Yours, Mine, and Ours (31 page)

“Do not forget the murdered boys.”

“Yep, the victims, too.”

“And the murdered girls,” Emma Jan added. She looked at Michaela. “Do you think George did that? Killed those girls?”

“I think that their murder was a terrible, heinous crime, and it paved the way for more devastation and death.”

“You didn’t answer my question, boss.”

Michaela shrugged. Click. Closed. She had shown us as much as she would.

“I am not certain George was guilty,” I admitted. “Eighty-one days is rather speedy. Sometimes it takes almost that long for jury selection.”

“You know what, though? You know what?” Pace, pace. “Even if he did it. Even if he was the killer, killed those two little girls, he
still
got jammed. I don’t care if he was slobbering into his chocolate milkshakes and howling at the moon, or if he was just getting an early start in his career as a repressed racially downtrodden serial killer. He was wronged. The system fucked him. It
fucked
him.”

I tried to hide my astonishment. To hear this from George Pinkman, of all people. He normally cared nothing for motivation, for the did-he-or-didn’t-he game. But he was outraged about this.

“And if he
didn’t
do it … God!” He raked his fingers through his hair and rubbed his eyes so savagely mine watered in sympathy. “I don’t even want to think about all the layers of awful if he was innocent. I can’t. Literally can’t wrap my mind around it, like Michaela said.”

“Well, jeez, buddy, don’t hurt yourself.” Emma Jan shot me a look, but I could only shrug. I had never seen him like this, either.

“I guess I just don’t have the force of imagination to pull it off. Even thinking about trying to face the implications is giving me a migraine. That poor kid.” Silence, while he finished pacing and flung himself back into his chair. “So now what?”

“Now we expose JBK to the light of day,” Michaela said.

We all stared at her, but it was Emma Jan who broke the silence. “What do you mean, Michaela?”

“We have managed to keep the media out of this, for which I am always grateful. Trust a reporter to ruin a perfectly organized murder investigation, every time. But now we are going to tell the media everything. And then we are going to let the killer come to us.”

“Okay, that sounded mysterious and weird, but what, exactly, is the plan?”

She told us. I was not so much surprised as amazed.

chapter sixty-six

Here are various
headlines from local papers and news affiliates that prove, once and for all, that Michaela Taro was not the one with whom to fuck. I had no idea how she had put all this together so quickly, and no desire to find out. Some things mortal man was not meant to know. Michaela’s Machiavellian practices were quite high on that list.

RACIAL MOTIVATION BEHIND SERIAL KILLINGS: THE TRUTH ABOUT GEORGE STINNEY

GEORGE STINNEY: EXECUTION SPARKS DECADES OF MURDERS. THE KILLING NEVER STOPPED!

THE STINNEY CASE: DEATH OF INNOCENCE?

PROFESSOR DECKLIN COMING TO TWIN CITIES TO LECTURE: STINNEY WAS INNOCENT! WHO REALLY KILLED THE GIRLS?

That one was my favorite. I think it was Michaela’s, as well. For one thing, there was no Professor Decklin. For another, there was no proof of Stinney’s innocence, as there was no real proof of his guilt.

But the killer wouldn’t know that. Even if he did, we didn’t think he could stay away.

As it turned out, much to my shock and sorrow later, we were right.

chapter sixty-seven

But that was
before my nervous breakdown. My mini-breakdown. Don’t judge … I was overdue! And I have no idea why it happened just then. It seemed very random to me. As it did (I heard later) from others.

“That’s it!” I announced. The buzz of FBI-related activity went on despite my outburst. Of course, I wasn’t the first person to suddenly freak out in her cube. Suddenly I wanted out. Out out out!

“That’s it,” I said again. “I have to … have to…” What? What could I do? How could I get out of here with a good enough excuse? Where could I go? Oooh! Dr. Gallo! “I have to go donate platelets.” Though it might be too early … it certainly hadn’t been seven days …

“No,” Michaela began, who’d been on her way to one of her many meetings, but halted when I shrieked. “You have to—”

“No! I have to donate! Platelets! Now!”

All background noise ceased. And I could feel about a thousand eyes on me. For once, literally for
this one time
, I didn’t care.

“I get to do
one
normal thing in this weird stupid life/lives of mine, and that’s go to the Red Cross and donate platelets! One normal thing! Out of a million-zillion
ab
normal things! Do I ask for
anything
besides that? Huh? Do I?”

George opened his mouth.

“Shut up, George!”

George closed his mouth.

“I read about murder and I hear about murder and I study murder, and when I’m not doing all that I go to murder scenes and look at dead bodies and try to catch murderers, and then I see a shrink or two or five, and then I see more bodies, and then I have a meeting while my boss chops everything in sight into tiny quarter-size pieces while we all pretend that isn’t
weird weird weird
and one of my personalities is a motorcycle-obsessed psycho and the other one is a competitive bitch who can’t leave the new girl alone for five seconds and now I have a dog even though I can’t have a dog and I have a boyfriend and possibly a crush on a man who isn’t him and I…” I groped behind me, felt something soft, hurled it. “Want…” Groped, threw. “To donate…” Groped, threw. “Platelets!”

Dead silence.

“So I am
going
and don’t you
dare
try to nail me with a Thorazine dart on my way out the
door
!”

“Furthest thing from my mind,” a wide-eyed Michaela said. “Though if you could come back straight after…”

“Fine! I will! But now, I’m leaving!”

“All right.”

“Yeah, chill out,” a pale George added.

“It’s not like you haven’t earned a break,” Emma Jan piped up.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Okay. I’m leaving.”

“Okay.”

I stomped toward the elevator, fully expecting the sting of a dart, followed by muddy unconsciousness. But it never came. Everybody just watched me go.

I kept the scowl on my face until the doors shut, then couldn’t help smile. My! That felt terrific! Should have done it a long time ago.

Then, inevitably, guilt swamped my brain and smashed my joy like a copy of
Gone With the Wind
smashed a bug.

*   *   *

I was the one who returned … it really was too soon to donate platelets, so Cadence had merely gone for a walk around the block, enjoying her independence. She could be so cute at times!

There on my desk, waiting for me/us, was a note asking that I see Michaela. Which, after Cadence’s tantrum, I expected.

Still, I had to force a pleasant expression when I got to her office. “What can I do for you?”

Michaela had gotten up to close her office door. Now, on her way back around her desk, she sat and looked at me. “Did you know Patrick was in jail?”

Nothing. Silence. The last two words, “in jail” … I could almost feel their weight.

No. I had
not
known. But I would get to the bottom of it. Immediately. I stood, only to hear her sharp, “Sit down.”

I sat.

“I must apologize; this is literally the first chance I’ve had to address this. Your boyfriend was arrested late last night. Apparently you and he had a fight—”

“It was not a fight.”

“—and Adrienne showed up. She did a great deal of property damage while she was driving the body. For reasons I do not understand, when the authorities showed up in response to the alarm, Patrick took the blame. He confessed to everything Adrienne did. As Adrienne was long gone and he stayed behind to face the music, he was arrested.

“My understanding is that Adrienne went back home and fell asleep. And Cadence woke up a few hours later, and you know the rest.”

I could feel my eyes getting bigger and bigger.

“I will be going down there within the hour. He’ll be released OR. Trial date will be in a few weeks, unless I can persuade the DA to see things my way. And I can be quite persuasive when I wish.”

No doubt.

“It helps that Patrick is willing to pay for the damages. I estimated the damage to be in the low six-figure range, and told him so. He didn’t care.”

“He’s rich,” I said through numb lips. Took the blame? Was willing to foot the bill? What … who…?

“Yes. I thought you might like to know the situation before I went downtown.”

I was as bewildered as I had ever been. I was having to process a lot of information in a very short time. And that was just about George Stinney. “What
is
the situation? And how is it that you know all this?”
And why hadn’t I, you treacherous wench?

“Because I was his phone call.”

I was silent, brooding over that one. It was doable. It was even plausible. Patrick and Cadence had recently exchanged address books. He traveled a great deal for work, and wanted the three of us to always be able to reach him. Cadence had felt reciprocation was only polite, and I did not care enough to intervene. So he had Michaela’s contact information.

I had to say, I admired his cool head. It had taken some brass ones to call Michaela. Especially when he could afford the finest lawyer in the state.

Especially when he had done nothing wrong, except frighten me. And whose fault was that? Not his. Not this time. I had assumed the worst, and fled, leaving Patrick to face Adrienne in one of her rages.

I was shamed by the nobility of a baker.

“He said something about Adrienne making a mess of the local PetCo being his fault.”

I wondered if Adrienne had brought Olive along on her rampage. That poor dog. Having to tolerate
one
of us would be difficult for any animal.

“He said he had done something that had set the entire thing off, and because of that, he felt the blame should lie with him.”

The house. His house. He was talking about moving in. He knew I had been upset. He must have realized how upset once he knew Adrienne was coming. So he … he …

I burst into tears. This was a first. Normally Cadence cried in here. If I had not been so miserable, I would have been still more ashamed.

Michaela, thank all the gods, never changed expression. I might have been discussing her stock options. She wordlessly handed me a box of Kleenex. BOFFO should buy stock; we went through hundreds of boxes a week.

“That fool. That
idiot.
He should not have … he … fool, fool, oh, Patrick, I am going to
strangle
you!”

“I didn’t hear that.”

“Good.” I ferociously blew my nose. “I did not say it. I did not threaten assault on an innocent man, certainly not where my supervisor would have overheard. I would like to see Patrick.”

She smiled, the half-smile I had always found mysterious and charming. “I thought you would. Run along, Shiro. You’re no good to me if you’re weeping over an incarcerated boyfriend.”

Weeping! The horror. I stood. Blew my nose again. Tossed the Kleenex into her garbage can. “Thank you, Michaela. For everything. I know I … I know I don’t tell you enough. Express enough gratitude for … for all that you do for us. I
am
grateful. Even if it’s difficult for me to show.”

My life was a nightmare. Emma Jan … was she right? Did I see Michaela as a mother figure? Did I want to please the only maternal person in my life?

She had brought me here, privately. Told me bad news with subtle kindness. Overlooked my inappropriate behavior. Comforted me … in her way. Offered me
Kleenex
.

Soon death would claim me. It had to. This couldn’t go on, surely.

“I just … cannot thank you enough,” I finished, sounding far too watery for my taste.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she yawned. “Run along, Shiro. I desire you to be on the other side of my door, now.”

Thankfully, I left. She might be a mother figure, but she would be the
last
to admit it. Which was fine with me. So fine, I might faint from sheer gratitude.

But first things first.

chapter sixty-eight