Читать книгу In This Town - Beth Andrews - Страница 12
ОглавлениеCHAPTER FOUR
WORKING TO KEEP her expression unchanged, Tori slid her arm down, pretending she was reaching over to straighten the metal napkin holder. She wished she could cross her arms over her chest, hunch her shoulders and duck her head, but that would be surrendering.
She could handle him; she could handle any man. It was what she did.
Bertrand pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Were you aware that Dale York had arrived in Mystic Point in July of this year?”
“Of course.”
“When did you become aware of Mr. York’s presence in town?” he asked when it became clear she wasn’t about to offer more information.
“I’m not sure of the exact date.”
He wrote something. “You must’ve been surprised he was back.”
“Yes.” Just thinking about it, about Dale walking around her town, made her throat constrict. “Yes, I certainly was surprised.”
Surprised. Furious. More scared than she’d ever been in her life.
When Layne had come into the café that hot July day and told Tori that Dale was in town, Tori’s first instinct had been to grab her son and run. To somehow escape what she’d known would only be more heartache and pain. To try to escape the past.
Her family had only just begun to come to terms with the fact that after all these years, Dale would probably never be found, would never be brought to justice for murdering their mother. The cops had tried to track him down but it was as if he had vanished from the face of the earth the night he left town.
Until he waltzed into the Mystic Point police station, hard-eyed and cocky, and claimed he wanted to cooperate with the investigation.
“Did you and Mr. York cross paths during the two weeks he was in Mystic Point?”
“Once,” she said with a casual wave of her hand, as if their encounter had been of no importance. “But then, I’m guessing you already know that, don’t you?”
Again he waited, giving her a look that said he had one nerve left and she was getting on it.
She blinked innocently at him. Well, as innocently as possible.
He flipped through his notebook. “You were listed as a witness to an assault the night of July 17 at a bar called the Yacht Pub.” He lifted his head, his pen poised over paper. “Is that correct?”
“If it’s in your handy dandy notebook, I’d say it must be.”
He set the notebook aside, laid his hands flat on the table. “Mrs. Mott, police reports indicate you were a witness to an altercation that night between Dale York and his son, Griffin. Your sister Nora also witnessed the event and your other sister, Captain Sullivan, was the arresting officer.”
Tori’s stomach grew queasy. She was starting to see how bad this all looked to someone on the outside. How it could be construed that her family had conspired against the man who killed their mother. “That’s right.”
“You and your sister Nora went to the bar together?”
“No. I was with a group of friends. Nora was there when I arrived.”
“She was alone?”
“She was with Griffin.” Tori tipped her bottle, watched a drop of water slide to the top, then flipped it again. She’d been so upset seeing her sister sitting next to Griffin York at the Yacht Pub, the bar where their mother had tended bar. Where Val and Dale had started their affair.
“You went to school together, you and Griffin York.”
“We did. Although we hardly ran around with the same crowd. I was half of Mystic Point High’s hottest couple and he was the ultimate bad boy, hauling around that chip on his shoulder, a perpetual smirk on his face.”
“You don’t like him,” Bertrand said.
Truth or lie? She had no problem with lies but sensed it wouldn’t hurt to tell the truth in this instance. “Those are some seriously well-honed investigating skills, Detective.”
“The police report also indicated that Griffin started the fight.”
She may not like Griffin, wasn’t sure she trusted him, but Nora did. Nora loved him. “Dale instigated it.”
“How?”
“He got grabby with Nora.” An exaggeration, one Tori didn’t regret. As far as she was concerned, Griffin had every reason and every right to have laid into Dale that night. “Griffin punched him. They fought. Layne broke it up—”
“By using her Taser on Dale.”
“He charged at her,” Tori said, straightening. Bertrand was trying to turn things around, make it seem as if Layne had used unnecessary force because they all hated Dale. “She was defending herself and trying to get the situation under control. Besides, it wasn’t like she shot him.”
“This morning at Chief Taylor’s office, you said you were glad Dale York was dead.”
She narrowed her eyes. Wasn’t he clever, trying to trip her up with his lightning-fast questions? “Actually you asked if I was happy Dale was dead. I didn’t answer. But I will now. Yes. I’m glad he’s dead.”
“Mrs. Mott, where were you the night Dale York died?”
“You think I killed Dale?” she asked, wondering if she’d made a mistake, a big one, in agreeing to speak with Bertrand here, now, on her own.
“I think you hated him,” Bertrand said, watching her carefully. “That you were angry there wasn’t enough evidence to charge him with your mother’s murder.”
“Right on both counts. But I didn’t kill him.”
“Your whereabouts that night?” he asked again.
“I was at the country club with the rest of my family. It was my cousin’s engagement party.”
He jotted that in his damn notebook. She wanted to snatch it up, take it into the kitchen and burn it on the stove.
“What time did you leave the party?”
“Midnight? Maybe a little later.” She tossed the empty bottle aside. It rolled across the table, stopping at the salt and pepper shaker holder. “Look, it was late and—”
“Were you drinking that night?”
“I had a few glasses of wine.” Had needed them considering her ex, Greg, had been there with his new girlfriend. Colleen Gibbs taught at the same school as Tori’s cousin Erin so Tori had spent a tense evening watching them cozy up to each other. Even though Tori knew she’d made the right decision asking Greg for a divorce, seeing him with her, seeing how happy he was with another woman—when she’d failed so miserably at being his wife—hurt.
“Were your sisters there?”
“My sisters, my father and Celeste—”
“Celeste Vitello, your father’s girlfriend and owner of this establishment?”
Nerves tumbled in Tori’s stomach. She hadn’t been far off the mark with her smartass comment about his investigation skills. He was good, better than she’d expected.
Lesson learned.
“Yes,” she ground out, hating that he’d pushed her into being unable to muster up any pretense of indifference. “Ross was there, too, as was Griffin—for an hour or so—not to mention my uncle and his family and around two hundred of my cousin and her fiancé’s closest friends.”
“Where did you go when you left the party?”
“Home.”
“Alone?”
Now she smiled, slow and easy. “I had several men offer me their…company…but yes, I was alone.”
Bertrand looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. “Your son didn’t go home with you?”
Her son. He knew about Brandon. She snorted silently. Of course he did. He probably knew what color panties she had on, what she liked to eat for breakfast and how much money she made in tips last year.
“Brandon went home with his father.” He preferred being at his father’s house. Preferred being with Greg and Colleen over Tori.
She was surprised Bertrand didn’t know that as well.
“So no one can verify your whereabouts during the hours of midnight until Dale York’s body was found at approximately 6:00 a.m.?”
“Nope.”
He leaned forward. “Mrs. Mott, did you kill Dale York?”
She mimicked his stance and tone. “No, Detective Bertrand, I did not. Although as far as I’m concerned, whoever did kill him did the world a favor.”
“There’s no proof Dale York killed your mother,” he said, all emotionally closed off and professional. “What if he was innocent?”
“Just because there’s no proof doesn’t mean he wasn’t guilty. I would’ve thought they’d have taught you that at the police academy.” She slid to her feet, reached back for the water bottle.
“What are you doing?” he asked, looking completely confused and irritated.
“This is called leaving. It’s what happens when I get tired of a conversation or am bored. I’m both. And since you’ve asked me all your very important questions, I see no reason for us to have our official meeting Friday afternoon. But before we both go our separate ways, there is one thing I want to say.”
“I can hardly wait,” he muttered.
“This thing with Layne, it’s a load of crap. She doesn’t break the rules…she makes sure the rules are maintained. And Ross? He’s as by-the-book as they come.”
“He’s sleeping with a subordinate officer. Wait,” he said, holding up a hand, “don’t tell me. They’re in love and love trumps everything else, even rules, regulations and law and order?”
“I have no idea if they’re in love or in lust or just scratching an itch until something or someone else comes along. All I know is that they’re two unattached adults and neither one would let their personal relationship interfere with their jobs. And they sure as hell wouldn’t create some sort of grand conspiracy.”
“I guess that’ll be determined. I’ll determine it.”
“You’re an arrogant one, aren’t you?” she asked softly. “Confident. As if your badge gives you the right to look down on the rest of us mere mortals. I thought a good cop waited until he had all the facts before deciding whether someone was guilty, but you…you’ve already judged us. And found us guilty.”
He held her gaze, not the least bit cowed by her sharp words, her acerbic tone. “I’m trying to get to the truth.”
“I hope you find it because it’s going to prove that neither my sister nor Ross have done anything illegal or unethical. It’s also going to show that no one in my family killed Dale York.”
She walked away. And prayed that she was right. Because if Bertrand discovered something, anything, that could be used against her sister or any member of her family, they were screwed.
* * *
LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Anthony Sullivan pulled a coffee cup from the dispenser. Ever since his freshman year at Boston University, he stopped at this same store whenever he got back into town. Some habits were hard to break.
The bell on the door rang and he glanced over—and wished he’d attended a twelve-step program for lovers of bad convenience store coffee.
It was her. Jessica Taylor. He knew he should look away, but his eyes locked on her. She held the door, said something to the short redhead who waitressed with her at the café. Then she laughed, the sound seeming to float across the store to wrap around him. Torture him.
Goddamn her.
Ducking his head, he watched the chemically enhanced vanilla-flavored coffee squirt into the takeout cup. His shoulders ached with tension. His chest was tight, as if he’d explode if he took a full breath.
They’d met here, right here at this very spot, well over three months ago. When he’d run in for a coffee, he hadn’t known his entire life was about to change. But then he’d turned and saw her and it was as if he’d been struck by lightning. As if everything out of order in his life had neatly fallen into place.
He’d been such an idiot.
Anthony sensed her approaching, caught sight of her from the corner of his eye. She was close enough he could smell her light perfume. Could reach out and trace his finger down the softness of her cheek like he used to. Longing mixed with the anger in his gut, made it impossible to ignore the memories that rushed into his mind. Ones he’d been fighting ever since he walked away from her.
“Anthony,” she said, her voice breathless. Scared. She cleared her throat. “Hi.”
He should walk away now. He didn’t owe her anything, not even politeness. But he made the mistake of turning, and noticed how nervous she looked, the way she twisted her hands together at her waist.
And his feet froze to the floor.
“Hey,” he said gruffly, all he could give her. All he wanted to give to the girl who’d lied to him, who’d made him look like such a fool.
She’d cut her hair, he realized with a jolt, his fingers twitching with the need to touch it, to see if it was still as soft as he remembered. Instead of falling to her shoulders, the pale, almost white strands barely reached her chin now and her thick, straight bangs skimmed her eyebrows.
She was unique, so different from all the other girls with her light hair and blue eyes, her lush curves and go-to-hell attitude. She was beautiful. Smart. Funny and sarcastic and jaded. It was the combination of her looks and her world-weary attitude—as if she’d seen and done it all and found each experience boring as hell—that made her seem older. More mature.
Except she was neither. She was sixteen.
He’d kissed her, touched her and she was just a kid, five years younger than he was, two years too young for him.
When he looked at her, when his stomach tightened with attraction, he felt like a creep. Like a loser who couldn’t get a girl his own age or worse, some pedophile preying on young girls. He hadn’t known the truth about her age until after they were involved. But he knew now. It should be enough, he thought desperately, her age and the fact that she lied, should be more than enough reason for him to hate her.
He didn’t. Couldn’t.
Anthony turned away. His movements unsteady, he grabbed his full cup with too much force and coffee sloshed over the side and burned his fingers. Swearing under his breath, he jerked his hand back.
Jessica reached for him, frowning in concern. “You okay?”
Wiping his hand on the side of his leg, he stepped back. If she touched him, he’d be lost. Wrapped up in her again, unable to get her out of his head when he’d finally, finally, stopped thinking about her every day. Stopped dreaming about her.
“I’m fine,” he said, more harshly than he’d intended.
She dropped her arm. Swallowed and then licked her lips. “Uh, are you on fall break?”
“Brandon’s first game is tomorrow.” Anthony dug his wallet out of his back pocket. “I promised him I’d go.”
“Oh, right. He’s really excited.”
Anthony rubbed his thumb across his wallet with enough force to wear a hole in the soft leather. Brandon was his cousin, his family. Not hers. But she’d managed to infiltrate even that part of his life. Ross Taylor, her uncle and guardian, practically lived with Anthony’s cousin Layne. As long as Layne and Ross were together, Jess would be there, at Brandon’s games, at family celebrations and holidays.
“How’s school?” she asked, just like everybody else who didn’t know what to say to him.
He sipped his coffee, glanced over her head. “Same as always.”
“Good. That’s…good.”
She paused, looking at him expectantly, but he wasn’t about to ask her how she was, what she’d been doing lately. She picked up a candy bar and turned it in her hands.
He’d teased her about the candy bars when they’d first met. Had flirted and practically begged for her number. He didn’t usually go to so much effort. If a girl wasn’t interested, he moved on, no harm, no foul. But he’d seen a vulnerability in her eyes, a softness and hopefulness that intrigued him. He’d wanted to break down her walls, see who she really was behind her cynical smirk.
It’d taken time and patience but he’d done just that. He’d gotten to know her, the intelligent, wounded girl who’d so quickly stolen his heart. He’d trusted her, had told her things he’d never told anyone else. His doubts about going to law school, how pressured he felt to follow in his father’s footsteps. He’d thought what they had was real but it was all some sort of joke on her part.
“Well,” she said, sounding disappointed he wasn’t willing to pretend everything was okay between them. That he forgave her. “I guess I’ll see you around sometime.”
He shrugged. Sent her a cool look as he took another sip of his coffee, the hot liquid scalding the roof of his mouth. “Probably.”
Only way he could figure to avoid it was to never set foot in Mystic Point.
It might be worth it just so he’d never have to see her again.
Keira walked up to them, her quizzical gaze going from Jess to him. “Hey, Anthony,” she said, her tone friendly as always, but she linked her arm with Jess’s, a clear sign of whose side she was really on.
He tipped his cup. Message received. “Good to see you, Keira.”
And he walked away. As he paid for his coffee and a pack of gum, he felt Jess watching him. Waiting.
He pocketed his change, dropping a couple of coins in the process. They spun on the dirty floor, but he didn’t bother picking them up, just shoved open the door and stepped out into the bright sunshine and hurried to his Jeep. Only when he was inside, the radio blaring, did he take a full breath, his lungs burning painfully.
He shouldn’t feel guilty. He didn’t owe her anything. Not friendship or whatever she was looking for. She’d used him. Lied to him. Made him look like an idiot. She’d caused him nothing but trouble, brought with her nothing but heartbreak. He was better off without her. Hell, even if none of that was true, he couldn’t be with her—not without going against everything he’d been taught his entire life about how a man was supposed to act. Everything that he knew was right.
So he’d let her go.
But he hadn’t wanted to. Despite everything, despite only being with her for a few weeks, he still felt a connection with her. Still wanted her.
And he had to learn to live with that.
* * *
WALKER STEPPED OUT into the parking lot of the police station and inhaled deeply. The briny scent of the ocean tickled his nose. Made him realize he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out on his sailboat.
He worked too much, he thought, shifting the folders in his arm, his laptop case in his other hand. If he hadn’t known it as fact, his mother and sisters were all too happy to remind him. Every chance they got.
The breeze ruffled his hair as he approached his car. Setting the folders on the roof so he could dig his keys from his front pocket, he glanced up, saw Officer Evan Campbell, with his round cheeks and earnestness, standing by a cruiser. He glared at Walker, his thin arms crossed over his chest. The kid didn’t look old enough to drive, was pathetically easy to read and was about as intimidating as Paisley, Walker’s six-month-old niece. And yet the great state of Massachusetts had seen fit to legally entitle him to carry a firearm.
He was as obvious in his resentment of Walker as the rest of the town’s police department. Hell, anytime Walker set one foot outside of the office he’d been assigned at the station, all sound and most movement ceased. It was actually a pretty cool trick, the way every person in the building went completely still, as if they weren’t even going to breathe in his presence lest he somehow contaminate their air.
Suddenly feeling a hell of a lot older than thirty-six and wearier than he should, Walker took off his sunglasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He dropped his hand and held Campbell’s gaze until the kid shifted and looked away. Then after a moment, walked into the station.
And all was right with the world once again.
“Do you have a minute?”
Walker didn’t jump at the sound of the voice, but it was close. “Any questions or comments about your suspension can be directed at the mayor,” Walker told Taylor as he unlocked his car and set his laptop on the backseat.
“This isn’t about my suspension. It’s about you interviewing Tori Mott without her attorney being present.”
“It wasn’t a formal interview.”
“It was a fishing expedition.”
It was, but Walker wouldn’t admit it. He gathered the folders, put them on top of the laptop before facing Taylor. “Mrs. Mott agreed to speak to me without the presence of legal counsel and was free to go at any time.”
Even if he had indicated otherwise. But she’d left, hadn’t she? Without him stopping her.
It’d been a risk, talking to her outside of the police station without the legality of a formal interview. But he’d seen the opportunity and had taken it.
Just because he helped enforce the rules didn’t mean he was above bending them a bit when it suited his purpose.
“Any judge worth their robe will toss out anything she had to say,” Taylor said.
Undoubtedly. “I guess that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
Taylor stepped forward, his eyes hidden by sunglasses, his mouth a hard line. But his voice remained neutral. “While you’re taking chances, Captain Sullivan and I are fighting for our careers and reputations and a murderer is walking free. Maybe you’d do better to play things by the book instead of playing hotshot.”
“When it comes to solving my cases, I do whatever it takes to get justice for the victims. Whether you get caught in that crossfire, are found innocent or guilty, really doesn’t matter to me. All that matters is finding the truth.”
Walker had the sense that Taylor was studying him behind the dark lenses of his glasses. Trying to see how far he could push, if he could push him at all.
He couldn’t. At least, not without getting shoved in return.
Finally the chief nodded slightly as if coming to a decision. He held out a large mailing envelope. “Here.”
Walker narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”
“A little light reading for the weekend.”
Walker opened the flap, pulled out the thin sheath of papers and scanned them. They were copies of bank records. “Who is Joel Cannella?”
“Dale York. At least, that’s who he was for the past eighteen years.”
“What? Where did you get these?” A thought occurred to him and he squared himself to Taylor so they were toe-to-toe. The few inches he had on Taylor didn’t make up for the twenty pounds Taylor had over him, but it would make any physical altercation between them interesting. “Did you take these from the station? Do you realize what the penalty is for tampering with an ongoing investigation?”
Taylor kept his hands loose at his sides, his shoulders relaxed. “I’m aware of the consequences of breaking the law. But those papers were never in the station or entered into evidence. They’re something I was working on before your arrival.”
“Covering your tracks, Chief?”
“Doing a little research, Detective.”
Walker didn’t believe it. Taylor was probably trying to make it look as if he’d been investigating Dale’s death as mysterious this entire time. “I was under the impression Dale’s whereabouts for the past eighteen years were unknown and now you’re telling me you discovered he’d been living under the alias of Joel Cannella in—” he checked the address listed on the form “—Corpus Christi all that time?”
“No identification of any kind was found on Dale’s body, in his room or car, not even a credit card. The only thing in his wallet, besides a couple of hundred dollars,” Taylor continued, “was a piece of paper with a nine-digit number. I asked a friend of mine who used to work in the Crime Lab Unit of the Boston P.D. to do some digging for me. After a few false starts, he discovered the number was for Cannella’s bank account. Once I had the name, I was able to track down Cannella’s movements and found a safe-deposit box in a bank in Marblehead rented in his name.” He inclined his head toward the envelope. “You’ll find the contents in there.”
Walker turned the envelope upside down. A driver’s license, social security card and a credit card all bearing the name Joel Cannella slid out. The photo on the license, though, was none other than Dale York.
He squeezed the license, the hard plastic cutting into his fingers. “This should have all been logged into evidence.”
“Yes.”
But it hadn’t been. Walker had seen everything the MPPD had about both Valerie Sullivan’s murder and Dale York’s death. There was no mention of any account numbers or that Dale’s alias had been discovered.
“You’re admitting—to the officer investigating accusations of ethics violations against you—that you withheld evidence?” Walker asked.
“I’m handing over evidence that I believe will be helpful to the officer in charge of Dale’s murder investigation.”
“You want to help me? Why?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do. And because once I saw those toxicology reports, I would’ve fully investigated Mr. York’s death as a murder.”
“I guess we’ll never know if that’s the truth or not.”
“No, we won’t. But instead of whiling away our time trying to see which one of us can piss farther, I thought it might be in both of our best interests to get these investigations over as soon as possible.”
