Scar Tissue Page 18

  “Hey, Cheevers.” I heard the cop yell just before he put me on hold.

  When he got back on the line he told me he had a couple officers who would take a ride around Mike’s cycling routes in case he was out there with a flat tire or something.

  Or something, I thought. I thanked the cop and gave him my number.

  My hands were shaking when I dropped the phone back into my pocket. It was only a matter of time now before they found him and came to tell Rhea that Mike was dead. I looked down at my hands and realized for the first time what I must look like to the nurses. I’d picked up Rhea directly after staging Mike in the ditch and then climbing into the yet-to-be swimming pool and burying his gear. My fingernails were filthy and the creases in my palms were filled with grime. My shoes and yoga pants were covered with dust. If the police came and saw me like this, it may raise some suspicion. I took the elevator to the gift shop.

  Hospital gift shops tend to carry a little of everything. I took a pair of black sweat pants, a matching zippered top and a Sea Dogs baseball hat to the register and handed the woman behind the counter my credit card. In the nearest bathroom, I stripped off my filthy tee shirt and pants, washed my face, wiped down my shoes with a wet paper towel and put on my new outfit, depositing everything inside the trashcan. I hadn’t thought about needing to get rid of my clothes, but when I tossed them into the barrel I realized that traces of my evening endeavor were undoubtedly written all over them. Getting rid of the evidence should have been a priority. Every criminal makes a mistake. I hoped I’d just rectified mine.

  When I got back to Rhea’s room no one seemed to notice my change in attire. Rhea was propped up against fresh pillows holding her now bathed and swaddled daughter and smiling a smile that only a new mother can project.

  “Britt,” she said looking up, her smile fading slightly.

  “She’s perfect.”

  “I’m going to name her Delia, after my mother.”

  I laid my palm lightly against the baby’s head. “That’s a beautiful name.”

  “Has anyone…”

  I shook my head. “Griff’s going over to your house to see if Mike’s there. And I called the station. They said a couple of officers would drive around the area where he rides in case he got a flat tire.”

  She nodded, her eyes holding mine. But it wasn’t fear I saw in them anymore. It was more like a wariness or caution. She had someone other than herself to protect now and her determination showed.

  I wished I could change the way it had all played out. I wished she could feel nothing but joy in this moment. But I’d done all I could to ensure that her future would be better than her past. It was what happened now that I couldn’t control.

  Griff called and told me Mike’s bike had not been at the house and asked if I wanted him to come to the hospital. I told him no and said that I’d be home as soon as Mike arrived. An hour later two cops walked into the room. Their eyes were on Rhea and their faces told us what they were about to say before they opened their mouths.

  “Hi, Jim,” Rhea said with a smile. I could have kissed her. In no way did she look fearful or expectant. She shifted Delia in her arms. “Want to take a peek?”

  The cop turned his hat in his hands. “Rhea,” he said. “We found Mike.”

  She raised her eyebrows expectantly. “Is he coming? He has a daughter to meet.”

  In all the time I’d known Rhea, she’d never been so smooth, so confident, so committed to a cause.

  “Rhea,” the cop said. “Mike had an accident. We’re not sure what happened, yet.”

  Rhea held his eyes, waiting.

  “He went off the side of the road over an embankment. Or, it could have been a hit and run. We don’t know, but believe me we’ll find out.”

  “Where is he? Is he hurt?”

  “Rhea,” the cop kept twisting his hat. “I’m so sorry…the fall killed him.”

  She kept staring at him as though she didn’t understand what he’d said. The room was silent. Even the nurse stopped bustling around, her eyes shifting from Rhea back to the cop.

  “Do you want me to hold her for a minute?” I asked stepping up to the bedside and reaching for the baby.

  Rhea shook her head. “No, no…I need…” Her voice trailed off and she buried her head into Delia’s pink blanket and began to cry.

  The cop shifted from one foot to the other, looking miserable.

  “C’mon.” I motioned them into the hallway. “What happened?” I asked once we were out of earshot from the room.

  “We found him off Route 100. He’d gone off the side. Looked like he’d lost control and skidded over the edge or he could have been run off the road.”

  “Can you find out who did this?”

  The cop shrugged. “Won’t be easy. The road’s a short cut from 100 over to Route 9. Not a lot of people use it ‘cause it’s dirt and full of potholes, but there are enough tire tracks that there’s no way of knowing which ones sent Mike over the edge, or even if that’s what happened. It could have been his error. It’ll be tough to get an answer on this. I didn’t want to tell his wife that, though.”

  I nodded. “I don’t blame you. Where is he now?”

  “Downstairs, in the morgue.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” the cop said. “What happened to her face?”

  At this point it didn’t much matter what I said. I shrugged. “That’s another story. I’m her neighbor. I’ll stay with her. Does she need to do anything as far as you’re concerned?”

  The cop shook his head. “No. Tell her we’ll let her know if we find anything. Oh, and the chief will be in touch to make funeral arrangements. He’ll be buried with full honors.”

  I watched them go to the elevator and felt like a thousand pounds had just dropped off my shoulders. They’d read the scene the way I’d hoped. Now if it just stayed that way Rhea and I would be free and clear, at least where the law was concerned.

  Twenty-Seven

  I left Rhea and Delia snuggled tight against each other, sleeping. Best place for both of them. I hoped once home, I could do the same, but doubted my adrenalin surge was going to abate anytime soon. Rhea had left the pantry cabinet on the floor. One last job before I could leave this day behind.

  I flipped on the lights and stepped into Mike and Rhea’s kitchen. Standing still, I surveyed Rhea’s clean up. She was right. The room looked spotless. No one would suspect that only a few hours earlier this had been the scene of a beating and then a murder. It was hard to wrap my head around everything that had taken place. And right now, I didn’t have time to try. I wanted this over with. I wanted to get home to Griff.

  I slid the heavy pantry cabinet across the floor over to the back door then scraped it down the stone steps and dragged it into the garage. Rhea could say it was being refinished if anyone asked, but I doubted they would. I felt confident that what I’d done tonight, and our story, would keep us in the clear.

  The house was dark when I pulled into the driveway, but the branches hanging over the roof were lit with a golden hue coming from the skylights. Griff was waiting up.

  I closed the front door behind me and let my bag fall to the tiled entryway. Suddenly weary, I knew my night was far from over. Griff would want to know everything that had happened.

  Everything? I asked myself as I headed for the kitchen.

  Opening our makeshift liquor cabinet, I perused our stash and reached for the Cinnamon Whiskey. I’m not a whiskey drinker. I rarely indulge in anything stronger than wine, but tonight called for something heftier than grapes.

  “I’ll get the glasses,” Griff said coming up behind me, kissing my neck and taking a couple of rocks glasses from the cupboard. “Must have been a rough labor if you’re hitting the hard stuff. Mike show up?”

  I turned toward him leaning my hip against the counter and watched him pour. I love Griff. There’s no one I’m closer to except maybe Amy. And there’s nothing he doesn’t know about me, but right
now, at this moment, he doesn’t know that I’ve covered up a crime…a murder. So, should he know? Will it make our relationship stronger? Or, will it threaten his belief that someday I should be the mother of his child? After all, if I could do this, what else might I be capable of?

  I took the glass he offered and swallowed half then refilled it without speaking.

  “Whoa, that bad?” He capped the bottled and replaced it on the shelf, slung his arm around my shoulder and steered me toward the stairway. “Tell me all about it.”

  “Mike’s dead,” I said planting my foot on the first step.

  “What?” Griff stopped.

  “Biking accident. He went off the road out near Route 100. Cop said it could have been a hit and run, but the chances of finding the driver are pretty slim.”

  “A biking accident? On the day his baby is born? That’s awful. How’s Rhea?”

  “Torn, I think. I mean she was a little teary. She must have loved him at some point. She married him. Truthfully? I think she’s feeling more relief than grief.”

  I went into the bathroom and took off my hat, grateful that it had hidden my bandaged head from Griff. I wasn’t sure yet how much I was going to say. Under the spray of the shower, I watched rivulets of dirt and blood run off my skin. When the water ran clear I toweled off, took another handful of ibuprofen and slipped into bed beside him.

  We lay on our backs staring at the ceiling, shoulders and thighs touching. I kept wondering if I should come clean, tell him the whole grisly story, but the words wouldn’t come. So, I said nothing, just sipped my whiskey until my head felt comfortably fuzzy and my eyes began to close. I felt Griff take the glass from my hand, heard the click of the bedside lamp being turned off and drifted into darkness.

  It was the bacon that woke me. But my culinary pleasure was short lived when the memory of last night crushed me like a wave. Mike was dead by Rhea’s hand and buried by mine. I made it to the bathroom in time to hang my head over the toilet and vomit all of last night’s images into the basin. Beating the bicycle with the shovel, the tires, his helmet then affixing it to his already lifeless head. Sending him over the edge with a flip of my toe. It had all been so easy, too easy. What kind of person was I that I could, without hesitation, dispose of another human being? An asshole yes, but still a person.

  “Hungry?” Griff’ called up the stairs.

  I leaned my head out the bathroom door grasping the knob to hold myself up. “Be right down.” I cupped my hands under the faucet and splashed cold water into my face. When I stood vertigo took over. I grabbed the sink to steady myself. When my feet felt stable, I lifted a towel from the rack and dropped my head into it, spinning in the darkness. After a double dose of ibuprofen, I looked in the mirror. My face looked the same. But nothing about me felt the same. I was capable of things I’d never thought possible. And none I was proud of.

  “You look terrible,” Griff said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sorry, I don’t mean terrible, I guess just tired.”

  “It was a rough night.”

  “Maybe watching Rhea give birth took more out of you than you were prepared for.” He set a plate in front of me and kissed my head.

  I winced.

  “You okay?”

  “I fell helping Rhea out her kitchen door. Banged my head on the stone steps. It’s just a lump. It’ll heal.”

  “Jesus, Britt. Why didn’t you say something when you got home last night? Want some ice?”

  I waved him away. “I’m fine,” I lied.

  He poured our coffee and took a seat on the stool beside me. “I thought we should pay a visit to Greg and Gwen this morning and wrap this whole thing up.”

  “I thought you wanted more evidence?”

  “I’ve come around to your way of thinking. We give the Lamberts our rendition of what happened and they can do with it whatever they want.”

  Griff had the partial story. Mike had hooked Ashley on PEs to get back at his half-sister, but he hadn’t deliberately sent Ashley off the edge. Like he’d said, she was just a means to his end. He’d wanted Gwen to pay for the pain she’d caused him. And as far as Mike’s money, that had come from the man at the helm of it all, his father. Should I clear it up for Griff? Bring to light the gray areas? I sipped my coffee and debated. If I told him Mike had denied the blackmailing part of our theory then I’d also have to tell him about the conversation in the kitchen and that he’d been beating up Rhea and she’d called me to come over. It would lead to the whole story. I closed my eyes. It felt too complicated. I wasn’t ready. My head was pounding.

  “If her drug use came out,” Griff went on, “it would have destroyed the family. She knew that. Stepping off an eighteen-story building seemed like a better option than risking the truth.”

  “Truth can be a scary thing.”

  “It shouldn’t be. Not when it comes to family.”

  “Depends on the family and their stability.”

  “Stable or not every family has a history. And it shows up sooner or later.”

  We drove down Route 9, taking the back roads into Portland. I wasn’t ready to relive the haunts of last night. I bent my head and fiddled with the zipper on my boot so I didn’t have to look at the scenery.

  “Hey they’re finally pouring it,” Griff said. “Guess they figure it’ll be a selling point once the condos go on the market.”

  I looked up. We were passing Royal Oaks. The top half of the cement mixer was tilted on its bed. Gray cement oozed like frosting through a chute, flowing into the hole that would soon be a swimming pool and burying forever Mike McKenzie’s blood-soaked police uniform. I swallowed bile burning my throat.

  “You okay? You look pale,” Griff said.

  Before another lie slipped through my teeth his phone rang.

  “Shit,” he said. “We’ll be there.”

  I looked at him, waiting.

  “That was Carole. She was going through Ashley’s things and found a journal. She said we need to read it, now.”

  Carole lived in South Portland, just a couple miles shy of her sister and the wealth of Cape Elizabeth. Her home was on a family-friendly dead-end street, a modest two-story, ivy-covered bungalow that exuded warmth, unlike her sister’s million-dollar dwelling.

  We parked at the curb and before reaching the porch Carole opened the door, a red leather book in her hand. It was obvious she’d been crying. She pushed the book into Griff’s chest. “Read this,” she said. “That poor child.”

  We stepped into the living room. Griff sank into an overstuffed couch and I sat on the arm of it hunched over his shoulder. The first entry was dated a year ago, at the start of the school year and made reference that “things” were continuing with him as they had been, but the entries didn’t explain what “things” were or, who “him” referred to. As we continued to read, it became clear that the male she mentioned only by pronoun was supplying her with drugs and had been for quite some time. She was distraught, becoming increasingly self-loathing as we turned the pages. She could not continue, could not ethically claim her seat at Johns Hopkins, she was worthless. Her self-deprecation increased with every entry. It became almost too painful to read as we accompanied this young woman on the thought process that led her to end her life.

  “Wait a minute,” Griff said. “Read this.”

  I followed his finger down the page.

  “They’re going to notice the missing money. I’ve begged her to stop. I’ve given her enough. I’ve offered to throw races and let her win. But “M” promises to expose me if I stop paying her. I don’t know what to do. They’re going to look at my account sooner or later. I can’t let them know what I’ve done. It will destroy them.”

  “M?” I looked at Griff. “Mitzi was blackmailing Ashley?”

  “It makes sense,” he said. “She saw Mike at the field. She probably knew exactly what was going on.”

  “So why didn’t she go to the coach?”

  “Because mo
ney was more tempting than being first across the finish line.”

  “Does Gwen know about this?” I asked Carole.

  “I called her and read it to her just before I called you.”

  “Was she going to call the police?”

  “She said she wanted to talk with you first.”

  Griff nodded. “We’ll head over to the house, but I want to see Mitzi first. Hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  Back in the car Griff stepped hard on the accelerator. It was at least a half hour drive from South Portland to Falmouth. “Let’s hope we get there before Greg,” Griff said.

  “You think he’ll go to Mitzi’s?”

  “I hope not, but I’d feel better if Carole hadn’t called them. Mitzi’s at least in part responsible for their daughter’s suicide. Wouldn’t you want to pay her a visit if it was your kid?”

  I thought about Rhea loving Jonathan so much that she’d given him up rather than have him grow up in a violent home. And I remembered Griff’s grief when he’d pulled Allie from the bowels of the basement where she’d been left by a serial killer. “I guess any parent would.”

  “Damn right,” Griff said. “We need to get there first.”

  “You think he’ll do something?”

  “Grief, anger, blame…they all top rational thinking.”

  I looked out the window and saw Mike’s mottled, swollen face, my own hands securing the helmet around his bloody, beaten head and nodded in agreement.

  Twenty-Eight

  When we turned down Western Ave. it was quiet. No sign of Greg’s navy-blue BMW outside of Mitzi’s house. I breathed a sigh of relief. That’s all we needed was Greg confronting Mitzi before we could talk to her.

  Griff pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. “Let’s go in and see if Mitzi will talk. I’m sure Greg and Gwen will call the police, if they haven’t already, and once she realizes she’s getting arrested I doubt she’ll be talkative. We need a confession first.”