The Book of Cold Cases, page 7
Beth swallowed and looked at the trees. Her father had been complicated—unhappy, sometimes angry. In his own way, as trapped as her mother was. For a long time, during the years of alcohol-fueled fights and lonely Christmases, she had hated him. Part of her still did.
But she had loved him, too. She had wished, with the stupid wistfulness of a daughter, that she could have been the one to make him happy. But she wasn’t. She could never be. Fixing her father hadn’t been possible.
She turned back to see Ransom looking at her. He’d been her father’s lawyer, and then her mother’s, and now hers. He was as familiar to her as a tool she used every day. She knew he had a wife who left him frequently—he always got her back—and three kids. He liked steak and loathed cigarettes, claiming the smell made him sick. She hadn’t seen him in two years, but she knew all of those things were still true.
“You need a lawyer,” he said.
“No, I don’t.”
He took the newspaper from under his arm and handed it to her.
Reluctantly, Beth took it and opened it. It was this morning’s Claire Lake Daily, spattered with rain and hot off the press, and the headline read do police have a suspect in the “lady killer” murders? Beneath it was a photo of Beth leaving the police station after the interview yesterday. She’d been surprised by the man standing outside with a camera, and he’d caught her looking pale and hard, hostility in her eyes. Even Beth looked at that photo and could easily see a murderer. A trick of the light, the random angle of her face, the surprise and anger mixed in her features, and she looked guilty as hell.
She’d probably looked guilty as hell on camera just now, too. It all added more fuel to the fire.
Beth stared at the words in the headline again. They threatened to blur and jumble in front of her face. Things were moving now, going faster, as if sliding downhill. None of it was under her control.
“Do you have anything to say to me, Beth?” Ransom asked, cutting through her haze of anger and panic.
“They think I did it,” Beth said, because she couldn’t tell Ransom the truth. He already knew some of it; he’d been the family lawyer for too long not to know the buried secrets. But there were other secrets that were too dangerous for even Ransom to know. “The police, I mean. They think I killed those men.”
“And yet they didn’t arrest you,” Ransom pointed out calmly. “That means they’re still fishing. They’ll pressure you as much as they can while they build their case. They’re hoping you give in, get scared, start weeping or cracking. They’re looking for vulnerable spots. Something tells me they’re looking in vain.”
Beth folded the paper, unable to stare at the words anymore, the photo of her murderous face. Everyone thought she had it together. Well, she may as well play the part. “I didn’t tell them anything because I don’t know anything.”
Ransom tutted. “You shouldn’t have talked to them without me. Always call your lawyer first, Beth. But it’s no matter. I’ll have whatever you said discredited so thoroughly no one will even be sure you said it in the first place. What can you tell me about the cops? Are we dealing with any level of competence?”
It hadn’t occurred to Beth that she would gain her own information from that interview. Maybe she should start thinking like a criminal. “Yes,” she said. “They’re both competent. Black is younger, but he has more authority somehow. He wouldn’t let the other one smoke during the interview.”
“Competent and righteous. A deadly combination. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“I don’t need you.” She didn’t need anyone. She couldn’t. Even now, with everything going to hell.
Ransom was unfazed. “Yes, you do. Where were you on the nights of the murders?”
“Home.”
“Was anyone with you?”
Beth shook her head.
“You were out just now, when I got here.”
“I was driving around.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.” She’d been searching. But she wasn’t going to tell Ransom that.
“We’ll work on it,” he said. “What to tell them. What to say. When to shut up, which is most of the time. Tell me everything they asked you, everything you said. Everything they told you.”
She did. She remembered every word so easily. It was the only thing she had thought about since she walked out of the police station.
Ransom listened, then gave his judgment: “It could be worse, and it could be better. You have me now. How much money do you have left of your parents’ inheritance?”
“Just about all of it.”
“Good, because I’ll need a retainer.” As if there was never a question of hiring anyone other than him. Because in all honesty, there wasn’t. “You can swim through this, Beth. But it’s a sensational case, and like it or not, you’re a sensational young woman. This is going to get ugly.”
“I know.” Two years. Two years she’d been doing—what? Drinking, spending time with the wrong people. Sleeping with her eyes open, thinking that after her mother’s death nothing in her life could get worse. Thinking that the worst of it was over.
All of this was her fault.
Her life, as she knew it, was over. There was some relief in that, because she hadn’t liked her life much. But what was waiting for her was not going to be any better.
“Did you tell the police about your mother?” Ransom asked. “About her history?”
The words gave her chills. It had been years since this topic had come up. “No, of course not.”
“I thought things were settled,” Ransom said, looking out over the ocean, “but perhaps I was wrong. I can make some inquiries.”
“Don’t bother,” Beth said.
Ransom looked pained, but he nodded. Years of history passed between them, unspoken.
Do you think I’m a murderer? Beth wanted to ask him. A moment of weakness. Just one moment. Say it. Say that you don’t think I killed those men. Please.
But he didn’t say that, and instead of asking, she said, “I can handle it.”
Ransom took the newspaper from her and put it back under his arm. “I’ll never understand why Mariana made the choices she did. They must have seemed like the only choices possible to her, I suppose. Still, now she’s gone, and we have to deal with the fallout.” He glanced at Beth. “I’ll be honest. Because of all the times in your life, now is the time for honesty. Could I believe that you did it? That you killed those men, just by looking at you? Yes, I can believe it. Easily. It’s a good thing I can believe it, because I’m going to look at all the same angles as someone who thinks you’re guilty. And you’re going to get a fair trial.”
The wind stung Beth’s face, crawled down her neck. She looked at the ocean.
“Julian died in that house,” Ransom said. “There are times I look at it and I can still see him, standing in a hallway or coming out the front door. I can still see Mariana, too. If I believed in ghosts, which I don’t, I’d believe that those two are still in that house, which is why I can’t bear to go in there. I’d rather stand out here in the rain. But it doesn’t change the fact that they’re dead and their daughter is still alive. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m not going to let the jackals eat you, Beth.”
Beth swallowed. “Get me out of this,” she told him. “Not just for me. Get me out of this so I can lay the ghosts to rest.”
Ransom paused, and then he nodded. “Fine,” he said. “I intend to try.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
September 2017
SHEA
“Telekinesis,” I said.
“What?” Michael’s tone was thick with disbelief.
“Telekinesis,” I said again. “The ability of a person to move physical objects with their mind. According to the research, it can sometimes be deliberate and sometimes subconscious, brought on by extreme emotion or stress. Some people have even reported telekinetic powers during sleep, when they’re completely unaware of it. The person is asleep, and they’re still making things move.”
Michael cleared his throat. I was on the bus, but it was nearly empty and I was sitting at the back, where no one could hear my crazy ranting. “Shea, you’re trying to tell me that Beth Greer isn’t only a serial murderer, she’s also a psychic?”
“I’m saying it’s a possibility,” I replied. “That’s all. I looked up the research, and—”
“What research? The entire theory is a load of bullshit.”
Of course that’s what Michael would think. He was a cop. Deep down, I thought it was bullshit, too—I’d never believed in psychics, ghosts, demonic possessions, or any of it. But still. “I saw what I saw,” I said. “The taps turned on by themselves, and the cupboard doors opened.” Telekinesis wouldn’t explain the blood I’d seen in the sink, which I hadn’t told Michael about. But there had to be an explanation for that. There had to be.
“It’s an old house,” Michael said. “The pipes in my apartment make weird moaning noises at night, but that’s all it is. Pipes.”
So Michael lived in an apartment. I hadn’t known that. Ever since he’d mentioned a divorce, I’d wondered if he lived in an apartment or if he still lived in their house, if they had one. “This wasn’t pipes,” I said. “This was taps being turned on.”
“Well, it wasn’t telekinesis, either,” Michael said. “Maybe Beth was trying to distract you.”
I blinked in shock as the bus turned a corner, heading for downtown. “You think Beth rigged some kind of deliberate setup?”
“Why not? It’s her house. She’s had forty years to put in any switches or levers that she wants. You’re dealing with a liar, Shea. Please remember that.”
I closed my eyes, feeling two distinct sides of myself at war. On the one hand, I absolutely did not believe in ghosts or the supernatural. It was regular, everyday earthly evil that kept me up at night.
But on the other hand, to believe it was a fun-house trick was to believe that Beth Greer had some strange, psychopathic wish to deceive me. And—I could admit it to myself—I didn’t want to believe that.
I didn’t want to believe she was a liar, and I didn’t want to believe she was a serial killer. Which was exactly what Beth wanted.
“I can go over there and check it out, if you like,” Michael said.
“No.”
“Are you saying no because you don’t want to ask for help from a man?”
“That isn’t it.” That was kind of it. “Beth and I have only just started talking. If I bring someone over to dismantle her house, looking for levers, she’ll stop talking to me.”
“Of course,” Michael said. “The carrot and the stick. That works entirely in her favor.”
Once again, I pictured Michael as an old-school gumshoe, sitting on a park bench somewhere, trying to look casual as he followed a subject. He was holding a newspaper in front of his face, watching from behind it. A turtleneck—I definitely pictured him in a turtleneck. Dark brown, with a blazer over it. The picture was so vivid it felt real. “Beth has held up her end of the bargain so far,” I argued. “I’m on my way to interview Detective Joshua Black right now.”
“At least I don’t have to worry about you when you’re with him,” Michael said. “I envy you, to be honest. Black is a legend in the Claire Lake PD. He’s been retired for years, but they still talk about him. He’s put countless thieves and rapists away, worked every big murder Claire Lake has ever seen. His work on the Sherry Haines murder was practically a textbook on how to catch a killer.”
My body went cold and my head went light. There was a thready pulsing sound in my ears. I held the phone, silent.
“Shea?” Michael said. “Are you there?”
“Yes,” I managed. “He worked . . . He worked that case? I didn’t know.”
“Sure, he worked it,” Michael said. “We don’t have a big detective force in Claire Lake, and we don’t have that many murders. Especially child murders. You sound strange. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I looked out the window, saw the piers and the water. “This is my stop. I have to go.”
I screwed that up, I thought as I got off the bus and inhaled the cold, salty smell of the ocean. Michael probably thought I was crazy. Then again, he thought that already. I had to forget about it and get a grip for this interview with Joshua Black.
Black’s address was one of the houseboats on the downtown piers. I walked along the grid of wooden slats, following the signs with twee names like Ocean Lane and Saltwater Avenue. Black’s boat was trim and tidily kept, though the decorations weren’t overly fussy. A single man’s dwelling.
I knocked on the door, and he answered right away. Though Black was over seventy now, he looked a lot like the handsome man I’d seen in photos. He had the same cheekbones and dark eyes, but his hair was white. Still, his face had changed somewhat. It was thinner, the roundness of his young man’s features gone. The effect was just as pleasing, but in a different way.
I looked at him and tried to remember if I recognized him, if Detective Black’s was one of the many faces I’d seen after I’d escaped the car when I was nine. If he’d worked the case, been the lead, then I must have been brought to talk to him at some point. But everything was a terrified blur, and there were so many strangers’ faces in the days and weeks that followed the abduction—police, doctors, psychologists, social workers. I’d sat numbly and told my story over and over, gotten in the car with my parents and gone to office after office. I hadn’t known who anyone was, and I hadn’t asked many questions. I had only wanted all of it to be over.
But it was almost certain that Detective Black and I had met twenty years ago, that he’d been one of the people to interview me and have me tell my story. It was certain that he knew my name, because I hadn’t changed it. Maybe he’d forgotten; it was a long time ago. But when I looked in his eyes, I knew he hadn’t forgotten at all.
“Shea Collins?” He held out his hand, and I shook it. “It’s nice to see you again.”
My throat was tight, my tongue clumsy and dry in my mouth. “I don’t remember you,” I said, the words spilling out of me. “Not specifically.”
“I didn’t think you would,” he said. Then he stepped back. “Come in.”
The inside of the houseboat was small and neat, a bachelor’s space. There was a sofa and a TV, a coffee table that likely served as a dining table. There was a galley kitchen to the left and a partition with, presumably, a bedroom behind it. From the window over the kitchen sink, I could see nothing but water.
“Have a seat,” Black said, indicating the sofa. I sat down, realizing that I was obeying because I thought of him as a cop. The cop who had worked—had solved—the Sherry Haines case. The man who, at some point, had interviewed me. I pressed my palms together between my knees.
“Can I get you anything?” Black asked, walking to the galley kitchen.
“No, thank you.”
“We’ll get something out of the way first,” he said in the easy manner of a man who has conducted hundreds of interviews with strangers, most of them hostile, as he poured water into his glass. “I remember you from the Sherry Haines case, but we’re not here to talk about that today.”
“No,” I managed.
“I understand. You want to talk about the Lady Killer case. You asked for an interview before, I think. A year or so ago.”
I nodded. “I’m a blogger. Not as my day job. As my hobby.” I stopped talking, realizing that for once I was with someone who didn’t need an explanation about why I liked true crime. If anyone would understand, it was Detective Joshua Black.
Black turned around, the glass in his hand. “I recognized your name when you made the first request,” he said frankly, “but I make it a policy never to talk about that case with anyone. This time, though, I got a personal request from Beth to meet with you, and I was too curious to turn it down.”
This part had me completely baffled. “You have a relationship with Beth,” I said, and it didn’t come out as a question.
Detective Black leaned against his tiny kitchen counter. “We live in the same town,” he said. “We’ve both lived here all our lives. Claire Lake isn’t a very big place.”
“So even though you investigated her and testified at her murder trial, the two of you are friends.”
He laughed, though the sound had little humor in it. Instead I heard layers of complexity I didn’t understand. “We aren’t friends.” He gestured at the view out the kitchen window. “Did you know that these houseboats were originally put here by Claire Lake’s homeless people?”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” He smiled. “In the early 1960s, the city wanted to put up single-family houses by the lake. They were going to tear down public housing in order to do it, and evict everyone in the neighborhood. No one stopped them, so the city evicted over two hundred people, all of whom had to find somewhere else to live. Some wise soul realized that he could buy a boat that was headed for the junkyard for much cheaper than a house, and also that the city’s zoning laws technically allowed for residential boats off the piers. So a lot of the evicted people, who were now homeless, bought up old boats, anchored them, and lived in them instead.”
“I’ll bet the city was pleased,” I said.
Black smiled again. “The city was livid, but there was nothing they could do. The zoning laws were on the books. Since then, this area has gentrified so much that only artsy types and retirees like me live here. But the first boats were owned by the poor rabble, the people who had nowhere else to go.” He shook his head. “I guess you’re not interested in my Claire Lake history lesson.”
