Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 74

“Did you try to find out?”

“To serve and protect,” Bohlig told her. “That’s what it says on the sides of our police cars; that was my job. I did my job. The town is a better place because I did my job. I protected and served this town and I don’t lose any sleep over it. I picked you to replace me. Now we’ll see how well you do.”

“You’re not a cop,” I said. “You’re a co-conspirator.”

I sat at the small table in my motel room. I had a bucket of ice, a bottle of vodka, and a six-pack of tonic water—the Victoria municipal liquor store had opened at 10:00 A.M. and I was its first customer. Only I hadn’t opened the bottle. When I bought the vodka it was with the intention of getting impossibly drunk. Now I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

“What am I going to do?”

I had been asking myself that question since leaving Chief Bohlig. He was probably right. There was no way to convict Jack Barrett of murder. With the destruction of the samples, there was no longer evidence enough even to charge him. What bothered me the most, however, was that I had liked Barrett, genuinely liked him. I hadn’t felt so utterly betrayed since my father died.

Outside the weather had turned nasty. The wind had whipped up and a hard snow was falling. Traffic moved cautiously on the county road beyond the motel parking lot. A couple of cars swung in, looking for refuge from the storm. I opened the vodka and a bottle of mix, built a stiff drink, and toasted the weather. Nature was cruel, but not vindictive, and never personal. “You might be a mother, but never a bitch,” I said and downed half the drink. “You just don’t give a damn.” I told myself I didn’t give a damn, either. I was lying.

I finished the drink in a hurry and built a second.

I hoped someone would tell me that everything was going to work out, that it would be all right. Someone radiant and entirely trustworthy, like Jessica Lange or Cate Blanchett. No such luck. Instead, I got Lindsey Bauer Barrett.

I had just finished the second vodka tonic when she called. At first I thought it might be Danny Mallinger and ignored her. After five rings my cell cycled over to my voice mail. Then it rang another five times. Then another.

“What?” I finally shouted into the receiver.

“Mac? It’s Lindsey Barrett.”

“Zee.”

“Am I interrupting something? I can call back.”

“No. I was just—Actually, I was thinking about getting drunk, if you must know.”

“Why? What happened? Did you learn who sent the e-mail?”

“Not yet, no.”

“What then?”

How do you tell your friend that you believe her husband is a murderer? Quickly, I decided.

“Jack could be guilty after all.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I uncovered some evidence, talked to some witnesses. Zee, I’m sorry, it doesn’t look good.”

“Dammit, McKenzie. What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I asked you to learn who sent the e-mail, not investigate a murder.”

“Zee?”

“Who sent the e-mail? That’s all I want to know.”

Once again my internal security system was on full alert. The alarm bells in my head were loud enough to blow out my eardrums.

“A lot of people could have sent the e-mail,” I said. “A lot of people think Jack killed Elizabeth. The entire town has been pretty much covering up for him for the past thirty years. Even the former police chief thinks Jack did it and all but told me that he let Jack off to protect the community’s reputation.”

“What about evidence?”

“Evidence?”

“Could they arrest Jack?”

“I don’t think so. All the physical evidence has been destroyed, and the witnesses—I doubt a county attorney would even consider the possibility. But, Mrs. Barrett, when am I going to hear some tearful denials? When is the loving wife going to come to the defense of her husband? When is she going to shout to high heaven that her man couldn’t possibly be a killer?”

“My husband did not murder that girl,” she said, but her voice was flat and without emotional. She could have been a checkout girl asking, “Paper or plastic?”

“Who knows what you know?” Zee asked.

The alarm bells became louder.

“What do you mean?”

“The details. Who besides you could really hurt Jack if he came forward?”

“There are maybe a half dozen people who could do more than just speculate. But they all have good reasons for keeping quiet, personal reasons. They don’t want this to come out, either. Besides, most of them like Jack.”

“Most, but not all. Have you forgotten the man who sent the e-mail?”

I had.

“I’m coming down there,” she said.

“Don’t, Zee. That’ll only make matters worse.”

“How could it make matters worse?”

“People will ask why you’re here. What are you going to tell them?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Zee, if you want my advice . . .”