Cry Me a River (8 page)

He only looked at her. “How you’re feeling? That’s how God feels when you’re being reckless, taking chances.
You
. That’s how He feels about you.”

“What is this?” she asked, edgy, defensive. “Is this some kind of test, or lesson?” She put the towels on the breakfast bar and stomped down the hall. She rapped on the door with the back of her hand, fingers doubled into a fist. “Clay?” she called loudly. “You okay?”

The water went off.

“Aunt Grace?” Clay called. “Did you say something?”

“Yeah, um.” She closed her eyes. “Just … there’s a clean towel on the rack. The blue one.”

“Thanks.” A beat. “Are you okay, Aunt Grace?”

“Yeah.” She sagged a little, relief making her go weak in the knees. The water went back on, and she strode back into the living room. “This is not okay, man,” she began.

But Earl was gone.

“If we’re so smart, why aren’t we solvent?” Rhetta asked Ronnie as they sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Now that he’d told her all of it—that their savings were gone, and the farm was probably going to have to go, too—Rhetta couldn’t keep the cutting remarks from coming. She knew he felt terrible. He looked awful—he’d lost weight and dark rings circled his eyes. She wanted to feel sorry for him. But the farm hadn’t been his to lose—it had been in her family for over a hundred years.
A hundred years
.

“How many times can I say I’m sorry?” he demanded, his voice rising. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He reached for her hand across the table and she forced herself not to bat it away. Anger welled inside her; she pursed her lips shut. She got up and poured herself another glass of wine from the nearly empty bottle beside the microwave. It was three in the morning and the kids were asleep. She and Ronnie seemed to be doing this weird thing where they waited for Todd and Mae to go to bed, and then they sniped at each other until either one of them had had enough or the sun started to come up. Rhetta hated it. Nevertheless, once the kids were down for the night, she met him in the kitchen, and they quarreled. Maybe wine was the wrong thing to drink at times like this.

Maybe tequila would be better.

Carrying her wine with her, she grabbed her jean jacket on the hook by the door. Slipped into her cowboy boots without any socks. Ronnie didn’t say anything.

She went outside. The wind had died down, which was nice, she supposed. Heading for the barn, she breathed in the cold, fresh air spiced with mud and cow manure. If they did have to sell, they were going to move into an apartment complex. She didn’t think she could bear it. After the intensity of a day in the Crime Lab, wallowing in disgusting Dumpsters or collecting blood and fecal matter in trashed motel rooms, she needed the clean solitude of the country. Safe harbor. Retreat. A place where she could pretend the whole world was as nurturing as her farm.

Fresh hay. The strong scent greeted her as she pushed open the door. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked over at Holy Cow, the animal Grace had liberated from Alvin Green, the richest cattleman in Oklahoma. Holy Cow was white with black markings that looked like the face of Jesus Christ on the Shroud of Turin. If they had to sell the farm, she’d have to find a place for HC. Grace couldn’t keep him in her suburban neighborhood.

“I’m so sorry,” she said to the cow as tears welled. Then she heard the soft lowing of their new calf. Mama and baby had been separated to reduce the possibility of infection, but they were next door to each other in two pens near the back of the barn. Rhetta drank down her wine as she lifted the latch and went inside. Speckles had finished her most recent feeding of colostrum and was resting.

“Poor little thing, poor thing,” Rhetta said as the little calf gazed up at her with sleepy, limpid brown eyes. Mae had named it Speckles. Speckles’s mama was Buttercup.

The calf blatted, sounding almost like a sheep, and Rhetta began to cry. She laid her head against Speckles’s
neck as the tears flowed freely and sorrow poured out of her. How could they leave here, ever? How could they?

She cried for a long time, half expecting Ronnie to come in to check on her. She was glad he didn’t, but also disappointed. A chasm was building between them and she was too angry and sad to do anything about it except retreat a little farther every day, so that she wouldn’t fall in.

Speckles nudged her tentatively, lowing, and she wiped her eyes and gave the animal a gentle pat.

“We have to have faith,” Rhetta told them.

Right you are
, Earl thought as he watched from the barn door. Holy Cow gazed at him; Earl winked in return. He’d be sad if they lost the farm, too. Not up to him what happened, but he liked to think he had his wings around this family. The Rodriguezes were part of Grace’s family, through love if not blood.

He kept vigil until Rhetta fell asleep. Then he pulled a saddle blanket from the tack shed and draped it over her, cautioning Mama Buttercup to hold her peace. In her sleep, Rhetta smiled faintly, and Earl knew she was having a little conversation with her Father.

Who was Earl’s Father, too.

    Saturday was supposed to be her day off, but after Doug picked up Clay, Grace drove over to the OK All Day minimart and walked up and down the street. Forensics was all done; the yellow police caution tape and the little evidence flags were gone. Based on the tape, Ham had tried to get a warrant to inspect the Sons of Oklahoma compound for a white truck at the same time that Grace and Clay had fallen asleep watching
Astronaut Farmer
.

Ham called Grace in the morning to vent: The judge had turned down Ham’s request. Grace was indignant,
and Captain Perry agreed that they should have gotten the warrant. But a cop was a cop and a judge was a judge, and for now they had to wait it out.

Grace was not okay with that. She didn’t want to end the weekend empty-handed. All those forensics shows on TV might get things wrong now and then, but they were right about one thing—the first twenty-four hours of a case were the most crucial. You had a much better chance of closing it if you found something to go on in that critical day.

So she was out fishing. She had her fingers crossed for good, solid leads that took her straight to Malcolm’s killer, although she’d settle for more evidence that would snag them a warrant. Grace had a mental list of what they had so far: Rhetta had taken those sweet tire track impressions, but she hadn’t picked up any on the actual street Malcolm had died on. That didn’t mean there weren’t any, just that she hadn’t lifted them. Rhetta also hadn’t weighed in yet on the rooftop situation.

As far as the department knew, they had obtained all the pertinent surveillance tapes from the minimart cameras; and while they proved that the white truck was in the vicinity, they didn’t prove that it had actually run Malcolm over. That was the judge’s rationalization for turning them down. Grace thought that was bullshit; she’d gotten warrants on less than that.

They could have had two vehicles out here
, she thought.
One to run him over, one to watch
. Maybe Sons had to make their bones just like other gangs. As far as she was concerned, that was all they were—a thug club.

Slowly she inched down the same side of the street as the minimart. Back up on the other side. She studied the small houses as she passed them, secured behind chain-link or wrought-iron fences—the walls flecked with
chipped paint, security bars and aluminum foil in the windows, rickety porches and brown crabgrass in the pavement cracks. A few of them sported bright American flags planted in weedy yards and stickers on mailboxes that read
WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS.
Grace had never seen a sticker that said
WE SUPPORT OUR COPS
.

She ambled around the corner, onto the street where Malcolm had died, pulling her soft green jean jacket around herself as a blast of wind flapped at the hem. She was cold; maybe she’d invite Ham over tonight and get warmed up.

On any other occasion, the thought would have made her smile. But she was drawing closer to the place where they had found Malcolm’s body. She stopped, staring, digging her hands in her pockets. The sound of Malcolm’s laughter echoed in her heart.

She looked across the street, wondering if someone was watching her, someone who had lied to Butch and Bobby about having seen it happen. Then she turned around, cocking her head as she took in the yard directly facing her. The privet hedges were nicely trimmed, and there were no weeds. In lieu of the standard cracked cement walkway to the front door, there was a nice, tidy brick path. The porch had been refaced with brick, and there was a trio of stone urns containing well-cared-for geraniums. Whoever lived here had a little more time and money than his or her neighbors. More to lose, in other words. And people like that …

She scrutinized the eaves of the sloped wooden roof. At the apex, she caught a glint in the early-morning sun. Narrowed her eyes and really stared. Oh, yeah, baby.

It was a security camera.

How’d we miss that?
she thought as she gingerly opened the gate and walked on the snazzy brick path, listening to the
scuff-scuff
of the soles of her boots, which reminded her of Jedidiah Briscombe’s shuffle.
Visiting hours would find her in his room, hopefully with an update on the investigation and a report on the welfare of Jamal.

Maybe I should get a warrant
. But that same stupid judge was still on call, and he’d probably say no.

She reached the porch and glanced around, spotting another camera such that anyone approaching the front door was captured in profile. She unclipped her badge and held it up for the camera as, seeing no bell, she rapped on the door.

A dog barked inside the house. She glanced at the camera and kept her mind focused on where her gun was—back holster—because sometimes people with security cameras in bad neighborhoods weren’t nice people.

The dog growled. Grace kept her badge held up high. Then she heard someone walking toward the door.

“Go back, Frank,” a male voice said. “Go on, now.”

The wind stuttered the knob and then the door opened, revealing an incredibly good-looking guy who was at least a foot taller than Grace. He had wet, dark blond, curly hair; enormous, deep-set sea-blue eyes; and more crags on his face than a mountain. He was wearing a blue Henley and a pair of jeans, and socks. He smelled like soap.

“I’m Detective Grace Hanadarko,” she informed him, holding up her badge so he could read the number off it if he cared to. “There was a hit and run on this street Thursday between the hours of eleven thirty p.m. and one a.m. I was wondering if you saw or heard anything.”

He lifted brows that were darker than his hair. “I had no idea,” he said. “I just got in about an hour ago. I stopped to pick my dog up from the kennel.”

“I noticed you have a security camera.”

He nodded. “I do. It was on while I was gone. I was at an architecture conference in Santa Fe.” He stepped
backward, inviting her in. “Would you like to see if I picked up anything?”

“Yes. Thank you, sir.”

“Ian,” he said. “Fletcher. It’s upstairs.”

She walked in, catching her breath at the beauty of the interior of his house. A hardwood floor complemented oak paneling; brass hinges gleamed on carved, closed doors; and golden light gauzed a steep stairway with a tapestry stair runner. He went on up ahead of her, and she had a spectacular view of his ass. This guy worked out.

“This is not a very nice neighborhood,” she ventured.

“I inherited this house,” he replied. “Thought I’d see what I could do with it. I planned to flip it but I’ve overbuilt for the current neighborhood. And it’s kind of grown on me.”

She wasn’t sure she bought that. One look at this palace and any fool knew it was too upscale for what lay around it. Architects as a rule wouldn’t accidentally overbuild. But it wasn’t entirely out of the range of possibility. After all, Bricktown had been a bunch of derelict buildings. Now it was a tourist playland of gentrified bars, restaurants, and souvenir shops.

They reached the landing. Grace realized that the golden glow downstairs emanated from a stained-glass skylight of amber hues and yellows. Whoa, this guy was begging to be burgled.

“You ever had anyone from the police department come out, advise you on how to make your house theft-secure?” she asked him.

He cocked a brow. Damn, he had dimples. “No. Is that something you might be able to help me with?”

As he gazed at her, the light hit his hair like a halo. It took her a bit aback.

“Sure,” she replied.
Then I’ll lock you in for a couple of nights
.

“Thank you. The camera is in my bedroom,” he added, reaching the end of the hallway. He turned the brass knob and voilà, bachelor den. A big bed with burgundy sheets, lamps with stained-glass shades on the nightstands, and across one wall
… oh, yeah, baby …
mirrors.

She didn’t mean to grin, but he was looking at her reflection and he caught it. Saying nothing, he led her to a roll-top desk angled in the corner next to the window. She saw the wide-screen computer monitor, very fancy, with a screen saver of a Grecian temple and big block letters that read
FLETCHER ARCHITECTURE;
beside it was another monitor, a screen filled with a black-and-white image of the street below them. Real time. She looked from it to his window, confirming the angle.

He leaned around her, typing on the computer keyboard, and an external hard drive beside the computer spit out a shiny CD. He showed it to her and slid it into the desktop computer. “We’ll get a clearer image on this one than the one that came with the system,” he said. “It happened two nights ago, you say?”

“Yes. Between eleven thirty and one a.m.” She kept her eyes fastened on the monitor. The Grecian temple disappeared. The screen filled with a black-and-white image of a tree branch, whipping back and forth like a crazed windshield wiper, obscuring her view of the street. He typed in a few commands. There was no sound, but there was a date-and-time stamp in the lower right corner, glowing white. Eleven twenty-nine p.m. She watched, glad to have a witness so no defense attorney could claim she’d tampered with evidence. Or rather, so it was less likely that a jury would believe the defense attorney.