by Shari Lapena
“See you there in fifteen minutes?”
“Okay,” Raleigh says.
“I’ll be wearing a red jacket and I’ll have my laptop with me, obviously,” she says.
Raleigh hadn’t even thought to ask how he’d recognize her. But she’ll be watching for him, and teenage boys don’t really hang out in those kinds of coffee shops where his mom and her friends go.
Now that he’s made the appointment, he’s a little nervous. He’s not really used to hiring out his services, but he’s done a couple of small jobs before. He’s never sure what to charge. But it should be easy enough. Sometimes all these housewives need to learn to do is turn the computer off, wait ten seconds, and turn it on again.
He grabs his jacket and heads for the coffee shop.
* * *
—
Webb regards Paul Sharpe, sitting across from him at the interview table. Sharpe is perfectly still. He doesn’t pick up the water from the table; maybe he doesn’t want them to see his hands shaking. “Thanks for coming in,” Webb says. “You’re here voluntarily, you can leave at any time.”
“Sure.”
Webb doesn’t waste any time. He tilts his head at Sharpe doubtfully. “You know, I’m not buying it.”
“Not buying what?” Sharpe says. He folds his arms across his chest defensively.
“That you were at your aunt’s that Friday night.”
“Well, that’s where I was,” Sharpe says stubbornly, “whether you believe it or not.”
“We went to see your aunt,” Webb says. He lets a moment go by. “She wasn’t able to confirm that you were there that night.”
“No surprise there. I told you she didn’t have a clue,” Sharpe says. “She has dementia.”
“You say you got home quite late. Late enough that your wife was already asleep. Do you usually spend such a long time with your elderly aunt?”
“What is this? Am I a suspect?” Paul asks.
“We’d just like to clarify a few things.” He rephrases the question. “How long do you usually spend with your aunt?”
Sharpe exhales. “It’s a fairly long drive, and I don’t go very often, so when I do I tend to stay a few hours. She’s always asking me to do things for her, fix this and that. It usually takes awhile.”
“It’s just that—I’m afraid it puts you in the area where Amanda’s car was found,” Webb says, “at around the time she is believed to have been murdered. And because your cell phone was turned off, we don’t know where you were.”
“I told you why I turned it off. My battery was dead. I had nothing to do with Amanda Pierce.”
“You were seen in her car, arguing with her, just days before she disappeared.”
“You know why I was speaking to her,” Sharpe says. “I told you the truth. I’m not the one who was having an affair with Amanda Pierce.” He seems rattled.
“Do you know that area?” Webb asks. “Where her car was found?”
“I suppose so.” He hesitates and then adds, “We have a cabin out there, on a small lake.”
Webb raises his eyebrows. “You do?”
“Yes,” Sharpe says.
“Where, exactly?”
“It’s at Twelve Goucher Road, Springhill.”
Moen writes it down.
“How long have you had this cabin?” Webb asks.
Sharpe shakes his head, as if to show him how ridiculous he thinks this line of questioning is. “We bought it when we were first married, about twenty years ago.”
“Do you go out there much?” Webb asks conversationally.
“Yes, we go on the weekends, in good weather. It’s not winterized.”
“When was the last time you were out there?”
“My wife and I went out a couple of weekends ago, October seventh and eighth, to start closing it up.”
“Do you mind if we have a look at it?”
Sharpe seems to freeze.
“Do you mind if we take a look?” Webb repeats. As the silence lengthens, he says, “We can always get a warrant.”
Sharpe considers, looking back at him stonily. Finally he says, “Go ahead. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
When Paul Sharpe has left, even unhappier than when he came in, Webb turns to Moen; she raises both eyebrows at him.
“Lots of people probably have cabins out that way,” Moen says.
“I’m sure they do,” Webb agrees, “but I want to get a look at this one.”
Moen nods.
Webb says, “He has squat for an alibi. Maybe he’d arranged to meet her at his cabin. The family wasn’t going up that weekend. He had the story for his wife—the aunt called him, begging for a visit. If it’s true, why did he go this time? He usually didn’t. Why did he turn off his phone?” He adds, “And that cabin isn’t very far from where she was found. He knows the area. He would know where to dump the car.”
“He would,” Moen agrees.
Webb considers. “In the meantime, let’s get Larry Harris in here and confront him with this surveillance footage.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Olivia grips the steering wheel tightly as she drives over the bridge, out of the city. She’s going to visit her husband’s aunt Margaret. She knows where she lives. And she hasn’t seen her in a long time.
* * *
—
Raleigh saunters up to the door of the Bean, trying to look like a techie on the way to see a client. But he feels like a teenager meeting somebody else’s mother. He doesn’t feel confident at all. He’s only sixteen. He reminds himself that he can probably fix her computer and get out of there within fifteen minutes. Then he can tell his mom and she’ll be happy that he did something useful and maybe he can broach the subject of getting his phone back.
He steps inside and immediately sees an older, blond woman in a red jacket waving at him. Ugh. Embarrassing. He quickly walks over and sits down across from her. He takes in the laptop—it’s a Dell Inspiron, pretty basic.
“Hi, Raleigh,” she says. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He nods awkwardly and says, “Hi.”
“I’m Mrs. Torres,” she says.
Looking at her more closely, he can see that she’s older than his mom. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks, gesturing at the laptop.
“I can’t get it to connect to the internet anymore.” She flicks her hand at the machine in frustration.
He pulls the laptop closer to him and looks at it. He quickly sees that it is in airplane mode. He hits the key with the little airplane on it. The internet connects to the wi-fi of the coffee shop automatically. “You had it on airplane mode,” he says, stifling a smirk. Jesus, Raleigh thinks, it’s like taking candy from a baby.
“Oh, my goodness, is that all it was?” the woman says.
“That’s that, then,” Raleigh says, feeling both relieved and disappointed there wasn’t more wrong with the laptop. He can hardly expect to be paid for that.
“Hang on a minute, Raleigh,” she says.
He notes a sudden change in her tone of voice and is momentarily confused. She’s holding a twenty in her hand, but she’s not offering it to him. Now she leans closer. Her smile is still there, but it’s changed, it’s not genuine. She lowers her voice and says, “You broke into my house.”
Raleigh’s face feels hot. His mouth has gone dry. It can’t be the woman with the baby. This woman is too old. He doesn’t know what to do. A long moment passes and then he realizes that he must deny it. “What?” His voice is a dry croak. He clears his throat. “No, I didn’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But he knows he’s not convincing. He looks guilty as hell. Because he is guilty as hell.
“Yes, you did. You snuck in and snooped around my house, and in my computer, and I don’t like it.”
“Why would I do that? Why do yo
u think it was me? I never broke into your stupid house,” he says, like a terrified child. He is a terrified child.
“I have no idea. You tell me. What were you looking for, exactly?”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t me. I don’t do that kind of stuff.”
“You can deny it all you want, but I’m onto you, Raleigh.”
He has to know how big a problem he’s got here. “Maybe somebody broke into your house, lady. But what makes you think it was me?” Raleigh sputters, trying to keep his voice low.
“Because I know your mother wrote those letters.”
“What letters?” He’s thinking fast.
“The letters of apology your mom wrote about you breaking into our houses. I got one of them. So I know it was you.”
Raleigh feels a growing terror. She must be the one who spoke to his mom. His fingerprints are all over her house. And he’s just handled her laptop. Fuck. With a sudden, desperate bravado, he leans over the table toward her and speaks very clearly. “I was never in your house. Ever. You can’t prove it. So back off and stay out of my way.” He can’t believe he just spoke that way to an adult. He stands up. “I’m going.”
She calls out after him, “This isn’t over!”
He can feel other people’s startled eyes on him as he strides out of the coffee shop, his face burning.
* * *
—
It’s about an hour’s drive to Aunt Margaret’s place, worse in traffic. But it’s Sunday afternoon, and the traffic is light. As she drives, Olivia thinks about how pointless this trip probably is. Margaret won’t remember if Paul visited her that night. She almost turns around and goes back home.
But something keeps her driving forward along the highway and into the Catskills, and soon she arrives in Berwick. Margaret’s house is a small bungalow, not as tidy as it used to be, but Margaret can’t do much anymore. Olivia parks in the empty driveway—Margaret had given up her car a couple of years earlier—notices the fading paint, and knocks firmly on the front door. She wonders if anyone else will be there.
For a long time, nothing happens. She rings the doorbell and knocks again. She has a terrible vision of Margaret perhaps lying on the floor with a broken hip, unable to get to the door. She feels a sudden shame that she’s taken so little interest in Paul’s aunt’s well-being, so busy with her own life. How often do people come to help her? Does she even have an alarm to use if she falls down?
Finally the door opens, and Margaret stands there blinking at her in the sunlight. “Olivia,” she says, in a weak, wavering voice. Her face breaks into a slow, surprised smile. “I . . . wasn’t . . . expecting . . . you . . .” she says, out of breath after the effort of getting to the door.
It must be a good day, Olivia thinks. She knows the dementia comes and goes, that some days her head is clearer than others. “I thought you might like a nice visit,” Olivia says, entering the house. “Paul wanted to come, but he couldn’t today,” she says.
The old woman totters into the living room and sinks slowly into her rocking chair. She has the TV on low, with captions running along beneath. She reaches laboriously for the remote and turns it off. Now that she’s here, Olivia is engulfed with sadness. That life comes down to this. This loneliness, this waiting—for suppertime, for a visitor, for death. Olivia sits down on the sofa, turned toward Margaret. The air is stuffy and she longs to open the windows, but thinks Margaret probably wouldn’t like the draft. “Can I make you some tea?” she asks.
“That would . . . be . . . lovely . . .” the old woman answers.
Olivia makes her way into the kitchen and fumbles around looking for the tea things. It doesn’t take long. The kettle is on the stove, the tea bags are on the counter, and she finds the mugs in the first cupboard she opens. There’s a carton of milk in the refrigerator. She sniffs it, and it seems okay. In fact, the fridge seems relatively well stocked.
When it’s ready, she takes the tea out to the front room. “Tell me who you have coming in to help you,” Olivia says. She listens patiently while Margaret tells her about her arrangements, and how she hopes she gets into assisted living soon.
“I imagine you like to have visitors,” Olivia says.
“I have a few,” Margaret says. She names some friends who come regularly, if they can.
“And Paul comes to see you, sometimes,” Olivia says, feeling a twinge of guilt about what she’s doing.
“Not very often,” Margaret says darkly, the first hint of her petulant side. “I call him but he never comes.”
“I’m sure he comes as often as he can,” Olivia soothes.
“The police came.”
“Did they?” Olivia asks, alert. “What did they want?”
“I don’t remember.” She slurps her tea. “You should come more,” Margaret says. “You’re good company.”
“You probably don’t remember the last time Paul was here,” Olivia says.
“No,” she says. “My memory isn’t very good, you know.”
Olivia’s heart sinks.
Margaret says slowly, “That’s why I keep a diary. I write in it a little every day, to keep my mind sharp. The doctor said it would be good for me.” She points at a leather journal, peeking out from underneath the newspaper on the coffee table. “I write in it a little bit every day, the weather, who came to visit.”
Olivia feels her heart begin to beat painfully. “What a good idea. When did you start to do that?”
“A while ago.”
“Can I have a look?” Olivia asks. She must see what she wrote for September 29. Margaret nods, and Olivia leafs through the pages, hoping to find the relevant date. But the diary is a mess. It’s mostly blank, words scrawled in a shaky hand in the middle of the page, some random dates, but nothing makes any sense. Barely a coherent sentence anywhere.
“Could you get us some more tea, Ruby, dear?” the old woman asks.
TWENTY-SIX
Webb decides that Larry Harris doesn’t look as confident in casual clothes. When Webb saw him last, he was still in a suit, his jacket off, his tie loosened—an executive back from a business trip. Today he’s wearing jeans and an old sweater, and he doesn’t seem to have the same presence or authority. Or maybe it’s that he’s just not comfortable being brought in for questioning to the police station. That usually flusters people. Especially if they have something to hide.
Larry is staring at the table in the interview room. He has been read his rights. For now he has declined to exercise his right to an attorney.
“Larry, we know you were seeing Amanda Pierce.”
He closes his eyes.
“Did your wife tell you? What we have?”
He nods. Webb waits for him to open his eyes. Finally he does. He looks at Webb and says, “I saw her for a few weeks. We met sometimes at that hotel. I don’t know what she told her husband.” He flushes. “It was wrong, I know. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m not proud of it.”
“We have the dates on the surveillance video,” Webb says. “You saw her at the Paradise Hotel starting in July. You were with her there on the Tuesday before she disappeared, September twenty-sixth. No one saw her after the following Friday. So . . . what happened in that hotel room that night, Larry? Did she tell you it was over?”
He shakes his head firmly. “No, it was the same as usual. We were getting along fine.” He sits back in his chair, seems to deliberately assume a more open position. “Look, it’s not like we were in love. I wasn’t planning on leaving my wife for her or anything. She wasn’t putting pressure on me. It was just—physical. For both of us.”
“But now she’s dead,” Webb says.
“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” Larry says sharply. “Just because I slept with her doesn’t mean I killed her.”
“When was the last time you saw Amanda?” Webb asks.
“That night, at the hotel. She wasn’t temping at our offices that week. She was at some accounting firm, she told me.”
“When was the last time you spoke to her?” Webb asks. Larry hesitates briefly, as if considering a lie. “That was the last time I spoke to her,” he says.
Webb doesn’t believe him. He decides to let it go, for now. “How did you communicate with Amanda? Did you call her at home?” Webb asks. He knows he’s needling him.
“No, of course not,” Larry says, shifting uneasily in the hard chair.
“So how did you communicate?”
“Phone,” Larry answers sullenly.
“What phone would that be?” Webb asks.
“I had a separate phone, for her.”
“I see,” says Webb. “This would be an unregistered, pay-as-you-go, burner phone?” Larry nods reluctantly. “And did Amanda have a second, unregistered phone as well?”
He nods again. “Yes.”
Webb glances quickly at Moen. They haven’t found her burner phone. They found her regular cell phone in her purse, in the car. But no burner phone has turned up. They need to find that phone. He focuses in on Larry again. “Do you have any idea where it might be?”
“No.”
“And where is your burner phone now?”
“I don’t have it anymore.”
“Why not?”
“After Amanda . . . disappeared, I didn’t need it anymore. And I didn’t want my wife to find it.”
“How did you get rid of it?” Larry takes so long to answer, that Webb repeats the question. “How did you get rid of it?”
“I didn’t kill her,” Larry insists suddenly.
“What did you do with the burner phone?”
“I threw it into the Hudson,” he says nervously. “I went for a walk along the river one night and tossed it in.”
“And when was that?”
“It was about a week after she’d left. I mean—everybody thought she’d taken off on her husband.”
Webb stifles his frustration. He’ll never find that phone, or Amanda’s phone either. His bet is that she had it with her when she was murdered, and her killer got rid of it. Same as the murder weapon. He shifts gears. “Why can’t we find anybody who saw you at the resort on Friday afternoon? After you checked in, nobody saw you until around nine o’clock.”
