Tell Me You're Sorry (8 page)

“Stephanie Coburn?”

She turned and saw a petite, attractive, thirtysomething woman with an ash-blond pageboy. The woman gave Stephanie a sheepish look.

Stephanie wondered which one of Rebecca's friends this was. “Well, hello, thanks so much for coming.” She reached out her hand.

“You don't know me, Stephanie,” the woman said, shaking her hand. “I'm Deborah Neff, Halle's cousin.”

Stephanie automatically took a step back. She tried to keep a polite smile on her face. Halle's cousin certainly seemed nice enough. She wore a trench coat—open—over a simple black dress.

“I want to thank you and Mrs. Hamner for all of this,” Deborah said—with a nod toward the viewing room. “It's very decent of you. My aunt and uncle aren't doing too well financially right now. They feel awful that they can't contribute here.”

Stephanie just nodded warily.

“From what the police told us, no one here really got a chance to know Halle. I'm guessing that includes you.”

“That's right,” Stephanie said.

“You must have a ton of questions for me. The police certainly did. I understand Halle was supposed to have spent a lot of your brother-in-law's money.”

“All of it—and then some,” Stephanie frowned. “She also raided his safe-deposit box at the bank, taking some bonds and several pieces of jewelry that belonged to my mother. Years ago, Mrs. Hamner gave my sister some pieces, too. They're gone as well.”

Wincing, Deborah shook her head. “I just don't understand it. Halle never cared that much about jewelry—unless it was something made by a local artist. She didn't go in for traditional jewels. She'd splurge at street fairs, buying ceramics and handmade knickknacks. Otherwise, she was very down-to-earth and frugal . . .”

Stephanie recalled seeing a few unfamiliar folk art pieces on display in Rebecca's living room and in the TV room. “Well, the money went somewhere,” she said. “Do you think it's possible your cousin might have had some kind of addiction she kept secret? Drugs, gambling, or anything like that?”

Deborah shook her head. “Ben and Jerry's, old movies, and tennis tournaments on TV,” she said. “Those were her addictions. Halle was a real homebody, very dependable. That's why it came as a shock when she started dumping her friends and then just moved away. It wasn't like her at all.”

Stephanie glanced around to make sure no one else in the funeral parlor lobby heard them. “Do you think somebody else could have been behind this sudden shift, some man in her life?”

“No, Halle didn't have any boyfriends. She was very pretty. She kept in shape working out at a gym. But she didn't have much luck meeting any men there—at least, no straight men. She'd signed up for an online dating service about a year ago, but after a slew of bad dates, I think she was ready to give up. Last time we talked, Halle said she was thinking of getting a Jack Russell terrier.” Deborah slowly shook her head again. “No, Halle didn't have a man in her life until we heard that she'd met your brother-in-law.”

“How did you hear? Did she call you?”

“No, e-mail,” Deborah replied. “Some of Halle's friends and I compared notes. She started pulling away from people back in late June, breaking dates and not answering calls. That's when she suddenly quit her job, too. Whenever anyone tried to get ahold of her, she was too busy. She'd send a text or a short e-mail with some excuse. Then she announced she was moving to New York, and the correspondence practically stopped. Her parents got an occasional note card from her. That's how we found out about Scott, and later, that she'd gotten married.”

“Well, didn't anyone try to track her down through Scott?”

“She wouldn't tell anyone his last name. And the notes to her parents had no return address on them—just a New York postmark.”

“It's almost as if she didn't want to be found,” Stephanie said.

“Exactly,” Deborah nodded. “It didn't seem like Halle at all. Another thing, the note cards she sent her folks weren't the kind of cards Halle would have picked out. She had a great sense of humor. Even with her folks, she always sent these edgy, funny cards. The cards from New York had flowers or sunsets on them—you know, serious, inspirational Hallmark stuff.”

“Were the cards in her handwriting?”

“Yes, I asked her parents the same thing. I kept thinking,
this can't be Halle
. In fact, even after my Uncle Jay identified her body on Friday, I figured he'd made a mistake. I didn't want to believe it. From the moment she started pulling away from people, it didn't make any sense that Halle would do that. I figured they'd killed someone else in your brother-in-law's house on Thanksgiving night. But the police called us this morning, and said the dental records are a match.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I know you're looking for answers about who could have done this horrible thing to your sister's family. I understand why you'd want to hold Halle accountable for some of it—”

“She walked off with all of my brother-in-law's money—and my sister's jewelry,” Stephanie interrupted.

“Walked off where? Halle's dead.” Deborah plucked a Kleenex from the box on the sofa end table. She wiped her eyes, then looked at Stephanie and shrugged. “Look, I'd like to say for certain my cousin didn't take your brother-in-law's money or your sister's jewelry. I'd like to say she didn't do anything to cause her own death or those—those senseless murders on Thanksgiving night. But the truth is I don't really know what happened to Halle and why she pushed all of us out of her life. You can come down to Manassas and attend her memorial service on Friday. You can ask everyone there about Halle, and they'll tell you what I just told you. I'm sorry. I wish I could be more help to you.”

Frustrated, Stephanie frowned at her. “Maybe you can start by introducing me to Halle's father. Why isn't he here?”

“He's here,” Deborah replied. She nodded toward the viewing room. “We came in while you were talking to that girl. He's in there now. He'd like to meet you, too. I'll take you to him . . .”

“Fine,” Stephanie muttered. She followed her back into the crowded room.

They made their way toward a seating area toward the front—by the closed caskets. “Uncle Jay isn't doing too well,” Deborah said. “My aunt's the one he depends on most of the time. She's his brick. But when they got the news about Halle on Friday morning, she completely fell apart. My sister's looking after her . . .”

Stephanie wondered if Halle's parents were elderly. But when Deborah led her to the man sitting alone on one end of the sofa, he looked as if he were around sixty years old. Dressed in a dark blue suit, he was a lean, handsome, older man with silver hair. And he wouldn't stop fidgeting. It took Stephanie a moment to realize his rocking from side to side and the tremors in one leg were all involuntary.

“Uncle Jay, this is Stephanie Coburn,” Deborah said.

He struggled to his feet. Stephanie guessed he was suffering from Parkinson's disease. Spasms continued to rack his body, but he managed to stick out a shaky hand. “I'm so sorry for your loss,” he said—with some difficulty. “Thank you for—for including my daughter today. I know you never met her.”

Stephanie shook his hand. “I—I'm sorry I never got a chance to,” she said.

His eyes filled with tears. “No one here knows. My girl, she—she was wonderful.”

She felt herself tearing up. She nodded. “I'm sure she was. I'm sorry for your loss, too.” She turned toward Deborah and touched her arm. “I was rude to you earlier. I apologize.”

“It's all right. We're all a bit—bewildered,” Deborah said.

Stephanie retreated toward the lobby again, threading through the clusters of people. They certainly would have understood if she'd cried in front of them. But she couldn't. She hurried out the door—and then around to the side of the funeral home, where a florist delivery truck and a hearse were parked. There, with no one else around, she allowed herself to break down and weep.

She wanted someone to blame for all this. She wanted to scream at somebody, and make them feel as horrible as she did. But obviously, Halle's family was just as confused and devastated.

Tears streamed down her face, and her throat hurt. Suddenly, she realized how cold it was outside. She could see her breath.

“You look like you could use a shoulder.”

Stephanie swiveled around. She couldn't believe he'd come all the way from Portland. He'd left his daughter, his in-laws, and his political obligations to be with her. “Jim . . .”

He had a contrite look on his handsome face. Dressed in a black suit and a tan trench coat, he carried a blooming yellow mum plant. “I'm such an ass to make you brave this alone.”

She wiped her eyes. “Aren't you—aren't you concerned that someone might recognize you here with me?”

He shook his head. “If they do, big deal. Besides, most of my constituents don't even know me. What made me think anyone in New York would recognize me?” He handed her the plant, which was heavy. While she held onto it, he took off his raincoat and put it over her shoulders. He kissed her, and then relieved her of the mum plant. “I'm so sorry, Steffi,” he whispered.

Stephanie wrapped her arms around him and cried on his shoulder.

 

 

A few items stolen from 159 Woodland Trail weren't on the list compiled by police detectives with the help of Stephanie Coburn and Marlene Hamner. Ernie's aunt and grandmother hadn't noticed that some of his vintage Matchbox cars were missing.

The man sitting alone at the wheel of a rented Prius had taken a shine to the red Thunderbird in Ernie's collection. Parked across the street from the Croton funeral home, he absently ran his fingers across the tiny car. “I'm watching the sister-in-law right now,” he said into his Bluetooth headset phone.

“The pilot?” asked the woman on the other end of the line.

“Right. Her boyfriend brought her a plant. I have a bad feeling about her. I think she's going to be trouble.”

“We have her Portland address, don't we?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Right now, she's staying at the DoubleTree in Tarrytown.”

“Okay, keep an eye on her. But stick to your schedule. We can always deal with her later. I need you here. When are you getting in on Friday?”

“My flight gets into O'Hare at 3:15. How's everything in the Windy City?”

“Cold,” she replied. “Buy yourself a warm sweater. We can afford it now.”

He looked down at the tiny model car in his hand and chuckled.

“So,” said the woman on the other end, “other than that, how's my memorial service going?”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

 

“H
ey, Billy!” bellowed the stocky seventeen-year-old. His voice boomed over all the chatter and the din of locker doors shutting. In his royal blue and gold letterman jacket, Derek Jesler swaggered down the school's crowded corridor. He was homing in on a tall, slender Asian American named Billy Kim, who stood by his open locker.

A few students in the hallway stopped to see what was about to happen.

“Hey, Billy, how about a little kiss?” Derek called.

Even with his buzz-cut, Billy Kim was so handsome he was almost pretty. Tossing his tormentor an I-Can't-Be-Bothered look, he tucked his books under his arm and quietly closed his locker.

“Don't you want to kiss me, Billy?”

“Not even with a blindfold, two quarts of Stoli, and a gun to my head, Jesler,” Billy Kim answered loudly. It got a round of laughs from the other students in the corridor.

“Faggot!” Derek grunted, knocking the books out of Billy's hand. They tumbled to the floor, with notes and papers scattering about. A few people snickered, and someone let out a catcall.

At his locker down the hall, Ryan Farrell was close enough to catch a glimpse of what was happening in the hallway—but still too far away to do anything about it. Handsome with blue eyes and unruly brown hair that the girls liked, he was just as tall as his bullying teammate—but lean and agile. He threaded around the other students, many of them giving him some space, and he zeroed in on the skirmish in front of Billy Kim's locker.

The slender boy was picking up his books and the scattered papers. “You're pathetic, Derek!” Billy yelled angrily. “No other guy on the football team wears his letter jacket in the hallway between classes! What's that all about anyway, huh? How insecure can you get?”

A few people were cackling. Obviously, Derek didn't understand. With a dumb, triumphant smirk, he started to strut away.

“And you're on second string!” Billy continued. “You suck!”

That, Derek understood. He swiveled around and headed toward Billy, who was still bent forward gathering up the last of his strewn notes. It looked like he was about to kick Billy in the ribs.

Ryan stepped between them. He glared at Derek. “Walk away,” he said in a low voice. “You started it, Derek. Now, you walk away.”

Staring back at him for a few tense moments, his teammate finally flinched. He let out a defiant laugh, which still had a nervous edge to it. “Huh, I forgot you two were boyfriends . . .”

Hands to his sides, Ryan clenched his fists. “Walk away,” he whispered.

Derek turned and started to lumber down the hall. “What a prick,” he said—loud enough to be heard over the other students. “Just like his old man . . .”

Billy collected the last of his notes, straightened up, and shoved the papers inside one of his books. He frowned at Ryan. “Y'know, I didn't need your help. I could have handled him myself.”

“You're welcome a hell of a lot,” Ryan replied. “Want me to call him back so he can beat the crap out of you?”

“You interrupted right before I was about to point out the irony of it all,” Billy said, still getting his books in order. “Derek wears his letter jacket to remind everyone that he's on the team. It's the only thing he's proud of, and he sucks at it.”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah, I'm sure hearing that would have really devastated him while he was kicking your face in.”

Leaning against his locker, Billy cracked a smile. “You know, one of these days you'll get into a lot of trouble standing up to bullies and defending the downtrodden.”

“
Downtrodden
?” Ryan repeated. He laughed. “That's why I love hanging out with you. Who else uses a word like ‘downtrodden' unless it's in a term paper? Where do you come up with this shit?”

“You know what I'm talking about, and don't try to change the subject.”

With a sigh, Ryan turned and ambled down the hall toward his locker. The last period bell was about to ring, and the crowd in the corridor was thinning out.

“And don't try to pretend you didn't hear Derek badmouthing your dad,” Billy said, walking alongside him. “It's why you're always trying to rescue people who are getting picked on. You even took that loser, Jillie Marianna, to the homecoming dance just because everyone hates her guts and ridicules her.” Billy chuckled. “You felt sorry for her, and then it turned out people can't stand her for a good reason. Not only is she a drip—she's a racist idiot. What did she say about Martin Luther King again?”

“I don't remember,” Ryan muttered. He stopped by his locker and worked the combination. “But I know why certain people—me included—hate your guts sometimes. You analyze
everybody
. You took one college-level psych class, and suddenly you're Dr. Phil.”

“Tell me I'm wrong,” Billy said. “All your life, your dad has bullied you. So you're constantly trying to save people—
the downtrodden
—from bullies. I didn't need to take any psych class to figure that out.”

Opening his locker, Ryan pulled out his letter jacket and his books. “No shit,” he murmured. “So what's your point?”

“Just quit acting like you're a big hero, doing me this huge favor coming to my rescue when I didn't need your help.”

“Fine, Billy,” he said, slamming his locker shut. “Screw you.”

He headed down the hallway toward the exit.

“
You started this, you walk away
,” Billy growled, imitating him. “What the hell does that mean, anyway?”

Ryan stopped in his tracks. Against all his intentions, he started to laugh. “I haven't got a goddamn clue. But it sure sounded threatening, didn't it?”

“Oh, yeah, very
Dirty Harry
,” Billy agreed. “It certainly worked on dumbass Derek. And by the way, thank you. So—where are you headed? Don't you have practice in an hour?”

Ryan shrugged. “I thought I'd drive home, see my mom and pick up some more of my stuff. Shouldn't take more than an hour. Want to come with?”

Billy shook his head. “I can't. I'm tutoring that freshman in the library, and I'm already late. Say hi to your mom for me.”

“Okay, see ya,” Ryan said, throwing on his letter jacket.

“Later,” Billy replied with a faint smile.

Ryan headed toward the double door exit that led to the student parking lot. Before he stepped outside, he glanced back over his shoulder.

He saw his friend standing there alone in the hallway, gazing down at the floor. He looked so sad—so . . . downtrodden.

 

 

Driving his used 2002 VW bug down Green Bay Road, Ryan spotted a father and his young son throwing around a football in the park. The guy must have been a stay-at-home dad. A yellow Labrador was running alongside the kid, who seemed to be having the time of his life.

Ryan remembered how he used to toss the football with his dad in the park at the end of their block on Spruce Street. They'd started those sessions when Ryan was around five. He wondered if anyone driving by Spruce Street Park back then had thought of the scene as some kind of sweet father-son bonding ritual. If so, they couldn't have heard his old man yelling at him to run faster, jump higher, put some sweat in it, and the oft-screamed, “Want to play for Notre Dame? Then you better make a real effort!”

Yeah, like every five-year-old should give a crap about the college team he'll play for. Ryan never understood his father's obsession over Notre Dame. The old man went to U of I. But from early on, he'd stocked Ryan's bedroom with Notre Dame pennants, posters, souvenirs—and even a Notre Dame bedspread. Growing up, Ryan didn't question it much. He figured playing for Notre Dame was his duty, and an honorable one at that.

Still, Ryan absolutely hated those sessions in the park—and it wasn't just on the weekends, either. Sometimes on weeknights, after he got home from work, his dad would change into his jeans and Notre Dame sweatshirt, then haul him to the park for “a little practice.” He was like a drill sergeant. He'd hurl the football at him again and again until Ryan's hands throbbed with pain. He learned early on not to cry or complain.

Handsome, strapping, and sporty-looking, his dad was a big shot in finance. Usually, he came across as a real fun-loving good old boy. People liked him until they played a game with him—any game, from Monopoly to charades to touch football. Then they realized just how cutthroat competitive he was. He tried to instill that same brand of “sportsmanship” in Ryan, but it didn't quite take.

Ryan's dad never really abused him—except for the occasional slap in the face or smack along the side of his head when he got extremely frustrated with Ryan. He never took it past that. There was never a second hit. Instead, he'd kick over a chair or slam his fist into his open palm. He was more oppressive than abusive.

Still, his dad must have been doing something right, because Ryan was now an honor student and the star quarterback. And yes, a scout from Notre Dame had watched him in a recent game, and apparently, Notre Dame was interested. But as far as Ryan was concerned, it wasn't worth all the bullying he'd endured.

Billy Kim claimed that Ryan had become his friend freshman year just to piss off his dad. Maybe that was partially true. It was obvious Brent Farrell would have wanted his son's best friend to be an All-American good old boy jock—not some Asian American who looked like a ballet dancer and had a smart mouth on him.

It was weird that his dad wasn't nearly as controlling when it came to Ryan's twelve-year-old sister, Ashley, or his nine-year-old brother, Keith. He was more affectionate with them—and so accepting of everything they did. For example, Keith was a sweet, funny kid who happened to hate sports. His favorite movie was
Moulin Rouge
. Ryan loved his little brother, and it didn't matter to him that Keith was probably gay. What amazed him was that his father seemed to have the exact same attitude. Meanwhile, whenever Billy came over, Ryan's dad would get so annoyed. It didn't matter that Billy liked girls (or at least claimed to); he just wasn't Brent Farrell's idea of a man—or of who Ryan's best friend should be.

Ryan couldn't help wondering if his father really had anything at all invested in Ashley and Keith. With them, the old man had no expectations, no charted path for their future. He didn't attend too many of Ashley's dance recitals or Keith's school plays.

Ryan envied them. His dad didn't miss a Lake Forest High School football game.

Six weeks ago, the Lake Forest Scouts were pitted against the Stevenson Patriots. They battled on the Scouts' home turf: Lindenmeyer Field. By fourth quarter, with 49 seconds left in the game, the home team was behind 21 to 24. In his Notre Dame jacket, Ryan's dad had made his way down from the bleachers and was restlessly pacing back and forth on the sidelines. Nothing unusual there, but this time, not only was he screaming at his son, he started picking on Ryan's teammates, too. Ryan whispered apologies to them during the huddles.

“I'm sorry, Farrell,” one of his teammates said. “But if he yells at me one more time, I'm going to punch his lights out. I don't know how you live with that.”

From the field, Ryan spotted his father at different times arguing with Coach Annear—and with one of his teammates' dads, and then with one of the umps. Ryan almost wished someone would kick him out of Lindenmeyer Field. But then, of course, he would never hear the end of it.

They'd made it to the sixteen-yard line on short passes, and Stevenson probably expected another. So during a time-out, Coach Annear told him to fake a pass, and follow it up with a fake handoff to his buddy Dan Reich. The Patriots' right defense flank had been a bit weak; so Ryan was supposed to tear ass along the right sideline for a touchdown.

After his conference with the coach, Ryan was heading back toward the field when his dad grabbed him by the arm. “Listen,” he said, so close to Ryan's faceguard that Ryan almost stepped back. “John Flick has been wide open the last two plays. And I've never seen him drop a pass. He's out there in the end zone with no one on him, just waiting. You pass to him—”

Ryan started to shake his head. “Dad, Coach Annear wants me to—”

“I don't care!” he interrupted. He grabbed Ryan's faceguard. “Do what I say. Pass it to Flick . . .”

“Farrell, get back on the field!” Coach Annear called.

“You heard what I said,” his father growled, giving Ryan's helmet a slap. Then he pushed him toward the field.

Ryan hurried back to his teammates. He heard someone on the Patriots' team mutter: “Jesus, what gives with that douche bag on the sidelines?”

As his team went into a huddle, Ryan looked at John Flick. He was about to tell him to go into the end zone for a pass, but he hesitated. “Listen up,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry. “I'm faking a handoff to Dan, then I'm making a run for it along the right sideline . . .”

When they got into formation, he tried to block out his dad's voice calling to him over the roar of the crowd. “You heard what I said, Ryan! Want to win this game? Ryan, are you listening to me?”

The ball was snapped into his hands, triggering the sounds of grunts and groans, and bodies slamming into each other. Ryan pulled back and faked a pass. Then his friend Dan darted around toward him. Ryan faked the handoff. All at once, three Patriot defensemen lunged toward Dan. Ryan saw an opening to the right—just as Coach Annear had predicted.