by Rick Wayne
I parked on the street and walked up the drive, which was almost completely covered in fallen leaves. It was a proper autumn day—overcast and gloomy—and the leaves rustled about with the chill breeze. I looked at the front windows. I didn’t see any lights. I walked up and rang the doorbell. I knocked. I rang the doorbell again. After a few minutes, I walked through the leaves to the shrubbery under the front windows. The Venetian blinds had been partially turned. It was impossible to see anything in the dark house without getting very close. I leaned across the prickly bushes in my cheap suit and squinted. I could feel the points poking my skin through the thin fabric.
It was dark inside. No lights and no signs of movement. There were tribal masks on the living room wall. They covered it, in fact, spaced apart on a 5×3 grid. I could see a few singles hanging around as well: next to a bookcase, in the hall, above the phone stand. There had to be a couple dozen at least, all different, some painted, some plain.
“You’re not here to trim the hedges, are you? Dressed like that?”
One of the neighbors had walked into the doc’s yard. Mid-60s, I guessed, with the appearance and demeanor of a man approaching retirement. I saw a ladder and a rake and some cans of paint in his driveway. His house needed all three.
I brushed my hands together to get the dirt off and stepped forward through the downed leaves.
“Do you know the people who live here?” I asked.
“Not well, but we watch out for each other around here. Who are you?”
I pulled my wallet from my pocket and flashed the badge.
“What is that?” He squinted and took a step closer. “NYPD? Little out of your jurisdiction.”
“Any idea where they went?” I nodded to the leaves scattered across the driveway. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been coming or going much lately.”
“Vacation, I gathered. Can I ask what this is about?”
“Nothing much. I just wanted to talk to Dr. More about a few things.”
“Oh, Dr. More?” He seemed to relax. “He moved out a few months back. A young couple live there now. The Caldwells. Professionals, I think.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No kids,” he explained.
“I don’t suppose you know where I could find Dr. More?”
“I might still have his cell number . . .” He reached for his back pocket.
“It’s alright,” I said, turning for the car. “I have it.”
I glanced one more time at the dark house with the masks on the wall. The neighbor watched me leave.
I wasn’t back an hour before I heard it.
“Chase!” Lt. Miller called from the door of her office.
I sighed. I looked down at the open drawer. I was trying to surreptitiously pack its complete contents into a box under my desk. I moved the giant salamander claw out of the way and pushed the drawer closed with my shoe.
I wasn’t even all the way into her office before she asked, in full earshot of everyone, “Did you pay the Cormacks a visit?”
I stopped and leaned against the door frame. I didn’t want to sit down for that shit.
Miller saw my face and her head dropped. “You’re just trying to make all of this as difficult as possible, aren’t you?”
“Don’t worry. Mrs. Cormack made it clear I wasn’t welcome.”
“Nevertheless, she called Legal. They called me. I’m to advise you that you are not to speak to the Cormacks, for any reason, without counsel present.”
She didn’t say ‘or else.’ She didn’t have to.
“Do you understand?” she asked, as if she knew how stupid a question it was and was angry at me that I was making her ask it. “Not if they threaten you. Not if they invite you for tea. Not if their house is on fire. Got it?”
I nodded. “I don’t suppose it matters why I went.”
“No. It doesn’t.” She looked at me sternly. She’d just about used up all the patience she had left. “I have something else for you. Just came in.”
She moved to sit, which was my clue to follow her inside.
“You were right.” She handed me a report. “The blood from the driveway was your vic’s.”
“No offense, Lieutenant, but why is it all my evidence seems to be going to you first?”
“It’s a shame the house burned before anyone had a chance to search it.” She waited for a reaction. “Still, not a total loss. What about the victim’s last known address? Find anything?”
“Maybe. Supposed to be getting some video in. I figure it’s 50/50 whether they have anything from a year ago.”
“I’d like to see it.”
I nodded. “Sure.”
Apparently I was being micromanaged. My boss, it seems, was my new partner.
“You said in your notes that the victim’s car had been hastily packed. Going somewhere in a hurry?”
“Seemed like it.”
“Abusive ex? She tries to get away and he finds her?”
“Bit married to the job, according to the coworkers. No one knew of any boyfriends. But maybe. There’s something odd, though.”
“Just one thing?” she joked.
“She was supposedly a doctor, but I can’t find a record of that anywhere. Not college, not medical school. Nothing.”
“Well, keep running it down.”
“Of course.”
“And I still need that injury report from a couple weeks ago—that business with your leg and all that.”
“Is that really a priority right now? I got eight bodies on the board.”
“It’s a liability thing.”
“And it’s more important to the guys upstairs that I waive my right to sue than that I find a murderer.”
“Just write the damned report.”
“Right.”
“You know, it’s funny.”
“What’s that?”
“Every time I think your goose is cooked . . .” She shook her head. “You’re lucky, Chase. Or else you’re so damned good we can’t tell the difference. Sometimes I honestly don’t know which. A dozen officers donated an afternoon to canvass that stretch of drainage from the overflow to the other side of the freeway. A dozen men and women went through that neighborhood and came away with nothing. You go for a walk and snag both the victim’s car and the crime scene, like magic.”
I turned my head as if to say “ain’t it though?”
“And then it burns to the ground.” She waited a polite moment to see if I’d add anything. I didn’t.
“Let me know when the video comes in.”
I nodded. “Will do.”
I went back to my desk and brought up the Sacchi file again. I no longer had access. I logged in as Hammond. He hadn’t bothered to change his password. I was still going through it, looking for a current location, when Lt. Miller left for the evening. It wasn’t until I heard her turn off the light and lock her office door that I realized she and I were the only ones left on the floor. I think she’d been waiting for me.
“Tell me you’re working on that report,” she said from across the room.
“Almost done,” I lied.
She fixed her purse on her shoulder and lifted her briefcase and walked out. I heard her keys jingle in the hall. I was alone. It was when I was alone, and only then, that I could very occasionally hear the muffled shouts, as if through a heavy gag.
I kicked the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet. “Shut up.”
At some point, the lights over my head shut off, leaving my computer screen and a handful of others as the only light in the long room. And of course the exit sign. It took some time, but eventually I found what I was looking for.
I heard muffled sounds from the drawer again and raised my foot to kick it. But it wasn’t shouts this time. It was laughter.
The dust from the road trailed my car like a long plume of smoke. The tires jiggled over gravel as my phone announced my arrival at my destination with a soft chime. I slowed and turned into a wide lot of pa
tchy grass fenced by irregular trees and shrubs. At the center was a silver-sided trailer home surrounded by a wooden-slat fence. All manner of wards hung from it: dreamcatchers, old Dutch barn hexes, ankhs, crystals, horseshoes, bunches of dried wildflowers, rabbits’ feet, and crosses made from alderwood twigs bundled with twine, along with the odd wind chime or spinning windmill.
The fence leaned in spots as it traced a rough oval shape around the trailer at the center, leaving a small yard on all sides. The slats looked like remaindered pallet wood and were bound by wraps of wire. Only a few were large enough to be driven into the ground. All in all, it wouldn’t have stopped a child from pushing in, let alone a thief. But then, that’s what the dogs were for—a dozen or so I guessed, judging from the noise. They had gathered at the fence gate and barked and howled over each other as I got out of the car. There was a whole mess of them, all slobber and wags.
“Alright, alright!”
A middle-aged woman, skinny and tired, appeared in the open door to yell at the pack. The trailer home opened onto a tiny deck, barely big enough for the old round-topped grill that sat there, but it was a good four feet off the ground, meaning the woman could see me over the fence clear as day. Hanging from the sides of the trailer were the same menagerie of wards as on the fence, including a few dusty mirrors.
I raised a hand in greeting. It was all I could do over the noise. The woman eyed me from the porch as the dogs quieted down.
“You the woman from New York?” she called.
I nodded. I recognized her. She hadn’t aged particularly well. She was skinnier than I remember, and her sandy hair needed a good wash, as did the gray sweat pants she wore. But then, with that many dogs, I’m sure laundry was a never-ending chore.
“It’s not locked.” She nodded to the metal gate that held the pack at bay. “But you might wanna be careful of Vera.” She nodded again toward the back of the yard.
Standing there was without a doubt the largest dog I’ve ever seen—long-haired and furry with a full white-and-gray coat and very alert eyes. Her tail was up and not wagging, but her posture wasn’t threatening as much as curious, like she wasn’t sure what to make of me yet.
I slipped through the gate sideways so as to not let any of the occupants out and greeted as many of them as I could. They pushed against me as they moved about, tails slapping my legs. My boots were covered in dirty paw prints and I got hair all over my slacks. But Vera didn’t move. She kept her alert, watchful pose.
The thing about big dogs is that you can’t be afraid, and you can’t inspire fear either. After walking a few steps toward her, I knelt to her height and let her come the rest of the way. If she wanted. I held up my hand for her to sniff. Some people forget that vision isn’t a dog’s primary sense like it is for us.
Vera sniffed me.
And that was it. She walked back, turned three times, and plopped back down on the dirt with a grunt and yawned.
I stood.
“Huh. I’ve never seen that before,” her owner said from the door.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Some asshole up north thought it would be cool to cross a captive wolf with a giant Alaskan malamute. Then he was surprised when she turned out to be a predator and not a 180-pound lapdog.”
“A hundred and eighty pounds?” I asked. I looked down at my silent friend. If she went up on her hind legs, she would’ve been a head taller than me.
“Vera doesn’t take to anyone.”
“Well, I’ve always been good with animals. Dogs especially.”
“I guess so. Why don’t you come on up?”
I walked up the stairs and through the squeaky screen door. The interior reeked of stale cigarette smoke. There was a small TV on the counter near the sink. It was turned on but the sound was low. There was a shallow fridge next to me and a closet-sized bathroom just past the pantry. There were a few articles of clothing on the floor, and more than a couple mirrors hanging about. But other than that, it was tidy. I saw several ash trays but no alcohol. Whatever else she was, Bea Goswick didn’t seem to be much of a drinker. Which was too bad. I could’ve used one. Technically, I wasn’t on duty. Not so technically, I wasn’t even supposed to be there.
“Any trouble finding the place?” she asked. “Phone apps have been known to send people to the other side of the county.”
“Nope,” I said, standing in front of the door. “Brought me right here.”
She looked me over.
“That’s a lot of dogs,” I said.
“Yeah.” She let out a single laugh.
“Strays?”
“Sort of. I work at a shelter.”
“Ah. Rescues then.”
She nodded. “Most of them. You know how it goes. It was either come here or be put down. I guess that makes me your stereotypical bleeding heart.”
“Must be a lot of work, that many animals. Expensive, too.”
“It’s worth it. They keep an eye on things. Keep me safe. Nothing gets by that many ears and noses.”
“I can see that. I bet they could wake the dead when they all get going.”
“Don’t have to wake them. They just have to scare them away. What can I do for you, Detective?”
“I don’t know if you remember me. I was—”
“I remember.”
She sat down on the cushioned bench that ran around the kitchen table, attached by post to the floor. She slid to the back and picked up her lit joint from the aluminum ash tray.
I stood by the door. “I received a package recently. Ostensibly mailed from your old address in Floral Park.”
“Is that so? From my unit?”
“From the Sacchis’.”
I watched Bea closely as I spoke. Her reaction was about what I expected—a little bit surprised but not so much as to suggest she ever believed the girl was actually dead.
“I see. Have you found her? Or is that classified or whatever?” She tapped the ash off the end.
“The NYPD doesn’t handle state secrets.”
“Yeah, but you guys have rules and stuff. Legal things you have to worry about.”
“We haven’t found her, no. But I’d like to.”
“Oh?” She snuffed her joint in the ash tray as if just remembering I was a cop. Not that I could’ve arrested her in Ohio. “Why’s that? She’d have to be, what now? 22? 23? If she made it this long, then she’s able to take care of herself, don’t ya think?”
I nodded. “But she still has a mental handicap.”
“Not that it made a difference,” Bea objected. “Not where I could tell.”
“You really think she’s been looking after herself this whole time?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. Can’t say I care, to be honest.”
That surprised me. “Why’s that?”
She shrugged. That was it.
“Does the name Amber Massey mean anything to you?”
She shook her head.
“What about Palmer Bell?” I asked. “Keep in touch with her?”
She sat back and studied me, like she wasn’t sure what I was after and how she fit into it. She shook her head. She was silent in a way that made it clear nothing else was forthcoming.
“You’re not worried about her either?” I asked.
“Not anymore.”
“Why do you say that?”
She took a deep breath and sighed. “Because if you guys can’t find her, then she’s probably dead.”
“Her and not Alexa? How can you be sure?”
“I didn’t say I was sure. I said probably. I said back then you guys had it wrong. You and that other guy. What was his name?”
“Detective Hammond.”
“Yeah. I told you, but it was clear you both had made up your mind from the start.” She shook her head at the table. She was jittery. Her fingers moved up and down rapidly. “Dom loved Palmer. He called her Pixie. She kinda looked like one, all of five-foot-two and those ears sticking out.”
“When I talked to you before,” I said, “you’d mentioned she’d warned you to mind your own business. To stay away from her family.”
“She warned me to stay away from Alexa. But I told you then, she wasn’t threatening me. I knew you didn’t believe me. I knew it then. I told her as much before the trial.”
“If it wasn’t a threat, then why warn you away?”
“To protect me.”
“Protect you? From who?”
“Look. It was a long time ago. And it was never any of my business to begin with. I ain’t got not food, so unless you wanna come with me to the store . . .”
“You were there, Ms. Goswick, which makes you a witness.”
“Bea,” she corrected me.
“You’re a witness,” I repeated, “whether you want to be or not. You. Not me. A young woman is missing. Your friend was tried for it.”
“Who’s fault is that?”
“You don’t wanna talk to me,” I said, “that’s fine. That’s your right. But then don’t turn around and blame us for getting things wrong. We weren’t there.”
“Something wasn’t right with Alexa!” she yelled out of the blue. It was a horrible overreaction, like it had been building for a long time. “Alright? Is that what you want me to say? That girl was just wrong. And Pixie knew it.”
“What do you mean wrong?”
“It’s like—” She struggled for the words. “I dunno. The faces she’d have or whatever—when you’d walk in or glance over to her when she thought no one was paying attention. They weren’t faces a child would make.”
