Redemption Road: A Novel (8 page)

“Why? Because you said so?” Elizabeth patted a thick arm, walked past him. “You know better than that.” He fell in beside her, the bar thirty yards ahead, cops clustered around the door. Elizabeth glanced at the cop cars. “I don’t see Dyer. Is he too scared to show his face?”

“What do you think?”

Elizabeth didn’t have to think at all. She’d sat front and center at Adrian’s trial and remembered every aspect of Francis Dyer’s testimony.

Yes, my partner knew the victim. Her husband was a confidential informant.

Yes, they’d been alone together in the past.

Yes, Adrian had once commented on how attractive he found her to be.

It took the prosecutor ten minutes to establish those simple truths, then he drove the point home in seconds.

Tell me what Mr. Wall said when making reference to the victim’s physical appearance.

He thought she was too good for the man she was with.

You’re referring to Robert Strange, the victim’s husband?

Yes.

Did the defendant make a more specific reference to the victim’s appearance?

I’m not sure what you mean.

Did the defendant, your partner, make a more specific reference to the victim’s appearance? Specifically, did he mention whether or not he found her attractive?

He said she had the kind of face that could drive a good man to do bad things.

I’m sorry, Detective. Could you repeat that, please?

He said she had the kind of face that could drive a good man to do bad things. But I don’t think—

Thank you, Detective. That will be all.

And it was. The prosecutor used Dyer’s testimony to paint a picture of obsession, rejection, and payback. Adrian Wall knew the victim. He knew her house, her habits, her husband’s schedule. In his professional duties, he’d grown infatuated with the beautiful wife of a confidential informant. When she refused his advances, he abducted and killed her. His fingerprints were at her house and the murder scene. His skin was under her fingernails. He had scratches on his neck.

Motive,
the prosecutor said.

The oldest, saddest kind.

It could have gone down like that, too. Murder one. Twenty-five to life. The jury debated for three days before handing down the lesser verdict of second-degree murder. Cops weren’t supposed to talk to jurors postconviction, but Elizabeth did it anyway. It was a crime of passion, they believed, and done without premeditation. They thought he’d killed her at the house, then taken her to the church as an expression of perverse remorse. Why else the white linen and brushed hair, her place beneath the golden cross? Juror twelve found it strangely sweet, and the verdict came as simply as that. Murder two. Thirteen years, minimum.

“Where is he?”

“Third car.” Beckett pointed.

Elizabeth saw hints of a man in the backseat of a police cruiser. She couldn’t see much, but the shape seemed right, the tilt of his head. He was watching her; she could tell.

“Don’t stop walking.”

“I’m not,” she said, but that was a lie. Her feet were slowing as she spoke. She tried to pretend it wasn’t Adrian in the car, that he hadn’t changed her life, that maybe she’d never loved him.

“Come on, Liz.” Beckett took her arm and pulled her into motion. “That’s Nathan Conroy in the other car.” He pointed. “Ex-soldier, ex-biker. This is his place. He says he shot the boy in self-defense, which might be true. When the uniforms got here, they found his gun on the bar, a .32 Walther with one shot fired. The serial numbers were filed, so we’re holding him on a gun charge for now. As for his claims of self-defense, there was a Colt Cobra .38 on the floor beside Gideon. It was loaded but unfired. Given what day it is, I’d call it pretty likely the boy came gunning for payback.”

“He’s only fourteen.”

“Fourteen with a dead mother and a fucked-up father.”

“Jesus, Charlie…”

“Just keeping it real.”

“Is the gun registered?”

“Look, you’re not even supposed to be here.”

“Right, right. Sit at the hospital. Mind my own business. That’s not going to work for me.”

She neared the bar, her gaze locked on a detective she knew and a bloody spot near the open door. Beckett plucked at her sleeve, but she pulled her arm away and called out to the detective, a soft-voiced, steady woman named CJ Simonds. “Hey, CJ. How’re you doing?”

“Hello, Liz. I’m sorry about this. They say you know the boy.”

CJ pointed into the gloom, where every cop had stopped to stare. Elizabeth nodded, but kept her lips tight. She stepped inside, going wide to clear the stained floor near the entrance. Out of the heat, she found the bar to be a narrow space that reeked of disinfectant and stale beer. A few uniformed officers tried to look busy, but eyes followed her as she moved around the room, avoiding the blood on the floor, touching a chair, the bar. She was a cop, yes, but the papers had turned against her, which meant half the city wasn’t far behind. State cops wanted her for double homicide, and every cop in the room knew it was dangerous for her to be here. She was connected to the kid and to Adrian Wall. She had no badge, no standing; and though no one said a word, a lot of people would burn if the kid died or a news crew rolled up unannounced. Elizabeth tried to ignore the attention, but found the stares so unfair and oppressive she snapped, “What?” No one said anything. No one looked away. “What are you looking at?”

Beckett whispered, “Take it easy, Liz.”

But they were the same stares she got from the press and her neighbors and people on the street. Headlines or not, it should be different with cops. They understood the dangers of the job, the feel of dark places; but there was no kinship here.

One patrolman’s stare was particularly intent; it moved from her breasts to her face and then back. As if she were not a cop, as if she were nothing.

“Do you have some reason to be in here?” she said. The patrolman looked at Beckett. “Don’t look at him, look at me.”

The patrolman was eight inches taller, ninety pounds heavier. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Well, do it outside.” He looked at Beckett again, and Elizabeth said, “He’ll tell you it’s fine.”

“It’s okay.” Beckett gestured to the open door. “Go on outside. Everyone but CJ.”

People filed out. The big patrolman waited until the end and brushed Elizabeth with a shoulder as he passed. The contact was swift, but she felt it all the way down, a large man using his size. She watched him go.

Beckett took her elbow. “No one is judging you, Liz.”

“Don’t touch me.” She was glassy-eyed and slick with sudden sweat. The patrolman had dark hair, shaved at the sides of the neck. His hands were brushed with hair like black wire.

“It’s just me,” Beckett said.

“I said don’t touch me. I don’t want anybody touching me.”

“Nobody’s touching you, Liz.”

Outside, the patrolman looked her way, then leaned into his friend and whispered something. His neck was thick, his eyes dark and deep and dismissive.

“Liz.”

She stared at his hands, at rough skin and square nails.

Beckett said, “You’re bleeding.” She ignored him, room fading out. “Liz.”

“What?” She flinched.

He pointed. “Your mouth is bleeding.”

She touched a finger to the corner of her mouth, and it came back red. When she looked at the patrolman, he seemed worried and confused. She blinked twice and realized how young he was. Maybe twenty.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I saw something.”

Beckett started to touch her, but stopped. CJ was looking, too, but Elizabeth was in no mood for troubled eyes or the compassion of others. She glanced a final time at the patrolman, then wiped a bloody finger on her pants. “What does Adrian say?”

“He won’t talk to us.”

“Maybe he’ll talk to me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Of all the cops who knew Adrian Wall, which one never accused him of killing an innocent woman?”

She left the bar at a fast walk. Beckett caught her halfway to the car. “Look, I know you had feelings for this guy.…”

“I don’t have feelings.”

“I didn’t say you
do.
I said you
did.
”

“Okay. Fine.” She tried to bluff her way past the slip. “I
didn’t
have feelings.”

Beckett frowned because he recognized the lie. No matter what Elizabeth said now, her feelings for Adrian had been obvious to anyone who’d cared to look. She’d been young and eager, and Adrian was a rock-star cop, not just smart but telegenic. He caught the big cases, made the big arrests. Because of that, every reporter in town lined up to make him a hero. The rookies loved that about him. A lot of the older cops resented it. With Elizabeth, though, it went deeper, and Beckett had been there to see it.

“Listen.” He caught her arm and stopped her. “Let’s call it a friendship, okay? No judgment. No baggage. But, you were closer to Adrian than you were to most. He meant something to you, and that’s okay. The medals, the pretty face, whatever. But he’s been thirteen years inside the hardest prison in the state. A
cop
on the inside, you understand? Whether he killed Julia Strange or not—and to be clear, I’m certain that he did—he’s not the man you remember. Ask any cop that’s been around for a few years, and you’ll hear the same thing. It doesn’t matter if Adrian was a good man, once upon a time. Prison breaks a man down and builds him into something different. Just look at the poor bastard’s face.”

“His face?”

“My point is that he’s a convict, and convicts are users. He’ll try to leverage your relationship, whatever feelings you may still have.”

“It’s been thirteen years, Charlie. Even then, he was just a friend.”

She started to turn, but he stopped her again. She looked at the hand on her arm, then at his eyes, which appeared dim and sad under heavy lids. He struggled for the prefect words, and when he spoke his voice seemed as sad as his eyes.

“Be careful with friendships,” he said. “Not all of them are free.”

She stared pointedly at his hand and waited for him to release her arm. “Third car?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Beckett nodded and stepped aside. “Third car.”

*   *   *

She walked away with an easy stride, and Beckett watcher her go. The long legs. The eagerness. She carried herself well, but he wasn’t fooled. She’d been deep in the cult of Adrian Wall. Beckett remembered how she’d been at the trial, the way she rode the bench day after day, straight-backed and pale and utterly convinced of Adrian’s innocence. That set her apart from every other cop on the force. Dyer. Beckett. Even the other rookies. She was the only one who believed, and Adrian knew it. He’d look for her in court, first in the morning, then after lunch and at the end of the day. He’d twist in his seat, find her eyes; and Beckett—more than once—saw the bastard smile. Nobody celebrated when the verdict came down, but it was hard to deny the near-universal sense of grim satisfaction. When Adrian murdered Julia Strange, he put a black eye on every cop that cared about right and wrong. Beyond that, it was a PR nightmare.

Hero cop murders young mother.…

Then there was Gideon Strange, the boy. For whatever reason, Elizabeth bonded to him, too. She’d held him at the funeral as his father wept and was even now involved in the boy’s life on a fundamental level. She cared for him, loved him, even. Beckett never understood the reasons, but knowing the depth of her affection, he wondered how she was holding it together.

“Sir.” It was CJ Simonds, the interruption hesitant.

“Yes, CJ. What is it?”

She pointed, and Beckett looked past the bar to a dark car on the verge and a group of men beside it. “It’s the warden—”

“Yes.” Beckett cut her off. “I see that.” The warden was in a suit, the guards in uniforms sharp enough to cut paper. Beckett pointed at the cruiser. “Watch Liz. Make sure she’s okay.”

“Sir?”

“Just … watch her.”

Beckett crossed the lot, felt heat under his shoes and a fist of emotion in his chest. He’d known the warden for a long time, but the relationship was complicated. He stopped by the car and felt the warden’s stare.

“Detective.” The warden was sweating in the heat, his smile overly bright.

Beckett ignored the guards and spoke quietly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

*   *   *

The police cruiser was in the shade at the back of the lot. Elizabeth kept her chin down and her eyes sideways as she cleared the hood and circled to the rear door. She saw the top of Adrian’s head first; and he was looking down, so deathly still she had the wild thought he was actually dead, that he’d drifted off, alone in the back of the car. Then he showed a scarred face, and eyes that were utterly unchanged. For that second the entire world shrank to a black hole that stripped away all the years of her adulthood. She saw how he’d saved her life and never known it, his gentle manner as he’d stopped on a chill day to ask if she was all right. In that second Elizabeth was seventeen again, alone at the edge of a two-hundred-foot drop, a child looking for the courage to take one more step.

Are you okay, miss?

His shoulders were square, the badge on his belt bright gold. She hadn’t heard him, hadn’t seen him.

I just …
She wore tall shoes that laced above her ankles, a secondhand dress that flapped against her skin. Her gaze settled on the thirty acres of black water that filled the quarry below.
I was just counting.

It was a stupid thing to say, but he didn’t act as if it were.
Counting what?

The seconds it would take to fall,
she thought, but said nothing.

Are you sure you’re okay?

She stared at the badge on his belt and couldn’t look away. His fingers, beside it, were still.

Are your parents here?

Down the trail,
she lied.

What’s your name?