Page 152 of Paranoid

Cade turned the conversation back to her cousin. “Do you have any idea where Bruce was last Friday night and last night?”

“Oh, geez . . . I already told ya, I can’t vouch for him all that much—who knew where he went—but, let me think, Friday . . . ?” She thought for a minute, vaping as she did. “Well, hell yeah, I can. I worked an early shift at the restaurant and was home by nine, and wouldn’t ya know, here he was right here on this couch, watchin’ some movie, one of them Rocky movies, maybe number four or five, I think. Not that I really know. How many of them did they make—like ten? Still at it, I think. Anyway, Bruce, he never moved from the couch. I know. I wasn’t feelin’ well, and I went to bed around midnight and there he was, and around one-thirty or two, I got up and got me a glass of water and a couple of Tums in the kitchen and he was still there, the boob tube on. I shut it off and found him in the exact same position at seven the next mornin’, when I got up to go to the bathroom.” She must’ve read Cade’s skepticism, because she added, “Hey, if ya don’t believe me, check with management. They’ve got security tapes of the place.”

“We will.” He glanced out the window, noted that he could, even from his position, spy a camera tucked under the eave. “So when do you expect Bruce to return?”

“Haven’t you been listenin’? He’s gone. Outta here. In the wind.” She flipped a wrist to indicate that he’d taken off. “Took his stuff, and maybe some of mine, and got the hell out.”

“What about a cell phone? Did he have one?”

“Oh, sure. Course. Who doesn’t? But it was one of those prepaid thingies. He wanted to be on my account with my cell phone company but I said, “No way, Jose! I wasn’t gonna get tied up with him financially, let me tell you. He may have turned around as far as his flyin’ fists is concerned, but once a deadbeat, always a deadbeat, that’s what I say. That’s why I laid down the law and insisted he get a job.”

When asked about where he slept, she showed them the spare bedroom, which was used mainly for storage, but had a twin bed with a TV tray next to it, all pushed into one corner. “That’s where he crashed,” she said, pointing with her vaping device to the bed. “Look, I’m pretty sure he won’t be back. He had a backpack with a couple changes of clothes, that cell you were talking about, a shaving k

it that was in the bathroom, and now everything gone.”

“Can you give us his number?”

“Sure. But he won’t answer. I’m not even sure the call or text goes through. Probably needs him to pay for more airtime or data or whatever. Don’t really know how it all works, but I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. The man’s never had a pot to piss in, so my guess is the phone is dead until he buys hisself some more minutes or airtime, y’know?” Still she gave them the number, and when they asked about friends, she couldn’t come up with a name. “Oh, he had some guys he talked about who served time, y’know, but no one around here.”

“How about the car he’s driving?” Voss asked.

“The Buick? Big boat of a thing. I don’t know where he got it, just showed up in it. Had Idaho plates. He kept saying he was gonna register it, even got some paperwork from the DMV, I think, but he needed an address and I wasn’t about to let him use mine.”

“Did you see that paperwork?” Cade asked.

“Yeah.” She scowled, thinking, flipping her e-cigarette end over end between her fingers. “Come to think of it, I might still have it . . . just a sec.” She led them back to the kitchen, where cold coffee looked to be congealing in a glass pot and a pile of dirty dishes stretched from the sink and across a short counter to the stove. “Probably in here.” She opened a small drawer stuffed with junk, rifled through it, then opened a second drawer overflowing with papers, envelopes, and receipts. “Let’s see . . . yeah, here it is.” She handed him the partially filled-out paperwork, and there in black and white was the Idaho license plate and VIN for the old Buick.

“We’d like to keep these,” Cade said.

“Sure, fine. I don’t need ’em.” She slid her gaze to the overstuffed drawer. “Probably don’t need half of what’s in there, maybe all of it.”

“Can you tell me if he ever brought up his son?” Cade asked. “Luke?”

She frowned, thought about it. “No. Not recently. As far as I know, he’d barely met the kid, maybe just as an infant, and Melinda, that bitch, she didn’t let Luke write to his father or visit him. Never once.”

“And how did he feel about that?” They were walking into the crowded living room again.

“How do you think he felt? Pissed, that’s how. But he seemed to get over it. Like I said, he mellowed in the big house, came out a calmer man, not as likely to fly off the handle. Cut down on the booze, too. At least the hard stuff.” She fired up her e-cigarette again. “Oh, he’s a lazy ass, always was and always will be, but if you’re tryin’ to hang these latest murders on him? Let me tell ya, you’re barkin’ up the wrong damned tree.”

CHAPTER 35

The last person Rachel expected to find pounding on her front door at nine-thirty at night was Lila, but there she was, big as life, Rachel’s once-upon-a-time BFF and former step-mother-in-law. Lips compressed, shifting from one foot to the other, Lila, in a cream-colored sweater, matching slacks, and gold heels, looked fit to be tied. Lucas was dressed more casually in jeans and a T-shirt as he fidgeted, appearing sheepish beside her. Fortunately for the moment, there wasn’t a news van camped on the street, though Rachel half expected one to return as reporters had been calling all day, wanting interviews from her and Harper. The news had spread; Mercedes was no longer the only reporter on the story of the homicides.

Rachel opened the door and before she could say a word, Lila, smelling of perfume and a recent cigarette, swept through the door, her son following.

“Hi,” Rachel said. “What’s—?”

“Is Dylan here?” Lila cut in, obviously upset. “He needs to be a part of this.”

“A part of what?”

“Get him!” she ordered, then let out a breath and yelled toward the bedrooms, “Dylan!” A pause. “Dylan? You get out here! Now.”

Rachel had never seen her so demanding and obviously irritated.

“Geez, Mom,” Lucas said, his temper flashing. “Chill out! I’ll get him,” Lucas said, and before his mother could stop him, took off to the hallway, the crime scene tape strapped across Dylan’s door not deterring him from entering without knocking.

“‘Chill out’!” Lila repeated. “Oh, sure.”