I close my eyes and fight the descending despair. No. That can’t be. Not a single one of us would do that to the others.
Focus on what you have to do, Shelley.
I pop my trunk and get out. At the back of my car, I reach in to remove the spare tire. The odor of death nearly takes my breath. I gag over and over until the job is done. With the spare on the ground andthe piece of trunk carpet next to it, I remove the drain plug. I shudder as my fingers encounter specks of blood.
Finally, I walk to the payment console and drop in coins. I select “Wash” and draw in a big breath. I tremble despite my best efforts to steady myself. I should have done this already. It’s a miracle they didn’t ask to search my car. For all I know, they could show up at my house with a search warrant this very evening.
If my husband or my children find out what I’ve done ...
God no. They can’t. No one can ever know.
Another big breath and I remove the high-pressure spray gun from its rack and head toward the back of my car once more. I spray the open lid and the interior over and over, then I return to the console and select “Rinse.” It takes a while to rinse away all the foam, but I get it done. Then I check for any remaining debris and find nothing. I spray off the tire and carpet before returning both to the trunk.
A voice in my head warns that the carpet will likely mildew before it dries, but I don’t care. I only care that any evidence of what I’ve done has been washed away.
Six
Detective Walter Duncan
“That was fast.” I open the lobby door for Liv and follow her out of the doctor’s office. I’m hoping the doc was able to give her something that will keep the headaches at bay until her life calms down.
Now, that’s rich. Since when does a cop’s life ever calm down?
When Liv walks straight to the bank of elevators and presses the call button without a word, I trudge after her. I suppose she’ll tell me what she wants to tell me in her own time. We’ve worked together for two years. She’s seen the worst of me, and so far she’s been open and honest about herself, as have I.
Until recently, anyway.
I can’t exactly fault her for holding things close to the vest when I was keeping a whopper of a secret myself. But hey, that one worked out. I don’t have cancer. Just gotta get the old ticker looked at. I’m glad, but I don’t like being that man—the kind who keeps secrets. The guilt was weighing on me. Stella always said the reason she loved me so much was because I was a good man, an honest man.
When the elevator doors close with us inside, she finally speaks. “She’s pretty sure it’s not a brain tumor.”
Her lips quirk and I smile. “That’s always good.”
“She did some blood work. Mostly she thinks it’s the stress.”
“Aha!” I grin and keep the “I told you so” to myself.
“Yeah, yeah.” She leans against the back wall. “I need more sleep and less upset in my life. But I’m a cop, and I don’t really see how that’s possible.”
“Speaking of upset,” I say, “Reynolds finished most of his preliminary workup on the evidence collected from the Fanning scene. Clean as a whistle, for the most part. Fanning’s prints were the only ones he could identify. Whoever else was involved, he or she wasn’t in the database or was extremely careful. Didn’t leave anything behind except the blood on that hand towel, and for all we know, it may’ve already been there. Reynolds said there’s still some trace evidence to go through, but he’s not expecting any game changers.”
“This is what television dramas likeCSIgive us,” she gripes. “Evidence-free crime scenes.”
She rubs at her forehead and my gut clenches. “Did your doc give you anything for the headaches?”
She shakes her head. “For now, she wants to hold off. See what’s going on with the blood work.”
“Makes sense, I guess.” I sure as hell hate for Liv to suffer the way she did yesterday. It was painful just watching.
She glances at the screen on her phone. “We still have time to try and catch Dana Reeves at her office.”
The elevator bumps to a stop. “I can handle the next interview if you want to call it a day.”
She glares at me before stepping off the car. “No way, this is my case, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We load up and head to the south side. Dana Reeves is a CPA with her own shop off Powell Avenue in Woodbine. Reeves was eleven when she was picked up by Fanning twenty-two years ago. According to what we could dig up, she never married and has no children. She lives in the same apartment she moved into after college. Never been arrested. No traffic violations. The only hits we got on her name werethe registrations for three dogs and a license plate for a Pontiac Grand Am. I imagine all three of the dogs are big, badass guard dogs. Anyone who’s been violated, particularly in such a vile way, should get a big old mean dog. My Sandy is far from a badass, but if necessary, she would go down trying to protect me.
