Keep Her Safe(22)

Below it is an address in Tucson, Arizona.

There are no explanations.

No apologies.

Nothing that might give me any sense of closure, any relief. In fact, it does the exact opposite.

A mixture of anger and resentment burns deep inside. Maybe she thought that the last “I love you” would carry me through this more than anything she could have written down?

She had no plans of explaining herself, of exposing her demons.

“I’m a coward.”

That’s what she said. She said she couldn’t face Gracie, that she wanted to make it right but couldn’t. Is that what this money is supposed to do? Make it right?

Where the hell did you get this money from, Mom? And why did you have Abe’s gun holster?

How much is in here, anyway?

Stretching my legs out, I dump the money onto the floor in front of me and begin counting, pulling apart the bundles and creating small piles for every thousand. And then every five thousand.

Until there are piles of bills all around me totaling ninety-eight thousand dollars.

I fall back against the wall, my mind churning. What was my mother expecting me to do? Hand-deliver this gym bag full of cash to the daughter of her late police partner? Because hand-delivering this much money is the only way Gracie will get it. And she also doesn’t want anyone knowing that I’m doing it, including Silas. That’s why she didn’t put it in the safe. She knew her brother. She knew he’d be in the thick of things and find it.

That she wouldn’t want him—the district attorney—knowing about this money leaves my stomach in knots. Mom made good money—over two hundred thousand a year as chief, and a solid salary as assistant chief for all those years before that, too. But to pay off the house and most of my tuition and still have all this cash? It doesn’t seem possible on a single woman’s salary.

So where did this money come from? Why is Abe’s gun holster stowed away with it?

And why does she want Gracie Wilkes to have it?

Why not Abe’s wife, Dina?

I rack my brain, trying to remember everything she said about Abe’s family the night she died. But all I keep coming back to is how she wanted his daughter to know that he was a good man.

And then another thought occurs to me: if the feds are investigating my mom and they show up on my doorstep with a warrant, the last thing I want them finding is this.

“Fuck.” I pull out my phone and Google the distance. It’s a twelve-hour drive to Tucson, and I have no choice; I have to drive. I can’t get through airport security with this much money on me.

Twelve hours.

Twenty-four hours, there and back.

It’s Thursday night. If I leave now and drive straight, I can be there early afternoon, catch some sleep, and be back by Saturday night.

My foot begins tapping with nervous energy. Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea. It’s a chance to get away. And what the hell else am I going to do between now and then anyway?

How do I explain this to Abe’s daughter, though? Won’t she be suspicious? I’m not about to repeat what my mother claimed that night. It’s like Silas said—it wouldn’t be right, casting blame on my mom. She’s not here to explain herself. Plus, everything George told me about Abe was damning.

He sounds as guilty as he was made out to be.

Just like Mom said they wanted it to appear.

Fuck.

Feds waiting outside my house to question me about Abe and Dwayne Mantis. Now, this giant bag of money that my mom has obviously been hiding shows up, meant for the daughter of the ex-partner she basically said was framed.

And Abe’s gun holster.

Silas is wrong—there’s definitely something going on here. Something that my mother had to be involved in.





CHAPTER 7


Austin Police Department Commander Jackie Marshall

April 16, 2003

I stay three cars back as I tail the older-model black Mercedes, hoping the guy driving hasn’t spotted my unmarked sedan.

Who knows what the girl told him. If she told him anything. Most times these girls stay quiet, having learned the hard way that complications with a john earn them fists and threats from their pimp, regardless of whose fault it is. And it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t the anonymous caller’s fault, either. That person did the right thing by requesting a welfare check on that hotel room.

But did I do the right thing? Even with the chilly night air, I brush a bead of sweat from my forehead. It goes with the nauseating flutters churning inside my gut. I’m a jumble of anxiety, anger, and regret.

Up ahead, the Mercedes makes a right after the freeway underpass. I slow down a touch before following and turn into the parking lot of a seedy motel, the bulbs in the green neon sign above flickering intermittently. I haven’t been to this exact motel, but I’ve been to plenty like it—desolate spots on the outskirts of town, quiet except for the hum of cars on the nearby highway, their sign advertising plenty of options except the one most visitors are interested in: the hourly room rental.

I back into a spot among several cars—hidden but within prime view of the Mercedes—and flip my visor down to shield my face. I quietly watch as a short white male climbs out of the driver’s seat, the number eighteen tattooed to the back of his neck marking his gang affiliation.

The passenger door opens and out she comes, her red heels clicking across the paved walkway, her shoulders hunched as he leads her into one of the rooms. He reaches for her, his hand like a vise around her slender arm.