Lies Still Told, page 12
It was Rena’s fault he’d been late getting home tonight. Well, not her fault, but he had wanted to hand off the thumb drive that had been overnighted to him with a short letter from the prison. First, they’d listed the individuals on Badger Crawford’s approved-visitor list. He’d almost been holding his breath to see if one of them was Platt Waymann or Colby Kane. But neither man was on the list. Fortunately, not his dad or Uncle Joe, either. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done if that had been the case.
Then the letter had provided a brief explanation of what would be found on the thumb drive. Visitor briefs, as they called them, were saved by the day. They’d isolated the fourteen days that Badger Crawford had had a visitor in the last year and provided briefs for those days. They had also provided names and the times of each visit. Rena would have to fast-forward through each day until she got to the visitors that they were interested in.
After getting the thumb drive, he’d called Rena and offered to drop it off at her house. She’d said that she was “out and about” and had arranged to meet him in a Walmart parking lot. With their vehicles idling in opposite directions, they had just briefly talked.
He’d been surprised that she’d left the safety of her home but hadn’t asked where she’d been. She hadn’t offered. For all he knew, she’d simply been driving around. He did that sometimes when his mind was working overtime. Just drove aimlessly up one street and down another. It was strangely calming.
She’d looked tired. Had said she was holding up just fine. He hadn’t pushed on that, either. Maybe it was good that he’d had to hurry home. She deserved space to grieve in her own way.
“I had an unexpected call today,” Tess said.
“From?” A.L. asked, checking his mirrors. Traffic was light on the interstate, and they were making good time. They were not going to be late.
“Sam Taylor.”
He did not know the name. “Who is Sam Taylor?”
“He owns a software company that sells to title companies. I met him at the conference I went to this summer.”
She had mentioned meeting a couple different people. She’d been gone for four days, and once she’d returned, while he’d been interested in hearing about her trip, he’d been more interested in getting her naked and into his bed. “What did he want?”
“He wants to talk to me about a job.”
He took his eyes off the road. “Are you looking for a new job?” he asked before returning his gaze forward.
“No, I’m not. But…”
“But what?”
“It’s kind of exciting to have somebody call you out of the blue and tell you that you made a favorable impression upon them. Favorable enough that they invite you to come to Nashville to interview.”
“The job is in Nashville?”
“His office is in Nashville. It’s a sales job. Maybe it doesn’t matter where I live as long as I can travel to see clients.”
That was a big maybe. This was slippery ground here. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing. “Would you like that kind of job?”
“I have no idea. I don’t know enough about it.”
“How did you leave it with him?”
“I…I told him I’d think about it and get back to him about the interview after the first of the year.”
“He was okay with that?” A.L. asked.
“Yeah, fine. He’s got a place in Vail, so he’s going to be skiing anyway for a couple weeks.”
A place in Vail. “Yeah, well, I’ve got an apartment in Baywood.”
That got him a small smile.
“Sounds like you have a lot to think about,” he said.
“I know.”
Neither of them said another word for twenty miles.
When he pulled up to his sister’s house, he saw that his dad’s vehicle was already parked. No doubt he and Uncle Joe had ridden together. He did not see evidence of John and Traci’s arrival. He told himself not to worry, but that was like telling himself not to breathe.
When Liz opened the door, she looked good. She’d changed her hair since he’d last seen her almost two months earlier when he’d come to Madison to share a quick lunch. It was shorter, maybe a little blonder. “Hey, sis,” he said, leaning in for a hug. Then it was a handshake for Tom, his dad and uncle. The men in his family didn’t hug one another.
He introduced Tess to Tom. She stuck out a hand. “It’s a pleasure. Thank you for hosting.”
“How about a beer?” Tom asked.
Tess shook her head, as did A.L. He hated that Tom insisted on having alcohol in the house. Liz said it didn’t bother her, but it seemed like a stupid risk. “Diet soda if you’ve got it,” he said.
“Same,” Tess said.
Football was on television, and he saw Tess, who was actually a bigger fan of the sport than he was, discreetly check the score. His dad and uncle were already back in the living room, one on the couch, one in a chair, staring at the screen. Each had a beer in one hand.
“Can I help with anything?” he asked.
Liz looked at Tess. “You’ve been a good influence on him.”
“Hey,” he said, lightly punching his sister’s shoulder. The doorbell rang, and in came cold air, laughter and the light of his life—his daughter. He hugged her and shook hands with her boyfriend, who still called him Mr. McKittridge. He’d not told him any differently.
Liz, who didn’t have children, adored Traci, and the feeling was mutual. It had pained A.L. for years when he hadn’t allowed Traci to stay overnight at Liz’s house. His sister had known that he hadn’t trusted her to watch over his daughter.
“The stores were packed,” Traci said, immediately helping herself to the appetizer tray. His kid loved cheese dip.
“Did you get your shopping done?” Tess asked.
“For almost everyone. Some people are really hard to buy for,” Traci said, giving A.L. a narrow-eyed stare.
“Black socks and white T-shirts,” he said.
“Oh my God,” Traci said, lifting her hands in mock protest to the heavens. “He’s asked for that every year since I can remember.”
“They wear out,” he said. He didn’t need gifts.
His daughter’s face turned serious. “Usually, I call Rena and commiserate with her for a bit, and then she helps me think of something. But I…I didn’t want to bother her this year. How is she, Dad? I read the story online. It sounds horrible.”
Mindful that Tom was in the room, he was careful. He didn’t know the man well enough to know whether he’d repeat something that A.L. said in confidence to his family. “I think it was an evolving situation in an uncontrolled environment, and Rena did an admirable job of limiting the loss of life.”
His daughter immediately saw through his gobbledygook. “But how is she?”
“She’s…okay. Not great. But she’ll come out the other side.”
“And she’s not going to lose her job or anything like that?” Traci asked.
“No,” he said.
“I’ll light a candle at church this week for her,” Liz said.
A.L. smiled. He’d never been as confident that a two-dollar donation and a match could make a difference, but he wasn’t opposed to anybody else believing it could.
They got through dinner, which was pretty good. Liz had made one of his favorite desserts—cherry pie. And there was ice cream, so really, what could be wrong with the world? His dad and uncle found something. They settled on Kenwood Johnson, the former University of Wisconsin basketball star turned two-time mayor of Baywood. The city was proposing a usage fee for several attractions that lined the river that separated the two sides of Baywood.
“Tax us to death,” his dad grumbled.
“Do you disagree with usage fees in general?” Tess asked, her tone inquiring.
A.L. considered kicking her under the table but decided that might make for a long ride home. Traci joined in with her opinion, of course. She was seventeen after all.
And the debate commenced.
He noted with approval that John stayed out of it and instead quietly helped himself to a second piece of pie. A.L. silently slid his plate over and gave the pie pan a subtle nudge. Without missing a beat, John put another piece on his plate, too, and got up to get the ice cream.
There was some more television after dinner, and finally, goodbyes were said. It had snowed again, leaving between one and two inches to be cleared from the car windows before they could drive. He unlocked the vehicle. “Get in,” he said to Tess. He grabbed the snowbrush from the back seat. “I’ve got this.”
“My hero,” she said, not arguing.
His dad and uncle were also cleaning off their vehicle. It probably wasn’t exactly the right time to ask them about his conversation with Badger Crawford or his reading of the Edith Grace file. But he had them both together and away from other ears—no telling when that would happen again. “Good to see the both of you,” he said, walking up to his dad’s vehicle. He took his snowbrush to the back window.
“We’re not so old that we need help,” Uncle Joe said.
“I imagine you could kick my ass any day,” A.L. said. “If you’ve got just a second, I have a question.”
The vehicle was cleared of snow, and the men nodded. “What’s up?” his dad asked.
“I visited Badger Crawford in prison recently.” He let that sit for a minute. “He told me about a cold case I should look at. The murder of Edith Grace in her own home.”
His dad and uncle exchanged side looks.
“I’m naturally curious,” A.L. said. “Maybe I got that from one of you. So I pulled the file. And it was fascinating to find out that you two, and Platt, provided the alibi that got the husband removed from consideration.”
It was so quiet that he thought he could hear the snow falling. Finally, his dad shoved his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t hear a question, A.L.”
“Badger Crawford seemed to think that there was something not quite right about the alibi. And. My. Question,” he said, spacing his words out for effect, “is whether he’s got a point. Is there something that’s not right about that alibi?”
“Maybe Platt would appreciate you working on his murder,” his uncle said. “But I personally don’t know what the fuck good is accomplished by digging up something that happened fifteen years ago.”
He’d expected a reaction, but this was more than he’d anticipated. And it didn’t make him feel good.
“I was wearing a uniform in Madison fifteen years ago,” A.L. said. “I don’t recall there ever being any discussion between us about this murder, about the fact that the two of you were the alibi for the spouse. Don’t you think that, as a cop, I might have been interested, that I might have had a few questions? But it was radio silence on your end.”
“I’m getting cold,” his father said, looking at his brother. “Let’s get going, Joe.”
A.L. said nothing. Just watched as the two men got into his dad’s car and drove away. He walked back to his own vehicle. When he opened the door, warm air poured out.
“What was that about?” Tess asked.
“That was three jackasses pretending to have a conversation.” Couldn’t discount himself. It had been crazy to think that his father and uncle were going to tell him the truth now if they had subverted the truth fifteen years ago.
“I thought dinner went well,” Tess said, evidently determined to keep her glass half full.
“Yeah.” He could let it go, not tell her the truth. But right now, he needed her to understand that what he was feeling might change forever his relationship with his father and his uncle. “Fifteen years ago, there was a woman killed in Baywood. Edith Grace. The murder was never solved.”
“Okay,” she said.
“She and her husband were rumored to have been experiencing marriage difficulties, and she had confided in a friend that she was considering leaving him. He was, of course, a suspect. Platt Waymann, Uncle Joe and my dad were the man’s alibi. He was never charged.” There. Succinct. Factual. Including none of the piss-off resentment that he was harboring because he thought that perhaps the three men who had been the most influential in his early years had really failed him.
“And you think they might have lied? And you asked them about it?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Oh, A.L.”
Her tone said it all. Without having heard the exchange, she knew how it had gone. “Could the husband still be charged?”
“He’s dead.”
“So either a wife murderer died without getting charged, or a man died without ever having the satisfaction of seeing his wife’s killer brought to justice. What does this have to do with Platt’s murder?”
“I don’t think it has anything to do with it. I got this information from an informant who, I believe, wanted to send me down a black hole. And damn him, he was successful. I’ve got somebody checking with the two Grace daughters, who are now adults and no longer living in Baywood, just to make sure that Platt’s murder isn’t some kind of revenge killing. It seems unlikely, though.”
“It has, unfortunately, fractured your relationship with your dad and your uncle.”
“My relationship with my dad was already cracked. This makes for gaping holes. It’s Uncle Joe who is really surprising me. He’s pissed off at me. Like I’m the one doing something wrong.”
“Maybe he feels vulnerable. He’s attacking because he feels attacked.”
“I don’t know,” A.L. said. “But I don’t like it. However, I’m not going to let it derail my current investigation. And by the way, we’ve been invited to a New Year’s Eve party.”
“Oh, not quite a non sequitur but definitely unexpected. At whose house?”
“No house. At the Ambassador Hotel. Kenwood Johnson is hosting a party.”
“The mayor has invited us to his party?” She sounded almost shocked.
“Well, charity fundraiser, actually. So it’d be us and likely a couple hundred of his closest friends,” A.L. said. “Rena was invited. She was all excited about it. I…I don’t know how that will go now. If the internal investigation is still hanging over her head, she may not feel like going. We need to RSVP, so I wanted you to know about it.”
“Do you want to go?”
He shrugged. “Do you want to go? It’s black-tie.”
“Oh my God,” she almost squealed. “I’d have to get a dress. And maybe shoes.” She turned to him. “You would have to wear a tux.”
“Yeah. I had this discussion already with Rena.”
“You wouldn’t hate it?”
He probably would. “No.”
“We should do it. When else am I going to get to go to a black-tie event at the Ambassador Hotel on New Year’s Eve?”
“I’ll let the mayor’s office know.”
“And call for a tux,” she said.
“First thing tomorrow.” Maybe he’d schedule a prostate exam, too.
Chapter Eleven
A.L. didn’t always work on Sundays, but when he had two murder investigations going, he had his ass in the chair at seven fifteen. Good thing, too, because shortly after that, with two cups of coffee already in him, he got an email telling him that there had been a ping off Veronica Host’s cell phone in Baywood at 7:32 p.m. on the night of Platt’s murder.
He went back to his notes. She’d said that she’d gotten to the bar around nine. Left at two and gone home, straight to bed. No way could she have been at the bar by nine if she was in Baywood at 7:32. It was at least a two-hour drive. At best, nine thirty.
She might claim that she had misremembered the exact time. But they had asked the last time that she’d seen her dad, and she’d said ten days ago. That they’d met along Route 39.
They had not specifically asked her the last time she’d been in Baywood. He supposed it was possible that she returned to Baywood from time to time. She’d grown up there. Probably still had friends in the area. But one would have thought she might have mentioned being in Baywood the night her father had been killed. Unless she really didn’t want them to know that.
A.L. did a quick computer search. Jeff Host, her ex-husband, lived in Baywood. Was it possible that she’d come back to see him? Or would he know of another reason she might be here? A.L. plugged the address into his phone and saw that he lived eight minutes away.
A.L. shoved his chair back. He was pissed that Veronica had withhold information from him. It wasn’t like some punk. This was a woman he’d literally grown up with. And when the kids in the neighborhood had run wild, and she’d wanted to be included, he’d always voted to let her tag along. Their parents had been friends. Good friends.
It was personal.
Jeff Host lived in an apartment building that wasn’t all that different from A.L.’s building. Maybe he’d gravitated toward it for the same reason that A.L. had gravitated toward his own apartment post-divorce. It was easy. No responsibilities for shoveling a walk or painting a wall.
He rang the buzzer for Jeff’s apartment.
“Yes,” came a scratchy voice on the intercom.
“Detective McKittridge, Baywood Police Department, to see Jeff Host.”
Silence on the other end. Then finally, “I’ll come to the lobby.”
In less than three minutes, a bald guy wearing gray sweatpants and a green Packers sweatshirt opened the interior door. “I’m Jeff Host,” he said.
A.L. held his badge up to the glass that separated them. The man looked at it and then pushed open the door.
“Detectives don’t generally come see me,” he said with a little laugh.
“I appreciate your time,” A.L. said. “I am investigating the death of Platt Waymann. I understand that you were married to Veronica Waymann.”
The man rubbed his bald head. “Yeah, a thousand years ago. Sad to see the news of Platt.” He cocked his head. “Platt used to have a friend by the name of McKittridge.”
“My dad,” A.L. said. “My uncle, too.”
“So you knew him,” Jeff said.
“I did.” Although he wasn’t so sure anymore that he’d really known him. “When is the last time you saw Platt?”
