Authors: Michael Koryta
This
would have been after the newspaper articles and the public complaints of
Joshua Cantrell's parents. After immense damage to Ken's reputation and to his
career. He could have played the ultimate trump card by producing Alexandra,
silenced every critic and bought himself some amount of fame. It was a hell of
a story, a hell of a mystery, and he could have brought it to light. Instead he
chose silence, went back to that career of infidelity cases and insurance work,
of financial problems and low respect. I thought of the time he'd told me that
his wife was right to leave him, what he'd said about making a decision that
seemed absolutely right at the time, then seeing the way it affected your
family and wondering if it was a selfish choice.
"Do
you appreciate the losses he took for you—" I said. "What he gave
up—"
"Of
course I do. He damaged his own life to protect mine."
"It
was the epitaph," I said. "That's what convinced him you'd come
back—"
She
nodded.
"Who
did the carving—"
"Parker.
At my request, and after I was gone. I wanted to leave some sense of a
memorial, and I wanted the words to speak to my brother. I wanted him to know
that I knew he'd killed my husband. Ken Merriman suspected something close, and
he thought that if I viewed the house as a memorial, I might return to it.
Probably around the last date, April twelfth. So he waited, and he watched.
Every day for three weeks."
Three
weeks. I wouldn't have lasted that long. I remembered now what Casey Hopper had
told me when I called to ask him about Ken—
You know I was a sniper in
Vietnam. So when I say somebody is patient…
"You
didn't come back on the twelfth—"
She
shook her head. "I wanted to, but then I was afraid that might be
expected. So I came later."
"He
was still waiting."
"Yes.
He said everyone told him how important this place was to me, how much hope and
excitement I'd held for it, and between that and the epitaph he became
convinced I'd come back."
"The
house was almost new," I said, "and worth a fortune. You intended to
just leave it empty forever—"
"There
was nothing left for me here. There was no way I could continue to live here—but
sell the house— I could never have done that. Never."
"It's
gone now," I said. "I doubt you can reclaim it. It might be too
late."
She
nodded. "I won't try to stop it. Let them have their money. I owe them
that much, surely."
"They
did great damage to Ken's career."
"I
know, and when he left a message telling me that you'd be inquiring about the
house, I said I wanted to hire him to find out who you were working for. I was
afraid it was them again, and that Parker would be at risk. I didn't imagine he
was the client."
"When
you found out, you asked Ken to hang around and keep an eye on things—"
"No.
That was on his own. He'd evidently grown doubtful of my brother's guilt."
"You
have no contact with your brother—"
"None.
As I said, for so many years I believed he killed Joshua. Then Ken left that
final message and said he thought I was wrong."
"And
that the police needed to pay attention to a car," I said.
She
nodded again.
"It
needs to be finished," I said. "You have to realize that."
"Will
the police be able to finish it—" she said. "After all this
time—"
"I'll
be able to," I said. "Hell, according to Ken, I already did. Now I
just have to figure out
how
I did."
We
stayed for another hour, sat there as the sun rose higher and our muscles
stiffened, and she told me more of her story but nothing that compared to what
I'd already heard. Eventually I asked her where she had been for the past
twelve years. She gave more of an answer than I expected.
"I
live in a small town not in this country but not so far away, either." She
laughed. "How difficult of a riddle is that— Fine, so I live in a small
Canadian town. I live under a different name, and I've worn a wig for so long
that it feels like part of me. I make a modest living in modest ways and it's
all that I need. In my new life, it's more than I need. I've never remarried,
and I doubt that I ever will. I have friends whom I treasure, people who mean
more to me than I can express, and none of them, not a soul, understands my
past. I haven't lied to them, I've just asked for no questions, and they have
respected that. Those closest to me have, at least."
I had
so many questions myself, but it became clear that she had fewer answers, and
after a time the conversation became stagnant and then disappeared altogether.
I didn't want to let her go. I also knew we couldn't stay
"I
could hold you here," I said, "and call the police. There are many of
them who would like to talk to you."
She
didn't answer. Just held my eyes in silence.
"I'm
not sure I want to do that," I said. "Maybe I will, soon, but not
yet. I'm equally certain it would be a mistake to let you leave."
"Give
me your phone number," she said. "I'll call you in a day. I promise I
will do that. Whatever you want from me, I'll offer it."
"Including
coming forward—"
Again,
the silence.
"Ah,"
I said. "Whatever I want, except that."
"Maybe
that. I'm not sure. I've been gone for many years, and I have a new life that
would be sacrificed. Surely you know that's not a snap decision."
"No
decision that takes twelve years to make is—but I'm not sure it's your decision
to make, Alexandra."
We
sat and looked at each other for a while, and then I got to my feet. My legs
felt foreign. We'd been sitting for a long time.
"I
can accept all of this as the truth, and a week from now realize it was a lie
and feel a fool for believing you," I said.
"It
isn't a lie."
"It
may be," I said. "If it is, you can know this—I'll chase you. For as
long as it takes me, and as far as it takes me, I'll chase you."
She
stood as well, brushed off her jeans, and then stepped forward and offered her
hand. I clasped it and held it and looked into her eyes as she said, "I'll
say this one more time—it isn't a lie."
She
walked away from me then, walked to that short ridge of stone that marked the
rear wall of the house and looked down at the pond. She stood there with her
hands in the pockets of her jeans and her shoulders hunched, looking down. I
gave her a few minutes before I followed.
"I
wish you could have seen it," she said when I was beside her.
"I
can imagine what it looked like."
"No."
She shook her head. "You can't. When Parker was tending the grounds, when
everything was at its best, it was beyond what you can imagine. In the spring,
when it was all in bloom… no, you can't imagine what that looked like."
She
took her hands from her pockets and turned away. "It was everything I'd
dreamed of. We could have done so much here. We could have done so much."
I
walked up the drive with her, and neither of us spoke. When she reached her
rental car, she turned and faced me.
"I'll
call tomorrow," she said, "and we'll figure out how to move forward.
You may not believe me, but it is the truth. If I don't call, keep your word.
Start the chase."
"That
might seem like a joke to you," I said, "but it is not to me. I don't
care where you are, Alexandra, I'll find you eventually. Anyone can be found."
"Ken
Merriman already taught me that." She took my hand again, squeezed it
once, and then turned and opened the driver's door and climbed inside. I waited
until she'd started the engine before I left and walked back up the road to my
truck. I got inside, started it up, and drove to the highway. I stared at every
vehicle that passed and thought,
He said all they needed to do was pay
attention to a car.
There
was only one possibility coming to my mind, and Mike London had checked it out.
The day Ken and I had lunch with him, he told us about a vehicle he'd seen near
Bertoli's murder scene that had belonged to a chop shop affiliated with Dominic
Sanabria. What had the owner's name been—
Neloms.
Darius Neloms. His alibi checked out solid, though, and the lead dried up. So
what could Ken have possibly seen that Mike did not—
Unless
it was a different car entirely. If that was the case, then I was as utterly
clueless as I had been before talking to Alexandra.
I was
halfway back to the city when my cell phone rang, and I saw the call was coming
from the office. Joe.
"You're
out there again, aren't you," he said when I answered, and then, before I
could respond, "LP, you've got to let it go. You've got to stop."
"She
came to the house this morning."
For a
moment I didn't hear a thing.
"Tell
me it is the truth," he said, "and that I don't need to begin
searching for the proper institution for you."
I
told him what had happened. By the time I was done, I was a mile from the office,
and he hadn't spoken for a long time.
"I
let her go," I said, "and I know you'll tell me what a terrible
mistake that was, but I don't care. I'll find her again if I have to."
"If
you believe what she told you, that's not the issue of the day," he said,
and something inside me sagged with relief. He agreed with me. Alexandra was no
longer the focus.
"I
believe it," I said, "because I saw her lie today, and, Joseph, she
is not good at it."
"And
the car—" he said. "Do you have any idea what that means—"
"Maybe.
If I'm wrong, then I've got nothing. We'll have to wait and see."
I
hung up with him, and five minutes later I was behind my desk. I told Joe what
I remembered from Mike London's investigation, then leaned back with my hands
spread.
"That's
the best I've got. Darius Neloms was an associate of Sanabria, but he was far
from the inner circle. The guy painted stolen cars and sent them back out the
door. It's not like he was Sanabria's right-hand man. Even if he was, Ken
apparently was questioning whether Sanabria had anything to do with the
murder."
"He
said the car was important. So maybe he found out who else had access to
it."
"Maybe.
If it doesn't go back to that chop shop, though, then I have no idea what he
was talking about. We talked to Mike the day before Ken was killed, so it would
have been fresh in his mind, and if he was giving me credit for getting him to
the solution, well, that's the only thing I got him to. Only London mentioned a
car."
"Well,"
Joe said, "I'd say now's the time to call him."
So I
called him. Put him on speaker while Joe sat with his chin resting on steepled
fingertips and listened. I had not spoken to Mike London since Ken was killed.
He'd called after he heard the news, more curious then distressed, and I had
never called back.
I'd
already decided I didn't want anyone but Joe to know that the new information
had come from Alexandra, so I skirted that, told Mike only that Ken had
evidently mentioned his belief that a car was the key to the case shortly
before he was killed.
"The
only car I ever heard mentioned," I said, "was the one you told us
about. It belonged to a guy named Darius Neloms, right—"
"Right."
"Who
had an alibi that was—"
"Airtight.
Yes."
"There's
no way you could have been wrong on that."
Silence.
Then, "Brother, you want to check up on me, by all means go ahead. Hell,
we probably still have the security tapes buried in some evidence locker. But
I'm giving you my word that Darius Neloms was nowhere near Bertoli's death
scene. A car belonging to him was. I did not find out who was driving the car.
I tried, and I did not find out."