Good Girl, Dead Girl (Valencia Lamb Book 1), page 6
The night Gracia died, when the dispatcher reported something suspicious under the Copper Street Bridge, my dad was the first person to respond, saying he’d check it out. He never arrived. Instead, Gus, who was nearby, was the first one on the scene. The unretired lawman was the first to set eyes on Gracia’s graying, blood-battered body. Crimson matted her blond hair to her scalp. Blue eyes stared, empty at the starry sky. Grease, dirt, and pebbles stained a daisy-print summer dress she’d loved and worn often.
It was immediately clear that the abandoned bridge was not the primary crime scene. Gracia’s body had lost a lot of blood from a wound at the back of her skull, but there were only droplets on the weed-riddled asphalt under the bridge. Someone had killed her and dumped her body. Where had she gone that evening, after she met my dad in the resort parking lot?
The only thing in the file I haven’t examined is my dad’s phone records. Honestly, I’ve been saving them for last. Pages and pages of numbers and minutes and transcribed text messages that make my eyes glaze over.
Looking through the logs, mom’s number pops up a bunch of times. My dad texted her a lot.
Highlighting all of the times he called one of his special friends is painstaking. There aren’t a ton of instances of them, but they are there.
In a fit of inspiration, I dig Gracia’s phone records out and compare them. Nothing… Nothing… Ha!
The night Gracia died, my dad was the very last person she messaged. She asked him to meet her at the casino. He didn’t respond. Even so, they met. Someone took that photo of the two of them talking in the cab of his Bronco.
Within hours, Gracia was murdered.
Trepidation builds behind my eyes, forcing me to close them to keep it from leaking out.
There’s no activity on either of their phones after that meeting. Not a single call, text, or internet search. They spoke. Gracia was killed. My dad left.
Anguish crests behind my sternum as my mind betrays me: it reads exactly like the actions of someone who was guilty, especially since he took the go bag.
Groaning, I rub at my prickling eyes. I have to be missing something. Rapping my fingers on the paper doesn’t clear it up. Staring at the numbers makes me yawn. Wrestling with this for the past couple hours has wrung me out. I need a break. Or maybe I need time to deny what the clues are telling me.
An image of Gracia and my dad, huddled close in the cab of his Bronco is all I see when my eyes pinch closed.
“What happened to you?” I mutter, dropping my skull against the chair’s back.
The office is silent.
Portia and Destin are asleep. She is sprawled out on the couch with an arm hanging off, limp fingers brushing the carpet. He is stretched out below her, one arm draped over his face. Bert us curled in a ball between his boy’s feet.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimes twelve times. Time to wake my friends up and take them home.
A quiet knock stops me. I freeze, listening. I’m so tired I’m hearing things.
Another knock, louder. The front door.
Stepping around Destin’s prone form, I peer out the peep hole.
Leander stands on the front step, freshly showered and grinning.
I smooth my hair and wipe my eyes before I let him in. “Shh. Hi. Porsh and Des are asleep.”
His head bobs as he slips his feet out of slides.
Signaling for him to wait, I scoop up the murder file as quietly as I can and lead him into the living room. It won’t hurt to let Portia and Destin sleep for a little while longer, and maybe Leander has some insight into the file that could help.
Leander taps my lower back as he moves around me, plopping down on the couch. “Not wasting any time, are you?”
“I’ve wasted six months already.” I sit gingerly beside him.
Stretching out his legs, he spreads his arms along the back of the couch, brushing through my hair. “I wish you could have come out after the game. Everyone went to the diner for shakes and fries. It was awesome.”
“Sorry, I had--”
“The file, yeah. I figured you’d want to read it asap since you seemed so eager to get at it the other day. I still can’t believe Gus was going to turn a blind eye and let you take it.”
“What can I say? Gus likes me.”
Leander laughs, kicking back with his feet on the coffee table. “Guess so. Whenever I’m there he puts me to work. Where’s your mom?”
“The dispatch.”
“Oh, right. I forgot she did that. You mind if I get some water?” Standing, he strides into the kitchen and opens cabinets in search of a glass.
“By the microwave.” I sigh, opening the file and scanning the first page for the hundredth time. I’m pleased Leander came here when he could be out partying with his buddies, but he’s clearly still wired from the game and not in a hurry to sit still. There are probably a hundred things he’d rather be doing tonight than reviewing facts in an aging murder case with me.
“You’re quiet tonight.” His knee bumps mine as he sits, taking a long pull from the glass. “What do we got?”
The ice tinkles, drawing my attention to his mouth. I yank my gaze down to the file.
His breath is warm on my arm as he skim the page. Flipping through a couple more pages, he hums in the back of his throat. Finally, he looks up at me. “Looks like they haven’t figured out where she was. Before the bridge.”
I tap a finger on the top sheet. Leander stole this file for me, and I could use someone to bounce ideas off. I won’t know if I’m grasping at straws, or if I’m onto something.
“How do you feel about helping me with this?”
Leander’s brow furrows. “You want me to read it with you, or something?”
Puffing out a breath, I come clean. “Remember when I said I needed the file for closure? That wasn’t exactly true. Well, it was true, but it’s not that simple. I’ve been getting a ton of flack since Gracia was killed, and my dad disappeared. A lot of people don’t believe in coincidences, and they’ve been pretty terrible to my mom and me…”
“The sweet potato wasn’t the first thing to happen to you?”
I shake my head. “Not by a long shot.”
“Okay… So how can I help?”
“I’m investigating Gracia’s death to see if I can figure out what happened, and hopefully clear my dad’s name. I could use some help.”
Leander sits forward, pulling his arms into his lap. Looks from the file to me a couple times. “That’s a pretty big ask. My dad has been busting his butt over this, and if he hasn’t figured it out…”
I stand up. Jitters consume me, and I pace the living room.
Leander shuffles the papers into a neat pile. I pivot toward him, resolved. “I know it’s a long shot, but if there’s anything I can figure out, won’t that be a good thing? I’m not trying to step on your dad’s toes, but I need to know what happened to Gracia. And to my dad. Not just for me, but for my mom. You know people yell at her when she goes out, accusing her of helping my dad murder Gracia to hide that he was sleeping with her?”
Leander’s expression darkens. “ You said it. People are idiots.”
“My thoughts exactly. So, will you help me?”
“I stole a file for you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah. You did. And there’s something I need to show you.” Ignoring my jagged pulse, I pull out my phone and show him the photo of Gracia and my dad in his car.
He winces. “I saw that around, but was hoping you hadn’t.”
“Because it looks bad.”
“Well, yeah.”
Trust me on this. My dad didn’t hurt Gracia. Okay?” We hash out what it might mean that Gracia and my dad were spotted together a couple hours before she was killed. What the two of them might have been doing. Maybe she needed a ride and he happened to pass by. It’s tenuous, but not outside the realm of believability.
Leander takes the file in his lap, poring over it. “Just to play devil’s advocate, it says here that your dad never made it to the scene. Is it possible he knew what they’d find, and took off?”
“No,” I say, defensive.
He shrugs. “It was just a thought. After he radioed, no one saw him again after that, right?”
“. . . No.”
“What if he got intercepted on the way to the scene? My dad’s been worried about the Snakes since that drug bust a few months ago? He thinks they’re dangerous since they’re backed into a corner.”
The Snakes are a local gang that I don’t know much about. As long as I stay away from their territory, they’re not an issue. “We would have heard about something like that. My dad wouldn’t have gone down easy. He would have made noise. Everyone in town would have heard about it.”
Portia appears in the hallway, face pink from sleep. Hands buried in her scarlet linen skirt, rumpled from being twisted around her legs. “What time is it?”
Standing, I move toward her. There’s no reason to whisper, since my mom isn’t home, but I do it anyway. “It’s late. Come on, let’s wake up Des, and I’ll take you guys home.”
“What is Romeo doing here?” Portia asks as we enter the dark office.
“Just came by to say hi.” I smile.
“He likes you. That’s so exciting.” My friend does a silent jig.
“Shh, he’ll hear you.”
It takes some doing to rouse Destin, who sleeps like the dead, but we manage. Leander follows us out to the Corvette, leaning against the driver side while Portia and Des climb into the passenger seat. Fingers around the door handle, I meet his eyes. “Thanks for stopping by tonight. And thanks for… talking with me. It helped.”
His hand taps a rhythm on the car’s roof. “Any time. Don’t forget, you still owe me a date.”
“How could I? There was some ostentatious touchdown dancing involved.”
“Some of my best work.” He slides toward the hood when I open the door. “We’ll talk, yeah?”
I climb into the car, grateful he was willing to look over the file with me. Relief warms me as I drive my friends home. I was worried about the fact that my dad was photographed with Gracia a couple hours prior to her death. Leander didn’t think it was significant. There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for it. Unlike the rest of the town, he didn’t seem inclined to sling blame at my dad at the first suspicious sign. Aside from the devil’s advocate moment.
I can’t shake the sliver of fear that has wedged between my ribs. If my dad got distracted on the way to the scene, what could have held his attention?
You Must Be Joking
Even in daylight, long grasses and overgrown weeds hanging from the bridge leave the underside of the edifice shadowed. The foliage ripples, concealing its secrets.
I just went through the car wash, so the Corvette looks like one in a car commercial. Mom said I could take it out for a short drive, since it’s broad daylight. I promised her I’d pick up those garlic knots she likes from the local pizza place for lunch.
And I will, but something compelled me to come to the bridge first.
Pulling a U-turn, I drive the Corvette past the bridge a second time, squinting into the gloom. It would have been almost impossible to see Gracia’s body lying on the concrete in the middle of the night. So how did someone see it and report it?
The tires dig into the gravel as I park on the shoulder and get out. I duck beneath the low-hanging plants under the bridge. Kick around in the dirt looking for anything that could be significant. Graffiti in shades of black, white, and orange crowd together on the cracking concrete walls and braces. Nothing remarkable.
Cars whir past, underscoring the lonely place where Gracia was dumped. It’s been months, and there’s no trace of her body. Any evidence is long gone. It was futile to come here.
A familiar engine rumbles.
I spin around, my jaw dropping when some idiot shuts the Corvette door, grinning like a fool as he steers my car onto the road.
“Hey. Wait! Come back!” I bolt toward the street. My heart thunders in my chest as I run.
It isn’t fast enough.
The Corvette roars, its shiny red bumper getting smaller and farther away. Blood thumps in my ears as curses rain from my mouth. Someone just stole my dad’s car.
Panic spirals through my core, expanding until there’s no room for clear-headed thinking. Digging my fists into my eye-sockets, I let out a loud cry. It takes the edge off my panic.
Inhaling, I hold it for four. Let it out for six. Repeat.
Dad hid a tracker on the undercarriage. He’s cautious, and installed a bug in the engine block where petty thieves wouldn’t find it. There’s one in Mom’s car, too.
Firing up the app on my phone, I watch the little blue dot that represents the Corvette drive through town. Past the diner. Past Twinkle’s Ice Cream Emporium. Past the public high school and the football field. And stop.
I wait for a handful of minutes, under the cool shade of the bridge, until my breathing slows and my blood returns to a steady rhythm in my veins. Then I make a call.
“Hey, Val. What’s up?” The smile is evident in Leander’s voice.
I don’t tell him I’m currently marooned under a bridge at the edge of town. Keeping company with the ghost of my friend who was murdered and left to haunt this place. No biggie. Instead, I get him talking about football.
After a few minutes, our conversation lulls. Jaunty video game music plays in the background. Leander hollers, triumphant, and then says into the phone, “Did you just call to chat, or …? Not that I’m not enjoying talking to you.”
“Sure. Actually, I have a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“You heard anything about a string of car thefts in town?”
Leander puffs out a breath. “My dad mentioned it. Why?”
“Who does he think is behind it? People going on joyrides? Or something more organized.”
“Why do I have a sneaking suspicion you’re up to something?”
“Because I’m up to something.”
“What are you up to?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. First, tell me what you know.”
There’s a dull thud. Leander’s breath is quiet and even. “My dad thinks it’s people taking the cars and chopping them up for parts. Parts are easier to hide, and they’re easier to sell. Somebody could make a lot of money doing that.”
I hum, gritting my teeth. If someone puts as much as a nick in the red paint, I’ll sic the entire department on them. Whoever just five-fingered that car will regret it.
“You thinking about making some pocket money?” Leander teases.
“Har har.”
“You said you were up to something.”
I step out from under the bridge. “About that. Can you come pick me up?”
Leander arrives a few minutes later in his truck. “Do I want to know why you were under the bridge where Gracia was killed, and the Corvette is nowhere in sight?”
“Just a hunch, but it didn’t pan out. You didn’t tell me who your dad thinks is responsible for the thefts.”
Leander’s eyes dart from the road to mine, and back. “Why do I get the feeling I shouldn’t answer that?”
“Come on. You know me. I won’t do anything stupid.” I wait, hoping he’s about to confirm my suspicions. Because I saw where that tracker stopped, and I recognized the address.
He puckers his lips, laughing when I stare, wide-eyed. “Okay, okay. My dad thinks it’s some of the guys over at Agani Auto. He figures now that they’ve busted whatever drug operation they had going, they had to find other income streams.”
My hands tighten on my knees. I was right.
Agani Auto. I haven’t set foot inside in seven years.
I Did Something Stupid
Five dudes are staring at me, draped nonchalantly around the auto shop. One of the guys wipes his hands on a greasy rag. “Help you?”
My dad’s Corvette sits on the second lift. They haven’t begun to dismantle her. At least, that’s what Leander said they probably did to the hot cars they brought in here. “The Corvette up on the lift is mine, and I’d like it back.”
The entire garage smells like man-sweat and gasoline. Not a good smell. Two additional vehicles are up on lifts, their undercarriages exposed. Next to one is a worktop littered with car parts I can’t identify. The guy who asked if I needed help stands next to the table, holding an obscenely oversized wrench. Seriously, that thing could do more damage than a muscle man wielding a donkey’s jawbone. Catching me looking, the guy arches a brow. “That ain’t your car. Belongs to a buddy of mine. Brought it in for a paint job, maybe flames all along the sides.”
If these dirtbags desecrate her with flames, I’ll… Every inch of that car’s red paint looks pristine. Letting loose a silent breath, I relax an infinitesimal amount. I wasn’t stupid enough to sneak into the shop after the Corvette in the dead of night. But I thought about it.
Instead, I waited until the next afternoon, betting all my marbles that nothing would happen to the car while I was in school. It was a gamble, but skipping would bring the entire sheriff’s department down on me faster than cats on catnip. “That’s hilarious. Bring it down and I’ll show you my ID. It’ll match the insurance in the glove box.”
The mechanic’s expression morphs from slick to angry. “You accusing me of lying?”
Now, all five mechanics are looking at me like I’m a brand new punching bag they’d like to break in. If I act like I’m the chilliest of chill, maybe they’ll think twice about pounding me into the auto shop’s concrete floor. “The Corvette is mine. Bring it down, please.”
Behind the leader, there’s a giant, red toolbox with rows and rows of drawers. Full of heavy metal objects. Tools that would be incredibly effective at inflicting blunt force trauma. The sleeveless shirt he’s wearing reveals the green and black snake tattoo wrapping around his arm from elbow to shoulder, fangs shining with toxin. Something about him looks familiar, but I can’t put a finger on it. I move on, assessing my options.
