A Long Way Down

by Randall Silvis

  A few seconds later his wife appeared at the door. “In that case, they can stay awhile!”

  She was a tall, stately woman, nearly as tall in white espadrille wedge sandals as her husband. She wore a brightly flowered halter-style maxi dress, with large red hoop earrings and a triple-strand necklace of cherry-red beads. She stepped outside and threw her arms around Jayme. “Akeyi, my darling. Welcome!”

  She squeezed her hard for a moment, then drew away, but held to Jayme’s hands. “What a beauty you are! Look at this hair! You deserve a better man than this scoundrel,” she said, and jerked her head toward DeMarco.

  “Miss Veronica,” he said. “It is so nice to see you again.”

  She released Jayme and embraced DeMarco. “You are the only person who doesn’t call me Vee,” she said. “And I’ve always loved that about you.”

  “I can call you Veronica,” Ben said.

  “No thank you. It’s special for Ryan.”

  Ben turned to Jayme. “I think she wishes she’d married him instead.”

  “Not true,” Vee said. “I am very happy with the choice I made.” Again she took Jayme’s hand. “I lack the necessary resources to contend with a man like yours. But I sense that you do not. I have never seen him looking so contented.”

  “Sometimes I wonder,” Jayme said. And Vee squeezed her hand.

  DeMarco said, “Could we stop talking about me, please?”

  “I second that,” Ben answered, and bumped his shoulder against DeMarco’s. “Can’t think of a more boring subject. How about a drink, Sergeant? Bourbon okay?”

  “Superlative.”

  “And for the ladies?”

  “The merlot, of course,” Vee said. “And, Jayme? We have just about every spirit known to man.”

  “Maybe some water or club soda? With lime or lemon if you have it.”

  DeMarco raised his eyebrows.

  She told him, “You have fun and relax tonight. I’ll drive us home.”

  After the pleasantries they moved to the spacious kitchen, where Jayme and DeMarco were seated at a marble-topped island to watch Ben assemble a cheese-and-fruit plate while Vee tended to the lamb curry and basmati saffron rice with peas and cashews. They talked about Vee’s parents’ migration from Haiti when Vee was barely three years old, and how Jayme had applied for acceptance to the state police academy “on a whim” four days after receiving her baccalaureate in psychology.

  Ben said, “Abnormal psychology, right? Which is how you ended up with him?”

  She nodded. “I studied him for my master’s thesis. He never knew he was my lab rat.”

  “And what did you learn?” Vee asked.

  Jayme smiled at DeMarco. Took his hand. “That some things will always remain a mystery.”

  The evening passed quickly. For forty-five minutes the couples traded stories about their pasts, always skirting delicately around any mention of Laraine or Baby Ryan. When Vee asked DeMarco how he was enjoying being back in his hometown, his hesitation before saying “It’s great” was just long enough to make Ben cock his head.

  “Not your city anymore, huh?” he asked.

  DeMarco shrugged. “I guess I’ve discovered that I’m not really a city kind of guy.”

  “Isn’t there anything you like about the city?” Ben asked.

  “Fewer insects,” DeMarco said, then thought for a moment, and added with a smile, “but more cockroaches. So that’s a wash.”

  Vee said, “I couldn’t live without my Rulli Brothers and Giant Eagle.”

  “And your Southern Park Mall,” Ben said. Then, to DeMarco, “So there’s no chance of you two moving back this way?”

  When DeMarco didn’t answer, Jayme said, “We might hit the road in the RV again. See what the rest of the world has to offer. Right, babe?”

  DeMarco nodded, but he had no idea what waited next for them. He only knew that every breath still felt a little too heavy, every room felt a little too small. Even a four-person dinner party made him claustrophobic. He finished his drink and declined a refill, and switched to sparkling water throughout the rest of the meal.

  When Vee rose to clear the plates, and Ben stood to help, Jayme insisted that he sit while she helped his wife clear the table.

  In the kitchen, with the dishwasher fully loaded, Vee slid a mango sorbet pie from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. “Would you mind pouring the coffee while I slice the pie?” she asked. Then, as Jayme was gathering fresh cups from the cupboard, Vee said, in a half whisper, “So how are you planning to get that man up to the altar?”

  Jayme chuckled and set the cups on the counter. She liked this woman. Liked her boldness and sense of humor. Liked her intelligence and style. She answered, “Bigamy is illegal in this state.”

  “Why are they still married after all these years?”

  “You know about the suicide attempt, right?”

  “Oh yes. Ben told me that same night he found out.”

  “Ryan wants a divorce. I think he’s just waiting until she’s healthier.”

  “That might be a long wait,” Vee said. “And until then, what?”

  “I guess we just keep on keeping on. We are talking about having a baby, though.”

  “Who’s talking?”

  “Me, mostly.”

  “Does he at least pay attention?”

  “It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

  Vee paused with the pie knife poised in the air, and gave Jayme a long look.

  Jayme said, “What?”

  “He’d better start listening. Am I right?”

  Jayme blushed. Said, “Is this a special kind of coffee? It smells really good.”

  “Direct trade coffee straight from the mountains. Grown in the shade. On the label it says, ‘Defense Against the Dark Arts.’ Fifteen dollars a pound for the beans. But worth every cent if it keeps the bad juju away.”

  Jayme grinned. “Do you still have relatives in Haiti?”

  “All over the place. Nieces and nephews by the score.”

  Jayme smiled, nodded, filled the last cup. She said, “Speaking of bad juju, Laraine showed up unannounced at the house the other day.”

  “Lordee, lordee. Lots of fireworks then, I bet.”

  “Surprisingly, not so much as a bottle rocket. Ryan was in the shower, so she had a quick look around and left.”

  “Like a scout before the frontal attack, sounds to me. Looking for the weak spot in the defenses.”

  “Maybe,” Jayme said. “I don’t know. Anyway, he called her afterward, and it turned out she knew a psychic who had a message for him from their son.”

  Vee stood up straight. “From their baby that was killed?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jayme said. “So yesterday we drove up to Erie and had a brief talk with Madame Lathea.”

  “He actually agreed to that? Oh my my my.”

  “The message was kind of a scolding,” Jayme told her. “He was supposed to quit acting like a baby and let go of all that guilt he has.”

  “’Bout time somebody told him that.”

  “He thinks it was Laraine’s doing. That she put Lathea up to it.”

  “The man doesn’t believe in spirits? After all he’s been through?”

  “That’s the thing,” Jayme said. “I think he really wants to. He’s had a couple of dreams about Ryan as an older boy.”

  Vee nodded to herself. “He does need to pay attention. When Spirit talks, you better listen. Otherwise, they’ll just go away and leave you to flounder in your own ignorance.”

  “So you believe that it can actually happen?”

  “That spirits talk to us? Honey, I don’t believe it, I know it. My own grandmother leaves shiny pennies lying around for me to find. Always heads up, every one of them. That’s how I know she’s still watching over me.”
>
  “I hope that’s true,” Jayme said. “I lost my grandmother not long ago.”

  “You didn’t lose her. There’s somebody with us all the time.”

  Jayme blinked. Smiled. Began setting the cups on the tray. “That’s a really nice way of thinking about it.”

  “Especially because that’s the way it is,” Vee said.

  * * *

  After devouring most of his pie, DeMarco asked Vee for permission to talk business for a while.

  “Thank you for holding out so long,” she teased. “I know it’s been difficult for both of you. Ben’s been sitting there all night looking like he has to pee.”

  DeMarco and Jayme took turns filling the sheriff in on their various conversations with Daksh Khatri, the commissioner and Griffin, Professor Gillespie, Samantha’s roommate and friends. Ben listened attentively until they finished. Then he nodded, and said, “Well, it’s interesting, for sure, that all four kids took Gillespie’s class. But it’s hardly incriminating.”

  DeMarco said, “Khatri makes five students. And Samantha makes six.”

  “And remember,” Jayme said, “Samantha’s course notebook has disappeared. The only one missing from her bookshelf.”

  Ben said, “Maybe she lost it a long time ago. Or lent it to another student who never gave it back.”

  “The room hasn’t been touched since she died. That’s two weeks of dust on the shelves. You can see it in the photo I took. The notebook should have been at the bottom of the stack, but it’s not. And there’s hardly any dust where it should have been. It was recently removed.”

  “Okay,” Ben said, “okay. Like I said, it’s an interesting coincidence.”

  “It’s a quadruple coincidence,” DeMarco told him.

  “But how does it lead to murder?” Ben asked. “How does it even suggest it? And what’s its relationship to Brenner and Hufford? A missing notebook. Six students who took the same course. I just don’t see the connection. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

  He delivered these statements with his head down, eyes on the edge of his dessert plate, the tip of his fork pushing a piece of pistachio from the pie crust back and forth.

  DeMarco said, “What’s going on, Ben?”

  Ben looked up, met DeMarco’s eyes. Smiled sheepishly. “Okay,” he said. “I have what, to me, feels like good news. But you two might not agree.”

  “Let’s hear it,” DeMarco said.

  “We can finally connect Costa to Talarico.”

  “How?” Jayme asked.

  “Actually, it was your idea about checking the library records. Olcott thought, why not try it for the Torso Murders? Did Talarico’s killer maybe do some research about the Torso Murders first? Before he did Talarico and his lawyer?”

  DeMarco said, “You’re saying Costa did?”

  Brinker nodded. “Of course this was before the internet got popular, and before the new library was built. But they still kept records. To check out a book, you wrote your name on a card. Had to take out a library card first if you didn’t have one. And believe me, it took some digging. But the records were still there, all packed away in the basement.”

  “And Costa researched the Torso Murders?”

  “Checked out two books. The only ones the library had on the subject.”

  “So what’s the personal connection?” DeMarco asked. “Costa’s to the vics?”

  “Through an old girlfriend. She was Talarico’s secretary at the time.”

  “Okay,” DeMarco said. “And?”

  “That’s about as far as we’ve gotten. Haven’t been able to locate her yet.”

  “Then you don’t have anything, Ben. Anybody in the world can check out a book. Even if the dates coincide, which I assume they do, reading isn’t a motive for murder. We learned that with Khatri. So Costa had an interest in the Torso Murders, plus his girlfriend worked for Talarico. Why are our links coincidences, and yours aren’t?”

  Ben looked at the palms of his hands, fingers spread. “All I’m saying—” he started, but DeMarco interrupted.

  “And besides, even if Costa was responsible for Talarico and Brogan, and it’s a big if, how does that tie him to Brenner or Lewis or Hufford? Your guys are still playing that angle, right? The same guy did all five?”

  Again the sheriff nodded. “I just wanted to let you guys know, is all. It’s a lead. More than we’ve had in a long time.”

  Jayme said, “You’re not suggesting we give up our leads, are you?”

  “I wouldn’t call them leads exactly,” Brinker said.

  “There is something funny going on with Gillespie and those kids,” she told him. “One of whom is the victim’s twin brother. Who has been anything but cooperative. Ditto Kaitlin Mahood. Both of them know something they haven’t told us yet.”

  DeMarco said, “1988 has absolutely nothing to do with now, Ben. You surely know that.”

  The sheriff wagged his head back and forth. He looked to his wife, who was regarding him with her head cocked, chin tucked, eyebrows raised: it was her careful what you say look.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “You guys keep doing what you’re doing. Just please try to wrap it up. Two special consultants don’t come cheap. And I have a fairly stingy budget to maintain.”

  DeMarco continued to frown while staring at a smear of yellow sorbet on his dessert plate. Then, remembering where he was, he smiled and looked up. “Miss Veronica,” he said. “This pie is wickedly good.”

  “I’ll send a couple slices home with you.”

  “Sheriff,” Jayme said, “we need a warrant to search Griffin’s room. The entire house, in fact.”

  “You want to search a county commissioner’s house?”

  “There’s something in that missing notebook that somebody doesn’t want us to see.”

  Ben leaned back in his chair. “Bring me something better than that,” he said, “and I’ll take it to the judge.”

  Fifty-Six

  “That was a pleasant evening,” Jayme said after buckling up.

  DeMarco inched the car out of its space in Ben’s driveway, made the turn, and eased onto the street. She told herself, He only drives this slow when he’s lost.

  “Should I not have mentioned the warrant?” she asked.

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know where to go without it.”

  “Back to the kids maybe? I know we can crack Becca. Probably Kaitlin too eventually. We haven’t even talked to Connor McBride yet.”

  “On the other hand…why would they kill their friend? That still bothers me.”

  “Maybe they’re covering for Gillespie.”

  “Why would they? And why would he kill Samantha? And why in the world would he kill Brenner and Hufford?”

  She had no answer, except to ask Why does any psychopath kill? But it didn’t need to be said. The truth was, she wanted to put Gillespie away for something. He made her skin crawl. But was that any different from Koenig and Fascetti wanting to see Costa locked up?

  “Do we really have to know that yet?” she asked. “Do we have to know why?”

  “What if Ben’s right and we’re barking up an empty tree?”

  “At least let’s keep at it until we know for sure that we’re wrong.”

  He nodded. Squinted into the darkness. And that was another thing he did when he was uncertain; he leaned forward, close to the steering wheel. It reminded her of the cartoon character Mr. Magoo, such an old memory. But an endearing one. Crotchety old Magoo, half-blind and hunched over the wheel of his antique Studebaker. Crotchety old DeMarco. Not so old, though. And not always crotchety.

  “Babe?” she said.

  He looked her way.

  “I love you with all my heart.”

  He nodded. “Me too.”

  “You love yourself with all your heart?”
>
  His mouth held a grimace, and for a moment he looked like a six-foot-tall baby with gas. She turned away, smiled sadly at the side window. Watched the darkness going past, the lights flicking by. The sky was black, every star smothered in dark clouds. “It’s going to rain tonight,” she said.

  He glanced at her again, hands tight on the steering wheel, brow furrowed, as if she had spoken in a language he didn’t understand. And she wondered, Is this the way it’s always going to be with us?

  She understood, probably better than he did, that he was suffering from PTSD because of Huston’s death, Bonnie’s slit throat, the murder of Huston’s family, and even because of the bullet DeMarco had fired into the murderer’s heart. She knew enough about his time in Panama and Iraq to know that he was haunted by those experiences too. And the death of his own son—how could he ever get over that? His mother’s suicide. The years of abuse heaped upon him by his father. Yes, she understood the mood swings, the lapses of attention, the insomnia, the cancerous guilt. But what about us? she wondered. Is this the best it’s ever going to get?

  Fifty-Seven

  DeMarco read only two brief passages that night, each written on a separate sheet of paper in one of Huston’s composition books. After reading the second one, he sensed a continuity in the pieces—not a unity of theme, but a unity of purpose, as if each was meant to tell him something important. Something he knew but had forgotten. Or something he needed to know.

  He read the first one again:

  My father used to tell me that nothing worth having comes easily. He probably didn’t realize that he was echoing similar pronouncements from the likes of Teddy Roosevelt, Booker T. Washington, and probably millions of other fathers before him. It can be a concise and effective admonition against the inherent laziness of a daydreaming boy. But it’s a lie.

  Many of the things most worth having arise spontaneously, through no effort at all, gifts we did not expect, blessings we might not deserve: a child’s laugh; a mother’s kiss good night; a father’s pat on the shoulder; a friendly dog’s wet nose pressed against your neck; a butterfly that lands on your knee while you sit reading in the sun; the bliss of your partner’s naked body against your own; birdsong; an old friend’s hug; sunrise; a summer rain; love; and on and on and on and on…