HeartStrings Page 11

  "Where?"

  "In the hotel room."

  "Where on his body did you hit him?" Though she asked it gently as if it were a follow up question, Craig felt stupid. It was what she'd meant the first time she'd asked. But he answered.

  "His face. His head."

  "Until he died?" Now her voice was soft, too.

  He only nodded.

  "Then what?"

  "I took all his money. Dropped the gun and ran." What he didn't say was that the man had been up and down Santa Monica before. They knew him, all the kids on the boulevard after dark. They all hated him. It was rumored he often carried a lot of cash. And that was right; Craig had taken all of it. Including three gift cards to stupid chain restaurants and a shoe place. Only after he'd spent them did he realize the police might have traced him through those cards.

  Bloody and beaten beyond recognition, he'd taken the money, gathered the stash he'd managed to keep hidden from everyone on the street—the money he'd been saving to make his escape—and he'd left the area in a cab, his head ducked low, his heart racing with leftover adrenaline and new fear that his street bosses would come after him. They'd be worse to him than the fat man was.

  "Did you fire the gun?"

  It sounded like she'd maybe asked the question before. "No."

  "Can you describe him?"

  Oh, yes. Craig could describe that man. His round face still haunted bad dreams. He'd deserved what he'd gotten and more. For the first time Craig wasn't sure he deserved to live with it any more. He told everything. He'd survived the streets off Hollywood for over a year. He'd come cross country and survived in a mean business. He'd survive the rest of this, too. He could wish for a different life from jail just as easily as he could do it from a tour bus.

  Maybe easier, if he could do it without the guilt.

  Despite becoming a comforting mother figure, the lawyer had taken down an extended series of notes. By hand. Craig appreciated that. No computer document to hack. He wasn't ready for her answer.

  "Let me see what I can do. I can probably call you by early next week with some idea of how to proceed."

  Chapter 18

  He wasn't prepared for the jolt to his system as the plane touched down. It wasn't the jerk to the seat caused by the wheels grabbing tarmac for the first moment, it was the fracture of recognition of a city and a life he'd left behind.

  Despite Wilder’s traveling, despite coming close to Southern California—they'd made it to San Francisco and to Nevada—he'd not been back to Los Angeles since fleeing over a decade ago. Not since the night he'd murdered the man who'd threatened him.

  A week passed since he talked to the lawyer. A week of rehearsals without puppies. Daniel babysat while he was out, something that seemed to work out well for all parties—except maybe Kelsey who had to oversee things.

  A week of his heart beating just a little stronger than normal. A week of jumping every time the house phone rang. A week of playing harder with the small, fuzzy family members he'd just gotten and hoping he didn't have to leave them soon. But for the first time in his life, Craig had a strong need to put things right. He'd lived with things being wrong for so long.

  Also, while the bank might repossess his house, and the band could go toes up and take all the money with it at any point, he now had family. No one was going to repossess his dog crate, or the leashes, or the toys. He had family that would be with him if they were kicked out, or even on the streets again.

  But his desire to set things to rest had led him here, and here he was afraid there was no rest. Just breathing the air twisted him inside. Luckily, he was a master at fighting to look normal. He could pass as calm when he was anything but.

  So he pulled his carryon bag from the overhead spot and slung it over his shoulder, wondering if he would make his return flight in three days or if he'd be in jail. He hadn't commented on his trip to the rest of the band, only informed them that he was taking it.

  "Back to L.A.?" Alex had asked. "What for?"

  "Trip home for a few days, just some old business to put right." He'd shrugged into his guitar thinking he'd start playing and they'd shut up.

  "You have 'old business'?" TJ teased him. "Do you have a surprise kid!?"

  A decent question, given JD's odd circumstances a few years before, but not at all like Craig's issue. "No." At least he could grin at that.

  He'd set Kelsey and Daniel up as relief sitters for the actual babysitter he'd hired to stay with his puppies for the three days. So Kelsey was worried about the trip, probably because of what he'd said before, but she didn't seem to have opened her mouth to JD. Or if she had, he was keeping the story quiet. "Let's get started. I'm missing the next couple of days."

  Or decades. He thought, but didn't say.

  So he'd hopped the flight, everything in place, and then stood at the edge of LAX, flagging a cab in a strange reversal of his flight out of here. He was staying in Santa Monica on the instructions of his lawyer, something about jurisdictions. It was intended to buy him time if everything went south, despite the fact that the lawyer didn't think it would, given what she'd already dug up.

  When he got to the hotel, he stood in the lobby and called the number he'd been given.

  "Mr. Hibbets. Good to hear from you." His local lawyer said kindly. The man—Kip Darrow—had been referred from the Nashville office and had all Craig's notes from his previous sessions.

  No, it's not good. It was simply necessary. "Thank you." Was all he responded.

  "Do you need a rest or do you want to meet right away?"

  It was only ten a.m. here, the early flight and the time zone changes working in his favor. "I'd rather just jump in than wait around."

  Darrow promised a call back and Craig took the time to do an early check in and find a sandwich, not that easy at ten in the morning. He was just polishing it off, sitting in his seventh floor room looking out over the sprawl of Santa Monica, when his phone buzzed. Despite expecting the call, Craig jumped.

  "Yes?"

  "Can you be ready in twenty minutes? I'll pick you up and we'll head into Hollywood where we'll meet a Detective Valverde."

  Craig agreed, his heart jumping erratically. The twenty minutes in the lobby, staring at the walls, was one of the longest stretches of time he could remember. And there had been some bad moments he'd waited on. That this was the worst was telling.

  The town car pulled up and Craig remembered the fascination Angelenos had with their cars. It must still be going strong ten years later. Status was a big deal out here, and it came by way of corporate titles, neighborhoods, and wheels. This navy blue car, buffed to an almost disturbing shine, was no exception.

  The lawyer shook his hand, then looked over Craig's pressed slacks and button down shirt. "Good."

  The value judgment didn't mean much. It was pretty much exactly what he'd told Craig to wear. There was nothing he could do about a few tattoos that snuck out beneath the sleeves he desperately wanted to roll up. He hadn't even tried for a tie—tugging at it would be worse than not wearing it.

  On the drive in, he was given instructions. "This is just a fact-finding mission. Right now, despite your confession, they can't tie you to a crime."

  Craig had heard that before, from his lawyer back in Nashville, but it was good to hear that things hadn't changed for the worse since planning this trip.

  Kip Darrow continued. "I should be sitting right beside you. You can answer any questions honestly, but don't elaborate. If you want to say more about something, ask me first—we should be able to step out for a minute if you really need to chat."

  "Won't that look bad?" Craig asked, already starting to sweat.

  "Not really. These guys deal with lawyers all the time. A sidebar, or me shutting you down mid-answer . . . well, it happens a lot. It won't make you look guilty."

  Craig nodded. He'd been told that the fact he'd initiated the investigation, that he'd confessed, played in his favor, too. But he'd never done this be
fore. His only interactions with the police had been to run when he saw the cars coming down the streets when he was a kid. Then, his fear had been going back to foster care, or worse, to juvie. Where he'd wound up was far worse. Maybe he should have thrown himself at one of those cars. But past mistakes were past. Nothing he could do now, not that he wasn't already doing.

  They parked in the side lot at the Hollywood Police Station, the car gliding into the spot as though it knew it belonged there. Craig got more and more nervous as he was checked in. Though he waited for someone to fingerprint him, call him out, basically blow his cover of normalcy, no one did.

  His lawyer even pulled out the heavy, padded swivel chair for him as they sat at a table in a conference room. It was a far cry from the metal chairs and cinderblock interrogation room he expected. There wasn't even a two-way mirror. For the first time his heart started to slow. Then it kicked up again, when he thought maybe they were playing with him. He'd killed a man, after all.

  Kip Darrow reached out tentatively, putting his hand gently over Craig's. "You're going to be fine." He nodded, sensing Craig's distress. "You're helping them. No one has any plans to charge you. Have you told me everything?"

  Craig nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

  "Then there's nothing that can happen today except a conversation." The hand lifted, but Craig had been grateful for the touch.

  Just then a very young-looking officer came through the door. Though she wore a plain black pantsuit, she had a badge clipped to the waistband of her pants. She smiled, just a bit, "I'm Detective Jessica Valverde."

  Darrow shook her hand and did quick introductions while Craig sized her up. For some reason, he'd expected an old, grizzled man, like on a cop show. Jessica Valverde was not bubbly, but she was strikingly beautiful. High cheekbones and a wide smile were offset by tanned skin and brown hair shot through with highlights. The blond streaks seemed to be her only concession to girliness, but Craig suspected they might be all California sun rather than salon.

  She sat down across from them, setting down a fat folder that Craig only just then noticed she'd carried in with her. "I'm going to level with you both. I only just made detective, and that's why I was given this case."

  She folded her hands and looked at each of them. "Mr. Darrow, you and I have spoken and I've pulled everything I can find. After a decade, this was all getting dusty in storage and I cannot tell you how much fun it was to dig it all out." She almost grinned before turning to Craig. "Mr. Hibbets, we really appreciate you coming forward. Honestly, I don't even know how we would prosecute you."

  Craig felt his heart start to flutter. Was he going to be okay? But he only blinked.

  Valverde continued. "You said it was at the old Dixie hotel. Right?"

  He nodded blankly.

  "The building is gone. There's zero way to collect evidence." She sighed heavily. "And we aren't going to. I've read the case notes from Mr. Darrow. I can only guess at what you were doing in that room."

  He couldn't even respond.

  They knew. They understood. That strip was well known. And his presence there was a shame he'd carried for a very long time.

  But Valverde didn't give him time to sink deep. "I understand that you're with a band now. Wilder?"

  He nodded.

  "I've heard you guys on the radio. You're very good." She grinned.

  "Thank you." Just a whisper. He had just felt the final click of his old life linking to his new one, and he didn't like it.

  She must have seen it. Darrow must have seen it, he was leaning across the table, but Valverde had her hands up. "We don't prosecute those crimes. I'm not here to put kids in jail for surviving." She stared at Craig, "Nor am I here to ruin a decade of amazing work. What you've done with your life is nothing short of miraculous, Mr. Hibbets."

  The words hit him like a shockwave.

  He'd done nothing. He'd only clawed and dug his way out of a hellhole. Nothing more.

  But Jessica Valverde disagreed. She looked him in the eyes, her words earnest. "I come from a bad section of L.A. myself, and I had it very good compared to you. Kids often don't survive what you went through. The numbers show most become addicts. They commit suicide or disappear. They sure as hell don't very often buy houses and become famous on what is very clearly an amazing talent. I'm impressed. I'm not here to put you in jail. But I'm hoping you can help me. Maybe we can close an old file or two."

  "But I killed him." Craig whispered.

  "I read the file. I’m calling it self-defense. Nothing more. And no one can call it anything else." She nodded, looking down at the papers now.

  Darrow patted Craig's hand and he found himself fighting the urge to grab it and squeeze for dear life. His words came out in a cathartic tumble, "But I kept hitting him after he was down."

  She nodded. "Feel free to unburden yourself. I get that. But no one’s going to prosecute you. You lived through it. I get the feeling you've carried it with you for years. Isn't that enough?"

  He started to breathe; maybe it was enough.

  Detective Jessica Valverde wasn't done with him yet, though. "We don't have a body. So I'm not even confident that you actually killed him. If he got up and walked away, then you're only looking at assault. And I'll book that man for what he did to kids up and down that strip, because you said he wasn't a first-timer, right?"

  Craig shook his head. They all knew him. They were all afraid. He'd left knowing the others would be glad the man was dead.

  Suddenly, it washed away. The guilt lifted, and though it wasn’t entirely gone, it was so much lighter it might as well have been. She was right. He'd been petrified at the time. Maybe the man had gotten up eventually; Craig hadn't stuck around to find out. The asshole sure wouldn't have reported the crime—not from where he was and what he'd been doing. Craig almost had to hold onto the arms of the chair to keep himself from floating away.

  Kip Darrow and Detective Jessica Valverde had cut the strings. Even if he killed the man, he'd paid his debt. He wasn't wanted. He wasn't going to have his life pulled out from under him. The weight had been heavier than he realized.

  "Do you need a drink?" the detective asked him.

  He nodded and she left him to look through photos.

  Darrow seemed to know what was going on and he turned the pictures toward Craig. "These are unresolved missing persons in the right age bracket, from the right time period. Let us know if any of these are your guy."

  Craig was still thumbing through them when Detective Valverde came back with a glass of ice water.

  "What are these? Possibilities?" She frowned at the three photos he'd pulled out. There were a disturbingly high number and Craig wasn't finished looking through them yet. "No. None of those were him."

  There were a variety of shots. Many were mugshots and Craig didn't ask what they'd been brought in for. He figured he already knew. "Those two were frequent flyers." He pointed, then shifted to the third. "That's 'Jim.' He was a street boss and ran coke through some of the girls."

  Valverde only nodded, not shocked by any of this. Had she been testing him? Probably, but he knew the players. He’d never forget some of the faces. He didn't think he'd ever forget any of it, but maybe he should think like she did. He was still standing. He was earning money and making a name for himself. He'd come out the other side.

  It took another hour sorting through stuff. "He's not here."

  "Is it possible that you didn't kill him?"

  He'd considered it the first time she said it, but it only now sunk in. No one in the greater L.A. area had been reported missing and never been recovered from that time. They had no bodies reported at the Dixie that night or even that week. None were dumped anywhere nearby that matched his description. "It must be. All this time I thought I killed him."

  She shrugged. "I guess it's possible. But that would mean the body was moved and never identified. Or not found in time to even make my list here." She folded her hands and looke
d at him, her sharp gaze coming from sympathetic chocolate brown eyes. "If he did get up, or if someone dragged him out alive, he'd wind up in a hospital probably. He wouldn't have pressed charges against you or he'd face his own. There's nothing anyone can do."

  She held her hands out. "I suggest you go live your life free of this. Know that you did the right thing coming forward, but we can't prosecute you for a crime there's no evidence of. And you were a minor. We'd more likely prosecute him." Valverde smiled, seeming to call it a day. "Thank you for all your help. I will call you if anything happens in the case, but I don't think it will. I think you should get back to your regularly scheduled life. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  She looked to both men, but Craig was done. She was right, they'd done everything they could. If the man was dead, good riddance. If he wasn't, then Craig would take the stand and defend himself. It was the first time he'd ever thought of his position in that whole mess as defensible.

  He thanked Darrow and headed back to the hotel where he moved his flight to the first available seat back to Nashville. He wanted to wash the residue of his life in L.A. completely off.

  There was nothing with any reasonable layovers open until the next morning. So he called the lawyer back in Nashville. After thanking her and explaining how it went, he asked her for another favor. "I need a custody lawyer in the Bristol area. Can you recommend the best one?"

  Then he tossed and turned the whole night, popped up with the sun and hopped on the plane with far more energy than the day before. He wanted to go home.

  Chapter 19

  Shay sat in the lawyer's office, her knees knocking as the woman looked through her stack of papers. Shay had saved everything.

  "You have information regarding the birth, beyond the birth certificate?"

  "What do you want?"

  "Any hospital records regarding the father's genetic relationship to the child?" The lawyer looked at her over her glasses, sheaf of papers still clutched tightly.