Pool Of Lies Part 12

But with JJ gone, why not leave it alone? Oh, s.h.i.+t. Wehr thought she knew. Where had her head been?

She pulled into the parking lot of a multiplex on Colfax and parked under a light. Within seconds Reggie's vehicle snaked down the adjacent aisle and disappeared in shadow.

It was a weeknight. Only a trickle of people around the movie house. Fewer still at the surrounding businesses: a Wendy's and a Conoco. Not good. Driving to a public place hadn't been that great an idea. Her intention of going to a pay phone and calling Veronica Sanchez wasn't an option anymore.

Juggling her cell phone in her right hand, she felt panic setting in. Call nine-one-one. And say what? This sc.u.mbag cop was after her for illegally keeping a tape of a vic's interview?

Respect for authority had been drummed into her head from her childhood in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. Middle child in a family of five. Parents both achievers who provided well, but demanded respect. What's wrong with that? When did respect turn to blind obedience?

No time to figure that one. The arc light above her car was barely adequate, but she made out her own scribbling enough to punch in Veronica Sanchez's number.

The ringing seemed to go on endlessly. A voicemail was not what she needed. A person was. A witness to whatever Reggie might- "Hey, Emily." Reggie, out of nowhere, on the opposite side of her car from where he should have been.

You don't run when a bear has you treed. You make yourself very large and roar. Well, maybe not roar. She rolled down her window, put the cell to her ear and motioned for Reggie to keep it down, hoping he couldn't see her white knuckles in the artificial light.

"Yeah, right. He's here now." Wehr paused and took small pleasure in the look on Reggie's face. "I don't know. I'll ask him."

"Who's that?"

"You don't want to know." Tough it out. Don't let him see blood. "Just what are you doing, Navarro? Following me?"

"Who's on the phone?" His ham of a hand was on the window, resting, not going anywhere-yet.

"None of your business."

"Wanna bet?" he said softly.

Then the idea hit her like a life raft. What would Reggie hate getting into worse than a Tampax box?

"Reg, I don't know how you got the idea, but I'm not interested in a relations.h.i.+p with you. Please leave right now."

Into the phone she said, "Reggie Navarro's leaning on my car and I feel threatened."

"Relations.h.i.+p?" The strangest expression came over his face, like he couldn't believe she was so dumb.

Still he didn't move. But she could feel the momentum of his gathering rage. Once more, into the phone: "Yes, I would say it const.i.tutes stalking."

That was when Wehr heard the voicemail on Veronica's phone time out.

"Stalking?" He roared as Wehr started up the engine and pressed the automatic window b.u.t.ton. "In your dreams," shouted Reggie, backing away from her car like some part of her might touch him. "Who'd stalk you, f.u.c.king stupid c.u.n.t?"

Bless the three-day poker games back home with the aunts and the uncles and the men from the Pine Bluff fire station. Who'da thought? Now it was really time to fold and run.

It had worked. Maybe. He wasn't following. Almost certain of that. Almost. He thought he'd been pegged for a stalker not a burglar. In Reggie's mind, she probably hadn't noticed anything off in her apartment.

Where to go? Not home. She had three weeks vacation left, and could probably activate it by phone or on line. Emergency family leave. That was better. Her sister in Arkansas needed her. As Wehr's brain spun an escape ladder, her cell rang. She couldn't see the caller ID so she pressed the answer b.u.t.ton and waited.

"Sergeant Wehr?" She recognized Veronica Sanchez's voice.

"This is Wehr."

"What was that you left on my voicemail?"

"What did it sound like?"

"You and Reggie Navarro having a confrontation. You called me for a reason, right?"

"I have something you can use."

"Can you call me from a secure line?"

"You'll hear from me when I'm in a safer place."

"Wait a minute. What--"

Wehr pressed the end b.u.t.ton and headed east on Interstate 70 with just the clothes on her back, her laptop, and the keys on her key ring. Oh yes, there was her wallet with IDs, a little cash, her credit card with ATM privileges and her new best friend-the Glock 9mm.

No Crown Vic in the rearview. That was good. She was just a stupid f.u.c.king c.u.n.t who got the wrong idea about Reggie's intentions. That was okay, too.

Veronica's home was an hour's drive south of Longmont. Rae had never been there before. She took Wadsworth rather than I-25, as it allowed her more time to think about the full implications of taking on the job with Lakewood PD.

She'd done this sort of thing for dozens of private clients. Even a couple of union chapters and a sprinkling of non-profits. Sometimes she'd found dirt. Other times, clean as a baby's conscience. Her designation as Certified Fraud Examiner went quietly unnoticed for the most part. The juicy stuff went to the big firms. Rae, as a sole pract.i.tioner who worked out of her residence, was too low profile to get the attention of the big companies and munic.i.p.alities.

Rae didn't advertise. Word-of-mouth brought her more clients than she could handle. But, G.o.d, it was for the most part mind-numbingly boring. Veronica hadn't even known forensic accounting was her strongpoint, her meat, until they'd gotten into money motives, finances and the den of snakes that made up the Bayfield family of fortune keepers.

The a.s.signment dangled like a Black Angus steak; Rae couldn't wait to get her teeth into the meat of it. She made a quick mental apology to her aging critters, Jake and Augie, for the insensitive comparison.

But it wasn't just the Bayfield books. It was answers that hung like questions. Veronica was becoming more forthcoming about the case. As a means of drawing her in, Rae guessed. Kevin was apparently a rotten apple, but who was there to confirm Morgan's story about his implication in his mother's death? James Joseph Camacho had tortured and raped Deidre La.s.siter. Veronica had finally confirmed that JJ was a snitch in a drug sting for Metro. So, how could they have lost him? The drug case in which he was a key player seemed totally unrelated to the deaths of either Deidre or Kevin. The financial records of Bayfield Enterprises might have an interesting story to tell. Or they might yield nothing.

Rae was eager to get started. She and Veronica had lunched together in the old days, following Anthony's death. Some dinners, too. Veronica, along with other of Anthony's fellow officers and their spouses had been steadfast in their support of Rae and her kids.

By the end of a year or so, contacts with Anthony's world had dried up like cheat gra.s.s in summer heat. Rekindling her friends.h.i.+p with Veronica felt good.

Veronica's directions had been easy to follow. Hers was an older split-level that backed up to farmland. A neatly kept house with brick siding in a neighborhood with good schools. Veronica had a twelve-year-old son whom Rae had never met.

As she parked her Mercedes behind a white Camry, Rae saw Veronica on the front porch. Beside her was a tall, skinny kid. Veronica's son Justin.

A memory flashed as Rae walked toward the pair: Veronica's exodus from Metro had coincided with her pregnancy, as well as the trauma of witnessing Anthony's death. All she'd ever told Rae was that the relations.h.i.+p with Justin's father hadn't worked out.

"Rae," Veronica called warmly as she approached, but there was no customary welcoming embrace. Instead, Veronica's right arm was planted steadfastly around her son's shoulders.

Already the boy stood nearly as tall as his mother. Brown-skinned, a bit lighter than Veronica, his dark hair was closely cropped, giving center stage to riveting hazel eyes.

Oh, my G.o.d. Anthony's eyes.

Rae's vision drowned in a sea of red. Time stood on tiptoe as Anthony's face filled the red blur. The gun shots. Over and over again. Into Anthony's body. Only this time it wasn't Markov holding the weapon. It was Rae.

d.a.m.n you. d.a.m.n you, Anthony Esposito.

It was over in an instant. Her vision returned. She could read in Veronica's expression that she knew. But the boy? She couldn't tell. He just stood there looking at her out of those eyes. What was it about his expression? Apprehension? Yes, Veronica must have told him. How could she do that? What did she say to him? Justin, your dad's widow is coming to dinner?

"How could you do this to your son?" The words jumped out of her mouth like horses. The words tore at her throat like the hooves were shredding it.

She didn't realize she'd moved until she felt Veronica's hand on her arm-cool, as if it had no blood in it.

"Rae, please."

Rae jerked her arm away. Her hand became a fist drawn back. No! The effort not to hit Veronica set the blood pounding in her temples. Not in front of the boy. It wasn't his fault.

She heard him mumble something to his mom. The wet-eyed look that pa.s.sed between mother and son made Rae wish she could cry, too. But her eyes were so dry she couldn't even blink and get rid of the sight of the two of them.

"Yes, it's okay. Go on over to Bobby's. We may not eat till late," she heard Veronica tell him.

Then he was gone. Justin. Did he know he had a brother and a sister? And two nephews? Did he have a picture of Anthony in his room?

"It's not what you think," said Veronica.

"I'm sure," said Rae, "that it was an immaculate conception."

"You're closer than you think. If it'd been...what you're thinking...would I have invited you over here to explain? With my son present? Justin is my life."

"Be careful what you call your life. It may not be what it seems." Rae twisted the words into Veronica like knives.

"I know you think you have every reason to hate me, but--"

"Please! You're not worth my hate."

Rae looked away from Veronica, but everywhere she looked, there was Anthony. Naked.

"I knew it might pose a problem, but I never thought it would turn so ugly," said Veronica. "I had to find out before you signed the contract with our office. It would have been much worse if we were in the middle of the case and you found out by accident. I thought this way I'd have a chance to explain."

"What explanation could there possibly be," said Rae. Though posed as a question, she left no room for an answer as she stared Veronica down.

Veronica, with every hair in place, oh, she was a cool one now that the boy was safely somewhere else. Probably hadn't even broken a sweat. Rae felt her own heat rise up, the red tide of impending menopause combined with rage shooting up her neck. Sweat bled through her ecru silk blouse. Yes, she'd even dressed up for the occasion of this dinner meeting. And she knew if she looked under either arm, she'd see humongous dark brown rings staining the new blouse.

"There was no affair," said Veronica.

"Oh, please. Tell me another."

"He loved you. Only you. Will you just let me explain what happened?"

"No," said Rae. The image of naked Anthony with Veronica wouldn't let her be. She bolted for her car.

Once inside, Rae's hands trembled so badly that she couldn't get the keys into the ignition. Don't drive like this, said a little voice in her head.

She sat back and took deep breaths. She looked at the house. No sign of Veronica. She willed herself calm, started the car and backed carefully down the driveway instead of nicking the Camry or driving through Veronica's front door.

By the time she reached the street, she knew she could manage the drive home. Automatic pilot. A mode she had used often in the weeks and months following Anthony's death.

When she got home from Veronica's, Rae sat in the kitchen, dry-eyed, remembering, wondering when it had happened.

The age of the boy made that obvious. But, it wasn't the act, but the when that precipitated the act that eluded her.

She ground coffee beans in her electric grinder. The dark Italian roast she used had been her grandmother's mainstay. Somehow, Rae's brew never achieved that bitter-sweet, almost syrupy taste and texture of Grandma's.

Had it been Rae's preoccupation with pa.s.sing the CPA exam? The whir of the grinder rang in her ears. Grandma had ground her beans by hand.

Out of context, bits and pieces of the past returned. The whir of numbers, computations and accounting rules buzzed in her head. Six weeks of intense Becker CPA Review had left her a bundle of raw nerves.

Anthony and the kids tiptoed around her during that time. No one asked "How was your day?" They already knew that the sound of asking would set her off, and she'd fly out the back door into the postage stamp sized yard. Their first house in a Denver suburb had been really tiny, hardly room to breathe. No room to dream.

Rae spooned three scoops of ground coffee into the basket of her Krupps, poured in water and flipped the on switch.

Then she remembered the balm of Anthony's humor. One night after a particularly grueling Becker session, as she lay in bed with her back to Anthony, she felt his hand on her shoulder. Her muscles had tightened involuntarily as she'd pulled away from his touch.

"Hey, you," he'd said, "I just want to feel your nose."

She'd scrounched down further into her self-imposed, info-loaded dungeon, but Anthony wouldn't give up. He'd turned her toward him, felt her nose with the back of his hand and then declared, "Cold and moist. Yep, you're healthy."

She'd laughed till the tears came. Looking back, it wasn't all that funny-being reminded by your husband that you'd been acting like a b.i.t.c.h. But it had done the trick. Rae had relaxed and fallen asleep in Anthony's arms.

No, that couldn't have been the when.

Rae poured herself a mug of coffee and thought of Grandma's intricately flowered demita.s.se cups that now sat with their saucers on a shelf in the dining room. She yearned for the comfort of her childhood, remembering Grandma's anise-laced almond biscotti.

Rae made biscotti herself according to Grandma's verbal instructions. Recipe? What's that? A pinch of this, a spoonful of that. Teaspoon? Tablespoon? Just a plain old spoon, Rae. You tell by what it tastes like, how it feels when you stir.

Rae's efforts had never tasted the same, though Anthony and the kids had praised them elaborately.

The when still eluded her. Why should it be important? Knowing couldn't change things.

Rae nibbled on a store-bought biscotti dunked in fresh coffee that was too bitter.

She'd met Anthony at a Sons of Italy dance.

"Come on, Rae, humor your grandma."

"Ma, only old people go to those dances." Rae was nineteen.

"It won't kill you, this once." Even her German-American dad had joined in.

So she'd gone with Grandma and Grandpa in their old Buick station wagon. Her hair was cut short even then. No seventies sprayed, teased-to-death look for her.

They wouldn't let her wear jeans. "Please dress like a girl, Rae. The sky won't fall."

The minute she'd spotted him, Rae knew they'd been set up. Black hair towering above a sea of gray heads and stooped shoulders. Maybe not all gray-but n.o.body there was under forty except the two of them. G.o.d, forty was old back then.