The Fixer's Daughter Read online

  “You don’t argue with a burned man.”

  “I guess not. After Dad resigned, Gil installed an electronic system. But they stopped using it. I guess it would go off accidentally.” Callie could just imagine her father roaming the house at night in his bathrobe, tripping alarms and getting belligerent when the police showed up. “Now, of course, no system is gonna work, not until they get some doors and windows.”

  The guard – thirtyish, overweight, seemingly devoid of energy – glanced up then returned to his phone. Across the doorway were stretched two rows of yellow police tape. Beyond the tape, it wasn’t much more than a shell. The room where so many crucial meetings had taken place now looked small, square and cold. Callie tried to recall where everything had been – Buddy’s burlwood desk, his desktop computer, now a cube of twisted metal; the brown leather chairs; the Japanese folding screen; the tartan dog bed where Angus had spent so many sleepy hours. She tried not to think about that.

  The side of the room that seemed most damaged was the side with the oak bookshelves on top and the row of file cabinets underneath. In some spots, all that was left were lines of discoloration on the wall, dark gray on a darker background, like rectangles in a tic-tac-toe game, with burned rubble below. Gone was her father’s library – leather-bound volumes, collections of Texas history, forty-year-old best-sellers, the books she’d looked at all her life but had never opened. Gone were…

  “What do you think?” State was beside her at the tape, staring in. “Dad had this ancient PC, a decade old at least, that he never turned off. Maybe…”

  “Maybe. The marshal also mentioned accident or arson?” She phrased it as a question.

  “Well, Dad and Gil were in Gil’s part of the house. Angus was here, but I don’t see how he could have done it. Sarah was in the kitchen.”

  Callie focused on the tic-tac-toe wall. “Could anyone else have come in? Angus wasn’t the best guard dog.”

  “What?” State pulled his neck in, giving himself a momentary double-chin. “Who would want to burn down Buddy McFee’s house?”

  “Well, doesn’t it strike you as a little suspicious that the fire destroyed his files and melted his computer? Did he back up his stuff on the cloud?”

  State pondered the question. “That doesn’t sound like a Dad thing, trusting his files to some mysterious super-computer. What are you saying?”

  “I’m just putting it out there.”

  State made another double-chin. “Hold on. You’re saying someone sneaked in and torched his records? Why? Because of what was in them?”

  Callie shrugged. “Dad kept a lot of secrets.”

  “That’s right. He kept them. For decades. Never broke a promise or betrayed a confidence. Why do this now, after all these years?”

  Callie could have answered. Instead, she turned to face the burned-out entry hall. “Gil is under the impression this place is inhabitable.”

  “Maybe some parts, once they finish the inspection and get rid of the smell. That could be days or weeks.”

  “That may work for Gil. He’s not coming home anytime soon. Meanwhile, Dad’s going to be released.”

  “Oh.” State took a moment. “Well, he can’t stay with us. Yolanda’s not ready to deal with any more family.” He made a guilty face. “No offense. What about Dad’s friends? They’ve all got big houses.”

  “Staying with friends is always weird,” Callie said and left it at that.

  “What about the gatehouse?”

  “The gatehouse?” She hadn’t thought of this possibility. Various gardeners and handymen had lived there. She knew it to be a roomy two-bedroom but she’d never been inside. “Is it livable?”

  “Livable? It’s nicer than my house. Every time Mom got something new she gave them the old furniture, remember? You’re honestly saying you’ve lived here your whole life and never been in the gatehouse?”

  “It was someone else’s home. When were you in there?”

  “In high school. I used to pay George to let me use it for dates. Remember Maggie Weaver? I think she was in your class.”

  Callie recoiled. “Maggie Weaver? Really? Ew!”

  “What do you mean ‘ew’? You admired the hell out of her.”

  “Exactly.”

  State ignored the provocation. “Anyway, it’s got water, electricity, cable. The place probably needs a good cleaning, but until the main house is ready…”

  It wasn’t the worst idea. “Maybe.”

  State didn’t push her. “Did you happen to bring the book? Paget’s autographed book?”

  “Um, yeah. It’s in my truck.”

  “Good. Can I have it?” When she didn’t answer immediately… “You want this case solved?”

  “Remember what we agreed? That you would let me sit in on the interview?”

  “That’s not what I agreed. I agreed to keep you in the loop.”

  Callie shook her head. “That can mean so many things. Do you want the book or not?”

  “Do you want to be in the loop or not?”

  “Depends what the word loop means.”

  A pair of footsteps echoed in the hall. It was the fire marshal. “I’m afraid we’ve got some press,” he announced then led the way back out the gaping, black hole.

  The three of them stared at the news van, parked half on the gravel and half on the lawn. The two doors swung open and the side panels slid, disgorging a small team from KXAN – a cameraman, a tall blond guy in a fresh haircut and a nice suit, and Nicole Whitman. A fourth person, a technician, stayed in the back of the van. Callie felt a mixture of irritation and pride. At least it was her ex-station that was the first to show.

  When the camera pointed their way, State adjusted his tie and his expression – professional, concerned, yet welcoming of any legitimate inquiry. Nicole surveyed the scene, her eyes lighting up when she saw Callie. Callie knew what was going through her friend’s mind. This was going to be a twofer – a fire at the Buddy McFee ranch plus the public revelation of Callie McFee’s return to Austin. It was a piece of news that would have seemed intrusive and opportunistic on its own, but one that would dovetail perfectly with the fire at her childhood home.

  Nicole whispered something to the man with the fresh haircut as she handed him an earpiece. He nodded then inserted the earpiece. A microphone appeared in his hand, as if by magic. “Callie,” he called, still from a respectable distance. “Can we have a word with you, please?” He and the cameraman began their approach.

  Callie’s instinct was to turn and make a quick, dignified retreat. But she knew how that would look on camera, avoiding a news team from the same station where she’d once worked. So, she adjusted her own expression – professional, concerned, yet welcoming of any legitimate inquiry – and prepared herself for whatever hell was about to come her way.

  CHAPTER 19

  By four o’clock, she was in Oliver’s office, door closed, unwrapping a Chick-fil-A grilled sandwich she’d picked up at a drive-thru. “Sorry,” she said. “With all that’s going on, I didn’t get a chance.” Then she buried her face in the wrapper.

  “I understand.” He twitched his nose uncomfortably. Callie saw it out of the corner of her eye and wondered if he might be a vegetarian.

  On her drive in, she had put Oliver on speaker and filled him in on her day, from the autographed book to the fire, to her interview with the neatly coifed reporter. Oliver expressed his condolences and concerns at all the right spots. That’s the kind of person he was.

  “So, the fire department thinks it was arson?” he said, twitching his nose again.

  “They’re investigating,” Callie mumbled between bites. Why had she even brought it up?

  “Who would want to burn down your house?”

  “You’re right. I’m sure it was an accident,” she said, hoping to close the subject. “Meanwhile… Meanwhile, we have an article to write. Right?”

  “Right.” Oliver pushed his forearms off his knees and turned back to his desk,
rapping the desktop in a little drum roll. “We’ve got ourselves a new series,” he announced with a flourish. “One in which we can’t mention Keagan Blackburn’s name. ‘A Death in Westlake’. Working title.”

  “It’s good.” Callie nodded and wiped her mouth. “As far as layout goes, obviously we start with the murder – who Briana Crawley was and why people should care.”

  “Do we mention the sugar aspect?”

  She’d given this some thought. “Not in the first installment. It would take away public sympathy. Also, I promised her mother I would do it only if absolutely necessary.”

  “If any other paper investigates, they’re going to find out. Don’t you want to control the narrative?”

  “Not in the first installment,” she insisted. “I promised.”

  “Okay, we’ll do it your way,” he agreed. “So, first article. What have we got?”

  Callie cleared her throat. “A powerful, unnamed man, Mister X – we can think of a better name – was discovered by a state trooper trying to bury the body of a raped and murdered girl. Someone in law enforcement made the arrest disappear, so we can’t reveal Mr. X’s identity, for fear of being sued. But X suddenly has an alibi. And…” She raised an index finger. “And the only person who can corroborate our story, Trooper Josiah Jackson, was given an unscheduled leave the very next day to an undisclosed location.”

  “Wow.” Oliver scrunched up his mouth, accentuating his stubble. “Laying it right out there.”

  “It’s all true. And we’re not libeling anyone.”

  Oliver’s mouth stayed scrunched. “Readers will want to know more. Who is X? Who is covering for X? Who is our source?”

  “They’ll be dying to know. But we can’t say. And it’s not like we’re teasing them, not intentionally.” She could feel his hesitancy and resented it. Why did she have to be the macho one? “I thought you were on board.”

  “I was. I mean, I am.” Oliver steepled his fingers. “A lot of our information comes from your brother, our reliable source.”

  “Not all. Some we unearthed ourselves.”

  “Enough came from him. Is there going to be trouble?”

  “We never mention State’s name. It’ll be fine.”

  Oliver’s steeple collapsed into a prayer. “Callie, come on. He’s the detective working the case. His sister’s name is on the byline. How does that look? He can get into real trouble.”

  “State can handle himself. He can deny it.”

  “Then he’d be lying.” Oliver shook his head. “I don’t want to be the one responsible for your family getting screwed up again.”

  Callie didn’t need reminding. Every time she’d played the sister card with State, coaxing and teasing him for more information, promising to keep things off the record, this had been in the back of her mind. “Okay. What if we take my name off the byline? Would that work?”

  He thought it over. “Your name’s still on the masthead.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She smiled. “You never added my name to the masthead. I was vain enough to check.”

  “Damn.” Oliver smacked his desk. “I told Chuck to add it, I really did. I’m so sorry.”

  “No reason to be.”

  “And I meant to officially welcome you, too. In my Notes From the Editor.”

  “All perfectly fine.”

  “I got sidetracked by the charter school series. I’m so sorry.”

  “No, it’s perfect. Just keep my name out of the paper and we’re fine.”

  He thought for a second. “Yeah, but people know you’re working here.”

  “Not many. And if my name’s not in print, no one will make the connection.” She reached out to touch his arm, a gesture she’d seen her father use. “Oliver, we need this. It’ll get the whole town talking. And maybe bring Blackburn to justice.”

  “There are safer ways. More ethical ways.”

  “How?” she asked and removed her hand.

  “Well…” Oliver avoided making eye contact. “We tone it down. Make it one article instead of a series. We don’t use our source and only print things we know independently. And if State’s information led to other information, we can’t use that either. Ethically.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Callie asked. “What’s left? Are we just going to let someone get away with murder?”

  “Hey. We’re reporters, not the police. You said yourself that State’s a good cop. Let him do his job. If he tells you stuff on the record, then we’ll use it.”

  “Or…” And here she also avoided eye contact. “Or we take my name off the byline and the masthead, and we get a big story. Pulitzer Prize big.”

  In his pause, she could sense him starting to come around. “I don’t know. You’d be willing to take your name off? Really?”

  “If it gets her story out there.” She stepped up to his desk and extended her hand, hoping it wasn’t still greasy from the Chick-fil-A. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Deal, I guess,” he said, and they shook.

  “But if it goes all the way and you get a Pulitzer, my name goes back on.”

  “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Should the slightly plumper pillow go on top or underneath the slightly firmer pillow? That’s the question she focuses on now, adjusting her head side to side and up and down, testing it.

  Okay. Try it the other way, she thinks, sitting halfway up and reaching behind her head to switch pillows. That’s better. Softer one on top, tucked under at the sides. Why can’t she ever remember? How many years has she been sleeping and she can’t remember? Why is it so difficult? The whole thing has become more an art than a science, depending on how much she tucks the top pillow or which direction the pillowcase is facing, which sounds silly, but it’s not, because the open end of a pillow case plumps up differently from the closed end.

  Bed firmness plays a role, too. It’s all about neck support and how the face rests in the pillow. She needs to make herself comfortable for the hour after hour when she’s lying still awake. If she settles onto her back until the Ambien kicks in, then switches to her stomach, facing right, toward the sound machine, there won’t be quite as much discomfort to keep her restless and annoyed. For stomach sleep, after the Ambien, she goes into a swastika position – right arm up, bent at the elbow (not touching the pillowcase edge), left arm bent and down, right knee up, left leg down and slightly bent. None of the limbs can touch the body; the tactile sensation makes her too aware. Of everything. Okay, now for the covers. They’re bunching around her feet, so she awkwardly tries to kick them into place. Then she gets out of bed to adjust them. Then the pillows are off again.

  There are some nights like this when she feels like she’s reinventing sleep, analyzing every aspect, her mind obsessed with each detail. She thinks of the Princess and the Pea and tries to figure out how many figurative peas are under her mattress and pillows and limbs and brain. Should she get up and take another Ambien? How about a Xanax, which she takes for the anxiety caused by the Ambien not working, which is pretty much every night? And how many of each does she have in the pill bottles? Long ago she learned not to count her pills at night. No matter how many are left or how many refills are listed on the bottle, she only gets more nervous and more alert when she counts.

  She knows there aren’t that many. Her last appointment with Dr. Faber was three months ago when she stopped going to the sessions where they sat in matching chairs and always seemed to talk about the same things. She can’t very well call his office and ask for a new prescription, not without a trip to Dallas and a world of apology, begging more than apologizing, having to face his lectures and the stern disapproval in his voice. Maybe Dr. Oppenheimer could cut her a break. He’s dedicated to the McFees. He must have prescribed untold amounts of drugs to her mother in her last days and to her father in trying to deal with that. What’s the use of connections and owed favors if you never use them? She realizes that i
n her drugged state she’s thinking like Buddy, a man who counts up favors the way she counts pills. At the moment, as she switches from the swastika to a side position, left hand under her head, the thought doesn’t upset her at all.

  The side position will be comfortable for a while, twenty minutes or so, before her arm gets numb and she has to change. She’s nostalgic for the old days when she could fall asleep instantly, when she would have to struggle to stay awake until her mother came in for the goodnight kiss. Even years later, sleep was easy, coming home from school and letting Angus jump on the bed and snuggle, totally unbothered when he would scratch at the covers, get up then make his little circles before settling back down. Oh, yes, Angus. Poor Angus. So terrified, terrified and helpless, barking and clawing, making desperate little circles as the smoke and fire stalked him down in his own little corner of the study.

  *

  Callie fought off her medicated grogginess with a long, hot shower, stopping only when the building’s industrial-size water heater finally began running lukewarm.

  Sherry Ann had already gone off to class, leaving Callie to deal with a growling stomach. She promised herself a grocery expedition as soon as humanly possible then almost miraculously discovered a leftover slice of pepperoni pizza suffering from frostbite in the freezer.

  Sitting at the counter over the microwaved slice, a mug of coffee and her laptop, she did her best to bat away the cobwebs. It was surprising how wide-awake a person could be in the middle of the night and yet so foggy the next morning. She went to plug in her machine and found the outlet occupied by a phone charger, probably Helen’s. Chargers always seemed to be the easiest things to leave behind.

  An email from Oliver, sent at 8:12 a.m., stated that he had received her share of the article and would spend the rest of the morning collating it with his. It wasn’t the blockbuster Callie had hoped for, but it portrayed Briana in a sympathetic light and featured the unidentified man with the shovel. Oliver asked if she wanted to do another pass or if she trusted him enough to send it off with just his edits. A combination of trust and exhaustion made the choice easy.