Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
It was nearly noon the next day when Penny and Mrs. Haggerty had finally finished meeting with their attorneys. Nick snuck us into a small adjacent room with an observation mirror, where we listened as the two women shared their confessions, one at a time, each of their stories perfectly aligning with the other’s recollection of the night Gilford had been murdered. Both women had been careful to leave out any mention of the book club they’d created since and, more important, its intended purpose. According to Penny and Mrs. Haggerty, their story began when they met at the library five years ago and ended the night they buried Penny’s husband. When Detective Tran asked if and how they had communicated with each other since, they admitted to a primitive system of hand-delivered letters and, later, a more modern approach using prepaid phones when the discovery of Gilford’s body made it necessary for them to come up with a plan.
Penny admitted to having made the anonymous call to Riley and Max in an effort to frame Steven. When Detective Tran asked her if she’d ever, in fact, had an affair with my ex-husband, she’d laughed outright, which had made me laugh as well. Even Nick had cracked a smile.
Mrs. Haggerty admitted that pinning the crime on Steven had been her idea, because “he was a horse’s ass” and she’d “never really liked him anyway.” The idea to frame him had come to her in a moment of panic after Gilford’s body had been found in her yard. Since Steven had been the catalyst for their unlikely friendship five years ago, she said it seemed only fitting he become their solution to their mutual problem. When Mike Tran had scratched his head, looking befuddled, Mrs. Haggerty explained. It had been a Tuesday night in May five years ago when Penny and Mrs. Haggerty had been the only two people to show up to a book club meeting at the local library. They’d introduced themselves and made polite small talk, and that’s when Mrs. Haggerty had mentioned her new landscaping project to Penny. Penny said the garden sounded delightful, and she’d asked who Mrs. Haggerty had contracted to do the work. When Steven’s name had come up, Penny said that she was familiar with him already; she had met him once before, when he’d come to deliver a load of mulch to her home a few months prior. The two women had proceeded to gossip about Steven, including the promiscuous behavior Mrs. Haggerty had witnessed while living across the street from him. They had both felt sorry for me, and this small but fertile common ground had opened the first of many conversations between them about their own marital issues. As their friendship bloomed, so had Penny’s resentment of her husband and Mrs. Haggerty’s sympathy for Penny’s situation.
It hadn’t escaped my attention that Mrs. Haggerty made no mention of her own deceased husband, who had coincidentally passed less than a month later. Apparently, it hadn’t escaped Mike Tran’s attention either.
“Where was Owen on the night you helped Mrs. Dupree bury her husband?” he asked, his pen poised over his notebook.
“Asleep,” Mrs. Haggerty said with a dismissive wave.
“Asleep?” Detective Tran repeated, inviting her to elaborate. When she didn’t, he asked, “Your husband was home at the time?”
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly.
“And was he in any way involved?”
“No.”
“So… your husband was asleep upstairs in your bedroom when Mrs. Dupree arrived with the deceased in her trunk, and he remained asleep for the entire…” He consulted his notebook. “… three hours and thirty minutes it took you to remove the deceased from the vehicle, pull up the sod, dig the grave, bury the deceased, and replace the sod to conceal the location of the body, and he was unaware of those activities the entire time?” The detective’s frown was understandably skeptical.
“Owen was a drunk and a heavy sleeper, Mr. Tran. A hurricane could have ripped through our bedroom and blown the roof off the house, and the man wouldn’t have noticed. I never told him what Penny and I did that night, and he never seemed to have a reason to ask. As far as he was concerned, I had my new garden, and he was happy not to have to care for it. He never bothered to take much of an interest in it.”
My heart ached a little at all the things I didn’t hear her say. That her husband had never taken much of an interest in her garden because it was important to her. And he’d never noticed the quiet tempest brewing in their bedroom because he’d been too selfish to see it. I could have sworn Mrs. Haggerty’s eyes lifted to the mirror for a second, or maybe it only felt that way. That she had seen herself in me. And maybe that, more than anything, was the reason she had chosen to punish Steven.
“And your husband passed when?” Mike asked.
“Oh, I’d say it was about three or four weeks later,” Mrs. Haggerty said, doing the math in her head. “Heart attack. The doctor told Owen to cut back on the drinking and cigars on account of his blood pressure, but the man wouldn’t listen. I’ve got the death certificate at home, if you’d like to see it.” I was betting it was an official—if not truthful—certificate from the Virginia Office of Vital Records, probably a gift from Destiny. I was also guessing Mrs. Haggerty had a corroborating report from a physician’s office, signed by a helpful nurse practitioner named Lola de la Rosa. The ashes in the cigar box on her mantel certainly looked convincing enough.
Mrs. Haggerty’s attorney interrupted. “My client has been more than cooperative. She’s had a very long night and I’m sure she could use some rest.”
“I have one last question.” Mike Tran put down his pen and steepled his fingers over his notepad. “What prompted you and Mrs. Dupree to confess? You’d both done a thorough job of incriminating Steven. Why show up here at the crack of dawn, in the custody of a detective from another jurisdiction, offering a full confession when you were already in the clear? Don’t you think that seems a little suspicious?”
Mrs. Haggerty cocked her head. “Are you accusing me of something, Mr. Tran?”
He shrugged. “Let’s just say, I’m curious about why you surrendered to Detective Anthony.”
“Frankly, because I like him better. If someone’s going to get the credit for collaring me, I’d prefer it be someone I’d enjoy seeing at my parole hearing. Why? What did Penny say when you asked her?”
Mike cleared his throat, humiliation coloring his cheeks. “That she felt guilty for lying to Ms. Donovan after she and Detective Anthony visited her home, and…” Mike Tran’s flush deepened. “She said she specifically chose to surrender to Detective Anthony because he’s easy on the eyes and he smells good.”
I choked out a laugh behind the mirror. Nick put a finger to his lips, but it did little to hide his smirk.
Detective Tran signaled to the officer waiting in the hallway outside. “We’re done here, for now. I’ll have an officer take you to booking.”
Mrs. Haggerty stood stiffly, holding her lower back as she rose from the hard metal chair. “Don’t bother, I know the way. This ain’t my first rodeo,” she reminded the detective. She waved off her attorney’s sharp sideways glance as he attempted to shush her, then shook a finger at the uniformed officer in the hall. “Don’t even think about putting those handcuffs on me, young lady. I’m tougher than I look.” The officer raised an eyebrow and tucked her cuffs back in her belt.
“Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” Nick left me in the observation room once Mrs. Haggerty and her attorney were gone. A moment later, he came into view on the other side of the mirror, cornering Mike Tran before the detective could follow them out.
“What do you want?” Mike asked, clearly annoyed.
Nick’s voice was cold and clear through the small speaker in the wall. “I’m assuming you have everything you need to release Steven Donovan.”
Mike gathered his files as he stood. “Those women’s confessions don’t change the fact that Donovan assaulted a police officer.”
Nick put both hands on the table and leaned into Mike’s space. “Which he wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t goaded him into doing it to bolster your own investigation.”
“Donovan’s anger management issues aren’t my problem.”
“Admit it. You pulled the trigger before you actually had a case, and you needed a reason to hold him until you had enough dirt on the guy to make one up.”
Mike’s face hardened. “You want to talk about dirt? How about we start at Donovan’s farm? Just because he wasn’t guilty of this crime doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty of something.”
“The same could be said of a lot of cops I know.” Joey sauntered into the room and slipped a toothpick into his mouth. He leaned against the wall, making himself comfortable. “How are you, Mike?”
Mike stiffened, wary as he silently returned the greeting.
“I couldn’t help but overhear all that talk about dirt,” Joey said, his cool blue eyes making a slow pass over Mike. “You know, I worked with Internal Affairs for a long time. Even did some work for them while I was here in Loudoun County, but I’m guessing you already heard that. Things like that get around fast. Everybody’s careful to warn their buddies, to make sure no one’s saying too much around the snitch. But I do hear things, Mike. I hear all kinds of things. I don’t bother looking into most of it, because a lot of those cops are good cops, and I don’t really see much benefit to the department in recommending internal investigations and making more work for everyone. But sometimes someone rubs me wrong, and I start wondering… what if there’s some dirt worth looking into?” Joey chewed on his toothpick as he studied Mike’s face. A muscle in Mike’s jaw tensed under Joey’s close scrutiny. “I left IA in pretty good standing. We got rid of a lot of dirty cops when we took Zhirov’s organization down. Nick’s bust at the sod farm was a big part of that whole operation, and there are a lot of people in the FCPD—not to mention the FBI—who would hate to see all their hard work called into question because you botched a case and figured you’d do something stupid—like reopen someone else’s—in some misguided, desperate attempt to save a little face.”
Mike gritted his teeth. “I solved my investigation. Nick and I were just wrapping up here.”
“That’s good,” Joey said. “I’m glad we understand each other.” His eyes trailed Mike as he shouldered past them and out of the room.
“You think he’ll push?” Nick asked.
Joey toyed with his toothpick. After a thoughtful pause, he shook his head. “He’d be a fool to try. His nose isn’t as clean as he wants people to think it is.”
Nick seemed to relax at that.
“You can come out now,” Joey called over his shoulder, presumably to me. I poked my head out of the observation room, making sure no one was looking as I slipped into the hall, then into the interrogation room with them. “Why don’t you two get out of here and try to get some sleep,” Joey said. “You’ve both had a long night. I’ll stick around and make sure Tran signs off on Steven’s release.”
I opened my mouth to protest, feeling guilty for leaving even though my eyes were so tired I felt like I needed two of his toothpicks to hold them open.
“And don’t worry,” he said before I could ask. “Cam made me promise to look after Mrs. Haggerty, too.”
I nodded, grateful to be able to go home and get some rest. According to my phone, it had been more than six hours since Nick and I had arrived at the police station just before dawn, me in my minivan and Nick following with Penny and Mrs. Haggerty in his Impala. I’d sent Vero home in The Eggplant and promised her I’d text her updates from the station. At some point that morning, only after it had become clear that Mrs. Haggerty and Penny had stayed true to their word not to implicate either of us in their confession, Vero had stopped reading my texts, and I’d hoped that was because she had fallen asleep.
“Thanks, Joe,” Nick said. The two men clapped each other on the shoulder, and Nick followed me out of the room.
We were both quiet until we reached the parking lot. I paused, unsure where to go. His Impala was to the left. My van was to the right. Nick paused as well, as if he also wasn’t entirely sure where we stood. “You look too tired to drive. Want me to drop you off at home?”
“No, thank you,” I said, forcing myself to look him square in the eyes. I didn’t want him to drop me off. I wanted him to come home with me. But first, there was something I needed to do.
I took his hand and led him toward my minivan. He looked confused as I slid open the back door. I gestured for him to get in. His mouth quirked up and he almost laughed, until he registered the look on my face. This was not something I wanted to do.
He climbed inside, bending at the knees and the waist to fit as I climbed in after him. I slid the door shut and locked us in. Then I sat down on the floor of my van and gestured for him to sit, too. He eased himself to the floor, his worried frown deepening the longer I didn’t speak.
I drew in a steadying breath and said, “Harris Mickler died right here, on the floor of this van, while it was parked in my garage.”
Nick paled. I watched the knot in his throat bob. Saw the medical examiner’s findings click in place in his mind. Harris Mickler. Cause of death: carbon monoxide poisoning. Toxicology findings: traces of ketamine.
“You told me once you wanted to hear my entire story, every word. That you didn’t want me to leave anything out. But there are parts of that story that don’t belong to me,” I explained. Vero’s story, Patricia’s, Irina’s, the women in the book club, even Mrs. Haggerty’s. “I can’t— won’t —share those with anyone, including you. Not because I don’t trust you with them but because they’re not my stories to tell. But I’m ready to tell you mine. Not because I need your help or your forgiveness. But because I want to. Because we’ll never be able to have a future together if I’m not willing to be honest with you.”
He was still—so still, I couldn’t be sure he was breathing, as if he was afraid the slightest sound or movement would scare me off. He listened, silent and rapt, as I told him about the first time I’d met Harris Mickler. How I’d seen Harris drop a roofie into his date’s drink. How I’d switched the glasses, drugging Harris instead, then lured him into my van, fully intending to return him to his home, until Patricia Mickler had told me not to because she was terrified of him.
I told Nick about the horrible things I’d discovered on Harris’s phone, and how I had driven him to my house, not knowing what to do. I told him that even though I hadn’t killed Harris, I’d been the one to bury him at the sod farm. And how by doing so, I’d accidentally put myself in Feliks Zhirov’s path. I explained how Feliks, at every turn, had drawn me deeper into debt with the Russian mob.
I told him about the stolen Aston Martin. About Ike Grindley’s accidental death. I told him about the close calls Vero and I had survived in Atlantic City and our brushes with one particularly dirty cop there.
When I was finished, I felt hollow, as if all my insides had just been poured out.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
“Why were you and Vero at the cabin last night?” His tone was hard to read. I couldn’t be sure what he was thinking or feeling. All I knew was that he expected the truth, and Penny’s answer last night had struck at the heart of it.
“Because I needed proof that Steven was innocent, and I didn’t think anyone would believe me without it—including you.”
He flinched. It was the first time I’d seen a reaction in his eyes since we’d climbed inside the van, as if, of all the horrible things I’d just told him, this was the confession that had hurt him most of all.
His next words sounded like gravel in his throat. “Tell me something that scares you.”
I laughed, stunned. What I’d just told him hadn’t been terrifying enough? Hadn’t taken every ounce of reckless courage I could muster? I was terrified of being arrested. Of going to prison. Of losing my kids. And I had just put all of that on the line for him. “I’m scared of you!” I cried.
“Why do I scare you?” His voice was growing stronger, more demanding, like he needed to know the answer to this more than anything else.
“Because I’m more afraid of losing whatever we might have than the consequences of everything I just told you! Because I love the way you make me feel and the way you are with my children and how patient you are with my mom. Because I love that you read my stupid books and you know how I like my coffee. Because you look at me like I’m the most important person in the world and you answer the phone when I call you, even when you’re busy. Because I think I’m in love with you. No…” I shut my eyes and shook my head. “Because I know I’m in love with you. And the fact that I can’t seem to stop being in love with you scares me most of all!”
The intensity of his stare was searing. He swallowed hard. “You have nothing— nothing —to be afraid of with me.”
“You can’t make that promise.”
“I can make that promise, because I’m in love with you, too.”
He crossed the floor to me in the span of a heartbeat. His mouth was on mine, my hands were in his hair. The restraints holding us back had all snapped. Suddenly, we couldn’t get close enough.
I pushed his jacket off his shoulders, and he unfastened my coat.
“Nick?” I panted as he lowered us both to the floor. “If you’re not breaking up with me because I just confessed to manslaughter, grand theft auto, interfering with several criminal investigations, and concealing evidence from… well… you,” I admitted as he unzipped my pants, “do you think we could maybe not do this here?”
He lifted his head, his chest heaving, his body hovering like a live wire over mine. He looked a little dazed as he searched my face. Then a light dawned as it occurred to him where here actually was. He glanced down at the apple juice–stained, crumb-crusted carpet where Harris Mickler had breathed his last breath.
“Bench seat?” he asked urgently, jerking his chin toward the third row.
I nodded emphatically. “Perfect.”
He had said everything I needed to hear. I’d told him everything I needed to say. There was nothing more we needed to confess to each other as we tumbled into the back seat.