had cost her up above. And I think about the notarized letter and recordings, carefully gathered and documented, and weigh the benefits of handing them over now. If I do, Castro will have what he needs, or as much as Eva is able to give him, which might be enough to fulfill whatever promises she made.
I retrieve the envelope and voice recorder and slide them across the table to him. “I found these yesterday when I discovered her basement.”
He sets the recorder aside and flips through the pages of Eva’s statement, then jots the notary information into a small notebook.
“I had no idea what she was running from. She told me she had just lost her husband to cancer. That she’d helped him die and that she might be in trouble because of it.” As I recount the story, it sounds even crazier than it did at the time. “You have to understand, I was desperate enough to want to believe pretty much anything. And I think she knew that.”
“Eva has had years of practice deceiving people. She’s very good at what she does. She had to be, to have done it for so long.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I need you to understand that my job is to investigate drug crimes,” he says. “Not fraud. Not identity theft. And you are not under investigation by me.” His voice softens, now that his questions have been answered and I get a peek at the man beneath the surface, someone who genuinely wants to help me. “I understand you’re hiding from your husband?”
“I am.”
“I’m not here to get you into trouble, Mrs. Cook. But Eva was helping me, and I need to know what happened to her. What she told you.”
“Nothing true,” I say. “None of it was real.”
He looks out the window as a black town car glides into the spot next to his sedan. “I think your ride is here.”
We stand and I open the door.
“Claire Cook?” the driver asks. He’s large, in his midtwenties, squeezed into a dark suit with sleeves that just barely cover a tattoo circling up his right wrist. In his ears are those giant circles, stretching enormous holes in his earlobes.
Berkeley. Where everyone is just a little bit weirder than you are.
As he loads my bag into the trunk, I notice his gaze land on Agent Castro’s gun beneath his coat. He looks away and slams the trunk closed, stepping away from the rest of our conversation.
Agent Castro turns to me. “Good luck,” he says, shaking my hand. “If possible, I’d like to touch base again before you leave town. Assuming you go back to New York.”
“Sure,” I say, looking toward the busy street, cars and buses blowing past the motel. “Though what happens next depends on the next few hours. How much trouble I’ll be in for what I did, and whether anyone will believe what I have to say.”
“If your husband was involved in what happened to Maggie Moretti, it won’t matter if they believe you or not. The evidence will back you up.”
I tear my eyes away from the street and look at him. “You don’t know the Cook family very well if you think they won’t fight. The rules are different for people like them.”
I wait for Agent Castro to tell me I’m wrong, but he doesn’t. Even he knows that the power of money can make all kinds of problems disappear.
Finally, he says, “A little advice? Get on the air as soon as possible. Your husband can’t touch you if the whole world knows you’re alive.”
* * *
Traffic into the city is horrible. We progress slowly through the toll booth and up onto the Bay Bridge, walled in on all sides by cars. Alone in the back seat, I stare out the window, my gaze traveling across the water and landing on Alcatraz, small and squat in the middle of the bay, the slate-gray water surrounding it.
The driver adjusts the rearview mirror so he can see me better, his sleeve riding up even higher, and I catch another glimpse of his tattooed arm. “Okay if I turn on the radio?” he asks.
“Sure,” I tell him.
He flips around until he lands on some quiet jazz. I pull Eva’s phone out of my purse to check the time, and see that I have a missed text from Danielle.
I just found out that Mr. Cook’s already got a guy on the ground in Berkeley looking for you.