The thing that finally seemed to calm her was Jane Thomas pressing the gold necklace into her hand, closing her fingers over the figure of the woman with her arms raised in victory.
71
The Dodgers lost that day 4-2 to the St. Louis Cardinals in game three of the National League Championship series. For some reason that would stick with Tommy for the rest of his life as being his clearest memories of that day.
Bob Welch was the losing pitcher. Danny Cox got the win and Ken Dayley got the save. St. Louis second baseman Tommy Herr hit the only home run of the game in the bottom of the second inning.
None of it seemed that important at the time, however. The Dodgers were still up in the series two games to one, and Tommy had a date—sort of. His father had told him a secret while they watched the game: that they were going to see Miss Navarre while Tommy’s mother was at one of her endless meetings.
This was highly exciting news because Miss Navarre had sought out his father and asked him especially if she could meet with Tommy to talk about the things that had been happening. She was worried he might have gotten some wrong ideas. And it wasn’t even a school night. Miss Navarre was making a special effort to see him on the weekend. Tommy hadn’t felt that special since he won the fourth-grade science fair.
He waited until his mother was well into her preparations for her meeting before he quickly took a bath and got dressed in his good gray pants and a shirt and sweater. This was a special occasion. Miss Navarre was taking time out of her weekend for him, the least he could do was look his best.
He even had a present for her, although he wasn’t sure he would be brave enough to give it to her.
He had thought and thought about what had happened the day before, and he had decided the fault was with his mother, not with Miss Navarre. His mom had twisted Miss Navarre’s intentions into something bad because that was how his mother’s mind worked.
Miss Navarre didn’t think his dad was a serial killer or else she wouldn’t have even talked to his father today. Therefore, everything his mother had done the night before—yelling at Miss Navarre in public—had been bad and wrong.
She deserved a special present as an apology. And it made sense that it should come from his mother—sort of.
He put it in a little square box like a ring would come in, and wrapped it himself with a piece of colored paper he found in a kitchen drawer where his mother kept greeting cards and stuff like that.
He hid it in his coat pocket so his mother wouldn’t see it before she left, on account of she would have been REALLY mad at him. It wouldn’t matter to her that it was something she had thrown out herself. She had decided Miss Navarre was her enemy, and if he didn’t think the same thing, then HE was the enemy too.
Nobody knew how complicated his life was because of his mother. Although, he thought Miss Navarre would understand if he told her.
He watched from the upstairs hall window as his mother drove away for her dinner meeting. A few minutes later his father called up the stairs.
“Hey, Sport, are you ready to go?”
And a million butterflies took flight in Tommy’s stomach.
72
“They had to restrain and sedate her,” Mendez said. “She was so combative there was a chance of her disconnecting the respirator. She has too much swelling in her throat from the strangulation. The doctor doesn’t think she would get enough oxygen on her own.”
“Jesus,” Dixon whispered, shaking his head. “Restraints. I’m sure Jane was happy about that.”
“No, but she got it. She and the girl’s mother are going to take turns sitting with her. They aren’t going to risk her waking up alone or with a stranger again.”
“I guess we should just be relieved she’s out of the coma,” Dixon said. “But how the hell are we supposed to get answers from her if she can’t hear the questions?”
Mendez shrugged.
They had taken over a corner of the family waiting area down the hall from the ICU—Mendez and Hicks, Dixon and Vince.
“So she’s out right now?” Vince asked.
“Yes.”
“I want to take a quick look at her, if that’s possible. I want to see if she has the same pattern of cutting wounds as Lisa Warwick. If the pattern is consistent, then it means something specific to the offender. If we can figure out what it means, it could lead us somewhere.”
“Have at it,” Dixon said. “If you can get past guard dog Jane.”
Leone left the room. Mendez wanted to follow him, to pick his brain as he gathered details from looking at the victim, but there was still an issue to discuss with Dixon.
“Why didn’t you tell us Miss Thomas had complained to you about her clients being stopped for traffic violations?” he asked.
Dixon looked at him, taken a little off guard by the question, as if the subject was something he filed away long ago.
“There was nothing to it,” he said.
“She told us she’s had this discussion with you on more than one occasion. How is that not significant to us?”
“If I thought there was anything to it, I would have said so, Detective,” he said, getting irritated. But he got up from the arm of the sofa he had been sitting on and started to pace, arms crossed over his chest—which told Mendez he wasn’t comfortable with the subject.
“Did Jane bring this up to you?” Dixon asked.
“Actually, Steve Morgan brought it up,” Hicks said.
“Don’t you think Jane would have been the first person to say something about it if she felt it was significant?” Dixon said.
“Except that she trusts you. She trusts your judgment,” Mendez said.
Dixon glared at him. “And you don’t?”
“Don’t jump on me, boss. I’m doing the job you hired me to do.”
“A couple of the deputies seem to have a written a lot of stops on women from the center,” he conceded. “But they’re deputies who write a lot of tickets across the board. The numbers didn’t bother me. And I’m sure as hell not going to tell them to treat Thomas Center clients any differently from the rest of the population.”
“I just want to know one thing,” Mendez said, dreading asking the question, already knowing the answer. “Is one of those deputies Frank?”
Dixon sighed heavily. “Yes. Of course. Frank leads the league in traffic citations—and in complaints from the people he’s written up. That’s hardly news.”
“I want to see his file,” Mendez said.
“I’ve reviewed his file.”
“Yeah, well, I want to see it.”
“You think I’m trying to protect him?”
“I think you and Frank go way back, and it’s not appropriate or fair to you to make a call on him. Sir.”
He half expected Dixon to blow a gasket. His boss was a by-the-book kind of guy, and he had toed that line so far with Frank Farman, but friendship and history could make that line blur, even with men like Cal Dixon.
But Dixon held his temper. He stopped his pacing, staring down at the gray industrial-grade carpet on the floor.
“Frank’s wife is missing,” he said quietly. “His son is saying Frank killed her.”
Mendez felt all the blood in his body free-fall to his feet. Hicks got up from the arm on the other end of the sofa and said, “What?”
Dixon filled them in on what had transpired that afternoon while they had been at the hospital with Wendy Morgan and Cody Roache.
“Where is he now?” Mendez asked.
“Home,” Dixon said. “We don’t know that Sharon is dead or even missing. I’ve got Trammell and Hamilton calling her friends and relatives. Frank claims she left on her own. And the boy is less than reliable. I don’t even know if he has a firm grasp on reality. He seems almost catatonic for the most part.”