“Looks like they pled out after the preliminary hearing.”
“But Miss Winkler told me she testified against these guys.”
“She must have meant the prelim, hon, and that’s a good thing. Every prelim has a transcript. Would you like me to get you the file?”
As he sat and read the transcript, Fred understood why Angel was so frightened, why she changed her looks, why she wanted his name. She’d even hinted about buying a new house, and that fit too. It was her witness self-protection. But why hadn’t she told him?
On the night in question, according to her testimony, Mitchell Hoffman and Danforth Green asked her for a ride but gave no indication that they planned to rob a jewelry store. “At the strip mall,” she said, “I saw both of them leave the car carrying guns. I overheard them agree they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot — including me, if I got out of line.” She’d been terrified, and when she heard shots from inside the store and saw them running out with their guns, she fled for her life. No, she said, “I didn’t know an old man was in there that got shot and he would have made it except for the heart attack it gave him.”
No, she didn’t know what became of the guns when the men ran from the store and when they were apprehended hiding five blocks east thirty minutes later. Yes, she understood that both claimed — immediately after being taken into custody, in separate interviews where they could not collaborate — that the whole thing was her idea, that she’d put them up to it and given them the guns, and that she’d driven away and left them high and dry. Well, the only explanation she could think of was that those interviews must have come from “them cooking up some story ahead of time to pin it on me if it all went sideways.”
After the prelim, Fred learned, the two men had taken pleas rather than face trial, each getting twenty years for the death of the jeweler, including enhancements for their previous criminal records and for the guns used in commission of a crime.
Fred let out a low whistle. Sometimes the safest place to be was in prison. Those guys could have friends and family outside settle the score. Even though Angel told the truth, had knowingly done nothing criminal, and had to serve time, she’d made mortal enemies.
But maybe they didn’t know about her early release yet, and there was still time.
Fred went straight to a sporting goods store to buy ammunition and a cleaning kit for his dad’s old revolver.
As soon as he got home, he told Angel that he had found out what she was scared of.
She looked at him blankly, guarded and waiting.
“First, sweetheart, Gordie coming over here all the time is dangerous. He’s making a perfect beeline to you. All anyone has to do is follow him. Gordie has to start hanging out at his own place. We need to list the house, and as soon as we’re married I need to get some life insurance, that’s for damn sure, because I may have to defend you.”
“I can’t believe how brave you are.” Angel’s smile was hard to read.
Fred went to a shooting range. He hadn’t been in a long time. The manager didn’t give a shit, just showed him how the targets worked, gave him the earphones, and left him alone.
Fred started with a bull’s-eye target and practiced, aiming carefully before each shot. The first two went wide, one not even hitting the target surface, the other making a neat hole in the upper right corner. Some internal pressure shot up, a kind of embarrassment where he didn’t feel like a man should feel when he was learning how to protect his home and wife-to-be. He took a deep breath and started over, adjusting his stance, checking to see if the desk guy was watching, but he was looking at his computer screen.
Fred shot again, and hit the outermost circle. He shot again without moving, and hit just above the previous shot. He liked the heavy feel of the handgun now. He was learning.
The manager changed the target to a graphic, a large line drawing like a poster that depicted a bad guy using a terrified, busty hostage as a shield, holding a big butcher knife to her throat.
Now this was the real deal. Defend and protect. He adjusted and readjusted his aim, finally squeezed one off — and hit the girl’s shoulder. Just a graze, but still, what a dumb shot. Fred’s knees quivered a little when he got ready again, but something stopped his hand. The week before, he’d been explaining to Angel that the salad/dessert forks and the dinner forks were to be neatly stacked with tines facing the back, in the two adjacent sections of the wooden silverware tray in the drawer by the dishwasher. He pointed out that if she would only load them into the dishwasher in the correct baskets, the rest of the job would be foolproof.
She’d given him a sharp watchful stare much like he’d seen on Mother’s Day, but back then he’d thought it was cute. This time it was anything but — hard, he’d have to call it — like she was thinking, Foolproof? Who are you calling a fool, fool?
She’d said, “Maybe I know a way that’s even better than yours. Maybe you can learn something from me.” He’d let that go, just pointing at the drawer again and then leaving for work without kissing her.
He stood there with the gun in his hand. What about the prelim transcript, when the two guys’ stories matched completely? Fred watched those crime shows all the time, and he knew that cops said — Manny had agreed with this view — that it was always easier to tell the truth because you just said what happened. When you lied, you had to make stuff up as you went along, and then you’d forget what you’d put into one version and screw it up the next time. Each version would be different. The truth was always the same.
He needed to ask her directly why the guys’ stories didn’t vary, how that could have happened, just to stop this nagging feeling. At last Fred aimed and squeezed, and the bullet flew just over the villain’s head, so he immediately lowered the aim a fraction and shot again. He gasped.
He’d shot her through the heart.
This terrible doubt was interfering with his concentration. He needed to get home where he could talk it out with her, be sure she wasn’t lying about anything, and if she was, find out why, get her to share her fears and let him help.
As he pulled up, Fred muttered Son of a bitch when he saw Gordie’s truck parked in his driveway. He couldn’t even get to his own garage.
What was that asshole doing here in the late afternoon, anyway? Fred had made it clear to Angel that it was dangerous — and here the truck was, like a big neon sign pointing right at her for anybody with a grudge. In fact, who knew what else might be in there? He could be walking into a firefight. He parked at the curb, got out, retrieved the gun, and stuck it into the back waistband of his khakis. He was supposed to take out the unused rounds but he had been so anxious to get home that he forgot. Or so he told himself.
Fred turned his house key silently, glad that his maintenance schedule included quarterly lubrication of door hardware and locks. The afternoon sun came from the side of the house, so at least there would be no silhouette or illumination through the glass. He turned the knob and slowly opened the door. The living room and the kitchen — what he could see of them — were empty.
Then he heard Angel whimper. God, was it possible that Gordie was one of the bad guys? Or that they’d both been taken hostage? Why would Angel let them in? He had to do something. The sound was coming from the end of the hall, where the home office and master bedroom were. He tiptoed soundlessly on the soft carpet. The next thing he heard came from the master, the unmistakable rhythmic thumps, the squeaky bedspring syncopation.