don’t know,” Nell said. “Why don’t you call Clay?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He had no comment.”
“Then neither do I.”
“But—”
D E LU S I O N
41
In fact, this was sneaky: Lee Ann was trying to get her to talk behind Clay’s back. “Sorry, Lee Ann, I’ve got to go.”
“But there’s—”
Nell hung up. She went back to her e-mail, fingers not quite steady.
. . . don’t worry—just get another one and put it on the debit card.
Talk to you soon, I hope. Love, Mom.
The phone rang just as she deleted I hope and hit send. Nell let it ring. The answering machine took the call. Lee Ann said, “Nell?
You there? I was about to mention something I probably should have figured out long ago but didn’t. I’ve been going over the timeline, and there doesn’t seem to be any way for Clay to have been Norah’s father. Am I right on this? And if—”
Nell grabbed the phone. “What the hell are you doing?” she said.
“Working on a story.”
“My private life has nothing to do with your story.” Nell slammed down the phone.
Her first instinct was to pick it right back up and call Clay. But why add to his burden? Nell took a deep breath and called Lee Ann instead.
“Are you planning to put it in the paper?” she said. “About Clay?”
“No,” Lee Ann said. “I have no plans to do that.”
“Good,” said Nell. “Because it’s not a secret. Clay filed adoption papers.” And had tried his best—and Clay’s best meant a very high standard—to be a good father to Norah and even more than that, loved her as his own daughter; Nell left all that unsaid.
“Sorry,” Lee Ann said. “I should have checked that.”
“But why? Why are you doing any of this? This is my personal business.”
“I’m only trying to understand,” Lee Ann said, “to get all the pieces straight in my head before the hearing.”
“But the hearing will be the end of it,” Nell said. “The tape is a fake. How many times do I have to say it? I saw the killing happen with my own eyes.”
“I know,” Lee Ann said, her tone softening. After a short pause, she said, “What if I picked you up and went over there, would you be willing to talk me through the whole thing?”
42
PETER ABRAHAMS
“Over where?” said Nell.
“Parish Street,” Lee Ann said. “Down where the pier used to be.
This is for background only, as I said, but also . . .”
“Also what?”
“I know we were never really close, but—also as a friend.”
“That’s very nice,” Nell said, actually meaning it. “But no.”
“Your call, no problem,” said Lee Ann. “Just one last thing—I’ve got an idea or two about the tape.”
“Go on.”
“I’d prefer to do that in person,” Lee Ann said.
Lee Ann picked Nell up about ten minutes later. She drove a small convertible, with the “service engine” light on, clutter everywhere but the passenger seat and the AC running full blast even though it was pleasant outside, the real heat still two or three months away.
“Got you a latte,” Lee Ann said, handing her a paper cup. “Hey, nice ring.” She gazed at the premature anniversary ring. “What is that—garnet?”
“Ruby,” said Nell, sticking the latte in the drink holder and leaving it there. “What are your ideas about the tape?”
“We’ll get to that,” Lee Ann said, driving down Sandhill Way and taking a left turn at the bottom, a little too fast. “First, what can you tell me about your husband’s relationship with Bobby Rice?”
“They had a great relationship.”
Behind her strange glasses, Lee Ann’s eyes narrowed. “Racial tension in the Belle Ville PD has been well documented.”
“It never affected Clay and Bobby,” Nell said. “They were friends.
They coached Pop Warner together.”
“How long were they partners?”
“For years, right up until when Clay first ran for chief.”
“What was Bobby’s reaction to that?”
“To Clay becoming chief? He was
“I did.”
“And?”
“He had no comment.”
“Then neither do I.”
“But—”
D E LU S I O N
41
In fact, this was sneaky: Lee Ann was trying to get her to talk behind Clay’s back. “Sorry, Lee Ann, I’ve got to go.”
“But there’s—”
Nell hung up. She went back to her e-mail, fingers not quite steady.
. . . don’t worry—just get another one and put it on the debit card.
Talk to you soon, I hope. Love, Mom.
The phone rang just as she deleted I hope and hit send. Nell let it ring. The answering machine took the call. Lee Ann said, “Nell?
You there? I was about to mention something I probably should have figured out long ago but didn’t. I’ve been going over the timeline, and there doesn’t seem to be any way for Clay to have been Norah’s father. Am I right on this? And if—”
Nell grabbed the phone. “What the hell are you doing?” she said.
“Working on a story.”
“My private life has nothing to do with your story.” Nell slammed down the phone.
Her first instinct was to pick it right back up and call Clay. But why add to his burden? Nell took a deep breath and called Lee Ann instead.
“Are you planning to put it in the paper?” she said. “About Clay?”
“No,” Lee Ann said. “I have no plans to do that.”
“Good,” said Nell. “Because it’s not a secret. Clay filed adoption papers.” And had tried his best—and Clay’s best meant a very high standard—to be a good father to Norah and even more than that, loved her as his own daughter; Nell left all that unsaid.
“Sorry,” Lee Ann said. “I should have checked that.”
“But why? Why are you doing any of this? This is my personal business.”
“I’m only trying to understand,” Lee Ann said, “to get all the pieces straight in my head before the hearing.”
“But the hearing will be the end of it,” Nell said. “The tape is a fake. How many times do I have to say it? I saw the killing happen with my own eyes.”
“I know,” Lee Ann said, her tone softening. After a short pause, she said, “What if I picked you up and went over there, would you be willing to talk me through the whole thing?”
42
PETER ABRAHAMS
“Over where?” said Nell.
“Parish Street,” Lee Ann said. “Down where the pier used to be.
This is for background only, as I said, but also . . .”
“Also what?”
“I know we were never really close, but—also as a friend.”
“That’s very nice,” Nell said, actually meaning it. “But no.”
“Your call, no problem,” said Lee Ann. “Just one last thing—I’ve got an idea or two about the tape.”
“Go on.”
“I’d prefer to do that in person,” Lee Ann said.
Lee Ann picked Nell up about ten minutes later. She drove a small convertible, with the “service engine” light on, clutter everywhere but the passenger seat and the AC running full blast even though it was pleasant outside, the real heat still two or three months away.
“Got you a latte,” Lee Ann said, handing her a paper cup. “Hey, nice ring.” She gazed at the premature anniversary ring. “What is that—garnet?”
“Ruby,” said Nell, sticking the latte in the drink holder and leaving it there. “What are your ideas about the tape?”
“We’ll get to that,” Lee Ann said, driving down Sandhill Way and taking a left turn at the bottom, a little too fast. “First, what can you tell me about your husband’s relationship with Bobby Rice?”
“They had a great relationship.”
Behind her strange glasses, Lee Ann’s eyes narrowed. “Racial tension in the Belle Ville PD has been well documented.”
“It never affected Clay and Bobby,” Nell said. “They were friends.
They coached Pop Warner together.”
“How long were they partners?”
“For years, right up until when Clay first ran for chief.”
“What was Bobby’s reaction to that?”
“To Clay becoming chief? He was
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