Page 34 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

Thirty-One

Tristan

M y stomach growls. I ignore it. I skipped breakfast and started poring over the case files as soon as I came downstairs this morning.

The ticking clock in my head grows louder with every passing moment.

I don’t have time to eat. My stomach protests—more loudly this time—and I glance at my watch.

I’ve been at it for four hours. Twenty more minutes, I promise myself.

Then I’ll take a break and scarf down a sandwich or reheat some chili.

My appetite appeased by the prospect of food, I turn back to the documents spread out on my desk. And as if on cue, my cell phone chirps. My inclination is to ignore that, too. But it could be Emily. I turn it over to check the display: Mom.

“Sorry, Mom,” I mutter to myself as I send the call to voicemail.

She’s texted several times, asking if I’ve heard from the authorities in Ohio about Tate’s remains. I haven’t, of course. Because I haven’t contacted any authorities in Ohio. I guess my terse ‘not yet, will keep you posted’ responses are wearing thin.

I’m not unsympathetic. She genuinely believes he’s dead, and I’m sure she wants to make whatever final arrangements one makes for one’s disowned, emotionally disturbed child.

But I have other priorities at the moment.

Like the fact that Emily’s holed up with a woman Tate almost certainly tried to kill and the fact that there is literally nothing at all in these files that tie Tate to either the Ward murder or the Rowland murder.

I exhale through my nostrils like a bull.

My brother’s smart, but I refuse to believe he’s outplayed me this adeptly.

“I don’t know where Tate is, but I know damn well he’s not in a morgue in Ohio.” My words echo in the quiet house.

If I can’t find evidence Tate killed these women, I’m going to have to find Tate himself. I could call Dr. Wilde. It would be a logical starting point since he’s the one who was informed of Tate’s alleged death.

That’s a nonstarter, though. Since he thinks I’m Tate, I’d have a lot of explaining to do.

And if I come clean about who I am, then he’ll want to discuss my six-year-long deception, and I don’t have time for that right now.

Besides, Tate’s probably the one who called him and told him Tate Weakes is dead.

Unless Tate has a partner. I’ve wondered off and on through the years whether he teamed up with a partner because he sure seemed to want one. Of course, he might think murder is the sort of thing you keep in the family. In which case, when I turned him down, he’d have kept flying solo.

I do a few more public records searches for ‘Tate Weakes’ but nothing pops.

It’s been a consistent theme: he’s like a ghost. He’s not a registered voter in any state that I’ve searched, doesn’t have a drivers’ license, doesn’t own a home, doesn’t have utilities in his name.

It’s as if he doesn’t exist. He could have a fully papered alias, but more likely he sublets a place, utilities included, for cash, uses prepaid gift cards when he can’t deal in cash, and trades services for goods when he can.

Time for a break. I push back my chair and head to the kitchen.

After staring into the open refrigerator for a full three minutes as if it contained the secrets of the universe rather than some leftovers and sandwich fixings, I settled on eating two heaping spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar, as unsanitary as my wife thinks that is.

What Emily doesn’t know won’t hurt her, I tell myself as I return the jar to the pantry, wash down my ‘lunch’ with a swig of lukewarm coffee, and return my butt to my desk chair.

What Emily doesn’t know could hurt her. The thought sparks an idea and I switch tacks to research the one murder I haven’t gone back over: Cassie Baughman’s.

I pulled her files a few times over the years while I was working at the crime lab and did the same thing I did with Giselle Ward’s file.

I took pictures of the documents with my phone, transferred them to my home computer, and printed them.

Forwarding myself the Rowland file via email was a risk, but I was too concerned about losing access to the materials to worry about leaving an electronic footprint.

I’ve got the file folder labeled ‘ Appliance Warranties and User Manuals’ halfway out of my desk drawer when I freeze.

The prosaic label ensures my wife will never open the folder, and the thick file does contain a sheaf of manuals for items as diverse and uninteresting as our hedge trimmer, toaster oven, and the furnace.

I just happened to hide the gruesome file documenting the murder of Emily’s roommate and closest friend behind the manuals.

Instead of opening the folder, I shove it back into its spot and slide the drawer closed.

An unanswered question scratches at my brain like a dog at the door, demanding to be let in.

I emailed myself the cold case file because I’d been unceremoniously sidelined from the Ward investigation.

I’ve concluded I didn’t contaminate a sample—I’m too careful.

Someone planted my DNA at the scene. If I rule out the crime scene team, that someone is Giselle Ward’s killer.

Tate. He would obviously benefit the most from sidelining me.

But I can’t work out why he would go through the trouble of getting me kicked off the case only to turn around and fake his death. What’s the angle? I tip my chair back onto its rear legs and stare up at the ceiling. Why would Tate want me off and want me to think he’s dead?

The answer smacks me in the face and I return my chair to the floor with a thump. He’s going to finish what he started seven years ago. A scream rises in my throat and I push it down. I scrabble for my phone and redial the number Emily called from last night. Alex Liu’s landline.

Come on. Answer.

The phone doesn’t ring. Instead a steady, rapid busy signal beeps in my ear. Service must be out.

I swear loudly and hang up, jabbing at my contacts list to call Em’s cell phone. I know there’s virtually no chance she has coverage, but I have to warn her that Tate is coming.

I grab my keys and run toward the garage but before I’m at the door to the attached garage, the doorbell rings at the front of the house.

I have half a mind to ignore it, and later I’ll wish I had. But I don’t. Instead, like the fool, I dutifully turn on my heel and walk toward the front door. I pull it open and blink at the man standing outside.

“Graham, this is a surprise.”

Graham Stone’s smile is tight, and I glance over his shoulder to see two black and whites idling in the street. My pulse quickens. Surely he’s not going to arrest me for forwarding myself a file. Yes, it was a breach of protocol, and technically it’s a crime. But this seems excessive.

“Tristan.” His voice matches the smile—clipped, terse.

“Is something wrong?”

“I think you know it is.”

So this is about the file.

“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. Come on in.”

The bewildered look he throws me confuses me.

“You’re sorry?” His tone is laced with disbelief.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. That was wrong.”

He looks behind him, like he’s about to call for back up. “It’s more than just wrong. It’s heinous.”

Heinous, really?

“I forwarded myself a file. It’s not a capital crime.”

“You forwarded yourself a file?” he repeats blankly.

“Yeah, I forwarded myself a copy of the Dana Rowland file when you asked me to forward it to you. I thought I could work on it while I’m here waiting for you to clear up whatever misunderstanding got me kicked off the Ward case.”

“I’m not here about a file, Tristan.”

“Then why are you here?” My eyes flick back to the police. “And why did you bring them?”

“Son, you’re gonna need to come down to the station with us.”

“Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

He exhales heavily. “I convinced them to let me talk to you first. Don’t make me regret it. We need you to clear up some things about your brother.”

My stomach hits the floor and I grip the edge of the door with both hands. This is it—the moment I’ve been dreading my entire adult life. Tate’s crimes have caught up with him, which means they’ve caught up with me.

“My brother,” I stall.

“Yes, your brother. Tate Weakes.”

“I can’t answer any questions about Tate. We’ve been estranged for twenty-one years. Since I was nine.” I flash him a tight smile of my own. “I don’t know where he is.”

A detective I recognize from cases I’ve worked comes around the corner from the narrow alley between our place and Lashina and Ty’s house. His name is Dunn or Dane, something like that. He must have been standing just out of view, listening.

“We know where he is,” he informs me in a grave voice.

“You do?” This is comforting news. If they have Tate, Emily’s not in danger.

“Yes, we found his body in the parking lot behind the gym you frequent.”

“His body?” I repeat.

Graham sighs heavily. “Your brother’s dead.”

I almost snark, Again? But I control myself and, instead, say, “Is that right?”

The two men exchange a look.

“That’s right,” the detective says. “And you’ll never guess what we found.”

“Well, it’s got to be something that ties him to Giselle Ward’s murder. Right?”

Surprise sparks in Graham’s eyes. “What?”

I exhale heavily. “I ordered that cold case file from Arizona because I have a theory that Giselle Ward and Dana Rowland were murdered by the same person.”

“I know. We talked about this.”

“What I didn’t mention is I suspect my brother was that person. I guess I’m right. Did he kill himself? It’s just like him to take the coward’s way out.”

Another unreadable look passes between them before the detective says, “No, your brother didn’t kill himself. Frankly, I’d have expected a better cleanup job from you.”

“What?”

“Just do it already, Dunn,” my boss says.

“Tristan Rose, you’re under arrest for the murder of Tate Weakes and Giselle Ward. You have—” The detective’s winding up to read me my rights when he interrupts himself and turns to Graham. “Should we add Dana Rowland?”

“Better run it by the DA.”

My brain takes a minute to catch up with the words. When it does, I panic. “No. This is a mistake.”

“Tristan, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.” My voice goes high.

“Your gym bag was lying beside him.”

“No, see, that’s not possible. My gym bag’s in my car. Come on, I’ll show you in the garage,” I babble.

My law enforcement training is screaming at me. I know better than to invite the authorities into my home or to volunteer any information. I know I need to lawyer up. And yet, I honestly believe I can explain this away. Graham knows me. He likes me.

Dunn shrugs. “Fine. I’m gonna have to cuff you, though, Tristan. You understand.”

As a point of procedure, I should already be handcuffed if they’re arresting me.

Still, it seems ludicrous. But I’m eager to appear reasonable, so I extend my wrists obediently.

He gestures toward the patrol cars, and the pair of uniformed officers from the lead car exits their vehicle and joins the unhappy little gathering on my front stoop.

Dunn slaps the cuffs on me and keeps a hand on my arm as I lead the group through the house to the garage.

Graham opens the door and I instruct them where to find the bag. My boss and the detective flank me, while the officers pop the trunk and search my car.

“There’s no bag here, sir,” the female officer says as she slams the trunk shut.

“It has to be there. I haven’t taken it out since ….” I try to remember.

“Since when?” Dunn asks.

Since my appointment with Dr. Wilde, I think.

Instead I say, “I want an attorney.”

“That’s a good idea because you didn’t ask us what we found in the bag.”

I already know what they found—my gym clothes and a tablet wrapped in a towel. No big deal. I shrug.

Graham shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be quite so cavalier if I were you. We’re probably going to be able to match that knife to Giselle Ward’s wounds as well as your brother’s.”

A knife?

My knees buckle. Detective Dunn grabs me before I hit the cement floor.

Over the years I’ve feared, pitied, and hated my brother. I suppose at one point, when I was very young, I might even have loved him. But now I realize I’ve underestimated him.

Tate has outplayed me with a final master stroke. He’s set me up for the murders he’s committed, killed himself, and set me up for murdering him, too. I’m trapped.