Unrevealed (9 page)

“That's right. And once I call that reporter and tell him that your wife's death was an accident and then
strongly
urge him to write a glowing story about you and how much Abbey's Road Pub has done for the Denver community, there will not be a whisper of doubt or judgment about you from anyone.” I stood up. “Go home, Mr. Gambrel. Grieve for your wife. And then go back to work when you're ready with your head held high.”

“You don't judge me?”

“Because you pretend to be British?” I asked him. “Or because you changed your first name? Or because a big manly guy like you enjoys wearing women's panties? I'm a recovering drunk, Mr. Gambrel. I'll leave the judgment to the ignorant and to those who have never experienced their own dark night of the soul.”

He left, and as I walked back to my desk, I remembered Gambrel's comment about how
random
it all was. He was talking about death — first his parents' death and then, forty years later, his beloved wife's. But there's a random quality to life too. Your parents die and you grow your hair long and start listening to The Beatles. Then you sell the family house, change your name, and travel to England, where you adopt an English accent and meet a girl named Abbey in a pub near Abbey Road while John Lennon sings “Give Peace a Chance” on the radio. The randomness of his parents' death was responsible for the randomness of finding the love of his life. It was actually a beautiful story, but, sadly, it was one that could never be revealed because it was born and ruled by the power of a secret.

And then I was reminded again of that Jewish “shaman” my brother hired for his spiritual blessing ceremony. I bet
he's
got one helluva backstory, too. I should introduce him to Mr. Gambrel. They'd have a lot not to talk about.

Detective Jane Perry walked down the snow-packed Denver sidewalk, the early morning air crisp and biting around her. She took a hard drag on her cigarette and then another, hoping it would settle her nerves, but that familiar knot in her gut remained. The snowy drifts and white landscape surrounded her, smothering most of the typical sounds one might hear on a city street, even at this hour. It was as though a pillow had been placed over Denver's streets, suffocating all but the screams.

She arrived at her destination, glancing down the street furtively. Mirrored stillness embraced her with an uneasy grasp. Above her head, the red neon sign of Bloody Mary's Bar glowed angrily against the traces of snow that had blown against the building. The bar was aptly named, Jane figured,
given the brutal crime scene she'd left twenty minutes ago. Bathed in a grisly crimson slaughter, the smell of death was still ripe and stung Jane's nostrils.

It was just past 1:30 in the morning. She had less than thirty minutes before the bar closed. Jane hesitated briefly before inhaling a hard hit of nicotine and entering the establishment. Inside, she stamped the snow off her rough-out cowboy boots and shook her shoulder-length brown hair, letting the icy droplets fall against her leather jacket. Save for the jazzy background music, the bar was nearly as quiet as the street outside. A lone bartender stood behind the ornate western-style bar, wiping down the sink in an almost trancelike manner. The only other occupant, a blond-haired woman, sat at the far end of the bar, staring straight ahead and sipping a martini. She was dressed in an expensive white down jacket with black fur trim. A pair of designer jeans hugged her trim thighs and toned backside. Fur-trimmed white boots completed the ensemble.

The bartender looked up at Jane, his eyes hiding apprehension. Jane sat at the opposite end of the bar from the blond woman. She'd been told numerous times in AA that you don't willingly put yourself in situations or places that compromise your sobriety. But here she was. One-fuckingthirty in the morning. She eyed a bottle of Jack Daniels behind the bar, spotlighted beautifully and magnified in all its majesty against the large mirror that framed the rear of the bar. How many nights had she drained a bottle of Jack in the comfort of her own house, hoping that she could momentarily forget the carnage and float above herself in suspended animation? Jane shifted in her seat. The barstool felt strangely comfortable against her ass. Too comfortable. She could feel herself falling into that place where the voices entice; the ones that promise temporary solace with just one
sip. Even though she had thirteen months under her belt and numerous sobriety chips tossed in her bedroom drawer, the triggers that prompted her to drink away the darkness were still present on a daily basis. And as tough as Jane appeared on the surface, the bloodbath she'd just seen could easily trip that trigger.

The bartender slowly made his way toward her. “I stop serving in ten minutes,” he said, his eyes full of hesitation. “You want a drink?”

Jane smiled an uneasy grin. “Oh, yeah. I do.”

The blond woman turned when she heard the sound of Jane's voice. “Jane?” There was a soft, familiar Texas drawl. “Is that you?”

Jane cocked her head to the woman, recognizing her. “Courtney,” she said.

“Well…,” Courtney said with a slight grimace, “this is embarrassing, isn't it?”

Jane addressed the bartender. “Hold that thought, would you?” She ambled down the bar toward Courtney. “Mind if I sit here?”

“Of course not. I could use the company.”

Jane sat on the stool next to Courtney. Now that Jane was closer to her, she could see how much Courtney had aged. The last time they'd seen each other was about a year prior, at the annual Domestic Violence fundraiser that Courtney's husband sponsored. The vibrant blue eyes Jane saw then were now replaced by gray spheres that lacked any life force. This former Miss Texas beauty queen looked like she was in her mid-fifties rather than early forties, with lines carved around her mouth and into her forehead. Her deeply set eyelids — a creation of cosmetic surgery — appeared to be hollowed recesses that gave off an almost ghostly gaze. Her skin was pale and moist, as if she'd been sweating or
was feverish. Gone were the false eyelashes Jane recalled her always wearing. Gone was the rocket-red lipstick that was so perfectly applied, it never smudged. The polished red fingernails, Courtney's trademark, were still there. But this was the first time Jane had seen her manicure with gaping chips.

“Should I ask how you're doing?” Courtney gently said.

Jane cleared her throat. She was not one to open up to others, even when it might serve her. “I've had a shitty night. I'm pretty fucked-up right now.”

Courtney reached out and touched Jane's hand. “I'm sorry.”

Fresh images of the bloodbath flashed in front of Jane. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, hoping in some way it would shift the deathly scene out of her mind. She looked at Courtney and felt a shudder down her spine.

“My God, Jane. I can feel what you're feeling right now. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Jane stared straight ahead. She had to focus. She wanted to scream but she had to tamp down the anger and revolt that was rising up inside her throat. “No, really. It's okay, Courtney. Thank you, though.”

The bartender spoke up. “Five more minutes before cut off.”

Jane considered his words. She checked the large clock on the wall. It was nearly 1:40.

Courtney leaned closer to Jane. “Don't do it, Jane,” she whispered. “It's not worth it. Believe me.” Her eyes drifted to the half-finished martini. “I should know, right?” Courtney slammed the remaining alcohol and slid the glass forward. “One more, please,” she instructed the bartender.

When had the desperation begun for Courtney? Jane wondered. When had the voices crowded into her head to the point that she could not ignore their demands anymore?
Jane remembered the first time she met Courtney in the basement of the Methodist church. She was shocked that a woman who was married to a public figure like Craig Gardner would have the courage to hang with the drunken riffraff and expose her vulnerabilities. She could call herself “Courtney M.” all she wanted, but everyone in that room knew who she was. But they all played along and pretended that they'd never seen her face on the front page of
The Denver Post
when she and Craig were photographed with the governor-elect after his landslide win for the office. If you knew anything about anything, you knew that it was Craig Gardner and his outstanding public relations skills that made that astonishing victory a reality. You also had to forget that ten-page spread in
Architectural Digest
featuring the Gardners and their three blond children — a girl and two boys who ranged in age from four to twelve — posing like urban royalty in their Denver mansion and in their Telluride vacation home. Jane recalled the title of that pictorial: “Master of the (PR) House.” It was framed over a shot of Craig leaning against his Bentley, arms crossed and staring intensely at the camera. Craig Gardner was a marketing alchemist, turning his clients' endeavors into gold and making himself a millionaire many times over. But all that had to be pushed aside when Jane sat across from Courtney M. at the weekly AA meeting.

And when Courtney M. told the group why she drank, it was obvious to Jane that everyone in that tiny basement room listened with more interest. It didn't matter that the woman who sat on the folding chair had a back story equally traumatic or that the guy squashed into the center of the couch with bad springs had gone to jail for nearly killing a child when he drove drunk. Courtney Gardner was a
celebrity in the room, and when she spoke, people leaned closer to hear every tortured word.

But when Courtney saw Jane at the annual fundraiser or in public, she always made a point of approaching Jane and making a connection. It might have only been a few minutes of conversation, but it was meaningful and genuine each and every time. Maybe it was her lilting Texas drawl that took its time spilling from her lips, each word so clearly enunciated, it seemed to occupy its own zip code. Or perhaps it was the sincere way Courtney would hold Jane's hand or touch her shoulder in a compassionate manner. When Courtney would inevitably say, “If there's anything I can do for you,
please
let me know,” Jane knew it came from her heart.

So, ironically, there she was seated at a bar with the woman, with Courtney asking Jane if there was anything she could do to help her.

The bartender delivered the martini and turned to Jane. “What would you like?” he asked with that same established reluctance laced through his voice.

Jane looked at him and swallowed hard. “You got a sparkling water and lime juice?”

The bartender glanced at Courtney and then back to Jane. “Yeah,” he offered without moving.

“Well, okay.” Jane waited but he still didn't move a muscle. “
I'll take it
.”

He shot another guarded glance at Courtney before walking to the other end of the bar to prepare Jane's order.

When he was out of earshot, Courtney leaned closer to Jane. “Good for you, Jane. You stayed strong. Don't mind him. He's been acting like that toward me all night since I came in here. He's a squirrelly fellow. I think he's been in trouble with the law.” She took a dainty sip of her
martini. “Does he look familiar to you? Criminally speaking, of course.”

Jane glanced at the bartender. She caught a slight shake of his right hand as he poured the sparkling water into Jane's glass. “Never seen him before.” She peered up at the flatscreen TV in the corner of the bar. An infomercial played, typical fare for nearly 2:00 a.m. It was programming that took full advantage of insomniacs' pattern of purchasing items they would never buy if they were fully alert.

“I asked him to change the channel when I arrived. He had the Channel 9 late news on.” Courtney took another genteel sip of her drink. “Cynthia Naylor was reporting from the location of a grisly crime scene.…” Jane looked at Courtney. “I noticed that the bartender got quite tense at that point, so I asked him to please change the channel.” Another swig of the martini disappeared, this time less precise. “
Cynthia Naylor
. That muddle-mouthed, no-talent bimbo. Humph!
Naylor
. I just realized the irony of her last name. I do wonder how many men have
nailed
her?” She twisted her mouth into an unattractive smirk. “She thought she actually had the ability to steal Craig away from me. Poor little delusional bitch. Mark my words, Jane, she's destined for the glory dump of mid-market daytime-news anchoring.”

Jane wasn't sure how to broach the subject, so she just dove in headfirst, tact be damned. “If you don't mind me asking, Courtney, when did you fall off the wagon?”

“Would you believe me if I told you it was tonight?” She took a healthy swig, as if to button her statement.

Jane studied Courtney's haggard face. “Really?”

Courtney picked at the red nail polish on her thumb. “Hand to God. It's not like I didn't think about it a
gajillion
times before now. And it's not like I didn't buy a bottle and bring it home only to pour it down the sink.” She stared
at the glass-topped bar, weaving figure eight swirls with her finger against the glass. “Life has been difficult, Jane.” A thought crossed her mind, and she turned to Jane with a cheerful smile. “How is your little brother, Mike?”

Considering all the people Courtney knew, Jane found it astounding that she remembered her brother's name — a name she might have only mentioned once in passing at one of the AA meetings. “He's good. He's engaged to a girl named Lisa.”

“Oh! How wonderful! I
do
love
love
! I'm such a softie for engagements and weddings! There's nothing more important than finding your soul mate and living your life as one heart.”