A Wicked Snow

Chapter Twenty-six

In a small, seemingly airless room that amounted to nothing more than a closet adjacent to the prison warden’s private dining room, Hannah Griffin dialed the telephone number that flashed on the tiny LED panel of her SatNet county-issued pager. It was Ted Ripperton’s office extension at the Santa Louisa crime lab.

“Ted? Hannah here. What can’t wait?”

“Where the hell are you?” he asked, ignoring her question. “Ethan said you went away for a couple days. You guys okay?”

Hannah didn’t want to get personal with Ripp, and she didn’t see how where she was at any given moment was any of his concern in the first place. As lousy an investigator as Hannah believed Ted Ripperton to be, she didn’t want him asking any questions.

“It’s personal and Ethan and I are fine. Furthermore, you paged me,” she snapped before adding, “a half dozen times.”

“Eighteen times,” he said. “Even called the phone company, er—telecommunications provider—to make sure your pager wasn’t down. They did some sort of test and said your pager was operational. Said you weren’t answering. And I thought you took the damn thing in the shower!”

“Very funny,” Hannah said, her impatience amplified with another sigh. She felt her limbs for the first time in an hour. She realized she’d been numb from the interview with Wheaton. “What’s so urgent?”

“Joanne Garcia’s in critical condition in the ICU at Our Lady of Guadeloupe. Overdosed on Valium and tequila.”

“Oh dear,” Hannah said. “What happened?”

“Paramedics came out to her trailer house at ten this morning. The next-door neighbor who’d been keeping an eye on Garcia since we took Mimi into protective custody stopped by to see how she was faring. Garcia didn’t answer the phone or the door. Her VW was in the driveway. The neighbor lady went inside and found Garcia on the sofa. TV going full-tilt boogie. Face blue. We’ve seen it before. This one was nice.”

“Nice” was Ripp’s way of categorizing suicides, as in nasty or nice. Nasty suicides were the man with a pistol in the mouth and brains sprayed on the television set or the teenage boy hanging from a rafter with underwear around his ankles and a Penthouse on the floor. Nice were the glue sniffers or pill poppers who died before their bodies rebelled with a gag reflex. Nasties were a mess, but they told the story with clarity and precision. Nice were clean, neat, and much harder to read.

“She leave a note?” Hannah asked.

“Not that we’ve found so far,” Ripp answered.

“Do the docs think she’ll make it?”

“Dunno. Hanging by a thread. I got a call into them for an update. Haven’t heard from anyone for an hour. I know she’s on life support. She’s already lost the baby.”

The baby. It had slipped Hannah’s mind that Joanne Garcia, mother of Mimi and Enrique, was pregnant with her third child. She’d been through hell with her children; no one could deny it. Enrique was murdered, Mimi was in protective custody, and the baby was dead before it had been born. Maybe the baby, Hannah thought, had been the lucky one.

“There’s something else,” Ripp continued in his know-it-all voice that annoyed those who knew he didn’t actually know much at all. “Some woman came to the lab today to talk with you. A reporter, I guess. From Ladies’ Home Journal or something—I didn’t get the name of the magazine. She said she wanted to talk to you for a profile she’s writing about female crime scene investigators. She wants to interview me, too. Not as a female, of course, but as a man who works with one of the best.”

“Not interested,” Hannah said decisively, despite Ripp’s attempt at sucking up. She had no intention of ever opening up that door. She never sought the spotlight, though she had had plenty of chances as Hannah Griffin, and a million times more as Hannah Logan, daughter of the woman who made the greatest escape in criminal history.

Hannah ended the conversation. “I’ll be home tomorrow. Page me if you need me, but let’s plan on talking late afternoon. And no interviews.” She knew Ripp was an attention seeker of the highest order, so she added, “At least not now.”

“But I want to,” Ripp said, his voice a little whiny, like a kid being cheated out of a snow cone. “I know it’s about you, but she wants to put me in the article, too.”

“No. No interviews with anyone.”

“I’m having lunch with her tomorrow. Got her business card right here. Very nice, embossed. Freelance Writer. Her name’s Marcella Hoffman.”

The name was like a bullet, and Hannah’s heart tumbled down to her feet. Her head split into two, atom-smasher time. Hannah remained mute. A pair of glazed donut goggles stared at her from a greasy supermarket bakery box. On the open door, she could see the office was labeled PRESS ROOM.

“Wheaton’s back,” a voice called.

Hannah turned toward the voice; she sat still, frozen in worry. “I have to go now,” she told Ripp. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Who was on the phone? You look upset.” It was Bauer. He stood in the doorway looking concerned. Hannah looked up and nodded. She was weary, and her eyes brimmed with tears. If she had been any closer to the edge, she would have been on the other side by now.

“Thanks.” she said. “I’m glad I look the part. This day goes down in history as one of the most draining of my life. And I’ve had a few of those.”

“That you have. Anything I can do?” Bauer asked, brightening his tone.

“No, I’m fine. It’s just office stuff,” she lied.

Hannah made no mention of the journalist or writer or trophy collector or whatever Hoffman could be termed. In reality, she didn’t know what to think about Dog Face’s sudden reappearance in her life. The timing was suspect. The shoes, the interview with Wheaton. All of it. The pendulum was swinging back to the events of that terrible Christmas. What, if anything, did Hoffman want beyond the obvious, the all-important, exclusive interview for the update of the Logan case? How was it that she found her after all these years? Marcella Fucking Hoffman. Her features were chalk.

“I’ll be fine,” she said once more, steadying herself against the corner by the doorway. “I’m working a child abuse/murder case and it looks like Mom tried to kill herself.”

“She a witness, key to the case?”

Hannah shrugged. “I’m not sure. We’re still sorting it out.”

Bauer backed off. He knew there would be time to talk later. They’d have to talk to decompress. Whether her pallid complexion had more to do with her phone call about her dead baby case or the business at hand with Wheaton, he couldn’t be certain. They started down the corridor to the interrogation room. He searched his mind for some words to ease the transition back to what they were about to continue, when the door swung open and the one-eyed blob appeared in his seat behind the table.

“Wheaton, this is all very interesting, but you’re twenty years too late to ‘not confess’ again. So you had nothing to do with the murders. We know. We’ve heard that before. I appreciate what you’ve said about Serena, and I’m sure her mother would like to lay her memory to rest. It has been difficult for the family.”

“Difficult?” Wheaton turned away and looked at Hannah. “You have no goddamn idea. Try serving twenty years for torching someplace, while the real bad guy, in this case a woman, gets off scot-free.”

Wheaton could have told Hannah and Bauer to get the hell out of Cutter’s Landing. This was his prison. But he didn’t. He elected to continue.

“Your mother is alive. I’m sure of it,” he said, still focused on Hannah sitting across from him.

Hannah felt the air sucked from her lungs, but she managed a response.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“Yes, I’m afraid she is,” Wheaton said. He stared at Hannah, sizing her and tracing the lines of her face to see what reminded him of Claire. He thought her nose was very similar, even the shape of her eyebrows.

Bauer stepped in. “Where?”

“First I’ll tell you how, then why and where. I’m absolutely certain of the why and the how, but the where is something you might have to do some actual work on.”

Wheaton went on to restate how much he loved Claire, how he’d have done anything for her.

“Claire wanted me to pick her up at the five-way. But she didn’t come. I waited. Five minutes turned into ten, ten to twenty. I could hear the sirens and see the glow of the inferno more than a mile away. I didn’t see any footprints in the snow on the roadside. I thought something was wrong.”

Wheaton took a drink, gulping loudly, before continuing.

“I mean, this was planned to the minute. I panicked and got back behind the wheel. When I pulled forward to find her, I ran over something and I felt it pierce the tire.”

He said he got out and found a two-by-four with a row of nails running down the center like the spine of a dragon. He’d punctured only one tire, and that could be changed.

The recollection brought an odd look to Wheaton’s doughy face. Hannah couldn’t make out his affect, though she wanted to desperately. Was it regret? Anger? The prisoner’s good eye blinked rapidly. “She set me up. I didn’t want to believe it.” Wheaton looked down at the table again, searching for the words. “And I didn’t for a long time. We had plans. She loved me. It sounds so pathetic, I know. Anyway, the cops came as I was fixing the tire and wondering how in the hell I was going to get out of there.”

If Wheaton had hoped his story would bring sympathy from either Bauer or Hannah, he was mistaken. Maybe if he had said so a little earlier? Maybe if he had said so when it mattered? Wheaton fidgeted with the clear cord of his portable oxygen tank.

“I’ve had twenty fucking years to think about how stupid a man can be for the love of a woman. A fat man. A man with one eye. I mean, who was going to want me?”

As Hannah saw it, Wheaton’s words were in defense of why he had stuck by the woman for so long.

“Where is she?” Hannah asked. “Where did she go?”

“Alaska,” he answered. “Kodiak. If I know anything about your mother, she’s up there. Running a fishing lodge on the southern end of the island. It was her dream. Rock Point wasn’t remote enough. And God knew she had the money. Claire didn’t want…” he stopped for a moment. “She didn’t want nothing to hold her back. Not you or your brothers. And I guess, I mean, now I know, not even me.”

Hannah had another question. There was one victim she had always wondered about.

“My father,” she said. “Do you know? Was it an accident?”

“You know the answer,” Wheaton answered, his voice low and tired. “You’ve probably known it all along.” He paused, once more evaluating what he’d say. He started wheezing and coughing, a fit that lasted almost a minute. But Wheaton waved his big, meaty hands, indicating he’d continue. “Your dad was in the way. Your dad was a roadblock to your mom’s desires. I think we all were. I mean I think she loved us for what she could get from us… and when we were used up, she didn’t give a flying fuck.”

There didn’t seem to be anything more to say. Even so, Marcus Wheaton cleared the phlegm from his throat and spoke one more time.

“You know, Hannah. When I tell you you’re nothing like your mother, I mean it.”

Hannah muttered thanks, but nothing more.

She and Bauer walked almost in complete silence after saying good-bye to Madsen and leaving their best wishes for the warden. So frazzled by what she’d heard, Hannah almost forgot she’d left her purse—and car keys—in the visiting checkpoint. They walked to their cars. Dust swirled from exiting parents and wives, smudged windows catching the sun, low in the sky.

“Hannah,” Bauer said, “I almost said, ‘a penny for your thoughts’ but you know that sounds so stupid… I want to know what you’re thinking.”

“I hate her,” was all she could come up with. “I’m going home.”

Bauer looked puzzled. “What did you expect?”

“I guess I hoped that he’d say she was dead. That, in fact, she was Twenty.” Hannah inserted her key into the lock and opened her car door.

“Maybe he’s lying. He’s got plenty of reasons to put the blame on her.”

She stared at Bauer and shook her head. “He loved her. He’s bitter. I guess he’s a lot like me.”

“That’s funny,” Bauer said, and, looking at her, amended his words with, “as in strange funny.”

Hannah let out an irritated sigh. “What’s that?”

“Wheaton says you’re nothing like your mother… and you think you’re more like him, huh?”

Hannah shrugged. “I guess so. I’d rather not be like either one of them, if it’s all the same to you.”

Ethan Griffin was not, as he liked to say, “a happy camper.” Still in his police uniform, Hannah’s husband’s blocky physique occupied the space like an over-heated Kenmore as he stood in the kitchen in their home on Loma Linda Avenue. A mad Kenmore. He turned his head from Amber, who was busy moving her broccoli and a somewhat gray noodle casserole around her plate, and stepped away from the table. He held the phone firmly enough to break it in two. Hannah was on the line and she was about to get an earful, and as far as he could see, she deserved it. Freak-show mother or not.

“You left without saying much more than a word, and now you’re not coming home,” he said, doing his best to keep somewhat calm while his wife went off with some hot-shit FBI ghostbuster. “This is just perfect,” he snapped, the sarcasm giving him some relief from his anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with. And that idiot Ted Ripperton keeps calling looking for you. I’ve told him that you went to see a friend in the Bay Area.”

“Thanks. I’ve already talked to him. He’s been paging me all day.”

“Amber and I want you home.” Ethan softened when he saw that Amber was listening. “I’m worried about you.” Ethan threw their daughter’s name into his plea, knowing that a child’s heart carries more weight than a husband’s. In reality, he was more lonely and tired than angry.

“It’s just for one more night,” Hannah said, ignoring Ethan’s brewing anger because there was no time to talk it out. “I’m not happy about it either,” she said. “I’m going to stay in Cutter’s Landing tonight, and I’ll be home sometime late tomorrow. If I could leave right now, I’d do it. Believe me, I want out of here.”

Ethan sighed, letting out an over-the-top noise that sounded like a leaking truck tire. The sound meant he loved her, but hated the situation. “I’ll put your daughter on,” Ethan’s voice regained its characteristic understanding tone. He knew his anger had more to do with worry about her than any personal inconvenience.

Amber took the receiver and cooed into the phone. “Hi, Mommy!”

“Hello, darling. I miss you.” Hannah realized that her words sounded flat, and she told herself keep the mood lighter.

“Miss you, too. Got a hundred on my spelling test,” the little girl said, oblivious to her mother’s somber tone. “I got extra credit, too.”

“That’s wonderful. I knew you could do it.”

“I know. Daddy cooked tonight. I mean you cooked and Daddy reheated in the micro.”

Hannah brightened for the first time during the conversation. “Good, I hope.”

“I might have seconds,” Amber lied. A lie she knew she could get away with because her mother wasn’t much of a cook and her father loved both of them so much that he would never spill the beans.

“Honey, I’ll be home tomorrow. Give Daddy a big sloppy kiss for me.”

Amber laughed. “Okay. Bye.”

Ethan got his kiss and picked up the phone.

“This is very bad,” Hannah said. Her voice broke a little. “This is very hard.”

Seeing the exchange between mother and daughter, the sweetness of the little girl’s lie, calmed him somewhat. “Are you all right? Sorry about being a jerk just now.”

“I am, in fact, frightened as hell. I wish to God you were here. There is so much that needs sorting out.”

Ethan was tense, but he didn’t want to scare her anymore. She was hanging by a thread, and he knew it. “Can I help now, babe?” he asked. He pulled up a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. Amber continued to pick at her food. He’d heard worry in his wife’s voice before, but not connected with anything associated with herself. Not directly. Nothing personal. When anxiety crept into Hannah’s voice, it almost certainly was over a heavy caseload or the result of a desperate search for phantom evidence at the rebuttal phase or some other key point in a trial to prove a witness is lying.

“I don’t know,” she said, wanting to present what she had learned in that visiting room in a way that wouldn’t worry Ethan. Instead, she just blurted it out.

“Wheaton says my mother is alive. And Marcella Hoffman is nosing around the lab asking questions and making a nuisance of herself. That’s why Ripp was calling so much. She wants an interview. She’s got some pretext about women investigators, and thank God, Ripp is too dense to figure anything out.”

Ethan went blank. The name didn’t quite track. “Who’s Marcella Hoffman?”

Silence fell for a second. “Twenty in a Row.”

“Oh, that Marcella Hoffman.” When recognition came, the name jolted like a radio in a bathtub. Ethan had read the book before he met Hannah. He saw the TV movie. “You’re right,” he said, his adrenaline pumping. “This isn’t good.”

“Wheaton says my mother is alive. Thinks she’s up in Alaska somewhere. And you don’t react to that?”

There was a short silence on the line.

“No. Hannah,” Ethan finally said, “I didn’t react because I’ve always thought she was out there somewhere. I’ve always believed your mother got away with murder.”

And for that I could kill her with my bare hands, he thought, although he wisely didn’t say the words.

“I don’t know what to think,” Hannah said, her voice growing very quiet. “I need some time.”

Across the Cascades in Spruce County where it all began, Veronica Paine felt her stomach flutter and her blood pressure rise. She paced over sumptuous Oriental rugs that she and her husband had collected over the years. She looked out the window at her garden. She turned on the TV. But nothing could distract her from her own thoughts. It had been long enough. She realized it when she replayed the obvious anguish in Hannah Griffin’s voice. Certainly, Hannah presented a brave face, but for what? What had seemed like a good idea, the right idea… the sanctity of the law, long ago, no longer felt as right to the former prosecutor and judge. She snuffed out a cigarette, let out the cat, and set the intruder alarm that her husband insisted they get the month before he died. Opening the front door was like a blast from a heater. No jacket was needed. She got into her red Chevy Blazer and started driving, heading in the direction of the Spruce County Courthouse.

She didn’t know it, but a driver in a late-model car slipped behind her Blazer, staying just out of view.