CHAPTER
NINETEEN
The call from Marta, Brenna's roommate, came that evening as Parker drove to her mother's. "Parker, I need to talk to you."
Surprised to hear from the girl, Parker said, "Well, sure. What about?"
"About Brenna. Can I meet you somewhere?"
Fatigue clawed at her bones. She didn't really want to make a pit stop for a chat with the grieving roommate, especially after Gibson had warned her to stay away from Brenna's friends. "What about Brenna?"
"I have some information about her murder."
Parker caught her breath. "Shouldn't you be calling the police instead of me?"
"Your brother's working on the case, right?"
"Yes. I could call him. He could meet you."
"I'll meet with him as long as you're there. I just want this kept quiet. I'm afraid if word gets out I went to the police, I'll be next. I'm really nervous."
Parker had no idea why the girl would trust her when she hardly knew her. "Okay. Where do you want to meet?"
"Can you come to the downtown library? There's a writer's room on the second floor. I'll be in there. Just ask someone where that room is. It's quiet and private, and we can talk there. Can you be there in half an hour?"
"Okay. I'll try to catch Gibson and get him there."
She pulled into a parking lot and called her brother. He agreed to meet her there. Half an hour later, she met him on the front steps of the Nashville Library, and they went upstairs and found the writer's room.
Parker pushed the door open. Marta was sitting at the end of a small conference table, her laptop in front of her. Her hair wasn't quite as spiked today. It lay down on her head like any other short haircut, the black a stark contrast to her pale face.
Marta got to her feet as they came in. Parker hugged her.
"Thanks for coming." Marta's hands were trembling.
They all sat. "Parker said you had information on the murder," Gibson said.
"Yes." She closed her laptop and swallowed hard. "But I need your promise that you'll keep my name out of it."
Gibson leaned up on the table, a frown cutting his forehead. "I'll do my best."
"No, I need a promise. I'm not telling you any of this unless you swear."
"Marta, if you have information that would lead us to Brenna's killer," he said, "then you need to tell us. I'll leave your name out of it as long as I can."
"Why can't you promise?"
"Because sometimes I have to lay things out on the table in order to get search and arrest warrants. But if your information leads to an arrest, then you won't have to be afraid."
"I'm just afraid that it'll get out and then he won't get arrested. Or someone will bail him out and he'll come after me."
Parker's chest tightened. Did Marta know who the killer was?
"Marta, do you feel safer knowing he's going to get away with it?" Gibson asked.
She covered her face then and groaned. "No." She looked at Parker over her fingertips. "Can I trust him?"
"Of course. Gibson won't let you down."
"Okay." She sighed and kept her hands clasped in front of her face. "I was at Chase's house today, just hanging out with him. He's still acting all upset about Brenna, crying all the time ..."
"Acting?" Parker asked.
"Yeah, acting. See, I thought it was real. I felt so sorry for him. I thought we were in the same boat, still in shock. I was in his kitchen, and I was going to make him some soup. He said he had some Campbell's, but I couldn't find it. Some people in Bruin Hills keep stuff on top of their cabinets since they don't have much cabinet space, so I got a chair and looked up there." She stopped and cleared her throat. "I saw a gun."
Parker stared at her.
"What kind of gun?" Gibson asked.
"A rifle. I'm not real familiar with them." Parker and Gibson exchanged looks.
"Could have been a hunting rifle," Gibson said. "Lots of guys have them."
"It was just weird that it was up there, like Chase was trying to hide it or something."
Parker leaned on the table. "Did you ask him about it?"
"No! It freaked me out. I didn't want to let him know I saw. I got out of there as fast as I could. I told him I'd go buy some soup and come back. That's when I called you."
Gibson's frown told Parker he was taking this seriously. He took out his notebook and began writing. "You did the right thing," he said.
"Does that mean he killed her?" Marta asked. "I don't want to believe that."
"Not necessarily. He has a roommate, doesn't he?"
"Sort of. Mike moved in with his girlfriend a couple of weeks ago. He kept the apartment so his parents wouldn't know, but I don't think he's even been there since then."
Parker frowned. "Didn't you say the reason Brenna couldn't study at Chase's that night was that Chase's roommate and girlfriend were there?"
Marta wiped her tears. "Yeah, that's what Brenna said. But apparently that wasn't true. Chase told me later that things weren't so good between him and Brenna. That they had a fight that day. That's the real reason she didn't want to study over there."
"What about the hole in his wall?" Parker asked. "You told me he did that when he found out about Brenna. How did you know that?"
"He told me. But people in his class are saying he already had a sprained hand earlier that night."
"Had he ever been violent with her?" Gibson asked.
She shrugged. "She never talked about physical violence, but he has a temper. I've seen him yell and cuss at her before. Throw his arms around, like he was going to hit her."
As Gibson questioned her a little more, Parker's mind drifted back to the guy she'd been so certain was demonstrating authentic signs of grief. Was he really a killer? Was it all an act? Maybe Gibson had been right--Chase wasn't to be trusted.
"So what are you going to do?" Marta asked as they stood.
"We'll have to search his place again. It's very important that you don't tip him off."
"Don't worry. I haven't told anybody. I called you as soon as it happened. I'll have to tell him why I didn't come back with the soup."
"Tell him something came up."
"Okay. He thinks I'm flaky, anyway."
Parker offered to walk her out to her car, but Marta insisted on staying behind and leaving alone, in case anyone she knew spotted her. As Parker returned to her car, she thought of that young man who'd seemed to be experiencing such sincere grief. Was he capable of murder? If he was, then she was a terrible judge of character.
As she got behind the wheel, she prayed a silent prayer for Marta'ssafety, and for Gibson's speed in getting a search warrant before Chase moved the gun.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Gibson and Rayzo surprised Chase at his apartment. He denied owning a gun of any kind. When they showed him their search warrant, he waited on the steps outside his second-floor apartment while they went in to search it. The tiny two-bedroom campus apartment had only a front room that would barely hold a couch and chair, and two tiny bedrooms with standard college-issued furniture. Twin beds, a desk, a small closet. The kitchen was barely big enough for two people to stand in, yet somehow he'd squeezed in a small table and two chairs.
There was an eight-inch gap between the top of the cabinets and the ceiling. Gibson moved the chair from the table to the counter and stood on it.
"There it is." Gibson took his camera out of his pocket and took a picture. "It's a 6mm. Same caliber as the murder weapon."
"Let's take him in for questioning while ballistics checks to see if it's the one," Rayzo said.
As Rayzo secured the gun, Gibson stepped out into the stairwell. Chase was still sitting on the steps. He looked up. "I told you there was nothing there. I didn't kill my girlfriend. I loved her."
"We need to take you to the department for questioning."
Chase's eyebrows drew together. "Should I call my parents?"
The question seemed innocen
t--naive--reminding Gibson that Chase was still a teenager who hadn't considered whether he needed a lawyer. Then again, lots of eighteen-year-olds were killers. Maybe Chase was just extra slick. "There'll be time to call them later."
"But why can't you question me here? I've been cooperative."
"We'll talk about it at the station."
Chase stood and took a step down, then looked back at his apartment. "Shouldn't we wait until your partner comes out so I can lock my door?"
"He'll lock up for you. Come on, pal."
Chase looked confused as he followed him out to the police car.
The gun's serial number had been scratched off, so its ownership couldn't be traced. But it wasn't registered to Chase. The DA reviewed the evidence and instructed Gibson and Rayzo to arrest him for possession of an illegal firearm. That would hold him until they had enough evidence to charge him with murder.
Gibson did the honors.
Parker took the news of Chase's arrest as a reprieve from the fear in which she'd been living. Though she couldn't shrug away the sadness that she'd had him so wrong, she did relish the idea of going home and sleeping through the night without worrying that someone was coming for her. Her little house felt safer.
So Brenna's death had been about a scorned boyfriend's wrath. What was the world coming to, that a man could claim to love someone, then end her life because he couldn't have her? The thought made her sick, and her fatigue made work seem impossible. She needed to lie in bed and watch mindless TV until she fell asleep. She needed to think about nothing for a while.
But time was running out, and she had a CD to record. When space became available in the studio, she would have to be ready. She met deadlines just fine when she was writing for Serene. Why couldn't she do it for herself?
So she went into her music room and tried to focus, intent on making some progress on finishing the songs for her own album tonight.
The phone shrilled at one a.m., startling Parker out of the nap she'd taken at her keyboard. She hadn't meant to fall asleep. She had just laid her head on her folded arms for a few minutes.
The phone rang again, and fear shivered through her. Praying it wasn't her anonymous caller, she searched for the phone under sheet music and print-outs of lyrics. Finally, she found it. "Hello?"
Her mother's voice sounded raspy, as if she'd been crying. "Parker?"
"What is it, Mom?"
"It's your father. I got a call that he was at the Gold Rush and that he's not himself. They want me to come and get him."
"Not himself" were code words for "drunk." Her mother could never bring herself to call it what it was--at least, not to her children. It was as if she still harbored hope that they wouldn't know if she didn't tell them.
"I don't know where that is. Do you?" her mom asked.
"On Elliston, across from Exit/In."
"I guess it's urgent. I don't want him to get arrested. I called Gibson, but he's not answering. LesPaul's in a session."
"I'll go with you."
"Good. I'm almost to your house now."
Parker hurried to the bathroom and brushed her teeth and hair. She heard her mother's car turning into her driveway as soon as she finished. She locked the door behind her and got into her mom's car. Her mother wasn't wearing makeup, as she usually did. "So what are we going to do with him once we find him?" Parker asked.
"I don't know. It depends on how bad it is."
"You should let him have it. Demand that he go back to rehab."
"How many rehabs will it take?" Lynn asked.
Parker knew the question was rhetorical.
She helped her mother find the small bar where live bands performed nightly. The parking lot was full of cars, and they could hear the music blaring even in their car.
"Well," Lynn said as she pulled into a spot. "Here goes nothing."
Parker followed her mother in and looked through the smoky crowd. Pete James stood near the stage, staggering as he argued with two bouncers, his arms flailing. It looked as if a fight was about to erupt. "There he is," she said over the noise. "We better hurry."
Lynn shot through the crowd, crossing the glutted dance floor, and made her way to her ex-husband. "Pete!" she shouted.
Pete's arms came down, and he turned and saw her. His face lit up. "The love of my life." He fell into her arms. "Ladeeez and genel-men, the love of my life."
Parker had to hand it to her mother. She didn't push him away or humiliate him in any way. She just held him for a moment, whispering something in his ear. He looked up then, and spotted Parker.
"My li'l girl. My precious Parker. She's not dead, y'all. It was a false alarm. She's right here."
That old familiar humiliation burned in Parker's cheeks. She was grateful that the band was still playing, so no one could hear. "Dad, we need to go. We came to get you."
He still clung to her mother, his weight almost pulling her down. Looking down at Lynn, he said, "You're beautiful, ya know that, baby? My beautiful little wife."
"Come on, darlin'," Lynn cajoled. "Let's get out of here."
He came without protest, steadying himself on her shoulder. Parker followed, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. As they reached the door, one of the bartenders stopped her.
"Sorry I had to call," he said. "He was harassing the musicians, demanding that they let him play with them. Crazy old guy."
Parker didn't like hearing her father referred to like that. "He's not crazy or old. And he's a better musician than those guys."
"Even drunk?"
"Even drunk." She pushed through the crowd of people at the door and caught up to her parents.
Lynn was coaxing him into her car.
"Where are you taking him?" Parker asked, getting into the back seat.
"Home."
He fell into the car and leaned his head back on the seat. "Whose home?" he said. "Mine or ours?"
Her father's yearning always put a lump in Parker's throat. After all these years, she still yearned for her parents to be back together, her family to be intact. Her mother had never given up on him entirely, even when he'd traded her in for a younger wife.
"I'm taking you to your house." Lynn got in and reached across him to buckle his seatbelt.
He caught her arm and nuzzled her face. "I'm sorry, Lynn. Sorry for ever'thing."
"I know you are."
"Sorry to you, too, Parks."
"It's okay, Dad."
"No, not okay. They used to know me. I used to matter."
"You still matter, Dad."
He put his big hand over his face, fingers splayed, and began to cry. "I'm such a loser."
"Stop that!" Lynn said. "You're not a loser, Pete." She started the car, pulled through the parking lot. "You're a child of the Most High God. You just don't realize it. You keep eating out of the garbage bin when you could be at the banquet."
He wiped the tears off his face. "Tha's why I love you. You always say things like that."
He was quiet for a moment as they drove through town, and Parker thought he'd finally drifted into an alcoholic sleep. How would they wake him to get him into his house? But after a moment, he spoke again.
"Don't take me to my place, Lynn. I wanna go home."
Lynn was quiet.
"Please, Lynn."
Parker almost hoped that her mother would say yes. But she was too strong for that.
"Sweetie, you know the deal. You get sober, stay sober, and we'll talk."
"But I can't do it without you."
Parker looked at her mother in the rearview mirror, saw the emotional struggle in her eyes. Tears glistened. "We've been all through this, darlin'."
"But it'll be different this time."
No, it wouldn't. It would never be different. Not until Pete surrendered his addictions, and let God do his work of deliverance in his heart and mind. Parker sat quietly, remembering all the times in her childhood when her mother had thrown them into the car in their pajamas and set out t
o find her drunken father. She had been rescuing him for years.
But her rescue missions had their limits.
"You'll be okay at your apartment, darlin'," she said in a tender voice. "I'll take you there and make sure you get in all right."
"Can I see you tomorrow?"
"If you're sober, come on by."
He was quiet then, and Parker wondered if he was trying to work out in his mind a plan for being sober. Could an inebriated mind really do that? Was there really any way apart from a work of God?
By the time they got to his house, Pete was snoring. Parker and her mother roused him enough to walk him into his apartment. Not for the first time she considered the blessing that it was on the first floor instead of the third. She looked around at the sad, sparse furnishings--a couch in the living room, a bed in the other room. Whatever good things he'd ever had, he'd sold for alcohol. He lived like a fifty-two-year-old frat boy.
Parker helped him off with his coat; then they sat him down on his bed. He fell back on the pillow, and Parker lifted his booted feet to the bed. She pulled off his boots, straightened his socks, then stepped back as Lynn covered him with a blanket. He was out cold--snoring like a chainsaw--before they could even say goodnight.
Parker stood back and watched her mother press a kiss on his cheek. Then she, too, kissed him. "Night, Dad," she whispered.
Her mother hurried out of the room, and when she stepped from the bedroom, Parker saw her rummaging through his cabinets. "What are you looking for?"
"Some aspirin. He's going to need them tomorrow." She found some and shook out two, then filled up a glass of water. She went back into the bedroom and set them on the crate he used as a nightstand.
They were both quiet as they got back into the car. They were halfway to Parker's house when she asked, "Mom, why didn't you let him come home?"
"Because he wouldn't leave. He'd dig back in."
"Into the house?"
"No. Into my heart." Her voice caught, and Parker saw her swallow. "I don't like leaving him alone like that. But my enabling him will lead to his death ... mine, too. If he wants home badly enough, then he'll get sober and stay sober."