Leslie Parrish - Fade To Black

Bastard.

After striking out with the neighbors, she’d worked out her frustration by cutting back those stupid hedges. Brutally. Until her arms and neck were scratched deeply enough to draw blood. And until some of the rage began to leave her.

Last night, in Dean’s arms, she’d been crushed. Now she was just damn furious.

By late in the afternoon, knowing she was going to have to go talk to some of the people who might have it in for her, she got into her squad car and headed downtown. But instead of going to the station, she detoured to Tanner Road, long considered the “wrong side of the tracks” in Hope Valley.

The Flanagan house had probably been beautiful when it was new. An old Victorian, it still exhibited graceful lines and genteel porches. But those lines were blurred by thirty years of dried, peeling paint, and the porches were falling off the sides.

Mitch and Mike’s father had lots of recriminations and a ton of blame for others when it came to his sorry lot in life.

Parking in the driveway and approaching the door, she saw the man eyeing her warily from the open garage. He’d been poking under the open hood of a rust bucket disguised as a pickup, complete with gun rack and Confederate flag on the back. Classy.

“What do you want?”

“I’d like to talk to Mike.”

He immediately hunched, his fists clenching at his sides. Damn, she didn’t want to bring the man’s wrath on the kid if Mike was innocent. But she needed to question him, because leaving a dead dog on her porch seemed like exactly the atrocity an angry, violent teenage boy would commit.

Still, there was a chance he hadn’t done it. “He’s not in any trouble,” she muttered, wondering how Mr. Flanagan didn’t hear the insincerity in her voice. “He just might have seen something that could help with a case I’m investigating.”

She’d promised Dean she wouldn’t investigate. But Dean didn’t know Mr. Flanagan. Or his beefy fists. And if she had to use the other case to get Mike alone for questioning, without setting him up for a beating from his father as soon as she left, she’d do it.

“You sure he didn’t do nothin’?”

No. She wasn’t. Nor, however, was she sure he had. “I just need to talk to him.”

“About that trashy Zimmerman girl?”

She wasn’t wearing her uniform. But she could still convey her office with a look. The disdainful one she gave him obviously came through loud and clear. He mumbled something, then hauled himself up the steps. Opening the door, he yelled for his son.

When Mike stepped outside, she watched for any sign of guilt on his face. She saw bloodshot eyes, a haggard frown, and a hint of a bruise on his cheek. She also saw a glimmer of fear. But it was not fear of her.

“What’d you do, boy?”

“As I told your dad,” she said, stepping forward, “you’re not in any trouble.” Yet . “I wanted to ask you if you saw anything that might help with a case I’m investigating.”

He nodded quickly, his head jerking up and down, all evidence of that cocky little prick at the doughnut shop gone. Which just made her despise his father even more. Thank heaven Mitch had escaped this nightmare. He’d done what he could to help his kid brother, though not going so far as pressing charges against his father.

A deep kernel of pity for the boy made Stacey hope Mike someday got out, too. But her pity extended only so far, and was conditioned on whether he’d left that horrid surprise for her on her porch.

“Will you excuse us?” she said to the father.

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

Eyeing Mike, she turned her head enough so his father couldn’t see and mouthed, Get rid of him.

Paling, the kid shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s okay, Dad. It’s all good.” She could see the wheels churning in his head. “Coach says scouts like it when you get involved with the community. And I want to help if I can.”

Yeah, uh, bullshit.

But given that the only thing Mr. Flanagan had any pride in was his son’s ability on the football field, the line worked. He returned to the garage, leaving them alone.

“You’re not here about the other day?” Mike immediately asked.

Stacey shook her head once. “I really do want to talk to you about a case I’m working. But first I need to ask you something. Where were you yesterday?”

The kid showed no sign of guilt. “Practice. Coach was pissed about how we did last week and made good on his threat to make us come in on weekends.”

“What time?”

“Around ten. He worked us for hours. It was dark by the time we left.”

No wonder the kid looked bleary-eyed and bruised.

“He wants the state championship this year.” Sneering toward the garage, Mike muttered, “It’s my ticket outta this hellhole.”

“The coach will confirm that?”

“Sure. We never left the field. We got five-minute piss breaks and ten for lunch. That was it.”

The school was a good distance from her house. So if the coach and other players backed up his story, it eliminated Mike as the one who’d killed the dog. She wasn’t stupid enough to take his word for it, but the alibi was easily checked, so she had to assume he was telling the truth. A weight lifted off her shoulders that she hadn’t said anything to his dad about the real reason for her visit. “Okay.”

“Are we done?” He looked up and down the street, as if worried some of his thug buddies would see him cooperating with the cops.

“No.” Letting him know she was aware he’d tried to buy beer at Dick’s that March night when Lisa had disappeared, she asked, “Do you remember that night?”

He put his hands up, palms out. “Hey, he didn’t sell me any. And I wasn’t the only one trying it, not by a long shot.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, and I’m not busting your chops about trying to buy beer. I just want to know if you saw anything. Did you hang around outside, or come back after you got thrown out? See anyone suspicious in the parking lot who might have been paying particular attention to Lisa?”

Mike, finally realizing she truly was here for another reason, crossed his arms. “Mitch hauled my ass home and dumped me in the driveway at around midnight.”

Mitch had been at the tavern? The bar owner had said he’d had the teen thrown out; he just hadn’t mentioned who had done the throwing.

Why hadn’t her trusted deputy mentioned it? Maybe at first, when everybody had thought Lisa had skipped town, he hadn’t thought it relevant. But now, knowing she was murdered, he should absolutely have said something.

“What did you do afterward?” she asked, not wanting Mike to realize how stunned she was by the tidbit he’d inadvertently provided.

“Nothin’. Stayed home. Isn’t that what all nice, wholesome teenagers are supposed to do?”

He wouldn’t know a wholesome teenager if he landed on one.

She wasn’t sure she believed him. Mike’s cocky attitude was back again, now that his father was out of earshot and he’d realized Stacey wasn’t going to rat him out for the crap he’d pulled at the doughnut shop. Frankly, she wondered why he’d been worried. From what she knew about Mr. Flanagan, he’d probably have some kind of that’s-my-boy macho reaction to the news that his kid had been leading a gang of boys in frightening a teenage girl. Mr. Flanagan was the type who’d laugh if his sons beat up other kids, who’d had them out hunting out of season by the age of four, who’d been horrified when Mitch had decided to be a cop. Father of the year.

Mike suddenly smiled. A nasty, knowing smile. “You want to know what was up with Lisa? Man, that girl was drunk as shit, dancing with every guy like she’d give it up right there on one of the pool tables. My dick of a brother tried to get her to leave with us, but she laughed in his face. He sure was pissed.”