Grace Cries Uncle (12 page)

Rodriguez hadn't moved his finger from the photo's edge. He slid it closer still. “You recognize the name.” Not a question.

Tight between the two detectives, Liza made herself small. Her bravado eroding by the second, she kept her teeth firmly clamped on her lower lip and sent me a look, pleading for help. Nothing I could do here. Nor would I. The man in that picture was dead. If my two detective friends believed Liza could help find the murderer, I wasn't about to stop them.

“Who is this guy?” she asked again. “Why are you interested in him?”

“One more time, Liza,” Rodriguez said softly, bringing his face very close to hers. I'd never found the portly detective to be particularly intimidating, until now. The man possessed a power I'd never seen before. “We're unsure whether you recognize the face, but you most definitely know the name.
Why don't you make things easy for yourself? Who is Tomas Pineda? How is he connected with your husband?”

Liza covered the sides of her head with both hands. “I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Leave me alone.”

“Cut the dramatics, Liza,” I said.

The hateful look she directed across the table was one I would remember for a long time. I could have sworn she hissed, too. “I have never seen this man before in my life,” she said, anger chopping her words. “The name. Yes. I heard the name. I don't remember much. Eric said that name once or twice. I don't think Eric liked him. But I can't be sure.”

“Is Eric capable of murder?” Rodriguez asked in that scary-soft voice of his.

“No!” Fully alarmed now, Liza leaned as far away from him as she could, but Flynn had taken that moment to move closer. She had nowhere to go. I almost felt sorry for her. “Why would you say such a thing?”

Rodriguez tapped the photo. “This man came here looking for your husband, and now he's dead. Murdered.” He gave a little
tsk
. “Kind of an interesting coincidence, don't you think?”

“That's the guy who got killed?” Liza asked me. “The one you told me about?”

Flynn's voice dropped to a rumble. “Where were you Saturday?” he asked. “Between, say, noon and three o'clock?”

Liza's eyes widened. “You can't think I had anything to do with that. You even said you know I never saw this guy's face.”

Flynn gave a chilly smile. “He was shot in the back.”

“No, stop. No.” Liza's panic was palpable. Her gaze darted around the room the way an animal's does before it escapes or bites. “I left California Saturday. I took the train to get here. I didn't get here until Tuesday. Ask Grace. I have proof. Tickets, receipts. Whatever you need.”

Rodriguez asked questions about her route, jotting notes as she gave specifics regarding cities, timetables, and stops. She'd traveled from San Francisco to Chicago to D.C. before
arriving in Emberstowne on Tuesday. How she'd survived that many hours on a train with her meager belongings and little money boggled my mind. There was no doubt, however, that she was telling the truth about her journey.

“We may have more questions for you,” Rodriguez said as they wrapped up the kitchen table interrogation. “And, of course, if you remember anything that might help us, or you see your husband, you will let us know.”

Liza pulled her cheeks in tight, but nodded.

Sliding his chair around to the end once again, Rodriguez addressed me. “What can you tell me about your visitor this evening?”

I gave him what little information I had.

“You ran him off, did you?” A corner of Flynn's mouth curled up. “I would have liked to see that.”

Rodriguez grinned. “Our favorite curator is turning into a she-devil,” he said as he hauled himself to his feet. “We'll have uniforms keep an eye on your house tonight, Grace. If he comes back, or you notice anything out of place, any time of the day or night, call us.” He patted me on the shoulder with a beefy hand. “I know you will.”

Flynn stood up. “Where's Bootsie?” he asked. “Haven't seen her at all tonight.”

As though she'd expected the summons, she pranced into the kitchen from the dining room, little nose held high. Rodriguez began making his way to the front door. Flynn picked up the cat and followed. “How are you, sweetheart?” he asked as he scratched under her chin. “Hiding out, were you?”

I leaned close so as not to be overheard. “Bootsie takes cover when Liza's around.”

Flynn shot a scathing look over his shoulder. “I know she's your sister, Grace, but that girl is trouble.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

The next morning, I strode into Liza's room to rouse her. I pushed open the door, wrinkling my nose at the stale laundry smell. The window shade hung all the way down, allowing no morning light. The limited clothing she'd brought with her, now freed from the confines of her overstuffed bag, had expanded into messy piles on the floor—the source of the unpleasant aroma. I picked my way around them to the single bed in the far corner. On her back, with one arm across her eyes and the other stretched overhead, she slept with her mouth open, gurgling throaty noises with every breath.

“Liza.” I wiggled her elbow. “Wake up.” She shifted her back to me. I pulled at her shoulder, then shook it with enough effort to get her attention. “Come on. Time to get up.”

With a cry, Liza sprang awake. She pulled her legs in fast and twisted, drawing herself into the corner, blanket clutched tight in both hands. “What are you—?” As awareness settled over her, she smoothed her hair back. “What do you want?”

“You have a half hour to get yourself ready.”

“Where am I going?”

“I've made arrangements for your safety while I'm at work.”

“What kind of arrangements?”

I started for the door. “I've already showered, but still need to get dressed. Meet me downstairs when you're ready.”

“Don't I get a choice here?”

“Sorry,” I said. “You don't.”

*   *   *

Bruce was reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee when I made it down to the kitchen. “You're up early,” I said.

He wore sweatpants and a pale green shirt soaked with perspiration. Pinching the neckline, he peeled the fabric forward and fanned it while giving me a lopsided grin. “Went out for a run this morning.”

“
You
went running?” I poured coffee and joined him at the table.

“Okay, fine. More like a jog.” He held up a finger. “But I kept a good pace.”

“When did this start?”

“You know how we're always talking about staying healthy? I thought it was about time I stopped talking and actually followed through.” Pointing upward, he added, “I haven't been able to convince Scott yet.”

“It's twenty degrees outside. Maybe you need to try when it's warmer.”

He lifted the coffee mug to his lips. “Maybe.” A moment later, he asked, “What's going on with Liza? Any update on how long she'll be here?”

The reunion between my roommates and my sister had been awkward at best. Ever since Liza's arrival, Bruce and Scott had begun coming home later and leaving earlier. I couldn't blame them.

“I'm so sorry to put you guys in the middle of this,” I said.

“It's not your fault, Grace. Nobody saw this coming.”

I told him about the second would-be FBI agent who had come to call yesterday as well as about Rodriguez and Flynn's visit. Bootsie leapt into my lap and I stroked her head as I shared the details of my plans for Liza today.

“She's fed, by the way,” Bruce said when I'd finished. It took me a second to realize he meant Bootsie.

“So where's the worm?”

Bruce and I turned as Liza entered the room. Wet hair combed back from her scrubbed face, she was barefoot and wearing one of the oversized T-shirts I'd provided. She'd recaptured a measure of her usual insouciance, sauntering past my chair to pick up the coffeepot. Sniffing the brew, she wrinkled her nose. “Doesn't anyone know how to make decent coffee around here?”

Neither of us bothered to answer.

Pouring herself a cup of the brew she'd just maligned, she sat down. “The worm,” she said. “Get it? We're early birds.” Making a face at Bruce, she asked, “What happened to you?”

“There's my cue to head up for a shower,” Bruce said. He rinsed his mug out in the sink then loaded it into the dishwasher. “See you tonight, Grace.” He glanced at my sister. “Later, Liza.”

She shouted to his back, “Can't wait,” but lowered her voice again to me. “So, Sis, what are these big plans of yours?”

“You said you planned to be here for a week . . . ish.”

“Tossing me out already?”

“Not quite. What I am doing, however, is keeping you out of harm's way until they find whoever murdered that man.”

“The guy with all the aliases?”

“The same. He, and the one at the door yesterday, came here looking for Eric. You even admitted you suspect Eric might show up.”

She didn't comment.

“Because I can't trust you to manage the alarm, or stay put when it's important, or tell the truth when I need you to, I've arranged for you to stay elsewhere while I'm at work.”

“Elsewhere,” she repeated, deadpan. “Like daycare?”

Leaning forward, I kept my voice low. It wasn't that I minded Bruce or Scott overhearing, it was that I wanted Liza to pay close attention to what I had to say next. “If Eric or more of his associates show up here, I don't want you in the house by yourself.”

“Because you don't trust me to face Eric? You think I'll take him back?”

“No.” I blinked and sat back in my chair. “Because it isn't safe.”

I could tell my words startled her. She bit her lip.

“Whoever killed that man in the neighbor's yard is still out there,” I said. “What's to stop him from killing you?”

She fiddled her thumbs against the side of her mug but said nothing.

“Do you have anything to read?” I asked.

“Like a book?” She laughed without humor. “Yeah, right. Isn't there a television at this daycare center?”

I got to my feet, ignoring her snarky attitude. I rinsed out my mug and loaded it into the dishwasher. “How soon can you be ready to leave?”

“Ten minutes. But because I'm all giddy with excitement make it five.” She stood to join me, leaving her mug at the table.

I slid a glance at it. “We clean up after ourselves around here.”

With a huff worthy of a cranky teenager, she grabbed the mug, whipped it into the sink, flushed it with water, and then added it to the dishwasher. The dramatics were overwrought but as long as she played by house rules, I let her enjoy her tantrum. While she stomped and banged, I tapped out a text on my cell phone.

“Thank you,” I said when she was done. “Hurry up and get dressed.”

She disappeared upstairs and, true to her prediction, was ready in five minutes, wearing ripped jeans, another one of my shirts, and a pair of canvas flats.

“I guess you are giddy after all,” I said. “Let's go.”

I opened the basement door. Her abject look of horror gave me the biggest jolt of amusement I'd felt in a long time.

“You're not putting me down there, are you? You can't do that.”

I couldn't stop myself from chuckling. “Yeah, I'm planning to chain you to the wall. Don't worry. There will be plenty of bread and water.”

“This isn't funny, Grace.”

“Relax,” I said. “Follow me.”

She did. She clearly trusted me enough to know that I wouldn't imprison her underground, but I could feel her trepidation as she made her way down the stairs.

“It's cleaner down here than it used to be,” she said. Taking a sniff, she added, “Smells better, too.”

“Amazing the good things that come with effort.”

We headed toward the front of the house, past the furnace. I let the surprise speak for itself.

Liza pointed to the metal door in the wall. “What's that? That wasn't here when we lived in the house.”

“It was hidden. Remember the old workbench?”

She blinked a few times. “Vaguely.”

I lifted the countersunk metal ring and pulled. The heavy door swung open, silently, smoothly, revealing the underground tunnel beyond.

“What is this?” she asked.

When we'd first found this passageway, there had been a temporary wall set up a few feet inside, giving the casual viewer the impression of a small space. With the help of Hillary's construction crew, we'd taken it down and cleaned the tunnel out. “Come on, I'll show you,” I said.

Ducking my head, I eased myself through the opening. We kept a few flashlights immediately inside the door. I picked up two and handed one to Liza. Wide-eyed and openmouthed, her expression was a mixture of wonder and apprehension. “You want me to come in there with you? Where does this go?”

“I'll explain on the way.” I flicked my flashlight on and moved deeper into the tunnel, confident her curiosity would get the better of her. It did.

Five steps later, she'd caught up with me and as we made the underground trek to Tooney's house, I explained how we'd found the passage. I also shared a little bit of the structure's history we'd uncovered.

She reached out to skim her fingers along the cool brick wall. “How often do you use it?”

“Not very. I texted Ronny Tooney before we left,” I said. “He and I have come up with a system. The plan is to use the tunnel only in case of emergencies. Hiding you from Eric and his associates qualifies. Tooney is waiting for us on the other side.”

“Your neighbor has access to your house?” she asked, aghast. “Doesn't that make you nervous?”

“Quite the opposite.”

By the time we made it to the far door, Tooney had swung it open, providing enough illumination to proceed without the flashlights. I clicked mine off. Tooney's homely, hangdog face hovered ahead of us looking at once hesitant yet eager. His cheeks flushed when he caught sight of us and he grinned. I was taken aback, not for the first time, by the transformation in his appearance. When Tooney smiled, he was positively good-looking.

“Good morning, Grace.” His gaze shifted from me to my sister as he backed up, allowing us both to step out of the tunnel and into his basement. “You must be Ms. Liza.”

“Yep, that's me,” she said, looking around the wide, empty space. “This basement is like a mirror image of ours.”

I bit back the correction:
Mine
. “Liza, I'd like you to meet a good friend, Ronny Tooney.”

His face flushed again, but this time no smile. He held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Liza tilted her head as she reached to shake. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Tooney.” Her voice was honey, her gaze soft, as she tugged her slender fingers closer, bringing his chubby ones along for the ride. Grasping his hand in both of hers, she leaned closer. “Grace has told me so many wonderful things about you. I can't wait to get to know you better.”

“And I've heard a great deal about you as well.” Red-cheeked, he extracted his hand. Wiping a trickle of perspiration from the side of his face, he stretched his chin and chanced a look at me. I caught a hardness in his eyes. Fleeting, it was gone in an instant.

“Grace hasn't been telling stories again, has she?” Liza asked. “I'll bet you're annoyed to be stuck babysitting me all day.” Short hair or no, she tossed her head triumphantly as she tucked a hand into Tooney's arm. “We're going to be good friends, aren't we, Ronald?”

He peeled her fingers up and took a step out of her reach. The flinty hardness snapped back into his eyes as he faced her. “Don't pretend to be attracted to me,” he said. “I'm twenty years older than you are, at least. Plus, I have a mirror.”

Liza shifted. She tucked her hands into her pockets. “Wow, Grace has really done a number on you, hasn't she? Has she tainted everyone's opinion of me, or is there a law against being friendly around here?”

“Not at all.” Tooney maintained the stare. “I just want to make sure we understand each other.”

She raised both hands in surrender. “Have it your way.”

“And for the record,” he said with a sly glance at me, “my name isn't Ronald.”

I gasped. “It isn't?”

His stern visage gave way to amusement. “The cops gave
me the nickname Ronny when I was trying to get on the force. It stuck.” He gave a self-conscious shrug. “After you and I first met, when the cops told you who I was, they used the nickname. You were so mad at me back then I didn't have the guts to tell you they'd gotten it wrong.”

“But since that time,” I stammered, “you've had plenty of opportunity. Why haven't you ever said anything?”

Again, the shrug. Again, his cheeks blazed. “You always call me by my last name, anyway. I didn't see the need.”

“Oh my gosh, Tooney.” Catching myself, I slapped a hand over my mouth. “I'm so sorry. I had no idea.”

“It's okay, Grace.”

Ignoring Liza's eyeroll, I asked him, “What is it then? Your real name?”

A smile teased his lips. “Bronson.”

“Bronson,” I repeated. “Like Charles Bronson?”

Tooney brightened. “You know him? I figured he was before your time.”

“Our parents were big into war movies,” I said. “I loved him in
The Great Escape
.”