Heartstopper (21 page)

“It’s a way for the kids to deal with their grief,” Pauline had insisted.

“It just prolongs the misery,” John had argued.

“You don’t understand” came Pauline’s automatic response. Her answer for almost everything these days.
You don’t understand.

And maybe she was right. Maybe he didn’t understand. His way of dealing with problems had always been to solve them to the best of his abilities and then put them to rest. He didn’t want to spend day after day rehashing what he already knew, asking the same questions that had been asked a hundred times already, or stating the obvious. (Although wasn’t that exactly what he and his deputies had been doing all week?) He preferred to define the problem, arrive at a solution, then get the hell away from it as fast as humanly possible. You ran
away
from a fire; you didn’t embrace the flames.

Besides, he suspected that along with the songs and the guitars and the poems and the reminiscences, the vigil for Liana would also involve alcohol and drugs. Christ, he remembered his own teenage years. All he’d wanted to do was drink beer, smoke weed, and get laid. Especially get laid. And if it meant having to strum a few wayward bars on a beat-up old guitar, or recite a few treacly poems he neither liked nor understood, well, he’d have been more than happy to oblige, if such displays of male “sensitivity” were what it took to talk little Jenna or Sue out of her tight little jeans. The boys today were no different from how he’d been. Hell, they were worse.

And Amber would be no match for them. With how much she weighed, or
didn’t
weigh, one drink would be
more than enough to tip the scales of common sense toward reckless behavior. Sixteen-year-old girls were easy enough to manipulate, especially when they were so hungry to fit in that they’d starve themselves to do it. John could see his daughter being coaxed into taking a tiny sip of someone’s drink or a toke off somebody’s joint. He didn’t think she’d ever done drugs, but then how many times had he heard parents blindly insist that their children absolutely did not do drugs—
Never ever, no way!
—and how many times had he caught those same children smoking weed in the park or tripping out on Ecstasy?

At least she was still a virgin. He was pretty sure of that, he decided as he reached through the car’s open front window and honked the horn a second time. She didn’t have a boyfriend after all, had
never
had a boyfriend, for which he was grateful, although Pauline didn’t share his gratitude.

“A girl her age should have boyfriends,” she’d fret.

“A girl her age should eat,” he’d counter.

Not for the first time, he considered the possibility that Liana’s killer would be at tonight’s vigil. He knew that murderers often attended their victims’ funerals, that it gave them a sense of power, even a perverse sexual thrill. That was why he’d paid close attention to those who’d come to Liana’s memorial service, but there’d been so many people in attendance that the crowd had spilled out of the church and onto the street, and while there were a number of faces John didn’t recognize, no one had aroused his suspicions. The truth was that, despite his best efforts, he was no closer to finding Liana’s killer than he’d been a week ago.

Sean Wilson had called at least once, and lately, two and even three times each day. So anxious was the so-called “tiny, perfect mayor” to see this case solved and “his” town returned to normal that he was beginning to actively interfere with John’s investigation.

“Just what is it you expect me to do, Sean?” the sheriff had asked him yesterday afternoon when the mayor had cornered him as he was coming out of his office. Anyone watching the confrontation between the two men—and John had noticed several officers and virtually all the support staff secretly glancing in their direction during their sometimes spirited discussion—would have had a hard time suppressing a smile. The men were an almost comical study in contrasts. Sean Wilson was approximately a decade younger, fifty pounds lighter, and a full foot shorter than John Weber. His hair was thick and dark brown in comparison to John’s thinning pate. His olive green suit was neat and stylish in contrast to the sheriff’s old and wrinkled uniform. And while John’s naturally deep voice underlined the almost girlish pitch of the mayor’s excited utterances, the mayor’s barbs were deadly nonetheless, spraying the air like pellets from a BB gun. John struggled to maintain his composure and keep his massive hands from reaching for the mayor’s tiny, perfect throat.

“I expect you to solve this case,” the mayor told him, as if this were something that might not have occurred to John, “and return my town to normal.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

“By doing
what
exactly?”

John dug his fingers into his thighs to keep from throwing a punch at the mayor’s head. To think he’d actually voted for the man. “Well, let’s see,” he began. “We’ve interviewed, and in many cases, reinterviewed, Liana’s family and friends, her ex-boyfriends, her classmates, her neighbors, her teachers, the school principal, Cal Hamilton, Peter Arlington—”

“Yes, what about him?”

“What about him?” John repeated.

“Well, he was her boyfriend. They’d been fighting. Seems like a prime suspect to me.”

“Except that Peter’s father confirms he picked him up from school the afternoon Liana disappeared, that they went to a ball game in Miami, and that they had to leave the game early because Peter was feeling sick to his stomach. His mother says Peter stayed home from school the next day and that she called from work several times to check on his condition. She says she even came home during her lunch break and found him sleeping.”

“I assume you’ve checked the ticket stubs and the phone records?”

“Of course.” John shook his head. Thanks to TV shows like
Law & Order
and
CSI
, these days everyone was an expert on police procedural.

“What about Greg Watt and Joey Balfour?”

“They claim they were together at the time Liana went missing.”

“Convenient. Can they prove it?”

“We can’t disprove it.”

“And Cal Hamilton?”

“Says he was making the rounds of his suppliers.”

“And was he?”

“We’re still checking that out.”

“Maybe we should contact the FBI.” Not the first time the mayor had made that suggestion.

Truthfully, John himself had considered calling the FBI several times over the last week, but ultimately dismissed such a call as premature. “I think it’s still a little early to be calling in the troops.”

The mayor lowered his head, as if afraid to look John directly in the eye. “If we could just put our egos aside for a few minutes—”

“This has nothing to do with egos,” John interrupted.
At least not mine
, he fought to keep from adding.

“Face it,” the mayor continued, “you’re not as young or agile as you used to be. You’ve got problems at home.”

“Problems at …What are you talking about?” Did the whole town know about his battles with Pauline, his worries about Amber, his affair with Kerri Franklin? Probably, he conceded silently. Everyone pretty much knew everyone else’s business in a town like Torrance. But did people think his inability to control his personal life meant he couldn’t do his job?

“You’ve been doing this a long time,” the mayor was saying. “Maybe too long.”

“Some might call that valuable experience.”

“Others might call it burnout.” Sean Wilson paused, as if expecting John to interject, then continued when he didn’t. “Besides, you’re certainly not used to dealing with crimes of this magnitude. Serial killers are a little out of your bailiwick after all.”

“We have no evidence we’re dealing with a serial killer,” John stated firmly. The truth was that, despite the missing girl from Hendry County and the recent false alarm with regard to Brenda Vinton, only one young woman had actually turned up dead. And while it wasn’t his intention to downplay Liana Martin’s grisly murder, that one girl had been killed simply wasn’t enough to warrant calling in federal agents. Still, his gut told him that a serial killer was
exactly
what they were dealing with, and that it was only a matter of time before the killer struck again.

Maybe even tonight, John thought now, returning to the present as he reached inside the car window to honk the horn, hoping the abrasive sound would be enough to chase away the echo of the miniature mayor’s giant doubts about his capabilities. Was it possible the man was right?

The front door of his house opened. Pauline appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips. “What’s the matter with you? I told you she’s coming.”

“So’s Christmas.”

Pauline shook her head, retreated back inside. “Amber,” he heard her call. “Your father’s waiting.”

As if Amber didn’t know. As if he hadn’t been standing here for—he checked his watch again—almost fifteen minutes. As if he had all night.

Which was exactly what he had, he realized. What was the rush? According to the mayor, neither he nor his investigation were going anywhere.

Amber suddenly materialized at her mother’s side. John stared at her in amazement. She looked exactly as she had fifteen minutes earlier when she’d gone to get ready. The same jeans, the same powder-blue sweater, the same white-and-black sneakers. What had he been expecting? That she’d put on a dress? That she’d change her hair or put on makeup? That she’d miraculously put on ten pounds?

As she skipped down the front walk, he noticed that she had indeed applied a smear of blue shadow to her eyelids and added a rhinestone clasp to her hair, and as she drew closer, he realized she smelled vaguely of lemons, which he assumed was perfume. The scent settled uneasily in his throat. He’d never been particularly fond of perfume. He liked a woman’s natural smell and could never understand why they seemed so intent on covering it up.

“You sure you want to go to this thing?” John asked as he and his daughter climbed inside the car. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

“Why would I change my mind?” Amber fastened her seat belt and stared out the front window.

John backed the car out of the driveway, waved at Pauline as he drove down the street. But Pauline was already closing the door and didn’t see him wave. “Pick up a DVD on your way home,” she’d already instructed. “Your choice,” she’d said, although he knew whatever he picked would be wrong. She was already angry he hadn’t wanted to go out to a movie. “You never want to go anywhere anymore.”

“I just think we should be available in case Amber wants us to pick her up early.”

“She won’t.”

“She might.”

She wouldn’t. John could tell that already from the determined cast of his daughter’s surprisingly strong jaw. She was angry at him because he’d insisted he’d pick her up at eleven o’clock, which she thought would make her look like a baby in front of all the other kids, but he wouldn’t agree to her going unless she agreed to his terms, and so now she was mad at him, just as Pauline was mad at him, and had there ever been a time in his life when some woman
wasn’t
mad at him? The time with Kerri Franklin, he thought, as he spotted Delilah walking alone on the other side of the street. He honked as he angled the car toward her.

“What are you doing?” Amber demanded. “Dad? What are you doing? You’re not stopping, are you?”

“She’s probably going to the vigil. We might as well give her a lift.”

“No. Don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Amber said, rolling her eyes in exasperation as he pulled the police cruiser to a stop and pressed the button to lower the window on the passenger side of the car. Amber flinched noticeably as he leaned his body across hers, pulling in her already concave stomach and holding her breath, the way she used to do when she was a little girl and couldn’t have her way.

“Delilah,” he said in greeting.

“Hello, there, Sheriff,” Delilah said pleasantly. “Hi, Amber. How are you?”

Amber released the air in her lungs and grunted something that sounded vaguely like “Fine,” but offered nothing further.

“Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

“I’m going to Pearson Park.”

“That’s exactly where we’re heading. Hop in.”

“No, Dad,” Amber hissed underneath her breath.

“Gee, thanks. I was getting a little tired.” Delilah opened the back door of the cruiser and climbed inside. “My mother said she might need the car, and my grandmother said I should walk. But it’s so far,” she continued apologetically.

“How
is
your grandmother?” John asked, although he really wanted to ask about Kerri. Does she miss me? Does she ever talk about me?

“She’s pretty good for someone her age with a heart condition.”

“She’s a tough one, all right,” John concurred.

Delilah laughed. John watched her in his rearview mirror as she wiped some perspiration from the underside of her double chin. “Oh, by the way, Amber, congratulations,” she said.

John’s head snapped toward his daughter. “Congratulations? What for?”

“She got the part of Bianca in
Kiss Me, Kate.”

“You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I told Mom,” Amber said, as if this were explanation enough.

“Well, that’s wonderful,” John said, trying to disguise his hurt. “Isn’t it?”

Amber shrugged. “It’s all right.”

“I think it’s terrific,” Delilah enthused. “I knew you’d get the part the minute I heard you read. You were the best Bianca by far.”

“Well, isn’t that nice to hear?” John said when his daughter failed to say thank you. What was the matter with her? Had she always been so rude? Had she lost her manners along with all those pounds? “What about you, Delilah? Are you going to be in the play?”

“I’m in the chorus,” Delilah said cheerfully. “I wasn’t really right for any of the major roles. And I’ll be helping with painting the scenery and stuff, like I did last year. It was fun.” She made several more attempts at conversation, all of which drew little more than a one-word response from Amber, and after a while Delilah sank back in her seat, letting the silence take over.