Authors: Nadja Bernitt
“It wasn’t that way. Joanna, we—”
“We, what? How about you, Wheatley? You’re the one who tore my family apart. Did she tell you to get lost? Did the argument get nasty? You’re quick with your fists. Maybe you struck her, too. She disappeared on a Friday night. Bet you were the last one to see her alive.”
“Stop it.” He banged his fist down on the desk. The lamp shook. “Who the hell are you to accuse me? Ask your father about arguments. He’s the one who threatened to kill her.”
Meri Ann drew close to Wheatley, inches from his face. “What?”
“I loved your mother, Meri Ann. After she disappeared, I spent years trying to find what happened to her. I hired a private investigator. Might’ve been a piss-poor excuse for a PI, but at least I did something when the sheriff’s office closed their files. And, yes, I wanted to marry her, to build a life together. She worried about you, how you’d adjust to a new school, city, us. She was going to give me an answer that Monday.”
“My mother loved
you
?” The moment she said it, she sensed it was true. Why else would a woman save a letter in a locked box? Unless it meant something to her.
Wheatley lowered his head. “Yes,” he mumbled. “I’d like to think so.”
“Did the detectives know about you and her?”
“Yes.”
Wheatley’s door burst open. A tall, sturdy woman stood framed in the door jamb, her dark hair loose on her shoulders in a multi-layer cut. Her coat hung open, exposing a pink hospital uniform and name tag: Tina Wheatley. She cradled a notebook with a colorful picture of Jesus on the cover. Sullen described her.
“Meri Ann Dunlap, of course.” She scowled at Meri Ann. “A television celebrity. Looks like her mother, doesn’t she, Robin? And a detective, can you imagine?”
“Tina, don’t,” he said.
“I’m leaving,” Meri Ann said, her eyes on him. “But we’re not through.”
“I can’t imagine why you’re here, Ms. Dunlap, or whatever your name is now. I don’t mean to be un-Christian. Lord knows you’ve dealt with pain, but you don’t belong here after the heartache your mother caused us. The sins of the fathers are visited on the child—”
“For Christ’s sake, Tina.”
“Precisely.” Her expression was venomous. “Your mother ruined our lives. Then disappeared like a coward.”
Meri Ann froze for a second. Then she spun around to face Wheatley. “Is she crazy?”
“They suspected Robin. Can you believe that?” The woman went on, “Mark my words, Joanna’s somewhere, laughing at all of us. When a slut’s hot to trot, she’ll trot with anyone.”
Wheatley stepped between them, gripping Tina by the shoulders. “Get hold of yourself.”
Still she managed to keep her eyes on Meri Ann. “You’ve no idea how the sight of you offends me.”
Meri Ann’s hand trembled with rage as she pocketed the pale blue envelope. “Witch,” she managed, walking slowly past the two Wheatleys.
In the parking lot, her bravado vanished. Tears slipped from her eyes. The cold rivulets stung her cheeks. Poor, miserable, defeated Dad, she thought. No wonder he and Mother had fought. He must’ve known his world was crumbling around him.
From her own experience with Ron and the woman he’d left her for, she knew infidelity’s pain. Tina’s righteous outburst brought it all back. Every inch of Meri Ann’s body felt raw, especially her heart. It’s difficult to face your own faults. But brutal to face your mother’s.
J
ack Mendiola swung into his parking space at the Criminal Justice Building, a few minutes late, but not that late. He felt more like himself again. Nothing like a beer for lunch to clear his head—a taste of the hair of the dog that bit him.
A gust of wind whipped off his baseball cap as he started across the macadam, and he had to reach down and pick it up. As he rose, he spotted Meri Ann Fehr ahead of him, also bucking the wind, also headed for the office. Her jacket was cut short, the fine curve of her ass plain to see. Very nice. He jogged to catch up with her. “Hey, slow down.”
She turned around, her face as rigid as the asphalt. “We’re right on time,” he said.
“Did you catch the hay thief?”
“Nope. But I interviewed the hell out of the victim. And I think I know who the perp is.”
“At least that’s moving forward.”
“Yup.” He did not acknowledge the dig. He knew she’d been going through her dead mother’s personal effects. That had to be tough on her. He’d had a taste of that when the Army shipped his brother’s trunk home. Took a month before he could open it. “Looks like you dug up some memories.”
“Just some old photos.”
“That’ll do it.”
She glanced away at the snow-dusted mountains. He followed her gaze, wondering if her Florida blood was too thin for an Idaho fall.
“How about we head on over to the Meridian lab?” He thumbed in the direction of his truck. “Let’s take mine. Come on.”
He opened the door for her. It seemed the thing to do, and she didn’t object. She also didn’t say thank you. Didn’t really seem to notice, though she finally said thanks when he turned on the heat.
“You got hair samples, didn’t you?” he asked.
She touched her backpack. “In the bag.”
For the first few minutes, she didn’t speak and neither did he. Just as well, his thoughts gravitated to Kari. His stomach growled, maybe from thinking of her, maybe from the chili he’d had with his beer. He punched on the radio in case his gut rumbled again. Soulful jazz played from Boise State’s station, a piece by Gene Harris.
She eyed his Western boots. “I didn’t take you for a jazz man.”
“I like country, too. Some folks say I’m versatile.”
He eased onto the highway, heading out of town, past the shopping center sprawl. The tinkling piano relaxed him, that and the intermittent patches of square fallow fields dotted with farmhouses—the open space he loved.
She gestured to the radio. “Mind if we turn that down? If you don’t mind, I’ve got a few questions.”
He lowered the volume. “Ask away.”
“What happened to the detective who worked my mom’s case?”
He’d expected she’d get around to that, the innuendo clear: who can I blame for not catching whoever did this? “Peter Sparks,” he said. “The guy retired a year later. I took his place.”
“You were in the detective unit back then?”
“Yup.” He eased around a slow-moving tractor.
“And you worked the case, too?”
His biceps tightened. So did his grip on the wheel. “All’s I did was take a few interviews. Like I said, I was new in the department.”
His eyes were on the road, but he saw her shoulders turn his way. Her stare bore into him.
“I see. The case was handled by a guy on his way out and a rookie.”
Tired of her barbs, he didn’t bother to mask it. “We all worked the case, everyone in the unit. Sparks worked it for all he was worth. Let me tell you, ma’am, he was worth plenty. For your information, he didn’t know he was on his way out. He had a heart attack. Nobody saw it coming, especially him.”
“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t mean to come on so strong. It’s just that no one was charged.”
Even
her
apology
was
a
backhanded
slap
.
He shook his head, smiled. “Yes, ma’am. Not enough evidence to make anything stick. That ever happen in Florida? Or you guys solve every murder, every missing person case?”
She sighed big time and chewed on her lip. “And yes, I’m out of line to jump down your throat.” In the next breath, she said, “What about Robin Wheatley?”
“The engineer?”
“Yes, the man my mom worked for. Was he a person of interest?”
She had a right to know, but he hesitated to rehash the details. Murders dug up dirt, her mother’s case no exception. Meri Ann Dunlap Fehr might be a detective, but with her mom the victim, it didn’t feel like he was talking cop to cop. He wanted her blood sample, the DNA, and to watch the fine curve of her ass sway out of his life. He needed to solve this case on his own terms, to be rid of it once and for all. He needed to show Dillon, too.
“Sure, we liked Wheatley. But the evidence was circumstantial. Nothing to make a case.” He left it at that, reached over and turned up the radio’s volume.
Ten minutes later, the Idaho Law Enforcement building stretched into sight. The long, one-story rectangular building looked about as impersonal as the flat, high-desert land it sat on. The best thing about it was a sparsely filled parking lot and his good fortune to find a parking spot in front of the forensic lab.
Mendiola ushered Meri Ann inside. The reception desk was empty. No sign of anyone anywhere as they meandered down the hall.
“Hey, Joe,” Mendiola called, looking for Joe Uberuaga, his second cousin on Dad’s side and the head of forensics.
Meri Ann still had a spacey look and didn’t half listen. Her eyes moved from one door to the next. “Excuse me. Is there a restroom around here?”
“Sure thing. Down the hall to the left.” He thumbed behind him. “When you’re done, we’ll meet in the conference room. Thatta way.”
He spotted Uberuaga’s shadow on a partially open glass door. Two seconds later, a mop of dark curly hair poked out. His cousin wheeled around on a roller chair, looking for all his years of medical education more like a comedian than a doctor. It was the mustache, that bristly band of black, licking his upper lip.
“Hey, Jack, Uberuaga said. “Where’s the woman?”
“In the john. You here alone?”
“I am.” Uberuaga scooted back to his microscope, and switched off the light, then swiveled around.
Mendiola pulled up a straight chair and sat in it backwards. He checked his watch.
“Always pushing the clock.”
Mendiola grinned, hoped it masked his nerves. He owed a personal call he’d put off all day, and his nephew, Tony owed him one, confirming the bank deal. “Lots of balls in the air.” He glanced around at the empty lab. “So where’s everybody?”
“A meeting over in Portland. I’m on my way as soon as I finish up here. Want me to say hey to Kari and her tennis buddy?”
Mendiola snarled. “Screw you.”
“Can’t take a joke? It’s been quite a while and I thought you said you didn’t care.”
“She’s in town, Joe, leaving messages on my machine. I swore never again, but it’s tearing me up. She’s left him.”
“And what? You think maybe you should talk to her, maybe get something going, again? Take my advice: leave that woman alone.”
But he’d already caved last night, finished a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and called her back. “She’s here for Scott’s wedding, so I’m going to see her there anyway. It’s not like I can get out of going. I’m his best man.”
“Shit happens but you don’t have to stand in it.”
“I’ve agreed to see her.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Maybe I am.” What could he do when the woman he had expected to marry, a woman he’d shared his bed with for three years, begged to see him?
When Kari had left he’d wanted to beat down doors and stomp on the man she’d taken up with. He still seethed at the thought. Yet he’d turned into a lump of rice pudding when she’d called and he’d heard that steamy low tone of hers. He shrugged. “Hell, yes. I’m certifiable.”
Uberuaga’s mouth widened in to an incredulous smile. “You still love her, don’t you?”
A rush of warmth crept up Mendiola’s neck to his face. He rubbed his chin. “Don’t know.” More than that, he didn’t know what he would do when he saw her.
“She’s immature, Jack, full of herself. Pardon me for saying it, but she’s a spoiled bitch.”
He nodded, and a loose lock of hair fell onto his forehead, hair as unruly as his cousin’s. He pushed it back. “Yeah, but it worked for a while.”
He was thinking how he’d pictured her as his wife, and yet… .
The lab door swung open, and the Fehr woman stepped inside, looking as if she’d pulled herself together.
“I heard voices,” she said.
Uberuaga rose and offered his hand. His eyes widened in an appreciative appraisal. “I’m Joe Uberuaga. You must be the gal from Florida.”
“Yes, Meri Ann Fehr. I’m a detective for Sarasota County.”
Mendiola added, “Possibly the victim’s daughter.”
Uberuaga said, “And you’ve stepped into the investigation from hell.”
# # #
Meri Ann felt an instant rapport with the short stocky man and his absurd paintbrush mustache.
“It is hellish for me. That’s for sure.” She unzipped her backpack and retrieved the paper evidence bag. “Here’s the hair sample.”
He took the bag and looked inside. “This will do just fine. Thanks.”
“Are you going to draw my blood?”
“I’m elected. Step into my parlor.” Uberuaga nodded in the direction of a stainless steel counter to their right. He had everything set up, two packages of needles and the accompanying tubes and vials. She hated the vein search, but peeled off her jacket, then Becky’s sweater. She rolled up the sleeve of her cotton turtleneck and offered an arm.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Mendiola checking his pager, then his cell phone.
She took a deep breath, catching a whiff of hospital chemicals but nothing as strong as Sarasota’s morgue. “You do autopsies here?”
“Not usually.” Uberuaga reached for the rubber tourniquet, snapped it, and tied it on just above her elbow. He eyed her pile of clothing. “You got enough clothes for an army in the Alps.”
He busied himself, feeling for a vein, thumping at the crook of her arm.
“I haven’t adjusted to the cold yet. Sarasota’s in the high seventies this time of year. Snowbirds on their way down, flowers blooming… .” She jumped when he stuck her.
“Sorry.”
Deep red blood flowed into one vial, then another. He undid the tourniquet, then taped cotton to the puncture. “That’s all I need.”
Mendiola folded his cell and returned it to his belt. “Then we can head back.”
She rolled down her sleeve, determined not to let him rush her. She spoke to Uberuaga, “How long before we know the results?”
“Realistically, I’d say three months.”
Her shoulders dropped a notch. “Three, you say?”