Caught

It was bright yellow with blue flowers.

Wendy had seen that couch before.

Alone—just the photograph—it would have meant nothing to her. But now she remembered Phil Turnball’s last words, about how he was offering her a “gift,” that she wouldn’t have to blame herself for setting up an innocent man. Phil Turnball believed it—and Wendy had wanted to believe it too. That was the thing. It left her off the hook. Dan had been a killer. She hadn’t set up an innocent man. She had, in fact, brought down a murderer.

So how come she still wasn’t totally buying it?

The early intuition, the one that said she’d somehow wronged Dan Mercer, the one that had been nibbling at her subconscious from the moment he first opened that red door and walked into the sting house—she had let it go dormant over the past few days.

But it had never gone away.

CHAPTER 37

THE MOVING TRUCK was parked in front of the Wheeler home.

There was a little ramp running up to the open front door. Two men wearing dark gloves and leather weightlifter belts rolled a credenza down it, one repeating the words, “Steady, steady,” as though it were a mantra. The FOR SALE sign was still in the yard. There was no UNDER CONTRACT or anything else hung beneath it.

Wendy let the credenza pass and then she headed up the ramp, leaned her head in the doorway, and said, “Anyone home?”

“Hey.”

Jenna came from the den. She too wore dark gloves. She had on blue jeans. A bulky flannel shirt hung over her white T. The sleeves of the flannel were rolled up to her wrists, but she practically swam in the fabric. Her husband’s, Wendy thought. As a kid, you might use your dad’s old dress shirts as smocks. As an adult, you use your husband’s for household errands or sometimes, just to feel close to him. Wendy had done the same, loving the smell of her man on it.

“Did you find a buyer?” Wendy asked.

“Not yet.” Jenna’s hair was tied back, but some strands had come loose. She tucked it back behind her ear. “Noel starts in Cincinnati next week though.”

“Fast.”

“Yes.”

“Noel must have started looking for that job right away.”

Jenna hesitated this time. “I guess so.”

“Because of the stigma of defending a pedophile?”

“That’s right.” Jenna put her hands on her hips. “What’s going on, Wendy?”

“Have you ever been to Freddy’s Deluxe Luxury Suites in Newark?”

“Freddy’s what?”

“It’s a no-tell motel in the middle of Newark. Have you been?”

“No, of course not.”

“Funny. I showed the front desk manager your picture. He said he saw you there the day Dan was killed. In fact, he said you asked for a key to his room.”

This was, Wendy knew, a semi-bluff. The front desk manager had recognized Jenna Wheeler and said she’d been there within the past two weeks, but he couldn’t say exactly when. He also remembered giving her a key without asking questions—when nice-looking suburban women show up at Freddy’s, you never ask for ID—but he didn’t remember what room.

“He was mistaken,” Jenna said.

“I don’t think so. More important, when I tell the police, the police won’t think so.”

The two women stood there, toe-to-toe, staring each other down.

“You see, that was what Phil Turnball missed,” Wendy said. “You heard about his suicide, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“He thought Dan killed Haley because, in his mind, there were no other suspects. Dan was in hiding at the motel. No one knew where he was, ergo nobody could have planted Haley’s iPhone. He forgot about you, Jenna. So did I.”

Jenna took off the leather gloves. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“How about this then?”

Wendy handed her the photograph of Kirby Sennett. The bright yellow couch with blue flowers was behind them, wrapped in plastic, ready to be loaded for Cincinnati. Jenna looked at the photograph a little too long.

“Has your daughter told you what Red Bulling is?”

Jenna handed it back to her. “This still proves nothing.”

“Sure it does. Because now we know the truth, don’t we? Once I give this information to the police, they’ll go after the kids harder. They’ll get the untouched photographs. I know Kirby was here. He and Haley had a big fight and broke up. When I got him alone, he told me that there’d been a drinking party here, in your house, the night Haley vanished. He said only four kids showed. The police will pressure them now. They’ll talk.”

Again this was not exactly true. Walker and Tremont had gotten Kirby alone in a room. They threatened everything under the sun to get him to talk. It wasn’t until his lawyer got a waiver of confidentiality, not just no prosecution, that he told them about the party.

Jenna crossed her arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you know what amazed me? None of the kids came forward after Haley went missing. But again there were only a few kids here. Kirby said he asked your stepdaughter, Amanda, about it. Amanda told him that Haley had left here fine right after he did. What with Principal Zecher’s zero-tolerance policy, no one wanted to admit to drinking if they didn’t have to. Kirby was worried about being thrown off the baseball team. He said another girl was on the wait-list to Boston College and she’d never get in once Zecher told them. So they kept quiet about it, the way kids can do. And really, it was no big deal since Amanda told them Haley had been fine when she left the party. Why would they have doubted that?”

“I think you should leave now.”

“I plan to. I also plan to head straight to the police. You know they’ll be able to reconstruct that night now. They’ll give the other kids at the party immunity. They’ll find out you were at the motel, maybe go through the nearby surveillance tapes. They’ll realize you planted the phone. The medical examiner will take another look at Haley’s corpse. Your web of lies will fall apart with ease.”

Wendy turned to leave.

“Wait.” Jenna swallowed. “What do you want?”

“The truth.”

“Are you wearing a wire?”

“A wire? You watch too much TV.”

“Are you wearing a wire?” she asked again.

“No.” Wendy spread her arms. “Do you want to—what’s the correct terminology?—pat me down?”