Chapter 48
The stupid bitch isn’t unhappy, but she’s nowhere near relieved, either.
This might all stem from Ridgeway and his men and not from the real McCoy CA, which would be a huge relief, but there’s still no way to know for certain. A wicked grin and a call to an attorney is no proof of anything.
Alderson and Greene tell me that Lasserio has alibis for both of the CA’s first two killings, that they are still doing a thorough analysis of those claims. They feel confident that Lasserio is telling the truth based on what they know already about his whereabouts on the key dates, but all this means is that they’re not the original CA.
It doesn’t prove they didn’t copy the CA to scare me, to get away with murdering me and pinning it on the original.
My hands are bundled in tight fists as I listen. My shoulders taut. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve been clinging to the idea that my sketch came from Lasserio and Ridgeway.
Because it lets me off the hook.
But still, it doesn’t make complete sense. “What about the earrings?” I ask. “How could Ridgeway know about them? I only began working on this case this summer, and Fiona has had my earrings since the winter.”
“We found it on Fiona’s husband’s Instagram account,” says Alderson. “What’s his name? Trey?”
“Yes.”
“It was the same photo Fiona sold to the press. Of you at the banquet.”
“I searched my name’s images and nothing under Trey came up.”
“Different search engines produce varying results,” Alderson says. “Some turn up more options.”
I’m angry at myself for not checking more closely, but I exhale a sigh of relief. It could still be Ridgeway. “I searched Fiona’s and other friends’ accounts but didn’t check on Trey’s. I didn’t know he had one.” I pick up my phone.
“Don’t bother,” Alderson says. “He’s deleted it since, but it was a photo of you and Fiona holding up champagne flutes, your earrings sparkling. The press could have found it themselves with a more thorough search. And Ridgeway certainly could have, too.”
Could it really be this simple? That Ridgeway found the photo online? That I won’t have to confess? That the real CA isn’t after me and it’s just Ridgeway fucking with me?
If so, then why is my chest tightening like it’s in a car crusher? I’ve been moving closer and closer to the idea that I not only need to unburden my conscience, but that I almost want to, like it’s this looming, unbearably steep ridgeline that I must climb.
If it’s Ridgeway and not the CA, I could simply turn back now. My mind seesaws back and forth.
Not confessing at all no longer feels right. But fessing up hurts Jess. And lands me in jail.
I close my eyes, and when I open them, Alderson is watching me. “What?” he asks.
“Nothing.” But it is something. The waffling subsides. A strong urge takes its place, hitting me square on, right in the middle of the county building in the interrogation room where I endured a follow-up inquiry about Coleman and Railes, where it all really began to go sour for me.
I need to come clean, even if I am only the target of a couple of idiotic copycats. I can’t go on living a lie, despite the consequences.
The possibility of going to jail sends my heart right to my throat, but it’s dawning on me that I might not have a choice in the matter if I’m to have any kind of a shot at a quality existence, or even a life at all if Ridgeway and Lasserio are not responsible for this and the CA is still after me.
What would life be like for Jess and Sam without me around?
Would it be better? Would it be worse for Sam if Jess falls deeper into depression with me no longer there to pick up the pieces?
It all breaks my heart in two, but it’s my last day. I have to quit wavering and make a choice. I need to hold strong. I decide none of it should alter my plan to confess. I commit myself to following through no matter how much I’m tempted to weasel out of it . . .
Alderson tells me that they plan on having Greene stay the night at my house and upping the manpower to four deputies around my place instead of two, to be on the safe side.
They tell me this is not a discussion, and I tell him that I’m more than happy for the extra security, still keenly aware of what happened to Deputy Zane.
Alderson looks at me with wide puppy eyes, wanting me to say something more, but he won’t ask if I’m going to confess. I know he won’t. He’s too respectful of my situation. He and Greene both.
I drive south on Main Street to Vivian’s address. When I find her apartment, I knock but she doesn’t answer. Same response when I try to roust a neighbor. I leave my card under Vivian’s door and write a note, asking her to call me.
On my way through town heading north, I pass the police station.
I realize I never thanked Ewing for getting me through security earlier.
I can hardly believe it, but a part of me feels bad.
Is it possible I’ve been too hard on him?
Maybe the backlash he helped deliver was reflexive loyalty to an old friend he’d worked with for years.
It doesn’t make it right, but the fact is he demonstrated civility. I throw my blinker on, turn right, and park on the side street. If it proves to be another ill-fated impulsive decision, at least I’ll be making it with good intentions. For a change.
Allison is at the reception desk. “Hey,” she greets me. “How are you?”
“Hanging in there.”
It’s been three days since I showed up with Wallace to report this lunacy. In some ways, they have to be the longest days of my life; in others, they have to be the shortest, the days hurtling along to the killer’s zero hour.
“Are you guys any closer to catching this guy?” she asks. “I heard a couple of agents have flown in from the Salt Lake City field office.”
“They’re working on it. The whole thing is so bizarre.”
“I know. And the news—my God, hon, you are all over it. The latest, with your car. What was that about? I called you, but you didn’t pick up.”
“I know. I’ve just been so, well, crazed.”
“Well, yeah.” She gives me a concerned look.
“I’ll explain when it’s all over. We’ll get lunch soon.”
I want to add, Because you look like you could use some food.
Allison was always trying a new diet, even though she didn’t need one.
Apparently, she’s now succeeding at shedding the pounds, maybe a little too skeletal.
A part of me worries that she has the same disease her sister had, Huntington’s chorea, she had called it, and said she would test at some point to see if she had the gene for it.
I’ll need to ask her about it when the madness of this week has passed. If I’m still around to ask.
“Is Ewing in?”
“Ewing?” She blinks at that, as she well might. “In his office. Want me to ring him?”
“Sure. Tell him it’ll only take a sec.”
I hear her checking in with him, and soon Sergeant Ross escorts me back as he did a few days ago. Ewing stands as I enter.
“What’s going on? You get him?”
“No, afraid not,” I say. “He’s the one that wrote on my car. And my sister’s. I guess taking advantage of the circus to scare me off a case.”
“So what can I do for you now?”
He’s clearly aware he’s done me one single favor. It doesn’t begin to make up for everything else, but it probably does in his pea brain.
“I came by to thank you for getting me in. I appreciate it. Given the status of our relationship? You know? You didn’t need to do that.”
“You’re welcome.” He sighs loudly. He lays his hand flat on his desk as if he’s thinking carefully about what he wants to say next.
“Look, Mitchell, what happened with Hartley—it was confusing. He was my partner for years. I felt like I owed him. But what happened to you, if what you say is true—well, it’s not like I condone that. ”
“You didn’t just condone it. You went to bat for him. You encouraged everyone here”—I gesture around us—“to wear black armbands to protest against me before you even considered whether what I said was true.”
“I was angry. I didn’t believe you. I thought you were being overdramatic. As I said, he was my partner, my buddy. And, you know. The code.”
“The code.” I roll my eyes. The toxic code.
Always protect your fellow officer, at all costs.
Loyalty is everything. Corruption sprouts easily with that kind of fertilizer.
“Can’t say I miss that.” The energy I find in saying this to his face has its own power, like the snap of a towel.
It makes me realize that it’s the real reason for coming, to voice my feelings and not only to thank him.
“I felt like it wasn’t that big of a deal.
Like, you know, so what? He’d had a few too many and got sloppy with you.
I didn’t think you needed to blow it out of proportion.
He’s older, and he grew up in a different culture than you.
I felt like there needs to be some give-and-take in the gray areas of personal interactions or we’re all going to go crazy. ”
“Trust me, that’s what I told myself, too, even though I shouldn’t have had to tell myself that. I did anyway, though, figured I’d live with it, right up until Lilly Wickes told me about what happened to her.”
“I know. That’s what I’m trying to tell you here. Now that I’ve had time to think it through, I get it. And now, well, now I realize I owe you an apology.”
I stare in disbelief.
Sorry?
It’s way overdue, but it’s still sweet, sweet music to my ears. But does he get it?
“Ewing,” I say. “Thank you. Your apology means a lot to me. But I do have to ask, if Lilly hadn’t come forward and put me in that position, do you still think I should have shrugged it off and shoved it down?
Chalked it up to Hartley having one too many and being a little slow at evolving with the times? ”
He purses his lips, this time to consider my question, not to show pity. “No,” he finally says. “I see your point, and no, I don’t think you should have done that. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry the department has lost a good cop over this.”
I know it will be a cuticle-butchering day. My mind whirls as I decide exactly how to confess—what to say and in what forum. How I’m going to put it all out there for the world.
Nonetheless, Ewing’s words are a salve, an ounce of healing for the bruise.
I practically float down the hall. Something inside me has loosened, and I feel lighter.
I walk to the front with a smile on my face and stop at Allison’s desk to say goodbye.
She looks at me curiously. “Why so happy?”
“He apologized,” I whisper to her.
“He did?” she whispers back. “For everything?”
“Time,” I say. “Perspective.”
She stands from her desk, leans over, and comes close to me, voice as soft as a baby’s first words. “It’s probably because someone else has come forward about Hartley.”
“You’re kidding. Someone internally?”
“In the community. Someone Ewing knows. You didn’t hear this from me, but Ewing’s daughter has a girlfriend who said she was over for a barbecue. Apparently, Hartley was giving her drinks that were way too strong and something happened.”
“Oh my God,” I say. “How old?”
“Well, if she’s Ewing’s daughter’s friend, mid-twenties?”
“When did this happen?”
“A few months ago.”
I sit with this for a moment. “That explains a lot.”
“Like I said, you didn’t hear it from me.”
“That’s not a problem,” I say. “I’ve got plenty of other things to worry about.”
I look to the exit, sinking inside at the prospect of what’s waiting for me outside those doors. These are some seriously loaded doors, it occurs to me. Before I quit the force, I used to agonize over what waited for me on this side of them.
“I know you do.” She looks at me with concern. She sits back down. “And don’t worry about Jess. I’m going to her place tonight to keep them company.”
“Thank you.” I turn to go, but turn back.
Maybe because this is my last day to confess and I’m feeling sentimental, or perhaps because of Ewing’s olive branch, the need to apologize overcomes me.
“Allison, I’m sorry for not being a very good friend since I left. I’m super glad and grateful that you’ve been good to my sister for the better part of this past year.”
She gives me a comforting, motherly smile. “You don’t need to apologize, Mitchell. I know you’ve had a lot to deal with, with Jess and what she’s gone through and all. And getting your new business going. Don’t give it another thought. You take care.”
The worry in her eyes reminds me of what’s waiting for me through those doors.