Lies Still Told, page 7
She put her phone down, realizing that her defrost wasn’t doing the job on her windshield, and grabbed her ice scraper. Snow could be pretty. But a wintry mix of ice and snow was just nasty, and that’s what they were getting. Once her windshield was clean, she got back into her vehicle, turned the heat on high and called Gabe.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“I did some more lesson planning,” he said.
He was so excited about his first teaching job. “You used to get up in front of a room full of strangers all the time and talk to them about retirement planning. A room full of eighth-graders will be a piece of cake.”
“Have you met any eighth-graders lately?” he asked.
She laughed. “Listen, I can pick something up for dinner. You want pizza or Chinese?”
“Don’t worry about it. I made a lasagna.”
“You are a wonderful man,” she said, meaning it. “I’ll be home in forty-five minutes.” That would give her plenty of time to pick up a gift for Gabe’s mother. She knew exactly what she wanted to get. Her mother-in-law loved tea. Making. Serving. Drinking. The whole deal. And Rena had seen an absolutely exquisite teapot at one of the nicer home goods stores that had sprung up in Baywood within the last couple years.
“Okay. Be careful,” he said.
She hung up. Smiling. In her line of work, it was sweet of him to caution her about driving in snow.
Traffic was moving slowly, which was good, but it made what should have been a ten-minute drive into twenty minutes. She probably should have said that she’d be home in an hour versus forty-five minutes. Oh, well, a lasagna was better if it sat for ten minutes.
She parked, taking one of the last available spots. Located on the main street of Baywood, the store was just three blocks from the police station. And like most of the other retailers, it was offering extended hours for holiday shoppers. She noted a sign in the window that they’d be open on Christmas Eve. That’s probably when A.L. would be picking up his gifts.
She opened the door of the shop, and all kinds of wonderful things assaulted her senses. Holiday music. Scented candles burning. Fresh-baked cookies on a tray held by a smiling young girl. A stunningly beautifully decorated big tree in the middle of the store.
It really was the most wonderful time of the year.
She found the teapot that she’d eyed earlier in the month. She pulled it off the shelf and was walking to the front of the store when she heard the first scream, followed immediately by a second. Then yelling. The sound of something hitting the floor.
She edged around the corner of an aisle and saw something truly horrific. A person, dressed in black pants, black sweatshirt and a black face mask, stood in front of the cash register, pointing a gun at the female store clerk. Another person, dressed the same, was waving a gun around, ordering customers to get on the ground, to give up their money, to take off their jewelry. He was spewing out orders. The girl holding the cookies had dropped them, and they were spread around on the floor.
Very quickly, Rena slipped behind an end cap display and quietly set the teapot on the floor. Then she unbuttoned her coat, reached inside, and retrieved her service weapon from her waist holster. With her free hand, she got her phone from her purse and dialed 911. When the operator answered, she whispered, “This is Detective Rena Morgan. Armed robbery in progress at Mason Home Goods. Two armed suspects. Send units.” She didn’t dare risk saying more. She put her phone in her pocket, but she kept the connection intact.
She edged closer and now had a good view of the register. The clerk was showing the suspect that there’s wasn’t much money in the cash drawer. “No one pays with cash,” the woman said. She was crying. The robber struck her across the face with his gun, and the woman fell to the ground.
The second robber was running around, grabbing purses and watches and rings from customers.
The door opened. A woman and a teenage girl. Chatting.
“Call the police,” a man on the floor shouted.
The robber by the cash register fired his weapon at the man then raised his gun and pointed it at the woman and teenage girl, who stood frozen in the doorway. He was going to shoot again. She knew it.
Rena’s shot hit him squarely in the chest, and he fell backward. She rounded on the second robber, who clearly didn’t know what the hell had just happened. “Police! Drop your weapon and put your hands in the air. I repeat, drop your weapon and put your hands in the air.”
By the grace of God, the idiot obeyed. Rena got close enough to kick his gun away. It skidded under a counter, out of reach. “Lie down, face down,” she ordered. She put her foot in the middle of his back. She glanced over her shoulder, checking on the first robber. A man wearing a winter coat over scrubs was bent over the suspect. He looked up, made eye contact with Rena. “He’s dead.”
Fuck. She pulled her phone from her pocket. “Hello, are you there?” she asked the 911 operator.
“Yes. Units have—”
Rena didn’t let the woman finish. “Tell them that a plainclothes officer is on the scene. I repeat, plainclothes officer on the scene. One suspect is dead and the other in custody. This is Detective Rena Morgan,” she repeated.
“Got it, Detective,” the operator said. “Message sent.”
She could hear sirens, knew that help was coming. Suddenly, customers were getting up from the floor, talking, moving toward the door.
“Nobody leaves,” she yelled. “By order of the Baywood Police Department, nobody leaves.”
And police came through the door.
Suddenly, it wasn’t just her fight. Her legs felt like jelly, and her breath was coming too fast.
“Detective Morgan,” said the first officer, acknowledging her.
“We’ve got him,” the second officer said, moving her to the side. They cuffed the second robber. Rena turned toward the cash register. The paramedics had removed the dead suspect’s face mask. He looked so young, with acne on his pale face and sweat dampening his dirty-blond hair.
A female paramedic reached into the suspect’s pocket and removed a billfold. She unfolded it. Pulled out his Wisconsin driver’s license. Looked up. “He’s sixteen,” she said.
Rena felt the world tilt. Sixteen. She’d shot and killed a kid.
A.L. was still a distance away from the prison when he got Rena’s text message. He read it. Good news, they’d successfully followed up on the girlfriend lead. Bad news, it hadn’t gotten them anywhere. He was curious about the other two men in the photo. Bernie and Wade, his uncle had said. There were two bowling alleys in Baywood. Tomorrow, he was going to visit them, see if he could figure out the men’s last names.
By the time A.L. got to the prison, he was tired, hungry and generally pissed off at everyone who’d been hoping for a white Christmas. It had snowed/sleeted most of the way, making the traffic crawl in places. But the road crews were out and doing as good a job as expected. He’d appreciated that. Plus, he’d talked to Tess. She was at her house.
Felix would be sad that there was no lap in his apartment to sit on. His cat was a traitor, apparently having forgotten who had opened the door when he was homeless and hungry. That all happened before she came along. That’s what he reminded his cat some mornings as he dumped cat food into a bowl. It made no difference, by evening, on the nights that Tess came over—Felix would again indicate an arrogant preference for her.
It made Tess smile, and A.L. liked that.
But nobody was smiling at the prison tonight. “Gun and cell phone in here,” said a stern-faced woman, handing him a plastic bin.
A.L. did as instructed and sat down to wait. Ten minutes went by before the door opened, and a guard escorted a man, who looked to be about seventy, into the room. The man sat in a chair, and the guard secured him by shackling a chain attached to his waist to a bolt in the floor. The guard left.
A.L. already had a business card on the table, and he passed it across for the other man to see. The man inspected it, and A.L. found himself inspecting the man, looking for signs of a familial resemblance with Tawny Lane. He wasn’t good at seeing these things, however.
“McKittridge,” Badger Crawford said. “McKittridge from Baywood, Wisconsin.”
A.L. waited for him to say something about his dad, maybe mention that he’d known a McKittridge from Baywood. But he said nothing.
“I’m investigating the death of Platt Waymann,” A.L. said.
The man nodded, clearly not surprised by the news of Platt’s death.
“You heard that he was killed?” A.L. asked.
“I heard.”
“I’d like to have a better understanding of your relationship with Platt Waymann.”
“He was a friend, back in the day.”
“When’s the last time you talked to Platt?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Days? Weeks? Months?” A.L. pressed.
“Years,” Badger said.
“Yet Platt Waymann has continued to provide financial support for your daughter, Tawny.”
Something flickered in his eyes, but quickly, the bored look came back. “Did he? Well, that’s nice.”
“I’m wondering why he would have done that,” A.L. said.
“Charitable,” Badger said.
“I guess,” A.L. said. “But what he did really goes beyond a monthly drop-off of canned goods at the local food pantry.”
Badger said nothing. He just stared at A.L. Finally, he shifted in his chair. “You’re a good combination of both your mom and dad.”
A.L. wasn’t going to take the bait. He said nothing.
“Your dad more,” Badger continued. “But I always thought your mom was a classy lady. Probably better than your dad deserved.”
A.L. thought the same thing, but it irritated him to hear Badger say it. “My dad and Platt played cards together. I don’t recall you being at those games.”
Badger shook his head. “If I played, it was in Vegas. In fact, I went there once with Joe McKittridge. I guess he would be your uncle.”
The man seemed to want to make a point that he knew A.L.’s family. A.L. wasn’t interested in going down memory lane. He wanted to understand the relationship between Tawny Lane and Platt. “Your daughter never communicated to you that Platt was providing support for her and her family?”
“I don’t remember,” Badger said, noncommittal.
“Do you know Colby Kane?”
Badger looked up to the ceiling, as if the answer was written up there. Shook his head. “I don’t think I do.”
“He was in prison here. About five years ago.”
“It’s a big place. And they’ve really cut back on our social events—hard to get to know the new people.”
He wasn’t asking A.L. what this had to do with Platt’s murder. That told him everything he needed to know.
“You know,” Badger said, as if a thought had suddenly struck him, “about the time I got sent up, there was a murder in Baywood. Lady got her skull bashed in with an iron fire poker. They always look at the spouse. But he had an airtight alibi.”
“Okay.” A.L. forced himself to be patient. Badger was going somewhere with this.
“That man was good friends with Platt, your uncle and your dad.”
A.L. waited.
“If you want to talk about debts of gratitude, then you should start looking in your own backyard, young man. Now, I was in the middle of a damn good book, and I’d like to get back to it.”
A.L. had no legal right to detain him for more questions. And he’d gotten what he’d come for. Badger knew that Platt had been providing for Badger’s daughter and family. Also that Badger thought it was appropriate. A debt of gratitude.
He was also pretty sure Badger had lied about knowing Colby Kane. He wasn’t likely to get any more on that from him.
And there was no way he was going to ask any questions about what Badger had just told him about looking in his own backyard. Wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of knowing that his curiosity had been whetted.
“Don’t let me keep you,” A.L. said and motioned for the guard.
Once A.L. got back to his car, he checked his phone. What the hell? He had six missed calls. They’d come in within minutes of one another. His heart skipped a beat when he saw that Tess had made two of the calls. A couple were from Chief Faster, two from numbers he didn’t recognize.
He called Tess back first. “Hey,” he said. “Everything okay?”
“Have you talked to Rena?”
“I got a text from her earlier.”
“And?” Tess sounded desperate.
“And nothing. It was an update to the case. What’s going on?”
“Oh, God, A.L. It’s just terrible. Rena was in a store that got robbed. Gunfire was exchanged. She’s not hurt, but she shot the robber. He’s dead.”
That had most definitely happened after she’d sent the update on Platt’s ex-girlfriend.
“A.L., he was just a kid. Sixteen.”
Fuck. That was terrible. Rena would be living through seven levels of hell. “I’m just leaving the prison. I’ll call when I’m close to Baywood.”
“Be careful.”
“Always.” He hung up, knowing full well that sometimes that wasn’t enough. Rena was one of the most careful officers he’d ever worked with. She wasn’t afraid to take action, but she thought things through, she planned well in advance, she was prepared.
He had no doubts that it had been a righteous shoot. But that wasn’t going to be a whole lot of consolation to her now.
As he started driving, he dialed Rena’s cell, and it went to voice mail. He thumbed through his contacts and found Gabe’s number. That call was answered on the third ring.
“Gabe, it’s A.L.”
“You heard,” he said, clearly realizing that it was unusual for A.L. to call him.
“I did. I tried Rena’s phone but didn’t get through.”
“She’s still at work. I haven’t talked to her. She has to give a statement first. I heard the news from Chief Faster.”
Well, that had been decent of the man. “Cops involved in shootings, especially deadly incidents, have to give statements right away, definitely before they can speak to others. It maintains the integrity of the investigation. It’s nothing to worry about. It could be hours. Still nothing to worry about.”
“There is a news van parked outside our house. A reporter named James Adeva left a message on my cell phone. How the hell did he get that number?”
Adeva was better than most. His pieces generally contained more facts and he was tenacious about trying to find sources with first-hand knowledge. That had made him a pain in A.L.’s ass more than once. “Text Rena about the news van so that she’s prepared. She can pull into the garage and enter the house. She won’t have to talk to anybody. Just don’t go outside or answer the door.”
“Okay. Is there anything else I should do, you know, to make this better for Rena?”
Gabe Morgan was a good guy. “Just be there when she gets home. She’s going through something tough that isn’t going to get better right away. But she’ll make it. She’s a good cop and a strong one. My money is on her.”
“Thanks for calling, A.L.”
“Tell her to call me when she’s ready.” He hung up and dialed Chief Faster. He would get the details from him.
“It’s McKittridge,” he said when the chief answered.
“Where are you?” The chief sounded pissed off. He probably didn’t like it that A.L. hadn’t answered when he’d called earlier.
“Just leaving the Dotee Correctional Facility. Working on the Platt Waymann murder. Had to surrender my phone while I was interviewing a prisoner.” A.L. would keep it to himself that there were plenty of other times he simply ignored Faster’s calls. Rena would need Faster in her corner now. A.L. didn’t want to screw that up.
“Fine. You need to know that Detective Morgan was involved in a fatal shooting tonight at Mason Home Goods. She evidently saw an armed robbery taking place, called 911, but had to intervene when one of the masked gunmen fired into the crowd. She shot and killed one and subdued the other, who was subsequently arrested by police when they responded to the 911 call. Listen, A.L., Morgan is uninjured, but I’ve got to tell you, this is bad. The gunman was a sixteen-year-old junior at Baywood High.”
Traci probably knew him. “You’ve identified him, then?”
“Yeah. Kyler Wiberry. The other gunman was nineteen-year-old Trevon Pearce. I’ve got officers questioning Pearce as we speak.”
“Has Rena finished her statement?”
“I don’t know. When she does, we’ll have to figure out a way to get her quietly out of the building. It’s like flies on shit with the local news.”
“It sounds as if it was a good shoot,” he said.
“Sixteen-year-old kid, A.L.,” Faster said, sounding tired. “It’s not going to matter.”
A.L. hung up, knowing in his heart that Faster was right. People who wanted to find fault would conveniently forget that there would have been no way for Rena to know that a masked gunman was a kid.
Something like this could derail a good cop’s career.
He was going to do whatever he could to make sure that didn’t happen. He checked his rearview mirror and slowly pulled off to the side of the road. This was not a night to drive and text at the same time. He pulled up his text thread with Rena. Sat for a minute in his dark vehicle, thinking about the right thing to say. Finally settled on, Chin up, Morgan. You did what you had to do. Call me when you’re ready. He put his phone down and started driving, not bothering to return the calls from the numbers that he didn’t recognize. Those callers had not left messages. He did not want to take the chance they were reporters looking to get an angle from Rena’s partner.
Instead, he refocused his thoughts on his conversation with Badger. The woman’s murder he’d mentioned had happened about the time Badger had been sent up. That had been about fifteen years ago. A.L. would have been working and living in Madison at the time. It was before his ex-wife, Jacqui, had wanted to make the move to Baywood, claiming that it would be better to raise their daughter in a smaller town, around family.
