You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (25 page)

* * *

They found the shattered glass—a bottle of witch hazel that had fallen from the open medicine chest and smashed in the bathroom sink. Except for the open kitchen door, there was no other evidence that anyone had broken into the town house. The police did a room-to-room check with him and his aunt, and they couldn't find anything missing or damaged.

One of the cops suggested the intruder had been looking for drugs in the medicine chest. He said that some thieves had police scanners. When an accident got reported, the thief would go to the victim's address—counting on the probability that no one would be home. He suggested that something like that may have happened here. The cop said it was very unlikely the culprit would be returning anytime soon, but they'd keep an eye on the house tonight.

Spencer figured that was something he had in common with Bonnie. Both of them had the cops watching their homes tonight. She'd probably fallen asleep hours ago.

He thought of Diane's warning not to trust Bonnie. But he was pretty disappointed in his therapist. She'd acted as if she would be there for him at a moment's notice if he needed someone to vouch for him with the police. Well, he'd phoned her earlier tonight, much earlier, and she still hadn't called back.

He glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand: 3:18 a.m. He'd heard his aunt get up to use the washroom about ten minutes ago. Neither one of them were able to sleep.

He didn't buy the cop's theory about tonight's break-in. This wasn't random. It was personal. If someone had been looking for drugs here, that was merely secondary.

Spencer wondered if their intruder had broken in to search for the baseball cap. Maybe he—or she—had been worried their DNA was on it or something. And now they wanted it back.

He threw off the covers and crept out of bed. Padding over to the closet, he turned on the light and lifted the pile of sweaters. The cap was still there—in the plastic bag. He carefully took it out.

He saw how the brim was sweat-stained and worn in spots. This wasn't a hat someone had bought recently for some stupid prank. Someone wore this—and for a long time.

Detective Talwar probably had a pat answer for that. She'd say the prankster probably bought it used—or stole it. Why would someone buy a brand-new hat just to play a prank?

Besides, Detective Talwar said they'd found Reed's Dodgers cap in his bedroom—at the same time they'd found him and his parents dead.

Spencer slipped the hat back inside the Gap bag and set it on the closet shelf. No sense in hiding it under the sweaters anymore. Everyone knew he had it.

He switched off the closet light, and crawled back under the covers.

He thought about Reed and that stupid cap. It had been his trademark. He wore it to school every day, and took it off only when a teacher insisted he do so. Those were the only times Spencer ever saw him without that damn Dodgers cap on. He'd overheard someone say that Reed had worn the cap all summer long, too. The brim on it would have been in terrible shape. In fact, the whole hat would have been tattered and frayed. With that much use, it would have been falling apart—unless, of course, Reed had two identical caps.

Now the police had one of them, and he had the other.

Spencer turned over on his side, but his eyes were wide open.

He was convinced the Dodgers cap hadn't been planted in his locker as a joke. It was a trophy from a kill.

And the killer wanted him to have it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

 

“I
'm understudying the part of the secretary, Mabel, which is practically one of the leads,” Tanya said. “If Elizabeth Noll gets sick or anything, I have to take over for her. I have to know the music and choreography for all her scenes as well as my own.”

Sitting across from her in the intensive care unit's waiting room, Andrea had stopped really listening about ten minutes ago. She worked up a smile. “Well, it's really nice of you to give up valuable rehearsal time to come here, Tanya. I'm just sorry you can't see Luke. But as I said, because of his condition, they've put restrictions on the number of visitors . . .”

When Andrea had taken Spencer to see Luke a half hour ago, they'd had to wear surgical masks, smocks, and gloves as a precaution against infections. It was Spencer's first look at Luke since the accident, and he was visibly taken aback. Andrea thought Luke's appearance had improved a little since yesterday. At least, some of the swelling had gone down. Nearly half of him was covered in bandages and splints. He had a tube in his nose, and a machine hooked up to a line into his banged-up, purplish arm. His face was bruised and still slightly bloated. The painkillers they'd given him had slurred his speech, and he seemed out of it. Yet, when he saw Spencer, he worked up a smile and muttered, “Hey, Spencer. Sorry I can't get up . . .”

Andrea knew how Spencer felt to see sturdy, robust Luke suddenly so broken and frail. Spencer made some awkward small talk, but almost seemed relieved when a nurse came in and had them clear out so that she could change the dressings on Luke's wounds.

They silently shed the smocks, masks, and gloves, and then tossed them into a laundry bin. Then they headed back toward the small waiting room with its two beige couches, each flanked by end tables with a fake plant and a Kleenex box.

When they'd gone in to see Luke, the TV bracketed to the wall had been showing an old episode of
Two and a Half Men.
But on their return, they found the TV tuned in to
The Ellen Show
, and Tanya McCallum sitting on one of the couches, the remote control in her hand. Andrea immediately knew it was her from what Spencer had told her about Tanya's odd taste in thrift-store attire. Today she was wearing aqua slacks and a yellow peasant blouse from the 1970s.

Apparently, Tanya had told the hospital receptionist that she was practically family, and she'd insisted she be given a pass to the ICU wing. It baffled Andrea that without any clearance, they'd allowed this teenager, who looked and dressed like a crazy person, to visit someone in Intensive Care who was sort of a public figure. Spencer had said Tanya was pretty damn pushy and bossy. Maybe that explained it.

For the last fifteen minutes, Tanya had been talking about her part in the school play and how she was missing rehearsals right now. Now she was jabbering about all the other people in the play—as if Andrea already knew them or was supposed to care.

Spencer finally cleared his throat and asked her, “Don't you want to know how Luke's doing? You haven't even asked about him.”

Andrea wanted to cheer him for shutting Tanya up for a second.

“Well, why do you think I'm here?” she asked. “Did they let you see him? How does he look?”

“Have you seen
Misery
?” Spencer asked. “Because that's how he looks—like James Caan in
Misery
when he woke up in bed after the car crash—all banged up and practically dead. Only Luke looks worse.”

Tanya let out a long, dramatic sigh. “That's so awful. Who would do a thing like this?”

“You mean, you really don't have any idea?” Spencer pressed.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It's a legitimate question,” Andrea chimed in. “You've known Mr. Shuler longer than we have, Tanya. If this hit-and-run is connected in any way with what's been going on at the school—well, you've been there a lot longer than Spencer. You were friends with Damon, and familiar with the people who bullied him. You'd have a better idea than either of us who might have done something like this.”

Tanya squirmed. “Listen, I don't know why you think I have some inside scoop about who's behind this accident—or the stuff going on at school . . .”

“And you don't have, like, even a vague notion of who might have killed Reed Logan and his parents?” Spencer asked.

“God, you're almost as bad as the police, questioning me the night before last,” Tanya said. “Okay, I didn't like Reed. He was a total creep to me. But I didn't kill him, and I have no idea who did. And as for Damon's father, I'm a huge fan of his. Why do you think I skipped rehearsals to come here? I have no idea who would want to hurt him. Damon's father didn't have any enemies.”

“How can you say that?” Spencer asked. “I mean, for starters, there's that Troy or Trey guy we saw at the memorial service, the actor who dated Mrs. Shuler. Just looking at him, it was obvious to me he hates Luke's guts . . .”

“You mean Troy Slattery?” she asked. “Well, I really don't know how he feels about Luke. I've never met him.”

“But at the memorial, you said you met him twice at Damon's mother's place . . .”

She shrugged. “Okay, but that doesn't mean I
know
him.”

Andrea wondered if Tanya was really involved in all of this—or was she just one of those people who always acted like she knew everyone and everything when she really didn't. “Tanya, did Damon ever talk about this Troy person with you?” she asked.

“Well, maybe, I guess,” she muttered. “But it's not like they were together a long time. Troy and Mrs. Shuler were seeing each other for, like, only two months or so.”

It occurred to Andrea that Tanya could be protecting her fellow actor, Troy Slattery. Someone close to Evelyn had to be behind all this. No one else would have that inside information about Reed having worked for her. Troy seemed the most likely candidate.

Andrea had wondered if he was Evelyn's errand boy, the one who had broken into the apartment in Ballard. But then she'd figured Evelyn had broken up with him by that time. So why would Troy be doing Evelyn any favors?

Now it occurred to her. Maybe he'd hoped to win Evelyn back. It would explain why he'd stolen Evelyn's photo in the silver frame.

“Excuse me,” Andrea said, working up a polite smile for Tanya. “I need to use the restroom.”

As she started down the hallway, she heard Tanya muttering to Spencer: “Why are you and your aunt giving me such a hard time?”

Since yesterday morning, Andrea had checked twice with the police about their follow-up investigation into the hit-and-run. So far, they had no suspects. However, they'd found the Mazda CX-9 that had barreled into Luke. The vehicle had a cracked windshield and Luke's blood on the hood. The rain hadn't completely washed it away. The car had been stolen from the E-Z Park & Fly lot by Sea-Tac Airport, and been abandoned in the lot of a defunct Ethiopian restaurant called Empress of the Nile near the Central District.

Andrea fished her smart phone out of her purse, but then noticed the signs posted in the corridor:
NO CELL PHONE USE
—with the circle and slash symbol over an image of a cell phone. She spotted an exit sign over a doorway just down the hall. Hurrying to the door, she pushed it open and found herself in a gray cinderblock stairwell. She didn't see any signs about cell phone restrictions in the stairwell. Slipping off her shoe, she set it in the doorway to keep the door from shutting all the way. She didn't want to chance getting locked out of the ICU.

She Googled “Troy Slattery, actor” and found him listed on the Internet Movie Database as appearing in
Fifty Shades of Grey
. Andrea found his name listed sixth from the bottom of the complete cast list:

There were no other film credits. The other search results linked to cast lists of several plays performed in Seattle. She tried Google Image and found two photos in the second row that must have been publicity shots. He had a dark, dangerous look to him, broodingly handsome with sexy eyes and a five o'clock shadow. She tried the links, but the pictures were from playbills—without any contact information.

Andrea glanced over her shoulder to make sure her shoe was still in the doorway. On her phone's call history, she found the number for Jim Munchel, Luke's assistant director and friend.

He answered after the third ring: “Hi, Andrea. How's Luke doing?”

“Better, I think,” she said. “They're keeping him in the ICU at least until Saturday. Listen, I'm wondering if you have an address for an actor Luke worked with, Troy Slattery.”

“Troy Slattery?” he asked, sounding baffled. “Why would you need his address?”

“Ah, he sent Luke flowers,” she lied. “I thought I'd shoot off a thank-you note to him.”

“That's one for Ripley's,” Jim said.

Andrea looked back at the door again. “What do you mean?”

“I can't believe Troy would do something that thoughtful for anyone—least of all, Luke.”

“Well, I know Troy and Evelyn had a thing, but—”

“If there was a card with the flowers, I'm sure he wrote something snide on it,” Jim said. “Troy was a real hothead—and total screwup. Luke tried to give him a chance, and he shit all over it. On top of that, he had a major drug problem—crystal meth. Luke finally had to fire him. It was a real mess . . .”

“Well, maybe Troy got his act together and was trying to make amends,” she said. “Anyway, do you have an address for him?”

“Just a sec. Let me see if I have anything current here. I don't think he's worked for a couple of months . . .”

The address was on East Capitol Hill.

Andrea checked Mapquest.com and saw that Troy lived less than a mile from Empress of the Nile in the Central District. If he was the one who had mowed down Luke, he'd had an easy walk home after ditching the car.

She checked how far Troy's Twenty-fourth Street address was from the hospital. That was walking distance, too.

“Aunt Dee?”

She swiveled around and gaped at Spencer in the corridor. He stared at her through the crack in the doorway. “I've been looking all over for you,” he murmured.

“I just needed to make a call,” she said.

He held the door open for her while she put her shoe back on. “I thought something might have happened to you. The nurse said Luke wants to see you.”

She nodded and then slipped her phone back inside her purse. “Thanks,” she said, stepping back into the corridor. She was about to start down the hallway, but Spencer took hold of her arm.

“Listen, Luke only asked for you,” he whispered. “I feel kind of useless around here. Would you mind if I grab a bus with Tanya back to Queen Anne?”

Andrea sighed. “You'd be doing me a huge favor if you got her out of here. But I really don't like the idea of you being alone—not after that break-in the other night.”

“Well, visiting hours are over at eight,” Spencer said. “You'll get home at—what—eight-thirty? I'll be okay until then . . .”

Andrea gave him thirty dollars so he could order a pizza. She made him promise he'd call her when he got back to Luke's—and that he'd double-lock the doors. Spencer kept assuring her that he'd be fine. Still, she felt uneasy sending him off with Tanya.

Before entering Luke's private room, Andrea donned the required surgical mask, smock, and gloves. If he'd been cognizant enough to ask for her a few minutes ago, he seemed pretty out of it now. The TV bracketed to the wall was showing Marlon Brando up on the tenement roof with his pigeons and Eva Marie Saint. Leonard Bernstein's love theme was reaching a crescendo. But Luke was oblivious—and he loved
On the Waterfront
. He was either drugged up or in great pain.

Andrea ducked into his bathroom, where she ran a washcloth under the cold water and wrung it out. She gently dabbed Luke's bruised forehead with the cool, damp washcloth.

“You're mothering me again,” he muttered with his eyes closed.

“Oh, shut up,” she said.

She saw a flicker of a smile on his battered face. “It's okay, I like it.”

As she laid the cool washcloth on his head, Andrea thought about Troy Slattery—less than a mile away.

From what Luke had told her, Troy was practically living with Evelyn last May, when Damon was getting bullied at school. Had the two of them formed some kind of bond? Was Troy going after everyone on Damon's hate list? Was Tanya involved, too?

“You don't need to stay, honey,” Luke mumbled. “Go home, get some rest. Come back tomorrow. I've got
Waterfront
here to keep me entertained—and I can hardly keep awake for that. I'm so tired . . .”

“Are you awake enough to answer a question?” she asked, hovering over him.

With his eyes closed, he groaned something that sounded like an affirmative.

“Do you think it's possible that Troy Slattery was the one who did this to you?”

His eyes opened, and he seemed to focus on her for a second. “Yes,” Luke whispered. “I wouldn't put it past the son of a bitch.”