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“Why? Does it seem like something is wrong?” Her frustration with this case, with Chris Ellingson’s deliberate prods into her psyche, with the loss of Roxanne Jennings, the pain in her legs and head—it was all starting to chip away at her. She’d come here to find a killer living in the past. Instead, she’d taken on an entire town.
“I’ve heard that question enough from my ex to know better than to answer,” he said.
“Only if you want to keep breathing. Just give me a minute.” She straightened to keep the last bit of her dignity. She wasn’t sure that was possible after the lieutenant had already seen her half-naked the night before, but she liked to think there was something left to salvage. The pain eased, and Leigh internally braced herself. “You’re divorced? Shared custody, then?”
“Every other weekend.” Boucher didn’t seem like the kid type, but considering how loyal he was to this town, to his department, she bet he put in a lot of effort. “It’s better this way. In the end, me and his mom were just fighting all the time. Couldn’t agree on discipline, you know. She wanted to spank him to get him to listen, and I couldn’t go down that road. Made me sick to my stomach. Carter’s a good boy. No kid deserves to feel pain at the hands of the people who are supposed to protect him. I thought the threat of divorce would get my point across. Worked a little too well, but she’s making an effort to change.”
“Makes sense.” Parents who didn’t condone spanking as punishment usually fell into two camps: psychologically and emotionally educated or victims of past abuse. It wasn’t easy to see which category Boucher fit into. Police witnessed the worst mankind had to offer and the consequences that followed, and they were required to complete psychological training regularly. Either way, she admired that kind of choice. Spare his son the trauma or save his marriage. She didn’t know a lot of parents who would’ve taken that path. Leigh recalled his civilian clothes last night. “And last night was part of your weekend with your son?”
“I was on my way to take him home when I got the call about the fire.” He headed for the coffee shop where Michelle Cross’s debit card had registered a single purchase the day she’d disappeared. “You saved me the trip.”
She took the lead as he held open the door. Hundreds of Edison bulbs lit up the small space decorated with swatches of orange, blue, and gray. Specialty coffees, pastries, and café-style meals had been rolling out of Jack’s Coffee Garage since long before Leigh had stepped into this place as a sophomore skipping chemistry. The exposed pipes running the length of the ceiling added to the modern décor, but it was the bar covered in license plates from all over the country that gave it the charm it deserved. A few patrons had already claimed small tables to her left in front of a large painted mural of an empty road leading through a desert landscape. The “garage” part came from the oversized rolltop doors along one wall, both of which had been closed to winter temperatures. It was easy to imagine this place had once been a mechanic shop.
“Leigh Brody.” Not a question. A mere statement from the barista behind the counter. Once again, it was the woman’s hair that caught her attention. The same hair she’d recognized last night after her house had been burned to the ground.
Every cell in her body tensed for the aggression that usually followed her name. Then again, an old acquaintance might be the exact right person to tell her about Michelle Cross’s visit to the garage. “Hailey Plisco. Been a long time.”
“Twenty years, give or take, but it’s not Plisco anymore. I’m married now.” Hailey waved her ring finger to show off the barely-there diamond and gold band. Drawn-in eyebrows marked perfect arches on Hailey’s forehead, a bit darker than her fire-red hair that’d come out of a bottle since they’d been fourteen. Straight white teeth that’d seen braces and all kinds of whitening attested to the outward perfection Hailey had always been striving for as a teen. She was beautiful with a perfect dip above her upper lip and a long nose proportionate to her face. That kind of effortless beauty only came from not having to bear responsibility for anything she put out in the world. “I hear you’re with the FBI now. Investigating these murders.”
“I’m trying. As you could probably tell from last night, it’s hit or miss at this point. I assume you already know Lieutenant Boucher. He’s aiding in the investigation.” She worked to reconcile the woman in front of her with the teenager who’d been her best friend right up until her father had been arrested. Cheating on exams, weekly sleepovers, designing dance routines—they’d done it all. Hailey had been the sister she’d never had, but it hadn’t meant anything the moment Leigh’s world imploded.
“Lieutenant.” That toothy smile that could easily cut through glass flashed wide.
“Hailey.” Boucher peeled off a ten from his wallet. “I’ll take an espresso. Extra double shot. Add a bagel.”
Leigh didn’t know how to do this. Be friendly. Try to build a rapport. It’d never worked in her favor before, and at some point, she’d simply given up. But to Hailey’s detriment, her former best friend had always been one of those people who loved to hear herself talk. Leigh doubted that’d changed much. “You look… healthy. You’ve got a kid, right? You were holding on to one last night.”
“I’ve got three, if you can believe it.” That smokey voice drilled straight through her, but Hailey prided her beauty far too much to ever pick up a cigarette. It was all natural. She set right to work putting together Boucher’s order with efficiency and speed. She’d been doing this for a long time. This place had been her first job in high school if Leigh remembered right. “Seventeen, twelve, and two.” She lowered her voice. “The last one was a surprise, but don’t you go telling anyone.”
Who was she supposed to tell? “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Get you something?” Hailey asked.
“No. Thank you. We’re not here for breakfast.” She eyed Boucher taking a bite out of his plain bagel. Okay. She wasn’t here for breakfast. “We’re following up on a final debit card purchase from one of the victims to this location. Michelle Cross. It would’ve been the seventh.” Leigh produced a photo from the victim’s driver’s license on her phone. “Were you working that day? Did you happen to see anything unusual or notice if she was meeting with anyone?”
“As long as this place is open, I’m working.” Hailey moved on to making another concoction of caffeine and heaven for a customer who’d just walked in without pausing. “I remember Michelle from school, though we weren’t in the same graduating class. She was in my husband’s year. She had a cappuccino the last time I saw her. Sat by the window over there. Didn’t say much. I asked her about her tattoos, but she had her nose so deep in her laptop, I don’t think she heard me.”
“What about a phone?” Boucher asked. “Did she get any calls while she was here?”
“Not that I remember.” Hailey handed off her newest creation and took the customer’s payment. Automatic. Almost puritanical. Kind of how she used to throw a softball in high school. Cock back, throw. Cock back, throw. There hadn’t been any emotion involved. Not even when her team had won. “She didn’t stay long. Maybe a few minutes. I thought it was weird because she’d gotten all set up after she’d ordered then was packing up by the time I brought her her coffee, running off like the devil was after her.”
“Running?” Leigh scanned the large, open space a second time and aggravated the headache waiting to attack. Blinking against the suddenly too bright lights, she tried to clear the slight blur that came with the movement. “I noticed you don’t have any security cameras here. You didn’t see what got her attention or overhear anything? Maybe she talked to someone here in the garage?”
“If she did, I didn’t see it.” Hailey splayed long fingers on both hips. “I was on the clock. This place comes to a screeching halt if I’m not on top of things, and it was pretty busy when she came in. You might not think it, but the people in this town get real cranky in the afternoon without their pick-me-up.”
“I can only imagine.” Leigh had seen that crankiness firsthand, but it wasn’t from lack of caffeine. “Is there anything else you might be able to tell us about that day? When Michelle left, did she get back into her vehicle and drive away? Did she seem nervous or stressed?”
“Hmm. You know, there was one thing.” Hailey got to work wiping down the counter with a white towel. “At the time I didn’t think anything of it, but after my husband told me what’d happened to her, I figured someone needed to know. Michelle dashed out the door so fast, she ended up knocking over the magazine rack. That got lots of people’s attention, but she just kept going. She ran straight up to a black SUV with dark tint pulling out of the lot and started pounding on the driver’s side window. I could hear her shouting. I think she wanted them to stop.”
“Did they?” Black SUV, tinted windows. Not uncommon, but something about the vehicle had gotten Michelle Cross’s attention. She’d known exactly who’d been inside. “Did you see who was behind the wheel?”
“No.” Hailey went back to wiping down the counter, everything in its place. “The SUV sped up and pulled out of the lot like a bat out of hell.”
“Hailey, why didn’t you come forward and tell someone at the station when you heard about what’d happened to Michelle Cross?” Boucher had lost all interest in his bagel and coffee.
Those perfectly arched eyebrows fell from their esteemed positions as Hailey’s face crumpled in confusion. “Donavon said to leave it alone. He told me it was none of my business and that the fancy unit out of Quantico would handle it.”
“Donavon.” This had to be a joke, but Leigh could see it now. Hailey had gone to the dark side after Leigh’s father’s arrest, had started hanging out with the students who’d taken pleasure in making Leigh’s life hell. Stabbing her tires had just been the beginning, and as someone who very rarely made choices with her own well-being in mind, it made sense Hailey had been pulled in by the ringleader’s imagined power and position. Hailey’s desertion might’ve even fed into Donavon Pierce’s ego in controlling someone who’d once cared about Leigh. Her burns prickled in remembrance of the man suspected of putting them there. She didn’t have any proof Officer Pierce had been the arsonist last night, but patterns revealed just as much—if not more—about a person as an actual crime. “You’re married to Officer Donavon Pierce.”
