“How’s this for a plan? Get your guys together for a noon meeting. I’ll drive up from Litchfield and brief everybody all at once. In cases where we are called in to assist with an investigation, I like to start off on the right foot. Some folks resent our presence. Sometimes the Chief even does.” He laughed. “We feel the same way when the governor calls the feds in.”
Emma received two phone calls before Skip arrived. The first was from Mark Byrne, and the second was from Dick Wardlaw.
“Emma, Mark here. I’ve been thinking a lot about you and the creepy text you received from your husband. I’d like to try to help you out. What do you say?”
Emma thought a long time before answering. She shifted the receiver to her other ear.
“Emma? You there?”
“Help how?”
“For starters, I could try to track Will down. Would that help or hurt?”
Emma said, “That’s a very good question. I’m not sure I know the answer. Anyway, how could you possibly find him? The bastard could be anywhere. Anywhere at all. Oh, I don’t know Mark, part of me wants to wish this all away into oblivion.”
“Not to be the bad cop, but that ain’t going to fly.”
“There’s stuff that you don’t know. Police business, but I’m going to tell you, if you keep your mouth shut. Deb and Ethan were killed by the same hand. Worse still, I can tell you that my friend Vanessa thinks that Will could be our killer.”
“Whoa! Why would she say that?”
“First off, my heart tells me it’s impossible. Setting that aside, common sense tells me something else. We’re sure of the connection between Ethan’s and Deb’s deaths. We also know that I’m the only obvious link between the two. I knew both of them. They didn’t know one another. Well, they did, but not for years. Then, all of a sudden, Will makes his presence known in an especially un-Will like way.”
“It’s a stretch,” Mark said hesitantly, “but I get your point. Is your department searching for him?”
“Not really,” she admitted.
“Because you haven’t told them about the text?”
“True.”
“Emma, I don’t mean to be the asshole here, but you could be in a whole shitstorm of trouble if you keep withholding.”
Emma’s other line rang. She told Mark that she would call him back. Ruby Sato, her assistant, told her that Mayor Wardlaw was waiting.
Emma was in the mood to nail the son of a bitch.
“Put him on.”
Once again, Dick Wardlaw invited her to lunch.
She told him that she couldn’t make lunch but that she could meet him for a drink after work. He reacted with all the enthusiasm of an adolescent who has just figured out how to masturbate. He suggested they meet at Lizard’s Lounge on the back side of town, a low-rent bar for a low-rent lizard.
She agreed.
It was nearly time for Skip’s briefing, so she didn’t call Mark back. She didn’t particularly want to. He had a knack for flooding her open wounds with alcohol.
That day’s dispatcher had called in all available units and personnel. Emma guessed most of them couldn’t wait to hear what Skip Munro had to say. She knew most, if not all of them, thought that she had blundered by not calling in the state police sooner.
At the podium, she looked out at the sea of expectant faces. Everyone except for Caroline Stoner looked away.
Emma introduced Lieutenant Monroe and gave him the floor.
He began with engaging, friendly smile. “As the chief told you, I represent a team from the Western District Major Crimes Squad out of Litchfield. The chief has asked us for assistance in two difficult cases, both unfortunately homicides. I just want to say right off the bat that we are not here to step on your toes. We are only here to assist.”
Stella Weeks piped up from the back, “We’re all glad you’re here.”
Emma heard a rumble of approval from her colleagues.
“Unfortunately,” Skip continued, “so far, we don’t know much that you don’t already know. We haven’t had any luck at Ms. Barger’s crime scene with fingerprints. The chief told me that you guys had the same issue at Mr. Jackson’s scene. We also haven’t had any success with DNA evidence. The state police have a consulting cryptographer. We’ve engaged her to examine the Sharpie marks on both victims. Which, by the way, is the only piece of evidence linking the one perpetrator to both crimes.”
“What about Virginia Hobson?” Buzz asked.
“Good question. The chief told me about the incident at her house, that the same cell phone was used for both Jackson and Hobson. Officer Stoner, why don’t you and I have a chat about that after the meeting?”
Emma sat in a chair off to the side of the roll call room, half-listening but also thinking hard. Skip Munro answered some questions. Then he gave a general briefing about serial homicide. She tuned out, hearing neither the questions nor the answers.
Should she, or shouldn’t she? She weighed the pros and cons. In her mind, the cons outweighed the pros. And yet, wasn’t it time to do the right thing and act like a team?
After a few more minutes of anguished mental juggling, Emma made up her mind.
Skip wrapped up his briefing and turned to her and said, “Anything to add, Chief?”
With lingering doubt—she hadn’t fully completed her risk-reward analysis—Emma rose.
“I have something to add.”
She hesitated and could feel the tears forming in her eyes, which she tried, unsuccessfully, to stanch. Stammering, she said, “On Thursday night, I received a text. The text was from Will. He is alive. I don’t know where he is, but …” She paused. “… wherever he is, he is angry—”
From the back of the room, Stella shouted, “And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?”
“Hold it! Who are we talking about? Who is Will?” Skip interjected.
“Will Foster is my husband. He disappeared forty-three days ago.”
On her way home, Emma angrily stopped at Petticoat Parlor and bought her first push-up bra. The salesperson called it The Bombshell. “Hot date?” she’d asked. Emma tried it on. She was aghast at her appearance but satisfied.
Later, Emma flipped through her closet looking for exactly the right outfit for her “hot date” with Dick Wardlaw.
She had left headquarters immediately after the meeting, avoiding everyone, especially Stella. Her confession about Will had left her bruised and broken. She was not sure what was next, but she had a pretty good idea.
She finally chose a wraparound dress with a plunging neckline. Ironically, the last time she had worn it was to a party with Will. With her new bra underneath, she checked herself in the mirror. She couldn’t help but laugh. Damn if Bombshell didn’t work as well as plastic surgery. Her boobs looked two sizes larger, and they puffed into the middle of the dress’s V.
She overdid the makeup, too.
Leaving a surly Pepper at home, Emma drove to Lizard’s. She arrived fifteen minutes late, intentionally. Outside the door, she pushed her boobs even closer together for maximum impact.
Wardlaw was sitting in a booth with red vinyl benches, the very last one at the back of the bar. He studied her, his eyes widening, as she approached.
She gave him a peck on the cheek and sat down across from him.
He patted the space next to him. “Why don’t you sit here next to me?”
“I’m quite comfortable, but thanks.” She gave him her best imitation of a Miss America smile.
“You look beautiful, Emma. I’m so glad we could get together. Drinks are so much more preferable to lunch, don’t you agree?”
“Speaking of which,” she said, “would you order me a dry martini? Dirty.”
Wardlaw snapped his fingers, which made her cringe.
Two martinis arrived. The waitress, who knew both of them, couldn’t help but stare. Emma rewarded her with a wink. The waitress smiled uncertainly and departed.
Emma held up her glass in the universa
l toasting gesture. Dick clinked glasses with her, grinning his yellow-toothed grin. She downed the entire martini in a series of greedy gulps.
“Oh yeah,” Dick sputtered.
He proceeded to do the same with his drink.
He ordered a second round. They finished those, too.
They made innocuous small talk while Wardlaw’s eyes darted back and forth between her face and her cleavage. Soon, she’d had enough.
With a taste of Dutch courage, she advanced the game.
She reached into her handbag and took out her badge. She shoved it into his face.
“Mayor Wardlaw, I’m here in my capacity as Chief of Police. If you ever so much as touch me again, you sorry prick, I will arrest your ass and charge you with sexual harassment and sexual assault. Is that plain enough for you? So keep your filthy fingers out of my ass, and go have sex with your goddamn wife.”
She put her badge back in her bag and took out her iPhone. She found the Voice Memos app and pressed Play. She watched his face fall even further as he listened to the snippet she replayed from their phone conversation of just three days ago.
His voice was tinny, but the words were clear: Oh, Emma, you would be making a big mistake to turn me down. Besides, this would be a business lunch…although, of course, if it became more, that would be fine, too. Emma’s voice: The answer is still no. Wardlaw, again: Listen hard, Emma, I’m going to give you ten minutes. Then I’m going to call you back, and I will expect a different answer.
Emma stood.
“Thanks for the drink, you Dick.”
32
A Woman in Uniform
My property is an old farm outside of Hampshire. The driveway that leads to my house is one mile, two hundred and twenty feet long. There is an electric gate at the entrance. A key-code opens it. I feel secure in my privacy.
I am feeding my fish when I hear someone coming down the cellar stairs. I wheel on my heels, looking for a weapon.
Stella Weeks appears at the bottom of the stairs.
“Hi, sexy,” she says.
Although she is welcome, I am annoyed. She has the key-code, but I have told her in the past that my cellar is off-limits. Stella usually does what I tell her to do.
“Upstairs,” I say.
In the kitchen, she wraps her arms around me and presses her buxom little figure against my body. She is wearing her cop uniform, which I find erotic.
She has to tiptoe to kiss me on the lips. She kisses passionately and tonguefully. I respond in kind.
Before we know it, we are in my bedroom engaged in spirited oral sex. Stella is one hot pistol. The bitch really drives me wild. I can’t get enough of her little bod.
Afterwards, exhausted and sweaty, we lie naked on the bed, cuddling each other. I trace my index finger around one of her nipples. It is the color and texture of a Brazil nut. Stella moans softly. So do I.
Suddenly, she props herself up on her elbow.
“Do you love me?” she asks.
I don’t really like to share these kinds of confessional intimacies, but I lie to her, “Of course, I do.”
Sometimes Stella can be quite needy. Anyway, a new plan is germinating in my mind, a possible substitution scenario. I think about that for a while.
We fall back into silence.
Then Stella says, “You can’t imagine the scene at Deb’s house. It was god-awful.”
Casually, I ask, “How was she killed?”
“The perp opened up her neck from ear to ear. Whoever did it was a fucking sociopath. You’ve never seen so much blood.”
“A fucking sociopath?”
“That’s what I said. Lieutenant Munro calls him a sociopath, too.” Stella sits up and stares at me. “I knew Deb. She was a nice girl, never meant anybody any harm.”
“You don’t know that,” I say, unable to stifle my anger. I really do not like being called a sociopath. “She might’ve been a piece of shit, for all you know. Besides, she was a friend of Emma’s. Need I say more?”
“Look, I know how you feel about Emma. I feel the same way. But what does that have to do with Deb?”
“So, your genius cop, Lieutenant Monroe, parrots a hackneyed psychiatric profile for you guys. Am I right? By the way, Stella, a serial killer, by definition, has killed three or more people. You should know that. This killer has only killed two people. Hence, no serial killer.”
I feel a happy grin spread over my face and continue, “I’m guessing that he told you that the killer was a white male between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five, a loner. He’s charming and manipulative. He grew up in an abusive family, was obsessed with fire setting, wet his bed, killed kittens, and blah blah blah. Am I right?”
“Not in all respects,” Stella admits, “but that’s the gist of what he said.”
I say, “Well, la-di-da, don’t you have an eidetic memory. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I need to take a nap. Why don’t you get going and leave me be?”
Stella looks surprised.
“You’re hurting my feelings. Why are you being so mean? We just made love, and now you are being … cruel.”
Finally, I say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Don’t worry, you can stay.”
Relieved, she kisses me on the nose.
We spend the rest of the late afternoon lolling about in bed. The warm June air breezes through the open windows and cools our sweaty bodies. I start working on my unfinished Times crossword puzzle. It is pretty easy. The clue for twenty-four across is “death.” The answer (thirteen letters) takes me a minute. I consider asking Stella, but she would be clueless (pun intended). Then “inevitability” occurs to me, and, of course, I’m correct.
Just before 4:00 p.m., Stella dresses back into her uniform. She has evening duty.
I have evening duty, too, but I can’t share the details of that with Stella.
I go into my luxurious bathroom without saying anything further. I close the bathroom door to brush my teeth and to think. I use exactly seven-sixteenths of an inch of toothpaste.
Vanessa Mack’s house is not dissimilar from Deb Barger’s. It’s also a Colonial. Unfortunately, she has painted it a hideous shade of green. I know that Vanessa lives there with her husband, Dave, who is an insurance actuarial. They have two kids, a boy and a girl, both cute as buttons. I’m not sure how old they are, but I have seen them in their school playground on a prior reconnaissance mission. I tell you, I like to be prepared.
I circumnavigate the house, ticking off boxes on my mental checklist. As Jon Stewart says, “I watch a lot of astronaut movies ... mostly ‘Star Wars.’ And even Han and Chewie use a checklist.”
I won’t be entering the house tonight. I can see that the children are home. I won’t harm children. Even though I don’t have any, I love children.
Dick and Jane, as I call the kids, are watching television. I’m too far away to see what’s on. I disapprove of kids watching too much television, but, then again, I’m not their mother. As Kurt Vonnegut once said, “Future generations will look back on TV as the lead in the water pipes that slowly drove the Romans mad.”
Vanessa is in the kitchen preparing supper. The kitchen is cheerful with frilly curtains, red Formica counters, and is painted yellow. Not my hue for a kitchen, but it seems to suit the family.
I wonder what Vanessa is making for dinner. My guess is that it is something white bread. Maybe mac and cheese or chicken tenders. They’ll miss her comfort food when she’s gone.
Dave, who is balding and chubby and boring looking, is at the kitchen table reading his Kindle. The couple is not having a conversation. Why be married if you don’t talk? But what do I really know about marriage? I decide to leave them to their conventional suburban life and retreat back to my car.
“I’ll be back,” I say. But they can’t hear me.
But as I linger in the shadows on the edge of Vanessa’s lawn, I think more and more about what I’m now calling Plan 3a. It came into my head earlier this afternoon
when I was with Stella. Which would freak Emma out more? Plan 3 or Plan 3a?
I’ll choose the one which will wreak the most havoc.
33
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Early Sunday morning, she picked up the Hampshire Chronicle, which Pepper carried home. Emma tossed the paper onto the kitchen table and began preparing a comforting breakfast. Scrambled eggs, sausages, and whole wheat toast. She cracked two raw eggs over the kibble in Pepper’s bowl. Pepper hungrily slurped them down.
Over breakfast, she unfolded the paper. The lead article was, naturally, by Virginia Hobson.
Two Murders in Hampshire:
Police Stumped
by Virginia Hobson, Staff Reporter
Recently-appointed Chief Emma Thorne was forced to call in the State Police for assistance in the shocking homicides of Ethan Jackson and Deborah Barger, according to a source inside the Hampshire Police Department. The same source, who asked not to be identified, told The Chronicle that officers in the department had been begging Chief Thorne to seek outside assistance because their investigation was stalled. Chief Thorne, under pressure from her officers, contacted the Western District Major Crimes Squad of the Connecticut State Police for help . . .
Whining Shit strikes again. But this time Emma didn’t bother to call her. Ever since Emma’s cathartic rendezvous with Dick Wardlaw, she felt free to go her own way. She had a new attitude and new priorities. If she had to find Will on her own, that is what she would do. And, she realized, she might well have to go it alone.
Emma spent the morning wondering when she would hear from Dick Wardlaw. She was certain she would. She knew a call or a summons from Dick was inevitable.
Still, she was determined to regain her equilibrium. She texted Vanessa.
Want to go for a run? New Forest Lake parking lot at noon?
She’d hardly pressed Send before her text tone sounded.
To clear the head? Meet u there.
Ever So Silent Page 16
