Tell Me You're Sorry (11 page)

“That material connected them to four murders,” Jim said. “It was red hot. They probably sold it somewhere far from home. Just you wait, it'll turn up.”

Stephanie sat down beside him on the sofa. “That's another thing. The police are blaming them for five other robberies in the commuter neighborhoods, but they never killed any of the other people they robbed.”

“No, but they tied them up and put them all in one bedroom—same pattern. And they practically beat that man to death in Chappaqua—in front of his wife and kids, no less. That family they robbed in White Plains, they roughed up the teenage boy. These are violent kids, Stephanie. Sooner or later, they were bound to kill someone.” Jim shook his head. “I know you're trying to find some connection between the murders and what Halle did with your brother-in-law's money. But the two things probably aren't connected at all. You're trying to make sense out of it. But that's just the thing, it was all senseless.” He took hold of her hand. “You need to let go and move on from this. Otherwise, it's going to eat away at you.”

His cell phone rang—inside the pocket of his jacket, which was slung over the sofa arm on her end. Stephanie reached for his jacket and handed it to him. Then she got up from the couch and turned down the volume to Nat King Cole. Most of Jim's incoming phone calls were important.

“It's Maura,” he said.

“Go ahead, talk to her in here,” Stephanie said. “I need to check on dinner anyway.”

But she stopped and put another ornament on the tree—one of her mother's favorites, a silly little cherub sitting on a moonbeam.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Jim was saying to his daughter on the phone. “I was just about to call you. How are you doing?” He paused. “That's wonderful, honey . . . Oh, I'm just sitting here in my hotel room. It's lonely, but at least I can see the Washington Monument from my window. It's all lit up and beautiful . . . No, I'm going to bed in about an hour . . .” He paused. “Yep, that's right. I'm three hours ahead of you here. I can't wait to see you tomorrow. How are Nana and Grandpa?”

Stephanie quietly retreated to the kitchen.

Jim's daughter, Maura, was a mere twenty minutes away at his in-laws' Lake Oswego home—an estate, actually. They looked after Maura whenever Jim was out of town—and on some nights, like this one, when they didn't know he was actually in town.

Hearing him on the phone just now made this night of sweet domesticity seem like a total sham. Stephanie felt so stupid, making him this homey dinner—so that for one night, she could pretend to be married to him.

Stephanie opened the oven door and carefully peeled back the aluminum foil over the pot roast. A savory aroma filled her kitchen. It was her mother's recipe. Stephanie had discovered it after her parents were killed. It was scribbled on an index card, one of dozens of recipes in a small filing box that had daisies painted on it.

Her mother had been a wonderful cook. But every Wednesday night—for as long as Stephanie could remember—her family used to go out to dinner. As kids, she and Rebecca would inhale their Cokes and stuff themselves on breadsticks or packaged Saltines with individually wrapped pats of butter—while their parents seemed to take forever with their pre-dinner cocktails. But there had always been something special and fun about it—until they became teenagers. Then the whole thing turned into an insufferable ordeal. Stephanie couldn't understand why her older sister, at age fifteen, had boycotted the Wednesday “cook's night out” excursions—as their dad had called them. But by the time her sister was married and Stephanie was fifteen, she realized why Rebecca had years ago come to loathe those dinners out with their parents. It was just so
uncool,
not to mention a total bore compared to an unsupervised night at home alone—with a microwave dinner and friends on the phone or something on TV. On those Wednesday nights, Stephanie used to sit and snarl at her parents half the time they were eating out at some nice restaurant. And if her mother or father sent something back, chatted too long with the waitperson, or even asked for a doggie bag, Stephanie was utterly humiliated.

She was such an incredible brat. Yet her dad would be so disappointed when she didn't want to go out with them.

“Aren't you getting ready?” he asked, poking his head in her bedroom one Wednesday night in October. He had a jacket on over one of his jazzy sweaters. He always had his coat or jacket on about ten minutes before anyone else was ready. “We're going to your favorite, China Harbor.”

From her desk, she turned toward him with a long-suffering look. “Dad, I
used
to like it—like maybe five years ago. Do you know how fattening Chinese food is? God!”

“Well, we can eat someplace else,” he offered. “We don't have reservations there. Where do you want to go, sweetheart?”

She sighed and tapped her pen on her pink desk blotter. “Can you guys just go without me? I have this English Lit paper due . . .”

Her dad looked so hurt. “Well, can we bring you something to go?”

Her mother was buttoning up her blouse when she wandered into Stephanie's bedroom. Stephanie's parents always got dressed up for their Wednesday night excursions. “Let her sit this one out, Lloyd. There's a ton of food in the refrigerator. She won't starve.” Her mother looked at her with one raised eyebrow. “Eat something! We'll be back around nine.” She patted her husband's shoulder. “I'm almost ready. Why don't we just go to Nelo's tonight? They have that veal marsala you like so much . . .”

“Veal is a baby calf!” Stephanie called as they retreated to the hallway. “How can you eat that?”

She heard her parents muttering to each other in their bedroom and then in the hallway. At one point her mother said something about, “Oh, she's just at that age . . .” Then there was the sound of their footsteps on the stairs. “Okay, honey, we're leaving!” her mother called.

“Have fun!” Stephanie yelled, not moving from her desk.

It felt so good to hear the front door shut, and know she was alone.

Stephanie didn't even notice when they weren't home by 9:30.

At about 10:15, she heard a car. Stephanie glanced out the window. It wasn't the family Nissan. Instead, she saw a police car pull in front of their house while a second patrol car turned into the neighbor's driveway. They didn't have their sirens flashing or anything. Stephanie wondered what was happening over at Mr. and Mrs. Gottlieb's house. They were a nice younger couple with two toddlers.

It didn't look like any kind of emergency, and she didn't want to be caught snooping. So after a minute or two, Stephanie went back to watching
Northern Exposure
. The English Lit paper she'd used as an excuse not to go out with her parents wasn't due until Friday.

She was about five minutes back into her show when the doorbell rang. Springing up from the sofa, she ran to the door and looked out the peephole. It was Mr. Gottlieb.

Stephanie didn't notice until she opened the door that a policeman was standing to one side of him. She didn't notice until they were face-to-face that Mr. Gottlieb looked terribly nervous.

“Stephanie,” he said. “Honey, something's happened to your mom and dad . . .”

The gunman was a 24-year-old named Roland Shoemaker. Apparently, he'd just been dumped by his girlfriend, Tina Marco, a waitress at Nelo's, a small, family-owned Italian restaurant in Seattle's Wallingford neighborhood. According to one witness, Shoemaker walked into the establishment with a handgun and just started shooting. Tina had been waiting on Stephanie's parents at the time. Stephanie couldn't help thinking that her mom and dad had been keeping her there at the table, chatting with her the way they did with most of the waitstaff at their favorite spots.

The bartender and part owner of the restaurant had a gun concealed behind the bar. He fired back several shots, one of which hit Roland Shoemaker in the chest, killing him instantly. But by then, Shoemaker had shot seven people—including Tina Marco.

Besides the gunman, three people were killed in the restaurant that night: Stephanie's parents and an 18-year-old busboy named Charles Tobin, a senior in high school working to save money for college.

Stephanie couldn't fathom how someone's stupid exboyfriend had destroyed so many innocent strangers' lives for nothing—just because he was pissed off and had a gun. But then, she blamed herself, too.

“Dad wanted me to go out with them for Chinese that night,” she tearfully confessed to her sister after the funeral. “But I didn't want to. I wanted to stay home. So they went to Nelo's instead. Don't you see? If only I'd gone out to dinner with them . . .”

“No, stop it.” She remembered Rebecca hugging her. “You can't say for sure what would have happened that night. They could have changed their minds in the car and the three of you could have wound up at Nelo's. Then maybe you'd be dead, too. And I'd be all alone. You don't know, Steffi . . .”

She moved down to Portland to live with Rebecca and Scott. Starting at a new school, not knowing a soul, and missing her parents terribly—she came to depend on her newlywed sister and brother-in-law. Their once-spartan two-bedroom “starter home” was suddenly full of the furniture and knickknacks they'd inherited from her parents. Stephanie took some comfort in that. Yet she knew she must have been a burden on them, too.

Part of her felt they wanted to get as far away from her as possible—Scott especially—when they moved to New York during her sophomore year at the University of Oregon in Eugene. It put an end to the occasional weekend visits to see her sister. She stayed with them summers and at Christmastime, but always felt in their way.

She learned not to depend on—or expect too much from—anyone.

She'd liked it best when Rebecca and the kids came to stay with her. Now, those rooms upstairs would just sit empty.

Stephanie stood at the stove, listening to Jim in the next room telling lies to his daughter on the phone. She felt so alone. Jim didn't understand her obsession over Halle and the deaths of her sister and her family. He'd told her: “You need to let go and move on from this . . .”

“
Move on to what?
” she'd wanted to ask. “
What else have I got?
”

She certainly didn't have him.

There was just her dead sister and her slaughtered family—and so many unanswered questions about a woman named Halle Driscoll.

Stephanie couldn't let go of it. She wouldn't.

There was nothing else to hold on to.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

 

L
acee Roth didn't have a good feeling about this date. For starters, he was ten minutes late—and counting.

She sat at a small café table at a Starbucks in the lower level of the Long Wharf Marriott on the harbor. The place was practically empty at this odd hour: a couple at the window counter, a nerdy-looking guy on his laptop at another table, and a thirtysomething woman across from her in an easy chair, reading
The School of Essential Ingredients
. After walking there in the cold, steady drizzle, Lacee found the Starbucks kind of cozy. She had her hot chocolate, and Eartha Kitt was singing “Santa Baby” over the sound system. Still, Lacee was getting restless and impatient.

She didn't have many opportunities to meet single men at her job—in the Fine China and Silverware Departments at Macy's downtown. Mostly, she met engaged women and their friends or their mothers—picking out items for their bridal registry. Many of those brides were a lot younger than she was.

Lacee was 33—and pretty, with blue eyes and wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair. She'd lied about her weight in the form she'd filled out for Datamate.com a few months ago. She was about ten pounds heavier than she wanted to be. But then, some major weight gain was expected after going off crystal meth. Some people she knew in recovery had really ballooned. On her dates, she didn't talk about her past problems or about ex-friends or family members who were still mad at her. So far, she'd had her share of rejection—and rejects. She'd figured out early on to meet them for coffee in the afternoon, never dinner. A meal with a boring guy could be intolerably long—and pricey if she ended up with some tightwad who wanted to split the check.

Ray, whose Datamate.com moniker was “New2 Boston17,” was 34 and never married. He worked out, loved all sorts of music, and wanted to “explore the city with a sensitive, smart, and sexy native as my guide. Let's get together and see what happens!” From his photo, he looked like he might be second-generation Eastern European or Russian. He had wavy, dark brown hair, and his eyes were intense, brooding, and soulful. Overall: lots of cute potential.

Too bad he hadn't shown up yet.

“Are you waiting for a blind date?
”

Lacee turned to gape at the woman with the book in a nearby easy chair. She let out a startled little laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

The woman closed the book and let it drop into her lap. She wore glasses, and her tawny auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail. It was almost exactly the same color as Lacee's hair. She wore a bulky black sweater and jeans. Lacee guessed she was in her early thirties, too.

“You keep looking at your watch and then over at the door,” the woman whispered. Lacee figured she was born in Boston, because she had the accent. “I know exactly what you're going through. I've been in your spot—way too often.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, do I have some bad blind date stories. Do you have someone lined up to call you with an ‘emergency' in case he's a creep?”

“I'm not sure what you mean,” Lacee said.

“Don't you have an escape plan?” She shifted in the chair, leaning toward her. “You have a girlfriend call your cell about fifteen minutes into your date. If things are going well, you say you'll phone her back later. If the guy's a total loser, you act like the call's a big emergency, and you tell the guy you have to leave.”

Lacee nodded. “Oh, yeah, I've heard of that.”

“Well, do you have a friend who's calling?”

“Afraid not,” Lacee admitted. She glanced over toward the door again. “Maybe I should have thought of that. I don't have a lot of faith in this guy. He's fifteen minutes late already.”

“My maximum waiting time is twenty,” the woman said. “Listen, do you want me to be the friend who calls you?”

“Really? You'd do that for me?”

“Hey, I've got your back,” the woman said. “Tell you what, if you don't like him, just clear your throat and say—say, ah
—
'when you stop to analyze it.' That'll be your signal for me to call. I'll make a subtle retreat and phone you. Then you can tell him you've got an emergency. Your Aunt Sonya suddenly croaked or whatever.”

“When you stop to analyze it,” Lacee repeated.

The woman nodded and took out her iPhone. “What's your number?”

Lacee told her. The woman punched it into her phone. “So—once you ditch him, come meet me upstairs in the hotel lobby,” she said. “I've got nothing going on. I'm just here waiting for the rain to let up. My friend canceled on me, the rat. So you and me, we can go for a drink someplace. We'll swap bad date stories. What do you say?”

Lacee shrugged. “Sure, I guess. Why not?”

“By the way, my name's Jill. What's yours?”

“Lacee.”

Jill winked at her. “Well, we girls have to stick together, Lacee.” She glanced over toward the entrance. “Heads up, do you think this is him?”

Lacee turned to see her date wander in. Ray had lied on his profile. If that shrimp was six feet tall, she was Kate Moss. She guessed he was about 5'6”, with a very slight build. His jacket looked dirty, and it seemed to just hang on him. The photo must have been old or retouched—or maybe it wasn't even him. His wavy brown hair was flat and receding badly. Those dark, intense eyes just looked tired and baggy. He moseyed up to Jill, who had her nose in her book. “Are you Lacee?” he asked.

She looked up and shook her head.

Lacee waved to him. He glanced her way and did absolutely nothing to conceal his disappointment. Frowning, he nodded and stepped toward her table. “I thought she was you,” he said, plopping down in the chair across from her. “She looks like your picture more than you do, though I'm thinking she's younger. You said you were thirty-three, right?”

“Right,” Lacee replied. She stole a glance over at Jill, who rolled her eyes.

In her head, Lacee was repeating the phrase, “when you stop to analyze it.” If this dismal start was any indication of how the date would go, she'd be uttering those words in about five minutes.

 

 

“Too bad about your aunt,” he said. Still in his chair, he was looking up at her as she put on her coat.

“Yes, well, she'd been sick for a long time,” Lacee lied. “Anyway I really need to head over to my parents' house and be with them.”

“Y'know, something like this always happens to screw up my dates,” he said. “The last time, the woman's sister had an appendicitis attack.”

Lacee buttoned up her coat and told herself not to feel guilty. The guy was a jerk. He never apologized for being late. He just complained about the parking. And then he complained about all the other women he'd met through Datamate. Not once did he show any interest in her or ask her anything—except at the beginning when he'd asked about her age.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Ray,” she lied. She grabbed her purse. “Sorry it didn't work out.”

“I guess you want me to walk you to your car,” he said, still in the chair.

“That's okay, I'm parked pretty close. You stay and finish your latte. Bye, now.”

Lacee made a hasty retreat out the door—and up the escalator to the lobby, where Jill was waiting for her.

“God, he was so creepy!” Jill said, a few minutes later as they walked down State Street together. The rain had stopped for a while. The red brick sidewalk was wet and slippery. “He looked like one of those guys you'd see on TV who's been arrested for dismembering his mother or something. I don't know how you stuck it out with him for ten whole minutes. I thought you'd never give me the signal!”

They passed the Harborside Inn—with a Christmas wreath in each one of the tall, arched windows in front. “Let's go in here,” Jill said, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the next doorway—into the Harborside's café and lounge.

The place had Bruce Springsteen belting out “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” at full volume
,
and people sang along
.
The front counter of the bar was illuminated with pink neon. Beams cut across the ceiling with multicolored lights. The furnishings were art deco meets
A Clockwork Orange
. As she and Jill threaded through the mob, Lacee noticed it was mostly a twentysomething crowd. She felt ancient among them. But Jill seemed unfazed. She found them a spot at the end of a long sofa against the wall. The waiter came by as they were taking off their coats. Jill ordered a round of Pussycats. “Okay, now,” she said, turning to Lacee. “I need a blow-by-blow account of everything that happened after I left to phone you.”

Lacee told her what she'd missed—including Ray's admission that his last date had ditched him, claiming her sister had had a sudden appendicitis attack. She and Jill got a case of the giggles over it. “By the way,” Lacee said, still chuckling. “The drinks are on me. I owe you, big-time. I'd still be stuck there in Starbucks talking to him if weren't for you.”

Despite the young crowd and the deafening din, she was feeling more relaxed by the time the waiter came back with their drinks. He asked if they'd like to start a tab. Lacee smiled at him “Sure—”

“No, thanks,” Jill suddenly piped up, digging into her purse. “We can't stay . . .”

“What?” Lacee murmured.

Jill pulled out a twenty and a five and impatiently shook the bills at the waiter. “Go ahead and keep the change.”

He took the money and nodded. “Um, thank you
. . .”

Lacee waited until the waiter moved away. “What's going on?” she asked.

Jill grabbed her glass and guzzled down half of her drink. “We can't stay here.”

“Why not?” Lacee laughed. “Did your Aunt Sonya suddenly die or something?”

“He's here,” she whispered. “Your date, he just walked in a minute ago. He's seen us . . .”

“Oh, no. Where is he?”

“The street entrance,” Jill said, struggling to put on her coat without standing up.

“In this crowd? Are you sure it was him?”

“Positive. He was staring right at us. And he looked pissed off, too. I don't want to deal with him. He—well, he gives me the creeps. Let's just get out of here.” She nodded toward the doors to the hotel lobby. “That's our best bet over there . . .”

Lacee didn't know if making a run for it was a smart idea. What if he started after them? Jill was right about one thing. There was something dangerous about that odd, wiry little man. A hand over her heart, Lacee glanced toward the swarm of people in the bar area. “Where is he now?”

“Over there, can't you see?” Jill said with an edge to her voice. “Goddamn it, Lacee, are you coming with me or not?”

Lacee grabbed her coat. As she stood up, her legs felt wobbly. She thought she heard someone yell out over the music and chatter: “Where do you think you're going, bitch?” But then there was a wave of laughter, which drowned him out after that.

Was it him?

She threw on her coat and followed Jill. Weaving through the crowd toward the lobby doors, she was afraid to look over her shoulder, thinking he might be right behind her. She imagined tonight was the last straw in a string of dates who had dumped him. Now that he'd seen her here with Jill, he knew she'd lied to him. He had to be furious.

She burst through the doors—into the hotel's lobby, past a couple of luggage carriers and a conversation area with love seats and a coffee table. Ahead of her, Jill rushed toward the door to the street. “Where are you parked?” she asked, not looking back.

Lacee couldn't quite get her breath. “75 State, the garage,” she panted. Any minute now, she expected Ray What's-his-name to come up behind her and grab her by the hair.

“I'm closer,” Jill said. “I'm parked on the street. C'mon, hurry . . .” She ducked outside.

A blast of cold, damp air hit Lacee as she rushed out the door. She caught up with Jill, and they ran down the sidewalk—coming up to the lounge again. Through the window in the door, she saw the crowd, and she heard the muffled noise. It seemed stupid and risky to pass right in front of the place. If he was still inside the bar, he might see them out here.

As she raced past, Lacee glimpsed someone stepping out of the lounge. Was it him? She was running so fast, she didn't even see if it was a man or a woman. Jill grabbed her arm and pulled her down a side street.

“I'm sorry,” Jill gasped, not breaking her stride. “I never should have stuck my nose in your business. I didn't think he'd follow us into the bar, for God's sake. There's something wrong with that guy . . .”

Lacee glanced over her shoulder at State Street. On the brick sidewalk, she saw the shadow of someone approaching. It loomed larger and larger.

“C'mon, this way . . .” Jill led her toward an alley.

Lacee saw a man and woman cross the street at the end of the block. It was their shadow she'd noticed. She was still peeking over her shoulder—when all of a sudden her feet went out from under her.

Helpless, Lacee felt herself falling. She landed on her ass—on the hard, wet pavement. She got the wind knocked out of her. For a moment, she couldn't see anything. But she heard Jill's voice: “Oh, shit, are you okay? My God . . . get up . . . you've got to get up . . .”

Lacee was more stunned than hurt. She blinked, and then noticed the manhole cover she'd slipped on. Her purse was on the pavement. Jill was frantically gathering up all the items that had spilled out of it: her lipstick, compact, sunglasses, and wallet.