A Killer Motive, page 18
I could barely speak as I pointed to my throat. “Your . . . your voice—”
“I’ve done improv and took voice-over classes a while back,” he said, shifting his tone and suddenly sounding exactly like Liam from Augusta had. There was no mistaking it. Dylan wasn’t lying about this.
“Why would she—”
“I didn’t ask.”
Head spinning, my knees buckled as I almost sank to the ground. Vivien had asked Dylan to call People of Portland while we were on-air. She’d given him specific instructions on what to say. Why would she do this? What could she possibly have to gain?
I suddenly wondered if she was Anwir, but it didn’t make sense. Or did it? She’d been at the beach party the night Max vanished, but Jeff had been there, too. So had I. It didn’t mean she was involved in my brother’s disappearance. Or Kenji’s. But then why had she asked Dylan to make the call pretending to be Liam?
Suddenly, her possible motivation became clear. She’d pressed me on more than one occasion to record a follow-up episode about Max. She knew I didn’t want to talk about him on People of Portland. Getting Dylan involved in this way had increased the radio show’s ratings, got more ears on A Killer Motive.
Vivien had hoped it would make us attractive to advertisers. More sensationalist to Booker, whom she’d talked to before we’d gone on-air and seen at Templetons before she’d manipulated me into the lunch at Triple Crown.
What else had she done?
I shivered as I remembered a case I’d read about years ago. A woman who’d faked her own disappearance because she was hungry for fame. Were Vivien and Kenji in on this together? Hadad had accused me of lying about AL’s emails to move the spotlight back onto Max’s case. What if the detective was right, but it had been Vivien’s plan? She’d said she hadn’t seen Kenji in years, but I couldn’t trust her. And what about the severed arm?
“Did she tell you to send me any emails?” I asked Dylan.
“Only the call. I swear.”
“When, and how?”
“Three weeks ago,” he said with an apologetic grimace. “She walked up to me outside the station and offered me money in exchange for the call. Half up front, half after. She Venmoed me. That’s all I know.”
Anger toward my so-called best friend grew in my stomach. Thrusting the cash and gift card into Dylan’s hands, I said, “Take these. Call me immediately if Vivien contacts you. Immediately, okay?”
“I will,” Dylan said. “I promise. Please don’t tell Izzy or Charlene. I can’t afford to lose my job. Not with the state Grams is in.”
After promising I’d keep quiet if he held up his end of the bargain, I got into my car. My entire body trembled as I sat and watched Dylan drive away while I attempted to decide how to handle my newest discovery.
I wanted to call Vivien but expected her to deny it all. My only evidence was the word of someone I barely knew who’d almost screwed me over because he was broke. Hardly a reliable witness. Still, whether or not it turned me into the most gullible person on the planet, I believed him. Dylan was Liam, but not Anwir. Anwir was still out there, hiding.
As I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, I held firm to my belief that when I confronted Vivien about the radio call and seeing Booker at Templetons, it had to be in person, once she returned from Syracuse, so I could see her reactions in real time. I’d know for sure if she was lying.
As I sank into the car seat, mind whirring with all the disconnected pieces of information I desperately wanted to fit together, my iPhone rang. When I saw my mother’s number, I figured she was calling to give me an earful about Dad’s disastrous birthday lunch. I let it go to voicemail, frowning when the phone chimed. Mom only left messages in emergencies.
When I listened to the recording, the urgency made me bolt upright. “Stella, call me back,” she said. “Your father’s being questioned by the police about what you found in the mine.”
Sunday, August 3
Chapter 36
Surprise.
Bet you weren’t expecting that, Stella. Not in a million years. In The Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare famously said, “The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children.”
What will you do with Howard’s, I wonder.
I take immense pride in my work. I suppose I feel somewhat like a sculptor, chip, chip, chipping away. But instead of the material I’m working with being stone, it’s your soul.
Whatever’s left of it by the time I’m done will belong to me.
I can hardly wait.
Chapter 37
Stella
My world had been turned upside down all over again. The knockout punches kept coming so fast and hard, I no longer knew which was the right way up, what to do about my loss of control, or how to find steady footing again.
Sitting in the kitchen alone at an unearthly hour on Sunday morning as rain splattered across the windows, I tried to wrap my head around what had happened yesterday.
After listening to Mom’s message about Dad being with the police, I’d called her immediately. “What’s going on?” I’d asked, trying not to sound frantic. She’d always tended to expect the worst, but my own panic levels had shot up to almost match hers. “What do you mean, Dad’s with the cops?”
“Detective Hadad came to the house to talk to him,” she replied, her words thick with tears. “I don’t know the details. Only that it’s related to the arm you found.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Are they still there?”
“No. They said it would be better if they discussed things at the station downtown. I’m here now, waiting.”
“Did Dad call his attorney?”
“No—”
“Why not?”
“He insisted there’s no need,” Mom snapped. “Your father hasn’t done anything wrong. Do you know what this is about? Have they told you more about what you found?”
“No, nothing. Listen, don’t move. I’m coming over.”
I’d hesitated about calling Jeff. Early on in our relationship, I’d learned that when we had an argument, he needed time to process the disagreement. However, Dad being hauled in for questioning about the human remains had changed the situation entirely.
As I shoved my feet into my sneakers, I’d called Jeff’s cell. When he didn’t pick up, I decided not to leave a voicemail until I had additional information. No sense having him freak out, too.
With no more time to waste, I headed into Portland and parked in the lot opposite the police station, where I’d run into Dylan. While his explanation about what happened that day seemed plausible, being back there caused doubts to resurface. I pushed them down. No opportunity to dissect them now. Other things needed my attention.
I hurried across the street. Before I reached the police station’s main entrance, the Nokia rang. “Don’t forget our deal,” Anwir said when I answered. “You know what’ll happen if you breathe a word about me. I’ll be listening.”
He didn’t wait for a reply before hanging up. Within an instant, the nerves in my stomach swarmed like rabid bats trying to burst from my abdomen in a bid for freedom. It was exactly what I wanted to do. Escape. Run away and only return once this nightmare had resolved itself.
Except I was the one who had to work things through. Walking away from Anwir meant abandoning Kenji and Max. Not an option. In any case, whatever connection the cops thought they had between Dad and the arm was a mistake. A misunderstanding.
Steeling myself for what I was about to hear, I dropped the Nokia in my front pocket and walked into the police station. Mom sat in the reception area with a scrunched-up Kleenex in her hands, eyes red and puffy, mascara smudged across her cheeks.
“Stella,” she said, getting up. I expected her to hesitate before hugging me, but she remained two yards away, working the tissue between her clenched hands.
“Any news?” I asked. “Have they been out to see you?”
“No, and I don’t understand why we’re here in the first place.”
“Are you certain we shouldn’t call an attorney? I can’t believe Dad’s talking to the cops without representation. Although . . . I suppose it shows good faith, and he has nothing to hide.”
My mother leaned in and lowered her voice. “What about you, Stella?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” She glared at me. “I don’t think your father’s hiding anything, but I can’t say the same for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you really happen to stumble across that . . . that body part at Bradley Hills?”
“Yes. It’s like I told you and Detective Hadad already. I was hiking and—”
“I know what you said, Stella,” Mom cut in. “But I also know you. Something’s not sitting well. What’s going on? If you have information that could help your dad, you need to share it with the police. Do you hear? Immediately.”
She was right, of course, and I would’ve followed her command if Anwir’s instructions weren’t still ringing in my ears. I would tell Hadad. I’d tell her, Jeff, Mom, and Dad everything as soon as I could. But not now. Not until Kenji was safe and I had Anwir’s information about Max.
“You want answers, Mom. It’s completely understandable,” I said gently, rushing on as she opened her mouth, no doubt to protest or to accuse me of being condescending. “I wish I could give them to you, but I don’t know more than I’ve shared.”
I forced myself to hold her gaze. Luckily, Hadad walked into the reception area, interrupting our standoff. When Mom spotted her, she rushed over.
“What are you talking to my husband about?” she demanded. “Why did you bring him here? I have a right to know.”
“Mrs. Dixon.” Hadad held up both hands, palms turned toward Mom as she made a distinct calm down gesture. I wanted to break her fingers. “I was hoping we could speak.”
“Will you tell me what’s going on with Howard?”
“Let’s do this in private.” The detective indicated the door. “Please. Come this way. We’ll get you a coffee and talk properly.”
“What about me?” I asked.
“We’re good for now,” Hadad replied before tilting her head. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
And with that, the two of them disappeared.
I’d gone home. Checking and rechecking that the doors and windows were locked while wondering what was happening downtown, and spinning theories about how my father was connected with the severed arm, each one more outlandish than the next.
Time dragged on. I was no closer to discovering who Anwir was. I wasn’t sure if Dylan had told the truth. If he had, it meant Vivien had set me up not only for lunch with Booker but also on the People of Portland show with the call from Liam. How could she do that to me?
Frustrated, angry, and overwhelmed, I ignored a text from her that read, You’re quiet. Everything okay? Thought more about meeting Booker soon? I’d set my phone to Do Not Disturb, ensuring only calls from Jeff and my parents came through. Exhausted, I must’ve fallen asleep around nine and had only woken up briefly when Jeff got home.
I hadn’t been able to face getting into any more discussions or arguments with him, so I’d pretended to be asleep yet again. Now, as the sun kissed the clear skies with a touch of cotton-candy pink, I stood in the kitchen, preparing a pot of coffee.
By the time I’d eaten half a piece of toast and pushed my plate away, I heard Jeff coming downstairs. The first thing he did when he walked into the room was put his arms around me. His embrace felt so good, so reassuring, I wanted to stay wrapped in our cocoon forever.
“Why are you up already?” I asked.
“Couldn’t sleep anymore without apologizing,” he whispered. “I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have told your folks anything. Especially when you asked me not to. It was wrong.”
“I’m the one who needs to apologize,” I replied, hugging him. “I overreacted.”
He kissed the top of my head and murmured, “Maybe we both did. I shouldn’t have stomped off like a moody teenager, either. Have you heard from your folks? All good?”
“Not exactly . . .”
Jeff listened, eyes widening, as I told him about Dad being taken in for questioning. Shivers zipped down my back as I shared the sparse details, my mind still trying to grasp how or if any of this was connected.
“Holy hell,” Jeff said once I’d finished. “I don’t get it. What does a severed arm dumped in an old mine have to do with your dad?”
“That’s about where I’ve been since yesterday,” I said, blinking hard as tears slithered down my cheeks. “I’m confused. Exhausted. I can’t think straight.”
Jeff grabbed my hand, pulling me back in for a hug. “I wish I’d been here for you. I’m an ass. I saw your missed call and wasn’t ready to talk, so—”
“It’s okay—”
“It’s not,” he insisted. “You needed me. I wasn’t there. But we’ll figure this out, I promise. I’ll do whatever I can to fix this.”
I’m not sure how long we stayed in the kitchen, me sobbing, Jeff trying to give me the reassurance I desperately needed. I couldn’t take much more of Anwir’s mind games. Where would they end? When would it be over? Would Kenji still be alive? Would I? What would I learn about Max? As my thoughts kept spiraling, the sound of the doorbell made me jump.
“I’ll get it,” Jeff said, and a few moments later, I heard Detective Hadad’s voice in our hallway, and the front door closing as she came inside.
I wiped my face with a napkin and blinked a few times as the two of them entered the kitchen. Hadad wore another of her sharp suits, hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, a brown leather messenger bag casually slung over her shoulder. She seemed well rested, immediately sparking my envy.
“Hello, Detective.” I tried to smile, didn’t get far, and gave up.
“Can I get you a drink?” Jeff asked, ever the ultimate host. “Water, tea, or coffee?”
“Coffee would be great,” Hadad replied. “Black. Thank you, Mr. Summer.”
“Please, call me Jeff.”
The detective and I settled at the breakfast table while Jeff filled a mug and put it in front of Hadad before sitting next to me.
“Appreciate it,” Hadad said, lifting the drink to her lips.
“Can you please tell us what’s going on?” I asked, unable to wait. “Where’s my dad?”
She set the mug down. “He left the station late last night.”
“Why did you talk to him?” Jeff said. “Stella mentioned it’s related to the Bradley Hills discovery, but it makes no sense.”
The detective slowly turned her gaze on me. “We found your father’s prints.”
“His prints?” I asked. “Where?”
“On the sealed bag the remains were in,” Hadad said. “And on the arm.”
Chapter 38
Stella
Whatever answer I expected from Hadad, her response wouldn’t have crossed my mind in a century. It was ridiculous. Preposterous. So outrageous, in fact, that I couldn’t help a laugh from escaping my mouth.
“You found Dad’s prints?” I said, voice going up. “On the arm?”
Hadad nodded once. “Yes.”
I searched her face, waiting for her to tell me she was kidding. Except she didn’t. This wasn’t a joke. Hadad was completely serious.
“This is absurd,” Jeff said. “There’s got to be a mistake. Your lab messed up.”
“Wait,” I said. “How did you know they were his prints?”
Hadad looked at me. “Mr. Dixon has been in the system for over thirty years.”
“Huh? Why?”
The detective took a few beats. She smoothed down her shirt before meeting my eyes, her expression filling with something akin to empathy. “He was a suspect in a homicide.”
This time I wondered if I’d slipped into a parallel universe where everyone spewed nonsense. “My father was accused of killing someone? I don’t believe you. No. No way.”
“Suspected. Not accused, charged, or convicted.” Hadad observed me. “You didn’t know.”
“No,” I said. “Whose murder?”
Hadad opened her messenger bag and retrieved a manila folder. Jeff squeezed my fingers, but my hand went limp as if all the strength had left my body. Neither my father nor my mother had ever mentioned Dad being suspected of hurting someone. Then again, if it was true, it was hardly a discussion my family would have over Sunday lunch. Max and I had only found out about Mom’s older brother being killed when Dad had let it slip when I was twelve.
“Zachary Arlington,” Hadad said, the folder still closed as she set it on the table.
“Who’s he?” Jeff asked. “Did Stella find his arm?”
“Have either of you heard of Zachary Arlington?” Hadad asked, ignoring the questions. “Did Mr. or Mrs. Dixon mention his name?”
“No, not once,” I said. “Tell us who he is.”
Hadad opened the folder, took out a photograph, and slid it across the table. I found myself examining a picture of a man I figured was somewhere in his early thirties. Short red hair, almost translucent complexion. Freckles dotted across his cheeks. A thick gold figaro chain around his neck peeked out from the top of his blue V-neck knitted sweater.
“I don’t know who this is,” I said. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“Zachary Arlington was your mom’s boyfriend years ago,” Hadad said. “They split up about a month before she and your father met. Apparently, Mr. Arlington didn’t take the separation or her new relationship with Mr. Dixon well.”
“What do you mean?” Jeff asked. “What did this Zachary guy do?”
“According to the police reports, he was overly jealous,” Hadad replied. “He followed Erin for months. Waited outside her apartment and at her work. Made anonymous calls.”
“A stalker?” I asked.
“Yes, and things escalated,” the detective continued. “He left feces on her doorstep, canine and otherwise. Allegedly slashed her tires, although there was no proof he did it. Then Mr. Arlington and Mr. Dixon had a few run-ins.”
