“A line erased from a scheduling book doesn’t mean anything,” Alma said, but the no-nonsense confidence was gone from her voice. She was almost whispering. “It could be a random mistake.”
“But matched with everything else, it isn’t,” Viv said. “I’ve connected him to Cathy and Victoria for you. We already know that Betty saw a traveling salesman before she died. I can only get so much information by myself, but I bet if you requested all of Westlake’s records, you could find something I couldn’t. The connection between Betty and Simon Hess.”
Alma was staring at her. “You’ve done a lot of work on this,” she said. “Dozens of hours.”
Viv shrugged. “I thought about applying for a job in Westlake’s scheduling department to get access to the book, but it would take too long and it would be too risky. They might put me in another department. Plus I’d actually have to work there all day when I have other things to do. So I can’t get full access to the books on my own, and there are only so many times I can phone them, pretending I’m you.”
“You did what?”
“It isn’t important.”
“It’s important,” Alma said. “Vivian, it’s illegal to impersonate a police officer.”
Viv wanted to scream. “Simon Hess killed Victoria Lee, and her boyfriend was put away for it. And you’re going to put me in jail?”
Alma held up a hand. “Back up here,” she said. The firmness was back in her voice, as if she was getting control of the situation. “I took a look at the Betty Graham file after the last time we talked. And one of your premises here is actually wrong. Since Betty was last seen letting a salesman into her house, there was a thorough investigation done into every company that employs door-to-door salesmen. They couldn’t find any company that had a salesman in the area.”
Viv felt her pulse pound. She was so frustrated, so angry. She didn’t know that. She didn’t know anything, because she didn’t have the access to what she needed to put all the pieces together. She was just a twenty-year-old motel clerk. If only she could see everything she needed.
But she thought it over and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Vivian, please. I’m trying to work with you here. But with no salesman in Betty’s neighborhood that day, it means that whoever killed her came to her door pretending to be a salesman. Which puts you back to square one.”
“No, it doesn’t. Did they look at the month before the murder? Two months before? The woman in the scheduling department told me that sometimes the salesmen go back for follow-up visits on their own, and those visits aren’t recorded in the schedule book. He could have seen her earlier and gone back.”
Alma looked shocked again. “They said that?”
“Even if he didn’t sell her locks,” Viv continued, “Betty was a teacher. Simon Hess has a daughter who is about ten. Maybe his daughter goes to Betty’s school—but I can’t access the school records. You can. He lives ten minutes away from Betty’s house. He could have seen her in the market, the park. Anywhere.” She pointed to the book. “You have his name. You can find the connection. I can’t.”
Alma frowned. She still wasn’t sold; Viv could tell. She had no idea what else to do, what else to say.
“This is all based on the idea that this man, Simon Hess, checks into the motel where Betty’s body was dumped,” Alma said. “That doesn’t make him Betty’s killer, especially if he isn’t the salesman who came to her house.” She gestured to the notebook, the motel photos from Marnie, other papers Viv had brought. “You’ve done amazing work here, Vivian. You could be an investigator. But I’m just the night duty officer, and you’re just a motel clerk. If I am going to the higher-ups with a killer this dangerous, like Fell has never seen, I need something so concrete it can’t be argued.”
Viv swallowed. She looked at the desk, at the papers and photos scattered there, her eyes burning.
“This is compelling,” Alma admitted in her kinder voice. “But it’s also full of holes. Big ones. Any case I take up the ladder has to be airtight. Completely airtight. I’m already no one on this force. Not a single one of these guys will take me seriously. It’ll be an uphill battle before I even open my mouth, and if I fail, I’ll probably lose my job. They’re just looking for a reason.”
It was a refusal. A kind one, but still a refusal. Viv would weep if she could summon any tears. She would scream if she could find her voice.
“You’re saying the risk is too great,” she said.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. You’re young, Viv, but I think you’re getting the idea. I’m the night duty officer in a small town—and I’ve worked for years just to get this far. I’ve fought tooth and nail. I’ve taken insults and abuse, and I’ll take more. I’ll take it for my whole career. I do it because being a cop is who I am, no matter who tries to tell me differently. But this . . .” She gestured to the papers. “I could lose everything with this. At least, the way it is now. I need more. I need physical evidence. I need eyewitnesses, confessions. No cop could take any of this to court, which means no cop is going to risk his career on it. Including me.”
Viv was numb. It was like Marnie, telling her the risk was too great. I quit. She’d promised Marnie she’d go to the police, get help, stop putting herself in danger. But Alma wasn’t going to help her, either. No one was.
She was in this alone.
“He’s going to kill her,” she said, her voice a murmur.
“You saw a man looking at a girl, that’s all,” Alma said. “It doesn’t mean anything. Men don’t go to jail for looking at girls. And you have nothing else you can prove. You saw a car you thought was his, driving away from the high school. You didn’t see who was in it—and even if you had, you still have nothing.”
“Okay.” Viv leaned forward and gathered up her notebook and papers, her maps and photos. “I appreciate you taking the time. I have to go to work now.”
“I’ve upset you,” Alma said.
She couldn’t take that. She couldn’t take Alma’s kindness, her pity that was big-sisterly, almost motherly. It meant nothing if the traveling salesman still walked free, if Tracy died. “He comes to the motel and he checks in under a fake name,” Viv said. “He has no reason to do that because he lives in town, but he does. And every time he does it, Betty Graham wakes up and goes crazy.”
Alma was silent.
“That’s how I know,” Viv said, standing up. “I’ve worked there every night for months, and that’s how I know he killed Betty. Because she tells me every time he’s there. Her body got dumped at the Sun Down, and she never left. You know that’s true as much as I do, except you don’t want to admit it.”
“Honey,” Alma said, “I think it’s time you considered seeing a doctor.”
Viv kicked her chair back and walked to the door. “That’s a lie and you know it,” she said, meeting Alma’s eyes. “You’ve seen her. So have I. The difference is that I listen when she tells me what she has to say.”
She left and closed the door behind her. Her only hope was the letter she’d sent. It was the only way Tracy Waters was going to stay alive.
Fell, New York
November 2017
CARLY
Tracy Waters was murdered on November 27, 1982,” Heather said. “She was last seen leaving a friend’s house in Plainsview, heading home. She was riding a bicycle. She was eighteen, and even though she had her driver’s license, her parents only rarely lent her their car and she didn’t have her own.”
I sipped my Diet Coke. “I know that feeling,” I said. “I didn’t have a car until I was eighteen, when my mother sold me her old one. She charged me five hundred dollars for it, too.”
“I’m a terrible driver,” Heather said. “I could probably get a car, but it’s best for everyone if I don’t.”
We were sitting in a twenty-four-hour diner on the North Edge
Road. It was called Watson’s, but the sign outside looked new while the building was old, which meant it had probably been called something else a few months ago. It was five o’clock in the morning, and Watson’s was the only place we could find that was open. We were both starving.
“So,” Heather said, taking a bite of her BLT. She was wearing a thick sweater of dark green that she was swimming in. She had pulled the top layer of her hair back into a small ponytail at the back of her head. She flipped through some of the articles she’d printed out. “Tracy was a senior in high school, a good student. She didn’t have a boyfriend. She only had a few girls she called friends, and they said that Tracy was shy and introverted. She had a summer job at the ice cream parlor in Plainsview and she was in the school choir.”
I looked at the photo Heather had printed out. It was a school portrait of Tracy, her hair carefully blow-dried and sprayed. She had put on blush and eye shadow, and it looked weirdly out of place on her young face. “She sounds awesome,” I said sadly.
“I think so, too,” Heather said. “She went to a friend’s house on November 27, and they watched TV and played Uno until eight o’clock. Oh, my God, the eighties. Anyway, Tracy left and got on her bike. Her friend watched her pedal away. She never got home, and at eleven her parents called the police. The cops said they had to wait until morning in case Tracy was just out partying or something.”
I stirred my chicken soup, my stomach turning.
“The cops came and interviewed the parents the next morning, and they started a search. On November 29, Tracy’s body was found in a ditch off Melborn Road, which is between Plainsview and Fell. At the time, Melborn Road was a two-lane stretch that no one ever drove. Now it’s paved over and busy. There’s a Super 8 and a movie theater. It looks nothing like it did in 1982.” She turned the page to show a printout of an old newspaper article. LOCAL GIRL FOUND DEAD was the headline, and beneath it was the subhead Police arrest homeless man.
“A homeless guy?” I asked.
“He had her backpack. He seems to have been a drifter, passing through from one place to another. He had a record of robberies and assaults. The thing is, he actually went to the police to turn in the backpack when he heard the news. They kept him on suspicion, and when he couldn’t provide an alibi for the murder, they charged him.”
“That’s it? They didn’t look at anyone else?”
“It doesn’t seem like it. He said he found her backpack by the side of the road, but who was going to believe him? His fingerprints were all over it, and there was a smear of Tracy’s blood on one of the straps. There were no other suspects. Her parents were beside themselves. They said they’d had a warning that someone had been following Tracy. The whole story fit.” She held up a finger, relishing the story in her Heather way. “But. But.”
“You like this too much,” I said, smiling at her.
“Whatever, Dr. Carly. You’re not listening. The next part gets interesting.”
“Like it wasn’t interesting before. Go ahead.”
“The homeless guy was never convicted. He never even went to trial. It seems that even though he was homeless, he had some kind of access to a good lawyer. Everything was hung up for over a year, and then the charges were dropped and he was set free. The case was opened again, and it’s still open. Tracy’s parents eventually got divorced, but her mother has never given up on solving the case. She started a website for tips on Tracy’s murder in 1999. She still has it, though from what I can tell it’s mostly run by Tracy’s younger brother now. There’s a Facebook page and everything. And remember how I said that someone had been following Tracy? They knew because they got an anonymous letter in the mail the week before she was killed. And now that letter is posted on the Facebook page and the website.” She took a sheet of paper out of her stack and handed it to me.
It was a scan of a handwritten letter. I read it over.
This letter is to warn you that I’ve seen a man following Tracy Waters. He was staring at her while she got on her bike and rode away on Westmount Avenue on November 19 at 2:20 in the afternoon. After she rode away he got in his car and followed her.
I know who he is. I believe he is dangerous. He is about 35 and six feet tall. He works as a traveling salesman. I believe he wants to kill Tracy. Please keep her safe. The police don’t believe me.
Keep her safe.
I pushed my soup away. “This is the saddest letter I’ve ever read in my life,” I said.
“The mother was worried when they got it. The father thought it was a prank. The mother decided that the father must be right. A few days later, Tracy was dead. Hence the eventual divorce, I think.”
“A traveling salesman,” I said, pointing to the words. “Like Simon Hess.”
“Who disappeared right after Tracy was murdered. But if you can believe it, it gets even better.”
I sat back in my seat. “My head is already spinning.”
“Tracy’s mom always felt that the letter was real,” Heather said. “She thought it was truly sent by someone who saw a man following Tracy. And it wasn’t a homeless drifter, either.” She tapped the description of the salesman. “This letter is part of why the case against the homeless guy was eventually dropped. But get this: In 1993, over ten years after the murder, Mrs. Waters got a phone call from Tracy’s former high school principal. He told her that he had a phone call a few days before Tracy’s murder from someone claiming to be another student’s mother. The woman said that she’d seen a man following Tracy, and that she thought the school should look out for her.”
“And he didn’t tell the police?” I said. “He didn’t tell anyone for ten years? Why not?”
“Who knows? He was probably ashamed that he didn’t do anything about it at the time. But he was retired and sick, and he felt the need to get it off his chest. So this was a preventable murder. Someone warned both Tracy’s parents and her principal about it. And if either of them had listened and kept Tracy home, she wouldn’t have died.”
I blinked at her. “A woman,” I said. “The person who called the principal was a woman.” I picked up the scan of the letter and looked at it again. “This could be a woman’s handwriting, but it’s hard to tell.”
“It’s a woman’s,” Heather said. “Tracy’s mother had a handwriting expert analyze it.”
There were too many pieces. They were falling together too fast. And the picture they made didn’t make any sense. Who knew that Tracy was going to be killed? How? It couldn’t possibly be Vivian, could it?
And if Vivian knew that Tracy was going to be murdered, why couldn’t she save herself?
“Did you call Alma?” Heather asked.
“I sent her a text,” I said. “She said she was a night owl, but it’s still sort of weird to call someone you barely know in the middle of the night when it isn’t an emergency. I’m not even sure she texts, to be honest. If I don’t hear from her this morning, I’ll call her.” I looked at the time on my phone. “I should probably get back to the Sun Down. Not that anyone would know I’ve been gone.”
“Where’s Nick?”
“Off somewhere getting those negatives developed. He said there’s an all-night place in Fell.”
“That would be the ByWay,” Heather said, gathering her papers. “I think they still rent videos, too.”
“Fell is officially the strangest place on Earth.” I looked at Heather as she picked up her coat. “What would you say if I told you the Sun Down was haunted?”
She paused and her eyes came to mine, her eyebrows going up. “For real?”
“For real.”
She watched me closely, biting her lip. Whatever expression was on my face must have convinced her, because she said, “I want to hear everything.”
“I’ll tell you.”
“And I want to see it.”
I rubbed the side of my nose. �
�I can’t guarantee that. She doesn’t come out on command.”
“She?”
“Betty Graham.”
Heather’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “You’re saying that Betty Graham’s ghost is at the Sun Down.”
“Yeah, I am. Nick has seen her, too.”
“Is she . . . Does she say anything?”
“Not specifically, but I think she’s trying to.” I thought of the desperate look on Betty’s face. “There are others. There’s a kid who hit his head in the pool and died. And a man who died in the front office.”
“What?”
“Keep your voice down.” I waved my hands to shush her. “I know, it’s weird, but I swear I really saw it. Nick is my witness. I didn’t say anything before because it sounded so crazy.”
“Um, hello,” Heather said. She had lowered her voice, and she leaned across the table toward me. “This is big, Carly. I want to stake the place out. I want to get photos. Video.”
I looked at the excited splotches on her cheeks. “Are you sure that would be good for you?”
“I’ve read and seen every version of The Amityville Horror there is. Of course it’s good for me. I’m better with ghosts than I am with real life.”
“This is real life,” I said. “Betty is real. She’s dead, but she feels as real as you and me. And the first night I saw her, there was a man checked in to the motel, except he wasn’t. His room was empty and there was no car. I know—maybe he left. But I keep thinking back to it, and I’m starting to wonder if he didn’t leave at all.”
“If he didn’t leave, then where did he go?”
We looked at each other uncertainly, neither of us able to answer. The door to the diner opened and Nick walked in. He brushed past the dead-eyed truckers and exhausted-looking shift workers without a sideways glance. He had an envelope in his hand.
The Sun Down Motel Page 23
