The Reveal: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery (Book 6) (24 page)

Chapter 28

Ryan and I were at our
desks in the bullpen. “I thought Mary was gonna do it,” I said.

“You have to understand, she’s not sure Arthur
Vines is lying. We drag her out to the river, tell her we
are
lying, and expect her to sign on. At least she was straight
with us about why she wouldn’t do it: This is her career. She probably has a
family, a whole life here. She can’t just pick up and move to a new place.”

“Yeah, all very good reasons. But where does that
leave us? I mean, with the case?”

“With any luck,” Ryan said, “Mary won’t tell
Arthur Vines about our idea—”

“Very nice of you to call it our idea, but it’s
mine. If she rats us out to Vines and it makes it back to the chief, I’m going
down for it alone.”

“We’ll deal with that when we need to, Karen. But
you can’t force an investigation. It will move on its own schedule. Eventually,
something will happen. New evidence will come in, or someone will start to
talk. Or someone will make a mistake.”

I shook my head. “I don’t see anyone making a
mistake—nobody has to do anything. Krista keeps hooking; Christopher James
Barlow keeps pimping; Richard Albright keeps shouting about sinners; Abby and
Marty keep doing whatever it is they do. I mean, in addition to making lesbian
porn and screwing moron girls in the mattress room. Whatever Virginia did to
piss somebody off, she’s not gonna piss them off again. Whatever threat she
posed to somebody, she’s not gonna threaten them anymore. Everything’s back to
normal, except that Virginia and that girl who was doing her homework when her
goddamn apartment blew up … oh, fuck it. Why am I breaking your balls?”

Ryan took that as a rhetorical question. He nodded
and gave me a sad smile, and we turned back to our computers. I stared absently
at my screen, brooding and cursing under my breath.

“I’m going to start the report on the Rinaldi
murder,” Ryan said.

Once he mentioned to me he enjoys writing reports.
Helps him understand the case, he said. That way, he better appreciates the
human motivations at play. He actually used those words. I’ve been a cop for
seventeen years. I’ve never heard of any cop—ever—who wants to appreciate the
human motivations at play.

My cell rang. I looked at the screen. “It’s Mary
Dawson.” I picked up and hit Speaker. “Hello, Dean Dawson.” She’s going to act
like a dean, I’m going call her a dean.

“Karen, do you know how to do nails?”

I exhaled and smiled. “You mean, for after I get
fired?”

“Or run a flower shop. Maybe a bakery. The two of
us.”

“This is just terrific, Mary.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s the stupidest thing I’ll ever
do. I know that going in. Tell me exactly what you want me to say to Abby.”

“Okay, wait till 1:30.” I looked at Ryan to be
sure that gave us enough time. He nodded. “At 1:30, call Abby. Tell her you’ve
got great news. You’re notifying all the students in Virginia’s class. The
police are gonna charge Krista with the murder of Virginia Rinaldi. She’s
already in custody. Her lawyer’s been meeting with the county prosecutor’s office.
They’ve reached an agreement.”

“What if she asks what the agreement is?”

“I don’t think she will, but if she does, say it’s
kinda
complicated and you didn’t understand what I
told you. The important point is to communicate that Krista’s making a deal. Then
tell Abby that, because of the arson, the university is happy to put her up
wherever she is. You know, to finish out the semester—and to help her any way
you can going forward. I don’t know exactly: What can you do?”

“I think we’ll offer to help her relocate to
another university in the Fall, assist her with changing her name on her
transcripts if she wants to do that. I haven’t handled a case like hers, but
that seems reasonable to me.”

“Yeah, good, that sounds fine. But you really have
to sell it. How you’re looking forward to helping her turn a new page, that
kind of thing. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes, I can do that. I’ve got a daughter. She’s
sixteen. I don’t know what I’d do if I found out she did what Abby did, but
when I talk to Abby, she’s not that different from my daughter. I’m going to do
everything I can to help Abby get past this; that part’s honest.”

“Great. Now, do you know where she is now?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What’s the address?”

“Do you really need that?”

“Listen, Mary, you need to trust me. I’m not gonna
go there and knock on the door or anything. No lights or sirens. But if she
takes off, I need to be able to follow her.”

“She’s not going anywhere. The arson really upset
her—what happened to Jennifer.”

“I get that, Mary, but just in case. Where is
she?”

“She’s at my house. It’s 3714 Alder. Off Victory?”

Ryan was looking at his screen. He nodded.

“And she has a car?”

“It’s a little thing. Yellow. A Saturn.
Four-door.”

“All right, Mary. This is terrific.”

“Will you stay in touch, Karen?”

“Of course.” I paused. “You’re doing the right
thing, Mary. Call Abby at 1:30.”

“Talk to you later.”

I ended the call.

“How do you want to do this?” Ryan said.

“Any way we can listen in on their phones?”

“That would take a while to set up. And we’d need authorization.
Probable cause.”

“All right. We’ll go old school. You’ll tail
Martin; I’ll tail Abby.”

“That implies they’re going to move. What if they
just decide to talk it out on the phone?”

“No, the one that killed Virginia is gonna try to
kill the other one. Abby’s gonna call Martin by 1:40. Then they’re gonna work
out a place to meet. That’s where it’s gonna happen.” I paused. “That, or I
open up the nail salon with Mary.”

“Let’s hope it works.”

“It has to work. I don’t have any money, and the
only thing I know about nails is how to bite them.”

We ate separately: Ryan at his desk, me in the
break room. I felt tense. It wasn’t that I was afraid there’d be any violence
this afternoon. More likely, all we’d do is arrest someone. But I was scared
that I might have screwed Mary Dawson and Ryan. There was a very good chance my
idea was a real lose-lose proposition: We don’t solve the case, but we all get
disciplined or fired.

I picked at a sandwich from a machine. The
cellophane said chicken, but chicken isn’t supposed to be grey. I drifted back
to the bullpen around one o’clock.

“Abby had a class this morning but nothing this
afternoon,” Ryan said.

“We don’t even know if she’s going to classes
anymore.”

“That’s true. But that’s also true of any college
kid these days.”

I said, “Is Martin in class?”

“Supposed to be. I’m going to head on over to
campus.”

“What kind of car is he driving?”

“It’s a Mustang. Black.”

“Of course it is. You gonna change into soft
clothes?”

“Good idea.” He got up and headed toward the
stairs. Then he stopped and turned back. “Don’t forget your phone.”

“Talk to you soon,” I said.

“Looking forward to it.” He gave me a broad smile
and a thumbs up.

I visited the ladies’ and headed out to Mary
Dawson’s house, where I hoped Abby would be. It was in a middle-income
development, about ten or fifteen years old, with the standard three- and
four-bedroom two-story houses, mostly stucco. Lots of portable basketball poles
and hoops, a few trampolines, and lots of yapping little dogs. I parked a block
down from Mary’s house. It was west-coast design, full of twists and turns and
all kinds of rooflines. The wide concrete driveway led to a three-car garage.

I checked my watch: 1:20. My phone rang.

It was Ryan. “Is Abby there?”

“No idea,” I said. “They’ve got a three-car
garage, no windows in it. I can’t see anything. How about Martin? Is the
dipshit in class?”

“Yes, Master Martin is attending his Business Law
class. But he’s also got his laptop open. He’s playing a computer game I didn’t
recognize.”

“Okay. Let me know if anything happens.”

“You bet.”

I ended the call and spent the next seventeen
minutes gazing at Mary Dawson’s house. I know it was seventeen minutes because
the last time I checked my watch it was sixteen minutes.

My phone rang. I picked up before the first ring
ended. “Yeah?”

“Martin got a text from someone, packed up his
stuff quick, and left the lecture hall. He’s walking fast. I’m following him in
my car. He’s headed west. Maybe toward the parking garage on Roosevelt.”

“Okay, stay with him.”

We stayed on the phone.

A minute later, Ryan said, “He’s going into the
garage. Has Abby moved?”

“No. Nothing here.”

Another thirty seconds passed, then the garage
door on Mary Dawson’s house slowly slid open. A yellow car, a Saturn, nosed
out. “Abby’s on the move. Can you tell where Martin’s going?”

“Not yet.” There was silence. “Looks like he’s
going to his fraternity.” Another pause. “Yeah, he’s pulling into the parking
area parked behind the fraternity.”

“Abby’s headed toward Main.” I followed her as she
headed through the business district on the city’s major east-west street, past
all the stores. The streets were full on a beautiful late spring
afternoon, the bright sun high in the sky. Abby
drove carefully, stopping even for the yellow lights. I stayed three cars back
in my old Honda Accord.

Main Street turned into 61, which ran along the
Rawlings River. There were walkers and bikers out on the Greenpath. To my left
were the foothills, full of new developments all built in the last five years.
“Abby’s on 61, headed east toward the dam.”

The pretty new neighborhoods and shops turned into
older, shabbier stores selling ice, worms, and six-packs. Past the municipal
golf course sat a jet-ski/snowmobile dealer, a mom-and-pop diner that
specialized in pancakes all day long, and a couple of bars that catered to
bikers. The grasses along the road got taller and browner, the shrubs
scrubbier, and the road bumpier.

Up ahead I saw the dam, which was opened a little
before I got here seventeen years ago. It sits in the middle of a couple
thousand acres of state land, holding back the waters of Rawlings Lake, the
storage reservoir. The lake is almost ten miles long, with forty miles of
shoreline and a little marina with boat ramps for powerboats and sailboats and
a sandy swimming beach for those who don’t mind water that will freeze your
nuts off
even in August.

Overlooking the lake, right beyond the dam, is a
seventy-five foot tall cross, built almost a hundred years ago by the Optimist
Club. They gave it to the city a few years ago because they couldn’t afford to
clean up the beer cans and liquor bottles and paint over the graffiti.

If you were a local kid, chances are very good
that the first time you got drunk and got laid was beneath a gigantic old wooden
cross.

Abby put on her blinker. “She’s headed toward the
cross.”

“Martin’s still inside the fraternity house.”

I pulled my car into the little lot at the
powerhouse, a three-story stone building, where the Army Corps of Engineers
runs the dam. Inside the powerhouse is the enormous turbine that diverts
water from the reservoir through a steel-lined
tunnel twenty-five feet wide.

I looked through my binoculars at Abby, who had
parked her yellow Saturn up against the guard rail in the small parking area
beneath the cross. I couldn’t quite make out her expression. She appeared to be
resting her head on the steering wheel.

“She’s parked right under the cross.”

“Okay, Martin just came out of the fraternity.
He’s getting in his car.”

I got out of my Honda. Off to my left was the
reservoir, almost full after the spring runoff. Tiny whitecaps dotted the
green-black surface. A three-sided barrier line with orange plastic buoys the
size of basketballs stretched some fifty yards into the reservoir. The input
tunnel, almost a hundred feet below the surface, created eddies and whirlpools
on the surface powerful enough to pull a swimmer down. There were signs all
along the road intended to scare the shit out of you if you even thought about
going into the water.

Off to my right, the output chute sprayed a broad
stream of white water fifty feet down the rocky
river. The spray roared like a jet plane. Mist dotted my binocular lenses. I
looked at Abby’s car. She hadn’t moved from behind the steering wheel.

Ryan said, “Martin’s headed in your direction.
ETA: one minute.”

I got back in my car and turned it around so the
front pointed out. I had my binocs focused on 61. Half a minute later, I saw
the black Mustang turn onto the feeder road and head in my direction. I put my
head down as he sped past me, although I doubt he was thinking about me or
would recognize me.

“He’s headed toward her yellow Saturn,” I said to
Ryan on the phone. “I’m in the little lot at the powerhouse, maybe a hundred
yards away. Pull in next to me. We need him to make a move.”

“Okay,” Ryan said. “I’ll be right there.”

The Mustang rocked as it came to a stop behind
Abby’s Saturn, blocking her exit. Abby started to get out of her car. Martin
ran up to the door of her car and started pulling her out.

I knew who had killed Virginia Rinaldi, and I knew
what he was going to do now. I peeled out of little parking lot at the
powerhouse. As I sped toward Abby and Martin, I saw Ryan’s blue Mitsubishi in
my rear-view mirror. He had been slowing down and was going to pull in next to
me, like I told him to. Now he fell in behind me.

I couldn’t quite make out what was happening under
the cross, but it looked like Abby and Martin were scuffling. He wanted it to
look like a suicide. And he had chosen the cross because he wanted it to seem
like Christian guilt. I hated this son of a bitch.