Deceit

Okay, this waiting was getting plain maddening. This was exactly why she wanted to make her own way in life. She wouldn’t wait for or on anybody. She’d have a dozen men working for her. She’d say “jump” and they’d jump.

Melissa got back into bed. Wouldn’t do for Baxter to catch her walking the floor. If the man came at all.

He was probably doing this on purpose. Just to keep her in her place. The thought made her nerves sizzle.

Guess again, Baxter, who keeps who in place? What do you suppose would happen to you if I told people how you treat your wife?

At 12:50 her door opened without a knock. Just like that. Baxter slipped inside. Beyond him the hall was dark. He closed her door and locked it.

He hurried over to her bed and sat down, eyeing her with supreme satisfaction. “Told you I’d come.”

“Where’s Linda?”

“Asleep.”

“What’s to keep her that way?”

His lips curved in a slow smile. “I insisted she take a sleeping pill because she’s been tossing and turning lately. She’s out.”

Melissa gave him a seductive look. “Nice going, Mr. Jackson.” She reached for the remote and turned off the TV.

FORTY-NINE

FEBRUARY 2010

Two-fifty a.m.

A half hour ago Dan had heard from the forensics team that had gone over my car. They found no GPS. They did lift two sets of fingerprints.

Great. Those would be mine and Melissa’s.

Had we read this all wrong?

Edgar Trovky slumped in his chair at the interrogation table, his wounded leg sticking straight out and the other jiggling. His hands laced and unlaced on the worn wood. Dan sat on one side of him, a finger at his upper lip. On the other side Officer Slater leaned forward, arms on the table. From the corner of a room a small camera was running.

Two sealed evidence bags sat on the table.

Perry and I watched through a one-way window from an adjacent room, just as small. The metal chairs were hard. My back ached and my eyes were gritty. Perry perched in his seat, alert as ever. The tilt of his body belied his thoughts—he’d give anything to exchange places with the officer.

I prayed Edgar Trovky would lead us to Baxter.

He’d come into the room limping, his expression hard as sour candy. His eyes were deep-set and beady, his gaze bouncing around as if every corner menaced. He had a narrow face, thin lips. Buzz-cut hair. His voice sounded nothing like the gravel of Hooded Man. But maybe that voice had been put on just to frighten me. Hooded Man had done everything else he could to scare me, from meeting me on that dark road to wearing a bloody mask. All to push me into finding Melissa as fast as possible.

What a pawn I’d been.

But if my mistakes led us to Baxter in the end, it would be worth it.

For the first fifteen minutes of the interview, Slater asked Tro-vky about everything except the bullet wound in his leg. Where he worked, what family he had, his hobbies, how long he’d lived in San Jose. I half listened, vacillating between frustration and fascination. Trovky’s initial answers were in monosyllable. But little by little Slater opened him up until he was speaking in full sentences, offering information.

“He’s a good interrogator,” Perry said in a low voice. “He’s read the guy. Now he’s making him comfortable.”

“So.” Slater bounced a finger against the table. “What happened to your leg?”

Trovky’s face clouded. “It was an accident, like I told the doc. I was cleaning my gun and it went off.”

Slater nodded. “How’d you manage that?”

“It just went off.”

“You were holding it how?”

Trovky focused on the table. “Like this.” He mimed holding a gun, pointing it downward.

“Odd angle to clean a weapon.”

Trovky shrugged.

“You had it pointed straight down?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.” Slater leaned to the side of his chair and fisted his hip. “The doctor said the bullet entered your leg at an angle, higher in front, headed lower. If you had the gun pointed straight down, the bullet would have gone straight inside your leg.”

Trovky shrugged again. “Okay. It was angled.”

“Pretty odd position for your hand.”

No response.

“What kind of gun is it?”

Trovky’s eyes jerked to the floor. “Don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Uh-uh.”

“When did this…accident happen?”

“Just before I got in the car, and then the cop pulled me over.”

“Just before.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yup.”

Slater and Dan exchanged a look. The officer refocused on Trovky. “See, that’s what I’m not getting. The doc said for sure that bullet had been in there at least a couple hours.”

“You can’t keep me here. I ain’t done nothin’.”

“He’s lying,” I said to Perry.

“Yeah. Question is, about what? Somebody other than Melissa could have shot him.”

Slater tilted his head. “You’ve got eight unpaid moving violations. That we know for sure. We can do something about that.”

Trovky’s mouth tightened. He glared at the wall.

Slater reached for the evidence bags, moved them around. Trovky’s eyes snapped to the bags.

“What’s in there?”

“I want you to tell me about your ‘cleaning accident’ again.”

“What’s in the bags?”

“You first.”

“I told you, man!” Trovky repeated his story.

“Where’s the gun?”

“At home. You think I’m gonna bring it with me to the hospital?”

Slater sniffed and moved the bags around some more. “If you’re lying, we’ll know. In one of these bags is the gun I’m willing to bet shot you. And in the other is the bullet taken from your leg. I’m thinking they’re going to match.”

Trovky went very still. Then shrugged. “So do your testing.”

The three men sat in silence.

Dan spoke up. “There was a home invasion this evening at 264 Anniston in San Jose. You know anything about that?”