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I walk silently up the porch steps and see the curtains are drawn across the big front window, a flickering yellow glow escaping from a tiny gap where the material doesn’t quite meet in the middle. As I approach the front door, I hear music playing softly inside. It’s late, but I know she won’t be asleep. I raise a gloved hand and knock on the door, the sound muffled under the soft leather.
She says, “Hey, what’s with the gloves? Is it cold out tonight?”
His partner, Vic Medina, met him outside the motel room and handed him a pair of latex gloves and some shoe protectors. Pryce snapped on the gloves and pulled the shoe protectors over his loafers and took a deep breath before crossing the threshold.
“Somewhere far away, where we can meet Mickey Mouse and go on lots of fun rides and do fun stuff together.” Alicia’s eyes shone with excitement. “Can Barbie come too?” The little girl held up her doll. Barbie’s hair had been chopped off, and she was wearing a pair of Ken’s slacks and one of his shirts. She looked more like GI Jane than Barbie. Eleanor hoped the replacement doll would be delivered soon. “Sure, Barbie can come along.” “When are we going to meet Mickey?” Alicia asked. “Real soon.”
Eleanor Lavelle had come into the world in January 1967, and the woman who’d given birth to her had checked out just seven months later. It was the Summer of Love, when tens of thousands of hippies descended upon San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury neighborhood to make music and art and protest against ’Nam to a soundtrack provided by the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, and Quicksilver Messenger Service.
“Thank you,” Catherine said. “I like it well enough. Would you like an iced tea or some coffee? Or I have a lovely 2013 zinfandel from the Napa Valley?”
Catherine gave a short laugh. “My mother was a lovely woman but not business minded at all. The only thing she knew about money was how to spend it. She was well looked after, of course, but both my parents were happy for Tav-Con to be passed into my hands. And I had my father’s blessing to sell the company and set up my own business. He always knew the construction industry wasn’t really me.”
Back in the truck, Jessica pulled her cell phone from the glove compartment and switched it on. Once the screen came to life, a text from her IT contact in New York appeared. It wasn’t good news. He could tell Jessica who John Doe’s internet service provider was and that the email had been sent from somewhere in the Los Angeles area, but that was about it. A dead end.
“If she did, I don’t remember. It’s not like I asked for references or anything. She knew how to mix a drink, she looked great, and the customers loved her. That’s better than any résumé as far as I’m concerned.”
“Not a chance. Rob was a good kid. And he loved the bones of that girl.”
Jessica and her father used to have what they called “Movie Fridays” once a month. Popcorn, pizza, beer. A choice of movie each. Tony loved anything from the ’80s and anything by John Hughes. Especially Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Jessica suspected Tony had always secretly wanted to be just like Ferris—wisecracking, with a hot girlfriend, and always breaking the rules and never giving a damn. The reality was he was way more like Ferris’s best friend, Cameron—a little uptight and frustrated, like a coiled spring waiting for a release.
Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, a figure walked into view wearing plain dark-colored pants, sneakers, gloves, and a loose, long-sleeved hoodie. The hood was pulled up, covering the wearer’s hair and obscuring their face. The person carried a duffel bag.
“I’d love some. Black. No sugar.”
Stevenson snorted. “Not a chance. Girl like Eleanor wouldn’t have looked twice at a guy like me.” He picked up the refilled tumbler, took a sip, then looked at Jessica. “In any case, I loved my wife. I had no interest in screwing her best friend.”
It hit her now just how little she had really known about the man she’d thought she was closer to than anyone else in the world. She hadn’t known his real name. Or where he grew up. Where he went to high school. Who his friends were. And she had known nothing about the woman he had supposedly loved. The woman who had given birth to her.
She had cried hard the day Tony died as she’d cradled him in her arms on the cold tiled floor. She hadn’t shed a single tear since. Not at the funeral. Not when she’d handed in her notice and told her boss she was leaving the job she loved. Not even when she’d handed over the keys to the Realtor and walked out of the home she’d shared with Tony for the last time without so much as a backward glance.
“Believe me—the less you know, the safer you’ll be. He loved you, and he loved Eleanor. That’s all you need to know.”
McCool shook his head. “You won’t find out about him. Rob Young wasn’t his real name. You’ll get nowhere. Go back to New York, Jessica. Forget about Eagle Rock. Just remember the man who loved you like you were his daughter.”
Jessica stuffed the envelope into the glove compartment next to the Thrifty’s bag.
She fell to the carpet and felt a gloved fist come down hard on her cheekbone. Then she was being dragged by strong hands from the floor onto the bed.
In those final moments, she knew she would have kept her baby. Knew in her heart she would have loved it if she had only been given the chance.
Jessica knew exactly which photo Connor was referring to. It was a candid shot of Tony mingling with friends and fellow art lovers at the small gallery where his work had been on show. The exhibition had featured in several local arts publications. She remembered how happy he’d looked in the photo and how proud she had been of his achievement, and she felt like her heart was breaking all over again.
Eventually, she reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the white envelope Pryce had given her. Turned it over in her hands a few times. It was light, suggesting its contents were no more than a sheet or two. But the words potentially contained within those pages weighed heavily on Jessica’s mind.
Jessica huffed out a sigh, a combination of relief and frustration, and stuffed the envelope back in the glove compartment.
Jessica found the envelope with the photos from the murder house in her bag. The fifty grand was still in the Thrifty’s bag, still burning a hole in her glove compartment, masquerading as deodorant sticks and shampoo.
Jimmy slipped inside, closed the door behind him, and reemerged thirty seconds later with an even larger man. He was about fifty, with matted salt-and-pepper hair, a couple of double chins, and love handles that were fully testing the seams of his branded QuikCar polo shirt. If Crazy Burger gave out loyalty cards, the ones belonging to the car rental place’s staff would be covered in stamps.
But despite the dark, violent secrets of his past, she knew Tony Shaw had been a good man deep down. Jessica had never once been scared of him, never had any reason to be. He had never raised a hand to her. She couldn’t even recall a time when he had so much as raised his voice. She knew he had loved her like she was his own daughter. Just as she knew she would always love him. Their genetic makeup may have been totally different, but he would always be her dad. That would never change.
The woman crossed her long legs and leaned back. She appeared relaxed. She was dressed all in black. Sweatpants and a hooded top and sneakers. Black leather gloves. Her hair was pulled back in a neat chignon. She looked like she’d just come straight from a Pilates session or a yoga class. Apart from the gloves.
Jessica very much doubted it, but she smiled politely as Catherine popped the cork on the wine bottle and poured generously into the two glasses. As she handed one over, Jessica noticed the woman was still wearing the driving gloves.
“It’s lovely,” Jessica lied.
“When my father asked to speak to me in private, without my mother present, when he beckoned me close to him and used what strength he had left to pull the oxygen mask aside, I thought he was going to tell me he loved me, that he was proud of me. Instead, he told me about Eleanor Lavelle. How they’d met in some grubby strip bar, the paid-for trysts, how she’d quickly gone from prostitute to mistress. Then, he told me about you. And he told me to handle the problem. So I did.”
Jessica was in the middle of the Mojave Desert, about halfway between Barstow and Baker, when she remembered Tony’s letter. Still stuffed in the glove compartment, still unread.
Jessica climbed behind the wheel of the Silverado but didn’t start the engine. She popped the tab on a Bud Light and drained the can before crushing it and dumping it on the passenger seat. She retrieved the envelope from the glove compartment and ran a finger carefully under the gummed seal. Pulled out the letter.
