Torn. Part 5

"But she came to the diner that day?"

"Yes." My mom's restaurant is called The Slice is Right, which is cutesy and kind of mortifying, especially if you work there. She makes ridiculously good pies, though, so she pulls it off. It's nothing fancy, just eight booths and a counter that have seen better days, and decor so old it's almost, but not quite, back in style. Verity had popped in that afternoon, golden and glowing, making the place seem a little fresher, a little brighter, tipping it from rundown to vintage, like she always did.

"You're home! You weren't due back for another week!"

We hug and practically dance a jig by table six.

Verity shrugs and shakes her hair out of her face. "I was ready to come home."

I drag her to the counter. "So? Tell me everything."

"There's not a lot to tell," she says, toying with the list of the day's pies. "And I can't stay."

"What's up?"

"Nothing." She shoves the menu back into its wire stand. "I have some things to take care of. What time do you get off work?"

"Five."

"Come and crash at my place tonight, okay?"

Table eight, a mother with two rambunctious toddlers who are wearing most of their strawberry pie, is giving me the frantic hand wave of a woman on the verge of a time-out.

"Totally. I can't wait-you have to tell me everything."

Verity nods, but she's looking past me as she does.

"And you didn't see anyone suspicious?"

Elsa's pen tapped lightly next to me. I rubbed at my eyes, sandy and stinging from lack of sleep. Every time I started to drift off, those black figures swooped in on Verity and she screamed, over and over again, while I stood doing nothing, too small and too scared to stop them. My head pounded from the effort of not crying in front of Kowalski. The cut across my palm was pulling painfully. My chair was hard and seriously uncomfortable. They'd probably done it on purpose.

The walls were plain cinder block, except for the mirror behind Kowalski, leaving me nothing to look at but my own reflection, particularly the hideous yellow and purple bruise at my temple and the circles under my eyes. I was used to looking pretty average. Not gorgeous, not horrifying, just moderately nice. Presentable, my mom would say. But I was really something to look at now, in the same way people stared at pileups on the expressway. I was the beauty equivalent of gapers' block.

"Mo?" Kowalski prompted. "Someone didn't fit?"

"This is a waste of time!" I slammed the book of mug shots closed, anger sweeping through me, clean and sharp-edged. This wasn't me, this girl who lied and stole and shouted. I'd been raised to keep my voice down and do what was expected. But this new girl . . . she'd gotten answers when the old Mo would have gotten only a pat on the head. And I was starting to hope the new girl would stick around, at least for a while. She was the friend Verity had deserved. "No! For the zillionth time, no! Everything was perfectly ordinary. Why won't you listen to me?"

Elsa leaned forward, interjecting smoothly, "My client has already answered this line of questions, Detective. Find a new one or we walk out right now."

Kowalski drained his coffee cup. He started to straighten the papers in front of him, like he was wrapping up, and the tension in my shoulders eased a little at the thought of escape.

"Did Verity know your uncle?"

Beside me, Elsa went still.

"Of course." Verity and Uncle Billy had crossed paths plenty over the years. He was a fixture in the neighborhood and in our church. It would have been strange if they hadn't known each other.

"And your families got along okay?"

I made a little noise of impatience, and Elsa gave me a slight frown. I ignored her. "They got along fine. Look, I get it, okay? You don't like my uncle. You'd like nothing better than to connect this to him. But you're wrong. Whoever killed Verity has nothing to do with my family."

"Who did, then? If you have a theory, Mo, or you know something, I'd love to hear it. Really."

"We're done." Elsa pushed back from the table. "We came here in good faith, Detective, to aid in your investigation-not to be badgered. Until you have some questions actually pertaining to my client, or Miss Grey's death, Mo will not be available to you."

I struggled to my feet and grabbed my purse.

Elsa steered me from the room with her hand on my shoulder, back through the dingy, dismal corridors of the station and onto the street. Her hand dropped, and she gestured toward the nearby parking garage.

"You strike me as an intelligent girl," she said as we walked. "I've been impressed with the way you've handled everything that's happened."

I looked up at her. I could no more handle what was happening than I could be one of those acrobats you see in Cirque du Soleil. It took every ounce of willpower I had to get out of bed in the morning. I alternated between a rage that made me want to smash everything around me to bits and an exhaustion that made me want to crawl under the covers for the next ten years.

"Your uncle says you're an excellent student."

"I study hard."

The start of school in a few days was one of the thoughts sending me back under the covers. Everyone would have questions. Everyone would stare, and whisper, and the weight of it made homeschooling seem pretty appealing.

"I didn't interfere with Kowalski's questioning today, Mo, because I wanted to see where he'd go. Now he's showed his hand, so we need to set some rules."

Oh, excellent. Just what I needed.

We turned into the parking garage, me stumbling to match Elsa's short-but-purposeful stride. "Three simple rules. One, you don't talk to Kowalski, or anyone else from the department, without me. At all. If they want to know which way to Michigan Avenue, you call me. They want to know your dog's name, you call me."

I considered pointing out I didn't have a dog, but Elsa's face had taken on a diamond-hard, all-business look. She continued. "They want to talk about the weather . . ."

"I call you. Got it."

"Rule number two. When we are in an interview, keep your answers short. Yes, no, dates, times. You answer only the questions he asks."

"I did!"

"You argued. You defended your uncle. You questioned the progress of the case. That's not your job, it's mine. I'm better at it than you are, and your uncle pays me very, very well to do it, so let me."

We stopped in front of a gleaming black Mercedes, and Elsa pulled out the keys from her Hermes purse. She wasn't kidding about her rates.

"But Uncle Billy didn't do anything. And how am I supposed to find out what happened to Verity if I don't ask, and Kowalski's being such a dumb-a.s.s?"

She smiled thinly as she opened her door and gestured for me to get in. "Kowalski's not a dumb-a.s.s. He's a seasoned investigator who is, in this case, on the wrong track. If you want him to get back on the right one, you need to make sure your answers point him there."

"You mean lie." I snapped my seat belt in place and tried to look innocent.

"It's not lying if it helps them find Verity's killer."

I didn't know what the right direction was. All I had was a hunch, about the connection between Luc, Evangeline, and Verity's trip to Louisiana. And a stupid snow globe.

Elsa gave me a fake chummy smile, the one adults use to show that they're really, truly, on your side. It is a look beloved by guidance counselors everywhere, and it worked about as well as it usually did, which is to say not at all. She pulled out of the garage and onto the street. "I know you've said there was nothing unusual going on when Verity came home, and that you don't remember anything further about the attack. But if there was something . . ."

"There isn't," I said, sliding down into the b.u.t.tery leather seat.

I could have told her about Luc, I guess. He was my one solid link, the part of the mystery that had followed Verity home. He'd made it clear he wasn't interested in helping me, and Elsa was supposed to be on my side. And yet something held me back. Maybe it was because Luc, for all his evasiveness, seemed to actually care about Verity, and Elsa had never met her. Or maybe it was because I was tired of doing what I was told. Whatever the reason, I stayed quiet as we crossed over I-57, the traffic below us already starting to snarl as rush hour approached.

Elsa sighed. "All I'm saying is, if there was, telling the police could nudge them in the right direction, and help them solve the case. Isn't that what you want?"

I don't think she meant to be patronizing, but she made it sound like I was a little kid who wouldn't eat her lima beans. Of course I wanted them to solve the case-but for Verity's sake, not Uncle Billy's. He could handle himself, especially with Elsa on the payroll. "So that's the third rule? Tell them what I remember? I mean, if I remember?"

Elsa's encouraging smile disappeared. "No. The third rule is, don't lie to me. Lies mean surprises, usually at the worst possible moment. I can handle the police if there's something you don't want them to know, but it's important for us to control the situation. It's all about who's controlling the information.

"Play straight with me and I will do everything I can to help you. Tell me a story, and we're done. I told your uncle as much when I agreed to handle your case personally. I'll kick you down to one of our new hires, some kid who barely pa.s.sed his bar exam last week. You don't want that, Mo. You want me on your side."

I considered it a victory when I didn't gulp audibly. Did stealing the snow globe qualify as a lie? No one had questioned me about it; no one had asked if I'd turned to theft recently. And since they hadn't asked, I hadn't lied. It was a technicality, sure, but weren't lawyers supposed to appreciate that sort of thing?

Elsa drove like she did everything else-quickly, decisively, and aggressively. My fingers tightened on the door handle. Other drivers seemed to sense it, too, scooting out of the way as she slid up behind them. Cyclists, normally so aggressive they seemed suicidal, veered toward the curb and waited for us to pa.s.s.

"I don't understand why he's so fixated on Uncle Billy." Thanks to my father, we were used to police attention. We were practically on a first-name basis with the IRS. But this was different. It went beyond rumors and hara.s.sment. Any moron could see Verity's death had nothing to do with my dad or the Outfit, but Kowalski would rather nurse a grudge than look for the truth. The unfairness of it made me want to kick something.

Elsa said nothing, a perfect example of her own advice.

Dread started to unfurl, a few sticky black tendrils in my stomach, and I forced them away. "Uncle Billy hasn't done anything wrong, has he?"

She changed lanes. "Detective Kowalski suffers from an acute case of tunnel vision where your uncle is concerned."

She hadn't answered my question, and I was about to say so when she glanced over. "You want answers, and I can get them for you, but not if Kowalski stays focused on you and your uncle. The best thing you can do-for your friend, and everyone else-is to follow the rules." She careened into a s.p.a.ce in front of The Slice is Right, tires protesting. "Are we clear?"

"Absolutely."

"Excellent. I'll be in touch." My feet had barely hit the pavement before she roared back into traffic.

Uncle Billy's bar, Black Morgan's, stood next door to the diner. It was possible, if you were so inclined, to start your day at The Slice, at five in the morning, and finish it at Morgan's, twenty-three hours later, without ever setting foot outside. A door in the back storeroom connected them. I'd grown up running between the two, studying wherever it was quieter, grabbing food from whichever kitchen was open, playing in the back room or visiting the regulars in their usual booths. I'd been waiting tables at The Slice since I could see over the counter. It wasn't always my choice, it was embarra.s.sing when kids from school came in, and I hated having to work the early s.h.i.+ft on my summer vacations, but The Slice and Morgan's were as much my home as our orange brick bungalow.

I pulled open the tall, narrow black door to Morgan's, the bra.s.s handle cool against my palm. Inside, air-conditioned darkness carried the scent of tobacco and whiskey that had seeped into the ebony paneling over the years. The wooden blinds on either side of the doorway were closed, pinp.r.i.c.ks of sunlight leaking through and scattering across the worn oak floor.

Threadbare towel in hand, Charlie, the bartender, wiped down the bar, skirting around the few figures hunched over their mugs and bottles. It was a slow time, too late for lunch, too early for the guys finis.h.i.+ng their s.h.i.+fts at the nearby factories, and he used the lull to prepare, setting out fresh bowls of peanuts and pretzels, lining up the gla.s.ses near the tap. In the farthest booth, all the way in the back, Uncle Billy held court with a cup of coffee and a neatly folded Tribune, waiting for my report on the meeting.

"Something cold to drink, Mo? It's hotter than h.e.l.l out there." Charlie's broad, homely face lit up when he smiled at me, and he wiped his hands on the white ap.r.o.n straining across his middle. He'd already filled a gla.s.s with ice.

I wasn't really thirsty, but taking out my day on Charlie would be like kicking a puppy. "Diet c.o.ke?"

He garnished it with three cherries, as he had since I was a kid. "Here you go, honey. How you doin'?"

I shrugged. "How are you doing?" was rapidly becoming my least favorite question. I heard it, or one of its variations, a million times a day.

"Okay. Uncle Billy wanted me to check in." I tilted my head toward the back.

Charlie's glance flickered to a guy at the other end of the bar. He was as nondescript as any of the other customers, solitary and silent. A mug and a battered paperback sat in front of him.

"Sure, kiddo," Charlie said. "We'll catch up later."

Taking my gla.s.s with me, I made my way toward the back. To my surprise, Verity's dad was already there. "Anything you can do," he said, his voice hoa.r.s.e. "My wife and I . . . we just can't . . ."

Uncle Billy stood, clasping Mr. Grey's hand. "Of course," he said. "She was a lovely girl, and it's a sin they haven't done more. Give my love to Patty and Constance."

I halted as Mr. Grey pa.s.sed me in the narrow pa.s.sageway. "Mo . . ." he said, trailing off.

I waited for him to say more, but instead he touched my shoulder for an instant before shuffling out. He looked gaunt and colorless, like a newspaper left in the rain. My throat ached at the sight.

"Sit down, Mo," Uncle Billy said, his voice commanding but kind. "The living carry a greater burden, don't they?"

I brushed at my eyes. "What did Mr. Grey want?"

"Peace," he said after a moment. "And it will be a long time coming, no doubt. Now, how was your interview?"

"I couldn't ID anyone." I sipped from my gla.s.s. "It seemed kind of pointless. Kowalski asked a bunch of questions and ignored my answers."

"Questions about me, I'm guessing."

"Yes. Elsa stopped it, though."

"I'm certain she did," he said with a satisfied grin.

"It's like they don't care about who killed Verity." I hadn't meant to say it, but it slipped out anyway.

He waved a hand, unconcerned. "Elsa will get them moving in the right direction, love. She'll take good care of you." I didn't really need taking care of, but it seemed ungrateful to say so. Besides, it had never stopped Uncle Billy before.

"I want them to get whoever did it."

He nodded. "You want justice. It's a hard thing, though, to stay focused on justice and not seek revenge in its place."

"There's a difference?"

"Justice is about making them pay for Verity's pain. Revenge is making them pay for yours."

"I want both."

"Of course you do. But you need to let others handle it." The compa.s.sion in his voice was tempered with firmness.

G.o.d, I was tired of people telling me how careful I needed to be. There'd been too much change-Verity's death, Kowalski's prying, Luc's evasiveness-careful and quiet didn't fit me anymore. It was unsettling. Lonely, too. I'd spent seventeen years quietly following every rule in the book. And it had turned out okay, mostly. But Verity's death had cracked my life in two-before and after-and now nothing worked the way it was supposed to. The problem was, the only person who seemed to recognize it was Luc, and he still didn't want to help me.

"Your mother's worried about you."

"She's always worried," I said dismissively. "You know how she is."

"Circ.u.mstances alter cases, Mo. In this case, I agree with her."

This was new. And unwelcome. "Why?"

He ticked off the points on his fingertips. "You're the only witness to Verity's murder. You've been seen talking to the police, which makes you a liability. And while you are a darling girl, you're not particularly well equipped to defend yourself. Whoever killed Verity nearly killed you as well. Who's to say they won't try to finish the job?"