Deja New Page 17

  “On an island of dead Burnhams, yeah, you said. Did you guys really clean up Uncle Donald’s gravestone?”

  She nodded. “It was his idea. We met at the cemetery and he had all the stuff with him. Plus a bottomless backpack of food.”

  “Hmm. Why aren’t you sleeping with him? I think you should move past naps.”

  She had to laugh. “Two minutes ago you were freaking out at the thought of my less-than-vibrant sex life.”

  “Two minutes ago, I wasn’t sure if he was taking advantage. Or if you were. C’mon, Angela, you grew up with cousins and brothers. We’ve always been wrathfully, irrationally overprotective of our lone lady wolf.”

  “Don’t remind me. Now if you’re finished invading my privacy, let’s go invade your dad’s privacy.”

  “Sure, why not? You’re on a roll,” he teased as they came back to Leah and Jason. “Maybe you’ll crack the case.”

  She snorted and was about to retort when Leah held up their paperwork. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “What? Are they backed up?” Angela looked around; there was only one other family in the area. “Did you not have enough time to finish the paperwork? Or forget your ID? Not enough money for a flimsy lock to protect documents someone could use to steal your identity?” With all the hoops, it was a bit of a miracle that anyone was able to visit a prisoner.

  “It’s been finished for ten minutes. The paperwork’s not the problem.”

  She looked from Leah’s sober expression to Jason’s and back again. “What? Is Uncle Dennis sick? Or unavailable?”

  “He’s refusing to see us.”

  “Oh.” A setback, but not entirely unexpected. “Well, sometimes—”

  “Ever again.”

  Okay, that was new. “What?” she asked, in case she hadn’t heard right.

  “He struck all Drakes from his visitors list. We’re permanently banned.”

  “Except we’re here on a sanctioned trip,” Archer pointed out, but Angela was already shaking her head.

  “No, we’re not. We’re not even here for an open case. If he won’t cooperate, we can’t flash a badge and press the matter. So . . .”

  “Roadblock.”

  Shit.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “Sorry, Detective.” The correction officer who couldn’t process their paperwork looked authoritative and sheepish at the same time, which was a good trick. “You know the rules.”

  “Yes,” Jason acknowledged.

  The CO, over six feet tall with the shoulders of a swimmer, had dark skin, mild brown eyes, and a soothing speaking voice. Even though he was full of bad news, Angela could have listened to that voice all day. “And y’know Drake fired his lawyer right after the sentencing and reps himself.” He spread his hands. “So it’s like a lawyer not authorizing contact with a client—we can’t do anything.”

  Angela opened her mouth, ready to try any number of arguments: But we have new info. But someone recently committed a crime that might be related to the case. But all of this can’t be for nothing. But why aren’t you doing podcasts with that voice?

  “I would never sanction flouting the rules,” Jason began, which sounded promising. Nobody started like that unless they were about to sanction flouting the rules.

  “‘Flouting’? We don’t sanction doing anything to the rules,” Archer added.

  “But my understanding is that sometimes ICC personnel have been able to work around visitation rules. Under special circumstances.”

  What could be more special than our special circumstance? Angela wondered. At times it was like they were all stuck in a soap opera.

  “Yeah, but . . .” The officer lowered his voice and took a step forward. What is it with people moving a foot away because they think they won’t be overheard? Does no one understand acoustics? “For this case? C’mon. You know he won’t cooperate. You know there’s nothing new. So what’s the point?” Officer Maller looked at Angela. “No offense.”

  She was offended, as a matter of fact, but couldn’t deny Maller had a point. And the fact that his attitude mirrored her mother’s was just the frosting on the dog turd they were pretending was a cake.

  “I’m not sure what we can . . .” She trailed off. Ten years of this, and it wasn’t getting any easier. How could it not be getting even a little easier? Fight! Think of something. Or get shrill. That doesn’t always help, but it’s a real stress-reliever. “What if we . . .” What? Come up with a last-minute idea no one thinks will work until it does? Why can’t real life be like Law & Order sometimes?

  “Officer Maller, I think I can help you with your gambling problem,” Leah said out of nowhere, startling everyone (but no one more than the CO).

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your gambling problem.”

  “I don’t, uh, have that.” Maller cleared his throat with an uneasy rumble. “An addiction. To gambling, I mean.”

  “You’re right. It’s not a full-blown addiction yet, so there’s time. I’ve got an idea how you can get rid of it. Could I speak to you over here, please?”

  Blinking like he was in a windstorm, Maller meekly followed Leah through a door that opened to a small private office off to the side. At the click of the door closing, Angela turned and said, “See how she wanted to talk without being overheard so she left the room and went into another room and then closed the door to that other room? That’s how you do it.”

  “It’s not easy being in love with a legend,” Archer said with a fond smirk, “but somehow, I manage.”

  “With respect to your fiancée,” Jason said, “this is not an episode of Law & Order. She’s not going to come up with a last-minute fix that will solve our—”

  The door opened and Maller stuck his head out, spotted the officer behind the counter, and yelled, “Amy! Process these visitors, please!” Then he disappeared back inside the office.

  Jason’s rebuttal was succinct. “Huh.”

  Angela could feel the unbelieving smile cross her face. “This has been a weird day.”

  “A great, great day,” Jason reminded her.

  She hadn’t dared try to hold his hand again once they were inside ICC. He might be confident that picnicking among the dead with a Drake wouldn’t get him in trouble at work, but she didn’t want to risk it just yet. This . . . whatever it is . . . it’s new and tender, like a fly larva, vulnerable to any outside forces that, oh jeez, my metaphors are getting worse.

  So though it’d be the nicest thing ever to reach for his hand and hold it while Archer said stupid things that were alternately aggravating and hilarious, she didn’t. And she might have been reading too much into it, but from the way Jason was looking at Archer with a thoughtful expression, he might have been pondering the same thing.

  Or he could be thinking about the next pair of socks to buy.

  The oddest thing of all? Before meeting Detective Chambers, Angela would never have described herself as timid.

  The door opened again and Leah came out with Maller on her heels. He looked dazed and pleased. “I heard everything you said. Thank you, Ms. Nazir.”

  Leah shook his offered hand. “Worth a try, right? At worst, you’re only out half an hour of your time.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Officer Maller looked over their small group. “Let’s get you inside, okay, folks?”

  And that was that.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Except not really.

  “C’mon, Leah, it’s not like he’s a patient.”

  “Client,” she corrected. “We call them clients. Which I know you know, Archer.”

  “Well, he isn’t one. So spill.”

  “‘Spill’? What, you’re a tabloid journalist now?”

  “Those two things don’t actually go together,” Jason pointed out.

  “Fair enough, Detective.” To Archer: “No.” />
  “Spill pleeeeeease?”

  “This is not something you can get by using the magic word.”

  “Pleeeeeease?”

  “You recall we share a bed, yes? And I can do any number of dreadful things to your unconscious body?”

  Archer’s eyes went wide. “You probably didn’t mean to make that sound hot, but . . .”

  Angela groaned. “This conversation actually makes me sorry Leah was able to work her magic on CO Maller.”

  “Excellent,” Jason replied. “I thought I was the only one having regrets.”

  They were back in the large visitation room that always felt claustrophobic. And now that they were all trapped with an aroused Archer, it felt even smaller. Though it was nice to have most of the place to themselves. There was only one other family in there with them, likely because these weren’t standard visiting hours. Visitor etiquette involved pretending that though you could see and hear the other people, they weren’t really there.

  Like we’re not really here.

  There were a number of reasons a family would be allowed contact visitation (the most desirable, obviously, though there was also video visitation or noncontact visitation). If someone was moving, or dying. A new trial, or the cancellation of same. Or when your cousin’s fiancée figured out a CO’s deep, dark secret.

  Angela reached out and tapped Jason’s shoulder to get his attention, which came with the added benefit of touching him. “How do you want to do this? Tell him what happened to his brother’s grave and see if—”

  “I would think if we— Sorry to cut you off. You were saying?”

  “No, no, you go—I mean, it’s your case. Well, it’s not, actually, but you’re the one with—”

  “I think the best way— Sorry.”

  “No, no. Please. Go ahead.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Archer groaned. “This is by far the worst moment of the entire trip. No contest. It’s not even close. If this was a race, you two lovingly interrupting each other and then sweetly apologizing for lovingly interrupting each other would be so far ahead in the Worst Part of the Trip race, it would—”

  “What did you do?”

  Startled, they all looked up. Dennis Drake, who last week had seemed far younger than sixty-three, now looked a hale and hearty ninety. He had a crop of beard stubble; his bright yellow jumpsuit seemed muted and tired.

  “Uncle D—”

  “Don’t call me that! Stop pretending this is about family!” he roared. COs were running toward him and the other family was shrinking back from the shrieking demon in yellow. Angela felt like shrinking back herself. Even his hair seemed outraged, standing stiffly in a prison buzz cut.

  “I can’t see you! I cannot make it any fucking clearer and you still won’t listen!”

  “Mr. Drake, step off.” Angela realized that Jason had moved in front of her and that Archer had grabbed Leah’s elbow and yanked her behind him. “Now.”

  “Let me go!” he screamed. “Drop it, all of you, drop it and let me go! Don’t.” He shook off the first CO and Angela was sorry to see it was Maller. Oh, hell, he might not have gotten in trouble for letting us in before, but now . . .

  “You nosy bitch.” Is he talking to me? He’s never said anything so awful. Yes, he sure is. My uncle has qualified my efforts to help him as the actions of a nosy bitch. A lot of firsts this month.

  “Please,” was all she could manage. Could that thin, thready voice be hers? And please what? Please stop? Please be nice? Please go back in time and don’t kill your brother?

  She didn’t know.

  “If you don’t stop.” He cut himself off, making a visible effort to get control. But the rest of it came out through his teeth. “I will fucking stab somebody and get sent to solitary, do you understand?”

  “Dad!” From Archer, who had been so shocked his vocal cords had temporarily locked. Which was shocked indeed. Jacky won’t believe it when I tell him. Also I will never tell any of this to anyone. “You ungrateful piece of shit!”

  Dennis had no eyes for his son, only for her. “Are you listening, Angela? Because you never have. I will kill someone to stay in solitary if you don’t back off. Then it won’t matter who pulls what strings. It won’t matter how much more of your life you’ve pissed away, you won’t be able to see— Funnnkkk!” That last was muffled, as three COs had piled on and Dennis was now howling into the floor.

  It was quiet. No, it wasn’t. The COs were talking to each other; the horrified other family were backed in the corner, whispering; and Archer was saying something—of course. Oh, and Jason’s lips were moving. And his face was pointed at her. So he was probably talking to her. Might be time to tune back in.

  “—all right?”

  “Fine. I’m fine.” Nothing but the truth. She’d been shouted at before. By experts.

  “I take it back,” Archer managed. “That was the worst part of the trip. But the lovey-dovey stuff was right up there. So, y’know, just to keep that in perspective.”

  Angela made a sound that was probably a laugh, if crows could laugh. That’s what Archer was going for and she wanted to oblige and also, what was wrong with her legs? They were slacking off, that’s what. They were trying to take a break, but no time for that. She had stuff to do. Right? Research? Or something? Maybe she’d sit down. Yes. Oh, that was much better. She could use a break. And she wasn’t the only one. They should all sit down. Right?

  “Angela?”

  “I’m just fine. How are you?”

  “Easy,” Jason was saying to her temple. She could feel his arms around her and it should have been wonderful. “I’ve got you. It’s all right. Let’s get you off your feet.”

  “I’m not off my feet?” That was problematic. “Yes, let’s get me off them. Leah? You okay?”

  Cool fingers were on her wrist. “I’m fine, Angela.”

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “I’m worried you might faint.”

  “You might faint.” Lame. Best she could do. Plus it was a lie. Leah would never keel over because someone yelled at her. She’d fought off a murderer, and exposed lots of others. Clients who didn’t like what she told them sometimes tried to attack her. So this was nothing by comparison. Nothing.

  The more she thought about it, the more the differences between them were glaring. Leah Nazir wouldn’t be a trembling wreck if someone yelled at her in a Visitation Room. She wouldn’t feel like a wonderful picnic lunch was going to put in an abrupt reappearance. She—

  “Oh, hell,” Angela managed, somehow making it to the garbage can in time.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  SEPTEMBER 1949

  CAMPDEN, ENGLAND

  On Sunday, Augusta Harrison read about her own murder in the paper.

  It must be a joke, was her first shocked thought. Like those fake newspapers you can buy where the headline proclaims you King of the Universe. Or perhaps it’s someone with the same name as me.

  As it turned out, it wasn’t a joke and it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. A year after she’d moved to Paris, then London, a man named John Perry found a pile of her bloody clothes in the living room of an abandoned house, and promptly contacted the authorities.

  The police went looking for her and, of course, she could not be found. Augusta had only lived in Campden for a few months before moving on; her mother used to claim she had Gypsy blood. She hadn’t formed any real ties and did not notify anyone of her departure. She had gone to Paris—delightful, but ultimately too expensive—and then London, settling into a rented townhouse in the West End a few days past. Only half of her belongings had been unpacked when she read about her murder.

  The clothes Perry had found weren’t just bloody; they had been repeatedly slashed with the kind of knife found in Mr. Perry’s kitchen. When Mr. Perry’s lawyer pointed out it was the kind of knife found in ne
arly every kitchen in England, the jury had not been swayed.

  Worse still, Mr. Perry had been convicted of assault three years earlier at age nineteen (for which he served twenty-seven months), and had an IQ of seventy-eight. Once the bobbies had finished with him—which took days—he implicated not only himself but his mother and brother. The entire family had been convicted and would hang in a matter of days.

  She sent a telegram to the Gloucestershire police.

  Nothing.

  She packed, bought a train ticket, went back to Campden, a town she had ardently hoped never to see again. Walked into the constable’s station. Announced herself.

  Nothing.

  Found Mr. Perry’s lawyer, who was engaged in dying from sepsis after his appendix burst and was, understandably, distracted.

  She went back to the police and explained again. And as she perhaps should have foreseen, rather than admitting a mistake had been made, they decided that, somehow, the mistake was hers.

  Because—and was it not absurd that this would cost a man and his family their lives?—she wasn’t like other girls. She had a history. She didn’t like staying in one spot very long, that was one thing. The thought of binding herself to a man and a house and his children for decades was horrifying, that was another. And she liked to drink. And she liked the idea of men, and the things an open-minded couple could do in a bedroom with the blinds drawn. Only the daily domestic details smacked of tedium.

  Like this: She was small and red-haired and fair-skinned and dark-eyed and pretty and looked sweet, but wasn’t. Men wanted to take care of her, and were piqued when they discovered she neither wanted nor needed them. She liked to fuck and she liked her freedom, not always in that order.

  Much of the time, this worked well for her. But sometimes those things combined in a most disagreeable way and she had to leave town earlier than she planned. But there were always new places and new men, and if she wasn’t hurting anyone, what was the harm?