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p; Delacroix said, “But your grandfather, he might have—”
“He’s fuckin’ dead!”
“—might have told you about them?”
“No way! Wynn didn’t know nothin’ . . . or at least he didn’t tell me ’bout any damned dead girls. The only dead one I know who died up there was that girl whose ghost that’s hangin’ out there. Nell or Nellie or whatever. But no.”
“You know the bodies are girls?” Delacroix asked, dead serious.
“Well, hell, I think so. Like I just told you! One of ’em was wearin’ a locket and a bra . . . oh, shit, I want a lawyer!”
“No need for that,” Reed said, “though, of course, you could call one and we can go downtown, make this real official. But we’re just asking about what you found.”
“You’re not arresting me?” he asked.
Delacroix asked, “Should we?”
“Hell, no! If I was guilty, would I have called the goddamned police? Huh? I was doin’ my civic duty.”
“Anonymously,” she pointed out, and didn’t bother to hide the irritation in her voice.
“No shit. Because of this. I didn’t want to go through all this.” Bronco rolled his eyes to the ceiling and let out a lungful of smoke on a sigh. “I shouldn’t of done it. I knew it. Calling the cops is always a bad, bad idea.”
“No one’s arresting anyone,” Reed said, sending a pointed look to his newbie of a partner. “We’re just talking. That’s all. Just trying to figure out what’s going on.”
“The way I look at it, you all should be grateful I even made the call,” Bronco said.
“We are.”
Delacroix shot him a glare that accused him of being a liar, but Reed ignored it and Bronco relaxed a little. “Fine then.” Leaning back on the couch, he glowered at Delacroix, then focused on Reed and, with urging, told them what he knew, though Reed thought he was still holding back. On the way back to the station, Delacroix said, “He’s lying. Not about everything, but he’s holding something back.” She rolled down the passenger window. “And I smell like an old cigarette butt. He was nervous, couldn’t keep from playing with his pack and lighting one after another. He knows more than he’s saying.”
“Maybe he’ll have a come-to-Jesus moment and tell us everything.”
“That guy?” Delacroix snorted and pulled a face. “I’m not putting any money on that. He lies like that rug his dog was sleeping on.”
Reed couldn’t argue. He dropped her off at the station to pick up her car, then swung by the hospital to check on Morrisette.
But he was too late.
As he started for the main doors, Reed noticed Bart Yelkis huddled with Morrisette’s two kids, both of whom were crying and crossing the parking area. Toby, a string bean with a Mohawk, was almost as tall as his spark plug of a father. He was sniffing and dashing away tears while trying to suck it up. Priscilla, as petite as her mother, was sobbing, hiding her head beneath a curtain of blond hair and refusing to be comforted by her father. Bart’s expression was dark, a mixture of anger and angst.
Reed’s stomach dropped. He felt the bad news. Knew, with sickening insight, what was to come.
Bart zeroed in on Reed and shepherded his kids into a jacked-up Dodge Ram, a black king cab with amber lights mounted on the roof of the cab. He slammed the door behind them, then whirled and, fists clenched, crossed the parking lot to square off with Reed.
“I’m suing your ass, Reed. You and that fucking department you work for. It’s your fault she’s dead.”
Dead? Morrisette is dead? Oh. Jesus. “No . . .” He didn’t want to believe it, though the truth was evident in the shorter man’s eyes. “But I thought she was . . .” His voice trailed off. Hoping against hope he was reading Morrisette’s ex all wrong, he wanted to deny what was becoming horribly evident, with a sinking sense of dread that Yelkis, for once, was telling the truth.
Sylvie Morrisette, his partner for over a decade, was gone.
“What? Wait. You didn’t know?” Yelkis stepped over a raised flower bed separating one area of the lot from the next. To drive the point home, he said, “She died, Reed. Right there on the operating table.” Advancing on Reed, he fought to keep control and failed. “Her life was snuffed out, just like that.” He snapped his fat fingers as beneath the brim of his cap a vein throbbed visibly at one temple. “The way I hear it, your wife killed her.” His jaw worked and his fists opened and closed, and Reed detected the lingering odor of his last beer on Yelkis’s breath. “Did you hear me?” he demanded, pointing a finger at Reed’s chest, his lips twisted in fury. “Your damned wife.” For a second Reed thought Yelkis was going to take a swing at him, sucker-punch him right then and there.
But as his fists balled, the passenger window of his truck rolled down and Toby yelled, “Dad? You comin’?”
Yelkis held up an index finger and yelled over his shoulder, “In a sec!”
