Keep Her Safe Read online

  Plus, there’s no escaping what happened. My mother killed herself, no matter where I live.

  “Chief Canning, it was great to meet you. Again.” I offer him my hand.

  He stands and takes it, chuckling. “It’s just good ol’ George now. And if you ever need anything, give me a holler. Or better yet, come on out to my ranch for a visit. Anytime. The door’s always open. I’m out near McDade, the only Canning in the book.”

  With a polite nod, I duck out.

  The second my engine is running, I reach into my pocket for the envelope.

  An odd mix of relief and disappointment hits when I see the single scrap of paper inside.

  It’s not a suicide letter, after all.

  It’s a diagram of the kitchen pantry, and what looks to be a removable panel in the floor beneath one of the shelving units, along with three words in her messy scrawl:

  Open it alone.

  * * *

  My eyes roam over the long, narrow room, pausing on the thousand-pound green metallic Browning safe sitting in the corner, tucked away among the shelves of canned tomatoes and potatoes, bolted to the floor.

  That safe is built to hold twenty-nine firearms, but Mom had only four personal guns registered to her: a Glock, a Colt Python, a Remington shotgun for the rare occasion that she had to play politics in the old boys’ club and go duck hunting, and my grandfather’s Hawken rifle—a family heirloom. They’re all present and accounted for, along with a healthy supply of ammo, and there’s plenty of room left in there.

  So why the need for this hidden compartment under a shelf?

  I set to shifting cans of food to the other shelves until the metal rack is empty, and I’m able to drag it away from the wall. It’s not heavy but the space is tight, making it difficult to maneuver.

  I study her sketch, and then the floor. On first glance, there’s no obvious panel. Not until I crouch down and shine the flashlight on the worn wood do I see the seams.

  It takes a few minutes with a butter knife before I manage to pry the covering off, revealing a compartment about two by one feet in size, and stuffed with a black nylon gym bag.

  How long has this secret hiding place been here?

  Pushing that question aside, I fish out the bag and yank open the zipper.

  And my heart starts racing.

  “Holy shit.”

  I couldn’t even hazard a guess as to how much cash is in here, but it’s a lot more than I’ve ever seen, and it definitely wasn’t included in Mom’s list of assets that Hal reviewed earlier.

  Pulling out one wad, I fan through it. A lot of twenties, but also everything from fives to hundreds. I must have a grand in my hand, and there’s plenty more. What the hell was Mom doing with this much money, and why would she hide it under the floorboards?

  That’s not all there is.

  Tucked in with all the cash is a tan leather gun holster. I frown as I fish it out, running my fingers over the black stitching along the seams. I’ve seen this holster before, but I can’t remember where or when.

  Not until I flip it over do I see the letters embroidered on the other side.

  A.W.

  A sour taste fills my mouth.

  Who else would this belong to, besides Abraham Wilkes?

  Why does my mother have Abe’s gun holster hidden with a bunch of cash beneath the floorboards?

  I notice a slip of paper mixed in with the bundles of money. I fish that out and unfold it, an ill feeling firmly settled in my gut.

  Gracie needs this money. Make sure she gets it asap. Don’t ask questions, Noah. Trust me, you don’t want the answers.

  Below it is an address in Tucson, Arizona.

  There are no explanations.

  No apologies.

  Nothing that might give me any sense of closure, any relief. In fact, it does the exact opposite.

  A mixture of anger and resentment burns deep inside. Maybe she thought that the last “I love you” would carry me through this more than anything she could have written down?

  She had no plans of explaining herself, of exposing her demons.

  “I’m a coward.”

  That’s what she said. She said she couldn’t face Gracie, that she wanted to make it right but couldn’t. Is that what this money is supposed to do? Make it right?

  Where the hell did you get this money from, Mom? And why did you have Abe’s gun holster?

  How much is in here, anyway?

  Stretching my legs out, I dump the money onto the floor in front of me and begin counting, pulling apart the bundles and creating small piles for every thousand. And then every five thousand.

  Until there are piles of bills all around me totaling ninety-eight thousand dollars.

  I fall back against the wall, my mind churning. What was my mother expecting me to do? Hand-deliver this gym bag full of cash to the daughter of her late police partner? Because hand-delivering this much money is the only way Gracie will get it. And she also doesn’t want anyone knowing that I’m doing it, including Silas. That’s why she didn’t put it in the safe. She knew her brother. She knew he’d be in the thick of things and find it.

  That she wouldn’t want him—the district attorney—knowing about this money leaves my stomach in knots. Mom made good money—over two hundred thousand a year as chief, and a solid salary as assistant chief for all those years before that, too. But to pay off the house and most of my tuition and still have all this cash? It doesn’t seem possible on a single woman’s salary.

  So where did this money come from? Why is Abe’s gun holster stowed away with it?

  And why does she want Gracie Wilkes to have it?

  Why not Abe’s wife, Dina?

  I rack my brain, trying to remember everything she said about Abe’s family the night she died. But all I keep coming back to is how she wanted his daughter to know that he was a good man.

  And then another thought occurs to me: if the feds are investigating my mom and they show up on my doorstep with a warrant, the last thing I want them finding is this.

  “Fuck.” I pull out my phone and Google the distance. It’s a twelve-hour drive to Tucson, and I have no choice; I have to drive. I can’t get through airport security with this much money on me.

  Twelve hours.

  Twenty-four hours, there and back.

  It’s Thursday night. If I leave now and drive straight, I can be there early afternoon, catch some sleep, and be back by Saturday night.

  My foot begins tapping with nervous energy. Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea. It’s a chance to get away. And what the hell else am I going to do between now and then anyway?

  How do I explain this to Abe’s daughter, though? Won’t she be suspicious? I’m not about to repeat what my mother claimed that night. It’s like Silas said—it wouldn’t be right, casting blame on my mom. She’s not here to explain herself. Plus, everything George told me about Abe was damning.

  He sounds as guilty as he was made out to be.

  Just like Mom said they wanted it to appear.

  Fuck.

  Feds waiting outside my house to question me about Abe and Dwayne Mantis. Now, this giant bag of money that my mom has obviously been hiding shows up, meant for the daughter of the ex-partner she basically said was framed.

  And Abe’s gun holster.

  Silas is wrong—there’s definitely something going on here. Something that my mother had to be involved in.

  CHAPTER 7

  Austin Police Department Commander Jackie Marshall

  April 16, 2003

  I stay three cars back as I tail the older-model black Mercedes, hoping the guy driving hasn’t spotted my unmarked sedan.

  Who knows what the girl told him. If she told him anything. Most times these girls stay quiet, having learned the hard way that complications with a john earn them fists and threats from their pimp, regardless of whose fault it is. And it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t the anonymous caller’s fault, either. That person did the right thing by
requesting a welfare check on that hotel room.

  But did I do the right thing? Even with the chilly night air, I brush a bead of sweat from my forehead. It goes with the nauseating flutters churning inside my gut. I’m a jumble of anxiety, anger, and regret.

  Up ahead, the Mercedes makes a right after the freeway underpass. I slow down a touch before following and turn into the parking lot of a seedy motel, the bulbs in the green neon sign above flickering intermittently. I haven’t been to this exact motel, but I’ve been to plenty like it—desolate spots on the outskirts of town, quiet except for the hum of cars on the nearby highway, their sign advertising plenty of options except the one most visitors are interested in: the hourly room rental.

  I back into a spot among several cars—hidden but within prime view of the Mercedes—and flip my visor down to shield my face. I quietly watch as a short white male climbs out of the driver’s seat, the number eighteen tattooed to the back of his neck marking his gang affiliation.

  The passenger door opens and out she comes, her red heels clicking across the paved walkway, her shoulders hunched as he leads her into one of the rooms. He reaches for her, his hand like a vise around her slender arm.

  Just before she disappears inside, she glances back, her long blonde hair flitting about with the sudden turn. Her face is filled with sheer hopelessness.

  And I swear, she looks right at me.

  It’s a sucker punch to the chest.

  I let my eyes wander to the picture of Noah I keep tucked in my visor. That boy is sweeter than honey and smart as a whip. So generous, too. How he turned out the way he did is a mystery to me. It’s not on account of his father, that’s for damn sure. Blair is as tight as a wet boot and as exciting as a mashed-potato sandwich. Why I didn’t listen to my mama when she tried talking me out of marrying him . . .

  Abe. That’s the reason Noah is who he is.

  Good ol’ Abraham Wilkes. You can hang your hat on that man. He’s taught Noah to be the fine young man that he’s becoming.

  The tightness in my chest grows as I flip the visor up, hiding my boy’s smiling face, his inquisitive eyes.

  Would Noah understand why I did what I did tonight, if he ever found out?

  Probably not. Most people wouldn’t.

  I’m guessing Abe never will.

  With a heavy sigh, I climb out of my car and walk toward the room, flicking my spent cigarette to the pavement.

  CHAPTER 8

  Noah

  Tucson, Arizona

  “In one mile you will arrive at your destination.”

  “Good job for getting me here, Sally.” I let the last drops of my coffee hit my tongue and then I chuck the empty Styrofoam cup to the passenger-side floor, where it joins the others. The caffeine stopped doing the trick around El Paso, and I had to pull over in a Waffle House parking lot to crash for a few hours. I guess the lack of sleep over the past week finally caught up with me.

  Now it’s pure adrenaline that’s keeping me going. As if having ninety-eight grand in cash sitting in a gym bag on my backseat isn’t enough to stress me out, I’m about to hand it all to a girl who is basically a stranger, without any explanation, because I don’t have an explanation to give.

  Will Gracie Wilkes even remember Mom or me? Doubt it. The papers didn’t say how old she was when Abe died, just that she was young. I’m guessing five or six? The only thing I remember from when I was five was the day I shat my pants at recess.

  Add fourteen years and that would make her nineteen, maybe twenty. What will this Gracie do when a strange guy shows up at her home and hands her a pile of money? How many questions will she have for me?

  “In two hundred and fifty feet, you will have arrived at your destination,” Sally chirps.

  I’m on the outskirts of Tucson. A vast expanse of sand and tall, leggy cacti stretches out to my left, all the way to the mountain range in the distance. It’s a lot greener here than I imagined, and yet plenty different from Texas or Seattle, or anywhere else I’ve been.

  A sign ahead of me on the right sways in the light breeze—a metal plaque hanging haphazardly by one chain, rust eating away at the edges. Sleepy Hollow Trailer Park. Named after the street it’s on, obviously.

  So Gracie Wilkes lives in a trailer park.

  The only trailer park I’ve ever been to was the one on Lake Chelan—outside Seattle—that my friend and his family went to every summer. We’d stay for two weeks, playing tennis and swimming, making out with girls by the bonfire after the parents went to bed.

  “You have arrived at your destination.”

  I guess not all trailer parks are created equal.

  I turn into the main entrance. Rows of mobile units line either side of the lane. They’re all a little different in color and size, but equally dented, stained, and surrounded by junk. Some have chain-link fences to give the illusion of having a yard, but those “yards” are filled with old furniture, scraps of metal, and corroded cars. One even has a toilet sitting outside the front step.

  It’s close to two p.m. and empty of people, and yet I feel plenty of eyes on me as I roll through in my black Jeep Grand Cherokee—fresh off the lot only three months ago—at five miles per hour, searching in vain for unit 212. It’s a game, because nothing is consistent. Some doors display their number in brass, others are scribbled in black marker on pieces of wood and hung on fences. Another has a cardboard sign taped to the streetlight.

  These people are dirt poor; there’s no two ways about it. That means Abe’s daughter is dirt poor. I guess that answers one question for me—this girl is going to take the money and run without a second glance at me.

  But how did they end up here? Dina must not be alive.

  If she is . . .

  The Dina Wilkes I remember wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this, let alone let her daughter live here.

  A woman as old as Moses sits in a ratty chair on her front porch, watching me intently. I lower my window, and a waft of hot, dry air and dust invades my cool air-conditioned interior. “Afternoon, ma’am. Can you please tell me where 212 is?”

  Her eyes narrow. “Vete a la chingada.”

  Spanish. Shit. My Spanish sucks.

  “Uh . . . Lo siento . . . Número 212?”

  “Come mierda!” Leaning over, she spits on the ground next to her.

  Yeah . . . it doesn’t sound like she’s going to help me. I give the truck a little bit of gas and keep rolling forward. A small white sign with the number 212 neatly written hangs from the fence post ahead of me. I glance back at the old lady—Gracie’s next-door neighbor, I now realize—to find her glaring at me. I wonder if she’s suspicious of everyone who comes through here, or just the corn-fed Texas boy with the nice ride.

  Killing the engine, I reach for the gym bag.

  And then second-guess that move.

  Is getting out of my car with a pile of cash safe? Checking my rearview mirror, I spot a gangly man leaning against a fence and watching me, looking all kinds of shady. I can’t tell if he’s just curious or if he’s looking for an opportunity. I outweigh him by at least forty pounds and I can hold my own if I have to, but I’m guessing people who survive around here don’t rely on physical strength to protect themselves.

  Just in case . . .

  I punch the code into my portable safe and fish out my Glock.

  As much as I’d feel safer with it on me, I don’t know that showing up at Gracie’s door with a gun is going to comfort either of us. Plus, I didn’t bring a holster—I left Abe’s where I found it, under the floor—and I didn’t even look up the carry laws for Arizona, too eager to hit the road.

  Still, I want it easily accessible, should I need it in a rush.

  Tucking it into the gym bag with the money, I leave both on the backseat. I step out of my SUV, locking the doors behind me.

  A mangy mutt strolls past, making me falter a step. I’ve never seen a dog look so rough. It’s missing an eye and a chunk out of its floppy ear. Its dul
l brown matted fur looks like a soiled shag rug from the seventies. Still, it has a light trot to its step as it passes me, that one eye narrowed as if warning me away from the twitching rat within its jaws. I can’t help but grimace.

  With a quick glance around me—creeper is still creeping, and the old lady is still rocking and staring, but at least not spitting—I climb the steps to the old trailer. Taking a deep breath, I knock on the door.

  And wait.

  No one answers. There’s no sound of footfalls, but I can hear the television through the cracked window. Maybe they left it on to make people think someone’s home? No, I can’t see people who live in a place like this bothering to take that kind of precaution.

  Plus I smell the faint waft of a grilled cheese sandwich coming from inside. Someone’s definitely home.

  I knock again.

  Still no answer.

  “Gracie?” I call out.

  Nothing.

  What do I do? I can’t sit around here, not with that old woman burning holes in my back. I guess I could find a hotel to chill for a few hours. Get some sleep and a shower. Come back later, when she feels like answering. She had better answer. I need to get rid of this money and move on.

  “What’d you want with them?”

  It’s the fence lurker, strolling over like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His white T-shirt clings to his body, colored with streaks of dirt, the pits stained yellow. I’d say it hasn’t seen a washing machine in weeks, if ever.

  Them. So Gracie doesn’t live alone. Is she with a boyfriend? A friend? Does she have a kid already? What does she look like? I had a lot of hours to kill during my drive last night, and I spent some of them wondering if I’d recognize her.

  I turn to face this guy dead-on, keeping my stance casual and my voice relaxed. “I’m a friend of the family.”

  His calculating gaze drifts over me from head to toe and then shifts to my Cherokee. “I ain’t seen you ’round here before, friend.”

  I don’t like this guy, and it has nothing to do with him living in this dump. He has bad news written all over him, like if I were lying in the gutter, he’d ask me how hurt I am so he’d know how hard I’d fight when he went through my pockets. I’m regretting not tucking my gun into my pants. At least he’s not carrying, from what I can see.