Part 5 (1/2)
”Yes, money. There are bills to be paid including mine and Rae's. Among the doc.u.ments Gil sent over were t.i.tle reports on your wife's real estate.”
”I can explain.”
”They want you out as P/R. Tell me something I can use to deflect that.”
Rae drove away from Sandy's office through pelting early May rain. On the Diagonal Highway, she headed northeast, a white-knuckled runaway from her own demons.
My G.o.d. I've just hit a client in the face. He could...but he won't...d.a.m.n you, Danny La.s.siter. How could you end up a crack-head?
Her visibility was impaired, but notching up the wiper speed didn't help. Reined-in tears slipped their bits and dashed down her face, carrying away all traces of her makeup.
Rae pulled off the highway in Niwot, drove down a dirt road that ran past a small lake where red-winged blackbirds staked their spring claims amidst the skeletons of last year's cattails. There she parked and let the tide of emotion carry her back thirteen years to that day when the sun went black and the world--as she knew it--ended.
Anthony Esposito. Anthony--never ”Tony.” Rae called him her Four-H man. Handsome, healthy, hunk, husband. Her husband. In the privacy of her heart, she subst.i.tuted ”h.o.r.n.y” for ”healthy.” He was both, but there were some things she didn't need to say aloud.
Anthony was a Denver cop. Rae had just inherited her grandmother's farm in Longmont. They made big plans to finish raising the kids on Grandma's farm. Real Four-H. The works. Anthony would take early retirement in about ten years and they'd be full-time farmers. The kids, aged ten and twelve, were ecstatic. The world was so sweet it hurt her teeth.
Then on the second of May, in the middle of a spring snow storm, Anthony responded to a domestic violence call on Marion Street, at one of those fine old Victorian houses that had been converted to apartments.
A man named Victor Markov was high on something. Rae didn't remember his substance of choice--just his wild eyes reflecting emotions askew. When she saw his picture on the evening news, she imagined how Anthony must have felt looking into those wanton eyes.
A woman and a young boy of about five had been in the apartment with Markov--his wife and son, whom he had determined were not worthy to go on living.
Anthony had talked the man out of the apartment, onto the street where he stood between Markov and the apartment building. Markov had seemed about to hand over his pistol to Anthony. As a precaution, a swat team hovered on the adjacent roof. Rae had read the report a dozen times. Everything seemed to be under control. Anthony wore a bullet-proof Kevlar vest--just in case.
Then the stupid woman--Mrs. Markov--came barreling out of the building, yelling G.o.d knows what, preceded by the little boy, and Markov had turned the gun on his family. But somehow, it was Anthony whose blood first stained the snow. Defective vest. Who knew? The manufacturer paid a price. It seemed there were other widows created by those vests, but there was no way to place a value. Not with money. Not even Markov's life could make a difference.
Rae had to see it. The place where Anthony fell. See his blood turning brown on the snow, the sight burning across her brain, like frames from a bad movie. Rewind, replay. Her brain kept doing this. Time after time. Blood on the snow. And the woman's screams, replayed on the evening news, high on whatever the man was on.
Witnesses said Anthony threw himself in front of the woman and child, both of whom escaped unharmed. Rae didn't want to believe this. She didn't want a dead hero husband. Why didn't he just shoot the son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h?
Within a fraction of a second the swat team on the adjacent roof fired, turning Markov into a sieve. But that fraction of a second was all it took...to be too late...for Anthony.
In the days that followed, Rae moved outside her body, retracing Anthony's every step, undoing the done deed. He was in the locker room and missed the initial call. A traffic jam prevented him from reaching Marion Street in time. Markov killed his wife and child, then turned the pistol on himself. Anything but what was. Rae followed Anthony doggedly into the snow in front of the Markovs' apartment. No, no. Let him shoot her. Let him shoot me!
But Anthony hadn't listened. It made no difference that the media made him a hero. To Rae, he was a deserter--until time slapped her alongside the head and sent self-pity flying from her heart.
Nate found Morgan sleeping in her darkened bedroom when he returned home from the Lakewood Police Department. The new pain meds her doctor had prescribed were turning her into a zombie. She was always either asleep or in pain.
He had Lakewood's report now, but it had a bunch of holes in it--blacked-out names. Not only Dee's, but apparently the person she accused of doing unspeakable things to her.
He'd found the Colorado Revised Statutes on the internet and perused the relevant sections. Law enforcement agency reports came under a separate section from other doc.u.ments subject to public disclosure. Now he understood why some of the content might not be deemed public information. This would explain why Deidre's name had been blacked out. But what would explain the obliteration of her a.s.sailant's name?
As he'd read the report, he'd felt a curious detachment. Then his brain focused on how he could use this information to pry the truth out of Morgan. How would this truth impact their marriage? More importantly, how would his prying impact both his marriage and his continued employment at Bayfield Enterprises? Nathan Farris had not been mentioned in Jerome Bayfield's will.
”Uncle Nate,” Beth's voice broke his thought pattern. He hadn't heard her enter the room.
”Shhhh.” He put a finger to his lips. Morgan stirred, a frown creasing her brow. Why were teenagers always so loud?
”Uncle Nate,” whispered Beth, and he realized she had not been loud, had merely spoken in a normal voice. ”I need to go to the mall. Can I have some money? Please.”
Morgan spoke without opening her eyes. ”Beth? Why aren't you in school?”
A long sigh escaped Beth's lips. ”It's after school, Aunt Morgan. I'm supposed to meet Amy at the mall, only I need some money.”
As he watched Morgan slowly open her eyes, Nate wondered how long she'd been awake.
”Nathan, get my purse from the dresser, please.” Morgan's voice sagged, but she managed a weak smile in Beth's direction.
A stab of resentment burned his gut. Instead of reaching for Morgan's purse, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills.
”Not too much,” said Morgan.
He peeled off a twenty and handed it to Beth. ”Home for dinner?”
”After the mall we'll probably eat at Scooters and just hang. I won't be late.” She hugged him, then went over to the bed and gently kissed Morgan on the cheek. He saw Morgan whisper something in Beth's ear and Beth's quick nod. Girl talk?
A sweet kid, he thought. A lot of sadness still lurked in her blue eyes. With her pert little upturned nose, she barely looked her age, especially since she'd stopped wearing makeup--as if her face was in mourning. Amazing that she came from Deidre.
”Thanks, Uncle Nate,” Beth said as she walked out of the room. That must've been what the whisper was about. Morgan was big on manners.
No bounce in Beth's step, though. The pall of her mother's death seemed to weigh heavily on her, though they hadn't been close. He noticed that her hair was different--pulled back severely. When had that happened? He remembered that it had been a jangle of blond curls at Deidre's funeral.
”Not late means by eight.” Morgan's voice was stronger now.
”Eight?” Beth whined from the hallway. ”You can't be serious.”
”And call when you're ready to come home. I don't want you on a bus after dark.”
At least she's going with her friends again, he thought, not moping in her room.
When Beth had left, Nate sat on the bed and took Morgan's hand in his. ”How do you feel?”
”The same. Meds just take the edge off--if I'm lucky.” Morgan struggled to sit up in bed.
Nate propped pillows behind her. ”Maybe we should change doctors.” He watched the muscles in Morgan's jaw tighten.
”He's doing all he can,” she said.
He rubbed her arm while he fed her one bit of news from the Lakewood Police Report. ”I learned something today. Dee didn't drown. She died of cocaine toxicity.”
She didn't ask how he came by this information, just shook her head. ”They killed her. I don't care what the report says.”
”They? That JJ person and...Danny?”
She seemed to shrivel before his eyes, her facial muscles sagged. Even the skin under her jaw drooped, like all the life was going out of her. Then she grabbed him with strength that surprised him and held on while appearing to wrestle with what she had to say.
Nate waited, patting Morgan's back, having no idea what he could have said to elicit such a response. They had openly discussed Danny's possible involvement in Dee's death. What had changed?