Snapped (9 page)

Gretchen emptied the packet of orange powder into the saucepan and stirred with one hand while reaching for the refrigerator door with the other.

She scanned the shelves. No milk, damn it. She grabbed a tub of margarine instead and made a mental note to add milk to her grocery list—the one that never seemed to get fulfilled.

“Is it dinner yet?”

She shot a glance into the living room, where the twins sat cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by Legos.

“Almost.” She scooped out some margarine and added a dollop to the mac-n-cheese. “Did you girls drink milk today at Mrs. Garcia’s?”

“Yes,” they answered in unison.

Gretchen felt a touch of relief. They might be skimping at home, but at least she could count on Mrs. Garcia. The woman took care of six kids during the day, and her fridge was always stocked with milk and fruit. That and quesadillas had been staples of the twins’ diet since school let out.

Gretchen spooned pasta onto plates, then cut up a hot dog.

“Ready,” she said, ferrying the meals to the table. She returned to the kitchen and filled two cups with water as the girls sat down.

“So.” She sank into a chair. Families that ate together stayed together. Or was it prayed together? Either way, she made an effort to sit with her kids for at least a few minutes every evening. “Tell me what you did today.”

By some tacit agreement, Angela did the talking tonight. “Played freeze tag, watched SpongeBob, and folded clothes.”

“Whose clothes?”

They both shrugged.

Gretchen watched her girls shovel macaroni into their mouths. Their appetites amazed her. It was probably another growth spurt, one that was going to strain her bank account.

“Mrs. Garcia’s clothes?” she asked.

“No. Boy clothes.”

“
Man
clothes,” Amy corrected.

Gretchen considered that. Mrs. Garcia lived alone, so either she was taking in people’s laundry or she’d gotten herself a boyfriend. The woman was sixty-four and on the frumpy side, so Gretchen guessed this was another one of her businesses. She wasn’t sure she approved of her six-year-old daughters being used as un-hired help, but she couldn’t really complain. Affordable babysitters were scarce, and Gretchen couldn’t have any disruptions at work.

“Can I have more hot dog?” Amy asked, popping a chunk into her mouth.

“Use your fork, honey. And no, we’re out.”

Two pairs of solemn blue eyes looked up at her. They didn’t say anything, which was worse than complaining. Now Gretchen felt guilty. She got up and retrieved the TV remote from the coffee table to give herself a distraction.

News, sports, reality shows, more news. She tuned it to CNN and settled back in her chair.

“Amy, your fork, honey.” Gretchen slid the fork toward her, and she picked it up reluctantly. Her sister followed suit.

“Mommy, what’s a massacre?”

Gretchen darted a glance at the television. It was that school shooting down in Texas again.

“It’s when someone kills a lot of people.”

Both girls looked up.

“Why would someone kill a lot of people?” Angela asked.

Gretchen cast a wary look at the screen. Why, indeed? Why did men beat their wives, or drink too much, or do
any
thing? “I don’t know, honey. Amy, your
fork
.”

“But hot dogs are
finger
food. You said so.”

A knock sounded at the door, and Gretchen got up.

“Not without a bun,” she said. “And don’t argue with me.”

She shifted the curtain on the window beside the door and peered out.

Her heart skittered.

A pair of men in army dress uniforms stood on her doorstep. During every one of Jim’s deployments, she’d had nightmares about a scene like this. But Jim was out now, and anyway they were divorced. These men must have the wrong apartment.

She swung open the door and looked them over. Two crew cuts, two pairs of broad shoulders, two stony expressions.

“Gretchen Himmel?”

“No,” she said, her heart pounding now. “That is, not anymore.”

They stared at her.

“Are you the former wife of James K. Himmel?”

“I am.”

Gretchen’s chest tightened. Jim was
out
. What were these men doing here?

The TV droned behind her, talking about the sniper who’d climbed to the top of that library and shot all those people.

One of the soldiers glanced behind her at the television, and suddenly she
knew
. Her blood turned to ice.

“Ma’am, we need to talk to you about your ex-husband.”

Oh, no. Oh, Jim, how could you?

She clamped a hand over her mouth and thought about the girls.

James Himmel had spent his final night on earth in the Happy Trails Motel cleaning his guns.

Jonah watched one of the crime-scene techs lift a pair of oily rags from the trash.

“CLP oil, by the smell of it,” Jonah said.

The technician dropped the rags into a paper evidence bag and dipped his gloved hand back into the waste basket. In about the only stroke of luck they’d had in this case, Himmel’s room hadn’t been cleaned yet when Sean called the motel to check on a credit-card transaction.
Jonah had his secondary crime scene now, and it wasn’t nearly as grisly as he’d feared.

“Just heard from Sean,” Ric said. “They had the ex in there for more than two hours, and she swears she hasn’t seen him in more than a year. No recent fights or harassment.”

Jonah muttered a curse. Another dead end on the motive front.

But then again, Dr. Froehler’s discovery this afternoon had given them plenty to build on. They were running tests on some tissue samples to confirm it, but it looked as though their shooter had been dealing with not only a recently finalized divorce, but terminal cancer. Either one would have constituted a triggering event that could drive someone to murder. The two taken together were pretty overwhelming.

Still, there were matters left to investigate, the most important being Himmel’s connection to the university and whether he was acting alone at the time of the shooting. Even with the gunman dead and identified, even with Himmel’s immediate family safe and accounted for, Jonah wouldn’t rest easy until those questions were answered.

He stepped out of the way so several CSIs could wrap Himmel’s green canvas duffel bag with butcher paper to be transported to the lab.

“Army or police?” Jonah asked.

Ric glanced up from a pile of bank statements that was sitting on the dresser. “What’s that?”

“Who interviewed the ex?”

“Both. Couple of MPs picked her up, but I think they’re pretty eager to turn this over to the locals. He was
let go from the army about two years ago, and sounds like they’ve washed their hands of him.”

Jonah didn’t blame them. He hadn’t seen the news since Noonan’s press conference, but he could only imagine the field day the media was having with Himmel’s military connection.

Jonah had spent five years in the army before becoming a cop, and he disliked anything that reflected badly on the uniform. At the same time, what he
really
disliked were people who thought they were above the law. The law was the law, and no one was exempt.

“Here, look at this.” Ric held up one of the statements. “Looks like he printed these last week.”

“What’s his money situation?”

“Pretty bad. Nothing but withdrawals for the past three months.”

Ric continued to shuffle papers as Jonah crossed the cramped little room and poked his head into the bathroom for an update. Minh was crouched beside the john, lifting prints from the handle.

“You can bet your ass I’m putting in for overtime on this.” The CSI was ticked, and Jonah could see why. They’d probably turn up fifty different sets of prints in this crummy little motel suite, and it would take an ungodly number of man-hours to run them all.

“Got to cover all the bases,” Jonah said.

“You mean cover Noonan’s ass. I got that.”

“Hey, Jonah,” Ric called from the other room. “Get some gloves and come see this.”

Jonah swiped some gloves from Minh’s evidence kit and went to the bed, where one of the CSIs was on his knees photographing something.

Jonah crouched beside them. “What you got?”

“Looks like a teddy bear.” Ric pulled it from under the bed. On closer inspection, they saw that it wasn’t a teddy bear but a blanket with a bear head on top. The thing had dingy gray fur and one of its eyes was missing.

“What would a suicidal thirty-seven-year-old be doing with a kid’s teddy bear?” Ric asked. “Manager said he was alone in here.”

“Maybe it’s not his. Could be someone else left it.”

“Could be. Fleabag place like this, they probably don’t clean the rooms too well.”

Ric passed him the blanket, and Jonah frowned down at it. The thing was worn, even threadbare in places. It had obviously been well-loved—probably some kid’s security blanket—but it looked creepy for some reason. Jonah ran his hands over the natty fabric.

“Hey, it’s not a bear, it’s a rabbit.” Jonah glanced at Ric. “Looks like someone cut off its ears.”

Sophie’s date pulled into the parking lot and found an empty space right next to her Tahoe.

“Sorry to cut our evening short,” she told him.

“It’s no problem.” Mark slid out of his shiny black Acura and came around to open her door, demonstrating more of the perfect manners that had impressed her all evening.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” he asked, offering her a hand out of the car. His voice was genuinely concerned, and she felt bad for doing this to him.

“I’m fine. Really. Usually just a few aspirin and a good night’s sleep do the trick.”

They walked up the stairs together and her nerves
began to jump. She hated this part. Was he going to try to kiss her, or was he perceptive enough to let it go?

They reached her door, and she made a production of fishing for her keys.

“Well,” she said lamely. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You barely ate anything.” He smiled down at her, making sure she knew he wasn’t criticizing. More manners again. This guy was perfect, really. He was smart, courteous, interesting to talk to. He had a warm smile, and—an added bonus—he was two inches taller than she was. With all those pluses, she could get past the overly large Adam’s apple.

“It wasn’t the food,” she said. “I just don’t feel myself tonight.”

“You don’t have to explain. You’ve had a trying week. To be honest, I was surprised you didn’t cancel.”

Now she realized that she should have. At least then she wouldn’t have wasted his money on a piece of salmon she hardly touched.

He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Good night, Sophie. We can try this again when you’re feeling better.” And then he stepped back, ending the awkward good-night-kiss moment before it even began. This man was a prince.

Sophie gave him the first genuine smile of the night. “Thanks,” she said, and slipped into her apartment. She leaned back against the door and listened as his footsteps faded away.

Alone at last. Another night with just her thoughts and her nervous energy for company. Despite what she’d told Mark, she knew a good night’s sleep was not in her near future.

She tossed her purse on the chair and flipped on the TV to keep her company as she retrieved a Diet Coke from the fridge. She downed a few aspirin and stood there, waiting for the pills to slide down her throat.

Her head was throbbing. It had worsened after Jonah’s visit. Was it the construction noise at the lab or the stress of talking to him? Probably a combination of both.

Sophie pulled off her high-heeled sandals and went to change from her date clothes into her most comfortable sleepwear—an old Austin City Limits tank top and a pair of boxers. Then she scrubbed the makeup off her face and looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

What had Mark seen tonight? The cut on her face, obviously. It was a reminder that she’d been caught up in yesterday’s shooting. Maybe it was also the reason he’d been so understanding when she’d bailed out early on him. She hoped she hadn’t hurt his feelings. Nice guys were few and far between, and she didn’t want to discourage them.

Still, she couldn’t fake it. Despite her hopes when she’d agreed to go out with him, there had been no chemistry between them—no shiver when he touched her waist, no flutter in the pit of her stomach when he smiled at her. It was just … flat. It had been a long, long time since she’d felt anything but flat around a man. Yesterday had been an exception. She’d felt a flicker of that warm, tingly feeling she’d been missing. And so she’d acted on it, much too impulsively. But as usual, acting on impulse when it came to men was a bad idea—evidenced by the fact that Jonah now clearly thought she was up for some casual sex.

Which was not what she needed right now. Or ever.

Sophie looked at her reflection and sighed. Maybe Mark would have been good for her. He was different from the guys she usually dated. Not that she’d done much dating lately. Mark was bright, successful, a scientist. Her parents would fall in love with him on sight.

But they’d never get the chance, because there wasn’t going to be a second date, much less a meet-the-parents. If the tingle wasn’t there, what was the point?

Tom Rollins’s perfectly modulated television voice drifted in from the living room. The Summer School Massacre continued to dominate the news, and Sophie listened to new developments as she moisturized her face. Investigators had made an ID, evidently, and now Rollins was busy recounting the details of the murderer’s life: James Himmel had grown up in Mobile, Alabama. Star of his high-school track team. An Eagle Scout.

As if any of that mattered now.

She stared at her reflection, and it was back again. Ever since the winter, it had haunted her—all those imaginings of what
could
have happened, what
almost
had. The possibilities whispered around her like ghosts as she sat at the reception desk when the phones were quiet, or stood in the grocery aisle, or lay in bed at night thinking back over the day.