by R. J. Jacobs
He asked me the same questions Detective Mason had—how I knew where Sandy lived, what the deal was with her coming to me as a patient. I told him the whole narrative, including my unsettling meeting with Matt, as well as Sandy’s full story. What I knew of it, anyway.
His eyes pinched up a little. “The police are good, Emily. They won’t play. They’ll jump on this.” Cal’s eagerness made me feel slightly less insane. He was leaning forward now, chest pressed against the table. “They’re probably talking to him now.”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that. What don’t you know?”
“Cal, think about it. I have Sandy’s story, but that’s basically it. She’s not here to tell it. And it’s a story about a jealous coworker? A few equations and order forms on a lab computer? They have a washed-out crime scene that I walked through. The strongest connection between the two of them is me.”
Cal responded like he hadn’t heard the last part of what I’d said. “They have enough to look at Matt.”
“If that’s what they were thinking.” I held up my palm. “They have me with a cut on my hand as if Sandy and I had a fight, touching everything. Touching her.” Sandy’s empty eyes charged my thoughts. I fought the images, wiped the newest round of tears, tried to stay in the coffee shop. “They have a different story right now.”
His head leaned slightly. Deep and intelligent, his combat-shocked voice understood. “They have a story about an affair.”
I nodded jerkily. A bird’s nod.
“The more obvious motive.”
I continued ahead, so he wouldn’t have to say the rest. “A more obvious motive for a jealous, crazy person, a pill popper with a criminal record. A psycho who’s been hospitalized.”
Cal bit his lip, wincing on the truth. He scraped the tile with his brown boot, looked at his watch. “No, if you’re not involved, they’ll clear you fast. Right? This isn’t your life under investigation.”
“Cal, of course I’m not involved.” I put my hand on his, a reflex.
Not sleeping had lowered my boundaries.
He squeezed it, pulled back.
I plunged on. “But how long will they wait? Until after Matt destroys any evidence? Sandy wanted to go slowly so he wouldn’t know to cover his tracks any better than he already had. With this, now, he’s scared. I need … to find what there is on him.”
Cal bit one of his nails, shook his head.
“I’ll say this another way—he’s leaving the country Sunday morning. He’s going to that conference with Silver. Do you understand? He leaves and he’s not coming back. Two days. Cal, even if the police find something on him later, once he’s gone, he’s gone. A potential double murderer gets away.”
“Emily, it’s not—”
“Two days. Cal, help me.”
“Emily, let the police work.”
He looked at his watch. I dug in deeper. “You won’t help me catch the guy who killed your best friend?”
Cal raised his chin, dropped it again. “I can’t. Really can’t. I’m—look, I should be in my office right now. I have Olivia. I hate that this is happening, but it’s not my place. I can’t get involved in this.” He pressed his hands back on the table.
I stared at him.
“Emily.”
“What time do you pick up Olivia?” I asked.
“Look, I’m not your doctor, but you should get some sleep. The police will—”
“Cal, what time does Olivia get home from school today?”
A slow, hesitant blink—a part of him reluctant to reveal how available he was to help. “She’s with her mom this week.”
My hands were fists. “Cal, please.”
He looked again at the door; then he unzipped his jacket and rubbed his hands over his forehead. When he looked up from his hands again, his expression was disbelief, near-complete incredulity. “What would we even do?”
“All you have to do is watch out for me.”
“Uh-huh. Watch out how? Where?”
I dragged my fingertip through the meek condensation on the window, creating a dewy line through which a fraction more of the outside world was clear. Then I smeared it all with my palm, droplets forming and running down toward the baseboards. “Just make sure no one’s coming when I steal a computer from the lab.”
* * *
Cal agreed to meet me later. “In the meantime, get some sleep,” he’d said.
I lied and said that I would.
I texted Allie. I have to see you.
No response.
Like that was going to stop me.
I drove to her office. I’d wait.
It was almost possible to believe nothing had happened—that Sandy was still alive, even that Paolo was. Tacit normalcy—the texture of wet gravel beneath the soles of my shoes, the hovering haze of cloud cover, midmorning traffic sounds. The steady light inside the Burger King sign. All normal, oblivious, encouraging in a strange way.
Thinking this way meant I was tired.
The rain had cleared and cooled the air. Shallow puddles rippled on the rain-slick asphalt. I leaned against Allie’s car in the same precinct parking lot I’d left ten hours earlier. It was a four-door Honda Accord. A married person’s car—in that inoffensive champagne-silver color that was pleasant enough but no one noticed. I rested my hands on the hood, wondering if I would ever drive anything like it, live the way Allie lived.
I watched the shifting, cerebral folds of the clouds, my fingernails tapping the cool metal, until I heard Allie’s voice behind me.
“Um, no,” she scolded. “No way. Jump up off my car ’cause I am not talking to you. Not right now.”
This voice she was using was brand-new to me—not a teammate holler across a sun-bright field, nor her confessional whisper in the fleeing-ghost highway lights of a team bus. And not her supportive, professional voice. This tone was ripe with intolerance—a voice for inmates. Or for someone ignorant requiring firm redirection.
Again, the feeling of unreality.
The car’s signal lights flashed yellow as she used her remote key to open the Accord. She strode toward the door like she had no intention of stopping.
My arms were folded. I didn’t budge off the hood as she reached past me. “Come on, Allie.”
“I mean it—no. Don’t put me in this position. A, I can’t legitimately even talk to you, and B, what are you even doing here? You should not be here.”
I’d thought initially that Allie’s voice was a voice for arrestees but realized right then it was from burnout. It was the tone used by people who had helped me too much and had stopped caring. People I’d worn out. I hadn’t heard it from anyone in years, but the sound was the same. The content hardly mattered—the tone told me a person’s involvement had departed, and that it was entirely my fault.
“Where should I be?” I asked, really wanting to hear her answer.
She twisted her lips, as if tasting something bitter.
My hands were glued to her car. “Just tell me one thing: are they going to find him? That’s all I need to know. Are they going to question Matt?”
She glanced over her shoulder as a crisp-uniformed officer clicked along the sidewalk, smiling as she gave him a quick wave. The smile dropped as she turned her face back to me. Her voice lowered to a forced whisper. “Emily, I’m not a source, okay? I’m not giving you the inside scoop. But you know that, right? You didn’t want to mention all the hiring evals you’ve done for Metro?” Her eyebrows were up, accusingly.
Word traveled fast, apparently.
It was my turn to roll my eyes, even if I was too jacked-up and exhausted to explain. “That was years ago, and it’s getting blown out of proportion. I may have picked up a few procedural things here and there, but—”
She held up her hand. “Enough. Really. You know more than enough about police work. Finding that out made me look stupid after I protected you. You don’t need my protection.”
“I need you to l
isten.”
“I need you to go home. Emily, you don’t look good.”
“What I really need,” I said, “is for you to trust me.”
“I’m not in a position to do that.” Allie backed up a step, hands on the hips of her skirt. “Not now.”
I knew there was no point in acting indignant. Three months earlier, I would have kept the same distance if our roles had somehow been reversed, served my patients and my department, trusted my professional colleagues to do their jobs. “Do you really … really think I …?”
“No, it’s not my job to think one way or another. My job is to communicate with the public. That’s it. And that includes maintaining a wide professional boundary from anyone under active investigation. Which is why I’m asking you again to get off my car.”
I stood but remained between her and the door. “Allie—”
“No. Don’t start.” She was shaking her head, eyes closed. “Nope, no. There’s no for old times’ sake, no team rules anymore. I’ve already said and done too much.”
“You have, and I appreciate it, I do. I just need to know one thing. Just one yes or no.”
She opened her eyes. I could feel the old-friend conflict behind that mask. She saw two Emilys—the one she knew and the one she suddenly couldn’t trust. If anyone understood feeling suspicious, it was me.
“Just one yes or no. You’re speaking to a concerned member of the public.”
A car splashed past. Neither of us moved. Autumn’s last sun-yellow leaves clung to wild-angled gray branches like reluctant angels behind her. She nodded.
“Is Detective Mason, or anyone, going to go after Matt?”
Allie took a deep breath and held it in her chest. Then, finally, she confirmed exactly what I’d suspected. “Several interviews were conducted. At this time, there is only one person of interest in that particular case.”
There seemed no real path back toward usual adult life; just a pursuit in the general direction of justice, which now needed to happen. My own drop, my fall from the path, had been so sickeningly steep, I wondered what would unravel next, what even remained that could unravel. I’d been a soon-to-be-engaged child psychologist. Now I was a double-murder suspect. My stomach felt achy, purposeless, like some ancillary organ my body no longer required. Despite her death, a small part of me struggled to make sense of Paolo and Sandy having been together, of what I’d missed, and of what it had felt like for her to hide their relationship when she came to see me. How significant was it that they’d been together? Could I trust what she’d told me? Or did it make her even more trustworthy?
I dropped my hand onto Allie’s wrist and she let it rest there, just for a second, before yanking it back. I touched her shoulder, then abruptly, she left. Allie’s taillights bobbed as her Accord dipped out of the parking lot toward who-knew-where. Toward away from me.
In my truck, I set my lips on the cold, plastic Breathalyzer. I knew already what I was about to do was probably a very, very bad idea. But that awareness in my thoughts was like a whisper, drowned out by the roar of what I meant to do.
NINETEEN
I turned the ignition and texted Cal: LEAVING THE POLICE STATION, HEADED TO THE LAB.
Knowing Cal thought of me as crazy offered a kind of bleak reassurance. No need to worry about it. I pictured him squinting irritably at the message or stone-faced, disinterested. My fingertip hovered above the screen, then typed: NOT TO BREAK IN.
I paused, then added: NECESSARILY.
An ellipsis appeared immediately, as if he’d been looking at his phone.
Cal: COME PICK ME UP. SAME STARBUCKS.
Had he thought of something? He’d seemed so reluctant two hours earlier. A quick drive across town, during which I realized I’d never really expected his help, and that I’d resigned myself to going it alone. Of all the people, I thought, of all the partners, it had to be the guy who hated me; the monosyllabic Marine Corps vet with whom I had basically nothing in common. Then, a fleeting but acute sadness for not having known my father, for life presenting such unexpected companions. That was no medication talking. That was no sleep.
Cal showed himself to be a man of few words, but I didn’t need a lengthy explanation for why he’d responded to my text. I could feel the change as the passenger door creaked open. He climbed in beside me, a whiff of Irish Spring soap and cool air. He glanced at my uncle’s gun rack behind us. “It’s just two days till he leaves?” he asked, abruptly.
“Two days,” I echoed.
“So, if there’s anything to find out about this guy, we’ll know pretty quickly—forty-eight hours.”
“That’s right.”
Cal fixed his jaw determinedly, as if it was just then that he’d truly decided to help. “Okay, I’m in. Let’s do this.”
I started to thank Cal, but he shook his head. I could see no real thanks were needed. With the pieces in front of him, he needed the same answers I did. I held back from overselling and pulled into the drive-through line, which advanced at a glacial pace. I remembered him telling me earlier that Olivia was spending the week with her mom. Even hardly knowing him, it was plain I was now interacting with a previous version of Cal—a military guy, a devoted friend. No cynical pragmatism of daily professional life. No parenting responsibilities.
Cal scratched contemplatively at his beard. “So, how are you planning on walking in and out of the lab without that guy Matt noticing you took his computer?”
“That’s where things get hazy.” I hated to admit it.
“So there’s basically no plan?”
“I’ll improvise.”
The drive-through line advanced and we moved forward another place in line. Cal didn’t have to say the obvious: improvisation wouldn’t work.
His hands were folded in his lap. “Um, maybe we should brainstorm?”
“Did you want some coffee?”
“How long since you’ve slept?” he answered.
Sleep. I kept forgetting. I had to think. “Night before last, some.”
He extracted a canvas wallet, began peeling apart the Velcro. I waved it away, ordering into a crackling speaker for us both. A minute later, steam rose from our paper cups. I knew the coffee would scald my tongue and it did—the pain graciously jolting me, caffeine to follow.
Cool air flooded the half-open window as I drove.
“You work in IT, right? We need Matt’s computer, bottom line. Once we have it, can you hack in?”
Cal sighed a little. “Truthfully, yes. I probably could get in pretty easily. But we can’t just march in and commandeer the thing. Do you know anyone else in that lab?”
“I don’t think so.” Only fragments remained in my memory of the other lab mates—stories I’d half heard, general descriptions. No one who would remember me, let alone believe me or grant an extremely self-compromising favor. “If that lab was a normal place, I’d say there’d be no telling who was even there working today, who would have stayed after finding out about Sandy. But they’re a different breed up there. They work even more when they’re burning off stress. Do you know any of them?” I asked. “Like from softball?”
“Nah.”
“I met Dr. Silver … once.”
Cal’s eyebrows crinkled.
“The PI.” His image came to mind—his tight gray beard and curious eyes. Warm, welcoming voice.
“Ah. That’s right.”
Cal began scrolling through the medical center website on his phone, navigating the directory.
Worry reawakened from a moment earlier. “What if Matt has deleted or destroyed everything that would incriminate him?”
A hollow whistle rose from Cal blowing into his plastic lid. Down West End, the skyline cut the clouds like a black line on an Etch A Sketch. “I wouldn’t worry about that part,” he said. “Anything can be found, trust me.”
I was staring at him, trying to drive. Air pressure rocked the truck in a curt whoosh. I looked up as the doppler-fade of a horn screamed in the other
direction. Taillights. A near miss.
Pay attention.
Cal looked at me.
“Sorry,” I said.
An accident would be checkmate, even if no one was hurt. Even manic, I knew this. Cal’s finger reached the final name on the list, halting at a hyperlinked email and phone number beside it. He started to speak as I plucked the phone from his hand, my finger touching down. This was right. We were calling the person I should have called first, even before Cal—the person Paolo most admired and trusted.
The truck engine growled irritably over the ringing. I was forming something like an introduction when I heard his phone beep—a medical center number calling in. I pressed green.
A slight pause before Jay Silver’s voice came across the line, inquisitive but not impatient. I could only imagine the chaos there, and what it might be like to lose two coworkers within a month. “Hello?” he said.
I launched into what I’d meant to leave as a voicemail. “Dr. Silver, this is Emily Firestone. Sorry to just look you up like this. Paolo Fererra was my boyfriend. I need to talk with you.” Wound up, I felt like I sounded about sixteen years old, words rushing like water. “I know—I mean, I can’t imagine everything going on right now …”
“Oh, hi,” he said, eventually. He sounded worn, like an exhausted family member acting polite. I pictured his round glasses propped onto his forehead, him rubbing his temples. “I remember, of course. Firestone. Well … okay. I just don’t know when. It’s a bad time. I’d planned to present a paper out of town, but some things have happened …” He started with mid-December dates when he might be available. He might as well have suggested waiting a decade. I flashed to Sandy’s eyes staring up through the ceiling, the steering wheel slick under my palm.
Slow down.
“It has to be today. It’s important. I’m sorry.”
I could practically see him checking his watch but noticed he wasn’t saying no. “It’s almost lunchtime, and I have a meeting at one. I could meet for a few minutes, maybe on the way. Can you walk with me?”
“Great.” I gave a thumbs-up to Cal.
“How well do you know campus?”
