Redemption Road(43)

But, she was thinking about it, now.

Following the sidewalk to the corner, she skirted a clump of pedestrians, then turned left and stepped into the street. Her car was parked a half block up on the other side. She thought about enemies; thought she was out clean.

That lasted another dozen steps.

Beckett was sitting on the hood of her car.

“What are you doing, Charlie?” She slowed in the street.

His tie hung loosely, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. “I could ask you the same thing.” He watched her cross the last bit of dark pavement. She gauged his face; it was inscrutable.

“I just stopped by,” she said. “You know. Checking on the case.”

“Uh-huh.”

Elizabeth stopped at the car. “Have you identified the victim?”

“Ramona Morgan. Twenty-seven years old. Local. We think she disappeared yesterday.”

“What else?”

“Pretty but shy. No serious boyfriend. A waitress she worked with thinks she might have had plans on Sunday evening. We’re trying to pin that down.”

“Time of death?”

“After Adrian got out.”

He dropped that on her like a rock; watched to see if she could handle it. “I want to talk to the medical examiner.”

“That’s not going to happen, and you know it.”

“Because of Dyer?”

“He wants you isolated from anything to do with Adrian Wall.”

“He thinks I’ll jeopardize the case?”

“Or yourself. Hamilton and Marsh are still in town.”

Elizabeth studied Beckett’s face, most of it lost in shadow. Even then, she could see the emotion below the surface. Aversion? Disappointment? She wasn’t sure. “Does Dyer hate him?”

He understood the question. She saw it. “I don’t think Francis hates anybody.”

“What about thirteen years ago? Did he hate anyone then?”

A bitter smile cut Beckett’s face. “Did James Randolph tell you that?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe you should consider the source.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning James Randolph was everything Adrian was not. Plodding. Narrow-minded. He’s been divorced three times, for God’s sake. If anyone hated Adrian, it was Randolph.”

Elizabeth tried to work that piece into the puzzle.

Beckett slid off the car and thumped the fender, changing the subject. “I didn’t know you were still driving this rust bucket.”

“Sometimes.”

“What year is it again?”

She watched his face, trying to catch the angles. Something was happening, and it wasn’t about the car. “’Sixty-seven,” she said. “I paid for it working summer jobs. It was pretty much the first real thing I ever bought by myself.”

“You were eighteen, right?”

“Seventeen.”

“That’s right. Seventeen. Preacher’s daughter.” He whistled. “Lightning in a bottle.”

“Something like that.” She didn’t mention the rest: that she’d bought the car two weeks after Adrian Wall stopped her from jumping to her death in the cold, black waters of the quarry; that she would drive it for hours on end; that for more years than she cared to count, it was the only good thing in her life. “What’s with all the questions, Charlie?”

“There was this rookie, once.” The transition was seamless, as if they’d been speaking of rookies all along. “This would be twenty-five years ago, before your time. He was a nice enough guy, but all elbows and apologies. Follow? Not cop. Not street. Anyway, this poor bastard went through the wrong door on the wrong side of town and ended up with a couple junkies on his chest and the business end of a broken bottle against his neck. They were going to cut his throat, kill him right there.”

“Then you came through the door and saved his life. It was your first shoot. I’ve heard the story.”

“Give the lady a gold star. Do you remember the name of the rookie I saved?”

“Yeah. It was Matthew…” She looked down. “Shit.”

“Finish it.”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“Come on, Liz. I gave you the gold star. Matthew what?”

“Matthew Matheny.”

“The moral of the story is that a man like Matheny feels more loyalty to the man who saved his life than to the fifty-year-old version of some dumb-ass kid who got peppered in the leg with bird shot. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

“Does Dyer know?”

“Hell, no. He’d burn this place to the ground and take you with it. The only thing between here and there is me.”

“Then why are you beating me up about this?”

“Because bright and early tomorrow this street will be elbow deep in news crews from as far away as DC and Atlanta. By sunset, it’s headline news from coast to coast. We’ve got dead women draped in linen, a murderer ex-cop, a shot-up kid, and a tumbledown church straight out of some goddamn gothic masterpiece. The visuals alone will take it national. You want to get sucked into that story? Now, when the AG already wants you for double homicide?”

“Who put Adrian in lockdown?”