“I see,” he says.
“Of course you do,” Carol says with frigid politeness, her smile never wavering.
Bob looks at me and nods toward the door. “Looks like we’re done here.”
I push myself up from the couch, and grit my teeth against the pain I feel in my muscles. I follow Bob as Carol shows us to the main entrance, determined not to grunt, groan, or show my agony in any way. By the time we reach the door my muscles are easing their way back into movement.
The expression on Carol’s face as she opens the door is smug. It’s a look I saw a lot on people’s faces when I was growing up, usually other kids, but sometimes the grown-ups as well. That look always meant they felt they had scored a point somehow, emerged victorious in some battle of wits, strength, or power. The fact that Carol’s face now bears that same expression tells me that she has more of an investment in our inquiries than she let on at first, and that she feels she has somehow beat us at our own game. Her smugness irritates me, striking a nerve that has been plucked in me once too often.
As I walk past her and step over the threshold, I pause and turn to look back at her, stretching myself as far as I can to make the most of my barely five-foot height, which puts me a little above eye level with her boobs. I’m forced to look up at her, but I long ago mastered the art of looking fierce despite being in what seems like the weaker position. I’m a rat terrier, about to take down a rottweiler.
“You may have won this battle,” I say to Carol, “but the universe has a funny way of evening things up.” I flash her my best predatory smile. “The secrets always come out no matter how hard you try to keep them buried.”
She says nothing, but I have the satisfaction of seeing her smile falter ever so slightly. And when I turn away and step down from the porch, she slams the door hard behind us, letting me know I got to her.
Score one for us little people.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bob arches his eyebrows at me, looking impressed as we walk the block and a halfback to his car. When we’re safely out of earshot of the frat house, he says, “You continue to surprise me, Hildy. What was that all about?”
“I think our housemother knows a lot more than she’s letting on,” I say, a little out of breath with my efforts to keep up with him. “Over the years, between my time bouncing around the foster system and my career in social work, I’ve gotten to be good at reading people. And my read of Carol Barlow says she’s hiding something.”
“I agree,” Bob says. “But it could be that she’s simply trying to protect her boys.”
I shake my head. “Nope, it’s more than that. I’d stake my reputation on it.”
Bob gives me a ponderous expression that, ironically, after bragging about how good I am at reading people, I can’t read at all. We say nothing more until we’re back inside his car.
“So, what’s next?” I say. “Should we visit the person who owns the property where the footbridge is located?”
Bob starts the car but doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he looks at his phone while answering me. “Not yet.”
“Why not? And who is it, anyway?”
Bob chuckles and shakes his head. “Too many questions. As for who it is, it’s a gentleman by the name of Warren Sheffield. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
I have indeed. Pretty much anyone who lives in this part of Wisconsin has heard of Warren Sheffield, owner of Sheffield Inns, a nationwide chain of highly successful motels.
“No wonder you want to take things slow,” I say. “He’s not the kind of guy you want to piss off.”
“Precisely,” Bob says. “I called early this morning and left a vague message, asking that he call me back. So, we wait for now.”
“What about Toby’s girlfriend, Lori Davenport? It sounds like whatever was bothering him when he dropped out of school might have had something to do with her. We should talk to her.”
“Should we, now?” Bob says in a slightly mocking tone.
“Well, don’t you think so?”
“I do. That’s why I sent a text message to the station to get an address for the girl. That’s where we’re headed now.” He flips his turn indicator, glances over his shoulder, and pulls out of the parking space.
“Well, you might have told me,” I say sourly.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
I shoot him a look, hoping he’s teasing me. I’m not sure, though, and it’s a little unnerving.
“Hildy, do you like what you do?” he asks, throwing me for a loop since it seems arbitrary, sudden, unrelated to what we were discussing, and as potentially dangerous as an active minefield. I hesitate before answering him, trying to gauge where he’s going.
“I do,” I say after a moment. “I enjoy helping people, particularly people who get caught up in the holes in our systems. Having spent some time down those holes myself, I like trying to help others out of them. Or better yet, help them to avoid them.”
“What about the counseling parts of your job? Do you enjoy doing that?”
“It’s my favorite part of the job, to be honest. I mean, directing people toward available resources that can help them is great, and it’s a big part of counseling services much of the time, but the part of it I really love is digging into people’s psyches, trying to figure out what makes them tick, and determining if that ticking might be the countdown for a time bomb. I like it when people open up to me and let me get a glimpse of what goes on in their minds. I like peering into the darkest, dankest recesses of their brains. If I can then let a little light into those black abysses, I feel like I’ve made a difference, left my mark on the world, you know?”
“I’ve got a stun gun that will leave a mark, and a more visible one at that,” Bob says in a joking tone.
I chuckle, and then say, “Think about it, Bob. Why are we here? You and I were born, we’ve lived lives that played out while walking different paths, we’ve encountered people along the way, and what does it all mean? When we die, what is there to show that we were ever here? Do we make a difference? Or are we simply one more cog in some mysterious entity’s wheel?”
Bob looks over at me, brows drawn together in wary contemplation. “That sounds deep and existential,” he says. “Too deep for me.”
“Really? You don’t ever contemplate the meaning of life? The meaning of your life?”
“I catch bad guys,” he says with a shrug. “Isn’t that enough?”
“I don’t know, is it? I think each person must answer that question for themselves. Do you feel like your existence is meaningful? Are you leaving something behind?”
Bob runs a hand through his hair and widens his eyes. “Wow. You’re waxing very philosophical,” he says. “But to answer your question in simple terms, yes, I feel like I make a difference. What I do helps to shape society, and that helps to shape both the present and the future. As for leaving anything behind, I don’t suppose I will, other than a rotting corpse. I don’t have any kids, and I’m not someone who will be written about in recorded history. Though I suppose everyone who ventures onto the Internet leaves a footprint behind these days.”
“That’s something we have in common, then,” I say. “That is, a job that helps us shape our current society, and a lack of anything to leave behind other than the influences we may have had on the lives of others. But eventually our influence will fade, as will anyone’s memory of us. With each subsequent generation, our existence becomes less relevant and meaningful until no one alive remembers us anymore.”
“This discussion is getting depressing,” Bob says, frowning.
“It is kind of depressing, but I think it’s that knowledge of our eventual and inevitable demise and loss of meaning to the world that prompts some people to do great things. And it prompts others to do horrible things, all in the name of being remembered, of being a part of history. It’s what makes great leaders, and serial killers.”
“Now I’m getting a headache,” Bob says.
“I just wanted to know if you’re happy in your current job. And I had an important reason for asking, but that discussion will have to wait, because we have arrived at our destination.”
As Bob pulls into an open parking spot on the wide expanse of West Wash, as it’s called, I eye the old houses lining the street. Dating back to the early nineteen hundreds, most of them show their age in some way, whether it be a slight sag in the roof, or the weathering of the boards beneath peeling paint, or the Victorian styling of the architecture. While most of these homes were at one time owned by wealthy families, these days many of them are student housing, though there are still some single-family homes mixed in.
Straight ahead of us, atop the hill four blocks away, sits Madison’s capitol building, its 187-foot-tall, gleaming white dome visible from miles away. Capitol Hill isn’t all that high, but there’s legislation that prevents any structures taller than the capitol building from being built anywhere around it, ensuring the awe-inspiring view.
The block Lori Davenport lives on is crammed with houses that sit close to one another, each one with a small front yard, a tree-lined park row, and sidewalks that connect them all. As Liam told us, Lori’s house is the only yellow one on this block, an old prairie-style home located two from the end.
“What if she isn’t home?” I ask Bob. “Should we have tried to call her first?”
“I prefer not to warn people that I’m coming. Unless they have the kind of power Warren Sheffield has. I like it when people’s responses are more spontaneous and they haven’t had time to prepare. If Lori Davenport isn’t home, we’ll wait until she is.”
“Wait? You mean in the car?”
“Yep. A surprising amount of police work involves waiting, Hildy. If you want to do ride-alongs, you have to expect that.”
“Okay,” I say, resigned. Other than concerns for my bladder capacity, I have nowhere I need to be today. The bladder thing is a serious concern, however, and as we walk up to Lori’s house, I scope out the surrounding area, looking for any place that might have a bathroom. I’m relieved when I see a sign for a health clinic two blocks up.
The floorboards on the porch of Lori’s house creak ominously beneath our feet. Bob spins a small handle fixed to the axis of a round doorbell located in the middle of the door, and from inside I hear a sound emanate that sounds like the ring of an old-fashioned telephone.
I have no idea what Lori Davenport looks like, so I also have no idea if it is she who answers the door. It’s a girl with short-cropped black hair, heavy kohl eyeliner, bright red lipstick, and foundation that makes her face look very pale, particularly beneath that dark hair.
“Can I help you?” she says, looking puzzled and impatient.
“We’re looking for Lori Davenport,” Bob says.
“Are you?” She cocks a hip to one side and her expression turns defiant. She holds the door close to her body, clearly not inclined to invite us inside. “Why are you looking for Lori?”
“We want to talk to her about her old boyfriend, Toby.”
The girl’s expression alters in an instant. Gone is the defiance, replaced with curious suspicion. “Who are you?” she asks, her eyes darting back and forth between the two of us.
I look at Bob, letting him decide which tack to take. “We’re friends of Toby’s mother. She’s really struggling with his death and we’re trying to help her find some answers. It would really help if we could talk to Lori.”
The girl considers our request, her mouth skewed as she chews at the inside of one cheek. Finally, she says, “Wait here,” and shuts the door in our faces.
Bob and I exchange looks. Neither of us says a word. Time ticks by and behind us is the sound of steady traffic. Inside the house I hear the murmur of voices, but I can’t make out any of the words. Just when I start to think we need to ring the bell again because there was an obvious misunderstanding, the door opens.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Standing on the other side this time is a tall, slender girl with huge blue eyes, a waterfall of straight brunette hair, and a heart-shaped face. She is wearing yoga pants that outline long, perfectly shaped legs, and a fitted tank top that shows off perky, ample breasts. There isn’t an ounce of fat on her. Her face is devoid of makeup; she doesn’t need it. She is beautiful, her porcelain skin unblemished, her eyes rimmed with dark, long lashes, her lips full and shaped into a perfect Cupid’s bow. Standing in front of her I feel old and dowdy.
“I’m Lori Davenport,” she says, and even her voice is beautiful. “You wanted to talk to me about Toby?”
“If we could, yes,” Bob says. I steal a glance at him and see that his expression reflects a level of enchantment similar to my own. What on earth could have made Toby break up with this gorgeous creature? What flaw might she be hiding? Had she done something so horrific that Toby couldn’t see past it?
“Come on in,” Lori says, and she steps aside to allow us through.
We enter a small foyer area and wait for her to close the door. There is a stairwell to the second floor on our right, its polished wood banister ending in a beautifully carved newel post, and there is a doorway to the left that leads into a family room. The walls and windows I can see are all framed with wide wood trim typical of the era for this house, and I notice a quaint push-button light switch by the door. Along the wall beneath the stairs is a small table with a dish that contains several sets of keys. Next to that is another dish holding what appears to be leftover Easter candy: jellybeans, foil-wrapped chocolate eggs, and some small, individually wrapped marshmallow and chocolate bunnies.
Once Lori closes the front door, she has us follow her through the living area into a dining room, and from there into a large, eat-in kitchen. I’m thinking she’s going to have us sit at the kitchen table, but instead she heads for a laundry room that was probably a back porch at one time, and from there outside to the backyard. There is a small concrete pad off the back door with a table and four chairs, and Lori directs us to take one of these seats while she grabs a sweater from the laundry room. Bob and I sit across from each other, and Lori settles into one of the empty chairs between us, folding her hands in her lap. Her figure is so lithe, and her movements all so graceful and flowing that it makes me wonder if she’s a dancer.
The day is cool, with the current temperature in the low fifties, but with our jackets on and the sun shining down on us, it’s comfortable.
“How is Sharon doing?” Lori asks. The concern I hear in her voice and see on her face seems genuine.
“Not well,” I say, making a quick decision to drop any pretense. “She’s having a difficult time understanding how Toby got to where he was when he died. I’m a social worker and I run a grief support group. I’ve been counseling her, but I think she needs to have a better understanding of what happened in Toby’s life in the weeks before his death before she can come to any level of acceptance. Can you shed any light on that for us?”
Lori eyes me with critical appraisal, then does the same to Bob. “You aren’t a counselor,” she says to him.
“No, I’m not.” He shoots me a look and then follows my lead. “I’m a police detective. I’m looking into Toby’s death because we have reason to believe that it wasn’t an accident.”
“Really?” Lori says, her perfectly manicured brows drawing down into a V over her dainty nose. “You think he did it on purpose? Committed suicide?”
Bob doesn’t answer right away. Lori isn’t one to jump in and fill the silence, however, so I give her a prompt. “What do you think?”
She looks at me for a few seconds, then she tips her head back and looks at the sky, letting the sunlight dance over her skin. We wait, letting the silence work, and when she lowers her gaze, I see tears welling in her eyes.
“Toby wouldn’t have killed himself.” There is a strong note of conviction behind the words, and while I can’t know if she’s right or not,
I have no doubt that she believes what she’s said.
“Were you aware of his drug use?” Bob asks.
Lori shakes her head. “I don’t believe he was into any of that stuff. Toby was as straight as they come. I couldn’t even get him to try pot.”
“When was the last time you saw or heard from him?” I ask.
Lori grimaces, as if the memory is causing her physical pain. “He broke things off with me a little over a month ago. Did it over the phone. On a Friday . . . the Ides of March, in fact.” She lets out a humorless laugh, her expression laced with irony. “I was looking forward to the two of us spending the weekend together.” She pauses and swallows hard, looking away for a second as if she’s seeing something else.
“His decision caught me by surprise, to say the least,” she says, tears welling again. “I thought things between us were great. And then out of the blue, he says we can’t be together anymore. I asked him why, if something had happened, or if he’d met someone else, but all he would say was that he was ruined, and he wasn’t the right guy for me.” She lets out a ragged breath and shakes her head. “It made me angry, and I said some things to him that I probably shouldn’t have. Later I tried to apologize, to take it all back, but he wouldn’t answer my calls or my emails. And when I tried to go see him at the frat house, I found out he’d dropped out of school and left.”
“And up until the day he broke things off, everything seemed okay with him?” I ask.
She starts to nod but stops, looking hesitant.
“Any idea what he meant when he said he was ruined?” Bob asks.
She shakes her head in dismay. “I think something happened that week, but I have no idea what it was. I didn’t see him at all, because he was engaged in this gaming competition that he did from time to time with some of the other guys in his house. It’s a crazy twenty-four-hour-a-day thing that lasts for a week, so they all take shifts of play time and try to work that around their class and sleep time.” She squeezes her eyes closed and swipes at a tear that escapes down one cheek. “The next time I talked to him was when he called me to break things off. I don’t even know if they won their stupid competition. I never talked to him again after that.”
Needled to Death Page 18
