Bad Memory Page 16

  “Who’s being interviewed?”

  “Bruce Lucchese and his kid. Says he has information about the Hunter case.”

  “Seriously? What could Lucchese possibly know about the murders?”

  “Exactly,” said Holten. “My guess is he’s fishing for information. Probably wants to figure out how much damage the bad publicity might do to his big casino project.”

  “Yeah, I guess it could be a problem for the development.”

  Holten thought McDonagh seemed worried, and he had a pretty good idea why but didn’t say anything. Now wasn’t the time.

  “Okay, let’s get this over and done with.”

  The Luccheses were sitting side by side on one side of the table, and Holten and McDonagh slipped into the two vacant seats facing them. Holten appraised father and son.

  Bruce was dressed casually in tan chinos and a navy Ralph Lauren polo shirt and deck shoes. He looked like he planned to spend the afternoon on a yacht as soon as the police interview was over. He was in his midforties and very tan and muscular. The type who spent a lot of time outdoors playing tennis or running. He reminded Holten a lot of Dr. Ted Blume—smooth and charming and manipulative. Like Blume, Holten had disliked Bruce Lucchese on sight the first time he’d met him.

  Tom Lucchese was basically a younger version of his father. The same muscular build, the same dark wavy hair, and rich good looks. He was dressed in denim cutoffs and expensive sneakers and a Harvard tee, even though Holten was pretty sure the kid never went to college, never mind an Ivy League one. He’d had fewer dealings with Tom than he’d had with Bruce, but Holten wasn’t keen on the kid either. From what he’d seen, Tom Lucchese seemed to spend most of his time tearing around town in his Toyota Supra acting like an asshole.

  Father and son both usually wore their arrogance like expensive Armani suits, but not today. Bruce was tapping his fingers nervously on the table, while Tom sat slumped in his chair with his eyes fixed on the floor, like he didn’t want to make eye contact with the two cops.

  Maybe the interview would be more interesting than Holten had first anticipated.

  He said, “Bruce, we believe you want to speak to us about the incident at Devil’s Drop. Is this correct?”

  “That’s correct. We have some, uh, information.”

  “Okay. Just to make you aware, we are going to record this interview. Would you like to call your lawyer? You’re entitled to have a legal representative present before answering any questions.”

  Bruce stopped tapping his fingers on the table and held up his hands.

  “God, no,” he said. “No recordings and no lawyers. What we’ve got to say stays between us four. It doesn’t go outside of this room.”

  Holten shot McDonagh a look, but his deputy just shrugged.

  “That’s not how it works, Bruce,” Holten explained. “If you have information relating to the murders, we really ought to be carrying out a formal interview.”

  Bruce shook his head. “No way. You do it my way or we leave.”

  McDonagh said, “Why don’t we hear what they have to say off the record? Then we can decide if they should make a formal statement.”

  Holten sighed. “Okay, shoot.”

  Bruce looked at his son. “Tom?”

  Tom shook his head. “You tell them,” he mumbled.

  “Tom, uh, gave the Hunter girl a ride to Devil’s Drop the night of the murders.” Bruce held up his hands imploringly. “Hear me out. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  “Shit,” McDonagh said.

  “It sounds pretty bad from where I’m sitting,” Holten said.

  A rich, older kid like Tom Lucchese was the last person he’d expected to be Rue Hunter’s mysterious ride, and he was even more surprised that Bruce was offering up this information about his son.

  But any relief Holten might have felt at having the missing piece of the puzzle was tempered with wariness. Bruce Lucchese didn’t do anything unless it benefited himself. Holten thought of the confession he’d been reading just moments earlier. He had a feeling his investigation had just gotten more complicated.

  “Tom didn’t see anything,” Bruce said quickly. “He wasn’t involved in what happened to those kids. He was only trying to help the Hunter girl.”

  “Tom?” Holten said. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

  The younger man nodded and sat up straighter in the chair. His hands, which were clasped together in his lap, were trembling. Finally, he looked at Holten.

  “I was out cruising around town in the car,” he said. “You know, just seeing who was out and about. Thinking of heading to a party or two. I drove past Cooper’s, and I noticed the girl standing outside.”

  “Rue Hunter?” Holten asked.

  “Yeah, I guess so. I’d never met her before. She looked totally wasted, so I pulled over and asked if she was okay. She was upset because she was supposed to be hooking up with her friends and didn’t have a ride. She asked me if I’d take her to Devil’s Drop, where she was meeting them. I thought maybe some sort of secret party was happening up there, so I said yes.”

  “Then what happened?”

  Tom glanced at Bruce, who gave his son a small nod of encouragement.

  His gaze drifted to the floor again. “Nothing happened. When we got there, there was no one else around. Definitely no sign of a party, so I dropped her off, and I left. I know I shouldn’t have left her on her own up there in the middle of nowhere, after dark, but she told me she’d be fine. She was expecting her friends any minute, and, like I said, I didn’t even know her.”

  “Where did you go after dropping her off?”

  “I went home.”

  Bruce nodded. “That’s true.” He drummed his fingers on the table again. “Tom was back at the house pretty early.”

  Holten said, “I thought you were out cruising for parties? Looking for fun on a holiday weekend? So why go home so early?”

  “I guess I changed my mind.”

  Holten looked at Tom and his trembling hands. Then he looked at Bruce with his nervously tapping fingers. He had the feeling neither of them was giving him the full story.

  “Why are you here? Why are you telling us all this, Bruce?”

  “It’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?”

  “It would be the right thing to do if your son was here to make a formal statement about his involvement in the events that led to the deaths of two teenagers. But that’s not the case.”

  Bruce said, “I know you have your fancy crime scene guys these days who could probably place Tom’s car at Devil’s Drop. And maybe someone saw the Hunter girl in the car. It’s a nice ride, after all. Eye catching. Expensive. I should know; I paid for it. But we’ve told you what happened. Tom wasn’t involved. He wasn’t even a witness. So why drag him into all of this mess? The Hunter girl confessed, didn’t she?”

  “She did,” Holten agreed. “She also said someone gave her a ride out to Devil’s Drop.”

  “Did she say who?” Bruce asked.

  “No, she doesn’t remember.”

  Bruce slapped his palm on the table. “There you go! If my boy had anything to do with those murders, she would have remembered, wouldn’t she?”

  “That makes no sense, Bruce,” Holten said.

  Bruce ignored him. He went on. “In any case, his prints would be on the knife. They’d be all over the car those kids were found in. Run some tests, or whatever it is you do, and you’ll see my son wasn’t there when the murders took place.”

  Holten said, “Look at it from my point of view. I have a suspect who claims she was with someone the night of the murders. I have crime scene photos of unidentified tire treads at Devil’s Drop. I can’t just make them go away.”

  “Sure, you can,” Bruce said. “Cops make stuff go away all the time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Bruce looked pointedly at McDonagh.

  Holten turned to his deputy. “What’s he talking about, Pa
t?”

  McDonagh squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. “The kid was driving a little too fast one night. I, uh, decided to let it go.”

  Holten sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Shit.” He turned back to Bruce. “Making a speeding violation disappear is very different from covering up evidence in a murder investigation.”

  “Okay, cards on the table time.” Bruce adopted the no-nonsense persona of a businessman trying to close a difficult deal. “How much is it going to cost to make this mess go away?”

  “What?” Holten was incredulous. “You’re seriously trying to bribe a police officer?”

  “Look, Sheriff Holten, I’ve already got two investors talking about pulling out of the casino project on the back of the murders. If the Lucchese name becomes linked in any way to this shit storm, it could shut down the development completely.”

  “I won’t compromise a murder investigation because of some damn casino.” Holten eyeballed Bruce angrily. “And I won’t be bought either.”

  Bruce stared back at Holten. McDonagh shifted uncomfortably in his chair again.

  “This isn’t just about me or Tom or a casino,” Bruce said. “This is about the whole goddamn town. Take a look around you, Sheriff. Businesses are shuttered, homes are in foreclosure, the town is dying. There is nothing here for our kids. No future. Lucky by Lucchese could change all that. The casino and hotel complex means jobs, prospects, money, security, tourism. Can’t you see that?”

  “He’s right, Charlie,” McDonagh said quietly. “The Hunter girl has confessed. She hasn’t implicated Bruce’s son in any way. Why let what she did ruin any more lives?”

  “Are you serious, Pat? You’re really suggesting we cover up crucial evidence in a murder investigation?”

  “There is no investigation,” McDonagh said. “Not anymore. We have the killer in custody. She will go to jail, and, God willing, Patty Meeks and Heather and Steve James might be able to rebuild their lives one day. It’s over. Why not let it go?”

  Holten had heard rumors McDonagh was gunning for the chief of security gig at the casino, and now he was beginning to think they were more than just rumors.

  “Why do you care so much if the casino goes ahead or not?” he asked his deputy.

  “Bruce is right,” McDonagh said. “Hundred Acres is on its knees. But it doesn’t have to be, not once the casino is open for business. I’m just thinking of my family, my boy, his future. You’d be on the same page as the rest of us if you had kids of your own, Charlie.”

  It was a low blow, and McDonagh looked as though he wished he could have shoved the words back into his mouth as soon as he’d spoken them.

  Holten just nodded. He felt bone tired all of a sudden. Tired of the town, the people, the job. Hundred Acres had been a mistake. He’d known it for a long time now, and Holten simply no longer had the strength to fight anymore. He scraped back his chair, headed toward the door, and opened it. Then he turned and looked at McDonagh.

  “Do what the hell you want, Pat,” he said. “But when the shit hits the fan, it’s all on you. Just you remember that. I’m done here.”

  Holten closed the door before McDonagh could respond. He meant what he’d said. He was done here. And he was done with Hundred Acres. Leaving Los Angeles for small-town life was supposed to have been the start of the next chapter in his life. One with kids, a growing family. Now, every single day he spent here was like a punch to the gut. A reminder that that dream wasn’t going to happen. He decided he would talk it over with Maggie when he got home; then he would put in for a transfer back to the LAPD and take the first opening that became available.

  Maybe there was still a chance to rekindle the passion for his marriage and his career—a chance to save them both.

  Holten walked out of the station into the desert night, stood there, and watched as a blood sunset slashed the darkening sky with deep red and orange.

  He thought about the three men he’d left in the interview room to conspire on their own, and he shivered despite the heat that still hung heavy in the air.

  25

  JESSICA

  It was after midnight when Jessica returned from Vegas.

  The sky was black and vast and empty. No stars and no moon. Sylvia’s house was also dark, lying silent and dormant behind curtains drawn tightly across all the windows. She had clearly turned in for the night, the landlord’s belly warmed and her mind numbed by the liquor that helped her drift off to sleep. The dull yellow glow from a streetlight in front of the house provided just enough light for Jessica to find the trailer’s lock. She opened the door, stepped inside, and flipped the switch.

  She froze.

  The tiny hairs on her arms stood on end, and goose bumps popped out on her skin.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Jessica looked around. The interior of the trailer was mostly open plan. To her right was the unmade double bed, the sheets still bunched and twisted. Jeans, T-shirts, and dresses hung in the open-fronted closet in the sleeping area. The rest of her clothing spilled from an open suitcase at the foot of the bed. Straight ahead was the small kitchen, dirty plates and cups piled on the counter, fat drops of water dripping into the sink. To her immediate left was the dinette, where her laptop sat on the table. Beyond the dinette, at the far end, was the bathroom, the only separate room in the trailer.

  Her eyes scanned the entire space again. Then she saw what was wrong.

  Two things.

  The laptop.

  And the bathroom door.

  The laptop’s cover was raised, at an angle of twenty-five degrees to the base. Jessica always closed the laptop fully when she was finished working, and she always powered off the machine.

  She glanced at the bathroom door. It was closed. In contrast to the laptop, she always kept it open. The only exceptions were if she was taking a shower or using the toilet, just in case Sylvia made an unexpected appearance at an unfortunate moment. At all other times, the bathroom door was kept open, especially when she was leaving the trailer.

  The reason was simple—to prevent situations like the one she was in right now. Jessica didn’t like walking into a trailer, apartment, or motel room and being confronted with a closed door. She wanted to be able to tell immediately that she was alone, to be reassured a stranger wasn’t hiding in the shadows, waiting to attack.

  Now the bathroom door was shut, and Jessica had a bad feeling about it.

  She dropped her bag to the floor, pulled the Glock from the waistband of her jeans, and raised the weapon in front of her. Walked slowly in the direction of the bathroom. Five small, careful, silent steps. Jessica held her breath and pressed an ear to the door. She heard nothing. Then she took a deep breath, hit the light switch, and kicked open the door. Leading with the gun, she quickly took in the room. Her heart rate rocketed when she saw a face staring at her before realizing it was her own startled reflection in the mirror above the washbasin.

  “Get a fucking grip, Jessica,” she muttered.

  She glanced around the small room. The shower stall was empty, and the toiletries on the counter were undisturbed. She crouched down and opened the door of the cabinet underneath the sink and saw toilet paper rolls stacked neatly and a box of tampons and a pile of spare hand towels. Nothing appeared to be out of place.

  Then Jessica remembered she’d left the front door wide open.

  She sprang to her feet and spun around, the gun pointed straight ahead of her. She was alone. She took several deep breaths. Then she retraced her steps back through the trailer and closed the door and locked it. She placed the gun on the dinette table, next to the laptop, and she checked inside the kitchen cupboards and the overhead storage cabinets and every inch of the open-fronted closet.

  Nothing appeared to be missing.

  Could she have left the laptop open herself? Closed the bathroom door? Possibly. But Jessica didn’t think so.

  Sylvia changed the trailer’s towels and bedsheets once a week. Every Saturday without fail. I
f Jessica wasn’t home, the landlord would use her own key. But today was Monday, not Saturday. Could Sylvia have made an unplanned visit? Jessica’s eyes fell on the messy bedsheets. No, she didn’t believe the woman had been inside the trailer in her absence.

  Jessica placed a hand on the seat in front of the laptop, where the old leather was wrinkled and slightly sunken. It felt cool to the touch. No warmth from recent body heat. She placed a finger under the lid of the computer and slowly pushed upward until the screen was fully visible. Then she hit the space bar. The screen lit up, showing a password prompt. Two-step authentication was installed, so she was confident the computer’s security hadn’t been breached. Jessica shut down the laptop and closed the lid.

  She looked around the room again. Sniffed the air. There was the faint aroma of the perfume she’d spritzed earlier in the day mixed with the slightest hint of hair spray and deodorant. All floral, feminine scents. She thought she could detect a whiff of something else too. Musk and old sweat. Something unmistakably masculine.

  Jessica shivered even though it wasn’t cold inside the Airstream. Someone had been in her trailer. She was sure of it. Someone who had no business being in her home without her permission. Then a name popped into her head.

  Michelle Foster.

  Dylan’s ex-girlfriend spent a lot of time driving around in her daddy’s old truck, which would explain the smell. But Jessica wasn’t convinced. This didn’t feel like Michelle. It wasn’t her style. Too subtle. So if not Michelle, then who? And why? Was it merely an attempt to take a look at the files stored on her laptop? Jessica thought of the closed bathroom door and shook her head. You didn’t break into someone’s home, attempt to access their computer, then decide to take a leak. Someone had been looking for something other than computer files. But what?

  Jessica’s eyes fell on her shoulder bag, lying on the floor where she’d dropped it. The folder poked out of the top of the black leather hobo. The Hundred Acres murder book. She had kept it on her person at all times since her meeting with Pryce. Didn’t want to risk losing it and landing the detective, or his contact, in big trouble.

  She racked her brain, tried to think of those who knew she had the police file or, at least, access to some of its contents. Ed Crozier knew about the murder book for sure. Pat McDonagh might have spotted it during his unexpected visit to the detective agency. Likewise, Jed Lockerman when she’d visited the liquor store. Jerry from Acres Tire & Wheel Mart and Tom Lucchese both knew she had access to crime scene photos from Devil’s Drop. Jessica tried to remember if she had told Dylan about Pryce loaning her the Hundred Acres file, but she didn’t think so.