He was totally serious. While I understood why I had to explain things to Bixby, I shouldn’t have had to explain them to my brother.
“No,” I said. “But I was in that car with him. It could’ve been me.” And as I faced that thought, my whole body began to shake, but I kept going. “He would’ve stayed for me. I know that. He wouldn’t have left.”
Tim took a deep breath. The light changed, and he settled back into his seat and turned on the turn signal. In seconds, he’d spun the Impala around.
“Thanks, Tim,” I said, as I found myself headed back out to Summerlin.
We had to stop at the scene. The road was filled with flashing blue and red lights, white spotlights illuminating the desert as detectives and crime scene investigators combed the ground for any clues.
“They’re trying to re-create what happened out here,” Tim explained. I already knew that; I watch TV.
Tim flashed his badge for the cop who stopped us.
“We’re just heading up the road,” he said. “Guy who got shot-his mother’s in one of those town houses. We can’t reach her by phone, so we’re going to pick her up and take her to the hospital.”
The cop shone his flashlight in my face, and I blinked. “Okay,” he said, although I could tell he wanted to say more. He waved us through.
“He probably wanted me to stick around and re-create the crime,” I said bitterly, spots in front of my eyes because of the flashlight.
“Hate to tell you, Brett, but you’re not off the block yet. Flanigan will go over everything with you again.”
“After he talks to Jeff? To make sure our stories match, right?” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my tone.
“That’s right. It’s his job to get the story straight.” His tone was measured, as if he knew he shouldn’t rile me up even more.
I settled back in my seat and stared at the black sky ahead of us. I always counted on Red Rock for peace of mind, but I wasn’t sure I’d want to drive out this way again anytime soon. Maybe I’d have to check out Lake Mead, over in the total opposite direction. There were some good trails out there, too, although it was farther to go, less convenient if I had to get to work at a reasonable hour.
Maybe I wouldn’t find a body in my trunk when I came home from Lake Mead.
Ray Lucci was the impetus for all of this. What had he done that caused someone to kill him and stuff him in my trunk? That dead rat-Snowball-still nagged at me. I realized we were close now to Rosalie’s complex. I pointed it out, and Tim turned right. Fewer lights than before. I had a hard time distinguishing one area from another and got us lost a couple of times, Tim circling the parking lot.
“Someone’s going to call the cops thinking we’re casing the place,” Tim muttered.
Casing the place? I ignored him, not wanting to banter. I wasn’t in the mood.
Finally, I spotted Rosalie’s place. I recognized Bernie’s white rental car out front.
“How did you not see that the first two times we passed it?” Tim asked.
“We passed it two times?” I honestly hadn’t noticed.
He pulled up behind the white car and cut the engine. I peered out the windshield at the town house. No lights in any windows. Not even a glimmer or a glow.
“It’s not that late,” Tim mused.
I’d lost all track of time, and I could totally do with going to bed right now, so I wasn’t one to speculate on when Sylvia and Rosalie decided to retire.
We got out of the Jeep and went up the steps to the front door. I pushed the doorbell, and we could hear it echoing inside.
We waited.
And waited.
Finally, Tim pushed the doorbell again, and again we could hear it inside.
This time, however, we also heard footsteps. The curtain in the kitchen window next to the door fluttered, then the outside light went on over our heads. We heard the dead bolt unlatch, and the door opened. Rosalie’s head appeared around it.
“Brett?” she asked, her face scrunched up in a frown. “What are you doing here?” Her eyes moved from me to Tim, lingering on him for a second; then she added, “This must be your brother.”
No kidding. But I gave her the benefit of the doubt because she’d been asleep. Her hair was all mussed up, and she had little creases in the side of her face from the pillow.
“We’re looking for Sylvia,” I explained. “There’s been an accident. Jeff…” The words caught in my throat.
The door swung wide now, and Rosalie clutched her white bathrobe around her torso. “An accident?”
I nodded. “Jeff’s in the hospital.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“We need to see Sylvia,” Tim butted in. “She should be at the hospital when Jeff comes out of surgery. We’re going to take her there.”
Rosalie shook her head. “Sylvia’s not here. She and my dad had a big fight. I don’t know what it was all about, they wouldn’t tell me, but they left.”
Chapter 57
“Where did they go?”I asked.
Rosalie shrugged. “I figured they’d go back to Dad’s house. Or Sylvia’s, maybe.”
“Can we call your father?” Tim asked.
Rosalie stepped aside and let us come in. She led the way into the kitchen and to a phone on the counter. She picked up the receiver.
“Why is their rental car still here?” I asked while Rosalie dialed.
“They took my car,” she said. “Dad’s going to take it to the shop tomorrow morning for me. I need an oil change.” She put the phone back in its cradle. “No answer.”
“What about Sylvia?” I asked.
“You don’t have her number?” Rosalie asked.
I was embarrassed to admit that I didn’t. I’d never needed to reach her anywhere but at Murder Ink. Neither Sylvia nor Bernie had cell phones, which was why we couldn’t reach them right after I found Ray Lucci in my trunk.
Rosalie was already dialing. Tim and I waited. Finally, she hung up, frowning. “That’s funny. No answer there, either.”
I had a bad feeling about this. Where could they be? On a whim, I took the phone and dialed Murder Ink but got only the recording saying the shop was closed.
“Where could they be?” I asked no one in particular.
I thought about how they’d disappeared after their wedding. It wasn’t unusual for Sylvia to do things spur of the moment, but considering Rosalie, I wouldn’t think Sylvia would run off again and not tell anyone where she was going.
Maybe she and Bernie had stopped off for a late drink somewhere.
I said as much to Tim, who shrugged, agreeing with the possibility. But Rosalie didn’t look so convinced, the worry etched into her forehead.
“What happened with Jeff? You said it was an accident?” she asked.
“He was taking me home,” I said, “and a car ran us off the road. And then the guy shot at us.”
“Someone shot at you? Who?”
“I don’t know. Could’ve been Dan Franklin. Or Will Parker. Or Martin Sanderson. Take your pick.”
“What are you talking about? Will? Dan?” Rosalie’s worry turned into confusion. “What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” I said.
“How well do you know the men your husband worked with?” Tim asked, turning into cop mode.
Rosalie’s eyes settled on the wall behind Tim as she shrugged. “Well, I work with Dan, so I know him pretty well.”
