Читать книгу A Justified Bitch - H.G. McKinnis - Страница 12

Pat parked across from the detention center, the lot almost empty. A recent addition to the city’s deteriorating east side, the newly built high-rise building stood out like a Band-Aid on a bullet hole. The rest of the neighborhood consisted of run-down apartments clustered around a dilapidated and strip mall and ranch-style houses. The architect had obviously followed regulation government specs and built a Lego-style construct to celebrate a new century of incarceration. The portico jutting out over the entrance scrupulously avoided any artistic elements that might have softened the harsh lines of the building. Consisting of a steel grid, it provided no shade of any kind.

With the shopping bag of clothes slung over her shoulder, Pat hurried across the blazing-hot asphalt, the boys close behind. Only nine in the morning, and it was already a hundred degrees.

“We’re north of Phoenix,” Marc grumbled. “I thought it would be cooler.” He shuffled along behind her, his six-two frame giving the lie to his sixteen years.

“It’s the humidity,” Pat answered looking at the clouds over the valley. She laid a hand on his arm. “You okay with this?”

He shrugged her off. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

But he wasn’t “fine,” and she couldn’t help but worry about the moment when he came face to face with his childhood. As she stepped on the entrance mat, the glass doors slid open with a soft hiss, a blast of cold air pouring out through the double-wide opening. The lobby, a beige cavern, was decorated in a style that could only be described as “institutional”: a combination of industrial-strength steel and prison-strength plastic. The room was empty except for a female guard sitting behind a reception counter and what looked like an inmate mopping the beige tile. Dressed in incarceration orange, he casually swabbed the industrial-strength tiles with his mop, slowly working his way down one side of the room, the Madonna tattooed on his forearm gazing serenely at the outside world.

The guard gestured them forward. “Please sign in.”

“I’m Pat Henderson.” She scratched her name and address in the visitors log. “I’m here to see my sister, Helen Taylor.”

The woman’s bored expression mutated into a faint smile of relief. “Oh, yes, we’ve been expecting you.” She pointed to a door. “Right through there and down the hall to the detectives’ office. Just follow the arrows. I’ll buzz you in.”

The boys started to follow but the woman held up a hand. “Sorry. Adults only in the back.”

The inmate leaned forward on his mop. “I’ll watch ’em”—his eyes traveled slowly over the boys’ bodies.

The guard expelled a breath of exasperation. “Thanks, Carl but I’ve got it handled.” She pressed a button under the edge of her desk and the door lock released with an audible click.

Pat hesitated, not wanting to leave the boys in the same room as a criminal of dubious background and lecherous thoughts. Feeling the situation called for some motherly advice, Pat pointed an admonishing finger. “Don’t”—Don’t what? Don’t tease the inmates?—“Don’t worry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The boys exchanged a look, then Jordan extended his hand, palm up. “Keys, please. I’ll wait in the car.”

“Me, too,” Marc chimed in. “I need to charge my phone.”

Pat tossed the keys to Jordan, realizing they wanted to escape the creepy atmosphere of the jail as much as she did. “Okay, but no driving.” She waited until they disappeared through the entrance, then followed the painted arrows, her steps echoing down the corridor until she came to an open door marked INVESTIGATIONS.

In contrast to the austere lobby, the windowless room was cluttered with a mishmash of government hand-me-downs: large metal desks, tubular chairs and a long row of battered and scarred file cabinets. A mess of maps, assignment charts, and vintage wanted posters covered the walls. A lone figure hunched over a desk piled high with papers, folders, and mug books. Broad shouldered, mid-thirties, he looked like the kind of man who could quell a barroom brawl without spilling a drop of his own beer.

He lifted his head and smiled. “Mrs. Henderson?” He stood, extending a large callused hand. “Detective Jake Madison.” Despite his linebacker appearance, his baritone was warm and soothing. “I really appreciate you coming.”

“I didn’t really have a choice.” Pat sat down, unwrapping her purse strap from her arm. “I’m the only relative Helen has left.” That wasn’t exactly true, but she had no desire to dredge up family secrets as a conversation starter.

“Coffee?” he asked, moving toward a small break room. “Something to eat? We have doughnuts. Cliché, I know.”

“Just coffee, thanks. Can you tell me what’s going on? Is Helen under arrest? Do I need to hire an attorney?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. Cream? Sugar?”

“Both, thank you.”

He returned with two Styrofoam cups, placing one on her side of the desk before sinking back into his chair. “How was your trip?”

Pat shrugged, realizing Detective Madison wasn’t the type to be hurried. “We were on the road by midnight and drove straight in. I went by Helen’s to pick up some clothes before coming here.”

Madison edged forward in his chair, a spark of interest. “So you’ve been to the house?”

Pat rolled her eyes. “We had to run a gauntlet of neighbors and reporters. What exactly happened?”

“A real nasty murder. Helen’s neighbor was dismembered. Pieces everywhere.”

“How awful! Who was it?”

“Bebe Small, a part-time prostitute and phone-sex chat girl. So far, Helen’s the only witness. She was only thirty feet from the scene, and we found a body part only a few feet from where she was sitting. We’ve been trying to get a statement, but—” He shook his head, an expression of frustration.

“I’m sorry. Helen wasn’t always like that.” As soon as the words came out, she wanted to kick herself. Only two hours back and she was already playing apologist for her sister’s crazy behavior. “She was valedictorian of her high school class and graduated summa cum laude from Berkeley. She’s always been quirky, but didn’t get this bad until Bobby died.” Damn, why did she sound so defensive?

“Let’s talk about him.” Madison pulled a notepad from his pocket. “She seems to be very attached to”—he hesitated, as if searching for the right words—“his memory.” He rifled the pages of the pad. “Takes him everywhere apparently.”

“She was never able to accept Bobby’s death. The first few months after he died, I thought we were going to lose her too. Then one day she just decided he wasn’t dead. She started talking to him, referring questions to him, even introducing him to people. It was as if she found him and lost part of herself.”

“So, they were together a long time?”

“They met in graduate school. When they started dating, I was sure it wouldn’t last. Helen was such a bookworm—Bobby the outdoors type. He constantly took her hiking in the mountains. They’d park their truck and wander around for weeks, camping and climbing.” She sipped her coffee, the memories cascading over her in a bittersweet rush. “They had dozens of hair-raising stories . . . narrow escapes from mountain lions and crazy survivalists. They seemed to get a high off each other, always excited and ready to embark on the next big adventure.”

Madison scribbled something on his pad. “How did he die?”

Pat took another sip of coffee, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat. “They were rock climbing in the Ruby Mountains when the ledge beneath Bobby’s feet gave way. By the time Helen got to him, he was barely alive. He had multiple fractures in both legs . . . broken ribs all along one side . . . internal bleeding—but no head injury. Unfortunately he was awake and aware through the whole ordeal.”

“Sounds gruesome.”

“You have no idea. It took Helen two days to haul him out of the canyon. He must have been in excruciating pain. The state patrol found her dragging him down the highway. No one could believe she managed to get him so far on her own. They rushed them both to the hospital, but Bobby died on the operating table.” She took a gulp of coffee, struggling to face the memory. “Helen was hospitalized for dehydration and exposure. Kept asking about Bobby . . . I just couldn’t tell her he was dead.”

Madison nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe I should try asking Bobby a few questions.”

“Are you kidding?”

“A psychiatrist who interviewed Helen says Bobby manifests whenever she feels insecure or out of her depth. Judging from their conversations, he seems to be a fairly congenial guy. I might be able to use him as a conduit into Helen’s mind.”

Clever, Pat thought. Bobby had always been a pipeline to her sister. No reason Madison shouldn’t put him to work. “You could certainly try. And if that doesn’t work . . . ?”

“We’re concerned for her safety,” he answered. “We’ll need to keep her in protective custody.”

Pat shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She held up a hand before he could launch a protest. “She might even like it, but unless she can go to the swap meet she’ll just retreat deeper into her mind. If you think she’s uncooperative now, let her sit in a corner rocking and singing for a few days. You’ll be lucky if she comes out for meals.”

Madison grimaced. “We can’t just kick her loose. Nobody noticed a car, so we’re thinking the killer was on foot. That he lives in the neighborhood.”

“I wouldn’t take her back to the house.” Just the thought made Pat’s skin crawl. “I’ve booked a suite at Caesars Palace.”

Madison leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen as he considered the idea. “That might work. If you don’t register her name and don’t let her wander off.”

“I won’t.” For too long she had been afraid that Helen would destroy her family, but she realized the time had come to deal with that fear. “I plan to stay a few weeks.” She hadn’t planned any such thing, but she could no longer turn a blind eye to her sister’s condition. “Or until it’s safe for Helen to go home.”

“Good.” The detective pulled a business card from his desk drawer. “Dr. Urbane, the psychiatrist who interviewed Helen yesterday, expressed concern about her ability to care for herself. You might want to give her a call.”

“Helen’s that bad?” Stupid question. No sane person would live in that rat hole of a house.

Madison nodded, his eyes sympathetic. “She seems fairly sharp at times, but”—he shook his head and let his voice trail off—“I’m sure she was really something in her day,” he said at last.

No, Pat thought, Helen is still something. Maybe not what she used to be, but still worthwhile and special. Still family. How could I have avoided the truth for so long? A letter every couple of months wasn’t caring, it was avoiding responsibility. “I need to get her house in some kind of livable condition before I leave.” Another on-the-spot decision. “You wouldn’t happen know a good contractor . . . someone reasonable and fast?”

“Matter of fact, I do.” He reached for a pad, scratching down a name and number. “This guy is amazing. He has a whole network of tradesmen. They’re fast and efficient, and he guarantees the work.”

“Thanks, this will help a lot.” She slipped the paper into her purse. “Can I see Helen now?”

“Of course. Try to get her to talk about what she saw. She must have seen something. There’s a shi-”—he stopped himself—“a lot of DNA evidence, but no clear suspect.”

Pat took a breath, not sure what would happen when she finally faced her sister. “I’ll do my best.” God only knew what that would entail.

The detective sensed her trepidation. “Would you like to see her before you go in?” Pat nodded, and he escorted her to a dimly lit observation room. “Don’t worry,” he said, “she won’t be able to see you.” He pulled open the blinds. “It’s a one-way mirror.”

The tiny room beyond the glass was furnished with a table and three chairs, the walls a soothing color of green. Helen was sitting on the far side of the table, leaning back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. Her hair was chopped short, her ropey muscles prominent beneath her scratched and battered skin, her callused hands black around the nails, but the face was still the same: prominent cheekbones, full lips, and hauntingly beautiful eyes. The same smoldering look, Pat thought, that had always driven the boys crazy. “Is it okay if I go in alone?”

Madison spread his hands in mute apology. “I’ll have to tape the conversation, but I’d sure appreciate anything you can get her to say about the murder.”

Pat stepped through the adjoining door, face to face with her sister for the first time in ten years.

“Hello, Helen.” She leaned down and put her arms around the older sister she had once idolized. Helen’s body remained stiff as a block of wood. “It’s so good to see you. You look so”—the word “good” caught in her throat—“different. Who did your hair?”

“The Green M&M,” Helen replied, showing no surprise at her sister’s sudden appearance.

Don’t go there, Pat thought, lowering herself onto a chair. “It looks nice.”

“Do I know you?”

Oh . . . my . . . God!

“It’s me. Pat.” It came out sounding more like a question then an answer. “Your sister.”

Helen smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Of course! Cleo! You look just like Mom.”

The words etched the surface of Pat’s ego like bitter acid, but she plowed ahead. “Helen, do you know what’s going on?”

Helen beamed. “We need to do this more often, Cleo. Why haven’t we kept in touch?”

Pat fumbled through her mind for the right response. “I write all the time. Don’t you read my letters?” But as she said it, she could see the stacks of newspapers, fliers, and unopened mail that littered Helen’s home. Of course she never read them. “Never mind. The police need to know what you saw, then we can leave.”

Helen stared at a crack in the wall, her head moving sinuously as her eyes followed the trail through the concrete. She murmured to herself. To Pat it sounded like, “no message there.”

“Did you see what happened?” Pat repeated, though she wasn’t sure Helen was listening. “What happened to your neighbor? You need to tell them.”

“I can’t talk about it,” Helen answered, her eyes still on the crack. “It hurts my stomach.”

“Listen, you need to cooperate. This is real, Helen. It’s not an adventure in your mind.”

“We’ll get in trouble.”

We. “Forget about Bobby for a minute. The police just want to know what you saw. Then we can go.”

“We like it here.” Helen smiled and leaned back in her chair. “Wipers keep on slappin’ time . . . ”

Pat glanced at the mirror. What did Madison expect? She reached across the table and took her sister’s hand. “Helen, what’s happened to you?”

Suddenly, as if Pat had reached out and flipped a switch, her sister came back. “Cleo, why are you here?”

Pat exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “I’m worried. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” She turned toward the mirror. “Would you like to talk to the detective?”

Right on cue, the door opened and Madison stepped into the room. “Hello, Helen. How are you this morning?” He dropped his notebook on the table and sat down. “Can you tell me what you remember about yesterday morning?”

Bobby leaned down, so close Helen could feel his breath on her cheek. Go ahead. Tell them.

Helen took a deep breath, forcing air into her lungs until they ached with the expansion. “I heard Lupe. Howling.” She stopped, not sure what else to say.

Detective Madison nodded. “That’s Bebe’s dog, right?”

Helen sighed. Why did she always have to explain? “She’s a wolf, not a dog. Canis lupus, not Canis familiaris.”

Detective Madison scratched a line through the word “dog” on his notepad and wrote: Lupe = wolf. He flipped the pad around so Helen could read it.

Relieved that he understood, she nodded.

“What time was this? Morning or noon?”

She hesitated, trying to remember how to tell the difference. “After breakfast, I’m sure. I had Cheerios with low-fat milk. Cheerios are heart-healthy. It says so right on the box.” She caught Cleo’s eye, sensing some irritation. “What?”

“We know about Cheerios, Helen.”

Detective Madison leaned forward. “Why was the wolf howling?”

“She doesn’t howl in the mornings. She usually howls at night. All the dogs join in. It’s eerie.”

The detective nodded, absently clicking his pen, a Cross Matrix, red with a rolling ball. “Did Bobby see anything?”

Bobby nudged her shoulder. He wants to know why Lupe was howling.

Helen nodded. “He saw Lupe trying to get into the house . . . pawing at the glass door. The glass was banging against the frame so hard I was afraid it would break. I yelled at her. I said, ‘Get away from there, Lupe. You’re not allowed inside.’ Bebe never lets her in the house.” She smiled at Cleo, who was pretending to be Pat, then at the detective, who was pretending to be a secretary. “Lupe just looked at me, then went back to pawing. Fuzzball started throwing herself against the fence and barking, but she always does that, so I didn’t think anything of it.”

Bobby circled around behind the detective, reading his notes. Tell him about Bebe.

Bobby knew what other people expected; it was something she had always loved about him. “I saw Bebe. She was leaning against the glass door, her mouth open, but she didn’t yell. She always yells when the animals get noisy. She was with a client, so I tried not to look.” She sat back in her seat, exhausted, but relieved she had finally told someone.

Detective Madison looked up from his notepad. “All right, now we’re getting somewhere. Did you see the client?”

The low hum in Helen’s ears suddenly escalated into a roaring wash of sound. She shook her head, but couldn’t seem to clear it. “She’ll trade some fresh tomorrows for a taste of yesterday.” She embraced the power of the words, and slowly the song began to drive away the roar. “Hear those wipers slashin’ time . . .”

Pat swiped a tissue across her eyes, trying to hold back the tears. “This is how she deals with stress.” She stopped, realizing she was trying to explain a person she didn’t understand herself. “She won’t give you any more today.”

Detective Madison pulled a business card from his wallet and wrote a number on the back. “This is my cell. If she remembers anything—anything at all—please call. Anytime. I mean that, anytime.” Then he reached over and patted her hand. “This is not your fault, Pat. Don’t blame yourself.”

Pat swallowed hard, trying to keep the lump in her throat from developing into a sob. Damn! Despite his absolution, she knew it wasn’t going to be that easy.

Pat steered Helen toward the boys leaning against the front fender, their expressions a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. For an instant, she wanted nothing more than to take Helen back inside and tell Detective Madison she couldn’t handle the responsibility, but she knew she could no longer avoid this moment.

Jordan stepped forward. “Hi, I’m Jordan, your nephew. I was only six the last time I was here, but I sure remember you. You had a bunch of African masks and you let me wear them.”

The humming suddenly stopped. “Jordan?” Helen cocked her head to one side, a look of disbelief. “You’re so big. How tall are you? Five eight, five nine?” She whispered into Pat’s ear. “He’s gorgeous! You must be tripping over girlfriends.”

“Not really,” Pat answered. “He’s more interested in animals.”

“Do you like biology? How old are you? In college, yet?”

“I start in the fall,” Jordan answered, cutting a glance toward Pat. “We just haven’t decided where yet.”

Pat reached out and touched Marc’s arm. “Helen.” She could barely force the words past her lips. “This is Marc.”

Helen turned, eyes curious. “Are you a friend of Jordan’s?”

Pat shook her head. All the sleepless nights, all the tears, all the time she spent wondering if she had done the right thing, all the legal paperwork, all the counselors. And yet, of all the reactions she had imagined, Helen’s total detachment never made the list.

“He’s not a friend, Helen. This is Marc. Your son.”