She glowered at him, then spun around and hurried down the sidewalk. She climbed into a lime-green Volkswagen Beetle parked under a leafless cherry tree several yards down the road. They watched as the Beetle engine coughed to life. Winston pulled out into the street, turned right at the intersection, and disappeared.
“How in the hell did she get that?” Kjel said, staring after her. “We just learned Hocking’s ID ourselves this morning, and about this apartment right now—but Winston knew exactly whats she was looking for on that intercom panel.”
“Fucked if I know,” Leo said.
Kjel frowned, thinking. “What you say we call this in, and then we go visit us a dentist?”
CHAPTER 27
Lara paced behind the drawn sheers of her living room. She felt like she was going to throw up. Gracie was dead—the Cemetery Girl. And now Faith wasn’t answering her phone. She should’ve listened to Gracie when she’d said two weeks ago that she felt she was being followed, that some guy had been lurking in the shadows outside her house one night, watching her window. Gracie had thought this same guy might have gotten onto her bus Saturday before last and off at her same stop. She’d thought that he could be one ofthem. And now, outside, across a street plastered with wet oak leaves, a black Lexus with tinted windows was parked under the gnarled branches. It had been there since dawn, engine running intermittently, probably to keep the occupant warm. Lara was certain that she’d seen the same Lexus outside the church last Thursday when she’d walked down the street to catch the bus after choir.
Lara dialed Faith’s cell again, got voicemail again.
“Faith, it’s me. Just ... call, okay?”
She paced, then made another call, this one to Eva. Relief gushed into her chest when the call picked up.
“Eva, it’s Lara. I ...” She felt silly suddenly. “It’s just ... Gracie and that horrible news. And now I can’t reach Faith. Have you heard from her?”
“She’s probably just not checking her phone.” Eva sounded curt, as though she was in a hurry.
“She always answers her cell—she’s never without it.” Lara opened the sheers slightly with the back of her hand as she spoke. The Lexus was still there. “Gracie said she might have been stalked, and there’s someone outside my apartment right now—maybe it’s one of them.”
“Why would it be?”
“Have you seen anything ... weird?”
“No. Look, it’s probably fine. Whatever you do, don’t go talking to the cops or there’ll be shit. They could kill you if you talk, remember? It was part of the deal—no talk. Ever. And don’t call them, either. They call you.”
“Maybe Graciedidtalk,” Lara whispered. “Maybe—” Lara stilled as a dark-blue sedan drew up right outside her window. The car doors opened. Lara quickly killed her call, her hand tightening around her phone.
A tall, dark-haired guy and a woman with a long red ponytail got out. Black coats. They came up her path, and she heard their footsteps coming up the stairs.
They knocked. Loud.
Lara hesitated, fear swamping her.
They knocked again. Louder. She went to the peephole.
“Who is it?” she called, peering through at their faces.
“Metro Victoria police,” came the man’s deep voice. “Detectives Maddocks and Pallorino. We’d like to speak to you about Gracie Drummond.”
Lara swallowed, hesitated, then opened the door a crack. She eyed them through the security chain. “You got some ID or something?” She had no idea what to look for or any way of telling what ID was genuine, but she figured she should ask.
They both showed badges.
“Are you Lara Pennington?” said the female cop.
It was then that Lara recognized the woman’s face from the newspaper. A bad taste filled her mouth. “I don’t know how you could have let Gracie’s mother find out like that,” Lara said. “Letting Gracie’s name get out all over the news.”
“Can we come in, Lara?” the female cop said, her face showing no reaction.
Lara unhooked the security chain, opened the door. She showed the detectives into her humble living room, which was furnished with old secondhand sofas over which she’d draped sarongs that came from Bali.
Lara seated herself on the edge of a chair. The female cop took the sofa. The male detective remained standing, surveying her apartment—the drawn sheers, the empty bottle of tequila—and it made her uncomfortable, even more edgy.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Lara,” said the woman. “I understand that you and Gracie were very good friends.”
