Dark Justice (7 page)

I managed a smile. “I know.”

The phone rang. The deputy? “Sorry, Mom, I need to answer that.”

Back in the kitchen I snatched up the receiver. “Hello.”

“It’s Deputy Harcroft.” He sounded grim. “Did you see what kind of car those men were driving?”

“Some kind of brown sedan.”

“Any chance you noticed the license plate?”

“No. Not at all.”

“And you said they showed you official badges.”

The deputy’s tone unsettled me. “Yes. Why, what’s going on?”

“Mrs. Shire, we need to bring you in right away and talk to you about this. Mr. Morton was a very important man. I have no idea who those two men who came to your house are, but they’re not FBI agents.”

I
dropped the receiver into its cradle and sagged against the counter.
“Not FBI.”

Then who were they?

I should have known. The way they acted, forceful and menacing. Rutger—or whatever his real name was—wanting me to see his gun.

I’d given them a copy of the video. They seemed to see right through my lie that I’d never watched it. Would that somehow put me in danger? And Mom?

An even worse thought hit me. What if those men
had killed Morton? What if they’d come here to learn if I’d seen something? If Morton had told me about them.

Had I convinced them I didn’t know anything?

“I can assure you we’ll be back.”

Dear God, help us.

Before I’d hung up from Deputy Harcroft’s call I told him about giving the men a copy of the flash drive. And I told him about Rutger’s gun and threats. At that, a long pause followed.

“Tell you what.” Harcroft’s voice remained calm, but I could hear the underlying concern. “Rather than you driving to the substation in Half Moon Bay, let me send someone over to pick you up. You’ll need to bring that original flash drive to us. Deputy Gonzalez will come to get you. He’ll be in uniform.”

On rubbery legs I hurried into the living room to peer out the window. No sign of Rutger and Samuelson lurking on the street.

What if this Deputy Gonzalez was a fraud too? Maybe the man on the phone hadn’t been Harcroft. I closed my eyes, comparing that voice to the deputy’s on the scene. Couldn’t decide whether they were the same man or not.

I returned to the kitchen and pulled paper and pen from a drawer. Dialed Information for the number of the Coastside Patrol division of the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department. I wrote down the number and compared it to the digits showing on my receiver from the last call. They didn’t match.

But there must be many individual lines going into that substation. The number from Information was just the main one.

I dialed that number. A female answered. “Coastside Patrol, Half Moon Bay.”

I asked if a Deputy Harcroft worked there.

“Yes. Would you like to speak with him?”

“How about a Deputy Gonzalez?”

“We have two. Do you know which one?”

“No. I . . . It’s okay, thanks.” I hung up.

This had to be pure paranoia. It would be far easier to flash some fake badge than to show up with an official car and uniform.

Wouldn’t it?

“Hannah?” Mom appeared from the hallway.

“Hi.” I smiled at her, heart in my throat. What would I do with her while I talked to the deputy? What could I tell her?

“Let me help you make dinner.” Mom’s face looked worn. She shuffled into the kitchen.

“Still sad?”

She nodded. “Life is hard sometimes.”

Yes, it was.

“Listen, Mom, something’s come up. We have to go back to Half Moon Bay and talk to the Sheriff’s Deputy about Morton. Someone will be here to pick us up soon. I’m going to make you a sandwich, okay? You can take it with you. It may be awhile before we get back for dinner.”

Mom’s eyebrows knit. “No potato now?”

“I’m afraid it will have to wait.”

“You can’t tell them our secret. We promised Morton.”

“I know.”

“Now he’s gone. We
really
have to keep our promise.”

“Yes, okay.” I squeezed her shoulder. “Would you like turkey or ham on your sandwich?”

“Why do they want to talk to us?”

“I’m not sure. Except Deputy Harcroft said Morton was an important man. And he just wanted to hear our story one more time.”

“Of course Morton was important. Everyone is important.”

“That’s true.” I turned toward the refrigerator. “Will ham be okay?”

“I don’t want to go back and talk to that deputy man. I don’t like him.”

“I know. But we have to.”

“No, we don’t.” Mom’s jaw set.

Uh-oh
. I laid a hand on her arm. Kept my voice quiet, calm. Too many upsetting things had happened today. “Mom, we do need to go. It’s important. It’s for Morton.”

“He
told
us not to talk to anyone.” Her voice rose.

“Yes, but—”

“Now you’re going back on your word. How can you do that?”

“I wasn’t—”

Mom jerked her back straight and raised her chin. “I’m
not
going.” She turned on her heel and headed toward her room.

Please, God, not now.

I followed after her. Touched her again—a mere gentle finger on her wrist. “Mom—”

“No!” She whirled on me, face reddening. “I don’t want to go. I. Won’t. Go!”

“I’m sorry. We have to.” Even as I said the words, I knew.

My mother locked her mouth tight, hard breaths whooshing from her nose. Both arms stiffened, and her fingers splayed. Her eyes squeezed shut, then popped open. She glared at me. When her jaw unhinged and her lips pulled back, I braced myself.

Mom shrieked. That high, piercing, primal sound that weakened my knees and curled my shoulders inward. The first time it had happened after she moved in, my neighbors called the police, convinced someone was being tortured.

My mother screamed again, and I could swear the walls rattled.

“I’m not goiiiiingg!” The last word ended in a third screech. Then another. And another. I stood there, helpless, hopeless, swallowing hard. Nothing I did would stop this now.

Mom kept at it. And at it. Until her voice hoarsened, and she wound down.

The yells stopped. The final one hung plangent in the air, roughening my ears.

Mom swiveled toward her bedroom and stalked away. The slammed door pummeled the air from my lungs.

For a moment I swayed there, an abandoned puppet. Then I leaned against the wall and cried.

Lady Gaga kicked on.

Why had my life come to this? I didn’t want to take care of my mother, a two-year-old in an old woman’s body. I didn’t want to be a widow, without my Jeff. I wanted him here beside me, our old life back. I wanted to feel his arms around me, see his smile, smell him, touch him. He died far too young. What was I doing a widow at fifty-five?

And now this new mess. I didn’t want to deal with the police. And a murder. And fake FBI agents who threatened me.

The tears came hot and welcome. Needed. But the crying didn’t last long. Never did, since Mom had moved in. There was always too much to take care of. I lifted my head and dragged in a shaky breath. Dried my tears. A few more came, and I wiped them away, straightened my back.

Like a worn soldier, I headed into the kitchen.

For Mom’s dinner, a ham sandwich would have to suffice.

By rote I made the sandwich, my sodden thoughts turning to my next challenges. First, I still had to convince Mom to leave the house with me. When we reached the station I would have to tell Deputy Harcroft everything. Including how I’d lied to him the first time around. That wouldn’t be fun.

I wrapped the sandwich and put the ingredients back into the refrigerator. Went into my bedroom to pull the flash drive out of my computer. My hand stopped just as I touched it. I stared at the rolling pictures of my screen saver, biting my lip.

Did I really want to give away my one copy of the video? Why I would ever need to see the thing again, I didn’t know. But too many strange things had happened already . . .

With a sigh at my own doggedness, I copied the video onto my computer’s hard drive.

Mom’s bedroom door opened, her music still on. She walked into my room, purple hat on her head. Her face looked worn, as it always did after one of her episodes. Did she even remember it had happened?

She might be placid now, though more from exhaustion than anything.

She spread her hands. “I’m hungry.”

My head nodded. “I made you a sandwich. We need to take it with us to see the deputy, remember?”

“What for?”

“We have to talk to them about Morton.”

Mom’s expression softened. “He died.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“What do they want?”

“They want to hear from you what a good friend Morton was.”

“Oh.” Her gazed wandered across the room. “Okay.”

I gave her a weary smile.

“When do we go?”

“Soon as a deputy gets here to drive us.”

“I’m ready now. Well, maybe I should comb my hair.”

“Okay. Then you can sit in your chair and wait.”

Mom fussed with her hair, then settled into her rocking chair.

A short time later the doorbell rang. “He’s here!” She headed for the door. In the kitchen I snatched up her sandwich, some napkins, a bottle of water, and my purse.

“How nice to meet you,” I heard Mom say. So polite. So in control. “I’m Carol Ballard. My daughter’s almost ready. She always has so many things to do.”

Deputy Gonzalez stood in the doorway, a short man with thick, dark hair. “Mrs. Shire?”

I gave him the once-over. Beyond him at the curb sat a white car marked “San Mateo Sheriff’s Department.”

“Hannah, say hello.” Mom frowned at me.

The deputy tipped his head to me. “You ready to go?”

His question reverberated. Not an hour ago I’d faced two other official-looking men, believing everything they said. Now I was putting myself and my mother in the car with this man. I should have said no to Harcroft. Told him I’d drive myself.

“Hannah.” Mom’s tone reprimanded.

Again I stared at the car—and my worries about Gonzalez spritzed away. This was real law enforcement, for heaven’s sake. I should be glad he was here—and that my mother was willing to get into his car. I’d tell Harcroft what he needed and be done with this. As for those fake FBI agents—if they hadn’t been satisfied with my answers, they wouldn’t have left. They knew I was just some woman who stopped at a car accident. I’d given them what they wanted. They were done with me.

Tomorrow, all of this would be behind us.

“Sorry.” I managed a weak smile. “It’s been . . . a lot has happened today.”

“I understand.” Deputy Gonzalez stepped out onto the porch, holding the door for Mom.

In the back seat of the deputy’s car I offered Mom her sandwich. She waved it away. “Two other men visited us just a while ago, did you know that?” She leaned forward, aiming her words at Gonzalez. “They were very nice. But they told us Morton had died.”

“Yes, I know.” Gonzalez nodded.

“It made me very sad. He was my friend.”

I remained silent, watching houses go by. Soon we turned onto Edgewood Road, headed toward Freeway 280. A sudden wave of grief for Jeff rolled over me. If he were alive, he’d know how to handle this. Two years after his death, the world could still threaten to overwhelm me. For thirty years I’d faced life’s challenges with him by my side.

We wound our way past the eucalyptus trees on Highway 92, Mom again breathing in deep and saying, “Vicks VapoRub.” In Half Moon Bay, we turned onto Kelly Street and parked at the substation. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Inside the building, Gonzalez ushered us to a small windowless room with a table and three chairs. Looked like a place where they’d interrogate suspects. My skin prickled.

“Hello, Mrs. Shire.” Deputy Harcroft approached, another man by his side, this one tall with gray hair and steel-blue eyes. A no-nonsense air hung about him, an air that exuded the power and confidence of law enforcement. “Thank you for coming,” Harcroft said. “This is Sergeant Charles Wade.”

Wade held out his hand, and I shook it.
This
was the man I’d have to tell that I’d lied to Harcroft?

A far worse thought nipped at me. What if I hadn’t lied? Could the doctors have saved Morton? If they’d known that something beyond the car accident was wrong . . . If they’d thought to look for a wound . . .

But nothing Morton said made me think he’d been attacked.

Wade looked me straight in the eye, as if he could see the thoughts swirling in my head.

I managed a little smile. “This is my mother, Carol. She has a sandwich to eat. Maybe she could—”

“Oh, I’m not going to eat now.” Mom’s voice carried her what-are-you-thinking tone. “I need to find out about Morton.”

A female deputy rounded the corner, a cute young woman with sandy-blonde hair. Smiling, she introduced herself to Mom as Nance Bolliver. “Way cool hat.”

My mother tilted her head. “Thank you. I want to know about Morton.”

Nance nodded. “That’s what I’m here for. Let’s go somewhere so we can talk, okay? It’s too crowded in this bare little room. I understand you brought a sandwich? Time for me to eat too.”

Almost before I knew it, Nance was whisking my mother away, sandwich and water bottle in hand. I watched Mom go, anxiety pinging in my chest. We’d just gotten here, and already every move seemed orchestrated.

Why
had I taken Tunitas Creek Road? Why hadn’t I just driven straight home?

“Please. Have a seat.” Harcroft indicated one of the straight-backed wooden chairs. I chose a seat at one end of the rectangular table and set my purse on the floor. Harcroft sat on my right, Wade straight across from me at the other end. In the top corner of the room hung a camera. Was it recording? Isn’t that what they used for suspects? My frightened eyes flicked from it to Harcroft.

“Don’t worry about the camera, just standard procedure.”

“For what?”

“For interviews. We don’t want to forget anything you tell us.”

Understanding hit. That nice young female deputy wasn’t just sharing a sandwich with my mother. She was questioning her—alone. With her own camera running.