Dangerous Lies (17 page)

“Even so.” Her eyes focused on Officer Oshiro, and with a businesslike nod, she gave the go-ahead.

“Hi there, Stella,” Officer Oshiro said, speaking in that gentle but serious voice adults adopt in a crisis. “What happened tonight? Walk me through it. Be as detailed as you can.”

I explained how Eduardo had asked me to get him napkins from the storeroom, how my attacker had waited for me at the bottom of the stairs, how he’d kicked, punched, and slapped me.

“He?”

“He talked to me. He said, ‘This is how I want to see you from now on. Head down, minding your own business.’ ” I swallowed, unsure if the tingle in my fingers was from anger or the trauma of reliving the event in words. With perfect memory, I recalled his husky, loathsome voice. It sent chills down my spine.

“Did you see his face?”

“I was on the ground, covering my head while he kicked me. I didn’t dare lift my head to look at him, in case he kicked me unconscious.”

“Did you notice anything distinguishing? Like what he was wearing, maybe a watch, a tattoo, or a specific pair of shoes?”

“The lights were off. The storeroom is underground and doesn’t have windows. It was pitch black.”

“Any idea who’d want to do this to you?”

Trigger McClure was the first name that sprang to mind, and I told her so.

Carmina and Officer Oshiro locked eyes. Carmina nodded, and I got the feeling they’d just shared an entire conversation. One that didn’t discount my suggestion that Trigger was behind this.

Officer Oshiro said, “What makes you think Trigger would want to hurt you?”

“He threw his drink on me last week at work. He was mad because I wouldn’t change his order after it had gone to the grill. I gave him a piece of my mind, and I don’t think he liked that, either.”

Carmina’s mouth pinched. “You didn’t tell me,” she said disapprovingly, and I felt a twinge of guilt. I had made it a point to tell Carmina as little as possible. In hindsight, maybe I should have told her about Trigger. But I didn’t think it would have prevented tonight’s attack. I never would have guessed he’d go from throwing his soda at me to assaulting me. I doubted even Carmina would have seen it coming.

“Sounds like the two of you had a conflict,” Officer Oshiro said, still speaking in that gentle, understanding voice. “I bet it made you pretty mad when he dumped his drink on you.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“Stella,” Carmina warned.

“What? It’s the truth.” I faced Officer Oshiro. “After he doused me, he took off without paying. Dixie Jo, my boss, had to go to his parents to get the money for his meal. The following night I saw Trigger bully a kid at the Red Barn. Trigger was pressuring the kid to give him free beer. He was also obviously drinking, so I called the cops—you guys. Needless to say, I don’t think it really warmed him to me.”

“You think he was humiliated enough by those two incidents that he decided to beat you up and put you in your place?” Officer Oshiro wanted to know.

“I think Trigger isn’t used to being around a girl who does something besides stroke his ego or feel flattered by his advances.”

Another brief glance passed between the officer and Carmina, and both their mouths pressed into a grim line of what I believed to be agreement. Apparently Trigger had made a name for himself—as something other than a baseball star.

I brushed my hair off my forehead, cringing when I accidentally touched the edge of my swollen eye. I’d had a black eye once before, during a game of Crack the Egg on a trampoline. I’d been eight, and clearly time had done a good job of erasing my memory, because I didn’t remember it hurting this much. The dull pang of a headache was beginning to settle behind the blackened eye.

Carmina handed me a fresh ice pack and I dabbed it gently against the swelling. She said, “How long did he beat you?”

“A minute or two. It happened quickly, even though it didn’t feel that way at the time.”

“And then what happened?” Officer Oshiro asked.

“He left. He didn’t run. He wasn’t scared—he made that clear. He walked out leisurely. But I got a good solid kick in during the attack, and I must have hit him in the leg, because he was limping. It slowed him down.”

Officer Oshiro wrote that down on her pad. “How do you know he was limping?”

“I could hear it. His gait was uneven. He favored one leg.”

“And after he limped out?”

“There are three doors out of the kitchen. The carhop door, the swinging doors that lead into the dining area, and a back door we use to haul trash bags to the Dumpsters. I’m guessing he used that door. Eduardo was in the kitchen. He must have seen something. The door to the storeroom is easily visible from the cooks’ station, where he would have been.”

“Same Eduardo who called 911?” Officer Oshiro asked, quickly jotting down more notes.

“Yes.”

“I’ll touch base with him on that. Meanwhile, any other details from the attack stand out to you? Did the attacker say anything else?”

“He laughed.” I shuddered unexpectedly as the snarling timbre of Trigger’s voice drifted through me. “He thought what he did was funny. That I deserved it.”

IT FELT GOOD TO WAKE
up in my little twin bed at the top of the stairs in Carmina’s house. For the first time, I appreciated the familiar creak of the mattress and the hot sunlight streaming through the curtains. The room smelled like freshly laundered cotton and wood floor polish, and the smell was so much better than the sterile, recycled air pervading the hospital.

I pulled myself up to sitting, doing a quick inventory of my aches and pains. I was bruised all over, purple blooms splotching my legs, abdomen, torso. Deep down I was hurting, but the medicine—blissfully—masked the worst of it.

Carmina knocked and stuck her head inside. With a large lap tray held between her hands, she was forced to gesture with her shoulders. “I thought you might be hungry for a bite of breakfast. Should I leave it on the nightstand?”

A bite of breakfast included pancakes, eggs, hash browns, bacon, cubed honeydew and cantaloupe, and a tall glass of OJ. Carmina cooked meat and potatoes at nearly every meal, but this breakfast took things to a new level. I’d never seen her make so much food at once. And all of it for me. It had been a long time since I’d felt fussed over. The little girl inside me missed how my mom used to sit at my bedside and touch her cool palm to my fevered head. At the far reaches of my mind, there were still those memories. They were foggy, but they were real. Which made them that much more painful to remember. It’s true what they say—you know keenly, cruelly, what you’re missing after it’s gone.

“Thanks,” I said, clearing away the Walkman and cassette tapes from the bedside table. I was growing strangely attached to Van Halen, and usually fell asleep listening to their greatest hits. The cassette tape’s audio quality was abysmal, but the music was decent. Anyway, it was good replacement music. I refused to listen to my favorite bands from home. Estella’s life in Philly and Stella’s life in Thunder Basin were two distinct entities, and I didn’t want overlap. Estella had an inner jukebox that played fresh, undiscovered voices over and over until the lyrics became etched on her heart. When she left Philly, she wrapped her favorite songs in a box and placed them high out of reach. A wishful part of me still dreamed I’d get to go back and be her. I’d take down the box and let the music soar freely. But it could never be more than a fantasy, and with every passing day, the dream faded a little and reality brightened.

Estella was gone. Stella was my future.

Carmina set down the tray, then lingered by the window. She exhaled, as if she had something on her mind and was debating the wisdom of letting it out. “Chet stopped by this morning,” she finally admitted somewhat stubbornly, and with that ever-present touch of disapproval.

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were sleeping and he should come back later.”

“Does he know what happened?”

“Yes.”

I sat up taller. “You told him everything—all of it?”

“When you didn’t come home from work, I called Chet to see if he knew where you were. He didn’t, and it worried him that I didn’t either. He offered to help look for you,” she said with an aggravated sigh. “He came over, and that’s when Dixie Jo called to say you’d been attacked and were at the hospital. I told Chet to go home, but I suspect he tried to see you. He would have been turned away because visiting hours were over.” She gave a fussy shake of her head. “He brought flowers this morning. Daisies and sunflowers from his mother’s garden. She planted the daisies in the backyard years ago, and they’ve spread like weeds. Hannah Falconer always had the prettiest flowers. . . .” She trailed off, her eyes gazing vacantly out the window.

“I’d like to go see him after breakfast. I’ll walk over, so it won’t inconvenience you.”

Carmina’s eyes snapped back to me. “Walk? In your condition?”

“Dr. Simpson said I should walk if I felt up to it. And I do.”

“I know you’re anxious to see Chet, but don’t overdo it. He said he’d swing by later.”

“I really want to talk to him now. I need someone to talk to. I have to get this off my chest so I can stop reliving it.”

When she turned back to the window, her chin turning up with a hint of pride, I knew I’d hurt her feelings. Something had happened at the hospital last night. Some of the animosity I’d built between us had eroded when Carmina strode into the exam room, determined to take care of me. My opinion of her had risen a notch, and I think she realized it. And while she might think we were in good standing now, I wasn’t ready to confide in her yet. She’d have to accept that.

I ate the pancakes and two strips of bacon. I showered and dressed. I was too sore to flat-iron my hair, so I pulled it back in a simple ponytail, but even that was slow going and painful. I skipped makeup, opting only for a light swath of lip balm.

The doorbell rang. Thinking Chet had saved me from walking to his house, I slipped on my sandals and walked stiff-legged from the room.

I was coming down the stairs gingerly when Carmina opened the front door. She left the screen intact, keeping a barrier between her and the uniformed officer standing on the porch.

“Morning, Roger. To what do we owe this pleasure?” Her voice was pleasant, but not quite genuine. It held an underlying sharpness, a touch of suspicion.

The officer tipped his hat at Carmina. “I’m here on business.”

“Business? What business?”

He cleared his throat. “The matter of Stella’s statement.”

“Where’s Grace Oshiro? She took Stella’s statement. This is her case.”

“Chief assigned me to the case. I’ll be handling things from now on. Thought we could have a nice conversation here, instead of a formal interview at the station.”

“Interview? What on earth for?”

“Just double-checking a few facts.”

“Last I checked, a fact is a known truth. What’s to double-check?”

Roger cleared his throat again. “Mind if I step in?”

“Not at all. But first, I’d like to know the exact nature of your visit. Seems to me this conversation”—she put just enough emphasis on the word to make it sound like a euphemism—“might be better suited for the station. With our lawyer present.”

Chuckling uneasily, Roger said, “There, there, Carmina. No need to bring out the attack dogs. We’re friends, you and I. This is a courtesy visit. I thought the three of us—you, me, and Stella—could sit down and review Stella’s statement from last night. Keep it friendly, of course.”

“Of course,” she said coolly.

Roger scratched his cheek, clearly uncomfortable. “Still got a jug of that sweet basil lemonade you make lying around?”

“Matter of fact, I do. But I’m saving it for company.”

“Aw, come on, Carmina. Don’t be like that.”

“How should I be? Naive? I know what you’re doing here. You forget I spent five years on the force with you, and another fifteen with your father. You want Stella to retract her statement. You don’t want us to press charges. Go on, admit it. It’s a sticky mess for the department, arresting a promising young baseball star for assaulting a girl. Now tell me, does Chief Hearst still fish with Trigger McClure’s daddy Saturday mornings? Come to think of it, don’t they hunt pheasant in the fall, and watch Sunday night football at the chief’s house?”

Color splotched the officer’s cheeks. “It’s her word against his. We talked to Trigger, got his side of the story. He said he accidentally spilled his pop on Stella at the Sundown Diner last week and she’s had it out for him ever since. She follows him around, trying to trip him up. She followed him to the Red Barn last week and made up a story about him trying to steal beer.”

Up until now, I’d let Carmina take the reins, but I wasn’t about to keep quiet a moment longer.

“He said that?” I exclaimed, furious. “And you believe it? For the record, he dumped his soda on me—
intentionally
—after I insisted that he pay for his food. And every word I told the officer at the Red Barn was true!”

Carmina’s eyes took a definite edge. “Stella saw Trigger threaten that boy at the Red Barn. And the boy corroborated her story. You have two solid witnesses. What’s really the problem?”