A Quiet Neighbor (26 page)

Clearing my throat, I say, “Do you know a Ms.
Tess Holmes?”

Making a pyramid structure with his hands,
Kingsbee leans back in his oversized chair, and takes a moment before speaking.
“Holmes…Holmes…Hmmm…” Shaking his head he says, “Can’t say the name sounds
familiar, should it?”

“We believe the name should. She was your most
recent real estate agent.”

He theatrically arches his brow and says, “Oh
yes, Tess Holmes from Kimble Realty, yes, now I remember.” Shrugging he says,
“I’m a busy man Detectives, I can’t be expected to remember every employee
that’s on my payroll.”

Grinning, I say, “You should remember this
employee, since you’ve been spending a lot of personal time together, off-the-clock.”

Kingsbee wears a smile of amusement. “And what
are you inferring?”

“We have witnesses that can place you and Ms.
Holmes entering the Keating Hotel multiple times during the past year.”

Color rises in Kingsbee’s cheeks as he grips
his armrest, but his smile lingers. “What witnesses?”

“Sorry Mr. Kingsbee, but we don’t disclose our
sources. Privacy is of utmost importance to us. But, now that we have your
attention, have you met this girl before?” I push a photo of Loral, taken after
graduation, in front of Kingsbee.

As he peers into the photo, I catch a flicker
of recognition that is immediately washed over by nonchalance. Suddenly it becomes
obvious: Kingsbee has been expecting this interrogation. “Is this the daughter
that got killed?”

I nod.

“And you guys think I’m a suspect? What nerve.
Do you know who I am?” His grin becomes a bit wider and now looks too wide to
be comfortable, as if his trained business persona ports anger and fear through
the same channel as happiness.

“I think what you are trying to say is: ‘Do you
know who I know?’ And the answer is yes, that’s why we are here in your
office.”

Clenching his exposed teeth and narrowing his
eyes, he says, “Here’s the thing. I have never met her before. Sure, okay, so
Tess and I met outside the office a few times. Our social interest was strictly
between the two of us and ended between the two of us. We were consenting
adults.”

Raising an eyebrow, Pickering asks, “Ended?”

“Yes, if you checked with your sources, they
would have told you that Tess and I haven’t been meeting at the Keating Hotel
for some time now.”

Pickering gives a brisk nod. “We’ll check on
that. But before we do, please enlighten us by telling us when and who broke
the relationship?”

Clearing his throat, Kingsbee’s face reddens.
“Like I said before, there was no relationship. It was just a mutual social
interest. I got bored and called it off. I don’t remember when. That’s how
insignificant the so-called relationship was.”

“I see. Where were you the night of June
nineteenth between nine and midnight?”

“Well now, I’d have to check my calendar.”

I motion for Kingsbee to begin his search. I am
not leaving until he gives us his whereabouts on the night of the murder.

Without an ounce of theatrical display,
Kingsbee obliges by thumbing his smartphone, most likely a prototype of IMCON’s
next big thing. “You said between nine and midnight?”

“Yes.”

“Oh yes, here it is. I was with Tess that
night. Our arrangement ended sometime between eight-thirty and nine. It might
have ended later if it wasn’t for the interruption.”

“Interruption?”

A more relaxed smile teases his lips as he says,
“Yes, you see Brett, her husband, called Tess and she left in a panic.” He reads
our instant reactions and grins. “Hmmm, that’s interesting; I guess Tess didn’t
tell you about that little detail. Maybe you should question the parents more
thoroughly.”

“And from nine to midnight?”

“Well, after things ended with Tess, Candy
called and we were pretty much here well past midnight, which I’m sure she’ll
corroborate if you ask nicely.”

The smug look he wears sickens me.

“Now if you will excuse me, I’m a very busy
man. If you have any more significant questions, please leave them with Candy
at the front desk and she can direct you two to my lawyers.”

“That’s fine.” I can feel the puzzle pieces
crumbling. I rise from my kiddie chair and say, “Just one last question. You
have a black pug, correct?”

Confusion returns to his heated face. “Yes, so?
I got all the dogs after the divorce.”

“We’re only interested in the pug. Can you
bring your pug to the station?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mr. Kingsbee, you can either bring the pug to
the station or we’ll bring a swarm of reporters to your front door and collect
the pug that way. Your choice.”

Kingsbee clenches his jaw. “I’ll bring the pug
along with my lawyers.”

“Great,” I say sweetly, “that’s all for now.”

HOSPITAL
ROOM (V):

Thursday,
August 16, 2012

1:20
A.M.

THE ROOM SEEMED TO BE SPINNING AT HORRIFIC
speed.
White dots stippled his vision until he blinked them away.
I’m
dying. I must be dying.
Turning his splotchy, jaundiced
face to his napping friend Sgt. Whimplestein, Joe smirked.
Let me
tell you partner, I would sure like to be in your shoes. Just skating by
without so much as a simple thought, pain, or grievance. Me? I’m over here
coughing up blood, feeling dazed, confused, and then once the dope wears off, I
feel excruciating pain radiate through my gut and down my spine until I can’t
breathe.

Do you feel pain? I don’t think so. But then
again, you probably lived as easy as you’re going to die. What did you do that
was so great? Huh? Invent some gadget? Teach? Whatever. Probably weren’t a
politician or a mooch, I’ll bet. But look at you now, mooching off the State’s
dime—my dime—to keep you ticking. And I’m no better…

Huh? Me? I thought I was a good person. My wife
thought I was a good person. I saved her life, you know. I saved her life.
(He
beats his breast.)

I.

Saved.

Her.

Life.

I was trying to save her life again…but—
(a
tear welled up in his eye and he brushed it away)
—I
don’t know what went wrong…I don’t, I don’t remember so well, Whimpy.

Well, shit. Hey—were you a good neighbor,
Whimpy? Did you keep your part of the sidewalk clear of trash, dog shit, and
overgrown weeds? Did you wait to start any loud construction jobs until after
nine in the morning and end ‘em before five at night? Were you quiet and respectful
of others? Well, I sure as hell was. I was the best fuckin’ neighbor on the
goddam BLOCK!

Joe’s voice reached a demented crescendo at
this last word so it could be heard all the way down the hall at the nurse’s
station desk. Nurse Freckles looked up, startled, and listened for a moment.
Hearing nothing further, she shook her head and returned to her charts.

Neighbors are interesting though. You live next
to strangers, practically, for a few months, years, maybe your entire life, and
what do you really know about them? Their names? Where they work? Where their
kids go to school? But do you take their word for it that they’re telling you
the truth? If you ask me, most folks fabricate a plain vanilla, candy-coated
cover story so you won’t get too close, won’t interfere in their private bubble
and see the shit-stains inside that candy-coated shell.

Hmmm. I wonder about that sometimes.

Yeah, well I don’t know either. That’s why I’m
asking you, you limp prick!

Anyways, it’s interesting. The fact that you
live next to people and you don’t even know who they are or what they are. Have
you checked the registered sex offenders website recently? I tell you my
friend, it will knock your socks off how many of ‘em there are crawling around
you. Way too many red dots for comfort. The dots almost cover the entire
fuckin’ page. It’s like the website got infected with the chicken pox, that’s
how many. Ahum! Gakm!

Wrapped up by his fifth coughing fit of the
day, Joe pressed the call-button, upsetting his water cup in the process. Water
spattered the sheets, beaded and dribbled down the side of the laminate tray
table and puddled on the glossy white floor below.

Nurse Freckles scurried in, her face flushed.
She seemed to have gotten stuck with the babysitting duties for Room 301 again.
Joe felt a smidgen of pity, but not a lot, considering he was the sick one as
he continued to hack up bloody specks into a tissue. She added a dose of
morphine to his drip and within a few seconds the coughing fit subsided to a
gentle gurgle. His lips peeled back as his lids grew heavy, letting a thin
stream of bubbling mucus dribble out the side of his mouth. As she wiped his
chin and watched him doze off, drifting in and out of consciousness, she prayed
that he be taken soon.

Please God, please don’t let this man suffer
anymore. Whatever his sins were, don’t you think he’s had enough? Let him go so
he can be with his wife…

Chapter
Twenty-One:

Friday,
June 29, 2012

8:00
P.M.

Detective Kylie Kang:

I watch from the two-way mirror as Brett paces
the cold cement floor of the ten-by-ten interrogation room, or as the men and women
in blue like to call it,
the box
. He probably feels tired and dirty. He
was coming back from a long run when he was taken in for questioning. He was denied
a shower and fresh change of clothes, and left to simmer in fear for a couple
hours. His sullen eyes zero in on mine and I flinch. It’s as if he can see me
behind the stretch of dark wall that stands before him. After a while Brett relents
and sinks into the metal chair.

Various monsters have sat in the same chair Brett
is now sitting in, some spilling out their guts the moment guilt overrides
their senses, others staying buttoned up to the end.

It seems everyone out there wants it to be
Brett: the sicko stepdad strikes again. And he has no good alibi to prove
otherwise.

According to Leila, after the incident
seventeen years ago, Brett didn’t speak much. His appetite diminished until all
he ate was plain oatmeal flakes drowned in cold milk. His normally jovial face
and friendly demeanor were overshadowed with stoicism and bitterness.

The scandal was big news for a town as small
and close-knit as Walnut.

Their father, Gary Ficks, like everyone else in
Walnut, took Brett’s silence as a sign of guilt. When Brett left to attend UCLA
in the fall, Gary hoped the rumors and passing jeers would diminish, or at
least abate some. But when Brett returned home that Winter Break for good—he
dropped out after failing all his classes—Gary snapped and told his son to get
a life and leave his alone.

Brett walked out the door with a couple hundred
dollars in his wallet and his Mercedes convertible.

No one understood what happened or what went on
between Brett and me that day. If they had not been instantly so preoccupied
with damage control, with preserving their personal and professional
reputations—if they had taken even a moment out of their self-indulgent lives
to actually try to listen to Brett’s side—they would have understood that Brett
was the victim, not me.

They should have stopped thinking like
executives, thrown their risk assessments to the wind, and supported their son.
They should have taken his side and offered their unconditional love and
support, for better or for worse. They should have done so much more than what
they did. And I was to blame. Brett should be out on the golf course
entertaining clients right now instead of being trapped behind these concrete
walls, trapped in a mediocre life that wasn’t meant for him.

The years that followed were rocky for the
Ficks family. Emma became erratic, turning on the waterworks every time she
passed Brett’s room. At times she would even lock herself in Brett’s room for
days, which always led to an ambulance call and an overnight stay in the
hospital to rehydrate with IV fluids. Gary would spend his free time drowning
in a bottle of whiskey that he kept hidden in his office. The golf trips
dwindled and his company was having impending financial issues with the CEO
being mysteriously MIA.

Leila told me it was awful watching their
parents tear each other apart. The cursing and glass breaking was difficult,
but the silence was worse. Days would pass when her parents wouldn’t utter a word.
Emma with a haunted and faraway look, Gary with glossy eyes and bourbon heavy
on his breath.

Tensions finally relented to happier days when
Leila came home and announced she was engaged to Arthur Grimwald III, famous
criminal defense attorney. She was eighteen when she married Grimwald, and
wished her brother was there to see her walk down the aisle. With everything
that happened, Leila never thought she’d find her brother questioned by the
police.

Brett sits up straight when I walk in. He looks
shocked that I am the one he is seeing. I take the seat across from him.

A hard knot forms in my throat and my stomach
churns.

He pushes back from his seat and rubs his face
with his hands. He seems agitated to see me. I know I caused him pain. He
didn’t expect to ever see me again and now I’m here, for the second worst
moment of his life.

I clear my throat, drumming my fingers
nervously on the table.

He looks haggard and worn from days without
sleep. Rumpled, red-rimmed, purplish. A man that has seen better days as a
trust-fund baby in the bright golden sun, now withering in the impoverished
light of the interrogation room instead.

“Hello. Brett.” My voice hitches when I speak
his name and fights the urge to crack. I cannot afford to lose the little
rapport I have left with Brett. Not to mention the fact that another officer
could decide to peek in the listening room beyond.

“Ky.”

I fight back the urge to shrink, to make myself
small. His tired eyes hold contempt and his tone is cold and unwelcoming.
Straightening, I plant my feet firmly onto the cold cement floor and square off
my shoulders.

“I know I’m probably the last person you want
to talk to, but I want you to know that I came here under my own accord,
separate from the case. I’m not her to interrogate you.”

“You didn’t have to. You’d save me the worry if
you just did the interrogation yourself and got it over with. I don’t have
anything to hide, especially from you.”

“I can’t be the one. But I needed to see you
first. Talk to you first. I want to help you out.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“I know, but I’m here anyways…” I hesitate,
“I’m sorry.”

He scoffs. “About accusing me of my stepdaughter’s
murder or about seventeen years ago?”

My head throbs but I bite back a soft oath and
pull myself together. The anger in his voice hurts even when I have prepared
myself for it. “I’m going to ignore the dig because we don’t have much time.
Your interrogation is scheduled to start in a half hour, which will be led by
my partner, Detective Sean Pickering. He’s a hard man who won’t give you any
slack unless you give me something to loosen it for you. I need you to try and
ignore the past and focus on saving your future. I don’t believe that you’re
the man we want but as it stands right now, you’re the only man we’ve got.”

“What about—”

“Michael Cobb? As of now he’s protected behind
a platoon of lawyers, with his father in the lead. So you could say his story
checks out, at least for the time being. Also,” I pause, unsure if I should
divulge the “sleepover buddy” in question, worried that Tess has managed to
keep it a secret and my mention of the name would only make matters worse. But,
looking into his stormy eyes, I understand that Michael’s name isn’t the name
he is thinking about, and against my better judgment, relinquish the
information. “Yes, in answering your question, we also spoke to Jim Kingsbee,
and we’re currently checking out his story against your wife’s statements.”

“Kingsbee…”

I cringe. The name, not the fact that there is
a name, is news to him. “Who he is and how they met is not important,” I
quickly add, “You can ask your wife about him the next time you see her.”

He looks away, embarrassed.

Suddenly exhausted, he slumps in the chair and
asks, “What do you want to know?”

I breathe a sigh of relief. At least he is
speaking to me and not shutting me out. “Everything. Starting from what
actually
happened the night of Loral’s murder.” The look of surprise in his eyes makes
me lift my chin and say, “Look. You’re not as good as you think you are at
hiding your emotions and telling a lie. I’m not sure why Tess backed your
story, but she did, and because she did, my partner thinks you’re the guy. So
talk. Now.” I check my watch. “We only have fifteen minutes, so talk fast.”

Hesitation laces his voice. “I—I don’t know.”
He shakes his head and looks down. Worry strains his eyes, tugging on his
conscience.

“Brett,” I say in hushed tones, “I know this is
difficult for you, but you need to trust that I want to get you out of here. I
know what I did back then hurt you and your family. I’m sorry. I was eleven
years old and I was in love.” I manage a half smile when he looks up. “I didn’t
think about the repercussions of what I did. I just acted. You were going away.
It was a crush and I thought I was going to lose my chance if I didn’t act
fast. I thought…” I sigh and cast my eyes to the cold cement floor. “I thought
if you saw me as a woman you would like me too. I know that’s ridiculous, but
that’s what I thought when I was eleven.”

“Ky,” he reaches out and touches my fingers.
Startled, I look into his wistful blue eyes, sad and innocent. “I—,” Brett
blinks and releases his hold, wringing his hands in his lap.

Clenching my jaw, I hold back the tears
bubbling inside.

He looks away, embarrassed, and starts marching
the short length of the room. “I don’t know where Loral was that night.” His
voice is shaky, almost distant. He starts rubbing his arms as if he is suddenly
cold. “She was home most of the day watching the girls because Tess and I were
out…but she apparently left sometime during the night. She does…I mean did that
a lot. Usually she just slipped out for an hour or two to take a walk or go for
a bike ride. It wasn’t unusual, plus she was seventeen and had just graduated
from high school. I figured she was with her boyfriend or something. He’s a
good kid, that Mike…at least from what I could gather.” Sheepishly, he glances
in my direction, “I wasn’t too involved in her life. I kept my distance for the
most part…I probably shouldn’t have done that…but…well, I generally didn’t keep
tabs on her, that was Tess’s job. When I came into the picture, Loral was
eleven.” He pauses and clears his throat. “She was old enough not to want
parental advice from a stand-in father.”

I nod, noting the age. I say softly, already
knowing the answer before asking it, “Did you avoid her?”

“Yes. Not that I’m proud of it, but she…”

I nod again, understanding. The girl was
eleven, the same age I was when I tried seducing Brett. He never got over it. I
always worried that he never would.

“Tess wasn’t worried. She didn’t even notice
because we were having a fight.”

“Did you fight often?”

“Yeah, recently. I guess you could say it had
to do with that guy, Kingsbee, but our marriage was already on the rocks before
he came into the picture.”

“How did you know there was a Kingsbee in the
picture?”

“She started coming home later than normal…and
I could smell him on her,” he says, disgusted.

I nod for him to continue, recalling what Tory
said about Mommy’s funny smell.

“Recently I decided to take control of my life
and stop letting the past rule me. I started taking business classes and
thinking more about my family…I was fed up with where I was in life and I
wanted to make a change. I knew Tess was with him again that night so I called
her and told her that I knew she was cheating on me and that she needed to come
home right now or it was over.

“I was at the Grossmont Center parking lot at
the time, and I sat there for a while, debating what I should do next. I just
couldn’t pretend to look the other way anymore. I got home about the same time
as Tess did…I saw the front door slam when I pulled up the driveway. We started
fighting right away and I left the house. Stormed out actually…I was furious
and I didn’t want to stay inside. I went for a walk to cool off and returned
about forty-five minutes to an hour later.”

“A neighbor near Patrick Henry High School provided
us their recollection of a person matching your description, walking and
looking agitated near Patrick Henry High School the night of the murder. Since
you already said on record that you were out for a walk that night, the eyewitness
statement is sticking.” I sigh. “Did you honestly walk past the high school
that night?”

He pauses, and then in a whisper says, “Yes.”
He hangs his head in defeat. “Ky, I don’t have an alibi. It was late and dark
and I didn’t see anyone during that time. I guess a neighbor or driver could
have seen me out walking. I was just so mad. I didn’t think to look around.
Maybe if I was more aware…maybe I would have heard someone or seen
something…I’ve been rolling everything around in my head…considering I’ve had
so much time to think about it, but I just…I don’t—”

“What time was it when you both got home?”

“Uh…probably around nine? I checked the girls’
room before I went to resume the argument with Tess in our room. All the girls
were asleep…or so I thought.”

“Loral was in her bed?”

“Yes. I saw the back of her head. She was
turned away from the door so I just assumed she was sleeping.”

“And when did you storm out?”

“Not long after. Maybe nine-thirty or so…before
ten.”