The Last to Know (29 page)

“They don’t care. They just want their story. And so do I, I guess,” she admits, knowing she’s guilty as charged. And she can’t exactly come right out and ask him not to ticket her. But with any luck . . .

He grins and tears up the ticket he was writing. “Yeah, but you’re local, Paula,” he says. “The least I can do is cut you a break. I was just about to have you towed away. I’ve just about had it with this town being overrun by outsiders, and it doesn’t look like that’s going to change any time soon.”

“Thanks, Brian. You don’t know how grateful I am. This is the second favor you’ve done for me today.”

His grin fades. His voice low, he tells her, “Yeah, but don’t tell a soul about the other one. I mean, I don’t want this getting out, either. But cops rip up tickets all the time. The other thing—letting you check out the murder scene—they won’t understand.”

“Don’t worry, Brian. I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone about that, and it was really helpful for my story. You know, to set the tone,” she lies.

Soon enough, Paula—not the local cops, not the seasoned detectives, not the big-city investigative reporters—will blow open the Leiberman and Kendall cases by revealing the shocking clues everyone else has missed. Then Brian Mulvaney will realize that he—and everyone else in town—underestimated Paula’s journalistic skills.

“I really appreciate what you did for me, Brian,” she says. “I know how busy you are with everything that’s going on.”

“Well, if the coroner’s office can rule out suicide in Jane Kendall’s death, you’ll have an even bigger story than you originally thought.” He shakes his head. “Two murdered women in Townsend Heights.”

Three
, Paula corrects him silently.
You’ve forgotten Melissa Gallagher. But I haven’t.
 
. . .

T
asha, on the couch, awakens with a start, hearing footsteps in the kitchen. Her heart racing, she calls out, “Joel?”

What if it’s not? Her mind whirls. Her gaze falls on the fireplace tools across the room. Can she make it there and arm herself with a poker before she’s attacked?

“It’s me,” he calls.

“Thank God.” Relieved, she rubs her eyes and gets to her feet, glancing at the clock. She sat down only five minutes ago to wait for him, but apparently she drifted off. She’s so exhausted, all she really wants is to go upstairs and crawl into bed, but she can smell the savory aroma of the Chinese food. She’ll have to eat. After all, Joel got it just for her.

Making her way into the kitchen, she finds her husband hanging his dripping raincoat on one of the hooks beside the door.

“What happened to you?” she asks.

“It’s a monsoon out there, that’s what happened.” He takes off his soggy shoes and puts them on the mat, then strips off his socks, too.

“I mean, why did it take you so long?” She peers into the shopping bag filled with boxy white takeout cartons. “I was worried.”

“I tried to call you, but the phone was off the hook, remember?”

“I know, I just figured that out a few minutes ago, actually. So what happened?”

“The Panda Palace was jammed. Not just people eating there and coming in to pick up takeout, but their phone was ringing off the hook for deliveries because of the weather. So by the time I placed our order, then waited for it, then went to the video store . . .”

“Well, I really appreciate it,” she tells him, grabbing napkins from a drawer and carrying them and the bag to the living room. “What movie did you rent?”

“That Steve Martin thing from last year.”

She knows which movie he means. She already saw it one night on cable when he was working late. But she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that after all he went through to get it, so she says, “Sounds great”

“I’m going upstairs to change into dry clothes. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She’s just set the food down in the living room when the phone rings. Tasha sighs. It must be a reporter. As she goes to answer it she tells herself she’ll let the machine get the next one, or just take it off the hook again now that Joel is home.

“Tasha? It’s me.”

“Karen, hi. I thought you were going to be another reporter.”

“They’re still calling?”

“There was a lull, but they’ve started again. You’re lucky you’re unlisted.”

“Well, you know Tom. Mr. Privacy.” Karen’s tone is subdued. “Did you hear about Jane?”

“Yes. It’s horrible.”

“I know. I keep picturing that sweet little girl without a mommy.”

“Me, too. I guess I almost expected that this was how it would turn out, but somehow it’s still a shock.”

“I know. And I’ve got to tell you about something strange that happened, Tasha. Do you know Fletch Gallagher’s nephew?”

Fletch Gallagher. As always, the mere mention of his name makes her uneasy.

“I know who he is,” she tells Karen. “He babysat for Rachel’s kids the night she—”

“Exactly.”

Karen goes on to tell Tasha what she saw: Jeremiah Gallagher lurking around the shed in his backyard, then disappearing into the woods with some kind of bundle. She says she hasn’t seen him since.

“Tom thinks I’m being paranoid or nosy or both, but I can’t help thinking maybe he had something to do with Rachel’s death.”

Tasha considers that. She barely knows Jeremiah, but from what she can tell, he’s something of a loner. Which doesn’t mean he’s capable of murder, but you never know. Besides . . .

“What about Jane?” she reminds Karen. “If she was killed, too, do you think he had something to do with that? Because I don’t know if he had any connection to her.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Karen tells her. “All I know is that he was behaving suspiciously, and two women are dead. Tom doesn’t think I should get involved. What do you think I should do?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Tasha says as Joel comes into the room wearing sweat pants and a thermal pullover. He gives her a questioning look. “Wait, let me see what Joel thinks.”

“About what?” he asks. “Who’s on the phone?”

“Karen.” She briefly explains the situation to him. “Should Karen call the police?”

“Definitely,” Joel says without hesitation. “It sounds like they already consider the kid a suspect This could be important information.”

“Joel says to call the police,” Tasha tells Karen.

“I heard him.” Karen sighs.

“Are you going to do it?”

“I think I’ll sleep on it,” she decides, and adds, “
If
I manage to get any sleep. Tom will be out late tonight, and I’m jittery.”

“I know what you mean. If you need anything, Joel and I are home, okay?”

Tasha hangs up. Her husband hands her a pair of chopsticks and a carton.

“Did you get a whole quart of this?” she asks, surprised by the size.

“I figured you can have the leftovers while I’m away.” He grabs another container and opens the flap.

Tasha slides the chopsticks from their paper sleeve, considering his words. She chooses hers carefully. “So you’re still going away tomorrow, then?”

He looks at her in surprise. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because of what’s going on here, Joel.”

She forces herself to keep her manner calm, almost casual. She doesn’t have the energy for an argument. Besides, she doesn’t want to put Joel on the defensive, knowing that will make him even less likely to change his travel plans—if there’s any chance of that at all. Judging by his expression, there’s not.

“Look,” he says after a beat. “I’d stay here if I could, Tasha. But my job is on the line—”

“Joel, our
lives
could be on the line. Mine and the kids’.” So much for staying calm.

“If you’re afraid—”

“I have good reason to be afraid! Two of my friends have been murdered—”

“You should go stay with my parents.”

“No,” she says flatly. “How can I do that? Hunter has school—”

“He missed Friday. He can miss again. It’s kindergarten, Tasha. He’ll recover.”

“And I can’t stand the thought of listening to your mother tell me how we were fools to ever move up here, and how dangerous it is, and—”

“She won’t say that, Tasha.”

“Where have you been, Joel?” she asks, frustrated. “She already did say it. All day today.” But Joel, as usual, had been miles away, spaced out, thinking about whatever it is that lately consumes his thoughts, his time.

“Just tune her out, the way I do,” Joel advises, his mild tone rankling.

He acts as though it’s so simple.

Maybe it is, some reasonable part of Tasha points out, but it’s overwhelmed by the part of her that is fed up, and frightened, and hurt. She wants Joel to say, “To hell with the job, I’m staying here to protect you.”

But he won’t

She tosses the chopsticks onto the table and stands.

“Where are you going?”

“To bed,” she flings over her shoulder as she walks toward the stairs.

“What about your food?”

“I’m not hungry. I’ll have plenty of leftovers for tomorrow. While you’re
gone
.”

The tears don’t start until she’s upstairs, lying alone in their queen-size bed, listening to the wind and rain lashing against the house. She tells herself that Joel will come up to apologize.

But she realizes, as she drifts off to sleep later, that he isn’t going to come up at all.

T
he phone is ringing when Fletch walks into the house. He hurries across the kitchen to answer it, conscious that he’s tracking mud across the floor, and not giving a damn.

“Hello?”

“Fletch?”

His brother’s voice catches him off guard. He’d been expecting David, or the detectives looking for Jeremiah, or even the kid himself.

“What the hell is going on there?” Aidan asks, his voice crackling across the wires. The distance or the storm: Fletch isn’t sure which is responsible. “I got an urgent message to call you.”

“Why did it take you so long?”

“I can’t say,” Aidan tells him. “I was just out of reach for a few days.”

Fletch realizes his brother is involved in military operations that are top secret. This has happened before. It took him a few days to get through to Aidan when Melissa died, too. Still, it strikes him as irresponsible, now that his brother is a single parent, for Aidan to be so far away, and so out of touch.

Well, it’s not his business to judge. Or is it since he’s the one burdened with Aidan’s kids while he’s overseas?

Fletch quickly explains the situation. His brother is silent for a long time.

Then he asks, “Have the police come looking for Jeremiah again yet?”

“My lawyer seems to feel it’s just a matter of time. They don’t know he’s missing. But when they find out it definitely won’t look good.”

“No, it won’t,” Aidan agrees. “Listen, Fletch, I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“How long?”

“I have no idea. But if Jeremiah shows up in the meantime, tell him to hang in there. I’ll be on my way.”

Yeah
, Fletch silently tells his brother, hanging up.
You’ll come back. But how long will you stay? Just long enough to get things straightened out—whatever that takes. And then you’ll be gone again, playing soldier overseas when your kids need a hero here at home.

Well, who is he to judge? He’s no hero himself.

And who’s to blame? Not him. Not Aidan.

One person is responsible for what Fletch and Aidan have become, and that’s their father. If it weren’t for him, they might have had normal lives. Lived happily ever after.

Instead . . .

Sighing heavily, Fletch goes up the steps, certain his nieces are sound asleep in their room, and that he’ll have the bed to himself in his.

O
n nights like this, Eric Stamitos always wishes he had any other job—anything at all. Even working the grill on the overnight shift at his father’s Queens diner, which he did for a few years after high school. Then he met Elena, got married, moved out of the city, and found it necessary to work a couple of jobs to support them. His mother had never worked, not even in the diner. His father was proud of that. Eric doesn’t want Elena to work, either.

That’s why he took the job driving the tow truck on weekends for the service station where he’s a mechanic during the week. It’s not bad, most of the time. Only in winter, when he’s called out in raging blizzards to tow fancy cars out of ditches because their hotshot owners don’t know enough not to speed when it’s icy. Or on raw nights like this, when the rain is coming down in sheets and the town is overrun with oblivious parking violators who either don’t believe the signs or don’t give a shit whether their cars are towed.

With a sigh, Eric props his lit cigarette in the ashtray and pulls up in front of the final car he has to tow from the commuter parking lot. Unlike most of the others, this one has a local plate. It’s a beauty, too—a new Lexus SUV. Not only doesn’t it have the required permit sticker in the rear window, but the driver left it in a handicap spot. Nice.

After pulling the tow truck into position, Eric jumps out to attach the chains to the Lexus. As he does, he notices that the door on the driver’s side is unlocked.

You don’t see that very often, even around here.

Well, that makes his job a little easier. He opens the door and climbs inside to shift it into neutral. The interior smells faintly of perfume. And it’s clean. Not even a speck of mud on the mats or a stray wrapper or spare change in the console.

But he’s sitting on something.

He pulls the flat wooden rectangle from beneath his bottom and glances at it.

That’s odd.

The car is so spotless, he would have sworn the owner didn’t have kids. But he’s holding a puzzle.

An illustration of a nursery rhyme Eric’s mother had taught him long ago.

The one that begins, “Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater . . .”

Stashing the wooden puzzle under the seat, Eric shifts the SUV into neutral, then climbs out to resume his job.

S
he was supposed to be the last.

Sharon.

But that was before, when it was all in a planning stage. And anyone knows that plans are subject to change.

Once the plans were under way, circumstances presented unexpected complications. Well, no matter. It will be even better this way. As it turns out, the pieces will fall perfectly into place with the addition of the last one.