All The Stars In Heaven (33 page)

Chapter Sixty-Four

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Sarah unlocked the front door of her father’s house and went inside. Turning the deadbolt behind her, she stood in the living room for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the light while she battled ghosts of the past and fought off feelings of oppression. Her father’s and Carl’s voices echoed through the halls of her memory, and the room seemed to shrink, closing in on her—suffocating. Yesterday, with Jay here, it had been different. Today it was all she could do not to turn and run outside.

She thought of Jay, and the very real walls closing around him—indefinitely if she couldn’t prove his innocence—and knew that all she
could
do was stay here and face her father. He alone had the answers she needed, the information that might set Jay free.

She didn’t bother turning on any lights, but she opened the kitchen curtains enough to see what she needed. Getting right to work, Sarah pulled the phone cord from its jack in the wall and stuffed it in her pocket. She took the knives from the drawer and dropped them, one by one, into the overflowing garbage, making sure to bury them well, without the trash looking like it had been disturbed.

Another glance around the kitchen and she felt satisfied—and depressed. She’d forgotten how dreary the whole house was. A few months away had changed her perspective so that she wasn’t sure anymore just how she’d survived here for almost nineteen years.

Her father’s room was next. Again, she disabled the phone and collected all the weapons she could find. When she’d finished, a pocket knife, five guns, and a rifle lay across the bed. The knife she zipped into her jacket pocket with the cords. Then she took her time checking each of the guns and searching her father’s closet and drawers for additional ammunition. Certain she’d found everything, she traded out Detective Doyle’s gun for her father’s PP7, the clip and several extra rounds, and the silencer attachment. The remaining weapons and ammo she hauled up to the attic, balancing on her tiptoes on the chair to push them as far as she could from the opening.

Sarah returned the chair and brushed the dust from her jeans. With the loaded pistol in one hand, and the newspaper with her mother’s obituary in the other, she sat down in her father’s chair to wait for his arrival.

* * *

Grant closed the front door behind him and was reaching for the light switch when instinct kicked in, telling him he wasn’t alone.

“Drop your gun belt on the floor.”

“Sarah?” He turned toward her familiar voice.

“Do it.” She stood on the far side of the room, one of his own pistols in her hand, pointed at his heart. A determined expression on her face, she looked for all the world as she had the day they’d buried her mother and Sarah demanded he take her home.

“You wouldn’t really shoot your father,” he said, calling her bluff.

“Wouldn’t I?” Sarah said in an angry voice that wasn’t as familiar. “A
father
is someone who loves his children, but I mean nothing to you except for ironed shirts and a hot meal.”

“Rossi was listening in when I said that,” Grant tried to explain. “If he’d heard me say I loved you—”

“Throw it over there,” Sarah said, cutting him off. She inclined her head toward the sofa.

They locked eyes for a minute before Grant decided to humor her. She wasn’t in her right mind; this wasn’t the Sarah he knew. He removed his belt, tossing it, along with his gun, baton, and phone, onto the couch. “You’ve got this all wrong. It isn’t me you need protection from. Put the gun down. You don’t want to shoot anyone. And anyway, without your glasses on, we both know you’re blind as a bat.”

“Contacts.” Her grip remained steady. “But you’re right. I didn’t want to shoot that phony DEA agent you sent after us either.”

“That was
you?
” Grant’s mouth turned up in a smile of admiration. “Well done, then. He was one of Rossi’s best, and a thorn in my side for a long time.”

“Then you know how I feel about Carl.” She stepped in front of the couch, putting herself between him and his weapon—a smart move.

Grant’s chest swelled with pride. She would have made a good cop—even if that wasn’t what she wanted. Though just now, in spite of the gun she wielded with authority, she looked more like a movie star playing a part. She’d cut her hair and it curled around her face, showing off blue eyes that stared at him with intensity. Noticing Sarah had attached the silencer, Grant felt a stirring of unease. He backed toward the kitchen, putting more distance between himself and her gun, though he still didn’t believe she would really use it.

“Carl’s in jail for good. You won’t have to worry about him anymore. But we need to leave. I’ve got enough money for—”

“Run away?” Sarah said in a choked voice. “You think I’m going to leave Jay rotting in prison when you know something that can free him?”

“So that’s what this is about?” Grant reached the counter separating the living room from the kitchen.

“It’s about
everything.
”

He’d have to lie to her, tell her they’d get her friend out. Otherwise she’d never leave. He could see it in her stubborn countenance. And they had to get out soon. If Rossi discovered she was here, they’d both be in trouble. And while Grant knew his sorry life wasn’t worth much these days, Sarah’s was. If it was the last thing he did, he’d make sure she was safe. He glanced toward the phone and saw that the cord was missing.
Smart girl.
“Give me the gun.” He held out his hand.

She followed him with her eyes but maintained her stance.

“
Now,
Sarah.”

“No!” She pointed the pistol down and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet whizzing past his kneecap, into the wall behind him.

Grant jumped back in surprise, then lunged forward, furious. She fired again, this time just missing his arm.

“I
will
shoot you,” Sarah screamed as he continued to advance. “Why shouldn’t I?” Her hands were steady, but a tear rolled down her cheek. “You killed Mom—and Emily.”

Emily.
The word stopped him where her weapon had not. Grant froze, the painful image of a tiny infant flashing through his mind. He hadn’t heard that name in so long, and he was sure he’d never mentioned it to Sarah. “What do you know about that?” he asked in a gruff voice unrecognizable to his own ears. Hearing
Emily
made him feel as if his air supply had been abruptly cut off.

“I know Mom wasn’t an addict,” Sarah said. “I went to Boston this morning and read the medical examiner’s report. For some reason the examiner ignored a lot of unusual facts.” She paused, breathing in deeply.

It seemed he wasn’t the only one fighting for oxygen.

“He’s retired now,” Sarah continued. “But after the current examiner looked at the report, he decided to make some phone calls. There’s going to be an investigation.” Her lips pressed together as another tear leaked from her eye. “But you already know what happened, don’t you, Dad?” Her knuckles were white as she gripped the gun. She took a step toward him. “I want to know
why
. Why did you kill her—and my little sister? And I want to know about this.” Sarah opened one hand, and a yellowed newspaper clipping fluttered to the carpet.

Grant didn’t need to read the words to know what it was.

He backed into his chair and sat down as the pieces of his life crumbled around him. This was the beginning of the end. He took a deep breath and looked up. Sarah was serious, the anger in her eyes real. At the very least she deserved an explanation. “I didn’t kill Emily. At least I didn’t mean to.”

* * *

“Thought of everything, didn’t you?” Grant asked as he opened the knife drawer and found it devoid of anything sharp—including scissors.

“You taught me well,” Sarah said. “I’d be dead if you hadn’t.”

“Glad I did something right.” He grunted, then used his teeth to rip off a piece of duct tape. He should have felt humiliated that his own daughter held him at gunpoint, had forced him to tape his legs together, and was now forcing him to tape his arm to the chair. But at the moment worry was the more prominent emotion. “There are other places we could go to talk,” Grant said, trying again to convince her they should leave. “If Rossi finds out you’re here, we’re both dead.”

She shrugged. “Talk fast. Tell me about him.”

Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?
Grant continued to be astonished, irritated, and ultimately impressed by the confident young woman standing in his kitchen. “I intend to tell you everything,” he said, finishing the awkward job.

Sarah pulled out the chair across from him, but instead of sitting in it, she pushed record on the tape recorder she’d hidden there.

She really
did
think of everything.
Grant leaned forward, his free elbow propped on the table. “It won’t do you any good to take that to the police, you know.”

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to bother. Who knows how many of your underlings are just as corrupt as you.”

Grant raised his head. “That isn’t true. I work alone. No one else in the department is in on this.”

“On what? And don’t lie to me. I saw Detective Anderson arrest Jay yesterday.”

Grant sighed. “You’re wrong—
especially
about Anderson. He’s a good cop. I hired him hoping—” Grant stopped, realizing he was getting ahead of himself. And since Sarah was recording this, he might as well make it good. “I’m going to start at the beginning. This has been going on a long time—a lifetime. My lifetime.” He paused, hating to open the door to such painful memories. “But once, long ago, things were different.”

Sarah leaned against the wall. Grant knew her arms had to be getting tired, but she hadn’t let her guard down. Not that he could do much if she did. It was over now. The best he could hope for was to confess everything to her as quickly as possible so she could get out of here. She’d managed to stay safe this long; maybe she
could
get the information to the right authorities and end this once and for all. He hadn’t heard from J.D. today. There was a chance . . .

“I was a rookie cop when your mom and I married. We didn’t have much—not a decent car, not enough money for a movie, but we were happy. A couple of years later, you were born. Life was even better.” A wistful smile touched Grant’s lips. He thought he saw Sarah’s tremble.

“Then one day I broke a case I’d been working on for several months. A man named J.D. Rossi had been smuggling counterfeit art into the country and selling it at quite a profit. He was arrested, tried, and sent to prison pending sentencing. I’d interrogated him during the process, and I went to see him while he was in jail. He’d been offered a plea agreement if he’d testify in another case. Turns out he had an offer for me as well.”

“Go on,” Sarah said.

“The paintings were not only imitations, but they concealed drugs—a relatively new one called methamphetamine. Rossi told me it was worth a lot of money, and he agreed to testify in the other case if I’d help him get the meth out of the paintings, still held in our evidence room. He said he’d give me half the profit, and he planned to use his portion of the money to bring his family here from Costa Rica.”

“You agreed,” Sarah guessed.

Grant nodded. “I was naive. I figured it was for the greater good in getting his testimony, and I justified taking the money by reminding myself how little I was paid for my public service. It took weeks, but a little at a time I slipped the paintings out of our evidence room then back in again. One of Rossi’s friends took care of extracting the meth. His name was Eddie Martin.”

Sarah gasped. “The same Eddie you had me tracking all those months?”

“The same. Eddie sold the meth and gave me my share of the money. I used it to fix our car and pay off debt. Rossi testified in the other case. Our deal was complete—no harm done, or so I thought.” Grant looked up at Sarah. “Water, please?”

She went to the sink and filled two paper cups. One she drank; the other she placed on the far side of the table. With his free hand, Grant reached across, took it, and downed the whole thing.

“Rossi was released about eighteen months later, about the time your mother got pregnant with Emily. He came to see me, said he needed his portion of the money so he could get his family.”

“But didn’t Eddie have it?”

“He was supposed to, but he insisted he’d given it all to me. I was in a real mess—two criminals angry with me and nowhere to turn.”

“Because you’d broken the law yourself,” Sarah said.

Grant looked up, wanting her to understand he hadn’t started out intending to do wrong, intending to ruin his life and destroy his family. “I didn’t want to go to jail. I had a wife, who I loved and adored, a precious daughter, and another child on the way. I felt I had no choice but to agree to work with Rossi again. He was going to smuggle in the meth, and I’d watch his back and make sure the cops stayed away so he could do his thing. When he had enough money for his family, then I’d be done.”

Sarah’s lips were pinched, her expression anything but understanding. “It didn’t work that way?”

“Of course not,” Grant said. “I was young and stupid. There was no family waiting. Everyone was already here, working full-time introducing meth to the East Coast. And Eddie
had
split the money with him, but I didn’t know until it was too late and I was so far in I knew I’d go to prison for years if what I’d been doing came to light.” Grant sighed, wishing as he had so many times that he could go back and make different choices. What had seemed monumental then was nothing compared to what happened afterward.

“Your mother found out what was going on, and she wanted me to come clean. She said she’d wait for me, that she’d rather see me go to prison an honest man than keep living a lie and breaking the law I’d sworn to uphold. We had a terrible fight, and I left. Shortly after this she went into labor and they couldn’t stop it. I blamed myself. Maybe if I hadn’t been arguing with your mother, maybe if she hadn’t been under so much stress . . .” He rubbed his free hand across his forehead. “Emily was born three months early. The doctors and nurses did everything they could, but your sister died a few days later.”