You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (34 page)

“The morgue?” Andrea's eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“We need him to identify his son's corpse,” the detective said. “They just found someone they think is Damon Shuler in a shallow grave in the woods—not too far from where that jogger discovered Ron Jarvis today. He was shot in the back of the head.”

Stunned, Andrea stared at her.

Talwar let out a long sigh, and then she spoke into her phone: “Can you transfer the body to the Harborview morgue? We'll notify the father and set up identification there. Thanks.”

Clicking off the phone, she frowned at Andrea. “So, unless he was there in the woods last night when Ron and Damon were killed, how do you suppose your nephew knew—before anyone else—that Damon faked his death three weeks ago?”

* * *

“I know Damon's alive,” Bonnie said. She stood on the front stoop of Tanya and Mrs. McCallum's bungalow. “I looked at the video, Tanya. He never got into the car, did he?”

Dressed—pretty normally—in a sweatshirt and jeans, Tanya stood in the doorway. She'd refused to let her inside. Bonnie could hear a TV blaring in the living room. It sounded like some old game show. Tanya glared at her, but occasionally seemed distracted by the idling car in front of her house.

Bonnie knew her parents wouldn't allow her to go out on her own. So she'd asked her mother if she would drive her to their old block—and Tanya's house. She'd said that Tanya might be able to help them—and the police—find Ron's killer. And she hadn't been lying about that. “I promise I'll only be a couple of minutes,” she'd said. “I just need to ask her a few questions face-to-face, that's all.”

But Tanya had ready a standard response to every question—and every time Bonnie tried to put her on the spot. Half hidden by the partially open door, Tanya just scowled, shook her head and grumbled: “You must be crazy . . .”

After Bonnie said she knew Damon was alive, Tanya embellished the rejoinder a bit: “You must be crazy. It's probably due to all the purging you do after every meal. It's bound to corrode your brain eventually. . .”

Bonnie rolled her eyes. Maybe Tanya thought she was poking a nerve with her anorexia wisecracks, but she wasn't. Bonnie never would have dreamed of saying anything to Tanya about her weight, because it would have been mean and catty. Maybe Tanya somehow knew that and was just pushing her to cross the line.

“You're not going to distract me with that bulimia crap, Tanya,” she said. “I know Damon's alive. You and he probably feel justified in killing the people who have bullied you—and maybe that includes me. Maybe you think KC, Reed, and Ron all had it coming. But you and Damon are trying to pin the blame on Spencer, who never did one mean thing to either one of you. He was nice to you—and I know from experience, Tanya, that it's not always easy to be nice to you. You can be awfully overbearing. I pushed you away, but Spencer hasn't. He's a decent guy. And you're hurting him, you're persecuting him. You're turning into a bully, Tanya—the very thing you hate . . .”

Tanya continued to glare at her, but she had tears in her eyes. Bonnie thought maybe she was getting through to her.

But then Tanya stepped back and shut the door in her face.

* * *

She locked the door, then went to the dining room window and peeked out beyond the curtain. She watched Bonnie walk back to the car that was waiting for her. She looked a bit defeated. And that made Tanya smile.

Past the incessant TV noise, she heard her phone chime. Someone had sent her a text. She hurried into the kitchen and swiped the phone off the counter. She'd been washing dishes when Bonnie had knocked on the door.

The text was from an unknown sender, but Tanya knew who it had to be:

Tanya wasn't sure what he meant about hearing things on the news about him. But she texted back:

She almost wrote that if he'd done away with Bonnie when he was supposed to, then he wouldn't have this problem. Maybe now he'd take some action, and finally put that bitch out of her misery.

One thing Bonnie had said that stuck with her—it was about a part of Damon's plan she really didn't understand. Tanya always wondered why Spencer had to be the fall guy in all of this. Bonnie was right about that. Spencer had never done anything mean to either one of them.

She couldn't help feeling it was someone else's idea. But she remembered what he'd said at the beginning of his text:
You are my one and only partner.

Tanya wished she could believe that was true.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

 

S
pencer hadn't expected to fall asleep. He remembered stripping off his wet clothes down to his undershorts. Then he'd covered himself with an itchy blanket and flopped onto the bed in the boat's tiny stateroom. He'd been shivering. He might have started crying, too. He couldn't be sure.

He heard the water lapping against the side of the
Bonnie Blue
. He could also hear—in the next room—Bobby Darin singing “Mack the Knife” on the radio. It was some oldies station obviously targeting people over sixty. When he'd first tuned into it earlier, most of the ads had been for retirement villages, vitamin supplements, and hearing aids. It was the only station that came in without a ton of static.

At least he'd gotten the generator started. He'd found the Catalina 36 owner's manual just where Bonnie had said it would be—in the top drawer of the cabinet on the left as he'd stepped down into the galley. He'd located the boat pretty easily, too. But he wasn't much of a sailor. Even with the instructions, it had taken him nearly an hour to figure out how to get the electricity and water working. With the flick of each switch and every button he pushed, Spencer kept thinking he might blow up the boat or something.

Even now, he detected a slight gassy smell and wondered if that was normal. He couldn't be sure. Hell, he wasn't sure of anything.

He'd tracked down the pay phone Bonnie had told him about. He'd called her number, let it ring once, and then he'd hung up. So she'd gotten the signal he was okay. Spencer wished he'd worked out some kind of signal with his Aunt Dee to let her know he was all right—for now.

In no hurry to get up, he lay there under the warm but scratchy blanket. There were some books, but no TV on board. He'd gotten the computer started, but then it had asked for a password. If he could figure out how to work the stove, he'd heat some soup for dinner and then maybe read one of the books.

Spencer hadn't noticed lights in the windows of any of the other boats. He didn't want to call too much attention to the
Bonnie Blue.
So he figured on keeping just one or two lights on tonight.

Bonnie wasn't coming by any time before dawn tomorrow. Spencer knew he had a long night ahead.

Bobby Darin finished up his song. Spencer heard the news come on.
“In Seattle,”
the announcer said,
“a fourth student from Queen Anne High School has died. The body of seventeen-year-old Ronald Jarvis was found hanging from a tree near Discovery Park. Just one week ago, a junior at the high school was murdered along with his parents. Police are looking for another student, Spencer Murray, as a person of interest in the case. He is also wanted for questioning in the death of a fifty-eight-year-old woman on Capitol Hill . . .”

Just hearing the announcer say it, Spencer felt as if he were guilty. Certainly, everyone else seemed to think he was.

He was tired, and it felt warm under the blanket. There was no reason to get up. His clothes were probably still damp. But Spencer knew he couldn't sleep a wink, not now. For at least the next twelve hours, he would be alone here—listening to every noise outside, waiting for the police to bust in on him, and worried that the next local news item he heard might be about the death of someone he really cared about.

Yes, it was going to be a long night—one of the longest in his short life.

* * *

The big disadvantage to snorting cocaine in a parked car at night was that he couldn't quite see what he was doing—and exactly how much was getting up his nose. But there was a distinct benefit to indulging here instead of in his apartment. He didn't have to share. If crystal meth was top sirloin, then coke was filet mignon. And Troy didn't feel like divvying it up with any of his stupid roommates. He'd gotten this stash from one of the more wealthy cougars among his regulars. “Gigolo swag,” he called it. Right now, the money he “borrowed” from those older bitches was his main livelihood.

He was parked half a block from the apartment building. Leaning back in the driver's seat of his old Jetta, Troy closed his eyes and relished the bitter-tasting drip at the back of his throat from that last snort.

All at once, someone knocked on the window.

Startled, he gaped through the glass at his roommate, Adrian. She looked even more like a train wreck than usual. Wearing her hooded sweatshirt, she leaned close to the window, fogging it up with her breath.

Troy started the car to lower the window. “You scared the crap out of me,” he said over the humming as the window descended. “You look strung out again. What's going on?”

“The police left, like, fifteen minutes ago,” she whispered. “And I don't think they've completely gone either. I have a feeling they're watching the building—at least in the back. I wouldn't be surprised if one of them was following me.”

“Well, what do they want?” he asked.

“They were looking for you. They think you mowed down that Luke What's-His-Name, the playwright you can't stand.”

“Shit,” he muttered. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing, God!” she exclaimed. “Why? Did you do it?”

Troy didn't answer her. He kept rubbing his mouth. He was fuming.

“They took fingerprints off stuff in your bedroom and the kitchen,” she said.

He hit the steering wheel with the bottom of his fist.

“They made me sign something,” she said, half crying. “And they took Skeet away—in handcuffs. Anyway, you better not come back to the apartment. They're looking for you. If I were you, I'd get out of town and lay low for a while. One of the cops said something about the Miami Police looking for you, too. What happened in Miami?”

Troy shook his head over and over. “That bitch Andrea Boyle did this. She shot her mouth off to the cops.”

“I heard one of them mention her,” Adrian said, nodding. “What are you going to do?”

He was screwed. If they'd hauled away his roommate, Skeet, that was it. He was as good as dead. Skeet knew most of his deep, dark secrets—including how he'd plowed into Luke Shuler with that hot Mazda CX-9 last week. Skeet also knew about Miami, where two years ago, Troy and another pal had hustled this old guy. They'd gotten him to take them back to his mansion, where they'd robbed him. Only things got a little rough, and the old guy ended up dead. Skeet had a long list of outstanding warrants. Troy figured he wouldn't hesitate spilling his guts to the cops about Miami and a lot more if he could work out a plea bargain for himself.

Troy kept thinking this was all Andrea Boyle's fault. Well, he wasn't going to run—not just yet.

He'd been trying to hide his cocaine stash from Adrian. But now he took a pinch of it and sniffed.

“Hey, where'd you get the coke?” she asked.

“You can't have any,” he muttered, reaching for the switch on his armrest. “I'm swapping it for some ammo.” Troy raised his window.

“Wait a minute!” Adrian said. She started pounding on the glass and yelled something he didn't hear. She jumped back as he pulled away from the curb.

He had a friend who was house-sitting for a guy who had a regular arsenal in a secret closet off his den. For a little coke, his buddy might let him take out a weapon on loan. The house was in South Seattle.

That would be Troy's first stop.

Then he would pay a visit to the town house in Queen Anne.

And he'd put that bitch down for good.

 

 

 

“Do you want any makeup?” someone asked.

Andrea shook her head.

“Let Deborah put some base on you—just so you don't look all pasty under the lights.”

“Fine,” Andrea muttered. She sat in the corner of the sofa in Luke's living room. Someone had dragged the tall potted ficus tree over behind her. They must have figured it made for an interesting backdrop. She had a mic clipped to her collar. The wire for it ran beneath her sweater and over her bra. It was attached to a receiver box clipped to the back of her pants. She tried not to squint at the spotlight they were shining on her.

A twenty-something blonde came up to her with a pad and a jar of foundation powder. The woman started applying it to Andrea's face.

“Deborah, see if you can do something about her hair!” yelled the same disembodied voice behind the glaring lights.

Andrea wished to God she hadn't agreed to this. But they'd caught her in a very weak and vulnerable moment. She'd been at the hospital, where she'd just helped a battered, sickly Luke identify his son in the morgue. Someone had wrapped a towel around the back of Damon's head to conceal the bullet wound. It looked like he was wearing some kind of weird, oversized turban. Luke had asked the attendant if Damon had all his teeth. But they'd been one step ahead of him. The three teeth found in the burnt rubble and ashes that remained after the explosion of Evelyn's BMW were indeed missing from the back of Damon's mouth.

Luke was barely able to get through the ordeal. For him, it must have been like Damon had been killed all over again.

Worse, the police seemed to think Spencer was involved in Damon's murder. Neither she nor Luke wanted to believe it. He told her that he wanted to be alone—and she was probably better off going back to the town house to wait for Spencer in case he tried to contact her.

While Andrea was at the hospital, two policemen stuck close to her. One of them told her not to talk to any reporters about the purpose of her visit here. The police still hadn't notified the press about the second body found near where Ron Jarvis had been killed. She didn't think they'd be able to keep a lid on the news much longer.

Two more policemen and a reporter were waiting for her near the hospital's elevator. They wanted her to tape a brief announcement for the news, asking Spencer to turn himself in. The police promised that, at this point, they just wanted to question him. If he were scared, desperate, and contemplating doing harm to himself or others, a level-headed plea from his aunt might be just the reassurance he needed. If she truly believed in his innocence, the sooner he was in police custody, the sooner they'd clear him of all charges.

So Andrea had agreed to make a brief video, which would be featured online and during tonight's local eleven o'clock newscasts. One of the cops told her there was a chance CNN would be picking it up. He acted as if that was supposed to make her happy or something.

Now, between the camera crew and the police, there were about ten people crammed into Luke's living room—along with the sound equipment and the spotlight. Cable lines ran along the floor everywhere. Someone was drinking water from Luke's Bruce Lee mug, which would not have gone over well with Luke.

TV news vans and dozens of onlookers had gathered outside the town house. Andrea noticed some people had stopped with their kids, who were dressed in costumes for their trick-or-treat rounds. Several people had their dogs on leashes.

One of the strangers in Luke's living room asked her if she'd talk to the reporters outside—after they'd taped her spot. Andrea was reluctant until he told her: “It'll improve your chances of getting the message out to your nephew. And besides, after you go out and talk to them, most of them will leave. If you keep them waiting out there, that's just what they'll do. They'll wait out there . . .”

So Andrea agreed to talk to the reporters outside, too.

The same man asked if she knew what she was going to say.

“Not really,” Andrea muttered. The makeup woman was still hovering over her.

“Well, let's shoot it, and you can talk off the top of your head,” he said. “Sometimes the best takes are the unrehearsed ones.”

He backed up, turning around just in time to avoid tripping over a cable. “All right, let's try a take!” he announced.

The makeup woman gave her one final pat and then moved away.

Andrea sat up.

“Okay, Andrea,” the man called. “On three! One, two, three . . .”

* * *

“They're talking about your boyfriend on CNN,” announced her brother Tim. He stood in her bedroom doorway. “Mom and Dad are watching it downstairs.”

Bonnie almost knocked him over as she ran out of her room. Racing down the back stairs, she hurried to the family room off the kitchen. Her mother was on the sofa. Her dad was in his lounge chair. And Spencer's aunt Andrea was on the big-screen TV.

Even if Bonnie hadn't seen the pretty brunette's family resemblance to Spencer, she knew who she was thanks to the caption—right above the blue-strip newsfeed at the bottom of the screen. It read:
ANDREA BOYLE, TEEN FUGITIVE'S AUNT AND GUARDIAN
.

“This message is for my nephew,”
Andrea said. She sat in what looked like someone's living room. She appeared collected—but just a bit brittle.
“Spencer, I know you're scared right now. So am I. But I want to stress to you—and everyone else who's watching—that you haven't been accused of anything. The police just want to ask you some questions. A lot of new evidence has come up that confirms what you and I have already told the police. If you keep hiding, people are going to assume you're guilty of things you didn't do. And that puts you in a—a dangerous situation. So please, please get in touch with me as soon as you can. I miss you, Spencer. Thank you.”

The image on TV switched to the handsome anchorman. Behind his right shoulder was a photo box with a picture of Spencer in it. Bonnie guessed the photograph had been taken a couple of years ago—maybe while he was incarcerated. He looked slightly gawky, but still cute.