Tell Her No Lies Page 16

  Running, running, the camera heavy on his shoulder.

  Panting sound in his ears.

  The smell of something rotten in his nose.

  His stomach heaved. Breathe.

  “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

  Silently, he repeated his favorite verses over and over. The desire to hurl receded.

  He breathed and leaned his head back on the warm cloth upholstery. God, I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I’m so sorry. Tell Melanie I’m sorry.

  Melanie’s faith had been hit or miss. He should’ve done more. Friend evangelism was his forte. He’d been working on her for three years. Lord, please have mercy on her soul. She meant well. She didn’t deserve to die like this. Too soon. I’m sorry I didn’t do more. I needed more time.

  He opened his eyes. The video started again.

  The open door. The figure in black. Black ski mask.

  The race down the hallway.

  By the time he reached the front yard, the intruder was gone. He disappeared just as the cop cars arrived. Three of them skidding to a stop. All parked at weird angles. Guns drawn, they exited the marked SUVs.

  He had to get back to Melanie and Nina. But the drawn guns stopped him in his tracks. A second later he was flat on his face, his camera on the grass next to him.

  They didn’t handcuff him. After he produced his media ID, an officer escorted him to the backseat of the cruiser. He’d gotten Nina into this. He needed to get her out.

  Long, drawn-out minutes passed. Then she appeared in the doorway, handcuffed.

  They were crazy. His protests fell on deaf ears.

  Now she sat on the back of an ambulance parked directly across from the cruiser. Her camera still hung from her neck.

  A paramedic examined the back of her head. She leaned over. “One, two, seven, four, eight, nine.” She counted in a high, breathless voice. “One, two, seven, four, eight, nine.”

  Aaron poked his head out from the car.

  “Hey, I told you to sit tight.” The uniformed officer standing guard outside the vehicle looked familiar. Too many stories over too many years. “They’ll get to you eventually.”

  “Is Nina all right—the woman over there by the ambulance?”

  The officer shrugged. “From here it looks like she’s having a panic attack.”

  “I need to talk to her. I can calm her down. I can help.”

  “Nope. Suspects don’t get to coordinate their stories.”

  “I’m not a suspect.”

  In his mind.

  The officer scowled. “Media doesn’t get to interview a suspect before law enforcement. We have rules about stuff like that.”

  “Has she asked for a lawyer?”

  “None of your business.”

  “She’s with me.”

  “So you keep saying. Just sit tight.”

  Easy for him to say.

  “Aaron, Aaron! Over here!” Louis Aragon, a reporter for Univision, yelled from beyond the crime-scene tape the officers had strung from the mailboxes along the curb. “Is it true Melanie’s dead? What happened? Lovers’ quarrel?”

  Marked media units started showing up about ten minutes after the first responders. Word had spread fast that it was Melanie’s house. She would hate this. Hate being the story. She would want her station to have it first. He ignored Aragon.

  “Aaron, are you okay?” The high, familiar voice of Diana Mitchell cleared the chatter of the rest of the media. They’d worked together for his entire tenure at Channel 29. Aaron swiveled and craned his head.

  Diana was squeezed between photogs from Channel 5 and News 4. She’d been crying. She’d attended plenty of parties at Melanie’s house. She knew. “Should I ask Greg to call the station’s lawyers?”

  News director Greg Stevens would be having a cow about now. Aaron scooted toward the door again. “Can I talk to her?”

  “Are you kidding?” His grin derisive, the officer chuckled. “No talking to the media.”

  “She’s a friend.”

  “She’ll have to wait like the rest of them.”

  A dark-blue Crown Vic rolled up to the scene and parked at an angle. Detective King exited the driver’s side. He ripped dark Ray-Bans from his face. He looked as if he was itching for a fight. The guy with him was almost an exact replica, but he wore cheap sunglasses and kept trying to loosen a navy-and-red checked tie with two fingers.

  “Detective King, what can you tell us about Melanie Martinez’s murder?” A reporter from the Express-News got the first question in. Others followed in a cacophony of strident inquiries. They jostled against the tape and an officer waved them back. To be on the other side of that tape. It looked so good. So familiar. Getting the story, not being a part of the story. Sometimes a guy had to take a chance. He had to step up. Nina was worth it.

  King ignored Aaron’s buddies. His gaze rested on the officer next to Aaron. “Who’s in charge of the scene?”

  “Lopez.”

  King, followed by his sidekick, swaggered over to an almond-skinned, plainclothes officer standing on the sidewalk talking to a CSU tech who wore cowboy boots and jeans. The three engaged in conversation that looked more like an argument. Lots of hand waving and gesticulating. The Hispanic man’s face darkened. He stuck a cell phone to his ear and talked.

  More gesticulating.

  King turned and stalked toward the ambulance. His buddy tromped inside with Lopez.

  “King, wait.” Aaron stuck both legs out the door.

  The officer tried to shut the door on Aaron’s legs. “I told you to stay put and I meant it.”

  King changed directions “It’s okay. I need to talk to him anyway.”

  “Media always think they should get special treatment.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. They stink like three-day-old fish.” King leaned over and stared into the cruiser. He had the evil-eye thing down. He pinched his nose for a second. “Aaron McClure, right? You were in the house with Nina. What were you doing? Aiding and abetting?”

  “Melanie called. She was in trouble. We came to help.” Aaron wanted out of this car and he wanted Nina out of the handcuffs. “Nina had nothing to do with her death.”

  “Instead of calling the police?”

  “Nina called 911. The dispatcher tapes will prove it.”

  King wrinkled his nose as if he really could smell fish. “Let him out of the car.”

  The officer rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Lopez said to keep him separated from the suspect.”

  “I’m the lead investigator on the Fischer homicide. These two are persons of interest in my case.” King’s voice remained cool, but his expression said, “Don’t mess with me.” “Lopez has the scene, but I have these two.”

  “You’re King? The one who got his partner shot—?”

  “You should shut up now.” King whipped into the other cop’s space. The words were clipped and icy cold. “Not the time or place for historical chats.”

  The officer smirked, but he took a step back.

  Still clutching his camera, Aaron slid out and stood.

  “Over here.”

  They walked over to the shade of Melanie’s crepe myrtle. Aaron kept Nina within sight. She seemed lost in her own misery, unaware of anyone around her.

  King eyed the camera. “Shoot any video?”

  Aaron held on tighter. “Melanie called and said someone was in her house. She wanted me to come.”

  “To shoot the story?”

  Aaron nodded.

  “I want the video.”

  “Is Nina really under arrest? We heard a gunshot. We ran inside. Melanie was already dead.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the intruder ran out after the shot.”

  “But you didn’t see it happen and you ran after the intruder, leaving Miss Fischer alone with the victim.”

  “Do a GSR test. I
t’ll show Nina never touched the gun.”

  “We will. I want the video.”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  King held out his hand. “Video. I can get a warrant. You know I can.”

  “You won’t need a warrant. My bosses will want to help find Melanie’s killer. She was one of us.” His bosses would agree to hand over raw video to law enforcement. No sources were at risk and Melanie was family. “But I’ll make a copy at the station. I can send you an electronic file or bring you an MP4. Just let me talk to Nina.”

  “I’ll have an officer take you to the station to make the copy. Then he’ll bring you downtown to headquarters.”

  “I want to talk to Nina first.”

  “Did you and Miss Fischer meet a woman at Jim’s for breakfast this morning?”

  How could he possibly know that? “What does that have to do with this?”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes. We met Serena Cochrane for breakfast. She’s—”

  “Judge Fischer’s coordinator.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Shortly thereafter we got a call for a hit-and-run accident, an MV-Ped, not far from the restaurant.”

  A motor-vehicle-pedestrian accident. Aaron’s stomach roiled. The cinnamon roll and coffee threated to come up. “Was someone hurt?”

  “Mrs. Cochrane was hit. She died at the scene.”

  * * *

  King’s approach didn’t help with Nina’s anxiety attack. She inhaled, counted, exhaled, exactly as her therapist had taught her. The attacks had almost disappeared when she left San Antonio for college. Now they were back with a vengeance. Get a grip. The image of Melanie’s face floated in her mind. The blood. More images of Dad. Inhale, exhale.

  The morning’s event was like a rerun. Different location. Different time of day. But the same results. A body on the floor. Gun next to the body. A gaggle of reporters screaming at her, begging her for comment. Asking her if Melanie had been murdered. Asking her if she’d killed the reporter.

  Why would she do that? Melanie was helping Nina prove she didn’t kill her dad.

  Instead, she was finding proof that he was a corrupt judge.

  Enough reason for Nina to kill her in some people’s minds.

  Melanie had cursed like the old men who gathered around cans burning trash in the tent city and she drank more than most of them. She smelled much better, however. She smelled like Chanel No 5. During Nina’s short tenure at the newspaper, Melanie had been nice to her at news conferences and gaggles outside the courthouse or impromptu lunch gatherings before city council meetings.

  “Take the handcuffs off.”

  Fury raged in the detective’s dark eyes, but his tone was even. She held out her arms. The uniformed officer removed the cuffs.

  Rubbing her wrists, she stood. “I know you’re mad.”

  “Mad has nothing to do with it.” He turned to the paramedic. “Does she need to be transported?”

  “No. Minor bump on the head. The cut on her cheek is worse than it looks because of the existing injuries.” He ripped off his latex gloves. “She should probably see a doctor about the panic attacks if she’s not already.”

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.” They didn’t need to know about her therapy sessions or her medical issues. “You want to question me, do it. I’m a big girl.”

  “What were you doing here?”

  “I’m sure Aaron told you.” Aaron was slumped in the backseat of a police cruiser again. He had to be devastated about Melanie. “I saw you talking to him. I’d like to make sure he’s okay.”

  “He’s fine. Let’s talk about what you were doing here instead of staying at home and waiting for me to serve the warrant as previously instructed.”

  “It’s still a free country. I wasn’t under arrest.”

  “That could change since you decided to leave your home and bust in on another crime scene.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “You were found kneeling next to a gunshot victim. What do you think?”

  “I think she was dead before Aaron and I reached the hallway to her bedroom.”

  “How did it happen you were here at all?”

  Nina recounted the phone call from Melanie, the open door, and the man dressed in black.

  His expression doubtful, King rubbed his chin. “Black jeans. But still black.”

  “It felt different. He was . . . taller, leaner than my intruder. He looked like someone who works out. I don’t think it was the same man.”

  My intruder. It sounded so personal. It was personal.

  “With a black ski mask over his face?”

  “I’m not an idiot, Detective.” She stood and brushed past him. “Melanie was dead when we got here. An intruder shot her and killed her right before we walked through the door. Believe me. Don’t believe me.”

  King kept pace with her. “Why didn’t he shoot McClure? Or you?”

  “My guess is the gun belongs to Melanie. You’ll know soon enough, right? He threw it down and came charging out, not realizing we were there.”

  “He didn’t come to kill her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you take pictures?”

  “What?”

  He pointed at the Leica. “Did you, like your ghoulish photographer friend, take pictures during this alleged event you’re describing?”

  Nina’s hands clutched the Leica to her chest. Images flashed in her head. The Jesse Treviño painting. The overturned chair. Papers strewn everywhere. The blood. Open eyes. Had she taken those photos or were the images simply memories? She swallowed a hard lump in her throat and shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Everything happened fast. You may be used to situations like this, but I’m not.”

  “Can’t you tell by looking?”

  Nina checked the dial. Fifteen. How many shots had she taken at Haven for Hope last Friday? Had she put in a new roll? “Maybe. I’ll have to develop the film.”

  Disbelief mingled with impatience bloomed in King’s face. “How well did you know Serena Cochrane?”

  The change of subject gave Nina whiplash. She tried to regroup. “She was Dad’s coordinator for about fifteen years—for as long as I can remember.” Something in his tone tipped Nina off. “What happened to her?”

  “You seem to be leaving a trail of bodies in your wake.”

  He might as well have punched her in the gut. “I talked to Serena for a few minutes. She was fine—”

  “She’s not fine anymore. She’s dead.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I don’t lie.”

  “What happened to her?”

  His words were incomprehensible. A car accident. A hit-and-run. Sweet Serena with her fancy fingernails and designer shoes. Her love of Rosario’s enchiladas and Dancing with the Stars.

  “She can’t be. I just talked to her.”

  “I know. My point exactly.”

  Tears formed. Nina halted. She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, willing them away. Images rolled in her head. Serena lifting her into the big leather chair and handing her a Butterfinger candy bar. Serena painting her fingernails red when Daddy was busy in court. Serena teaching her to sing “I’ll Fly Away.” Serena laughing, her cheeks wobbling as she roared her signature line, “Lord give me strength!”

  King stuck his Ray-Bans on his face and stepped in front of her. “I’m going to get a CSU tech to swab you for GSR. You know the routine.”

  “I can’t believe she’s dead.” Her legs buckled.

  King grabbed her arm. “Easy.”

  “I’m fine.” She jerked away and staggered toward King’s Crown Vic. “Let’s go. I’ll do whatever I have to do. I want Serena’s killer found. I want Melanie’s killer found. My dad’s killer.”

  “Then we want the same thing. But first I need to see the video your friend shot. I’m going to have my colleague drive you downtown if you
’re willing to go.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “Good. We’ll talk at headquarters.”

  Another uptake of adrenaline and Nina’s back straightened. “I also know my rights.”

  King smiled and saluted. “Tell Mr. Teeter he is always welcome.”

  “Like you could keep him away.”

  The bodies were piling up. People she loved were dying. The killer was there. “The longer you mess with me, the less time you spend finding the real killer.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m good at my job.”

  Not as good as he seemed to think. If he didn’t want to look for the real killer, she would.

  20

  The second Jack Daniel’s straight went down smoother than the first. Rick figured three or four more and he would forget the moment he was face-to-face with Nina in Melanie’s hallway. Nina and her sidekick, Aaron. She wasn’t supposed to be there. No one was supposed to be there. But least of all the woman he’d loved since he was ten. The ski mask saved him. Having the wherewithal to put it back on before he left the bedroom had to be God looking out for him.

  Nina could never know he killed a woman. No one could know, but especially Nina. She was good. She wouldn’t understand he did it for them, for their future, for their life in DC, away from their crummy pasts. He would be a respected representative, one day a senator, or maybe even a cabinet member. Who knows? The first Hispanic president if one of the Castro twins didn’t beat him to it. She would be a famous photographer. As famous as Ansel Adams. Maybe she’d work for National Geographic. They would have beautiful kids. He simply had to hang tight and let this blow over.

  Hang tight. Get a grip. Suck it up.

  Rick wiped his face and turned to face his boss. Peter was angrier than Rick had ever seen him. Except maybe the morning Fischer had been murdered. They had Fischer right where they wanted him. It had been a perfect arrangement for both parties. Jerome’s presence was likely the only thing that kept Peter from a total meltdown. Chuy, the door breaker and all-around bouncer, had been sent on a sandwich run.