“Right. And I found it, and I took the film out, and I had it developed.” She withdrew the photo packet from her purse.
“But this is my room!”
“Right. In my house.”
Martha’s eyes enlarged, wide and angry. “That doesn’t give you the right to invade my privacy!”
“I think it does.”
“What is this, Nazi Germany? I’m an American. I have rights.”
“Not in my house.”
“You can’t treat me like you own me!” she screamed. “You can’t just come in and … and take things that aren’t yours!”
“When I’m in my house, I can do whatever I want.”
“Fine. Then I’ll move in with Buck.”
That rejoinder gave Deanna pause. Which, of course, was exactly what it was intended to do. “Look, a civil rights discussion isn’t what I had in mind.”
“You’ve been spying on me!”
“I haven’t been spying on you.” Deanna pressed her hand against her brow. How did this always happen? How did Martha always manage to do this to her? She came in with a perfectly reasonable plan to elicit information, and now she was on the receiving end of a teenage firing line. “I had to know if it was you.”
“If what was me?”
“The girl. The one in the papers. The one the neighbor saw.”
Martha’s eyes crinkled. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you read the papers? No, of course you don’t. Well, where can I start? Are you aware that the mayor’s family has been murdered?”
Martha snorted. “Yes, Mo-ther.”
“And are you aware that one of the mayor’s neighbors said he spotted some suspicious-looking strangers casing the neighborhood prior to the murder?”
“So?”
“Do you know where the mayor lives?”
“No. Why should I?”
“He lives on Terwilliger. Near Woodward Park. Just down the way from Philbrook.”
A tiny flash of light in the corner of Martha’s eyes told Deanna she was beginning to make the connection.
“See if this description rings any bells,” Deanna continued. “The man was tall, thin, grungy-looking. Scraggly goatee, green fatigues.”
Martha blinked, but didn’t say anything.
“The girl was described as being shorter with dark hair. On at least one occasion, she wore a red tank top. And she always wore a blue headband.”
Instinctively, Martha’s hand shot up toward her headband. Her trademark. “That could be anyone.”
“I’ll admit, it could be someone other than you and Buck, although it would be a hell of a coincidence. That’s why I searched your room. I found the red tank top I was almost certain you had. And I found the black gym bag. The neighbor mentioned that, too. Imagine my surprise when I found an expensive camera inside. Far too expensive to be yours.”
Martha didn’t answer, but Deanna did have the satisfaction of knowing that for once in her life, she had her daughter’s full and undivided attention.
“I had the film developed,” she continued. She pulled the photos out of the packet and spread them across the bed. “Could you please explain to me why you were taking pictures of Mayor Barrett’s home?”
Wordlessly Martha gazed at the color pictures spread across her bedspread.
“You’ll notice that the home was photographed from a wide variety of angles. The front, the back. Close-ups of the doors, the windows. Almost as if someone was casing the joint. Planning some kind of … criminal activity.”
Martha stared dumbfounded at the photos.
“Martha, I want you to answer my questions. No lying to me—this is important. Why was Buck taking pictures of the mayor’s home?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I mean, I don’t know who took these pictures. And I don’t know why.”
Deanna ignored the feeble denial. “Were you with him?”
“No. I mean—” She stopped, concentrating. “I never saw him take any pictures. I didn’t know why he had the camera. He likes expensive toys.”
“So you were with him. You did walk with him in the mayor’s neighborhood. You just never saw him take any pictures.”
“Yeah.” Her voice was so quiet it was almost not there at all. “Yeah.”
Deanna sat next to her daughter on the bed. She laid one hand on her knee. “Martha, I’m sorry, but I have to ask this question. I have to. Did you have anything to do with … with …”
Martha turned and stared at her mother, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What are you accusing me of?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I just have to know.”
“You think I did it!” Martha screamed. “You think I killed that lady and her two girls!”
“No, Martha, I don’t. I mean, I hope not. I mean—” She grabbed her daughter by the shoulders. “Martha, I don’t know what to think anymore. I want you to tell me. Did you have anything to do with this?”
Tears crept out the corners of Martha’s eyes. She turned her head away. “No, I didn’t.”
“Then Buck did it alone.”
“Buck!” Martha leapt off the bed. “So that’s what this is about. Accusing Buck. I knew you hated him, Mother, but I didn’t know you were desperate enough to accuse him of murder!”
“Honey, I’m just looking at the evidence.”
“Buck wouldn’t hurt anybody. He’s nice, Mother. He’s nice to me.” Her voice was breaking down. “Buck loves me.”
“Martha, please—”
It was too late. Martha bolted out of the room. A few seconds later, Deanna heard the front door slam shut.
Well, Deanna told herself, you certainly handled that well. You practically threw her into that cretin’s arms. And if she wasn’t totally alienated from you before, she certainly is now.
Deanna collected the photos on the bedspread. Still, if nothing else, she did get something. She got an absolute denial from her daughter that she had anything to do with the murder of the Barrett family. She had stated that unequivocally.
Yeah, Deanna thought. Unequivocally.
Deanna slid the photos back into the bag, then pulled out the day’s mail. Maybe there would be some relief from her ongoing misery here. Some sign of happiness in the world. A wedding invitation, perhaps. A graduation announcement.
One envelope caught her attention almost immediately. It was a thin paper preprinted envelope, the kind where you rip off the perforated strips on the edges to get the slip of paper inside. Deanna ripped off the strip and with some effort managed to work out the contents.
It was a formal document, a summons from the Twenty-fifth Judicial District of the State of Oklahoma. Tulsa County.
Deanna read the message, then gasped.
Jury duty.
Chapter 28
LOVING PARKED HIS CAR on the street opposite the park. The nearest streetlight was half a mile down the dirt road; all the lights in the park had been busted so many times the city finally stopped bothering to replace them. This was probably the least safe place imaginable to leave personal property unattended; Loving was glad once again that he had never bothered to replace his well-worn Ford pickup truck. It still ran, although it was more than a little beat-up. Not as bad as the Skipper’s car or anything, but it definitely showed its age. Any potential carjackers would immediately realize that this truck wasn’t worth the trouble.
He crept quietly into the park, keeping his eyes open for any signs of trouble. It could be anywhere. O’Brien Park was one of the worst, most notorious sites in North Tulsa. Sort of like a heartland version of Central Park, O’Brien Park was a place no sane or law-abiding citizen went after dark. During the day, it might seem like any other park, except that, given its location, it was patronized almost exclusively by refugees from the poor and mostly black neighborhoods surrounding it. On Sunday nights, however, it was a major youth hangout, sometimes cruised by as many as a thousand people a night, in their freshly waxed cars flowing in off North Lewis or Birmingham Avenue. Some of the kids drove in from as far away as Okmulgee to climb onto the hoods of their cars, drink beer, and chill. Shoot the breeze about women or handguns or gangsta rap. The scent of burning marijuana was so strong it would linger for days. The police considered the whole place a keg of dynamite with a lit fuse; they were just waiting for the explosion.