by Debra Webb
Except nothing is simple right now. Not in my world.
Detective Walter Duncan
“That was fast.” I open the lobby door for Liv and follow her out of the doctor’s office. I’m hoping the doc was able to give her something that will keep the headaches at bay until her life calms down.
Now that’s rich. Since when does a cop’s life ever calm down?
When Liv walks straight to the bank of elevators and presses the call button without a word, I trudge after her. I suppose she’ll tell me what she wants to tell me in her own time. We’ve worked together for two years. She’s seen the worst of me and so far she’s been open and honest about herself, as have I.
Until recently anyway.
I can’t exactly fault her for holding things close to the vest when I’m keeping a whopper of a secret myself. I don’t like being that man and the guilt is weighing on me. Stella always said the reason she loved me so much was because I was a good man, an honest man.
I need to get back to being that man.
When the elevator doors close with us inside, she finally speaks. “She’s pretty sure it’s not a brain tumor.”
Her lips quirk and I smile. “That’s always good.”
“She did some blood work. Mostly she thinks it’s the stress.”
“Ah ha!” I grin and keep the I told you so to myself.
“Yeah, yeah.” She leans against the back wall. “I need more sleep and less upset in my life. But I’m a cop and I don’t really see how that’s possible.”
“Speaking of upset,” I say, “Reynolds finished his preliminary work up on the evidence collected from the Fanning scene. Clean as a whistle for the most part. Fanning’s prints were the only ones he could identify. Whoever else was involved, he or she wasn’t in the database or was extremely careful. Didn’t leave anything behind except the blood on that hand towel and, for all we know, it may’ve already been there. Reynolds said there’s still some trace evidence to go through but he’s not expecting any game changers.”
“This is what television dramas like CSI give us,” she gripes, “evidence free crime scenes.”
She rubs at her forehead and my gut clenches. “Did your doc give you anything for the headaches?”
She shakes her head. “For now, she wants to hold off. See what’s going on with the blood work.”
“Makes sense, I guess.” I sure as hell hate for Liv to suffer the way she did yesterday. It was painful just watching.
She glances at the screen on her phone. “We still have time to try and catch Dana Reeves at her office.”
The elevator bumps to a stop. “I can handle the next interview if you want to call it a day.”
She glares at me before stepping off the car. “No way, this is my case, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We load up and head to the south side. Dana Reeves is a CPA with her own shop off Powell Avenue in Woodbine. Reeves was eleven when she was picked up by Fanning twenty-two years ago. According to what we could dig up she never married and has no children. She lives in the same apartment she moved into after college. Never been arrested. No traffic violations. The only hit we got on her name was the registrations for three dogs. I hope all three are big, badass guard dogs. Anyone who’s been violated, particularly in such a vile way, should get a big old mean dog. My Sandy is far from a badass but, if necessary, she would go down trying to protect me.
Liv studies the file for most of the trip. Usually she talks about what she’s reading, bounces thoughts off me. Not today. Today she’s oddly quiet. For the most part, she’s been that way all week. I wonder again if the doctor said more than she’s telling.
“Dana was the only girl from Belle Meade who ended up a victim of Fanning,” I say, in hopes of nudging her into the conversation.
Liv closes the file and stares straight ahead. “Her parents still live in Belle Meade. So do her two brothers. But she never went back after she left home for college. If her address is any indication, she lives frugally.”
“The Pontiac registered to her is nearly as old as she is.” Nothing wrong with that. I hung on to my first car until I was thirty, and it was well on its way to that milestone, too. “You’re right, she’s either not making a whole lot of money or she chooses to be tight with what she does make.”
“It’s possible she and her parents had a falling out,” Liv offers.
“Or maybe she likes to travel and spends all her money on vacations?” I regret that Stella and I didn’t travel more. We always put off those plans. Maybe next year, I’d say. She would agree, though I suspected she just went along with whatever I thought. The job always took priority and the next thing we knew it was too late.
“She has no kids, no husband,” Liv remarks, sounding more like herself now.
“She owns her own business,” I add.
That out-of-character silence returns; hangs in the air as I take the turn for Powell Avenue. I glance at Liv but she’s staring out the window.
“I find it strange there was no true pattern to Fanning’s choice in victims. At least not one the investigation discovered all those years ago,” I say as I slow for a crosswalk. “The age range was unusually broad. Hair and eye color didn’t seem to matter.” I shrug. “No order to the when or the where he chose to strike. No set MO for how he made the abduction or for what happened after. Well, other than the fact that all his victims were left alive—as far as we know anyway.”
I frown, thinking back to the rabid news coverage of the trial. “Even after he was sentenced, he refused to talk about what drove him, what made him do the things he did. Most of them talk eventually. But not Fanning. He never said a word.”
More of that heavy silence crowds in as soon as I stop talking. I glance at Liv to make sure she’s still awake.
“He chose what he wanted in the moment,” she says, her voice distant as if she’s remembering rather than theorizing. “They were all beautiful to him.”
I nod slowly. “Did you read that somewhere in the file?”
She jerks her head toward me, blinks as if she’d just realized I was in the car with her. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“What you said about him thinking they were all beautiful, did you read that in the file somewhere?” I don’t remember seeing it.
“I must have.”
I brake for the traffic signal, my blinker on for the final turn. A frown lines her face as if she’s trying to recall where she read the conclusion. “This would be a lot easier if I’d worked the case,” I admit, “but I was in the hospital having my appendix removed. Stach and Quinn caught the case.”
“Detective Quinn,” she says. “Maybe I read something to that effect in his notes.”
“Maybe so,” I agree, though I’m reasonably confident I reviewed all his notes, too. I could have read over that particular comment. After a while it all blurs together.
Quinn died five years ago, shot at a domestic violence scene. Left a wife and three grown kids behind. I wonder sometimes if Stella had been able to have children, if we would have filled the empty rooms of our home. We talked about adopting but the timing never seemed to be right and then we were old.
Where the hell did the years go?
Reeves Accounting is open. There’s no one waiting in the lobby but the receptionist informs us that Ms. Reeves has a client with her and that it might be a while. I tell her we’ll wait.
Liv picks up a magazine and thumbs absently through it. She pretends to look at the pictures but I know she’s not. She’s soaking up the vibe of the place. The fresh paint on the walls, the stacks of current magazines on the tables. Newly upholstered chairs; the industrial style tile polished to a high sheen on the floor. Even the receptionist’s desk looks shiny and new. A jungle of plants stand in front of the big plate glass window. The neighborhood might be low rent, but the suite of offices is well done and immaculately maintained.
Twenty minutes later the door opens and the client exits.
The receptionist goes into her boss’s office for a moment and then returns, leaving the door open.
“Ms. Reeves will see you now.”
“Thanks.” I give her a nod and follow Liv into the plush office.
The office is carpeted and decked out. Expensive drapes. High-end upholstered wingbacks. The woman, Dana Reeves, is dressed professionally in a gray suit and pink blouse. Her dark hair is cut short. She’s gained a considerable amount of weight since she renewed her license four years ago.
“I’m Detective Newhouse,” Liv says, “this is my partner, Detective Duncan. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Reeves gestures to the chairs in front of her desk. “I’m always happy to help Metro. Please, make yourselves at home. Would you like water or a coffee?”
We both decline.
“Is this about the break-in next door?”
Liv and I exchange a look. I say, “No, ma’am, we’re not here about the break-in.”
Some cops don’t like to do cold interviews unless absolutely necessary. Personally I’ve decided that folks are far more forthcoming with straight answers if they haven’t had time to prepare. No matter if they’re completely innocent, they’re only human and most people worry about anything they say making them look guilty. It’s better not to give them the opportunity to overanalyze.
Reeves nods slowly, confusion beginning to show on her face.
“Ma’am,” Liv kicks off the interview, “we’re here about Joseph Fanning.”
The CPA’s eyes flare. “I see.”
Her voice is cool, low and her expression closes instantly.
“I’m sure you’re aware,” I explain, “he was released last month.”
She nods. “I was upset at first but I’ve come to terms with the fact that he paid the debt the court required of him, fair or not.”
“He hasn’t contacted you or showed up at your home or business?” Liv asks.
Fear rounds the older woman’s eyes. “No. Has he done that to someone else? Another of his victims?”
“Not that we know of,” I assure her. “But there was an incident at his place of residence on Sunday or Monday and he’s missing. We’re worried that he may have someone else with him.”
“Sweet Jesus.” She presses a hand to her chest. “You people should never have let him off so easy with that damned plea deal! What the hell were you thinking? Now he may have hurt someone else?” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Now for the hard part. Before I can ask, Liv does, “Ms. Reeves, can you tell us where you were between Sunday morning and Monday afternoon?”
Outrage rushes up her neck and spreads across her plump cheeks, leaving a swath of red. “Why on earth would you ask me such a question?” Her gaze narrows. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“We are not, Ms. Reeves,” I say firmly. “We are simply following up with all his victims to determine if he or anyone else involved with him has made any sort of contact with you, particularly on Sunday or Monday of this week.”
The red drains from her face and she visibly gathers her composure. “I have not seen or heard from him or anyone related to him. I would have called the police if I had. As for my whereabouts, on Sunday I was at church until noon and then I went to have lunch with my family. My parents can confirm I was there until around four. After that I went home. I didn’t leave my apartment again until I came to work on Monday morning.”
“Can any of your neighbors confirm you were home?” Liv asks. “Maybe you walked your dogs?”
“My wife can confirm I was home. She was at home with me.”
I definitely didn’t find a marriage license. “May we have her name and a way to contact her?”
“Of course.” Reeves jots down a name and number on the back of one of her business cards and passes it to me.
“Thank you, Ms. Reeves,” Liv says as she pushes up from her chair. “Please let us know if you hear from Fanning or anyone involved in any way with him.”
I pass the woman one of my business cards. She stares at it and nods.
We leave. The receptionist watches until we’re out the door.
Once we’re in the Tahoe, I start the engine and see the receptionist locking the door and turning the open sign to closed.
“I guess we ruined her afternoon.” Liv fastens her seatbelt.
“Guess so.” I reach for the gearshift and a coughing jag hits me. It takes me half a damned minute to get the hacking under control.
Liv passes me her water bottle. “Damn, Walt. You need to get that cough checked out.”
I down some water and grunt. My chest feels as if I just hawked up a lung. “Allergies,” I lie.
Liv reaches for the card from Reeves that I dropped when the coughing started.
“Well, that’s interesting.”
I clear my throat as I back out of the parking slot. “What?”
“Based on the name Reeves gave us, her wife is another one of Fanning’s victims.”
Detective Olivia Newhouse
The house is quiet when I arrive. I breathe a little easier as I close the front door and disable the alarm. I couldn’t find my garage door opener so I had to leave my Subaru out front. Something else he won’t like.
It’s after seven. I can’t believe he’s not home.
I flip on the light and lean against the closed door. The crystal chandelier sends sparkles over the shiny marble floor and along the polished wood bannister that leads up to the second floor landing.
How can I possibly ever feel like this is home? I should have realized this life was a pipedream—something meant for a different kind of woman. One who adores the social life and plans months in advance to ensure no one misses a single one of her parties.
I can’t be that person.
My boxes. Eight large moving boxes picked up from a U-Haul store close to the farm sit to the right of the front door, near the grand entrance to the dining room. There are dozens more of these same boxes at the farm—at the only home I’ve ever known, the only place I’ve ever felt comfortable—waiting to be filled. At the house I’m supposed to be packing up to sell. How do you pack up a lifetime of living? Not just my life but the lives of my parents? My father bought the farm right after I was born. He and Mom decided they didn’t want their only child growing up in the city. I never attended public school. I was homeschooled until I went to college and even then I lived at home.
I push away from the door and approach the boxes. I packed each one myself. Brought them here jammed into Walt’s Tahoe and in my Subaru. David was pleased at first. Happy to see me taking steps toward our future, he’d professed.
I wonder now if that’s what I was doing? Or was I just trying to keep him happy? To keep him off my back? Either way, I promised him I would deal with the boxes. Since they’re well taped I’ll need a box cutter. I blink, inventory my level of exhaustion. Maybe not tonight, I decide. Tonight I’m too tired.
The distant throb in my skull has not evolved into another headache and for that I am extremely grateful. But I know from experience my luck won’t last. I can’t remember the last time I had clusters of migraines like this. The headaches usually came one at a time with weeks in between. This is new and agonizing territory.
But then I’ve never been pregnant before. Never been engaged or grieving the loss of the last of my family.
Slowly I climb the stairs. A long hot shower will help, I hope. I would really love a couple of beers but that’s not an option.
Shit. I forgot to pick up the prenatal vitamins.
I stall on the landing. So, I guess I’m really doing this?
Of course I am. I was raised Catholic. But am I capable of being a mother?
Somehow my feet continue moving toward the bedroom. As always the bed is made even though I crawled out of the tangle of linens without looking back. The duvet is plump and blinding white, made of the finest cottons and filled with lush down. If I fell onto it now
I would sink into its lavish depths. Pillows, their white cases banded with gold, are arranged three deep against the rich wood headboard. Beneath all that soft white are luxury sheets. Sleeping in this bed is like staying in a five-star hotel.
There are two housekeepers who come in everyday. My clothes—generally left in a wad in the hamper—are always laundered and hung in the closet. I walk through the room and into the bathroom, strip off my clothes and climb into the shower. There is no waiting for the water to get hot; it’s instantaneous.
I stand beneath the spray and the question haunts me again. Am I capable of being a mother?
Drugs have never been a part of my life. I drink too much beer sometimes, but not often. Don’t smoke. Though I attended church with my parents growing up, I haven’t been in years. Occasionally I swear like the proverbial sailor and am not known for my infinite patience. My housekeeping skills leave something to be desired. But I do eat reasonably healthy foods when I take the time to eat.
I stare at my flat belly. I should be eating regularly now.
However shocking and unexpected this reality, I have an obligation to do the right thing for me and for the baby.
Twenty minutes later with my hair dried and my favorite t-shirt and lounge pants on, I head downstairs to do something about dinner. I glance at the clock. Almost eight. Where is David?
I have to admit I’m enjoying the peace without him—how sad is that?
The sixty-inch built-in fridge is filled with offerings. Leftover pot roast looks good. I guess David had pot roast last night while I was lost to the migraine. That’s the other thing about living here. A cook comes most afternoons and prepares dinner, unless we’re scheduled to go out.
I place the clear plastic container on the counter and go still. If there is no dinner prepared for tonight, then there was an engagement on the calendar.
