Dead Storage Page 4

  I put my coffee cup on the table with quavering hands and waited for Stephen to appear. I’m not sure I’d ever felt so helpless.

  Detective Smith returned quickly with Stephen, but he wasn’t the Stephen I knew. My friend Stephen was always neatly dressed with a trimmed beard and a smooth bald head. He didn’t wear aftershave, and I’d never noticed that he smelled of anything in particular. If I’d been forced to guess, I’d have said he smelled wholesome, like soap and shampoo, mixed with something homey, like cinnamon and snickerdoodle cookies.

  This Stephen smelled of fear and looked as though he’d been run through a car wash. His beard seemed to have grown at least a half-inch in every direction and had bits of what could only be described as crud embedded in it. His jeans were streaked with dirt, and his rumpled shirt was stained and untucked. I’d always assumed he was bald, but he apparently shaved his head because tufts of hair had sprouted from his skull like a dandelion gone to seed. I frowned and narrowed my eyes, thinking that he looked as miserable as Munchkin had when he’d limped up to Stephen’s front door yesterday morning.

  My expression must have been fierce, because Stephen recoiled. “I’m sorry, Maggie,” he said. “I’m really sorry.” He sat on the sofa with his head in his hands and I rushed from the chair to sit beside him.

  “I don’t know what you’re sorry for,” I said. “This is a terrible mistake. We’ll get it sorted out.”

  Detective Smith cleared her throat. “When you’re ready, push that green button on the wall.”

  Stephen whipped his head toward the door, his eyes wide and his nostrils flaring.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “The door’s not locked. If you push the button someone will come and help you with whatever you need or guide you to wherever you want to go.”

  As soon as she’d gone, Stephen leaped up to test the door. His movements were jerky and his head moved as if on a swivel, checking every corner of the room for monsters, listening devices, or something worse.

  Finally, he took his seat on the sofa again. I took his hand. He jerked away, but then grabbed hold of my arm with both hands and held on like a toddler afraid of being lost in a shopping center.

  “Maggie, thank you for coming. I’m so sorry.”

  “Start at the beginning, Stephen. You have nothing to apologize for. You needed me and asked me to come, so I came. If I can help, I will. That’s what friends do. But I have no idea what’s happening. Are you hurt?”

  I looked him over with the scrutiny I would give either one of my boys if they’d appeared as rumpled and terrified as Stephen did. The fact that he was a decorated marine and a grown man twice my size made no difference to me. He was in trouble and he thought I might be able to help.

  He opened his mouth to speak, cleared his throat, and came out with a sob. A tear escaped the corner of his eye.

  I waited. “Take your time.”

  He cleared his throat again, then glanced quickly at the blind-covered glass. “I don’t know who’s listening,” he said in a croaking whisper, turning away from the window and bending his head toward my shoulder. “Look at my right ear if you need to talk. I don’t want them to read our lips.”

  If I hadn’t been consumed with apprehension myself, I might have found Stephen’s uncharacteristic paranoia amusing. He was normally straightforward and informal without any hint of pretense, fear, or drama.

  “Have you seen Munchkin?” he asked.

  I relaxed my shoulders and smiled, happy to have been asked a question I could answer. “Yes, he came home yesterday morning. He was a little worse for wear, but he’s fine.” I lowered my voice and looked toward his right ear, angling my head away from the mirrored window as instructed. “I took him to the vet to get patched up. Dr. Davidson is collecting evidence, just in case.”

  “He’s going to be okay?”

  I nodded. “Some stitches, antibiotics, intravenous fluids, and a good rest will set him right. He’s under light sedation now to keep him quiet so he can heal, but I’ll pick him up this afternoon and look after him at my house. He’ll be fine.” I patted Stephen’s shoulder. “But what about you?”

  “It’s a long story and I need your help.”

  “I have time.”

  Stephen glanced up at the window, slumped, and shook his head. He reached inside his rumpled shirt and pulled out a sheaf of papers, folded tightly to the size of a small index card.

  He handed the packet to me, surreptitiously, hiding his movements by turning his back to the window. He gestured that I should put it away, inside my clothes.

  “Not in your pocket,” he said as I moved to put it in the back pocket of my jeans—forgetting that I’d specifically chosen to wear leggings to the jail. “Inside, where they can’t say it ‘accidently’ fell out. Put it in your bra or something.” He blushed a little at the mention of my underwear. We were good friends, but not underwear-mentioning friends, at least not until today.

  I did as he asked and then turned back with my eyebrows raised in question. “What on earth?”

  “Read it later. It’s all in there.”

  “But what do you need me to do? Can I call Jason for you? Get you a lawyer? Get you out of here?”

  He shook his head vehemently. “Not Jason. Don’t call Jason. Not one word. If you call him, he’ll come home. And he needs to succeed with his efforts in Texas. He’s been setting up this deployment team since he was on medical leave. He’s managed it and expanded it throughout Santa Clara County until it included firefighters, paramedics, chaplains, social workers, and every other kind of disaster-response assistance. It’s what he wants to do now, full time. This Texas trip is their first and they’re being followed by a group of journalists. Funding renewal for the program will depend upon how well the team performs. He’s got everything riding on this. He has to prove it will work.”

  I looked at him, skeptical. Surely Jason would want to know Stephen was in trouble. Surely he needed to know. And while the trip was important to Jason, I knew how thoroughly he’d trained his team. He’d often said that a well-trained unit should be able to operate without a commander. I doubted that anything was more important to Jason than Stephen’s health, happiness, and well-being. Chances were that Jason wouldn’t even have to leave his post to make a huge difference in Stephen’s current situation. One phone call, one word to the Mountain View Police from Jason’s chief in Orchard View, and MVPD would cut Stephen loose. I had no doubt.

  But Stephen clenched his jaw. “Promise me. Trust me. I have good reason to want to keep Jason out of this for now. Besides, he’ll be so focused on helping people in the disaster zone and managing his team that he won’t notice I haven’t texted. Not for a few days at least.”

  “Seriously? He won’t even check in?”

  Stephen shook his head. “Not for days. He’s going to focus on his mission and assume that we’ll catch up when he returns. If his plans change or there’s an emergency, of course he’ll get in touch. This is a short mission, anyway. His team is expected to be there for only two weeks, to carry some of the load until the local public services can get the problems under control. Communication will be tough enough for those injured or displaced by the disaster. They don’t need a bunch of helpers swooping in and clogging up the phone lines.”

  I nodded, but Stephen must have seen my reservations telegraphed through my facial expression or body language.

  “Look, Maggie, you know Jason. He’s going to put everyone else’s needs ahead of his own, and ahead of mine. It’s not that he doesn’t care about me. He does. And he trusts that I’ll get in touch if I need to. It’s one of the things you learn in the military, I think. Every couple has different communication needs and standards. This is what works for us.”

  “But he already phoned from the airport, concerned that he wasn’t able to reach you and that I’d not heard from you either. He knows that you missed our meeting yesterday and that Munchkin came home without you. He promised he would call again an
d asked me to text when I heard from you.”

  Stephen sighed and lowered his head. “I can’t control what you or Jason do, Maggie. If he’s going to phone, he’ll phone. And you’ll have to decide what you’re going to tell him. But I’m asking you to rely on my judgment and keep my situation to yourself for as long as possible.” He looked up with a hopeful expression.

  I let out a long, slow breath. “I do trust you. I’ll give it my best shot. At least for now. I hope you’re right and that he’ll get so caught up in what he’s doing that he won’t call for a few days at least.”

  Stephen took my hands in his much larger ones and held them captive. “A few days is all I think we’ll need. Thanks, Maggie. I know you’re much better at uncovering secrets than keeping them.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “Read those papers. If you have questions after that, we can talk.” He stared at my face until he became convinced I would do as he asked.

  “You know that they want to book you in at the county jail on some charge of obstruction?”

  Stephen breathed out hard and I gritted my teeth so as not to grimace from the smell of his breath. He slumped again, with his head in his hands, but his legs shook, apparently out of his control until he placed his hands on them and exerted pressure to hold them still.

  “Either that or murder . . . or maybe a psychiatric hold,” he said, not bothering to hide his face from the mirror.

  “But—”

  “But nothing. They can keep me for forty-eight hours before they need to put the evidence in front of a judge. That takes us into the weekend, so that gives them more time to try to make a case . . .”

  Stephen’s voice trailed off and I sighed in frustration. It seemed so pointless. A good lawyer or even a bad one would surely be able to get him out of here. Stephen moved forward toward the edge of the sofa. “It’s all in the notes, Maggie. Read them. They’ll answer most of your questions. Trust me.”

  “Of course I trust you, Stephen,” I said. “But right now I don’t understand you. Not one bit.”

  He looked at me, shrugged, and smiled much like one of my kids—slightly sheepish, slightly mischievous, but completely sure of himself. I tried another tack.

  “Okay, I’ll leave it for now. I’ll read your note and I’ll do the best I can to cover for you with Jason. He’s fine, by the way. Arrived safely. More weather is coming in, though . . .”

  My voice trailed off as I considered what on earth I could tell Jason if he called. Something that would tamp down his fears without revealing Stephen’s secrets. I was stumped. Deciding to address that problem later, I pushed back my hair and straightened my shoulders, which were carrying all the strain of the day’s events and threatening to bring on a wicked headache.

  “But what about you?” I asked, going back to one of my first questions. “If you’re going to be here for the weekend, won’t you need . . . I don’t know . . . clothes? A toothbrush? Medication?”

  I let my voice trail off. Stephen and I were friends and he’d shared his struggle with PTSD with me. I knew that he walked miles at night when he couldn’t sleep and that while Munchkin was not officially a service dog, his companionship helped Stephen cope. Munchkin had his own PTSD-type issues and they were dependent on each other. Without his dog’s soothing company, confined in a small space without exercise, I wasn’t sure how Stephen was going to hang on to his hard-won mental health.

  But he shook his head at the suggestion of medication. “I never had any luck with drugs, prescription or otherwise, and had a terrible reaction to one of them. I’ve done well with exercise and Munchkin and working with the dogs and soldiers at the VA.”

  “Don’t be a hero. If you need meds, you need meds. Especially given the stress of whatever it is that you’ve laid out in your note.”

  “I’m not being a hero,” he said with a dismissive snort. “I’m the first to encourage guys to look into prescription drugs to prevent them from self-medicating with other dangerous stuff. But the meds don’t work for me.”

  I brushed off my leggings as if they were covered with dust. They weren’t, but I needed to do something, since I was so helpless in any of my efforts to rescue my friend.

  “Look, Maggie, I know you need to do something. Read the note. I’ll be fine. I’m meditating and writing and I’ll keep myself on the right side of sane. If you take care of the things in there,” he said, lifting his chin in the general direction of my chest and the hidden papers, “I won’t have to tough it out for long.”

  Chapter 4

  Clutter costs time and money. Even if you aren’t renting extra storage, if you’ve got so much stuff that you don’t know what you have or where it is, or you can’t find it when you need it, it’s nearly the same as having nothing at all.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald, Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Friday, February 17, Morning

  After leading me to her office, Detective Smith invited me to sit, but I remained standing. I wasn’t going to answer any questions or show her the papers Stephen had given me. I wanted to leave as quickly as possible. To smell fresh air, hug my family and Belle, and get Munchkin out of his enforced confinement.

  She offered to freshen my coffee, but I shook my head and looked at the clock—a loud industrial one remarkably like the schoolroom clocks I’d grown up with.

  “I need to leave,” I said. “I have an appointment. Thank you for your help.” I took a step toward the door, but then turned back to Detective Smith. “Stephen Laird does not belong in jail. I don’t have any information that could help your investigation. I don’t know anything more now than I did when I came in.”

  I wondered if that was one of the reasons Stephen had written everything down. Until I read his note, I could honestly tell the officers that I knew nothing about what he was doing here or what had happened last night that left Munchkin seriously injured and Stephen in the hands of the police. But maybe Detective Smith knew something that would help me. I forced myself to ignore my urge to flee and put my hand on the back of one of her visitor’s chairs.

  As if she could read my mind, the detective smiled and gestured toward the chair again. “Please, sit. If you can stay for a few minutes, I’ll tell you everything we know at this point.”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what she had to say. I felt as though I were balanced on a tightrope over a churning chasm of molten lava. But my balance was bad, and I knew I’d fall at some point. I might as well choose the moment myself. I closed my eyes, stepped off the tightrope, fell into the chair, and waited.

  Detective Smith sat down slowly behind the desk, took a sip of her coffee, then leaned forward on her elbows with her hands steepled, tapping her fingertips against each other.

  She sighed. “You’ve probably figured out that we were eavesdropping on your conversation with Mr. Laird. I know that he handed you something and I wish you’d let us see it.”

  I stiffened and prepared to leave, but the detective waved her hand in the air, motioning to me that I should both calm down and stay seated. “I know, I know. You’re not going to give me anything today. I could tell from your body language that both you and Mr. Laird are, for some unfathomable reason, resigned to his spending the holiday weekend in jail.”

  I gasped, shocked to hear her say the words out loud—words I’d tried to avoid uttering, even to myself. She ignored me, or pretended to.

  “Here’s what we know. Last night, at 12:34 a.m., we received an anonymous tip from a burner phone, saying that there had been a break-in at the Golden Dragon Chinese Restaurant and someone was dead. The caller described a man who matched the description of Mr. Laird. I think you’ll agree he’s distinctive looking.”

  When I didn’t respond, the detective continued. “The anonymous citizen said he’d heard sounds of a fight and a gunshot. We went to the scene and found the restaurant’s back door unlocked. Our officers found the owner, Mr. Xiang, dead in his cold-storage locker, a
pparently from a gunshot wound. The medical examiner reports he had defensive knife wounds and extensive bruising from a brutal beating. Blood covered the floor and four sets of footprints led away from the body. Three headed toward the back door, out into the alley, and away from the restaurant. The fourth set belonged to your friend Mr. Laird. We found him at the scene, wiping down tables, obliterating evidence. Time of death judgments are notoriously imprecise, even for the most experienced medical examiners, but the refrigeration in the food storage room makes estimations particularly difficult.”

  I leaned forward and blurted out questions as quickly as they occurred to me. “But what evidence was there? Could you learn anything from the gunshot wound? Like how close the shooter was or how tall? What kind of gun was used? What sort of a knife caused the lacerations? A kitchen knife or a street knife? Did Stephen have any gunshot residue on his hands or clothing? What about blood spatter? He didn’t have any blood that I could see on his clothing, and he was still wearing his shoes, so you didn’t take them for evidence. Did he have knife wounds? What about the footprints? Don’t you do something like, I don’t know, recreate the choreography of the scene so you can tell where all the suspects were and what they were doing? Did you find a gun? Was there any chance that Mr. Xiang could have shot himself? Surely it’s possible that the fight the caller referred to could have been Stephen trying to talk Mr. Xiang out of committing suicide?”

  I took a breath and leaned back in my chair, exhausted and frustrated.

  Detective Smith gave me a half-smile. “Are you finished? Those are all good questions and we’re working on them. Mr. Laird hasn’t said a word about any of this. If one of our officers hadn’t recognized him, we might not even know his name.”