Beneath Devil's Bridge(45)

“I don’t know. I mean, there were men who’d look when we went by. Workers from the mill. Construction guys. Before Clay Pelley confessed, I thought Leena’s killer could have been a truck driver who was going through at night, and saw her alone, and pulled over. Something like that.” She frowns. “The only other . . . I guess you could say—” She glances suddenly at my recording device. “Can we talk off the record for a second?”

“Is that necessary?”

“I don’t want to get sued. I have a reputation here as well. I . . . I don’t even know if I should mention it.”

My pulse quickens with interest. I reach forward and click off the device.

Dusty hesitates, then says, “There was a cop. He was stationed outside our school after the detectives left. They’d been to interview all of us again, and the two detectives had been inside Clayton’s office, talking to him. After they left, this cop car arrived and parked in the lot. We saw it from the classroom window. Beth told us the guy inside had harassed her once. He’d forcibly kissed her, and followed her home one night.”

My mouth goes dry as my heart races a little faster. “Which cop?”

She regards me in silence, as if taking my measure. “This is sensitive,” she says quietly. “You need to do your own research. Is that understood?”

“Okay. Yes.”

“He’s the police chief now. His name is Bart Tucker.”





RACHEL


THEN


Tuesday, November 25, 1997.

Tired. That’s the word that comes to mind when Lacey Pelley opens the peeling front door of her tiny clapboard house near the railway. She stares dully at me and Luke in our coats. Wind blows hard from the sea, northward up the sound. It swirls with the snowflakes and smells of salt. A lone gull cries in the mist. I notice that a layer of ice covers a dog’s water bowl on the front step. A BEWARE OF THE DOG sign clacks in the wind on the front gate, but no hound has come to the door, barking.

Just inside the door, in the mudroom, I can see a recycling bin piled high with beer cans and hard-liquor bottles.

Lacey is reed thin. Very early twenties. Stringy, dun-colored hair that could use a wash and some brightening. Ashen complexion. Hollows underscore her eyes.

With her hand on the door, she says, “What do you want?”

“Lacey, hi, I’m Rachel Walczak,” I say, shivering in my down coat. “I don’t know if you remember me? We met once at a school function. I think it was after a basketball game. Coached by your husband. My daughter, Maddy, is on the team.”

Clay’s wife glances at Luke.

“And this is Sergeant Luke O’Leary from the RCMP. He’s helping with the Twin Falls PD investigation into the death of Leena Rai.”

We’ve come straight from Clay’s office. Tucker has been dispatched to the school to watch Clay. He’s been tasked with sitting in a marked vehicle in the parking lot and has been ordered to follow the teacher if and when he leaves.

Something hardens in Lacey’s features. I hear a baby beginning to cry inside.

“If it’s Clay you want, he’s not here. He’s at work,” she says. “At the school.”

“Why would you think we’re here for your husband?” I ask.

“I . . .” A wariness enters her eyes. I can see the wheels of her brain ticking over.

“You said the Leena Rai investigation. Leena was one of his students, and he tutored her, so . . .” Her voice fades.

“He tutored Leena from his home office, here?” Luke asks.

“He converted the garden shed into an office. We need the money.”

The woman appears to have no filters left.

“Can we come in, Lacey?” I ask.

“It’s a mess.” She stands unmoving in the doorway.

“That’s okay.” Luke starts forward, crowding Lacey so that she steps backward and inside.

I follow them in.

“Dog okay? Saw the sign,” Luke says.

“Dog’s at the pound looking for a new home. And before you go judging me, I just can’t. I can’t look after it. It needed walks. It barked the whole time. It shat in the house. It chewed everything. Clay is always busy with work, coaching, the extra tutoring. Janie . . . she doesn’t sleep. I . . . We don’t even have the money for the dog food.”

Toys lie scattered all over the living room floor. The sofa is ripped, presumably the dog’s doing. In the kitchen, dishes are piled in the sink. The baby is strapped into a portable chair and is now screaming, her face crinkled and bright red. The infant is wearing a bib covered in orange shmoo. The same color as the streaks on Lacey’s T-shirt. Lacey picks up her crying child and jiggles her, patting her back. The crying continues unabated.

“Here,” I say gently, reaching out. It’s not kosher, but I can’t help myself. “Let me hold her while Luke asks you some questions, okay?”

Emotion shines in Lacey’s eyes. She hands me the sour milk–smelling infant.

“How old?” I ask over the cries.

“Seven months.”

“Got clean diapers? She smells and feels like she could do with a change.” I make a face, trying to convey alliance, friendliness.

“In the next room.”