Bad Memory Read online

  “Look, lady, you want mounting, balancing, reconditioning, repair, replacement, inspection, or upgrades, I’m your guy. But I must’ve missed the day we got the CSI training.”

  “You can’t tell my anything at all?” Jessica pointed to the large sign screwed to the wall behind the guy. It was illustrated with a smiley-faced tire wearing a big gold crown. “I thought you were supposed to be the ‘King of Tires’?”

  “My boss, Mr. Slater, is the ‘King of Tires.’ He’s on vacation, so I guess you’ll have to make do with me.”

  “And who are you? The Joker?”

  Jerry shrugged, and she moved to collect the images from where they were spread out on the counter.

  “Hang on, not so fast,” he said with a sigh. “Let me have another look at those. I’m no Columbo, so I can’t give you a definite answer on the exact make or model or anything, but I should be able to tell you the tire manufacturer and possibly narrow down the car manufacturer from there.” He scooped up the photos and studied them one by one. Held them up close to his face. Frowned again. “Nah, I don’t recognize these treads at all. Certainly not a match for any of the manufacturers we stock in here. When were these photos taken?”

  “Summer of 1987.”

  He smiled. “Ah, that explains it. Tread patterns change over time, so a manufacturer’s style thirty-some years ago would likely be totally different now. If Mr. Slater was around, he might recognize these treads, but it’d still be a long shot. What I can say is, from the width of the tracks, I don’t think we’re talking about off-road or truck tires, so my best guess is they were made by a regular vehicle. Maybe a sports coupe.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Jessica tried not to show her disappointment.

  “One other thing. You have two long treads made by the front and rear wheels on each side of the vehicle.” Jerry swung one of the photos around so Jessica could see it and pointed to one of the treads. “But see how the right tread differs from the left?”

  Jessica peered at the image. He was right; there was a slight difference in the pattern that she hadn’t noticed before.

  “One of the wheels on the right side had a spare installed,” Jerry explained. “Often, the spares folks keep in their trunks are different than the factory wheels.”

  It was true. Jessica’s own spare was a cheaper alternative to the Silverado’s original tires.

  Jerry went on. “A spare is a temporary fix, so this was installed not long before these photos were taken, before the driver had the chance to have the spare replaced at a garage.”

  “I don’t suppose you keep records of tire installations carried out on-site at your garage out back?”

  “Sure, we do, but not from 1987. We only keep customer files for ten years; then they’re shredded.”

  “Okay, thanks for your help.”

  Jessica picked up the photos and headed for the exit. The information Jerry had given her might be nothing, or it might be something. Her gut told her it could be helpful down the line, and she felt a prickle of excitement at the thought of making progress in the investigation no matter how small.

  “Hey,” Jerry called after her. “I could offer you a good deal on some new tires for the Silverado, if you’d like?”

  “Maybe some other time.”

  Jessica figured she might just take him up on the offer when the time came to get the hell out of Hundred Acres.

  Back in the truck, Jessica returned the crime scene photos to the murder book lying on the passenger seat, then drove the short distance to the agency.

  She parked, grabbed her bag, and slid the folder under her arm. Smoked a cigarette and then pushed open the front door. She was pleased to see Ed behind his desk and was looking forward to filling him in on the Hunter case and what she’d found out so far. Before she had the chance to speak, Jessica heard the muted sound of a john flushing, and then the door to the small bathroom opened. Sheriff Pat McDonagh emerged, zipping up his fly. Dylan’s father frowned as his eyes went to the file under Jessica’s arm. She quickly slipped it into her shoulder bag.

  “Hello, Pat,” she said. “Didn’t notice your cruiser outside.”

  “Parked outside the diner. Thought I’d treat myself to some lunch courtesy of my boy and then take a stroll along here and have a chat with his girl.” McDonagh inclined his head toward Crozier. “We were just talking about you, in fact.”

  Jessica glanced at her boss.

  “I take it the sheriff filled you in on our latest case?”

  Ed nodded but said nothing. He was usually as bright and loud as the garish Hawaiian shirts he always wore, but he seemed subdued right now. His demeanor was completely at odds with the pineapple-and-palm-tree print that was today’s sartorial choice.

  Jessica flopped into the chair at her desk and turned her attention back to McDonagh. Dylan had clearly inherited his blue eyes and red hair from his father, albeit Pat’s hair and mustache were both now sprinkled generously with gray. He was a few inches shorter than Dylan and thicker around the middle. Sweat rings stained the underarms of his silver-tan uniform shirt.

  She said, “If you’re here to try to convince me to drop the investigation, you’re wasting your breath. I already accepted payment from Rose Dalton to take on the job, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “Who’s Rose Dalton?” McDonagh asked.

  “Rue Hunter’s sister. Dalton is her married name.”

  McDonagh shook his head and sighed. “And what exactly does the job involve, Jessica? Folks are already upset by those reporters hanging around during the weekend. You really think it’s a good idea to go upsetting people further?”

  Jessica shrugged.

  “I don’t get it,” he went on. “I thought you were happy here? Enjoyed being part of the Hundred Acres community? You’re well liked in town, Jessica. Why jeopardize it?”

  She was genuinely baffled as to where McDonagh had gotten the crazy idea she was happy in Hundred Acres. Her stay in town was always going to be temporary, but she figured it was information best not shared with her almost-boyfriend’s dad.

  “I don’t want to upset anyone, okay?” she said. “It’s a job is all. The agency could do with the money, so I agreed to take on the investigation. I know you were involved with the original case, but it’s really nothing personal. Rose Dalton just wants a clearer understanding of what happened the night Lucas and Megan died.”

  “I was more than just involved,” McDonagh said. “I was the one who found those kids’ bodies at Devil’s Drop. Kids I knew. And what I saw up there is something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life. I can assure you, Holten and I both investigated those murders by the book. You can dig all you want, Jessica, but you won’t find anything. Rue Hunter is guilty. End of story.”

  Jessica was desperate to challenge McDonagh on the tire tracks. Ask him why the cops had decided “no further action” was needed in tracking down a car driven by a possible key witness. But she couldn’t ask the question without revealing she’d seen the murder book and landing Pryce in trouble.

  She said, “If I’m wasting my time, then I guess it’s my time to waste.”

  “I really can’t convince you to drop all this nonsense?”

  “Sorry, Pat, but no. You can’t.”

  “In that case, I have work to be getting on with.” McDonagh picked up his sheriff’s hat from where he’d dropped it on Crozier’s desk, fixed it tight on his head, and strolled toward the door. Tossed them a wave. “I guess I’ll see you both around.”

  Jessica waited until the door had closed fully behind McDonagh, then turned to face Crozier.

  “I had hoped to speak to you about the case myself. I guess Pat beat me to it.”

  “You sure this is a good idea, Jessica? Maybe Pat has a point about upsetting people.”

  “Oh jeez, Ed. Not you too? Since when did you develop a conscience?”

  “That’s a bit harsh.”

  “Is it? How long have you been doi
ng this job? Forty years? More? And how many divorces have you been responsible for in that time? How many folks getting fired?”

  “None,” he said. “If someone’s marriage ended or they lost their job, it was the result of their own actions. Not mine. All I do is provide information to people willing to pay for it. I don’t make folks do the stuff they do.”

  “Exactly. That’s all I’m doing for Rose Dalton. Providing information.”

  “I get what you’re saying, Jessica. I really do. It’s just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  “Steve and Heather James left Hundred Acres a long time ago. I’m not sure if they’re even still living. But Patty Meeks is still in town, and rooting around in the past is going to be painful for her. I just think the woman has been through enough.”

  “I already spoke to Patty Meeks. Sure, she’s none too pleased about my investigation, but I think she understands why I’m doing it.”

  Crozier’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “You spoke to Patty? When? What did she say?”

  “Yesterday, at her home. She told me what she remembered about the night Megan died.” Jessica held Crozier’s gaze. “And she also said you never cared too much about upsetting folks in the past if it meant getting the job done.”

  “Patty really said that?”

  Hurt was etched across Crozier’s face. It was a brief moment of vulnerability Jessica had never seen before from her boss. Usually his eyes sparkled with mischief; his chubby, weather-beaten face was pink with laughter. Now, he looked sad and serious.

  “What did she mean, Ed? Was she an old client of yours?”

  “No, Patty was never a client.” He offered Jessica a smile that looked forced. “Okay, this case, what have you found out so far?”

  Jessica told Crozier about seeing the murder book, how Holten and McDonagh had apparently decided against following up on the car that had left behind the tire treads, how the crime scene photos showed Lucas James wearing different clothes than the ones described by Rue Hunter during the prison visit.

  “Good work getting a look at the police file,” Crozier said. “I’m impressed. The tire treads are interesting, although it’s possible Holten and McDonagh discovered they’d been left behind on a different night. Maybe that’s why no further action was needed? Worth trying to find out who the driver was, though. As for the clothing being different, are there any statements from Rue Hunter in the murder book where she describes Lucas wearing a black-and-white plaid shirt or blue jeans?”

  Jessica quickly skimmed the statements provided by Rue, as well as the signed confession. There were no mentions of the clothing worn by Lucas James at the time of his murder.

  “No, nothing at all.”

  “Okay, just be careful where Rue Hunter is concerned. Keep digging, but don’t trust everything she tells you.”

  It was good advice. Jessica was about to ask Crozier about his own recollections of the Devil’s Drop murders when her cell phone buzzed. The caller ID showed Jed Lockerman’s name. She swiped to answer.

  “Hey, Jed. How’s it goin’?”

  “Not too bad, thanks. Was wondering if you could stop by the store when you have the chance?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Coupla things. Bottle of Talisker here with your name on it. A thank-you for sorting out the Michelle Foster business. Still can’t believe she was stealing from me. I’ve known that gal since she was a baby.”

  “No problem. What else?”

  There was heavy breathing on the line all of a sudden, as though Lockerman was holding the phone too close to his mouth. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

  “I hear you’re looking into that business from ’87? That right?”

  “Word sure travels fast around here.”

  There was a pause, and Jessica could hear background chatter from customers in the store. More heavy breathing. Then, almost in a whisper, Lockerman said, “I saw something that night, Jessica. Something I ain’t never told anyone else. Now I’m thinking maybe I ought to be telling you what I saw.”

  Jessica felt that familiar tingle of knowing she could be close to making a breakthrough in a case. She took a steadying breath, tried to keep the excitement from her voice. She didn’t want to spook Lockerman.

  “You’re right, Jed,” she said. “You should tell me. Don’t speak to anyone else. I’m on my way.”

  20

  PRYCE

  Holten’s widow had remarried in the late nineties, a year or so after her husband’s murder. She’d been Maggie Barclay ever since and had moved out to Studio City shortly after the wedding.

  She lived in a small Spanish-style hacienda house on a tree-lined street called Sunshine Terrace, where residents actually had white picket fences surrounding their manicured lawns and well-tended properties. Maggie’s home was no exception. Pryce had visited a few times in the past, and he wondered now, as he had done on those previous visits, if her Hallmark Channel lifestyle post-Holten was a deliberate antidote to the years spent as a cop’s wife. If the house had been determinedly built on happiness to replace the anxiety and sorrow of her previous life.

  Two lawn chairs sat empty under the shade of a giant oak tree in the front yard. Pryce had met Maggie’s second husband, an accountant by the name of Harry Barclay, once or twice. He was ten years younger than Maggie and, as far as Pryce knew, still took on private jobs. His car wasn’t in the drive, so Pryce assumed Harry was out meeting with a client, which was probably for the best, given what the topic of conversation would be.

  Pryce and Medina both got out of the Dodge Charger and made their way up the gravel driveway to the front door. Pryce and Maggie still swapped cards every Christmas, but several holiday seasons had passed since the last time they’d seen each other. Even so, there was no surprise on her face when she opened the door to find him on her doorstep.

  “Jason.” She smiled warmly. “How lovely to see you.”

  “Good to see you too, Maggie.”

  She was smaller than he remembered, and she looked older too. He guessed she must be in her late seventies now. Her gray hair was cut short, and she wore a pink T-shirt with a crochet neckline, navy slacks, and cream loafers. She glanced at Medina, a question in her eyes, although the smile remained firmly in place.

  “This is my partner, Vic Medina,” Pryce said.

  Maggie nodded. “I see. Official business. You’d better come in.”

  They followed her into a brightly decorated living room. Two ivory leather sofas were positioned on either side of a light-wood coffee table and were adorned with cheerful cushions and throws in paint box colors. Large vibrant sunflowers filled a crystal vase on the sill of the picture window. An afternoon talk show blared loudly from a flat-screen television in the corner. Maggie picked up a remote control from the coffee table and muted the volume. Pryce and Medina sat at either end of one of the couches.

  “I was just about to put some coffee on,” she said. “Still plain black for you, Jason?”

  “Sure is. Thanks, Maggie.”

  “Detective Medina?”

  “Please, call me Vic. Two sugars and plenty of cream for me, thanks.”

  She retreated to the kitchen, and they could hear cupboard doors and drawers opening and shutting, the clink of cutlery and crockery, the gurgle of the coffee machine. A rich aroma drifted through to the living room.

  As he waited for Maggie to return, Pryce gazed around the room. A dozen photo frames topped a sideboard in the same light-wood finish as the coffee table. In one frame was a picture of a much-younger Maggie and Holten at a barbecue. He was laughing and brandishing metal tongs at the camera, while she smiled shyly from behind a wineglass. Pryce felt a jolt of grief hit him all of a sudden. Grief for himself and for Maggie.

  She reappeared just then, carrying a tray with three steaming mugs and a plateful of cookies, which she carefully placed on the coffee table. She handed them a mug each and invited them to help themsel
ves to the cookies, an offer Pryce declined and Medina accepted. Then she sat on the couch facing them, took a sip of her own coffee, and placed it on the table.

  “Is this about Charlie?” she asked. “Did DaMarcus Jones finally confess to killing my husband?”

  “We are here about Charlie,” Pryce said. “But I’m afraid I still can’t provide you with the closure I know you want, Maggie. The closure we both want. Vic and I visited Jones in prison earlier today. He still says he had no involvement in Charlie’s shooting.”

  Maggie nodded. “He’s still sticking to the same story, huh? After all this time?”

  “The thing is, Maggie, I think he’s telling the truth.”

  Again, if she was surprised, she didn’t show it.

  “You’re a smart man and a good cop, Jason. If you no longer believe DaMarcus Jones was responsible for my husband’s death, you must have a good reason for changing your mind. Tell me.”

  He told her about Jones finding religion and helping younger prisoners. About his guilt over Angel Henderson’s death and the punishment he’d handed out to the man who killed her. How his fellow gangbangers had followed Holten the night he was murdered on Jones’s instruction and had witnessed a meeting between Charlie and a mysterious truck driver late at night in Echo Park.

  And Pryce told Maggie how he had come to the conclusion that Holten must have known his killer.

  She listened to his story without interruption. By the time he was done, silent tears stained her cheeks.

  “You really don’t think Charlie’s murder had anything to do with what happened to Angel Henderson?” she asked.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so.”

  Maggie wiped at the tears, then reached for the coffee, took a sip, and cradled the mug in her hands.

  She said, “You know, I used to get so angry when he’d go out looking for that girl. I’d be on my own, lonely, desperate to feel my husband’s arms wrapped around me in our bed, needing to know he was safe at home with me so I could sleep soundly. Instead, he’d be out all night, fraternizing with goodness knows who, cruising the streets searching for a stranger, while his wife was home alone.