Mike hesitated. A flicker crossed his face—shame? Caution?—before he slipped back into his usual mode. "What? And no money on the table?"
"How much do you want?" Mrs. Lee's voice shook on the last syllable.
I reached out toward her, but she swung her shoulder away while still focused on Mike. This was between the two of them. I was there as backup, and as a courtesy, nothing more.
Mike stirred his coffee and sipped it. I got the feeling he was delaying not to be a jerk, but because he was making up his mind.
Mrs. Lee slipped her hand in her purse and grabbed some bills. She slapped them on the table without looking at them. I saw a flash of brown and a man's face: hundreds, then. She was breathing hard, almost panting.
My heart broke. I concentrated on glaring at Mike instead.
Finally, he met her eyes once before turning back to his coffee. "I'll tell you one thing. I don't know for sure." He made no move toward the money.
I opened my mouth, but Mrs. Lee was quicker.
"But you know something?" she demanded.
He shrugged and sank into his seat. "I'm not sure."
"Tell me!"
I winced at the rawness her voice. She was only two steps away from a scream.
"I told you. I don't know." He stopped. "But I'll tell you, the guy who stole the truck—this chick asked him to. He didn't want to. He was gonna go straight." He spoke to the table.
I held my breath. I knew, and I was pretty sure Mrs. Lee knew, that "the guy" was Mike and we were talking about the car that had killed Laura Lee.
"So, okay, he did it anyway. He left it in a parking lot and went to work. The next day, he found out...it was that truck. The police found the wreck back in the same parking lot."
He threw his napkin on the table and stood up so fast, his chair rocked on its hind legs. He took a deep breath, muttered something, and marched out of the café without a backward look.
I jumped to my feet. I might have been able to catch him. But I happened to glance at Mrs. Lee. She was crying silently, rivulets streaming down her face, eyes hazy with pain. The last batch of money was still sitting on the table.
When I looked up again, Mike had disappeared.
I thought I knew who the murderer was, and it wasn't him.
I folded the money. It was crisp. I tried not to imagine her going to the bank and withdrawing the bills, praying it would buy her justice. "Mrs. Lee. We have to go." I tried to push the money into her palm.
She brushed me away. "He said sorry. That's what he said. Sorry."
"Mrs. Lee."
"Laura. Oh, Laura." She folded her arms around herself and bent in half. "Oh, my beautiful girl. Oh, my heart."
I shoved the money in my pocket and rubbed her shoulder, wishing I knew what to say.
She groaned, just a puff of air, but I smelled sour coffee and despair. I folded her in my arms. She stiffened. Then she sobbed so hard, my shoulder grew damp, my arms ached from holding her up, and her agony made my body rock, too. I felt people looking at us, but I studiously ignored them until I saw one in particular, framed in the doorway.
Ryan.
He marched toward us. At the sound of footsteps, Mrs. Lee pulled herself off of me and groped for a napkin to blow her nose.
"Thank God you're here. Can you take her home?" I said to him. It was not a time for hello kisses and profound thank-yous, especially since my pager started to scream.
"Yeah, no problem."
I showed him the lists of buddies. "I can't explain right now, but these people are Mike Martinez's alibi. Do you think you'd be able to start to check them out? Or at least make copies so the police can do it?"
"Hope..."
"I know. I know we have no idea what we're doing. But I've got to try." I checked my pager, expecting the long-lost Tucker. Instead, it was the case room.