Part 12 (1/2)
But with JJ gone, why not leave it alone? Oh, s.h.i.+t. Wehr thought she knew. Where had her head been?
She pulled into the parking lot of a multiplex on Colfax and parked under a light. Within seconds Reggie's vehicle snaked down the adjacent aisle and disappeared in shadow.
It was a weeknight. Only a trickle of people around the movie house. Fewer still at the surrounding businesses: a Wendy's and a Conoco. Not good. Driving to a public place hadn't been that great an idea. Her intention of going to a pay phone and calling Veronica Sanchez wasn't an option anymore.
Juggling her cell phone in her right hand, she felt panic setting in. Call nine-one-one. And say what? This sc.u.mbag cop was after her for illegally keeping a tape of a vic's interview?
Respect for authority had been drummed into her head from her childhood in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. Middle child in a family of five. Parents both achievers who provided well, but demanded respect. What's wrong with that? When did respect turn to blind obedience?
No time to figure that one. The arc light above her car was barely adequate, but she made out her own scribbling enough to punch in Veronica Sanchez's number.
The ringing seemed to go on endlessly. A voicemail was not what she needed. A person was. A witness to whatever Reggie might- ”Hey, Emily.” Reggie, out of nowhere, on the opposite side of her car from where he should have been.
You don't run when a bear has you treed. You make yourself very large and roar. Well, maybe not roar. She rolled down her window, put the cell to her ear and motioned for Reggie to keep it down, hoping he couldn't see her white knuckles in the artificial light.
”Yeah, right. He's here now.” Wehr paused and took small pleasure in the look on Reggie's face. ”I don't know. I'll ask him.”
”Who's that?”
”You don't want to know.” Tough it out. Don't let him see blood. ”Just what are you doing, Navarro? Following me?”
”Who's on the phone?” His ham of a hand was on the window, resting, not going anywhere-yet.
”None of your business.”
”Wanna bet?” he said softly.
Then the idea hit her like a life raft. What would Reggie hate getting into worse than a Tampax box?
”Reg, I don't know how you got the idea, but I'm not interested in a relations.h.i.+p with you. Please leave right now.”
Into the phone she said, ”Reggie Navarro's leaning on my car and I feel threatened.”
”Relations.h.i.+p?” The strangest expression came over his face, like he couldn't believe she was so dumb.
Still he didn't move. But she could feel the momentum of his gathering rage. Once more, into the phone: ”Yes, I would say it const.i.tutes stalking.”
That was when Wehr heard the voicemail on Veronica's phone time out.
”Stalking?” He roared as Wehr started up the engine and pressed the automatic window b.u.t.ton. ”In your dreams,” shouted Reggie, backing away from her car like some part of her might touch him. ”Who'd stalk you, f.u.c.king stupid c.u.n.t?”
Bless the three-day poker games back home with the aunts and the uncles and the men from the Pine Bluff fire station. Who'da thought? Now it was really time to fold and run.
It had worked. Maybe. He wasn't following. Almost certain of that. Almost. He thought he'd been pegged for a stalker not a burglar. In Reggie's mind, she probably hadn't noticed anything off in her apartment.
Where to go? Not home. She had three weeks vacation left, and could probably activate it by phone or on line. Emergency family leave. That was better. Her sister in Arkansas needed her. As Wehr's brain spun an escape ladder, her cell rang. She couldn't see the caller ID so she pressed the answer b.u.t.ton and waited.
”Sergeant Wehr?” She recognized Veronica Sanchez's voice.
”This is Wehr.”
”What was that you left on my voicemail?”
”What did it sound like?”
”You and Reggie Navarro having a confrontation. You called me for a reason, right?”
”I have something you can use.”
”Can you call me from a secure line?”
”You'll hear from me when I'm in a safer place.”
”Wait a minute. What--”
Wehr pressed the end b.u.t.ton and headed east on Interstate 70 with just the clothes on her back, her laptop, and the keys on her key ring. Oh yes, there was her wallet with IDs, a little cash, her credit card with ATM privileges and her new best friend-the Glock 9mm.
No Crown Vic in the rearview. That was good. She was just a stupid f.u.c.king c.u.n.t who got the wrong idea about Reggie's intentions. That was okay, too.
Veronica's home was an hour's drive south of Longmont. Rae had never been there before. She took Wadsworth rather than I-25, as it allowed her more time to think about the full implications of taking on the job with Lakewood PD.
She'd done this sort of thing for dozens of private clients. Even a couple of union chapters and a sprinkling of non-profits. Sometimes she'd found dirt. Other times, clean as a baby's conscience. Her designation as Certified Fraud Examiner went quietly unnoticed for the most part. The juicy stuff went to the big firms. Rae, as a sole pract.i.tioner who worked out of her residence, was too low profile to get the attention of the big companies and munic.i.p.alities.
Rae didn't advertise. Word-of-mouth brought her more clients than she could handle. But, G.o.d, it was for the most part mind-numbingly boring. Veronica hadn't even known forensic accounting was her strongpoint, her meat, until they'd gotten into money motives, finances and the den of snakes that made up the Bayfield family of fortune keepers.
The a.s.signment dangled like a Black Angus steak; Rae couldn't wait to get her teeth into the meat of it. She made a quick mental apology to her aging critters, Jake and Augie, for the insensitive comparison.
But it wasn't just the Bayfield books. It was answers that hung like questions. Veronica was becoming more forthcoming about the case. As a means of drawing her in, Rae guessed. Kevin was apparently a rotten apple, but who was there to confirm Morgan's story about his implication in his mother's death? James Joseph Camacho had tortured and raped Deidre La.s.siter. Veronica had finally confirmed that JJ was a snitch in a drug sting for Metro. So, how could they have lost him? The drug case in which he was a key player seemed totally unrelated to the deaths of either Deidre or Kevin. The financial records of Bayfield Enterprises might have an interesting story to tell. Or they might yield nothing.
Rae was eager to get started. She and Veronica had lunched together in the old days, following Anthony's death. Some dinners, too. Veronica, along with other of Anthony's fellow officers and their spouses had been steadfast in their support of Rae and her kids.
By the end of a year or so, contacts with Anthony's world had dried up like cheat gra.s.s in summer heat. Rekindling her friends.h.i.+p with Veronica felt good.
Veronica's directions had been easy to follow. Hers was an older split-level that backed up to farmland. A neatly kept house with brick siding in a neighborhood with good schools. Veronica had a twelve-year-old son whom Rae had never met.
As she parked her Mercedes behind a white Camry, Rae saw Veronica on the front porch. Beside her was a tall, skinny kid. Veronica's son Justin.
A memory flashed as Rae walked toward the pair: Veronica's exodus from Metro had coincided with her pregnancy, as well as the trauma of witnessing Anthony's death. All she'd ever told Rae was that the relations.h.i.+p with Justin's father hadn't worked out.
”Rae,” Veronica called warmly as she approached, but there was no customary welcoming embrace. Instead, Veronica's right arm was planted steadfastly around her son's shoulders.
Already the boy stood nearly as tall as his mother. Brown-skinned, a bit lighter than Veronica, his dark hair was closely cropped, giving center stage to riveting hazel eyes.
Oh, my G.o.d. Anthony's eyes.
Rae's vision drowned in a sea of red. Time stood on tiptoe as Anthony's face filled the red blur. The gun shots. Over and over again. Into Anthony's body. Only this time it wasn't Markov holding the weapon. It was Rae.
d.a.m.n you. d.a.m.n you, Anthony Esposito.