by E. C. Diskin
Hackett’s alarm began buzzing at seven, but he smacked the snooze button and put a pillow over his head to block out the light pouring in from the uncovered windows. He really needed to get some shades. He’d tossed those purple curtains Olivia had picked out into the trash as soon as he moved in five months ago. He’d taken everything from their house, even the stuff he hated—which was most of it, since she’d decorated without his input and ignored his opinions. But taking the stuff was punishment. This bed was the only thing he’d really liked. It was king-sized, and the mattress had that memory-foam stuff that oozed around him when he fell into it. But even the mattress sometimes failed to comfort him when he began thinking of it as an actual bed of lies.
The alarm sounded again and he grudgingly got up and headed for the shower. Bishop wanted him in by eight thirty. The phone rang while he was in the bathroom, but he let it go to voice mail. It was his mom, of course, given that it was a Tuesday, her day to check in with all the kids. She probably didn’t even expect him to answer at this point. He’d ignored her calls for months, though he had to make a decision soon. He’d never missed Christmas, but the thought of it still made him sick.
What did people do who didn’t have a family? Go to the pub? He didn’t know which option would depress him more. His whole life had centered around family—his parents, brothers, cousins, grandparents, in-laws, brothers of in-laws—for as long as he could remember: massive fifty-person gatherings for every holiday, birthday, engagement, baby, or even Little League game. But he couldn’t imagine sharing a meal, asking her to pass the potatoes, having a beer with him, or, worst of all, watching Donny playing with his brothers or running over to wrap his arms around his dad.
He shaved, dressed, and was out the door in twenty minutes. After grabbing a muffin and coffee at his daily pit stop, he drove to the station where Bishop was at his desk, ending a phone call.
“Sorry I had to get out of here early yesterday,” Bishop said. “Crisis at base camp.”
“Kids okay?”
“For now. No one’s burned down the house yet, if that’s what you mean. You find anything good yesterday?”
“I called the prison and talked to the person in the visitor’s center,” he said. “Cahill isn’t registered on their logs. No incoming mail from that name either.” He didn’t add that he’d then left the station and gone to Lisa Abbott’s house. He’d wanted to see Grace, and the more he knew he shouldn’t, the more tempted he was. He’d pulled up to the foot of her driveway and looked down the gravel path to that old house, silently praying that Grace would be okay. But when a curtain moved, revealing a figure backlit at the window, he’d driven off.
Bishop didn’t respond, his eyes rooted on a family photo. “You okay?” Hackett asked.
“Huh? Oh, sure.” He smiled. “Just tired. Sandy got home from the hospital at midnight, had a mini meltdown. It’s not easy, kid, losing a parent. I don’t care how old you are. And I hate seeing her so sad and there’s nothing I can do.”
Hackett withered inside; those words stung more than Bishop could know.
“Come on,” Bishop said, grabbing his coat.
They drove in silence to Cahill’s former work site while Hackett focused on the crumbling and abandoned barns along the way, neglected to the point of no return. The foreman they’d met with last week pointed them toward the management trailer. When they entered, a woman bent over some drawings at the table hollered at them to shut the door. The wind was whipping, making the twenty-degree air feel more like five. Hackett shut the door while Bishop asked for her boss, Joe McKenzie.
The woman, perhaps late thirties, looked up from her work, dropped her pen, and stood. She was disarmingly attractive and seemed to have mastered a sexy look for a construction site: tight jeans, “work” boots—like Timberland imitations with a little heel—and a long-sleeve thermal T-shirt that hugged her body, with a flannel shirt tied around her waist. She looked like she might model in carpentry catalogs as a side gig. She walked over to the officers and offered her hand. “That’s me, fellas.”
“Oh, excuse me,” Bishop said, flustered. “We assumed you were a man.”
The woman smiled, pointed toward the chairs facing her desk, and took a seat. “Yeah, I get that a lot. It’s Jo, as in JoAnne.”
Hackett grinned and watched Bishop fumble a bit as he sat.
“Sorry I couldn’t get to you earlier, fellas,” Jo said. “It’s a busy time here. We had a crisis at the site and it was all hands on deck. And I had to get the new guy up to speed on what Mike had been working on. You have any suspects yet?”
Bishop did all the talking, as usual. “There are some strong possibilities, but we’re trying to get the full picture of Mr. Cahill’s life. We want to be sure we’re not missing anything before we move forward.”
“Sure. What can I do to help?”
“Tell us what you know about him. Was he a good employee?”
“Oh, hell yeah. He worked for me on my last build too—a strip mall up in St. Joe that we did about two years ago—and this project is pretty big, as you can see.” She pointed at the posters lining the trailer wall—the current mass of steel beams and concrete pilings would one day become a twenty-story building. “So yeah, all in all, I’d say Mike’s worked hard for me for several years. He was a good man.”
“We found some drugs in his apartment.”
“Drugs? I don’t believe it. He’d have fallen off one of those risers and killed himself. What are we talking about?”
“Marijuana.”
The woman laughed. “Oh, I thought you meant drugs drugs. I don’t worry too much about a little pot smoking—no different than having a few drinks in my book, as long as you do it on your own time. No offense.”
“Sure. We don’t make the laws. Do you know if he had money trouble or was big into gambling? He didn’t seem to have very good credit and didn’t have any credit cards. Seemed to live exclusively on cash.”
“Well, that isn’t the norm, is it? I can’t imagine life without my Visa. But then again, that bill is the death of me every month. Maybe he was onto something.”
“So you don’t know about any money trouble?”
She leaned back then, lit a cigarette, and blew the smoke off to the side. “Nah.” On her desk sat an ashtray full of lipstick-covered butts. “He never asked for an advance or talked about payday loans, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Hackett asked the next question. “So, as far as you know, he was reliable, no money problems, nothing else?”
“Well, of course, he wasn’t a friend. He was an employee. I wasn’t his confidante, but yeah, he was reliable. He almost never missed a shift, and when he did, he even brought me a note from the doctor.”
“Did that happen recently?”
“Yeah, actually. It was just a couple of weeks ago.” She turned to a small cabinet and searched through her files. “It was a Monday. I know because we needed a big crew that day, and so I had to scramble a bit when Mike called in.”
“So he called in sick last Monday? December second. The Monday before he died. And he brought you a note the next day?”
“Yeah. He said he was sick, and maybe he could tell that I didn’t believe it. I mean, it’s not that he’d faked it before, but I knew a bunch of guys had stopped at The Rack on Sunday night, and I think I even wondered out loud if he’d simply hit it a little too hard. But when he came in on Tuesday, he brought a receipt for services from the urgent care. Must have been a bug or something.” She showed the officers the receipt.
“Could we take this with us?”
“Sure.”
Bishop stood and shook the woman’s hand. “Well, thanks again for your time, ma’am, and I apologize for the confusion. Thinking you were a man, I mean.”
She stood too. “Happens all the time. Construction isn’t exactly known as ‘women
’s work.’”
“Right.” Bishop turned away, blushing.
Hackett stood too. “Ms. McKenzie, do you ever go over to The Rack? Seems like the crew all goes there pretty regularly.”
“Sure, I need a drink every now and then. But I tend not to hang out with my men. Conflict of interest, you know.”
Hackett nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”
Back in the squad car, Hackett turned to Bishop. “I take it you think she’s hot.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you kidding? You were like a twelve-year-old boy standing before the captain of the cheerleading squad.”
Bishop chuckled. “Well, shit, she was a knockout, right? Not exactly what I expected. I felt like I was Tim ‘the Tool Man’ Taylor.”
“Hey, I know that one—Home Improvement.”
“Thank God. You had to be alive for that show. I think it’s still on in syndication,” Bishop said as he grabbed some chew from the glove box.
“Yeah. Got a thing for blondes, eh?”
“Maybe just that one.” He turned the key in the ignition.
“Remember what you told me,” Hackett teased. “Don’t go clouding your judgment.”
“What are you saying, she’d be mixed up with Cahill? She’d be the woman in those naked photos?”
“It’s possible, right? Or at least the woman at the bar. She’s got the hair. And she’s a smoker.”
“Fuck,” Bishop said before spitting into his cup. “You’re ruining my buzz here, kid.”
They went from the site straight to the urgent care facility in Bridgman. The receptionist took them to the break room, to the doctor, a gangly middle-aged man with thin wire-framed glasses, who’d been on duty when Cahill had come in. They exchanged pleasantries and offered an apology for interrupting his lunch. “We’re here about a patient who was here a couple of weeks back. Hoping you could share the nature of his visit.”
“Got a warrant?” the doctor asked, chewing a mouthful of sandwich.
Bishop smiled. “Not in hand, but we can get one if necessary. I thought you might help us out—since there’s no expectation of privacy in this case.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because the patient is dead.”
“Oh,” the doctor said. “Do you think it’s related to his visit here?”
“Not unless you all prescribed a shotgun to the chest.” Bishop smirked.
“Oh Lord,” the doctor said.
“We’re piecing together his last days,” Hackett said.
The doctor stopped at the laptop station in the hall, pulled up the record, and read through it briefly.
“Okay. I remember this one. He came in with his girlfriend at, like, six in the morning. She’d found him asleep in his car in front of their house. He’d been gone all night. He was slurring, not making sense, nauseous. She was worried about drug use. So we got him some fluids and tested his blood. He tested positive for alcohol and marijuana. He couldn’t remember what he’d done the night before. Suffered a few hallucinations while he was here. Got a little crazy even—swatting the staff, telling the nurses to get off of him. We sedated him and then he was okay.”
“Do you remember what the girlfriend looked like?” Bishop asked.
“Pretty girl. Maybe twenty or so. Long, wavy brown hair, slim. Here,” the doctor said, pointing to the screen. “She signed the intake form. Grace Abbott.”
“Okay, great. And what did his girlfriend think happened?”
“She knew he’d gone to a bar with friends after work. That was the last they knew. She said he had planned to come home early but he never did. Till she found him in the morning.”
“But you didn’t think too much of it?”
“Not really. I mean, his levels were low, not even legally drunk. It was odd not to remember anything, but everyone reacts to drugs differently. Perhaps he’d never smoked marijuana before. Or maybe it was laced with something we didn’t detect. People get whatever they want these days. It’s the age of the Internet.”
They thanked the doctor and headed back to the car. “Well, that’s interesting,” Bishop said.
“What do you make of it?”
“He was a regular user and he’d only had a couple of drinks at the bar. Something went on with that blonde.”
“You think she did something to him?”
“Maybe they did drugs together. I wanna find that girl.”
“Maybe we should focus on that waitress from the casino. It could have been her. And she might have been the last person to see him. No one has talked of seeing him after the casino on Friday, and she’s now skipped town.”
Bishop shook his head. “Grace probably saw him on Friday night; she just isn’t saying.”
“You mean isn’t remembering.”
“Whatever.”
“I don’t think Grace has given us any reason to doubt her. She’s trying to help. She’s obviously been badly hurt. And yet you’re acting like she’s faking all this.”
“Hey, I didn’t say that. And why do you sound so protective? I’m just stating the facts.”
Hackett opened his mouth to respond but thought better of it.
NINE
LISA CALLED TO CHECK ON GRACE around lunchtime and reminded her to take her medicine. Grace stared at the little pile on the counter. “Yes, got it.”
“And don’t forget to eat—I made chili, your favorite.”
“Sure.”
“Remember, the doctor said you need to rest. What have you been doing?”
“Nothing,” she snapped.
“What’s wrong?” Lisa asked.
“Nothing!” She didn’t know what was wrong. But Lisa’s voice and those little Post-it notes were smothering.
When they hung up the phone, Grace looked at the pills and the time on the clock. She pushed them aside. She was finally starting to feel clear. She was hungry too, but the thought of ground beef and beans and spices she couldn’t even taste wasn’t appetizing. She resented being told what she liked. She didn’t know what she liked anymore, but she didn’t want chili. She ate some Saltine crackers and a few slices of cheese while watching The Chew. The cohosts shared recipes and cooked and laughed. The banter felt familiar, and she relaxed into the chair.
Suddenly, she was watching a new program. She’d been in a trance. She hadn’t been listening or watching anything for who knew how long. She turned off the TV and heard a faint buzz, a vibration. She followed the noise to where her purse rested on the counter. As she searched the bag, the noise got louder. When she finally found the cell phone, it had stopped, but she had messages. She knew which buttons to press. It seemed so odd that she remembered technology but not people.
The first message was from a man named Dave. He wanted to see how Grace was feeling. Everyone at the restaurant had heard about the accident, he said. They were all thinking of her, and her check was ready. “We’d love to see you,” he said. She could pick up the check or he could mail it. She just needed to let him know.
Grace called the number and was startled by the loud reply on the first ring, “Brewster’s, can you hold, please?” The woman put her on hold before she could respond. Grace waited, repeating the restaurant’s name in her head, the sound of Italian music in her ear. When the woman returned to the line, Grace asked for their location.
“We’re on Merchant in New Buffalo, right off Whittaker.”
Grace hung up before the woman could recognize her voice.
“Brewster’s,” she repeated. She was leaning against the counter, thinking about it, when she spotted the key—a single key on a ribbon hanging on a hook by the door. She got closer. The key was branded FORD. Grace looked out the window at the old pickup truck off to the side. A Ford. She looked back down at her phone’s apps and found the map function. Don’t drive,
her doctor’s voice rang out in her head. But she let go of the counter and walked across the room as if to prove it to herself. She was finally feeling clearheaded. “I’m fine. I feel better,” she said out loud.
This house felt like solitary confinement. Going to the restaurant might spark more memories. Excited by the thought of getting out, of driving down that gravel road to a place filled with people who might be her friends, she grabbed her coat and purse, put on the rubber boots by the door, and carefully walked to the old truck.
When she climbed into the cab, the smell of vinyl hinted at times past, like a perfume. She closed her eyes, picturing little bare feet on the dashboard, toes tapping to a Bruce Springsteen tune. What was it? “‘Born to Run,’” she said, smiling. Her dad had loved Bruce. But as she sat in the seat, looking out at the house, the yard, the woods, her smile faded—that was all she knew. She turned the key in the ignition, but the engine only made a painfully weak noise before the silence returned. She tried again, pumping the gas pedal. It didn’t sound good.
She looked back at her phone to check the mileage on the map. It was a fleeting thought: to walk. But it was twenty miles. The land was covered in a thick, white blanket, it was freezing, and every step jostled her sore ribs. She was trapped. Her excitement collapsed, as if someone had opened the gates to freedom and when she ran for them, he’d slammed them shut and laughed in her face. She closed the map app, defeated, when she noticed another message in her voice mail.
With the speaker function engaged, a woman’s voice filled the cab. “This is Dr. Newell’s office. The doctor wanted me to remind you that she hasn’t seen you now in two weeks, and we wanted to be sure you’re okay and that you’ll still be coming on Friday. Please call if you need to reschedule.” The woman left a number, and Grace immediately called back. Dr. Newell had been the name on that Xanax prescription.
When the receptionist answered, Grace gave her name and explained that she’d been in an accident, had been in the hospital, and was anxious to meet with the doctor. The woman offered to squeeze in a visit the following morning between appointments. Grace noted the address. Perhaps the doctor would be able to fill in some of her blanks.
