Cry Me a River (9 page)

“Is it possible to speed it up?” she asked him. Otherwise they might have to sit there for an hour and a half. Not a terrible prospect, but still …

He typed, and the images sped up. The same damn branch, a few cars. Fifteen minutes passed. She kept watching. The minimart tape had shown the Sons truck at twelve twenty-three.

Between the frenetic whipsaws of the branch, she stared at the street and the apartment building across from this house. A waist-high wooden fence barricaded an entrance to an alley beside the apartment building.

“It was very windy that night,” he said. “Hard to drive.”

“Yeah.” She kept her eyes glued to the screen.

Twelve. Then twelve fifteen. A couple of minutes went past; then, as the branch flapped back and forth, Malcolm’s head popped up from behind the wooden fence. His movements were furtive. Grace tensed; Malcolm hopped the fence and started running, looking back over his shoulder, leaping off the curb, watching …

Twelve twenty.

No, no, no
, Grace thought. Aloud, she said, “You might want to look away.”

To her surprise, Ian Fletcher did as she suggested, moving to the window and looking out, as if he would see what was on the recording. She took note; it was a little weird.

Then she returned her attention to the monitor as, on the screen, a panel van approached. The time was twelve twenty-one.

The image was black and white, so the van could be yellow, white, light blue, whatever. Tech might have a way to narrow it down for her. She could only see it from the side. There were letters in a square; she strained to decipher them, but it was no good. Not a Sons of Oklahoma logo, she didn’t think.

Malcolm reached the center of the street. She could almost hear the
fwap-fwap
of his athletic shoes, the gasp as he turned and saw the van for the first time.

Run
, she urged him.

Then things started happening fast. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t, as Malcolm realized the van was bearing down on him, as he zigzagged crazily and tried to run back to the curb—

Run, goddamn it
, Grace thought, even though she knew it was too late, and he was dead.

He shot back the other way, and the van straightened out. Grace stared hard. She couldn’t see the license plate. All she could see was Malcolm’s last moments on this earth.

Then it slammed right into him, sending him flying. Grace didn’t blink; she forced herself to watch, the way she had watched Leon Cooley’s face as the fatal cocktail of execution drugs had streamed toward his vein, on their way to kill him, in the death chamber. She hadn’t wavered, just willed Cooley to look at her, and he had died.

Twelve twenty-two.

Then it backed up, aimed, and ran right over his head. Straight over, nose first. It rocked, then backed up, then went over his head again. Premeditated. Vicious. Evil.

She watched the van scream out of frame. She imagined them calling the truck as it cruised by the minimart to share the good news. She’d put some cell phones on the warrant. If they found phones in the van and the truck, they could dump ’em, get all the numbers. Trace them back … get all the sons of bitches.

Malcolm just lay there. Bleeding. He was probably already dead. Impact like that …

Lying there, lying there. No one came out to see what was going on. No one ran into the road to help. She checked the time stamp. Twelve twenty-three. Twenty-four. The anonymous call had come in at twelve twenty-nine. Untraceable.

“It’s over,” Grace said to the man. Ian. She was shaking.
She was afraid she was going to be sick. Then her cop brain reasserted itself, and she pulled herself together.

“Did you see what you were after?” he asked her softly, turning his head in her direction. She nodded.

“Sir, may I have this? I can’t promise I’ll be ever able to return it. It’ll be entered into evidence and—”

“Of course.” He turned around and faced her. He looked somber. “And I’ll testify, if you need that, too.” He picked a CD case up off a stack and handed it to her. She put the precious evidence inside.

“He meant a lot to you,” he said, and she nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

She pressed onward. “I’ll need a statement.”

“Over tea?” he suggested.

“Sure.” She slipped the case into her pocket. He led her downstairs and into his beautiful, tidy kitchen. Antique cast-iron stove, oak dinette table with four chairs. There were some roses in a vase in the center of the table. Fresh roses.

“How long were you gone?” she asked him, glancing at the flowers.

“About a week.” His back was to her as he lit a gas burner and set a copper teakettle on it. She touched one of the roses. Real, not silk.

“We left flyers up and down the street,” she said. “Asking for information.” He left his house unguarded for a week? In this neighborhood? What about his dog?

“Hmm. I didn’t see one,” he told her, turning. He looked at the roses, and then at her. “Unlucky in love,” he said. She cocked her head. “I bought those for someone. Paid her a visit on my way back.”

“Wasn’t she home?”

“Not for me.”

She grunted. “What’d you do?”

“It’s what I didn’t do. Tick-tick-tick. Her biological
clock,” he explained. “I’m not ready. For much of anything.”

The kettle shrieked and he got tea bags and small round black ceramic cups with red enameled Chinese characters on them. She watched him moving around, thinking that it was nice to meet a hot guy who didn’t want a relationship. Ham’s neediness was something she wasn’t ready for, either.

Then she felt the hard plastic CD case in her pocket and her levity evaporated. She felt as heavy as a ton of bricks. As he set down the cups, she pulled out her detective’s notebook.

“So let’s get started on that statement,” she said, clicking her pen.

“You’ll need contact information. My phone number, e-mail address …” He took a sip.

“Yes,” she said neutrally. “I’d appreciate that.”

And suddenly she felt like the worst kind of fool because there was no way in hell she could hop in the sack with this man, nor did she want to. She wanted to sit down and cry because the Briscombe family was falling apart before her eyes. So much effort and hope had been poured into their lives, and for what?

Goddamn it, Jamal
, she thought.
I’m going to drag you out of the state of Oklahoma by your hair
.

“Detective?” Ian Fletcher said.

She jerked. He was looking at her expectantly, concern etched on his chiseled face. Her right hand was gripping her pen and her left was wrapped around her cup. She became aware that the skin on her fingers stung; she was burning herself. Freaked out, she let go of the cup and laid her hand on her thigh. Jesus, was she falling apart, too?

It’s because Earl scared me about Clay
, she thought.

“I’m sorry. I missed what you said.” She raised her hand over the notepad. Waited.

“I haven’t said anything,” he replied. “I guess I’m a little at a loss for words.” He took a sip of tea. “Maybe if I’d been here …”

“You weren’t,” she said. Then more gently, “You weren’t.” And that was probably a good thing. All witnesses would be at risk.

“Let’s get started,” she added.

Her scalded hand throbbed.

After Grace dropped the CD off at Tech, she walked into Mr. Briscombe’s hospital room at Sacred Heart. He was asleep, or unconscious, who could tell; all hooked up to machines.

On his nightstand, there was a card: store-bought Get Well. She picked it up. There were a lot of signatures inside. Really, more like graffiti tags than signatures: among them, Six-Pop, JJ Maxxx, Jam Z, and Tyrell X. Grace was guessing that “Jam Z” was something Jamal had come up with. Gang members liked nicknames. Made ’em feel like superheroes or supervillains or something. Made them forget that once upon a time they had been scared, lonely, lost kids.

Jamal must have brought it by. She didn’t want to be moved that they had done this for Jamal and his grandfather. But she knew they did shit like that—threaten to kill you if you left, give you a nice cake complete with candles on your birthday.

She sat and read the paper for a bit, then touched the old man’s forehead; then bent over and kissed it. For a split second she sensed that she wasn’t alone in the room; she ticked up her gaze, hoping to see Jamal, or maybe Earl. There was a sense in the air, indefinable.

“Are you an angel?” she said aloud.

But there was no one there.

*   *   *

An hour later, once the wind blew all the sunlight away, heaven was there, as Ham blasted over with two Thetas and three large fries from Johnnie’s at around five, and they ripped into them with the gusto that was the Hanadarko/Dewey trademark. And they further proved the existence of paradise when he ripped off her clothes and carried her into the bedroom. She made him wear a condom and they worked it all off—calories and frustration and everything, boiled off in white passion. Intensity was their crucible. As he entered her, and she bucked beneath him, she felt herself getting put back together, a little bit, anyway. Some people lost themselves in sex. She found herself … at least when she was having sex with Ham.

She climaxed and he followed; then she had a couple of aftershocks. They both sank into the mattress, exhausted. Ham groaned and flopped a hand on her belly. She groaned back appreciatively. At least her body was slowed down, and she was too limp even to reach for an after-sex cigarette.

But as she dozed, her mind began to speed up again. She wondered what the letters on the vehicle would read.
Let it be Sons of Oklahoma
, she thought.
We need that damn warrant
.

“Yeah, me too,” Ham murmured.

She frowned. “What?”

He raised his head, his eyelids heavy with sleep. “Didn’t you just say you were hungry?”

“No. You dreamed it, man. But I think we’ve got some fries left.” She rolled out of bed like Lazarus rising from the dead.

Staggering down the hall, she gathered up her hair and let it fall over her shoulders. Gus looked up from his bed and panted at her. Whimpered. Gus was not a whimpering sort.

“What is it, Gussie?” she asked, snapping out of her stupor. She looked around the room, seeing nothing out of place. But the hair stood up on the nape of her neck. Something was different.

“Ham,” she murmured, but unless he had ESP, he wouldn’t hear her.

Then Gus got up and trotted to the side door. Grace looked out with him. Surrounded by a dervish of swirling leaves, a tawny shorthaired dog with a long, long pink tongue sat on his haunches and stared intently at her.

She swallowed. The dog appeared now and then, and Earl had a tattoo of him on his back. She had the suspicion that this dog was God. Did she need a better reason to be skeptical about some of the things Earl told her?

Gus barked once, very softly. Gus hardly ever barked. The dog kept looking at Grace, panting away, that big pink tongue practically touching the ground.

“What?” she asked it. Him. It. “Do you want me to know something?”

The dog stood and walked off her patio. Just like that. It didn’t disappear in a burning bush or a bolt of lightning or—

Grace went outside to pursue it. Naked. The wind was fierce and her hair whipped around her face, stinging painfully.

“What?” she called out, turning in a circle. “Where are you? What do you want?”

“Grace?” Ham said, jostling her.

She woke up. She was lying in her bed. It was just a dream.

“I had a dream that you had a dream,” she said. She thought a moment. “Then I had my own dream. Never mind.”

He smiled at her, brushing hair away from her face. “I
was just telling you that Tech called. They’ve made out the words on the van. It’s one of those magnetic car signs. For a real estate agent named Syndee Barlett. I’ve got her home address.”

“Cha-ching, paydirt,” Grace said happily.

They both leaped out of bed and Grace gathered up her clothes. “Cowboy up. Let’s ride,” she said.

Then she re-remembered her dream about the dog and Earl’s admonitions about tough times. Her mood sobered and she studied Ham, the screwy blond eyebrows, sleepy bedroom eyes, creases on either side of his mouth. Could tough times be Ham, getting hurt? Dying? On the job?

“Let’s be careful out there,” she said. “I got a feeling.”

He lifted a brow as he stuck one leg through his underwear. “Say what?”

“Something in my gut, man.” When he looked at her curiously, waiting for more explanation, she shrugged and gave him a fleeting smile. She’d tried to tell him about Earl but hell, she wouldn’t have believed him if the shoe had been on the other foot.

Which it should be. She looked down at her right foot, clad in her left boot, plopped down on the bed, and yanked it off. She could feel her senses snapping awake, fizzing and sizzling along her nerve endings like antacid tablets. She realized she was hungry.

In the kitchen, she grabbed some more cold fries and two bottles of Coke. Handed one to Ham as they blasted out the door. It was eight o’clock on a Saturday night, not too late to pay a citizen a visit. Especially if said citizen ran over Malcolm Briscombe.

Ham drove his GMC and Grace called in the name. It was a single-family home on the outskirts of Nichols Hill, which was one of the ritziest parts of OKC. Wide streets, lots of trees, nice.

“Twelve-oh-seven,” Grace said, watching the numbers on the houses. “Should be the next block.”

They pulled up. The truck ticked when Ham pulled out the key—cooling down. Grace was just getting warmed up.

There was a Prius hybrid parked in the driveway. The garage door was shut. As they exited Ham’s truck, Grace pulled a flashlight out of the glove box and darted around the side of the house. Glory hallelujah, there was a window into the garage. She peered in. It was very tidy. A washer and dryer and a bicycle, but no panel van. Yeah, well, if she had killed a kid with a vehicle, she’d dump it, too. So the lack of same didn’t prove anything except that it wasn’t there.

Just in case, she skirted the driveway, although it was wishful thinking that Rhetta would lift that distinguishing mark off the concrete. No sense jinxing it.