The shard of redemption, p.12
The Shard of Redemption, page 12
Then silence.
Rain tapped at the windows. Sloane’s crowd shifted, whispering to their phones.
Mrs. Wallace turned to Neil and placed her hand on top of his.
What can I say? He thought. We were friends once, but then he screwed up and set Emily’s killer free? That I didn’t speak to him for years? He looked at Mrs. Wallace’s eyes, asking him to say something kind about her son. Jesus help me. He touched her shoulder, light, steady. She sobbed and nodded.
Sloane Everly was about to rise when Neil stood.
The room waited.
Sloane Everly frowned but gave a subtle hand signal to her entourage—film this. A dozen phones lit up like votives. The cult of content was hungry.
Neil cleared his throat. No microphone needed.
“I didn’t plan to speak. But Mrs. Wallace asked.”
Neil scanned the room. By the door, Hayes stood like a stone pillar, Stetson in hand, face unreadable. Upton sat with his arms folded in the back row. The families of victims sat stoic.
The murmurs subsided, leaving a hush in their wake. Neil remained silent, then said in a soft tone, “John Wallace.”
They leaned forward, their eyes glued to Neil, paying close attention.
“I’m the only one left here who really knew John Wallace.”
Neil stood Marine straight, with a theatrical tilt of the head. Left hand slid into his pocket. A lock of ginger-gray hair dropped across his brow just enough to give the cameras something to fall in love with. But the spotlight wasn’t his.
If they want a pose, a line, a viral moment … I’ll give it to them. But it will be for John.
He turned briefly toward the easel, looking at the black-and-white photo of Wallace, young, serious, full of potential. Then back to the crowd.
“John and I met at the academy. Two rookies, running drills, getting smoked in the yard. He was the best of us.”
Neil’s gaze fell on Mrs. Wallace. He gave her a reassuring smile.
“When I reported corruption in the department, it cost men their jobs. John stood by me when no one else did.”
He turned his eyes to the back of the room, to Hayes, Upton, and a well-dressed stranger in a tailored black suit and wool overcoat. White hair, dark glasses. He held his gloves casually in one hand. He had the look of an audience member, sitting back enjoying a play.
Neil paused. His gaze went inward, and then he shook his head.
“We were friends a long time. Until we weren’t.”
A ripple moved through the room.
“John fumbled evidence. My fiancée’s killer walked. That broke us. I thought it was betrayal. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.”
Neil’s voice dropped lower, steady and unmistakably cold.
“I look around this room. A handful of victims’ families, a few old friends, some good cops. Strangers. And the phones. The cameras. The podcasters. The ones looking for sound bites.” His eyes locked on Sloane Everly. And then, with a voice like gravel wrapped in velvet, he growled, “Let me give you one.”
He let his pause stretch. Sloane shifted in her chair. Just a hair. But her mouth twisted, tight, twitching at the corner, as if she’d tasted something bitter.
“John Wallace deserves better than this. Better than clickbait. Better than gossip. He was a cop, a friend, a fighter. And he didn’t take his own life.”
Phones lifted like weapons. Light bathed his face.
“John Wallace was murdered.”
Gasps. A chair creaked. Mrs. Wallace’s fingers curled around the edge of her coat like she needed something to hold.
Neil locked eyes with Hayes.
“And we will bring his killer to justice.”
The room flashed with light: screens, lenses, the small electric chaos of documentation. Sloane’s followers stared, rapt, not just recording, but blushing. One whispered, “Oh my god, he’s hot,” loud enough for Sloane to hear.
Her jaw tightened. She knew it, too. Neil had stolen the moment. Her moment.
Neil returned to his seat, glancing back at the man who’d been sitting in the back row.
He wasn’t there.
Mrs. Wallace’s hand found his. No words. Just a gentle squeeze of gratitude.
The celebrant murmured a closing prayer, and recorded music began to play a low, mournful piece … piano, strings, nothing fancy.
The room stayed still, except for the clatter of high heels charging outside following Sloane Everly.
When the last note faded, Neil pulled out his phone and tapped a text. Mrs. Wallace turned to him.
“Neil … Will you carry him?”
Neil paused, then nodded.
The urn was simple: dark wood, brass plate, nothing flashy. He lifted it with both hands, surprised to find how light it was.
Sloane’s followers caught the shot, but Neil didn’t look their way.
Upton stopped to press Mrs. Wallace’s hand, a polished condolence, eyes flicking once to the cameras. Ever the politician.
“Neil.”
Dr. Chen threaded through the crowd, coat damp at the shoulders, eyes locked on him. He reached Neil just as the last note of music faded into the rain.
“You’re late,” said Neil.
“I did a follow-up search,” Dr. Chen murmured, voice low. “For Emily Granger’s death certificate.”
Neil’s jaw tightened. “And?”
“There isn’t one.”
Neil’s fingers stiffened around the urn. “But there was a copy in the file I gave you.”
“I know.” Dr. Chen’s brow furrowed. “It’s a forgery. I searched death records from the same date range. One stood out. Cause of death matched the autopsy conclusion on Emily Granger.”
Neil’s throat felt tight. “The name?”
“Laura Jones.”
For a moment, Neil didn’t move.
Laura Jones.
Mrs. Wallace slipped her hand into the crook of Neil’s arm. He guided her toward the main door. Dr. Chen offered his condolences, then crossed to Hayes and Upton, relaying his information. Hayes stayed stone-faced, but Upton shifted, a sharp intake of breath, a flicker across his eyes he didn’t quite mask.
Hayes stepped toward them, hat in hand.
“Mrs. Wallace,” he said gently. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She was about to murmur a thank-you when she realized who he was. Her face became tense, and she gripped Neil’s arm.
“You’re the one trying to tear his name down,” she said, voice sharp, eyes defiant. “How dare you show your face here.”
Hayes took it. Didn’t flinch. Just gave a slow, steady nod.
She turned to Neil. “I want to go.”
The funeral home had sent a car, but when Neil offered his Uber, she accepted.
“I don’t want to ride alone,” she said, “and I need your help.” She paused. “The pictures. I forgot the pictures.”
Winston was waiting at the curb and opened the passenger’s door. Neil sent him inside to collect the pictures. Winston hurried back, the pictures wrapped in his jacket to protect them from the rain. He was slipping them into the trunk when Sloane Everly cut through the crowd. She wrapped Mrs. Wallace in a hug … a long one.
“I miss John so much,” she sobbed. Camera perfect. Behind her, the crowd lifted their phones, a glow of screens flickering like lighters during the last song at a concert.
Mrs. Wallace pulled away. “Liar,” she whispered. Neil steadied her as she eased into the car and placed the urn into her hands.
Then he turned.
“Sloane,” he said. “Why did you desert John?”
She blinked. A flicker of something.
“I didn’t. He broke up with me.” Her voice caught. “He didn’t explain. I don’t understand why.” A tear slid down her cheek, real or not, didn’t matter.
Neil shook his head, stepped back. “What I don’t understand … is why he didn’t do it sooner.”
Sloane’s face froze. For half a second, she forgot the phones. Then she took a step back, her high heel catching in a crack in the sidewalk.
There was a sharp intake of breath from the crowd as she stumbled, arms flailing, landing hard on the wet pavement. Phones shot up, a wave of glowing screens capturing every second like they were filming an encore.
Neil got in the car. The Uber pulled away.
A dozen phones caught the putdown and the fall and posted it to the world before the car cleared the parking lot.
“Where are we heading, Mr. Ames?” Winston asked.
“What hotel are you staying at?” Neil asked Mrs. Wallace.
“I don’t want to go to my hotel yet,” she said. “I want to go to Johnny’s condo. I’ve the address written down.”
She took a slip of paper and handed it to Neil, who handed it to Winston.
“You said you needed help,” said Neil. “What do you need?”
Mrs. Wallace hung her head. “Johnny still has three months left on the lease, and they want me to pay it. I don’t have the money, so I have to move everything out, and I … haven’t had the courage to go. Would you take me there? I hate to impose …”
“It’s not an imposition at all, ma’am,” said Winston. “I’ll get you there safe and sound, and in no time at all.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Neil’s face. “Sorry, Mr. Ames. I spoke before …” He frowned and double-checked the rearview mirror. And then he did it again. His knuckles turned white against the steering wheel. “I think we’ve got company, Mr. Ames. There’s a cop vehicle following us.”
Neil didn’t need to look back. Hayes.
Chapter 19
The vehicles pulled into the condo parking lot. Hayes parked under the streetlamp and approached, wearing his Stetson, collar turned up, hands tucked in his coat pockets, his boots crunching on the wet pavement. Neil rolled down the window. Hayes leaned in.
“I won’t defend the past, ma’am,” he said. “But I’ll guarantee this: I’ll bring your son’s killer to justice.”
Mrs. Wallace turned, her eyes searching Neil’s face. He nodded.
“We're going into Wallace’s condo,” Neil said.
“Hold up,” said Hayes. He walked back to his truck.
Mrs. Wallace clutched her son’s ashes.
“Should I take him in with me?” she asked Neil.
“He should probably stay here,” Neil replied gently.
“I’ll take care of him, Missus,” said Winston. “You can let him sit there on the backseat. I’ll be his driver and we’ll be sitting here waiting on you.”
Hayes came back with an evidence pouch and gloves. When they approached the door, Hayes slipped on a pair of gloves, then offered a pair to Neil, who took them and tugged them on. Hayes turned to Mrs. Wallace, holding out a pair. She shook her head.
“No,” she murmured. “I need to feel where my son lived.”
Hayes gave a small nod, slipping the gloves back into his pocket.
The faint smell of spoiled food hung in the condo. No farewell note on the counter. No cleared closets, no bare shelves. Clothes slumped in the hamper, groceries wilting in the fridge, a half-read book on the nightstand.
They moved through the condo with purpose. Hayes surveyed the entire space.
Neil stayed in the living room, focusing on the desk: the ball-point pen, the mouse, and the faded mark where a warm mug had been. But no laptop. The mouse pad didn’t lie flat. He eased up the edge and slid out a folded note. He opened it. No name. No number. Only when and where.
Meet me. The Low Side. Midnight.
“The Low Side,” he muttered. “Christ, Wallace.”
Neil snapped a photo with his phone, then folded the note and put it back into its original position under the mouse pad.
Mrs. Wallace moved through the room as if it were a shrine. She reached for a photo album on the shelf, fingers trembling as she turned the pages.
Neil stepped behind her, watching over her shoulder. There they were, Neil and Wallace, two academy rookies, sunburned, grinning like fools. And next to it, a shot of the three of them: him, John, and Cindy. Her daughter. Gone. Taken by a speeding car that didn’t stop. And now John was gone, too.
“Ames.” Hayes’s voice came from the kitchen. “You’ll want to see this.”
Neil entered the kitchen. Hayes was by the counter, taking a shot of a takeout menu. Neil stepped closer. A phone number was scrawled on the menu, above it the name Rucker.
“Odd that name keeps popping up,” said Neil. He nodded toward the living room. “I’ve got something to show you.”
Hayes followed him.
“There’s no laptop or tablet, and under the mouse pad, there’s this.” Neil pointed out the corner of paper under the mouse pad.
Hayes read the note, let out a small grunt, and asked, “So, you’ve read this, then? The Low Side. You know this place?”
Neil nodded. “You could call it a bar. Cheap whisky. Stripped down to the bone. The kind of place where you sit in the shadows and no one’s listening. It’s in Marysville. North of Everett.”
Hayes photographed the note, then slid it and the takeout menu into separate paper evidence bags, sealing them with tape. He pulled out his phone, headed to the kitchen, and called for a search warrant and forensics team.
“Oh,” Mrs. Wallace exclaimed as the heavy photo album slipped from her trembling hands, and she slumped onto the couch.
Neil sat beside her. “I’ll take care of it,” he said, already gathering the loose pages. His fingers paused on a folder. The label, faint but unmistakable: Laura Jones.
That name. The victim with the wrong name.
Neil glanced toward the kitchen. Hayes was still on the phone, voice low, back turned.
He opened the file. Inside, copies of reports, old photos, notes in a hand he knew well. Wallace had been digging. The margins were lined with scribbles: some angry, some underlined.
A single phrase penned in thick slanted ink dominated the top of the printed autopsy form: I was duped.
Neil snapped photos of each page. Then he closed the file and made a decision: Hayes should go after the person who murdered a cop. I have someone else to find.
“Is that important?” Mrs. Wallace asked.
Neil nodded. “A case that was never solved,” he said. “I’m going to give this to Detective Hayes.”
“We have a search warrant, and the forensics unit is on its way,” said Hayes as he stepped out of the kitchen. “Ma’am, it will be a few days before you can clear out this space.”
A look of alarm crossed her face. “But the management said I have to move everything out before the end of the month.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Hayes. “It’s a police investigation, and they have to give you more time.”
“I’ll hire a company,” said Neil. “They’ll pack it up and get it into storage. You’ll just have to supervise. You won’t have to worry.”
Her mouth trembled. “Thank you, Neil.”
He dropped his head and looked away.
This I can do for John Wallace: box up the life he left behind and step back. Hayes has the badge. He knows he has a dirty cop. A cop who is likely involved with John’s murder. This is his case now.
He handed the file to Hayes. “I found this in the photo album.”
Hayes opened the file. He flipped through the pages, and then his eyes lifted to Neil. A silent exchange of understanding between them.
Neil helped Mrs. Wallace rise from the couch. She clutched the photo album to her chest.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the album needs to stay here,” said Hayes.
She squeezed the album closer, then released it to Neil, who set it on the coffee table.
“Let’s go to the car,” he said softly, and she nodded.
Winston was waiting, the engine idling, headlights cutting pale beams through the sharp rain and wind whipping off the water. He leaped from his car, opening the door.
Neil helped Mrs. Wallace into the car, then turned and pressed two folded bills into Winston’s hand, a two-hundred-dollar tip on top of the fare.
“Get her to the hotel,” Neil murmured. “Drive careful.”
“Like she’s my own mother,” said Winston. “Quite the day, Mr. Ames.”
“Indeed,” said Neil. He shut the door and watched the car pull away, taillights smearing red across the wet street.
Footsteps approached him, and Hayes fell in beside Neil.
“I’ll admit, Ames, you play a lot nicer than folks led me to believe. That ain’t the reputation that usually walks in with you.”
Neil gave a small, dry smile. “I know.”
Hayes squinted against the wind. “Dr. Chen sure kicked over a hornet’s nest today. And that file you just handed me poured accelerant on it.”
Neil grunted, his eyes on the dark street.
“Wallace was probably in on it,” Hayes said.
“If he was, it was for a good reason,” Neil murmured.
Hayes drew in a slow breath. “You know your fiancée just became a murder suspect.”
Neil turned up his collar and tilted his face to the streetlight, rain streaking down his face.
The forensics unit pulled into the parking lot.
“Need a lift, Ames?” Hayes asked.
Neil shook his head. Rain slipped down his collar. “No.”
Hayes gave a small nod, a cop’s nod, all weight, no waste.
“Stay sharp, Ames.”
Neil tipped his chin, eyes flicking to Hayes, then back to the night. “You too, Captain.”
Neil watched Hayes head to the forensics truck.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked into the rain toward the nearest bus stop.
Neil stepped into the apartment, peeling off his wet coat. His phone pinged. He slipped off his wet shoes, grabbed a towel and blotted his hair before dropping into the overstuffed chair. More pings occurred in rapid succession. For a moment, he just breathed. Then he clicked on the text.
OCTAVIA
I told you not to start a war.
Viral social media captions and hashtags cascaded down the screen:
Freeze-frame of Sloane mid-fall, arms flailing, heels flying.
From queen of true crime to queen of the sidewalk.
