Idyll Hands

by Stephanie Gayle

  “They interviewed Donald,” he said. “More than once.” What he didn’t say was that the interviews occurred in May and in June. Before she’d read the diary and reported the violence he’d committed against her daughter. We had no record of an interview after June. What had happened?

  “They thought I was hysterical. Was making up accusations,” she said. “I’d already accused the pharmacist of being too interested in her.”

  “Pharmacist?” I asked.

  “Mr. Paxton.”

  “Ah, him,” I said. There had been a mention in the files. He’d been looked into and dismissed, right quick.

  “I didn’t know then about the abuse. If I had …”

  Lewis read the other pages.

  “What did you know about Donald Waverly?” I asked. “Where he lived? Worked? Family? Friends?”

  She gave us the information we already had about his job and where he lived. She thought he was from Vermont, originally, and that he had an older sister, Rose. “I think his parents were gone. An accident, maybe?”

  “What about friends?”

  She shrugged. “When they hung out in a group, it was mostly Lizzie’s friends and their boyfriends. I don’t recall anyone as being Donald’s friend. Of course, he was a bit older than them.”

  “Twenty-four,” Lewis said.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Dark hair, hazel eyes, and a slight cleft in his chin. He was vain about his hair. Wore it like Tom Wopat from Dukes of Hazzard. He had a large mark. Here.” She tapped by her left eye. “Chicken pox mark. Don’t you have a picture?”

  “Would you have some more pictures of Donald?” I asked, the “more” implying we had a picture, which we did not. “Maybe some candids?”

  She frowned. “In with Lizzie’s things, yes. They’re in San Antonio. I brought photos of Lizzie with me, for the service, but none that included him.” The word “him” was full of venom.

  “Maybe a friend could get them for you, send them on to us?” Lewis suggested. His voice was gentle but urgent, which made me think whatever he’d found in the diary had made him think Donald was our guy.

  “I suppose I could ask Patsy, if it would help.”

  “It would,” he said. “Very much.”

  “Did Donald mention where he planned to go when he left town, nine months after Elizabeth disappeared?” I asked.

  She grimaced. “He didn’t share his plans with me. And by that time, my marriage was breaking up. I wanted to hire a private investigator, and Mick wanted to start cleaning her room. Start boxing up Lizzie’s things. She’d been gone less than a year!”

  I could’ve told her it wasn’t an uncommon reaction. Parents’ decisions made after their child goes missing aren’t always the same. Some parents can’t stand to see the items that were touched daily by their missing child and want them gone from sight. Others preserve rooms like museum exhibits—nothing changed, not even after decades when the child would have outgrown the clothes and the toys and the popstar posters. My parents had left Susan’s room preserved for a decade, and then items began to creep inside: out-of-season clothes, toys for the grandkids they kept at the house, old furniture, until Susan’s room was layered with items, hers buried at the bottom.

  “Did you hire a PI?” I asked.

  “No. Mick controlled the money. After we divorced, I wanted to leave the terrible memories behind, so I moved. San Antonio. It has a wonderful modern-art museum, and it’s sunny two hundred and twenty days of the year.” She recited the facts as if they were proof of happiness.

  Her husband stayed, mere miles from where his little girl went missing, and she moved thousands of miles away.

  “Did Lizzie say anything about Donald after they broke up?” Lewis asked.

  “Only that she should’ve done it earlier. At the time, I was surprised, but after I read the diary, I saw why she said it. She thought he’d change, that the violence was the exception to the rule.”

  “You don’t think so?” Lewis asked, casually.

  “No. I don’t.” She looked at the diary in his hands and then at her sunflower bag. “I’ll get you the photos.”

  “Thank you so much,” he said.

  “Is there anything else?” she asked, her eyes going from me to him.

  “No,” he said. “Thank you for coming in and talking to us. Again, we’re very sorry for your loss.”

  She stood and teetered a fraction. I reached for her, but she stepped back and said, “I’m fine.” She turned to go. “The funeral is on the 13th at 10:00 a.m. You’re welcome to come, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you,” I said. If you like. What a choice of words. The last thing I wanted to do was attend a funeral for a nineteen-year-old girl who’d been violently murdered. Whom I’d called Colleen for sixteen years. If you like. Like had nothing to do with it. “I’ll be there.”

  CHIEF THOMAS LYNCH

  TUESDAY, JUNE 8, 1999

  1730 HOURS

  “It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” Mom said, taking Matt’s hand into both of hers. She held on and gave him a thorough looking-over. Around us, faculty mingled, talking about their summer vacations and research plans.

  “The pleasure is all mine.” He let her hold his hand hostage.

  “You a policeman, too?” Dad asked.

  Matt said, “FBI agent.”

  “Oh my,” Mom said. “Your parents must be so proud.” And here I thought my mother had a low opinion of federal agents ever since the Waco mess.

  “You came!” Marie cried. My sister-in-law was trailed by my nephews. Tyler wore a Yankees sweatshirt. Gabe wore a button-down shirt and had recently had his hair cut.

  “Uncle Tom!” Gabe said. “I thought for sure you’d skip this!”

  Marie shook her head and said, “And who’s your friend?”

  “Matthew Cisco.” He smiled at her. “Tom didn’t tell me there was a stone-cold fox in the family.”

  Marie blushed and put a hand to her chest.

  “Ewww,” Tyler said, uncomfortable with this description of his mother.

  “Who is this guy?” Gabe asked. “I thought he was Uncle Tom’s date.”

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” Marie said. “I hope you won’t mind my children. They’ve recently become feral beasts. Onset of puberty.” She said this last part at a slightly louder volume. Tyler put his face in his hands and Gabe cried, “Mom!”

  The sound of a wineglass being tapped cut through the chatter. We looked toward the source of the sound. The dean of John’s school stood near a lectern. “Good evening. We’re going to start soon. If you could take your chairs, please?”

  Marie rounded up the boys and we all sat in the second row of narrow folding chairs set up in the faculty library, where, John had assured me, the books were largely ornamental. “It’s a space where we can escape students,” he’d confessed. Matt was seated between me and Mom. The dean talked about the school’s mission and its values. I zoned out. My face was pointed in the right direction, but I stared at a painting behind his right shoulder showing American Indians hunting buffalo. It seemed an odd choice for the room. My mind wandered back in time to Susan Finnegan, sixteen years old and pregnant. How was it no one knew of her boyfriend? From my experience, most teen boys ran their mouths about girls they’d scored with, so either our baby daddy was very respectful of her reputation, or he didn’t want to be caught. Maybe Wright was onto something. Maybe Susan had slept with someone who was older, or married, or …

  The first award recipient was a professor of chemistry. It was a career award. I hoped that meant he was retiring. It looked like a strong wind might blow him over.

  If the boyfriend could land in hot water, that would explain the abortion. He’d probably pressured her. If we could find him, we might find the doctor who’d performed the surgery.

  Next up was a professor of economics. She was a black woman, which made her a rarity in any department. John’s depart
ment had one white woman, and she was on maternity leave. I once told him NYPD had better diversity stats, and he got all red in the face. We have fun.

  John was the fourth awardee of the night. “How many are there?” Matt whispered as we clapped. My father leaned over my mother to answer. “Five. Home stretch now.” He gave Matt a thumbs-up, and I realized you’re never too old to be embarrassed by your parents.

  After the ceremony, John made small talk with faculty and faculty spouses. Matt got trapped in a conversation with the school’s dean, who’d heard there was a federal agent in the room. I kept the boys out of trouble while we impatiently waited to be released to dinner.

  An older woman with a lipstick-stained wineglass wandered over to us. “Are you Sylvia’s husband?” she asked me.

  Tyler guffawed.

  “He’s gay,” Gabe said.

  The woman looked at me for confirmation. “True,” I said.

  “Might you be single? I have a son. He’s a doctor.”

  “That’s his boyfriend,” Tyler said, pointing to Matt. He wore a suit though I’d told him it wasn’t a formal event. He looked fantastic.

  “My,” she said. “Well done.”

  I looked to my nephews, and they shrugged and laughed. What was there to say?

  We ate at an Italian restaurant that served dinner family-style, which meant we started off arguing. Gabe hated mussels. Tyler hated cheese. “What?” John said. “No, you don’t. Stop it.”

  We ended up ordering too much, but I’d brought a secret weapon: Matt. After he’d eaten the veal, the ravioli, the octopus, and the chicken, Gabe asked, “How do you do that?”

  Matt said, “I exercise a lot, and I have a high resting metabolism, so I require a lot of calories.”

  “Do you lift weights?” Gabe asked.

  “Yup.”

  Tyler asked him how much he could lift, and Matt answered all the boys’ questions, pausing only to fork more ravioli in his mouth.

  “I like him,” Mom mouthed at me. It was so obvious that Marie had to choke back laughter, and Dad nudged her with his elbow. “Well, I do,” she said, loudly enough for the cooks to hear.

  Marie asked what I was working on. Because of my oath to Finny I said only, “A cold case. Missing persons.”

  “Let’s not dwell on crime,” Dad said, silencing my job talk. “John, you’ve hardly touched your veal. What’s wrong?”

  He said, “The dean wants me to double up on classes next fall.”

  “What?” Dad half-shouted. “You’re tenured. You don’t have to do that.”

  John toyed with the broccoli on his plate and said, “They’re short a professor with Henson leaving, and Phips is on sabbatical.”

  “Can’t the new associate professor teach those classes?” Mom asked.

  “She’s on leave, remember? She doesn’t get back until October.”

  Marie squeezed his hand and said, “Boys, do not play with your food.”

  “How many classes do you have to teach?” Matt asked.

  “It should be one,” John said.

  “One.” Matt gave me a quick look that asked, really?

  “I’m writing a book this year,” John said, defensive. “On rising sea levels.”

  “The classes being taught, do they have to be taught fall term?” Matt asked. “Could they move to spring term?”

  John said they were core courses and must be taught in the fall, but then Mom interrupted to say that Intro to Ecology could be offered every other year, it had been done four years ago when … I stopped paying attention and watched the boys. They were busy arguing about someone named Jeremiah Higgs and whether he actually could do a 360 hardflip and had anyone seen him do it? Hardflip was skateboarding, right? Skateboards brought me back to Susan Finnegan. She’d been seen on a skateboard a week before her disappearance.

  “That might work,” John announced. He smiled and forked up a big bite of veal. I guess his work crisis was resolved.

  When we’d finished dessert, we sat, stuffed and tired, talking about Columbine High School, where two teen boys had shot and killed twelve students and one teacher. “I remember when my biggest worry in school was whether my hair looked good,” Marie said.

  “I heard Jake Reever say the shooters were heroes,” Tyler said.

  “What?” John said. “Who is this kid? Does he go to your school? Does he own a gun?”

  “Naw,” Gabe said. “He just likes to say stupid things.”

  Marie shook her head and said, “It makes you seriously think about homeschooling.”

  “Did you see the latest Star Wars?” Matt asked the boys. He had two nephews, younger than Gabe and Tyler.

  “Yeah, Dad took us,” Gabe said.

  “He hated it,” Tyler said.

  “They ruined it,” John said. “Ruined it. There’s this awful CGI character named Jar Jar Binks. Oh God, it was just awful.”

  “I liked it,” Gabe said. “There were cool effects.” John rolled his eyes.

  “We need to hit the road,” I said.

  “Already?” Mom asked.

  “It’s almost 10:30,” Dad said. “They’ve got a drive ahead of them.” For my parents, who drove only on out-of-city trips, a multi-hour commute was a powerful and terrible thing.

  I said my good-byes. Congratulated John again. My mother hugged Matt and said how wonderful it was to meet him. Tyler asked if he’d send him his weightlifting plan. Scrawny Tyler, who had never, to my knowledge, lifted anything heavier than a soup can.

  In the car, Matt said, “They were really nice.”

  “I’m sorry my mom was all over you.” I fastened my seat belt.

  “It’s nice to have fans,” he said.

  “It wasn’t too much?” I pulled out into traffic. A cabbie honked at me. Ah, New York.

  “Please. My family is too much. Yours is just right. Does your brother really only teach one class a term?”

  “Mostly. But he also sits on faculty committees and advises and has that book to write.”

  “Whereas you just solve murders and catch kidnappers.”

  “Not daily. Not in Idyll.” I took my hand from the wheel and squeezed his knee. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I had a good time.” He reached over and touched my arm. “Plus, I’m not going to need another meal for six days.”

  “More like six hours.”

  He laughed. “Probably true.”

  DETECTIVE MICHAEL FINNEGAN

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 9, 1999

  1500 HOURS

  The drive to work was twenty-five minutes. In the passenger seat was a brown bag containing a sub sandwich, chips, and a can of Coke. Today I had a six-hour shift. The soda was prevention against boredom and naps. Working as a consultant at a security company supplemented my income and kept me afloat in an ocean of alimony payments. What it didn’t do? Stimulate my brain. I reviewed security-camera footage and statements submitted by homeowners. The security company was always on the lookout for fraud. People who bought one of their systems, got robbed, and then submitted claims, usually within six months of the system’s purchase. People who arranged their own burglaries are rarely patient. They buy the system, put on a balaclava, “break into” their house, and “steal” all the good stuff. As if most burglars know exactly where you keep your valuables. Sure, they’ll hit your jewelry box, your portable electronics, and any closet with furs. But you think most of ’em know you keep antique coins in a cookie tin in the pantry? No. Dead giveaway.

  My job could be done by a semi-intelligent teenager. But the security company liked my cop status. Thought it lent them credibility. And it seems that since I started, they’ve paid out significantly less money in claims. Michael Finnegan was worth something to someone.

  ACE Security was in a long, low brick building off Route 84 in an industrial park near a towing company, an auto-body place, and a florist wholesaler. If you wanted food, you brought it in with you or called out for delivery. Given the location, your only optio
n was Domino’s, and I hated Domino’s pizza. The puffy, undercooked dough tasted like disappointment. That’s why I had a brown paper bag with a sub from Gepetto’s.

  Frank, at the front desk, said hello. I waved and swiped my card to get past the inner door, walked down a narrow hallway with dark-green carpeting, and entered the second room on the right. Milton was at his desk, listening to the Red Sox. One of the only guys left in America who preferred listening to baseball games to watching them.

  “Hiya, Mike,” he said, glancing up from a spreadsheet. “You believe this?” He jerked his thumb to the radio. “Pedro’s slaughtering them today.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You hear Donello quit Friday?” His finger traced a column on the sheet.

  “No.” I set my brown bag on my desk. “Why?”

  “Said management was giving him a hard time about coaching his son’s Little League team.”

  “Really? That’s too bad.” I didn’t believe it for one second. Donello worked on the camera installations, but I’d breathed his fragrance enough to know he had a drinking problem. He missed work a lot for a guy his age. Plenty of excuses: sick kid, sick wife, car trouble, house trouble. I was surprised he hadn’t called in with a plague of locusts yet. Looked like he wouldn’t get the chance.

  The Sox scored a run and the crowd went nuts. Milton lowered the volume and said, “One month until vacation.” Milton was flying to Ireland, to go on vacation and find where his ancestors had lived in County Cork. He’d been planning the trip for years. He was a genealogy buff, our man Milton.

  “I could look up the Finnegans for you,” he offered for the umpteenth time.

  I gave him my usual reply. “That’s okay, Milton. I’ve got enough Finnegans to deal with on this side of the Atlantic. Why make life more difficult?”

  “You’re lucky. Having a big family. It’s only me and Dad now. No siblings. No cousins. I have one aunt, but she’s a lesbian, so not likely I’ll be seeing any late-in-life cousins there.”

  I didn’t disabuse Milton, tell him that family was hard, like marriage was hard, like living was hard. Four reports were stacked on my desk. I could have ’em done in two hours, but then I wouldn’t get paid for six, would I? I shoved aside the baby ones and reached for the large one. Dessert before dinner. Ah, well. Delayed gratification is overrated.