“How much did Eric know?”
“None of it. This happened after our engagement was broken, and we didn’t talk much about our social lives.”
“What about Kit Stoddard? Who was she?”
“I don’t know, exactly.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I think I do now, but I didn’t at first. I thought Kit Stoddard was a real name. But I found some letters in her apartment when Olivia and I broke in. The envelopes said Katherine McGinnis, and the return addresses were in Canada. Hamilton, Ontario.”
Till’s anger was visible now, but his voice was calm, even. “Didn’t you think it would help to tell the police that? Or to tell me that?”
“I wanted to. I would have, if it would have saved her. But at that point, I already knew she must be dead. Telling everything I knew after that would have made it all a hundred times worse. People would say she was a hooker, when she couldn’t even defend herself, and that I had sent her to a psycho who killed her.”
“So you were afraid of being prosecuted?”
“I don’t know. I knew that some of the things I had done would sound much worse than they were.”
“That was why Olivia ran away, too, wasn’t it? She had taken money. She had been one of the women you set up with men.”
“Yes. Neither of us ever knew what had happened to Kit, or why. Olivia was afraid to be alone, afraid to go to work. So she left. Then Carl came after me.”
Till put his hand on the door handle. “Well, it’s over now. You’re safe.”
She reached and grasped his wrist. “I did what I could.”
“I’m not going to pretend that I’m buying your view of things. If you were afraid to tell the police, you still could have told me.”
“I wish I had. I wanted to, and I’ll always be ashamed that I didn’t. But what I did was weak and stupid. It wasn’t evil.”
“That’s what makes this such a waste. You knew that I had been a cop long enough to have seen everything. You should have known that what you had done wouldn’t have struck me as anything but a mistake. But not telling was important. You lied to me.”
She let go of his arm and held herself away. “What about you? Were you telling me the truth? For the past few days, what you were doing was interrogating me. You said and did anything that might make me care about you, just so I would tell you what you wanted. Well, congratulations, Jack. You didn’t let me keep anything to myself. You’re a hero.”
“I was trying to help you do what you had to. The better I got to know you—the closer I got to you—the more certain I was that you had a secret.”
“It was my secret, and I was the only one who was suffering for it. When I heard that it wasn’t just me anymore, I did what I could.” She sobbed. “And I was brave, damn it. I took risks. I wasn’t doing what was right for me, just what was right.”
“You were brave. I’ll give you that.”
Now she was angry. “Thank you very much. And you’re a saint. You’ve made it clear that you’d rather cut off your arm than do anything unethical, but haven’t you ever had a moment when you just didn’t know what to do and guessed wrong? In all those years as a cop, haven’t you had one conversation you wished you hadn’t, or maybe wondered if you’d hit somebody too hard?”
Till stiffened, barely breathing. He sat in silence for a few seconds, looking ahead through the windshield. He could see Steven Winslow again—not the face contorted into a snarl as he swung the hammer at Till, but what he became after Till had hit him: a boy stretched out on the deserted street, dying alone in the dark. It had been more than twenty years, but Till was still able to see him. Till couldn’t tell Wendy why forcing her to give up her secret had been so important to him, couldn’t describe the self-hatred and shame he was trying to save her from. He became aware of her physical presence, the sound of her breathing, the smell of her soap, the closeness. He felt the seconds passing and made a decision. He swung the door open and got out.
She leaned toward the open door. “I think we’ve both known for a while that I’m not the perfect human being. I’m just the one who loves you. If I’m not worth salvaging, then I guess you should go.”
He looked startled. “I wasn’t walking away from you,” he said. “You’re right. I’ve been unfair, and I’m sorry. I was just going to tell Poliakoff we’re leaving.”
“Together?”
“Unless you don’t want to anymore.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us. But I think we should let it.”
“So do I. Come on.”
She slid out of the police cruiser and stood beside him. She slipped her hand into his, and he let it stay there. They climbed the steps to the doorway, where Poliakoff was sketching the crime scene while two uniformed officers took measurements.
Till said, “Max, I left my car at the station. Can you spare the cop by the gate to drop us there?”
“Sure. I left him down there to keep these guys from running off,” Poliakoff said. “Not much chance of that. Thank you both for your help. I’ll call you.”
As they walked down the cobbled driveway toward the patrol car idling near the gate, Till turned to Wendy. “There’s somebody I have to see right away, and I’d like you to come, too. Her name is Holly.”
46
PAUL AND SYLVIE TURNER stepped out of the taxicab in front of the Southwest Airlines terminal and watched the driver lift their suitcases from the trunk. Paul gave him a tip, and Sylvie turned and pulled her suitcase through the automatic glass doors into the terminal. Paul joined her and they stood for a half minute, until the driver had merged into the traffic and driven off. Then Paul and Sylvie pulled their suitcases out of the terminal and walked toward Bradley International Terminal. Paul had insisted that they appear to be going on a short flight to Las Vegas or San Francisco, not out of the country, just as he had insisted that they wait for the cab at a bus stop rather than at their house so the driver didn’t know which house they’d left empty.
Sylvie was tired and irritable. To her the money that they had earned had begun to seem like a curse, a heavy weight. After a night and day in Scott Schelling’s house, barely getting enough sleep, she’d had to come home, shower and dress, make cash deposits in four banks, pack as much money as they could into four safe-deposit boxes, and help Paul hide the rest of the money in their house.
The money didn’t make up for all of the problems and risks and the sheer fatigue she had faced in getting through the job. At first the Wendy Harper business had sounded incredibly easy, but it had turned into a nightmare. The money they had finally taken from Scott Schelling was simply the reward for longevity, for being the last people standing. It was more like an unwanted inheritance than a payday.
Here they were, walking toward the international terminal to catch a flight to Spain, but she wasn’t happy. She had been looking forward to Spain for weeks. There had been anticipation, then hard-won success, but the trip had been spoiled for her. All this money brought was insecurity. The additional money was contributing to the volatility of Paul’s relations with her. For a week or two he had been giving all the signs that he either was cheating on her or would be shortly. Only during the period of hours when they had decided to abandon the job, fly to Madrid together, and forget the money, had their marriage seemed to heal. But while they were at home today getting dressed, he had been impatient with her. “Just put something on. Anything, just so we go.” When they were driving around putting money in banks and safe-deposit boxes, he had been short with her. She had asked, “Which bank next?” and he had snapped, “Christ, Sylvie. I already told you. Pasadena.” He had rolled his eyes at her and frowned when he’d lifted her suitcase. “What the fuck are you bringing—guns and ammo?” That had been particularly telling to her because he had lifted the bags before they had even gone after Scott Schelling, and they hadn’t seemed so heavy to him then. What could have changed his feelings for her? It was the money.