Redemption Road(19)

Motive, the prosecutor said.

The oldest, saddest kind.

It could have gone down like that, too. Murder one. Twenty-five to life. The jury debated for three days before handing down the lesser verdict of second-degree murder. Cops weren’t supposed to talk to jurors postconviction, but Elizabeth did it anyway. It was a crime of passion, they believed, and done without premeditation. They thought he’d killed her at the house, then taken her to the church as an expression of perverse remorse. Why else the white linen and brushed hair, her place beneath the golden cross? Juror twelve found it strangely sweet, and the verdict came as simply as that. Murder two. Thirteen years, minimum.

“Where is he?”

“Third car.” Beckett pointed.

Elizabeth saw hints of a man in the backseat of a police cruiser. She couldn’t see much, but the shape seemed right, the tilt of his head. He was watching her; she could tell.

“Don’t stop walking.”

“I’m not,” she said, but that was a lie. Her feet were slowing as she spoke. She tried to pretend it wasn’t Adrian in the car, that he hadn’t changed her life, that maybe she’d never loved him.

“Come on, Liz.” Beckett took her arm and pulled her into motion. “That’s Nathan Conroy in the other car.” He pointed. “Ex-soldier, ex-biker. This is his place. He says he shot the boy in self-defense, which might be true. When the uniforms got here, they found his gun on the bar, a .32 Walther with one shot fired. The serial numbers were filed, so we’re holding him on a gun charge for now. As for his claims of self-defense, there was a Colt Cobra .38 on the floor beside Gideon. It was loaded but unfired. Given what day it is, I’d call it pretty likely the boy came gunning for payback.”

“He’s only fourteen.”

“Fourteen with a dead mother and a f*cked-up father.”

“Jesus, Charlie…”

“Just keeping it real.”

“Is the gun registered?”

“Look, you’re not even supposed to be here.”

“Right, right. Sit at the hospital. Mind my own business. That’s not going to work for me.”

She neared the bar, her gaze locked on a detective she knew and a bloody spot near the open door. Beckett plucked at her sleeve, but she pulled her arm away and called out to the detective, a soft-voiced, steady woman named CJ Simonds. “Hey, CJ. How’re you doing?”

“Hello, Liz. I’m sorry about this. They say you know the boy.”

CJ pointed into the gloom, where every cop had stopped to stare. Elizabeth nodded, but kept her lips tight. She stepped inside, going wide to clear the stained floor near the entrance. Out of the heat, she found the bar to be a narrow space that reeked of disinfectant and stale beer. A few uniformed officers tried to look busy, but eyes followed her as she moved around the room, avoiding the blood on the floor, touching a chair, the bar. She was a cop, yes, but the papers had turned against her, which meant half the city wasn’t far behind. State cops wanted her for double homicide, and every cop in the room knew it was dangerous for her to be here. She was connected to the kid and to Adrian Wall. She had no badge, no standing; and though no one said a word, a lot of people would burn if the kid died or a news crew rolled up unannounced. Elizabeth tried to ignore the attention, but found the stares so unfair and oppressive she snapped, “What?” No one said anything. No one looked away. “What are you looking at?”

Beckett whispered, “Take it easy, Liz.”

But they were the same stares she got from the press and her neighbors and people on the street. Headlines or not, it should be different with cops. They understood the dangers of the job, the feel of dark places; but there was no kinship here.

One patrolman’s stare was particularly intent; it moved from her breasts to her face and then back. As if she were not a cop, as if she were nothing.

“Do you have some reason to be in here?” she said. The patrolman looked at Beckett. “Don’t look at him, look at me.”

The patrolman was eight inches taller, ninety pounds heavier. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Well, do it outside.” He looked at Beckett again, and Elizabeth said, “He’ll tell you it’s fine.”

“It’s okay.” Beckett gestured to the open door. “Go on outside. Everyone but CJ.”

People filed out. The big patrolman waited until the end and brushed Elizabeth with a shoulder as he passed. The contact was swift, but she felt it all the way down, a large man using his size. She watched him go.

Beckett took her elbow. “No one is judging you, Liz.”

“Don’t touch me.” She was glassy-eyed and slick with sudden sweat. The patrolman had dark hair, shaved at the sides of the neck. His hands were brushed with hair like black wire.

“It’s just me,” Beckett said.

“I said don’t touch me. I don’t want anybody touching me.”

“Nobody’s touching you, Liz.”

Outside, the patrolman looked her way, then leaned into his friend and whispered something. His neck was thick, his eyes dark and deep and dismissive.

“Liz.”

She stared at his hands, at rough skin and square nails.

Beckett said, “You’re bleeding.” She ignored him, room fading out. “Liz.”