Payback (8 page)

I jumped. “That night, we…. It was our anniversary. Just before we left the house, we made love.” I studied the detective’s face. “You saw Spence at the morgue?”

It was Chris’s turn to stare into the empty fireplace. “Yes. I saw what they did to him. If it’s any consolation, he died instantly. He didn’t suffer.”

I nodded. “I know. The doctor told me.” I rubbed the tracheotomy scar, as if I needed the comfort of it to ground me in reality. “I thought the doctor was lying. I was sure Spence had
suffered, lying there beside me on that filthy toilet floor while the dew settled over us and I was too weak, or too knocked out, to try to help him. While the men who killed him went toddling off to laugh about their exploits. I had the whole scenario worked out in my head.”

Chris’s words were gentle when he said, “There was nothing you could have done for him. I have no idea what your attackers did afterward, but I can tell you unequivocally that your husband did not suffer from his wounds. He was rendered unconscious with the very first blow of the metal rod.” Chris reached over and laid a comforting hand atop my forearm. His touch was cool from the glass of Coke he’d been drinking from. “That little bit of knowledge should give you at least a smidgeon of relief, Tyler. Spence didn’t suffer. Not for a second.”

I could only stare at his hand as his words assuaged a fear I had held since the moment I woke from the coma. It was true, then, what the doctor said. Spence had not suffered.

Thank God.

I eased my arm out from under his touch. I’m not sure why. “Did you find anything when you worked the crime scene? Fingerprints? Anything at all?”

He shrugged. “Not much. No prints, or I should say, too many prints. Impossible to analyze. At some time or other, everybody in San Diego must have wended their way into that bathroom to take a piss. But we did find the murder weapon. And shoe prints in blood. Boot prints to be exact. Probably from the boots that kicked you in the chest and maybe even broke your fingers.”

“Motorcycle boots with chains,” I said.

He nodded. “I know, Tyler. I remember everything you told us.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

“Let’s get back to business,” Chris said, his voice still kind but with an earnest edge to it now, as if it was time to get back on track. He opened the book of mug shots and positioned it in front of me on the coffee table.

“Take your time, Tyler. Study each face you see. I know there are certain things we’re looking for. The ugly fat guy with the round face and the mole on his cheek. The skinny guy with the wispy moustache. But don’t hunt for those traits alone. Open your mind to each photograph you see. The brain’s a funny piece of equipment. You never know what might trigger a memory. You might even get a glimpse of the third man, the one you haven’t spoken of. The one you thought you didn’t see at all.”

“All right,” I said, weary already and certain it would do no good, but determined to go through the motions. For the detective’s sake, at least.

The book was heavy, and there were three more leather-bound books just like it waiting for my attention. “So these are all the criminals in San Diego?” I asked, running my fingers over the faces on the first page.

Chris shrugged. “Sorry. No. Only the ones dumb enough to have priors.”

“Priors?”

“Prior arrests.”

“Oh.”

So with no hope at all that this was going to lead anywhere, I turned to the album in front of me and tried to focus on the faces I saw there.

An hour later, those faces were all running together. I rubbed my eyes as I closed the last book. The detective reached over and took the book from me, adding it to the stack of others on the floor.

“Maybe it was too soon to try this. You only got home from the hospital today.” He gathered up all the dinner trash and carried it into the kitchen, where I heard him stuff it in the wastebasket. He came back and snagged his jacket from the back of the couch.

He looked down at me still sitting on the sofa in front of him. “Don’t look so downcast,” he said. “Like I told you before, the investigation is just beginning. You should go to bed and try to get some sleep.” He plucked a business card from his shirt pocket and scribbled something on the back of it before dropping it on the table in front of me. “If you need to talk, call me. Anytime. My home number is on the back. I’m not a very good sleeper anyway.”

He gave me a soft pat on the shoulder and headed for the door, once again juggling the photo albums, this time with his jacket wadded up in a ball on top of the stack. Awkwardly pulling the door open, he turned back just before stepping out into the night. “And don’t worry, Tyler. We’ll find the ones who did this. I promise.”

With that, he turned away, and pulled the door closed behind him. Instantly, my grief buried me again.

Anger

A
FTER
AN
almost sleepless night, I found myself wandering through the house in the darkness before dawn, mindlessly seeking something I couldn’t name—something I wasn’t sure I wanted to find at all. Afraid of the shadows, I left lights on in my wake as I studied the pictures on the walls, peered into every closet, listened closely for every sound I thought I might have heard coming from a direction I couldn’t clearly identify.

As I passed a window that looked out on the backyard, I imagined all sorts of creatures lurking in the darkness, staring in at me, watching my every move. I immediately retraced my steps through the house, closing every curtain behind me, blocking out the night. Blocking out the eyes.

I shivered in my boxer shorts, the only thing I was wearing. Looking down, I could still see the bruised outline of the boot on my chest where the fat fuck had kicked me. The bruise only hurt if I pressed my fingers into it. So I did. Just to convince myself I was still alive. I gasped as I dug my fingers into my flesh and the pain tore through me.

My skin felt clammy to the touch, and I realized I had broken into a cold sweat. Once again, I stood in front of the walk-in closet in the master bedroom and stared at Spence’s clothes hanging there. The clothes he would never wear again. A wall of grief slammed into me with such force I swayed, almost losing my balance. Biting back a torrent of bile, I swallowed hard, then rushed to the bathroom and stumbled to my knees in front of the commode. I hugged it, heaving my guts out, and when I was good and empty, I felt a little better. At the sink, I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth. Toweling the cold sweat from my body, I wrapped myself in Spence’s blue terry robe to take away the chill and recommenced my endless wandering through the empty house.

I stood in the living room, staring at the furniture, the rugs, the book I had been reading before my life went to hell. It still lay facedown, splayed wide on the end table by my favorite chair, where I had laid it almost a month ago. Oddly, I couldn’t remember a thing about it—not the storyline, nothing. On the coffee table, Chris’s business card caught my eye, and I picked it up to see what he had scribbled on the back.
Call me anytime
, he had written. Twice he had underlined the word
anytime
. And then he had jotted down his home number. I flipped the card over and read the words on the front.
Detective Christian Martin—San Diego Police Department—Homicide Division
. Then a number, an e-mail, and a fax. A small imprint of the seal of San Diego decorated the corner of the card.

This was the man who was investigating my case, I told myself. This was the man who had been appointed to bring Spence’s killers to justice. Did I trust him to do that? I wasn’t sure. He was a nice enough guy, but he couldn’t be much over thirty, so how experienced could he be? And even if he was experienced, I wasn’t sure if
anyone
was up to the task. There were too many ways it could all go wrong. Too little evidence. Too few witnesses. Too much hatred and anger for me to ever feel satisfied no matter what the outcome turned out to be.

I dropped the card on the table and tugged Spence’s robe a little tighter around myself, fighting back another chill. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance, and I held my breath until I was sure the sound was moving away, not drawing closer.

Looking down, I stared at my empty ring finger. It was a funny thing. The ring that had been stolen had only sat on that finger for an hour or less, but even so, my finger now seemed naked without it. I stroked my knuckle, remembering how it had felt when Spence slipped the ring on my hand. I remembered the shimmering flare of the diamond, the warm glow of the lapis lazuli and the gold as they reflected the moonlight on that last night Spence and I walked the neighborhood streets together.

I moved to the bedroom, opened the drawer to the nightstand on Spence’s side of the bed, and retrieved the velvet box the rings had come in. Opening it, I found a slip of stiff paper inside, neatly folded, like a notecard on a bouquet of flowers. Inside the folded paper I read the words,
I love you. Spence.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the card, at Spence’s neat handwriting. He hadn’t shown me the card when he gave me the rings. Perhaps he forgot. I realized these were the last words I would ever hear from the man I had married, the man I had sworn to love forever.

And the man who had loved me. Till death us did part.

I carefully tucked the card back inside the velvet box and lovingly slipped the box back into the nightstand drawer. I stretched out on Spence’s side of the bed, with Spence’s pillow under my head. I closed my eyes and, much to my own surprise, drifted off to sleep. And with sleep came a dream.

In my dream, we made love again, Spence and I. Afterward, the rings were still on our fingers when we nestled together in that gentle afterglow of passion lovers enjoy. The words he had written on the little card inside the velvet box became the very same words I whispered into his ear as we held each other close—as I listened to our heartbeats slow and my fevered, trembling body grew calm in his arms.

“I love you, Spence,” I said, my lips against his ear.

With a smile and a
shush
, he pulled me closer. And in the dream, we slept.

T
HE
DOORBELL
woke me midmorning. I stumbled to the door and found an arrangement of flowers on the stoop. The delivery guy was already gone. As I reached through the door to lift them from the porch, a chill shot through me. It was the same fear I had felt when I left the house the day before to climb into the cab.

What the hell was wrong with me? Had I become agoraphobic after what happened to Spence and me? Had I turned into a coward? Afraid to step outside my own door, afraid to leave the safety of my own house? Afraid to interact with the fucking world like a normal human being?

I forced myself to stand on the porch for a moment, looking over the rail, clutching the bouquet of flowers to my chest with my one good arm. With my pulse hammering in my head, I saw my neighbors going about their lives—kids hustling off to school, their parents driving off to work. A lost dog, as frightened as I was, ran along the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner. Poor thing. The stray dog reminded me of Franklin, and my pulse pounded harder.

I quickly ducked back through my front door, set the flowers on the floor, and with trembling hands, flipped the deadbolt, locking myself in. And more importantly, locking the world out.

When my phone rang, I almost flew out of my skin. Closing my eyes to calm the fear, I stepped to the phone and reluctantly lifted the receiver.

“Tyler? It’s Joey at work. I was so sorry to hear what happened to you, buddy. If there’s anything I can do, you let me know, okay? Anything at all.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Joey. One of my assistant bookkeepers. The one who wanted my job more than all the others. “Uh, thanks, Joey. Everything is under control. I’ll be back to work one of these days, I guess. I don’t know when.”

Joey was always so damned enthusiastic about everything. Sneaky people usually are. “Sure, buddy. We’ll hold down the fort until you get back. Mrs. Margolis in the head office arranged to send you flowers. Everybody here signed the card. You should get them pretty soon.”

I stared at the arrangement of flowers still sitting on the floor by the front door where I’d left them. “Oh,” I said. “Tell her thanks. They just came. I have to go now, Joey, the doctor is here.”

It was the first thing that popped into my head. Fuck him. He’d never know I lied.

“Sure, Tyler. You take care. Everybody’s worried about you. Sorry about—well, you know.”

“Yeah,” I breathed. “I know. Good-bye, Joey.” And I replaced the phone on the cradle.

I had no sooner hung up the phone than it rang again. This time I let voice mail pick it up. The call was from Mrs. Margolis herself. The Chairwoman of the Board. My boss. “Tyler, everyone here is so sorry about what happened. Our thoughts are with you, dear. You take all the time you need to get well, and don’t worry about your job. You know we can’t get along without you. Well, not permanently, I mean. Once again, we’re all very sorry about what happened, Tyler. Get well soon.” And the call was ended.

I immediately switched off the answering machine to prevent any other calls from getting through. Then I scooped the detective’s card off the coffee table, and laying the card next to the phone so I could read it and dial at the same time with my one good hand, I punched in the numbers.

Christian Martin answered on the second ring. The fury in my voice was uncontrollable. I couldn’t rein it in. “How did he look, Detective? Spence. When you saw him at the morgue. How did he look?”

There was static on the line for a good five seconds before the detective answered.

“Tyler, why are you asking me this? Are you all right? Did you sleep?”

I backhanded a tear from my cheek. “I just want to know how he looked, Detective. He was my lover, my husband. I have a right to know what his killer did to him.”