David Bell - Never Come Back

“But he didn’t threaten you?”

“No,” I said. “He didn’t say, ‘Give me the money or else.’ Nothing like that. He seems shady. In some way, his presence is threatening. He showed up out of the blue on my doorstep. I wondered if maybe he was the one who broke into my apartment.”

Post nodded. She made a note in the open file folder.

“But,” I said, “I can’t imagine what he’d be looking for there. I don’t have anything. And he doesn’t know anything about me.”

“I’ll keep it in the back of my mind,” she said.

Post’s phone buzzed again.

“Do you need to get that?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“So,” I said, “if you know all about her marriage to Gordon Baxter, you must know about their daughter, right?”

I knew professional police decorum meant never showing surprise when presented with unexpected information. Post mostly concealed her reaction, but her eyes moved just enough—a twitch or a tic—to tell me that she not only didn’t know about the other Elizabeth, but was quite surprised to hear it.

She didn’t answer. So I said, “You didn’t know, then? Wouldn’t you find out if you ran some sort of a background check on my mom?”

“A juvenile that long ago might not show up in the system. We haven’t had computers forever.”

“Okay. Well, now you know.”

She hesitated. “I’m not sure how it’s relevant to the case.”

“Not relevant?” I asked. “My mother’s ex-husband has a criminal record, and they also have a daughter who went missing years ago and now has managed to get herself into my mother’s will. And that’s not relevant?”

Post considered a moment. She closed the folder in her lap and placed it back on the desk. “Is there something I need to know about this daughter?”

“A few things,” I said.

I gave her the whole rundown, from Elizabeth’s disappearance in 1975 to her apparent reemergence into my mother’s life sometime in the recent past. I made sure to include the stuff about the will, including Elizabeth Yarbrough’s call to the lawyer, as well as my uncle’s and Gordon Baxter’s assertions that Elizabeth Yarbrough was some kind of grifter taking advantage of my mother and not the rebellious teenager who walked out of their lives thirty-seven years earlier. Post asked a few questions as I went along, mostly just clarifications of minor points. She still didn’t take any notes, but she was attentive. When I was finished, she leaned back in her chair, the springs squeaking as she moved.

“You’ve never met this woman?” she asked. “This Elizabeth Yarbrough?”

“Never.”

“And where is she?”

“She lives in Reston Point, according to the will. That’s all I know.”

“Hmm,” Post said.

“Look, you’re trying to hang this all on my brother—”

“Nobody’s hanging anything,” she said. “We’re dealing with the evidence.”

“Okay. Fine. But you have someone with a criminal record who was getting money from my mother, and you have someone else—someone who was given up for dead long ago—suddenly showing up and working her way into the will. She gets a third now that Mom is gone. Are you telling me that isn’t suspicious?”

“One of your sources against this Yarbrough woman is the guy you also say is a crook. Gordon Baxter,” Post said. “Who knows why he’s smearing her? And you don’t know that this woman called the lawyer. And even if she did, I’m not sure what it proves. People call lawyers. Maybe it shows she was after the money. Maybe. But maybe she just had a legitimate question.”

I accepted the dousing of cold water. But I wasn’t finished. “At least admit it’s hard to believe Ronnie killed my mom. Can you just admit that for me?”

“Can you admit it?” she asked. “Do you have any doubts about it?”

“I do.”

“You mean you have them now?”

I didn’t answer. But she was right, and she knew it.

“People kill for all sorts of reasons,” she said. “And you’d be surprised at who ends up doing the killing. You may not expect it from them, but they do it. And the one constant, the almost ninety-nine percent answer to the puzzle is—the killer knew the victim and, in their mind, had a very good reason to do it. So far, I only see your brother fitting that bill. And I have to be honest—this suicide attempt doesn’t make things look any better for him. We’re still looking at other options, and maybe Elizabeth Yarbrough and Gordon Baxter will factor into that. No charges have been filed yet, of course. But your brother has confessed.”

“He didn’t do it,” I said. “Okay, you’re right. I have my doubts. Little moments of doubt about Ronnie. Sure. He had outbursts. Apparently Mom felt scared enough to call the police once. That’s there. I can’t change it. But I know him. I know him. He didn’t do it.” I felt I’d been convincing, that I’d stated my case so clearly and strongly no one could refute it.

But Post didn’t show much on her face. It was as if I hadn’t spoken. Her phone buzzed. This time she picked it up and read the text. She thumbed a quick reply, then turned back to me.

“I have to go to the hospital now,” she said. “I’ll follow up over there and put my head together with Detective Richland. We’ll see where we stand.”

“So you believe me, right?” I asked. “There’s something to all of this stuff I’ve been saying.”

She stood up and offered me her hand. “Thanks for coming by, Elizabeth. We’ll be in touch.”

I left the police station and went to Dan’s house. I’d started driving in the direction of St. Vincent’s, but the day’s events had left me wiped out. I called Paul to check in, and he told me that Ronnie’s condition was the same. He was resting comfortably.

“You rest too,” he said. “You can come here and relieve me later. If anything changes, I’ll call.”

I felt guilty about not going to the hospital, but I saw the wisdom in what Paul had said. If I rested just a little, I could be at my best later that night.

I went to Dan’s because I didn’t feel comfortable returning to my apartment with Gordon Baxter roaming around town. I doubted I could sleep there even if I wanted to.

Dan gave me my space. I was happy to see him and happy to not really have to talk much. He circled around me while I undressed and slid into his bed. In the living room, his computer sat open on his desk, surrounded by an obscenely high stack of library books. The apartment smelled like scorched coffee and frozen pizza. I hoped Dan wouldn’t want to crawl into bed with me, not even just to sleep. I really was tired.

“I’ll leave you alone,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“But just one question. Is there anything else I need to know? Any other revelations?”

“Too many,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little overwhelmed by it all now. And I’m tired.”

He pulled the bedroom door shut, and I was asleep before my eyelids closed. I dreamed of my mother. I was inside a house, and she stood outside. Rain poured down, blurring my sight. Mom was drenched. I worried about her because she was so old. I thought she might get sick. Her hands waved around, trying to communicate with me. But I didn’t know what she wanted. None of it made sense. I thought, Just knock on the door. Just come in.

Then someone was knocking. The light from the other room came through the crack as Dan opened the bedroom door. I didn’t know where I was or who he was right away. A yelping noise escaped my throat.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s just me.”

I sat up, tried to clear the cobwebs away. I looked at the clock. I’d been asleep for forty-five minutes. Ronnie. I needed to go see Ronnie. Is that why Dan woke me up? To go back to the hospital?