Page 30

Three weeks since Derrick Bell’s murder

Now she couldn’t imagine drinking the brew from her Mr. Coffee.

She and Noelle had been roommates for two weeks.

They’d settled into a routine. Noelle liked to cook, and Alice didn’t, so Alice grocery shopped from Noelle’s list and enjoyed her delicious meals.

Noelle expanded Alice’s wine palate, and Alice taught her how to fold a fitted sheet and fix a frozen garbage disposal.

Noelle was easy to live with, and they enjoyed each other’s company, but Alice missed her silent apartment and alone time.

She’d lived alone for several years since her divorce, and she loved it.

Alice took her cup of decaf to the kitchen table and sat to continue staring at her laptop screen.

Derrick Bell’s murder case had not moved forward. Yes, they’d conducted hundreds of interviews and processed a lot of evidence, but they still didn’t have a suspect.

Pressure from all directions to solve the case continued to build.

No wonder Alice rarely slept.

Tips from the public had started to dry up.

But the public’s crazy conspiracy theories had grown.

The most common theory was that Derrick had been killed because of a legislative bill he’d voted against. Depending on the conspiracy du jour, farmers, high-tech companies, construction workers, or transportation companies were accused of his murder.

Each accusation was a load of bullshit. Or bull-methane if you considered the accusations due to Assemblyman Bell’s vote on ways to limit cow methane.

The FBI had scrutinized Derrick Bell’s bank accounts and learned he liked to carry cash. He’d removed several thousand dollars every week for years. According to Noelle and his family, this was normal. “He’s a generous tipper,” Noelle had said.

Thousands of dollars in tips?

“He hands out cash all the time,” his sister, Lora, had said. “Homeless people. Senior citizens. Lemonade stands. And he almost always pays in cash at stores.” His credit card statements had backed up this claim. There were very few charges from grocery stores, department stores, or gas stations.

“Why?” Alice had asked. No one in his family had a clear answer. It was simply what Derrick had done since high school.

Lora was the only member of the Bell family who had been in touch with Noelle.

The rest continued to ice her out as if she’d never been married to Derrick.

For some reason, the family had chosen to blame Noelle for Derrick’s death—they didn’t have proof, and they never said it out loud, but after speaking with each family member, Alice found it apparent in their attitude.

“It’s not an easy family to join,” Lora’s husband, Stewart, had said during his interview with Alice and Oscar. “Believe me, as someone who married into the family, I know. I’ve felt bad for Noelle since Derrick proposed.”

“Did you say something to her?” Alice had asked.

He’d shrugged. “I told her Catherine was tough and to never expect approval from the family.”

“Is that what they did to you?” asked Oscar.

“I got a reluctant pass—sort of. My job is the kind that automatically gave me some status, so they respected that. Didn’t mean they were friendly, but there was a small level of respect.

The absolute minimum.” Stewart Greer was a plastic surgeon.

Catherine had been one of his patients when she suggested he meet Lora.

A few years after their wedding, the Bells helped finance his surgical center, which was the envy of every plastic surgeon north of Los Angeles.

“I was stunned when I heard that Derrick was dating a bartender. I assumed he wasn’t serious about Noelle, but I changed my mind the first time I saw them together.

He was nuts about her and vice versa.” Stewart had shrugged.

“I knew Catherine—and Jason—would never get past that.”

“But Derrick’s father, Stan, didn’t mind that she was a bartender?” Oscar seemed skeptical.

“Of course he did, but he wasn’t one to be an ass about it like some of the others.”

“And your opinion of Derrick?” Alice had asked.

“Derrick is—was okay.”

“But?” Alice could tell Stewart was holding back.

Stewart had looked from Alice to Oscar and back, clearly mulling over something.

“He had a veneer, you know? I never felt like I got to know or see the real man. I think he was intimidated by me—well, by my job and education,” Stewart said slowly.

“He had this way of delivering a subtle dig at me or what I do and then laughing it off. As if that made what he said okay. Deep down I think he was extremely insecure.”

Alice had been surprised. “You’re the first person to say that.”

Stewart had lifted one shoulder. “I could be wrong.” His gaze had told Alice he didn’t believe he was wrong.

“You’re up late.” Noelle entered the kitchen. “Not sure why I even say that. It seems to be the norm for both of us.” She set a tiny cup under the coffee machine and selected the espresso option.

Decaffeinated espresso.

“Very true,” said Alice, closing the laptop where she’d been reviewing the transcript from Stewart Greer’s interview.

“Anything new?” asked Noelle.

“No,” said Alice. She hated how often she had to say that.

Noelle took her tiny cup and sat at the table, her shoulders low. “I’m worried I’m going crazy.”

“Your psychiatrist and therapist claim you’re not crazy,” Alice said with a smile.

Noelle had regularly met with both professionals since leaving the hospital and often shared some of those conversations with Alice.

Living together had eased the women into a solid friendship.

Noelle had a high respect for Alice’s work—even when Alice had nothing to report—and Alice admired how Noelle had pulled herself together after the tragedy.

As the two women grew closer, Alice firmly believed she was maintaining her objectivity.

She was always on the lookout for signs that Noelle had been involved in her husband’s murder.

But Alice had seen gaps in Noelle’s short-term memory.

She’d occasionally repeat something she’d already said and forget things Alice had told her.

Sometimes she had the day of the week wrong.

Once she’d let a pot of water boil over on the stove.

Alice had been close enough to hear it and turn it off.

Noelle had gotten in the shower, completely forgetting that she’d started to make pasta.

Noelle complained of headaches at the back of her skull. Reading was painful after an hour or two, and the pain kept her from doing things that involved close-up work. The doctors had said these symptoms were typical and they could ease.

Could ease.

Their words hadn’t given Noelle a lot of confidence, but she continued to work with the professionals, determined to overcome the memory gaps.

An aura of frustration often hovered around Noelle: Derrick’s murderer hadn’t been caught, her life might be on hold until this person was found, and her brain wasn’t performing like it should.

But those things hadn’t affected her intelligence, empathy, or drive.

“You have every right to feel like you’re going crazy,” said Alice. “You’ve been cooped up in the house for quite a while.”

“Doctor visits are the high points of my days,” Noelle said ruefully.

“What will you do when this is all over?” asked Alice, trying to redirect the woman’s thoughts. As the beneficiary of Derrick’s assets, Noelle would never have to work again. But Alice suspected Noelle wanted to do more than serve on nonprofit boards.

“I don’t know.” Noelle sipped her espresso. “Maybe I’ll go back to school and get a graduate degree so I can do something in psychology.” She made a face. “As long as I can remember answers during tests, so I won’t flunk out.”

Her tone was light, but Alice knew Noelle was sincerely concerned. “You can learn other techniques. Use other parts of your brain to help with how you recall things.” They’d both read up on the topic. There was hope.

“I know,” said Noelle. “But I’m not feeling a strong desire to go back to school. Or to tend bar,” she said with a grin. “Although I miss the constant activity and the interaction with customers.”

“Have you thought about law enforcement?” The idea had come to Alice as she’d watched Noelle beat the crap out of her punching bag two days ago. “You like to help people, you’re intelligent, you love to solve puzzles and always ask good questions.”

Noelle stared at her.

“I’m serious.” Alice leaned forward. “I think you’d be damn good at it. You’d put in a few years as an officer and then focus on moving up to detective. Maybe even a command position. Or you could consider the FBI.”

Noelle still stared.

Now that Alice had said the words out loud, she discovered she liked the idea more and more for Noelle.

“You understand people. I think you’re a natural at that, and with your psychology background, it’d be a big help when dealing with the public.

You’ll have to put up with some shit, but I think this could be really rewarding for you. ”

“My grandfather was a police officer,” Noelle said thoughtfully, but skepticism lurked in her eyes.

“I know. And this would be an amazing challenge for you,” Alice continued since Noelle hadn’t outright rejected the idea.

“You could do a lot of good. I started with the Cedar Rapids Police Department. After five years there, I applied to the FBI. I could have done that first, but those five years taught me a lot of valuable skills that I use every day.”

“How did you go from Iowa to Sacramento?” asked Noelle.

“You go where the FBI sends you, but I had a little input.”

Noelle made a face. “Not sure I like that part.”

“Then work for the Sacramento Police Department. Or any other police department around here. I know you want to be near your family.”

Noelle looked thoughtful, her gaze distant. “What about my memory?”

“You have to trust that it’s going to get better. If anyone can overcome it, you can.”

Her eyes suddenly damp, Noelle extended a hand across the table, and Alice took it. “Thanks, Alice,” she whispered. “I needed that bit of hope and direction.”

“You bet,” said Alice. “And if you decide this is a possibility for you, I’ll support you with whatever you need. You’d be incredible at it.”

“I’m not sure what my grandfather will think. There weren’t a lot of women officers in his time.” Noelle didn’t look concerned.

“Then show him how it should be.”

“Maybe.”