Sky High (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 2) (14 page)

Nineteen

Genevieve “Ginny” Corday was an FBI agent, and although I didn’t want to keep looking, I clicked on an “Images” link to make sure I was right about where we’d met. One look at her photo confirmed it. She was the peppy blond who had helped with my PI training a year ago—and giggled a lot with Dean while at it. My surveillance partner and I had tailed them for practice, and my early crush on Dean had made it slightly uncomfortable to watch them have so much fun.

In the end, though, they didn’t appear to be a couple, so I hadn’t thought about her since.

And I don’t want to start now
, I thought. But I’d ignored so many signals with Jason before. How could I, in good conscience, pretend the guy I was seeing wasn’t living with someone?
Or not living with someone
, I reminded myself. Maybe she was moving out. Still, Ginny co-owned the home. If nothing else, they had a financial commitment to one another that required incredible trust.
Maybe she’s just a friend
, I thought.
Or, even better, a lesbian friend.
Dean knew I volunteered at a local LGBTQ organization, so he knew I’d be okay with that.

As my suspicion grew and Jason’s lies replayed in my head, it hit me.
The red box.
How could I have forgotten? I’d been ready to tear the house apart, but so much had happened that it had slipped my mind. If only that meant I was moving on from the past. Instead, I was probably just exhausted.

I postponed thinking about whether—and how—to address issues related to Megan and Ginny and decided to start my red box search, just for a few minutes. If I really made my way around the house, maybe I’d give myself credit for exercise, too.

I looked at the clock. Less than an hour before the kids were due home.

Ready. Set. Go.

I spent half an hour emptying and re-stuffing drawers, closets, and bookshelves. Plenty of exercise, little organization, and no red box.

In my last minutes of free time, I checked email and glanced at my phone when it rang, hesitant to answer since I had to rush to the bus stop. The unfamiliar number on the caller ID intrigued me, so I picked up with plans to talk on the way if necessary.

Good thing, because it was Eli, who had heard about Bruce’s body. A recording played, reminding us our conversation was being monitored.

“Against my attorney’s judgment, I want to talk to you and your partner,” he said. “I didn’t do this, and I want your help. Can you come down here today?”

I thought of the school bus lumbering its way down the main drag, which ran in front of my house. I kept watch out the window, knowing that if I took off when I saw it, I’d just make it, out of breath and embarrassed, but on time.

“Eli, I’m glad you called. I’m right in the middle of something, but Dean and I will do our best to see you today,” I said. “What facility are you in?”

“King County Adult Detention Center.”

“Do you know what the visiting hours are?” Did jails even have visiting hours? Or was I confusing them with hospitals?

I grabbed a pen and paper and jotted down a phone number and website. Eli said he’d added us to his visitors list; we just needed to check when to arrive, since visiting hours were organized by inmates’ last names.

I promised to get back in touch as soon as possible. Then, while jogging to the bus stop, I called Dean to explain our probable evening plans. I suggested he make sure Frank was okay with us visiting Eli.

“I gotta go,” I added, mostly because I didn’t want to keep heavy breathing in his ear. “I’m at the kids’ bus stop. I’ll call you in a bit.”

I rested my hands on my knees and smiled at the moms, dads, grandparents, and siblings who had gathered on time, many of whom were attached to dogs or strollers.

“Went for a run?” my friend Irene asked as the bus groaned to a stop. A line of disappointed drivers began forming behind it.

“I wish,” I said. “Just from my house.”

Her kids got off the bus first with Jack and Sophie close behind.

“Hi, guys!” I said. “How was your day?” Sophie blessed me with a hug. Jack had outgrown bus stop hugs and high-fived me instead.

“Good,” they both said.

More questions—carefully worded ones—were in order. For a lot of people.

“You forgot my permission slip,” Jack said as he dropped his backpack in the foyer and took off his shoes.

“It was due today?” I asked, knowing I should know.

“Yes, but the teacher said we can drive it back to school.”

The front office stayed open for another half hour, but neither kid would want to leave after just getting home.

“I’m hungry,” Sophie said.

“You guys wash your hands, and I’ll grab something special for the car,” I said.
And the permission slip I still need to fill out…if I can find it.

“Do I have to put on my shoes again?” Jack asked.

“Bring them,” I said, especially willing to negotiate due to my absentmindedness.

In her relentless pursuit of sibling equality, Sophie proceeded to take off her shoes and “bring them” too.

A frantic search through papers stacked in the kitchen yielded the form, so I moved on to the pantry, where organic tortilla chips and strawberry milk would have to do.

“Okay,” I said. “Ready? We’ll make this quick.”

I led them to the car and handed them their snacks. They munched while I checked boxes and filled in blanks.

Yes
, Jack could go.
No
, I couldn’t chaperone. My stomach was already lurching at the thought of Jack spending the day in D.C. without me.

I ripped a check from my wallet and filled it out, making sure it covered his fees, $10 in gift shop spending money, and an extra $30 so a needy student could attend and visit the gift shop too.

After adding every other requested detail, including the emergency contact information I knew by heart, I tucked it all into an envelope and labeled it with the teacher’s name.

Finally, before I could forget, I updated my checking account register, leaving my balance at $150.14. That meant when I got home, I needed to transfer money from savings. Every time I had to do that—take money from the life insurance funds my dad and Jason had left me—it meant paychecks weren’t paying the bills, and there was less for emergencies and the kids’ futures. I was extremely fortunate to have backup funds, but every withdrawal hurt.

I started the car and thought about Mia. Would she benefit in any way from Bruce’s death? Or would anyone else? I didn’t look forward to the uncomfortable process of finding out. And what had happened to the fifty thousand dollars Bruce had supposedly offered Eli? I’d ask him about that if we visited.

“Are we leaving, Mom?” Jack asked. “My teacher might be gone soon.”

“We’re going, sweetie.” I put the van in reverse. “And when we get home, we’re going on a treasure hunt, right after you finish your homework.”

“A treasure hunt?” Sophie asked. “For what?”

“Red boxes. Every time you find one, you get a prize.”

I’d already found several and left them visible, including a box of oatmeal, a shoebox, and jewelry box, so I knew they’d come across several without getting frustrated. I promised each box was worth fifteen minutes of extra TV time for both of them. Go, team!

Questions poured in, all of which I wished Lydia could answer.

“Why are we looking for red boxes?”

“What’s in them?”

“Where did they come from?”

I kept repeating the same answer: “It’s a surprise.”

Eventually, it would be.

“Football’s on tonight,” Kenna reminded me when I called about my babysitting dilemma. “Andy won’t be home until after midnight, and your kids earned all that TV time. They can come over and watch movies while I give Sky her bath and tuck her in. They can even spend the night. That would give you extra time with Dean.” She wobbled her voice comically.

Hopefully this would be the only time I’d need a babysitter because I was “going to jail.”

Jack and Sophie had earned an hour and fifteen minutes of screen time after finding five meaningless red boxes around the house—with the exception of a red box of hot chocolate packets, which was quite meaningful to them. Thanks to their efforts, I was pretty sure there were no undiscovered red boxes in their rooms, the playroom, or the kitchen.

Jail visiting hours were from seven to nine, and if we didn’t go then, Dean and I couldn’t see Eli until Sunday, when inmates with last names starting with H through N could have visitors next. So I accepted Kenna’s offer and made an early dinner that included hot chocolate.

“I wish I could go with you,” Kenna said when I dropped the kids off in their pajamas. Jack had bravely left Super Teddy in our basement playroom, and I’d warned Kenna not to mention it. “Visiting J-A-I-L sounds so interesting.”

“Jack can spell,” I reminded her, glad he’d darted to the big screen in her living room, where a movie was just starting, “and I wish you could go too.”

“So Dean’s picking you up?” she asked, looking out the front door. “It’s nice that he always drives.”

“Anything to keep him out of my van.”

Kenna had met Dean before he left to work overseas, but she hadn’t seen him up close since then. She’d confessed to peeking out the window when he picked me up for Mia’s wedding, and apparently she’d involuntarily whistled like a construction worker, irritating her husband Andy. Thank goodness we hadn’t heard her.

“Hey, speaking of messes,” I said, “I organized my purse in case the jail searches it. Before I put Rita’s card away, I thought you might want to check out her website.” I handed her the card.

“Pole Parties?” she said. “That’s clever.” It had an image of a pink pole and a woman in bikini-like attire hanging off it, with drops of water (or sweat?) flying off her long, sexy hair.

I wanted to tell her about Ginny, but the subject was too heavy for a quick talk. I’d call her as soon as I could.

“I’ll text you when I get out of jail, okay?” I said as I heard Dean’s car pull into the driveway. I called a quick goodbye to the kids, who were glassy-eyed on her couch. I’d warned them to behave well and hoped they’d follow through. There was a limit to how long they could maintain guest manners at someone’s house (usually about two hours), and I was testing it with a sleepover.

“Stay out as late as you want,” Kenna teased. “If I don’t hear from you by eight thirty, the kids are sleeping here. What time do you want them ready for school?”

“With breakfast, at seven thirty,” I said. “Without breakfast, at seven fifteen. Thanks again. I owe you big time.”

After plenty of small talk and no mention of roommates (other than my adorable, pint-size ones), Dean and I parked in the King County Adult Detention Center lot. I started to get out with my freshly organized replacement purse, which I’d retrieved from storage and de-crumbed over a trashcan at home.

“Wait,” Dean said. “You should leave your bag in the car and only bring in your license, unless you need anything else.”

“What about my cell phone?”

“It’s not allowed.”

“Okay.”

I sat down and texted Kenna that I’d be out of reach. Meanwhile, Dean pocketed his car key and put his keychain and wallet in the glove compartment. I set my purse on the floor and hoped no one would notice it. I wasn’t sure whether jail parking lots were safer or less safe than normal.

“It’s been a long time since I visited an inmate, but parking here brings it back. They have the right to search visitors, too.”

I’d seen that on the website, but somehow I’d missed the bag and phone details. I knew we’d only have twenty minutes with Eli, and they’d be spent on a wall phone, talking through a clear shield. And if we didn’t arrive at least thirty minutes early, the whole thing could be canceled. Apparently, visitor screening took a while.

“Do they have two phones for visitors, or do we take turns?” I asked Dean. He wasn’t sure. We decided I’d do most of the talking, since I’d done it in Florida, which seemed like forever ago.

After completing a check-in process that included showing our IDs, passing through a metal detector, and waiting with fellow visitors—many of whom were children—we were led into a visitation room not unlike what I’d seen on TV. It was divided into ten small, glass-walled cubicles for easy supervision, each with single, old-fashioned phone receivers on both sides of the glass barrier. Guards watched and probably heard everything.

Eli had gone from looking like a catalog model to looking like a model prisoner, clean shaven and polite in his orange jumpsuit. He stood as we approached, nodded, and picked up the phone on his side of the wall, gesturing for me to do the same.

We sat on small, unpadded, immoveable stools. No one could pick them up and smash them in anger, and the same went for the phones, which connected through the walls with thick, metal cords.

“Thanks for coming,” Eli said. “I don’t know what else to do. I’m innocent, and I have to prove it.”

“Your lawyer can hire investigators, Eli, and what they discuss can be privileged. Are you sure you want to talk with us? As you know, our conversations aren’t private.”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and I keep coming back to what you said in Florida. Your goal is to find the truth. Yeah, my lawyer has investigators, but they’re playing catch up, and you’re not. I’d hire you if I could, or have my lawyer hire you, but you’re working for someone else. And meanwhile, the police are focused on me. I asked you here so you could look me in the eyes and hear what I’m saying.
I did not do this.
”

“We hear you,” I said, “but the evidence tells a different story, and you don’t deny that. It’s also hard to believe you came all the way to Virginia just to talk to Bruce. Why not just call Mia and warn her?”

“I tried. I emailed her through that NUVA group, and I left a voicemail, too. I never heard back. I don’t blame her. She doesn’t know me from Adam, and I wasn’t going to leave specifics on a message. For all I know, Bruce would delete it before it got to her or take out his frustration on her.”

“Why not go to Mia’s house first then? Why meet with Bruce?”

He stared at me, as if considering whether to say more. Then he leaned closer, as if that would give us privacy.

“I guess you could say I was weak. I wanted to look him in the face and hold him accountable. And he was even more cowardly than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“First he tried to convince me that he and Andrea had a misunderstanding, and he was sorry about it. He said he’d never make that mistake again. Then he offered me money to shut me up. It was one long line of inexcusable bull. Innocent people don’t show up at two a.m. trying to pay people off. What an idiot!” He looked around and regained control.

“How did you react then?”

Eli took a deep breath and let it out. “I pushed him and the money away, and I slapped him once. Hard. It knocked him off his feet. Then I gave him a piece of my mind he’d never forget. When I left, he was sitting on the ground with his hand on his face, very much alive. Just as much a coward as ever. I drove away, went by the wedding the next day, and assumed he’d taken my advice.”

Eli’s shoulders sank, as if he’d just released the weight of the world.

“Did you ever see the money, or was it in something?” I asked.

“It was in a bag. I never saw it.”

“Where do you think it is now?”

“I have no idea. I’m sure everyone thinks that because I’m a banker, I hid it somehow, but the fact is I don’t need it or want it, and I don’t specialize in hiding money. I left the bag with Bruce, and for all I know, it was empty or filled with paper.”

“Did it feel empty?”

“No. It was a green backpack, and it had something in it. I don’t know what.”

“How could you see its color?”

He described pulling in and leaving his headlights on, facing Bruce’s car. Bruce had been leaning on the trunk, holding the bag.

I looked at Dean to see if he had anything to say. He reached for the phone receiver.

“Eli, how did you get the contact information for Bruce and Mia?”

“Off the internet. Simple.”

“And what did you say on the messages to Mia?”

“That I had information she should know before her wedding. Nothing specific. I used an anonymous address for the emails.”

“Did you do anything else that night? Anything that could account for your whereabouts for the rest of the evening, before or after you saw Bruce?”

“After I saw him, I went back to my hotel and sat in the parking lot, calming down. Then I went in and got room service. If I’d known he was going to disappear, I would have done a lot more. My lawyer’s got all the receipts.”

“What about before?”

“Nothing. I took a ten o’clock flight from Florida and didn’t even check in until afterward. It took me a while to get my luggage and rent a car, and then I drove around, contemplating everything.”

“Do you remember any other specific times? Especially what time you met Bruce?”

“Two a.m. I got to the park a few minutes before that, if the rental car’s clock was right. He was already there, wearing all black like some badass, waiting. I was too angry when I left to notice the time. I doubt I was there more than fifteen minutes.”

“How did you set up that meeting?”

“When I couldn’t reach Mia, I called Bruce, like I told you. He refused to cancel the wedding and hung up on me. So I called back and told him I’d give him one more chance to work this out before I stopped the wedding myself, and he told me where and when to meet him.”

“When was it that you spoke to him the second time?”

“Friday afternoon. He disappeared that night.”

And died. The question was when Eli knew that.

Getting out of jail was a lot easier than getting in, and I was relieved to exit its dark, oppressive interior.

Just a small taste of constant supervision was enough to make me appreciate freedom—and rethink some of my parenting approaches.

“If he did it, I think it was a crime of passion,” Dean said in the car, where my purse was still intact, and my phone was free of new messages. “I just don’t believe he left Florida planning to kill Bruce.”

“I agree. But I think Bruce could have easily enraged him. He started off saying they just talked. Now he admits to slapping him. What’s next? Hitting him with a tire iron? And by the way, do guys really slap each other?” I’d seen it on reality TV, but even then it looked fake.

“Bruce has what, twenty-five years on Eli? I don’t know what kind of shape Bruce was in, but Eli only had one advantage: He’s tall. He’s probably been looking down at guys his whole life. A slap would be a pretty good way to get his point across without risking a brawl. Kind of an old guy way of cutting Bruce down to size. I mean, he said he hit him hard enough to knock him down, and we know he swings a tennis racket pretty hard.”