Beguiled Page 18

  He turned on the ignition but didn’t put the car in gear. He needed to find Robin Hood. If he was right about the police surveillance, then George Reid was in the clear. So who was the real burglar? And why had Gibbon stood him up last night?

  He leaned his head against the steering wheel. Out of nowhere, his dad’s words began to circle in his mind.

  I know how it is, son. You think you can do it all. I’ve been there. The thing is, you can’t do it all, not alone.

  The flashes started popping the moment the door opened, only intensifying as the file of officers advanced. The chief led the pack, in full dress uniform, followed by a series of lieutenants and plainclothes officers, including the gray-haired man Logan had seen outside the Davidsons’ house.

  Bringing up the rear, Nate Campbell paused in the doorway, momentarily stunned by all the bright lights. Before advancing onto the platform, he adjusted his tie and ran a finger through his hair.

  Logan had camped out at the station since coming from the crime scene, trying to pick up more information as his fellow journalists began to congregate. The buzz in the press pool was that the Robin Hood burglaries had been solved.

  Logan shook his head. The unstoppable media machinery was in motion, ready to shout from every mountaintop whatever verdict the police announced. Arresting George had set off a flurry, but this was nothing short of an orchestrated frenzy. The trouble he’d been afraid of was here. Nothing he could do would change that.

  The chief stepped up to the podium, tapping on the microphone. The thumping sound was nearly drowned out by the clickety-click of camera shutters.

  “I’m gonna start off by introducing everybody on stage,” he said. “Then we’ll get this show on the road. We have a brief statement to make, and then I’ll take some questions.”

  The introductions went down the line quickly, the chief devoting less time to each as he descended. Most of the names were familiar. The gray-haired superior from the scene turned out to be the head of the Detective Division. By the time it was Nate’s turn, the chief was downright succinct.

  Nate squinted at the television lights, his mouth set grimly. If he dared to smile, Logan would go up there and wipe the grin off his face.

  “As you know,” the chief began, “during the course of the past two months, our city has been plagued by an individual the press has dubbed the Robin Hood burglar, who has targeted residents south of Broad in a series of increasingly destructive breakins.”

  Lifting his finger in the air for emphasis, he turned to display his law-and-order profile for the cameras. “Early this morning, the perpetrator struck again. Police were called to the scene, where officers apprehended a suspect. At this time, we are not releasing the name of the suspect.”

  Logan’s pen rested against his notebook. The statement seemed much more guarded than the initial buzz had let on. They weren’t taking any chances.

  “I want to take this opportunity to thank the team of diligent men and women who have worked this case tirelessly.” He indicated the fellow brass onstage, as if they’d been out in the field all this time, tracking leads. “In particular, let me recognize Detective Campbell, who has brought this case to a successful conclusion.”

  Off the podium, tucked into a corner of the room, Logan saw a disgruntled-looking Detective Santos rolling her eyes at the chief’s praise.

  “Now if there are any questions—”

  The gathered reporters erupted in a volley of interrogatories, their words so intermingled that the chief held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Please. One at a time. Gene, let’s start with you.”

  A local television reporter stood, quickly checking his notes.

  “Is it true that the suspect you have in custody is female?”

  The chief conferred with the officer next to him, then leaned into the mic. “We’re not confirming that . . . at this time.”

  Logan’s hand shot up, but the chief called on another television talker.

  “What happened with the previous suspect, George Reid?”

  “We believe that these crimes, while attributed in the newspapers to a single individual, are in fact the work of several.”

  “So Reid and the suspect in custody are associates?”

  “Close associates,” the chief replied.

  Logan made a mental note to call George again, assuming the police hadn’t already reeled him back in.

  “Were there any eyewitnesses?” another reporter asked.

  Again, the chief conferred. “I’ll let Detective Campbell speak to that one.”

  Nate approached the microphone tentatively, afraid of getting too close. “As to eyewitnesses, we have someone who can place the suspect at the scene, which led to our taking the suspect into custody.”

  An eyewitness? Who could place Rylee at the scene?

  Logan’s hand shot up. Nate glanced down at him without giving the slightest sign of recognition.

  The chief returned to the microphone.

  Logan stood, making it all but impossible for him to be ignored and didn’t wait for permission to speak. “Sir, when you say ‘at the scene’ do you mean at the actual house or in the general area?”

  No one farther back would have noticed the subtle change in the police chief’s expression, but Logan caught the shift. The man had recognized him and had evidently been warned in advance to steer clear of him, yet the slightest hint of relief smoothed his brow. Whatever question he might have feared, it wasn’t this one.

  “Both,” he said, moving on to the next question.

  “Following up on that,” Logan said loudly, “what exact time does the witness pinpoint?”

  Instead of answering, the chief ducked back to confer with the man next to him, and then they pulled in a third officer. The ensuing silence was filled with clicking shutters.

  At the far side of the platform, Nate fixed Logan with an incendiary glare.

  “For the moment,” the chief said, returning to the microphone, “we are not making a statement as to the specifics of the eyewitness testimony.”

  The other reporters continued to fire off one question after another. The chief bobbed and weaved, finally shutting the whole thing down.

  The only person Logan remembered running into last night was the other dogwalker. And if she recognized Toro as belonging to the Davidsons, then the police could place Rylee and him at Toro’s house in the wee hours of the morning.

  Passing by Lacey’s open door, Logan tried to time his movements just right. Unfortunately she caught a glimmer of motion and called him inside. After peppering him with questions about the press conference, and frowning over his notes, she offered to call Ann Davidson herself, confirming once again just how well-connected she was in these parts.

  “And another thing. A little bird informed me that relations between you and law enforcement have become strained.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “At the risk of stating the obvious, let me just remind you that in our line of work, we rely on certain relationships. If we take care of people, they’ll take care of us. How are you going to cover the crime desk if nobody in the police department will pick up the phone for you anymore?”

  “It’s not as bad as all that.”

  She tapped a pencil on her armrest. “My little bird also said you and the dogwalker are an item. Is that correct?”

  “You’re a regular St. Francis. I wish the birds would talk to me.”

  “I am not amused, Logan.” She leaned forward. “Look, all I want from you—all I’ve ever wanted—is for you to do the job. Simple as that. Instead, you’re losing all semblance of detachment. You’re working on this book of yours on my time, you’re dragging Wash Tillman down with you, and to make matters worse, you’re dating the prime suspect.”

  “Lacey, I don’t think you’re being—”

  She silenced him with a raised finger. “I’m not finished. Consider this your probation. I’m giving you a week. If I don’t see a cha
nge, then you’re going to pack up your desk and go. Do you understand me?”

  He stared at her. Dumbstruck. He’d been with the Post &Courier for six years. He’d battled his way up the ranks with painstaking resolve. He’d given this paper way more hours than they’d ever compensated him for. He’d earned his position as a feature, front-page journalist with long hours, sleepless nights, and nonexistent vacations.

  And she was going to put him on probation? Probation?

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  Anger surged through him, but his respect for Lacey kept him civil. “What kind of change is it, exactly, that you expect to see?”

  She ticked her points off one by one. “No more chasing after the book. No more chasing after the girl. No more ‘borrowing’ Wash for hours at a time. And I want you covering the story, not interfering with it. Are we clear?”

  “There’s nothing in my contract that says the paper can dictate my love life.”

  “You’re inserting yourself into the story. That’s a breach—”

  “She didn’t do it.”

  “Give me a break, Logan.”

  “I mean it. They’ve got the wrong person.”

  “How do you know? Were you with her when the crime took place?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She slowly straightened. “Tell me you weren’t with her.”

  “We went out last night. Fell asleep in my car at about three thirty in the morning. When I woke at seven, she was gone. But her car was right next to mine. There is no way she could have gotten into it, started it, gone and done the crime, come back, parked, and gone up to her apartment all without me hearing and waking up. No possible way.”

  “You slept with her in your car?”

  “Not the way you mean, but yes. And she didn’t do it. I’m not turning my back on her, Lacey. I mean it.”

  “Then you’re off the story.”

  He shot to his feet. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  She lifted a brow.

  “Think about it. This is the scoop of a lifetime.” He pointed in the general direction of police headquarters. “They have the wrong person. What if we find the real one and splash him on the front page?”

  “Would you just listen to yourself?”

  “I’m being serious. I know Rylee didn’t do it, Lacey. You’ve got to let me finish this.”

  She swiveled her chair back and forth. “And the book? Wash?

  Are we clear on those two points, at least?”

  He nodded once.

  “Say it out loud.”

  “We’re clear on Wash and the book.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. As stern as she could be, the two of them went way back. This couldn’t be easy for her.

  “Don’t make me regret this, Woods.”

  He slowly released his breath. “You won’t, Lacey. I give you my word.”

  She shooed him with her hand. “Then get. Before I change my mind.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Her jail cell was full of surprises. For one thing, there were no bars. Instead, they locked her behind a door thick as an airplane hatch with a square window to look through, the heavy glass panes pan-caked around what looked like industrial-strength chicken wire. The view was gummed up by encrusted filth she wasn’t about to try wiping away.

  The first hour or so, she perched gingerly on the edge of the bed, which was molded into the far wall, all the corners rounded off. A niche half screened from the window contained a metal toilet and sink, and above that a dented and scratched metal sheet served as a funhouse mirror.

  Everything—the bed, the toilet, even the part where the floor joined the wall—had a molded, all-in-one quality, reminding her of a jetliner restroom. Every edge rounded, every surface gritty to the touch.

  Whoever did the cleaning wasn’t too fastidious. She kept skin contact to an absolute minimum.

  If only she could have insulated her mind so easily. As unexpected as the physical details of the lockup were, isolation was the killer. They’d taken no statements, put her through no hostile interrogations. From the moment the cuffs were on, she’d been treated like an inanimate object. Transported in the back of a police car, photographed, fingerprinted, searched, stripped of her belt and shoelaces, and finally stuffed away and forgotten.

  The officers in charge of the process ignored her. No one asked for her side of the story. In fact, after Detective Campbell had read her Miranda rights, she’d hardly been spoken to at all.

  The woman who’d rolled her fingertips on the input screen—no ink necessary, to Rylee’s surprise—kept up a running dialogue the whole time with the man behind the processing counter, discussing their plans for the weekend as if Rylee wasn’t there. It didn’t matter whether she was an axe murderer or an innocent, everybody was treated the same.

  The injustice of the arrest stung her. She wanted to set the record straight. Every time she’d changed hands, passing from one set of officers to the next, she wanted to shake them. Tell them they had the wrong person. She’d been in the Davidsons’ house around one in the morning and everything had been fine. She put Toro in his crate, locked the door, and left. The real Robin Hood burglar had come after that.

  She wanted to tell them that and more, but she’d never been given the opportunity. Meanwhile, Karl’s warning from the last time she’d been questioned rang loudly in her ears.

  If any officer of the law wants to talk to you ever again, promise me you won’t say a word until you’ve spoken to me first. Even if he has a warrant.

  “Don’t I get a phone call?” she’d asked the fingerprint woman, the one charged with escorting her to the cell door. Should she call Logan and see if he’d talked to Karl? Or should she call Karl directly?

  It’s not Karl you want. Grant Sebastian can get the devil to dance in a courtroom.

  She wondered where Mr. Sebastian was. What would he do if she tracked him down? Did she dare to ask him to interrupt his honeymoon on her behalf?

  Then she realized she wouldn’t be calling any of them. Not without her cell phone. She didn’t know their numbers by heart. It would have to be Liz, then, since she’d memorized that one.

  The woman gestured her across the threshold, then pulled the hatch until the lock thunked into place. A very permanent-sounding thunk.

  “Sit tight here for just a minute,” she said, her voice muffled through the door.

  The minute turned into an hour, and then several hours. Either they’d forgotten about her call, or they never had any intention of letting her make it. She curled on the bed, wrapping her arms around her legs.

  She needed to tell Logan about the intruder in her apartment. Was her stalker and Robin Hood one-and-the-same? Had the guy known in advance she wasn’t going to be in her apartment the night before nor at the Davidsons’ early in the morning? It couldn’t all be a coincidence.

  She shivered, longing to take a shower. Or better, a hot bath. To clean the filth of the cell from her body, to relax, and ultimately to forget. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not anytime soon at least.

  Locked in long enough with her frustration, it finally turned on her. Instead of the overeager police and their poster boy Nate Campbell, instead of the anonymous burglar-turned-stalker who’d made sure she ended up here, she began to blame herself.

  She could have been less antagonistic with Detective Campbell. She could have put a bolt on her door like Logan had suggested. She could’ve told someone about the person stalking her at night.

  But, no. She was in this impersonal, unsanitary, completely dehumanizing cell. Alone, locked up, abandoned. The story of her life.

  She didn’t usually dwell on her father’s disappearance. Instead, she stuffed it into a little box deep inside, put the lid on, and then sat on the lid.

  But now, in desperate need of help, she was too exhausted to fight the rising waves of resentment. S
he thought about him, relaxing on a beach somewhere with a different name and a different life. A new family, perhaps. Completely oblivious to her existence.

  Ignorant of what was happening to her.

  She rested her head on her knees, a fleeting image of her parents flashing through her mind. A steamy day at dusk. The three of them holding down a blanket on a patch of green grass, sweating in their tank tops while a band on a temporary platform played songs for the setting sun. Mama getting up to dance, pulling little Rylee with her, the hem of her mother’s swishing skirt skimming her daughter’s bare arms.

  Then, a stark, cold casket with a spray of blood-red carnations. Nonie trying to explain Mama was gone. Just like Daddy. Except he wasn’t dead. He’d simply left.

  It wasn’t your fault, darling. Nonie had told her that over and over. But even at five the reassurance rang hollow. If they’d loved her, truly loved her, her daddy would have stayed. And her mama wouldn’t have swallowed all those pills. If her own parents couldn’t love her enough to stay, how could anyone else?

  She thought of Logan. The feelings he stirred within her. The feelings she’d been afraid to have, because she knew they wouldn’t, couldn’t be reciprocated.

  Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.

  You can’t make a promise like that.

  His voice was firm. I just did. And I meant it.

  An impossible vow. A vow that no one could keep. Unless they were God.

  God. She scoffed. Even He was gone. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt His presence. Not here. Not anywhere.

  But as she sat in that desolate, barren room, she knew whose fault that was. She might go to church and read her Bible, but she was just going through the motions. On the inside, she’d quit. Quit spending time with Him. Quit telling Him her secrets. Quit saying her prayers.

  Oh, she’d fling up a plea for help now and then. But she hadn’t talked—really talked—to Him in a long, long time.

  She wondered why. Tried to remember some specific moment that she’d walked out on Him and couldn’t. It had been more a gradual thing. She had errands to run. Work to do. She was tired. Or hungry. Or not in the mood.