Bad Memory Page 19

  She had no desire to crash at Dylan’s place for a night or a week or a month or a year. His affection was suffocating at times, and, if she was being totally honest with herself, she felt their relationship—or whatever it was—had run its course. Like a strawberry milkshake topped with whipped cream, it had been fun and naughty to begin with but had curdled over time. She had known whatever they had going on together was fast approaching its expiration date the day a thirty-year-old murder investigation got her blood pumping faster than her man did. A serious talk was coming all right, but it had nothing to do with moving in together.

  Jessica’s fingers flew over the phone’s tiny keyboard.

  Thanks for the offer but I’m good. New lock installed.

  She dropped her cell phone into her bag and headed for the station entrance.

  Sandy, the elderly receptionist who’d worked for the sheriff’s department forever, told Jessica to go straight on through to the squad room. She strolled past the three cells and caught a whiff of urine and vomit from the drunk tank, which reminded her of the prison at Chowchilla. She found McDonagh behind his desk, sitting on a swivel chair, talking on the desk phone. The other workstation, usually occupied by the deputy on duty, was empty. The sheriff finished his call and motioned for Jessica to take a seat.

  “Morning, Jessica. You here to make that report on the break-in?”

  “No, I’m here for information on Clayton Manners.”

  McDonagh’s expression was blank; then recognition slowly dawned as his brain plucked the name from the dark recesses of his memory.

  “Why on earth would you be asking about Clayton Manners?”

  “I’m interested is all.”

  “Has his sister hired you too?” he demanded. “Just like Rose Hunter did? Are you here to question another one of my investigations?” McDonagh spun sharply on the chair’s wheels and gestured angrily at a bank of gray steel filing cabinets. “Hell, why not have a good root through all of my cases? See if there’s anything else that takes your fancy.”

  “Clayton Manners’s sister is not my client,” Jessica said calmly. “But—you know what?—maybe it’s not such a bad idea. Maybe the poor woman still wants to know who killed her brother. You never arrested anyone for his murder, right?”

  McDonagh spun the chair back to its original position. He steepled his fingers under his chin, elbows on the desk, and stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. She refused to flinch under the weight of his heavy gaze.

  “What’s going on, Jessica?” he said. “Why the sudden interest in Clayton Manners? He has nothing to do with the case you’re working on.”

  Except, the night he disappeared, he was wearing clothing that fit with Rue Hunter’s memories. And he’s connected to the Luccheses, who are connected to the Devil’s Drop murders.

  “It’s like you said. Hundred Acres is my home now. Maybe it’s time I knew a little more about the place. But, I’ve got to say, three dead bodies—murder victims—in less than a year isn’t exactly what I was expecting to find in the town’s history books.”

  McDonagh’s jaw worked, and a vein throbbed in his temple like a warning sign.

  “You really want to know about Clayton Manners? I’ll tell you all about him. Clayton Manners was a thief and a con man and a drunk. Worst of all, he was a sick son of a bitch who had a thing for young girls.”

  “He was a pedophile?”

  “Yes, he was,” McDonagh said. “Young teens—rather than little kids—were more his taste, but that doesn’t make it any more right.”

  Jessica felt sick. “How did you find out?”

  McDonagh said, “When we finally identified the body, we made a call to our law enforcement colleagues in Calhoun. Let me tell you, those boys down in Arizona weren’t shedding too many tears over Clayton Manners. Quite the opposite. He’d served jail time for petty theft and small-time fraud, mostly conning old folks out of their life savings. But there had been plenty of rumors about other stuff—predatory behavior around young teens—for a long time. Then, about eighteen months before he disappeared, there were accusations he’d raped a thirteen-year-old girl. The poor kid was too traumatized to make the complaint official, so he was never arrested or charged, but everybody in town knew he was an animal.”

  Jessica was horrified. “He got away with it? Didn’t have to pay for what he did to that girl?”

  “Not exactly,” McDonagh said. “One night, while making his way home from the local bar, Manners was given a hell of a beating. Left for dead. It was dark, and it was late, and there were no witnesses, so no arrests were ever made. The assault may or may not have had something to do with the girl’s daddy and his buddies. Who knows? Manners left Calhoun as soon as he was well enough to check himself out of the hospital. Then he started selling cleaning products in California and Oregon.”

  Jessica said, “And, just like Calhoun, no arrests were ever made after his body was discovered in Hundred Acres, right?”

  “Right,” McDonagh said. “We suspected something similar to what had happened in Arizona, only, this time, whoever wanted revenge for their kid didn’t stop at a beating. Officially, the Hundred Acres Sheriff’s Department did all we could to investigate his murder with the limited resources at our disposal. Off the record? Clayton Manners deserved to rot in hell. Whoever dumped him in that hole in the ground did the world a favor as far as I’m concerned.”

  Jessica was on her way to the detective agency when her cell phone chirped in the holder on the dash. The caller ID showed an unknown number. She pulled over onto the dirt shoulder, grabbed the phone, and swiped to answer. Listened as a recorded message from the Global Tel Link inmate telephone service asked if she would accept a collect call from CCWF inmate Rue Hunter. Jessica hit the key to accept and heard some static and clicks as the call connected.

  “Rue? Are you there?”

  “Hi, Jessica. Yes, I’m here. I got your request for a phone call. Do you have news?”

  Rue’s voice sounded small, less assured than it had been during their face-to-face visit, but maybe it was just the connection. Jessica could hear the prison’s usual orchestra of cell doors slamming and prisoners hollering in the background. She switched off the engine, cutting off the AC, and pressed the phone tight against her ear to hear better. Heat filled the truck like switching on an oven.

  “I’ve made some progress,” she told Rue. “But I have some more questions for you.”

  “Okay. Ask away.”

  “Can you tell me again what Lucas was wearing the night of the murders?”

  Rue answered without hesitation. “Blue jeans and a black-and-white plaid shirt.”

  “The thing is, Rue, I’ve seen the crime scene photos. Lucas was actually wearing tan Bermuda-style shorts and a white T-shirt.”

  There was a long silence.

  “That’s impossible,” Rue said. “You must be mistaken.”

  “There’s no mistake.”

  “I don’t understand. I told you about the flashbacks and the nightmares. If I were to close my eyes right now, I’d still see those clothes. The jeans and the shirt.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jessica said. “Tell me about Clayton Manners.”

  “Who?”

  “Clayton Manners.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name. Who is he?”

  “He was a traveling salesman from Arizona. His body was found in a shallow grave in Hundred Acres around six months after the Devil’s Drop murders.”

  “Why would I know this guy? I was already in prison by then.”

  “He was wearing blue jeans and a black-and-white plaid shirt the night he disappeared. He was reported missing by his sister in 1979. He’d been murdered.”

  There was an even longer silence this time, and Jessica thought the call had been disconnected.

  “Rue? Are you still there?”

  When Rue Hunter spoke again, her voice was low and furious.

  “Are you trying to fuck with me, Jessica? B
ecause I don’t have a whole lot of time left for stupid games.”

  “I’m being deadly serious.”

  Jessica heard fast, wet breathing, followed by a soft thud.

  “Rue? Are you okay? What was that noise?”

  “I had to sit down. I’m on the floor. All this stuff you’re telling me . . . all these questions . . . I don’t feel too good. I don’t think I want to have this conversation anymore.”

  “This can’t be a coincidence,” Jessica said gently. “How could you possibly know what Clayton Manners was wearing the night he was murdered?”

  “Maybe I saw something about his disappearance on a news bulletin? Or read about it in the paper years ago? I don’t know. You’re confusing me with all these questions. I thought you were trying to help me.”

  “I am trying to help you.”

  “I don’t need this kind of help. I’m hanging up now.”

  “Rue, wait,” Jessica said quickly. “I need to ask you one more thing.”

  A sigh.

  “Okay.”

  “Tom Lucchese—do you know that name?”

  “Uh, yeah, Lucchese sounds familiar. I think it was going to be the name of a new hotel or casino or something.”

  “I have an eyewitness who says Tom Lucchese gave you a ride to Devil’s Drop the night Lucas and Megan died. The guy himself admits he picked you up outside Cooper’s. You were standing next to the phone booth outside the bar at the time.”

  A long pause.

  “Was the car a cherry-red color with fancy pop-up lights?”

  “Yes!” Jessica couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice. “That’s exactly what it was like. Is there anything else you can remember about Tom Lucchese? Anything at all? It could be important.”

  Jessica could hear the woman mumbling the word Lucchese over and over again.

  Then Rue said, “Lucky.”

  “That’s right. His dad’s casino, the one you mentioned earlier, it was going to be called ‘Lucky by Lucchese.’”

  “No, I meant the guy in the car. His name was Lucky. Or, at least, that’s what folks called him. Lucky Lucchese. I can picture him now. Dark wavy hair. Good looking. A little older, maybe early twenties.”

  Jessica barely dared breathe.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “Fuck,” Rue said.

  “What?” Jessica asked.

  “Lucky was Megan’s new boyfriend.”

  31

  MEGAN

  1987

  It was the last day of May and the last day of school.

  An ending but also a new beginning. The first day of the rest of Megan’s life.

  So far, it sucked big time.

  Walking out of Hundred Acres High School for the final time wasn’t how she’d imagined it would be. She wasn’t expecting a big hoo-ha, nothing like the final scene in Grease, when Danny and Sandy and the rest of the Rydell seniors hit the carnival, jumping on rides and eating hot dogs and cotton candy and spontaneously bursting into song and dance routines.

  But she hadn’t envisioned walking home from school on her own either. Just like every other day.

  Rue had dropped out completely weeks ago, and she’d persuaded Lucas to cut his afternoon classes so they could drive out to the beach at Santa Monica. Celebrate high school being over, just the two of them. Sure, they were still her best friends, and they made an effort to include Megan as much as possible, but everything had changed the night Rue and Lucas got together.

  Megan thought back to last year’s junior prom and the strange emotions she’d experienced at the dance itself and in the weeks afterward. For a while, she’d even considered the possibility she might have had a crush on Lucas she hadn’t even been aware of until he’d hooked up with Rue. That their new relationship had somehow shaken loose feelings for him she’d subconsciously been suppressing. Eventually, she realized it wasn’t Lucas she wanted—it was a return to the way things used to be.

  Their friendship—once made up of three equal parts—had splintered and become something else. She was no longer the most important person in Rue’s life, or Lucas’s life, because they were the most important people in each other’s lives now. Megan could only ever hope to be second best. The third wheel.

  Then there was the question of what she was going to do with the rest of her life now that school was over. She liked the idea of working with children, but becoming a teacher would mean college and coursework, and Megan wasn’t particularly academic. She wasn’t the dumbest in class, but she was nowhere near the smartest either. She could apply for a maid’s position at the new hotel being built in town, but it wouldn’t be open for a while yet, which didn’t leave a whole lot of options for gainful employment in Hundred Acres in the meantime. Maybe she’d just pack up her stuff and run away to Vegas and become a showgirl. Megan smiled and shook her head. That was more Rue’s style.

  “Hey, what’s so funny?”

  Megan jumped at the sound of the deep male voice. She’d been so lost in her own thoughts she hadn’t noticed the car rolling slowly alongside her as she’d strolled along the sidewalk. She didn’t know the first thing about cars, other than this one was cherry red and fancy and looked real expensive. Kinda sexy, just like its driver, who was leaning out of the open window and grinning at her.

  Megan stopped and turned to face him, and the guy behind the wheel slowed the car to a stop too. A key chain shaped like a four-leaf clover hung from the rearview mirror; “With or Without You” by U2 played on the radio. She’d never met the driver, but she knew who he was. Older. Gorgeous. Rich.

  Tom “Lucky” Lucchese.

  The afternoon sun had been pleasantly warm on her skin, but now Megan could feel her face and chest burning. Why was Lucky Lucchese talking to her? He hadn’t lived in town long, so maybe he was looking for directions or had confused her with someone else.

  “Um, sorry, did you say something?” she asked.

  “You were smiling. I asked what was so funny?”

  “Oh nothing. I was just daydreaming. Stupid, really.”

  “Last day of school, huh?” He nodded to the book bag she was holding.

  “Yeah.” Megan clutched the bag to her chest in an attempt to conceal the blotchy red rash she was sure was spreading rapidly all over it.

  Lucky smiled. “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating with your friends?”

  “I guess they’re busy with their own celebrations.”

  “Hey, that sucks. Doesn’t seem right to me, you being left all on your own.”

  Megan shrugged and forced a smile. “I really don’t mind.”

  “It’s Megan, right?”

  She nodded, felt a thrill course through her. Lucky Lucchese knew her name!

  He said, “Why don’t we go grab a burger someplace? My treat.”

  Megan’s heart knocked gladly inside her chest, and she felt a little light headed. She looked around, thinking she must be the victim of a joke or a bet or a prank, but there was no one else on the street other than herself and Lucky. Then she thought about her mom and how strict she was about Megan dating boys. But this wasn’t a date, was it? Of course it wasn’t! Lucky Lucchese wasn’t interested in her. He could have his pick of the girls in Hundred Acres. Probably Silverdale, Shady Bluff, and Ingleby too. In any case, her mom wouldn’t be home from work at least until six p.m. Even so, Megan hesitated.

  “Um, I don’t know . . . I should probably get home.”

  Lucky pushed open the passenger door and grinned at her in a way that turned her insides to mush, just like the first time she’d seen Tom Cruise in Top Gun. But this was real life, and she felt sick and excited and nervous all at the same time.

  “Come on,” he said. “Live dangerously.”

  Megan paused a beat before answering.

  “Sure, why not?”

  She had the rest of her life to be sensible.

  32

  PRYCE

  With their boss, Lieutenant Sarah Grayling, out for the r
est of the day, Pryce and Medina were able to set aside their other, official, caseloads for an hour or two so they could turn their focus back to Holten.

  How the Echo Park meet had been arranged was key to finding out who Holten had met with the night he’d died. Pryce was still convinced the letter his partner had received in the days before his death was significant, but he no longer believed it contained details of the late-night rendezvous at the abandoned warehouses.

  He thought of what Marie Conlon had told them about a phone call Charlie hadn’t been looking forward to making.

  It made sense. After all, this had all gone down in the 1990s, not the 1890s. If two people were going to arrange a meet, they’d do it by phone, not letter. Certainly not correspondence mailed to a police station for what had clearly been a clandestine meeting. If you were being really careful, you’d use a pay phone or a burner, but Pryce couldn’t recall if burner phones were even a thing back in ’97.

  They’d decided to go over all the call records, both incoming and outgoing, relating to Holten in the days leading up to his murder. Home, office, and cell. Hunt and Adams, the two detectives who’d investigated the homicide, had already checked out the lists, but Pryce and Medina both felt it was worth another shot.

  They agreed that Medina would check out the Holtens’ home phone records, and Pryce would go through the calls Charlie had made from his desk phone and cell.

  It didn’t take long to establish many of the numbers on both of their lists were no longer in use. Had probably been attached to residential properties, where the homeowner had swapped out the old line as part of a television/internet/phone bundle or had ditched the landline completely in favor of a cell phone. If need be, they could trace who the number had last been registered to before being disconnected.

  Most of the numbers still in use belonged to businesses—a pizza delivery place, an optician, the local library, a window cleaning service.

  Medina completed his list and went in search of chocolate and soda from the station’s vending machine. Pryce asked for a Hershey’s bar and a Dr Pepper. He tried to stick to a healthy diet as much as possible, but right now, he was heading for a slump and needed a sugar hit.