Cold Woods Page 21

  She searched her memory, concentrated hard on who would’ve taken the bat from her bedroom. Her mother was the most obvious person, but what would her mother have been doing in the woods? She shifted her weight in the seat. Her bladder was full. She’d had three beers since the last time she’d used the bathroom.

  She stared at the camera, knowing the detective and his partner were watching her. She continued to glare at it, hoping to make them as uncomfortable as she was. She stayed in the same position, looking at the camera mounted on the corner wall until her neck became stiff. Finally, Detective Reed opened the door.

  “Am I free to leave?” she asked and stood. “I really need to use the restroom.”

  “Sorry it took so long,” he said and looked a little embarrassed about it, but he didn’t offer an explanation. “The restrooms are right around the corner.” He followed her out, watched her until she’d disappeared inside the bathroom.

  When Trisha finished, she washed her hands, splashed cold water on her face. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Sid had given her two days. She couldn’t waste any more time.

  Detectives Reed and Brassard dropped Trisha off at her mother’s house.

  “Don’t leave town,” Detective Reed said and drove away.

  Trisha noticed Carlyn’s car was parked across the street in front of Evelyn’s place. Then Trisha turned toward her own house, headed up the porch steps, caught her mother peeking out from behind the curtains of the living room window. She was struggling to get up from the couch when Trisha stepped through the door. The house reeked of cigarettes and one of her mother’s frozen fish and chips dinners.

  “Is your hip giving you trouble tonight?” Trisha asked and shed her coat before slipping her hand underneath her mother’s arm to help her stand.

  “Never mind that,” her mother said. “I was getting worried. You weren’t coming home, and you weren’t coming home.” She wasn’t steady on her feet. She leaned on Trisha.

  “How much did you have to drink?” she asked.

  “Not enough,” her mother said. “What happened? What did they say? Why were you gone so long?”

  “Why indeed,” Trisha said as they made their way to the kitchen. Her mother sat at the table. Trisha got them each a beer. She took several long swallows, scratching the itch.

  “Well?” her mother asked.

  “I don’t know anything, Mom.” She’d made a mistake by telling the detective too much. She shouldn’t have told him she hadn’t done it. He’d believed her, or she thought he had. Now he would look at someone else—her mother, her friends—anyone she’d had contact with. It didn’t sit right with her. She had a bad feeling.

  “I’ll be back,” she said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Evelyn’s.”

  Trisha crossed the street, walked around the snow piles, wishing she hadn’t forgotten her winter coat back at her mother’s. Two minutes in the harsh cold air was enough to make her shiver. The sun had set hours ago. The neighbors’ Christmas lights were turned on, giving the sidewalk a soft glow. She wasn’t two steps on Evelyn’s porch when the front door opened and Carlyn stepped out.

  “Hey,” Carlyn said. “Were you looking for Dannie? She already left. We’re just about done here. She’s going to pick up the last few boxes tomorrow.”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “Oh?” Carlyn touched her neck where the skin peeked through the thin scarf that was meant to keep her warm. Her coat was open; the ends flapped in the breeze, revealing a white oxford shirt underneath. There was something sensual about her, vulnerable. It was then Trisha remembered laying the softball bat on the floor in Carlyn’s bedroom all those years ago. The next day, Lester had found Trisha in the woods.

  “What did you do?” Trisha asked.

  “Do you want to talk inside?” Carlyn asked and opened Evelyn’s front door.

  Trisha followed her in. She hugged herself against the cold. The heat had been turned down low. No one was living here, so it made sense. The living room had been emptied out. The dining room and kitchen tables and chairs had been donated. They had nowhere to sit.

  “Who told you?” Carlyn asked. “Was it your mom?”

  Trisha shook her head. My mother knows?

  “I would’ve told you myself, but I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know how.” Carlyn crossed her arms. “But what you heard is true. I looked for you right after graduation. I flew to Chicago and got on a bus. I spoke to your dad in prison.”

  She was taken aback, confused. “You went to see my dad?”

  “Well, yeah. Our moms knew. Dannie knew. They all knew I went looking for you. Dannie even gave me money to pay for the bus trip, and you know how little money she had back then. I wanted to tell you I was sorry for the way I acted. I wanted to bring you home.”

  Trisha struggled with the magnitude of what Carlyn was saying. “Wait. Back up. You talked with Frank? Frank Ciccerone? My dad?”

  “Yes,” Carlyn said.

  “In prison?” she asked.

  “Yes. But he wouldn’t tell me where you were—just that you’d been to see him, and he’d set you up with someone he knew on the outside. Did he? Did you work on the street?”

  “Yes,” Trisha said. “I mean no—not in the way you’re thinking.”

  “I’m glad,” Carlyn said.

  “You came after me? You wanted to bring me home? Dannie too?”

  “Why is that so hard for you to believe?” Carlyn asked. “We were best friends.”

  This wasn’t what Trisha had meant when she’d asked Carlyn what she’d done. But Carlyn confessing she’d looked for Trisha after graduation had knocked her down harder than any fist could. She tried to swallow this new information, digest it, only to have it come back up as something singular, unfathomable, extraordinary.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Parker and Geena made a return trip to Cal’s store after dropping off Trisha at her mother’s house. Now that they weren’t sure of Trisha’s guilt, they figured they’d better follow up on their other lead. They asked Cal about his relationship with Sharon.

  “We were friends,” Cal said. “Nothing more.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this to us before?” Geena asked.

  “I didn’t think it was relevant.” Cal looked at Parker while he talked, even though it had been Geena who had asked him the question. “Besides,” Cal said, “I was on the road during that time. I had a couple sales appointments in New Jersey. I keep records of everything. I didn’t know where you were going with all your questions the other day, so I had Eric dig everything out.” He nodded to Eric. “Why don’t you show them?” he said.

  Eric disappeared into the back office. He returned a minute later, handed Parker an open ledger with a hotel receipt. Parker glanced at it, passed it to Geena. It was an expense report from 1986 confirming Cal had been in Edison, New Jersey, during the week of December 4.

  “We’ll be back if we have any more questions,” Geena said and turned to go.

  Parker followed her out. They got into the car. Parker drove, headed back to the station.

  “Do you believe him?” Geena asked of Cal.

  “Actually I do,” Parker said.

  Parker stood in front of the only whiteboard in the small conference room at the station. A picture of Lester that was taken from the missing person file was taped to it. Sharon’s and Trisha’s names were written underneath the photo.

  Geena came to stand next to him. “What are your thoughts?”

  “Why did Sharon wait to report him missing?”

  “Because she killed him, thought it through afterward, and decided it would look suspicious if she didn’t at least report it.”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  Geena continued. “She could’ve buried him, thinking he’d never be found, so might as well report it before anyone started asking questions about where he was. It makes her look like the concerned wife.”

  “Sound
s plausible,” Parker said.

  “Maybe she had to wait until the snow melted before she could bury him, and only then she decided to report him missing,” Geena said.

  “If all that’s true, then how do we put her in the woods with him? It made more sense that Trisha was the one in the woods. It was her bat, and he was found where she was known to hang out with her friends. But I’m not convinced she did it, not after talking with her today. No one is that good of a liar.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Geena said. “We could ask her to take a polygraph.”

  “We could,” Parker said, but he suspected if anyone could beat it, Trisha could. “What about Carlyn?” he asked. “She lied about the bat. Why don’t we see what else she’s lying about?”

  “Why don’t we bring all of them in—Sharon, Trisha, Carlyn, and even Danielle, since we didn’t have an opportunity to talk with her yet—and do this old school?” Geena said.

  “You mean play them against each other?”

  “Exactly. See who flinches.”

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s worth a shot.”

  Parker and Geena mapped out a plan on how they were going to proceed with interviewing the four women. It was late by the time they’d finished. Geena had gone home, mentioning something about letting her old bulldog, Rufus, out while Parker caught up on paperwork. When he finished, he watched the video of Trisha’s interview one more time, checked his phone repeatedly. He was distracted by the silence around him, minus the occasional phone going off, the night shift coming in, the bits and pieces of conversation about kids, sports, weather.

  It was after midnight by the time he pulled into his driveway, cut the lights, sat in total darkness. He tried to imagine what it would be like to have Becca inside the cabin waiting for him to come home. He didn’t expect her to cook dinner for him or fold his laundry or do any of the other domestic chores that always seemed to fall on the woman. He’d been living alone long enough to do those things for himself. But the thought of finding her curled up on the sofa with a book, watching television, Romy, her German shepherd, greeting him at the door, tail wagging, gave him a warm feeling. Or perhaps she’d be in bed, sleeping, tired after a long day at the clinic. Parker liked the idea of slipping under the covers, wrapping his body around hers, holding her close . . . among other things.

  He got out of the car. The air was cold, the river quiet. His house was dark. It would be nice to come home to a light on, at the very least. He fished in his pockets for his keys, nearly slipped on the ice on the pavers that led to his front door, said a few choice words.

  Inside, he heated a bowl of leftover beef stew, his mother’s recipe. She was always emailing him new recipes from the Food Network Magazine. But he preferred her old recipes, the ones written in her sloppy handwriting, the pages stained from her greasy fingers, drippings from butter and oil. While he waited for the stew to warm, he pulled out his phone and typed a message to Becca. He wasn’t sure when he’d get the chance to apologize to her face-to-face. He decided sending a text was better than nothing.

  I’m sorry about the other night. He hit send as the microwave dinged. He ate at the table, his stomach growling from having skipped dinner. He kept his phone next to his plate, waiting, hoping she’d text him back. After cleaning up the dishes, wiping down the counter, he picked up his phone again. His text to her was marked as having been read, but she’d never replied.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  JUNE 1987

  Trisha had never seen anything like Las Vegas before. The second her foot stepped off the bus, hit the hot pavement, she was breathless, nearly giddy with anticipation. She walked through every casino on the Strip, one after the other, taking in the flashing lights, mural-covered walls, obnoxious chandeliers, red and gold chintz. Gaudiness abounded. The buildings, slot machines and tables, the people—everything seemed supersize, larger than life. Even the seedier side—middle-aged men in business suits leering at young girls, so young they were considered jailbait, showing so much skin to the point of being indecent—made her smile. This she understood. Cheap perfume and smoke filled her nose. And the noise! Buzzers and bells amid chatter and laughter. Her senses were under attack, assaulted by the sights, the sounds, the smells.

  Trisha fell head over heels, swept off her feet in love. Vegas was a place where things happened, big things, so colossal she could taste it, the very air she breathed vibrating with it. It was nothing like Second Street in Pennsylvania. She had a feeling her luck was about to change.

  But first she had to look the part. Her clothes were a mess, wrinkled and tattered, her hair in knots. Chicago had been a good idea. Seeing her father had been an even better one.

  She slipped into the public bathroom in one of the casinos, wet her hair, ran her fingers through the strands, drying them under the hand dryer. Next, she ducked into the nearest clothing store. The best she could afford was the clearance rack. She found an emerald dress made of a silky fabric, spaghetti straps, size extra small. She headed to the fitting room. The lush green complemented her pale skin, her dark hair and eyes. She turned herself around, checked how she looked from every angle. The salesclerk knocked, poked his head inside the small room.

  “That looks like it was tailor made for you, honey,” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed; it did. But it cost all the money she had left in the world after the plane ticket, the long bus ride from Chicago, her visit to her father. He’d told her that he knew a man in Vegas, that he owed this man, and she needed to find him. “You do this for me, and I promise you’ll be rewarded, but you’re going to have to get the reward yourself. And you’re going to have to be sneaky about it. Only take a little money at a time.” He’d given her a description of what this man looked like. “His eyes are blue,” her father had said. “Like ice.” When she’d asked what she was supposed to say to this man, assuming she’d even find him, he’d said, “Tell him I sent you.” She’d left the prison determined to do what her father had asked. And why not? She had nothing to lose, nowhere else to go, no one left to turn to.

  She looked at the sales guy. “I’ll take it,” she said about the dress.

  “What about shoes?” he asked. “We have the perfect sandal for it: nude, a nice heel to lengthen those legs.”

  “I’m not sure.” She made a show out of looking at the price tag on the dress, letting him know she couldn’t afford it. Heat burned her chest, warmed the skin on her neck.

  “We take credit cards,” he said.

  She looked at the floor, furrowed her brow. She hadn’t thought to steal her mother’s credit card, but it wouldn’t have worked out anyway. She was pretty sure the credit card would leave a paper trail, and she didn’t want to be found—not that her mother or her friends cared enough to try.

  “I’ll put them aside,” the clerk said about the sandals. “Give you some time to think about it.”

  She paid for the dress in cash, walked out wearing it, her old clothes in the bag. Once the salesclerk could no longer see her, she slipped her tennis sneakers off, tossed them into the bag too. She was going to have to do this barefoot, whatever “this” was. She lifted her chin.

  Trisha wandered around the casino and soon learned the slot machines were for the low-budget crowd, and some of the poker tables were too. She was looking for the high rollers, the VIP rooms, where the real money was thrown around. As long as no one looked down at her feet, she was certain she could pull off pretending to be with the upper echelon, the rich crowd. It was all about attitude and appearance. Walk confidently, eyes alert, flirtatious. Several men had approached her in the last two hours looking for an hour of her time. She’d convinced herself it wouldn’t come to that.

  She circled what she believed was a high-end roulette table. One man in particular had quite a few chips stacked in front of him. She squeezed her way in between two blondes who weren’t much older than she was to get a better look. The girls reeked of insecurity and desperation. They were trying too hard,
with their teased hair and low-cut, flamboyant dresses.

  Trisha’s dark locks were straight, sleek, and a little greasy from traveling, but her slinky, understated dress separated her from the pack. She turned it into a positive thing, but she lost all her tact when the word wow slipped from her mouth as she gawked at the stacks of towering chips, tried to calculate their worth in her head.

  The man with the money glanced in her direction. He was older, pushing forty, if the gray hair at his temples and the small lines by his eyes were any indication. He fit the description of the man her father had given her. She was feeling lucky.

  “How much are you up?” she asked him.

  He looked her over. “I’m down sixty thousand today. But I’m up seven hundred thousand for the week.”

  She nodded, tried hard not to be impressed, as if chatting with rich older men was an everyday occurrence in her sad little life.

  He tossed her a chip. She snatched it out of the air, turned it over in her palm. Twenty thousand dollars. She sensed the two blondes closing in on her, threatened by her presence. Trisha might be young, but she wasn’t stupid. She was being tested by this man. If she said the wrong thing, the blondes would swoop in, push her out. But if she guessed right, she’d claim the prize. Play it cool and act like this happened to her all the time.

  She gazed at the man at the table. Was he the one she was looking for? “No, thanks,” she said and put the chip down. Her stomach dropped when she turned to walk away, imagining what she could buy with that kind of money.

  He reached out, touched her arm. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  She turned back around.

  “Stay.” He said the one word that was enough to keep her forever. Someone wanted her around. She’d forgotten what that had felt like.