“So, if you know anything, this would be the time to let me know.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because it’s a crime to withhold evidence. For example, say we find out that Joe
y didn’t just leave the area, that he actually was murdered and you knew something about it, then you would be tried as an accomplice.” That maybe stretched the truth a bit, but it had the desired effect. Wanda looked quickly away and fiddled with the “cubic Z” ring that had returned to her left ring finger since Alvarez’s last visit.
“It would be a shame if you had to do time for something Maurice did, especially since he’s thrown you over for Carnie Tibalt and—”
“I’m still married to him!” Wanda cut in, her face an angry, red pout. “She’s nothing to him, just something to play with. He loves me!” she said, hooking a thumb at her chest, where her robe gapped to display her ill-fitting pajamas.
“You’ve talked to him?”
“No . . . I . . .” She swallowed hard, tears again filling her eyes.
“Well, think about it, Mrs. Verdago. You might believe you’re saving him, but what about you? If the situation were reversed and he had to cover for you, would he do it? I don’t think so. What’s he ever done for you besides lie to you and place a fake diamond on your finger?”
Wanda Verdago blinked and sniffed, her jaw set as Alvarez left her card on the coffee table. “Call me if you change your mind.” She took three steps toward the door to let herself out, when Wanda let out an unhappy sob.
“Wait,” she called, the waterworks flowing steadily now. “Okay. You’re right. I . . . I do have some information. About Joey. About what happened. But I want a lawyer and immunity if I testify. I don’t want to set one foot in jail.” She shuddered in her tight bathrobe. “I’ve seen enough episodes of Law and Order. I know my rights.”
It was one thing to be the butt of the jokes of morons who hadn’t bothered growing up, it was quite another to agree with them that she’d made a major screwup.
What had she missed? What, what, what?
Again, Pescoli looked at the maps, and again she went over the information . . . the traffic cam was located at the last major intersection out of town, the road Verdago had been driving on headed into the hills. Because of the time of the photograph—at 3:17 in the morning—she’d just assumed he’d been returning to his hideout. That, as Brewster had so definitely pointed out, was wrong. Settling back in her chair, she eyed the county and state maps.
If not Samuels’s place, then where?
He could have broken into any one of hundreds of cabins, summer homes in the area, but that didn’t feel right to her. And why was Carnie with him? If he were on a killing spree, would she willingly go along?
The woman had no arrest record, no infractions with the law. So now she’s a partner to murder? Or had she been kidnapped? Duped?
Her family had once lived around Grizzly Falls but now was scattered, parents split, mother dead, father remarried and living the Aloha lifestyle in Hawaii. She had a handful of cousins in Washington and Oregon and an uncle in Duluth, Minnesota. No siblings.
So far, none of the calls made to her family by deputies had brought out any information of consequence. More telling, and sad, no one seemed to care much about Carnival’s disappearance.
One cousin, Rachelle, had said, “It’s kinda too bad about Carnie. She’s just not all that bright.”
Her father’s response was, “I don’t know what she’s mixed up in, if anything, but I don’t worry too much about her. She’s like her mother, you know, always lands on her feet.”
Only her uncle, Davis Briscoe, had anything of importance to say. “Poor thing never had a chance. Her mother—that was my sister, Lizzie—drank herself to death, and Harvey, well, he just wasn’t any good at bein’ a dad. He does a whole lot better over on Maui or wherever he is. I tried with Carnie, when I lived there, but, hey, I had to take the job here.”
As an afterthought, Pescoli searched titles of property in and around Grizzly Falls for Carnival Tibalt and found nothing. Again. The same went for Harvey and Lizzie, even though she was dead, just on the off chance there had been a slipup, but the search was a bust.
“One last resort,” she said, sipping coffee gone cold as she checked out good old Uncle Davis Briscoe and sure enough, he still owned property in Montana, in Pinewood County, in the very hills and off that same road out of town as Vincent Samuels.
“Well, hello,” she said softly, her spirits lifting as she once again rechecked the maps.
As she did, she felt that same rush that told her she was on to something. Yesterday it had failed her, however, so she told herself to tread carefully. This time she wouldn’t risk more fallout. She would check the place out in broad daylight by herself. From a distance.
Take precautions. If you’re right, you’ll need backup.
She stopped by Alvarez’s office and stuck her head inside, but her partner’s neat desk was empty, her chair pushed into the desk, a screen saver rolling over her computer monitor.
Brewster, too, wasn’t in, so she called Alvarez and left a voice mail, then bundled up and headed to her Jeep. Alvarez’s Subaru wasn’t in the lot, which was odd, and Jeremy’s truck was MIA, though it could be that he wasn’t scheduled to work today; his hours were part-time and flexible. As for Brewster, she really didn’t care where he was after the dressing down she’d been subjected to yesterday.
As she climbed into her Jeep, she thought about how nearly a week earlier she’d planned on talking to Grayson about resigning. Now, it sounded like a good idea again, and this time she could shove her resignation under Cort Brewster’s pointed better-than-thou nose. She’d marry Santana, take care of her kids until they left the nest, even consider going private, become a partner with O’Keefe, as he was thinking of moving to Grizzly Falls. Starting the engine, she felt a little better. As a private detective she wouldn’t have all the rules and regulations and chain of command to worry about.