3 Swift Run (14 page)

Alan clapped again.
Like I’m a performing seal,
Charlie thought, annoyed. This pretty boy was really beginning to tick her off.

“I told her to just stay put, that I’d get rid of you, but she was convinced you’d
come charging up the stairs, camera in hand, to immortalize our little tryst on film.”

Charlie forced a laugh, determined not to let Alan Brodnax see that he’d riled her.
“I don’t do divorce work—too sordid. Everyone involved is sleazy.”
Take that,
she thought, as his eyes narrowed with anger.

“I wish I could help more,” he said mendaciously, striding toward the door in a way
that told Charlie she’d be on the sidewalk in seconds, “but I’ve got an appointment.”

Probably time to redo his spray tan, Charlie thought, or bleach his teeth again.

“What did the police want?” she asked as he swung the door wide.

He smiled, his strong white teeth reminding her of a wolf. “Why don’t you ask them?”

The door closed in her face with a force just shy of a slam. Overcoming the temptation
to stick out her tongue at it, Charlie turned away and trekked to her car, her mind
churning through the information Alan had provided and possible avenues of investigation.
Gatlinburg was in Tennessee, wasn’t it? She’d start there.

17

I followed Detective Lorrimore into a small conference room at police headquarters,
shutting my eyes involuntarily as I went through the door. I half expected someone
to jump out and accuse Dexter of stealing garden gnomes, knocking over mailboxes,
or tipping a porta-potty. Or maybe something new. When no one yelled at me, I slowly
opened my eyes to find Detective Lorrimore staring at me as she pointed to a chair
at the table. I sat, relieved to see there was no one-way mirror like they have in
all the cop shows. Detective Lorrimore fussed with a DVD player, cussing a little
when it didn’t play right away, and then backed away from the television as the picture
came on.

I looked at her, but she only gestured to the screen. “Watch.”

Grainy gray-tone images popped up. People, a bit fuzzy around the edges, walked down
a hall. A digital clock in the lower right-hand corner supplied the time. Crinkling
my brow, I tried to figure out what I was looking at. Just as I realized that it was
the Embassy Suites hotel, the hall where Heather-Anne had stayed, a tall figure slouched
around the corner, backpack hanging from his shoulders. I felt a tickle of unease.
His face was hidden until he reached the door he wanted; then he looked up and down
the hall, directly at the camera, before knocking. I gasped.

Detective Lorrimore looked at me as if she expected me to comment, but I folded my
lips in and watched my son disappear into Heather-Anne Pawlusik’s room. He came out
five and a half minutes later, turned left, and started to walk away.

Freezing the image, Detective Lorrimore asked, “Did you know your son was acquainted
with Ms. Pawlusik? Did you know he visited her the morning of her death and was, perhaps,
the last person to see her alive?”

“Besides the murderer.”

“Possibly.”

My heart thudded in my chest, and I put a hand over it. Thoughts tumbled through my
brain. What was Dexter doing at the Embassy Suites? Did he know Heather-Anne? Had
Les had the gall to introduce his bimbo to my children? For a split second, anger
drove away worry. Then my eyes landed on the TV screen again with its fuzzy photo
of my baby boy, my Dexter, leaving a soon-to-be murder scene. Dexter was a sweet boy
at heart. Okay, he’d gotten into a bit of mischief in the last couple of years, mostly
since Les left, but I knew he didn’t have it in him to kill someone. Not even the
woman who took his father away. I didn’t know why he’d gone to the Embassy Suites,
but I knew my son, and there was no way on God’s green earth that he killed Heather-Anne
“Home Wrecker” Pawlusik.

“I did it,” I announced.

“Pardon me?”

“I did it. I strangled Heather-Anne.”

“Really? Why?”

Did I have to spell everything out? “Because she slept with my husband. She broke
up my family. She left my kids fatherless and stole all our money. She was a Grade
A, world-class, A-number-one, fake-breasted bitch. A tramp. A … a slut!” Boy, it felt
good to get that out of my system. I almost smiled until I remembered I was confessing
to murder.

“Uh-huh.” Detective Lorrimore popped the DVD out of the player and turned to face
me. She didn’t seem as thrilled as I’d thought she’d be to have my confession. “Where
was the scarf when you came into the room?”

“The scarf? Uh, around her neck.”

“She was wearing workout clothes.”

“Accessories can improve any outfit.”

She just looked at me. “Uh-huh. What did you do with her laptop?”

“Her laptop?”

“It was missing. The maid mentioned that she had a laptop computer in the room.”

Darn, this confessing thing was harder than I’d anticipated. “I took it.” Foreseeing
a demand to give them the computer, I added triumphantly, “But then I remembered I
couldn’t afford Internet cable anymore, so I gave it away. I … I put it in a Goodwill
donation box.”

“Generous of you.” The detective’s tone was wry. She fixed her gaze on me, and after
a moment I began to squirm. “Mrs. Goldman,” she said, her voice surprisingly sympathetic,
“I know what you’re trying to do, and I don’t entirely blame you. But you and I both
know you didn’t kill Ms. Pawlusik. You don’t have it in you.”

Why did everyone keep saying I couldn’t kill someone? I was pretty sure I felt insulted.
“Neither does Dexter,” I burst out.

“I haven’t accused him of anything.”

“Then why—”

“It’s possible he may have seen something, or that Ms. Pawlusik may have said something,
that would help us locate the killer. We need to talk to him.” Her voice was implacable.

“I’m going to get him a lawyer.”

Detective Lorrimore gave a tiny shrug. “That’s up to you, of course. I’m going to
station a police officer at the school, although it doesn’t appear Dexter spends much
time there, and at your home.”

“What!”

“Your son seems to come and go pretty much at will; I want to make sure he doesn’t
slip in without anyone noticing.” She smiled a thin smile. “We don’t want this to
drag on for any longer than necessary, do we?”

My stomach felt like it did that time when we went to the u-pick-’em peach farm when
I was a girl and I ate more peaches than ended up in my bucket.

“Does your son have a car? I’ll need the license plate number. I’ll also need your
son’s cell phone number, Mrs. Goldman. In fact, why don’t you try calling him right
now.”

Her eyes bored into me, and I sensed “No” was not an option. Reluctantly, I pulled
out my phone, feeling somehow as if I were being asked to help trap my son. I didn’t
see any way out of it, though. I dialed. His cell rang, and with each ring my hope
and my fear built. Finally voice mail kicked in, and I let out a long breath. “Dexter …
honey, this is Mom. Um, if you get this, please call me right away. It’s important.
I love you.” I hung up.

Nodding, Detective Lorrimore said, “Well, I guess we’re done for now.”

Somehow, I found myself on Nevada Avenue outside the police station a few minutes
later, disoriented, unsure where I’d left the Hummer, afraid I’d burst into tears
on the sidewalk and be mistaken for a crazy homeless person. Of course, most homeless
people weren’t wearing Hilfiger with True Religion jeans, but still.

I really wanted to go shopping. There were some cute boutiques nearby on Tejon … No.
Dexter needed me more than I needed a shopping fix. I pulled out my phone and called
Charlie.

*   *   *

We met back at the office. Sick with worry about Dexter, I’d cried all the way from
downtown to our office, except for when I drove through Starbucks and got a pumpkin
cream cheese muffin with a Cinnamon Dolce Crème Frappucino. I had to duck into the
small restroom to repair the damage to my makeup. With my face back on, I felt a bit
braver. Charlie listened carefully as I told her everything about my visit to the
police station. “They want to put my baby boy in prison and throw away the key,” I
finished, swallowing hard.

“It was bound to happen,” Charlie said. She kept going before I could object. “First
things first: Call a lawyer.” She handed me a business card, and I studied it. “He’s
the best criminal defense lawyer in town. He owes me a favor. Don’t let Dexter talk
to the police unless he’s with him.”

“Okay,” I sniffed. “Thank you, Charlie.”

“This makes it doubly important that we find out who really killed Heather-Anne. It
seems to me we’ve got two tracks to follow. First, we need to locate Les, because
he’s got to know something. I can’t believe his fleeing Costa Rica and Heather-Anne’s
death aren’t related. Second, we find Heather-Anne/Lucinda’s husband—ex-husband?—in
Gatlinburg and see what he has to say. Heather-Anne’s roommate, Alan, made it clear
the husband was his nominee for murderer. He says Heather-Anne was still scared to
death of the guy. So I’ll see if I can get a line on the hubby while you call the
lawyer and do what you can to find Dexter before the police do. Call his friends.
Send him a message on Facebook.”

“That’s a great idea.” I didn’t even know Charlie knew what Facebook was.

I plunked myself down at my computer, slurping up the last of my Frappucino, and immediately
logged on to Facebook. Neither of my kids would let me friend them, but I could still
send Dexter an e-mail via the site. As I typed, the door opened and Albertine came
in, her gold and coral and orange tunic like a blast of sunshine in our dim office.

“Geez, Albertine,” Charlie complained, shading her eyes. “Can you dial down the wattage?
You’ll scare the bears into thinking it’s time to emerge from hibernation.”

“No can do,” Albertine said with a lazy wave. “It’s my natural state. You might try
upping the wow factor yourself, girlfriend,” she added, studying Charlie’s sweatshirt
and blue jeans. “Although that purple is more color than you usually manage.”

“I was undercover, sort of,” Charlie said briefly, fingers clicking rapidly on the
keyboard. I don’t know how she can talk and type at the same time.

“Anything interesting?” Albertine asked.

“Nah. Just a guy who looked like the offspring of Clark Gable and Angelina Jolie,
walking around bare-chested. He asked me out.” Charlie kept her gaze on the computer
screen, but I could see her fighting to keep back a smile.

“Hot damn,” Albertine said, pulling up the uncomfortable wooden chair we keep for
visitors. Charlie won’t let me replace it with anything comfy or even put a cushion
on it; it would encourage clients to linger, she says. Albertine sat, her generous
curves overflowing the chair’s sides. “Tell me all about it.”

Charlie gave her a three-sentence version of meeting Alan Brodnax—I don’t know how
she does that; it always takes me
much
longer to tell a story—and Albertine pushed her coral-painted lips forward thoughtfully.
“He doesn’t sound like your type,” she finally said.

“What’s my type?”

“Not the screw-around-with-married-women type,” Albertine said.

“I think she goes more for the law-enforcing type,” I put in.

Charlie pretend-scowled as Albertine and I laughed. “Some of us have work to do,”
she said, making a show of turning back to her computer.

Albertine stood, muttering something about putting on beignets.

“I’ve got to get hold of Dexter before the police catch up with him,” I said, pulling
out my cell phone in hopes the phone numbers of some of Dexter’s friends would be
in there. I’d only ever called a couple of his friends’ houses once or twice, needing
to talk with their parents about one thing or another.

“The police are looking for Dexter?” Albertine paused, her hand on the door. “I saw—”

“They think he killed Heather-Anne,” I said, blinking rapidly so I wouldn’t tear up.

“Say what?” She shook her head violently, threatening to topple the tower of curlicues
and braids that rose a good four inches above her head. “There is no way that sweet,
sweet boy killed anyone.”

“‘Sweet’?” Charlie asked. “Are we talking about the same kid? No offense, Gigi, but—”

“I saw him this morning,” Albertine interrupted.

I leaped from my chair and ran around my desk. “You did? Where?”

“Here.” She pointed to the floor. “He was rattling the doorknob of your office when
I came in, oh, it must have been fifty minutes or an hour ago.”

Only a little bit before Charlie and I arrived. I’d missed him by minutes. “Did you
see where he went?”

“Sorry, sugah,” Albertine said. “I’ll certainly holler if I see him again.” She left.

“Charlie! He was looking for me. He needs me.”

“Gigi. Dexter’s not a nine-year-old. And he’s not dumb, even if he is—”

I saw her bite back a sharp comment.

“If he’s done something—and I’m not saying he murdered Heather-Anne,” she hastened
to add when I opened my mouth. “We know he talked to Heather-Anne. If she said something
that upset him, something about Les, maybe, he might need a while to process it. Maybe
that’s why he took off. He might even be trying to find Les. We just don’t know until
we talk to him, so stop acting like—” She broke off again. “He’ll be in touch.”

I blew my nose into a tissue. “Thanks, Charlie.”

“Why don’t you go home, in case Dexter shows up there. You can call his friends from
there, and I’ll let you know if I come up with anything. Don’t forget to make a list
of places Les might be. It’ll be okay.” She gave me a reassuring look.

I wanted everything to be okay
now
. I wanted Heather-Anne alive—far away, but alive. I wanted Dexter in school where
he belonged, without policemen lurking about to arrest him. I wanted Les … I wasn’t
sure where I wanted my husband, my ex-husband. I knew where I didn’t want him: in
Costa Rica, in jail, or dead. I wrapped a fluffy pink chenille scarf around my neck
and put on my Prada sunglasses, the ones that would make me look like Jackie O if
I were brunette and sixty pounds thinner. “I hope so.”