. He sat back in his chair looking like he'd had his cake—as well as Jerry's—and eaten it, too.

“I've deputized Officer Lyons. Y'all can decide whatever you want, but June Lyons is currently an agent of the U.S. government.”

Jerry protested. “I—”

“Guess that's settled,” Chief Donnelly said. “Anything else?”

Chief Donnelly, Jerry, and Hale stayed put to discuss communication with the state authorities. Dave twisted his bulk left and then right, maneuvering out. I followed him into one of the interview rooms.

Whistling “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake, he spread his notes across the table.

“Told you, told you,” he started singing, his long legs brushing mine under the low table. I organized the interviews from the river, interviews with Marty and Ray, statements from neighbors, and crime scene information. I heard a sharp rap at the door, and in walked Hale.

The interview room was meant to inspire claustrophobia in suspects. When Hale took a seat at the table, his shoulders brushed mine. He pushed his chair back as far as he could, which was only a few inches.

I decided to quash any idea that my role would be FBI informant. “So, Agent Bascom, any questions about our findings after your earlier briefing? Any gaps?”

“Nothing you and your colleagues”—Hale nodded at Dave—“haven't already identified.”

“I was assuming that if the FBI was planning to investigate, perhaps we hadn't considered an important angle. Do you think she was kidnapped?” Dave watched the two of us as if we were players at a tennis match.

“Not a kidnapping, no.”

“Anything related to the charges she faced in California?” I fished.

“I'm not aware of any charges against Danielle.” He rested his hand on the back of his neck. “Marty, however, is a whole other matter.”

He was right. When we'd done a search on Marty's name, a series of federal charges from three years ago came up. Newspaper articles breathlessly recounted how the good looks of this “Rebel Without a Cause” hid a dangerous drug lord and killer. Marty had been facing serious time for the large-scale production and distribution of meth, and RICO charges related to being a fully patched member of the Abominations, one of the big five outlaw motorcycle gangs. In photos, Marty craned his head away from the flashes, more often than not being dragged along by a special agent.

“Our case,” Hale said, “was going to send Marty away for a good long while, and take down the Abominations' whole operation.”

“But your witness disappeared?” Dave asked.

Hale sighed. “Without a trace. It killed us to lose that one. We had spent years cultivating Big Dog—real name Reginald Davidson—as an informant. Finally we got everything lined up just the way we wanted and bang, he was gone. Disappeared. And when we interviewed his wife in her brand-spanking-new condo with the Mustang parked out front, she claimed he ran off with some floozy to Costa Rica.”

“You think Marty killed him?” I asked.

“We had Marty locked up tight, but Marty's dear daddy is head enforcer of the Abominations, the guy that keeps the other outlaw bikers in line.”

Based on the patches that had been stripped from the vest and from Marty's refusal to talk to him on the phone, I'm not sure how “dear” daddy really was, but Dave bolted up in his seat. “The head enforcer who's on his way here?” he said.

“The same one,” Hale said. “But don't worry, his record is clean.”

I couldn't believe it. “No arrests?”

“None. The man's far enough up the food chain that he doesn't get his hands dirty.”

“So, he's under federal investigation,” Dave said.

“No investigations are ongoing.” Hale leaned back in his chair and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck, and something clicked.

He's lying
. I heard Kevin's voice in my head as clearly as if he were still alive next to me. It was ten—no, almost fifteen, I realized—years ago, the year the three of us first met. Kevin, Hale, and I sat at a table in Shea's, the bar popular with students from Quantico. Kevin wore a powder-blue suit; I wore a white prom dress and pig's blood. I was Carrie and he was my date.

“You're a natural,” Kevin said, straightening his curly blond wig. “With your cornflower blue eyes and blond hair, you were made to play Carrie.”

“Plus you're pretty flat chested,” Hale added. I kicked him under the table.

The night was our first outing after “the disaster.” Hale winked at us, saying he would be right back, the knob attached to his belt jangling against his buckle as he bolted from the table. He was costumed as a door this Halloween, which involved little effort and the opportunity to waggle his eyebrows and invite people to “turn his knob.” Right now he was talking to Missy Fenwick, a petite redhead who was tan all year round. I tried to push down the jealousy rising in me.

“Who's going to trust an FBI agent named Missy?” I knew how petty I sounded.

“Don't worry,” Kevin replied, “she has a long and illustrious career of undercover work in prostitution trafficking ahead of her. As does Hale.” As if sensing that we were talking about him, Hale raised his beer at us. I groaned and mashed my face against Kevin's shoulder.

“He's lying,” I heard Kevin say.

“What?” I picked my head up. I rubbed some of the fake pig's blood off his suit, dabbing it with beer, but he grabbed the napkin out of my hand and pointed at Hale.

“Look. He's rubbing the back of his neck while he talks to Missy. After living with the man for two months I know. He always does that when he's lying.”

Through the rest of the conversation, Hale rested his hand against the back of his tanned neck.

I couldn't help myself: “He's lying a lot. You're completely right!” A weight lifted off my shoulders and I smiled for the first time in a week. “You're so observant. Have you considered a career in law enforcement?”

Kevin laughed, and adjusted my tiara.

“You'd be surprised at what I see, June.” His breath was warm against my ear.

“June, anything else?” Hale said, smiling at me as if we were old buddies.

I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. “Yeah, our victim. You folks really don't have anything, even word of mouth, about what went down at college?”

Hale sat back and rested his hand on the back of his neck, and I struggled not to belt him as he said, “I know she was expelled. I know there was a civil suit, but the terms of the suit are confidential.”

“We'll ask the Brouillettes tomorrow,” Dave said. “You'll be there, right?”

Hale nodded.

“Lyons and I will be stopping by the coroner's bright and early but will meet you there.” Dave stood and stretched. He had a long torso, and his shirt pulled out of his pants, revealing a pale soft stomach with a trace of dark black hair. “For tonight, we're done.”

I raced into the squad room, aware of Hale's light quick step behind me. The room was busy, even at 10:00
P.M.
A state trooper and Pete had phones to their ears and were typing notes into computers. Both the desks and the computers were ancient: the desks were brownish gray metal, from the fifties, and were almost completely taken up by the computers, which were grayish brown plastic, from the midnineties. The congresswoman had posted a big reward for tips leading to the capture of her daughter's killer and the calls were flooding in: fifty thousand dollars was almost two years' salary for most people in the area. Lorraine was up front on dispatch, fielding phone calls. “Please hold. . . . Please hold. . . . Oh, Lesley, wait till I tell you what our lordship, Jerry, said when he came in. Hold on a sec. . . . Hopewell Falls Police Department, please hold.” The radio next to Lorraine was silent, which was good; one big crime was more or less our limit, manpowerwise. I wove my way back toward the locker room, stopping in front of Pete's desk as he hung up the phone. “Anything good?” I asked. Pete gestured to three blinking lights. “Apparently our girl went to a party.
Last year
. Apparently she went to a lot of them. Also, she went to college in Los Angeles. Also, she went to high school.” Pete made a show of checking his notes. “Also, grade school.”