No Safe House
Page 15
“A what?”
“Never mind. Close your eyes again.”
Grace complied.
“So you heard steps. Running. Are you saying it couldn’t have been Stuart?”
“I don’t know. I’m, like, trying to hear them again.”
Jane thought a moment. “After the shot went off, that must have been really loud. Did you kinda lose your hearing for a second?”
“Maybe.”
“So if you were able to hear footsteps, even if the person was wearing running shoes, the person would have to be pretty heavy, you think?”
Grace slowly said, “I guess so.”
“And did you say someone bumped you running by in the dark?”
“Yeah.”
“Hard?”
Grace concentrated. “I think I kind of lost my balance. I think maybe I got hit by a bag, like, something the person was carrying.”
“What I’m thinking is, if you heard these steps even after you might have gone partially deaf, and you got bumped hard, it could have been a pretty big guy.”
Grace opened her eyes and looked at Jane. “Maybe. But that’s not exactly very much to go on, is it?”
“Well, it’s something,” Jane said. “But you’re right, it doesn’t really narrow down the field of suspects.”
Grace twigged to that. “Suspect in what?”
“You know. Like, whoever else might have been there.”
Grace felt tears trickling down her cheeks and wiped them away. “Stuart’s dead, isn’t he, Jane?”
“I got a pretty good idea what Vince is telling your dad right now. He’s telling him to take you home and forget any of this ever happened. And that’s real good advice. Vince has got this. And he’s going to be real grateful when I tell him how you helped me.”
Grace heard footsteps on gravel. She turned and saw her father standing by her door. Grace fumbled around, looking for the handle, and opened it.
“See ya,” Jane said as Grace was led back to her father’s car.
TWENTY-FIVE
“THIS is an unexpected pleasure,” Heywood Duggan said, slipping into the all-night coffee shop booth across from Detective Rona Wedmore. He had to squeeze himself in. He wasn’t a fat man, but he was big, and there wasn’t any room between his stomach and the edge of the table.
“Sorry to call you so late,” Wedmore said. “And to be so mysterious.”
Heywood grinned, flashing his pearl white teeth. He still had that gap between the two top ones. Back when they were seeing each other, he’d talked about getting that fixed, but Rona had told him it gave him character.
“It’s good to see you,” he said, placing his meaty palms flat down on the table. “I don’t get called out to midnight meetings with beautiful women all that often.”
“Oh, shut up,” Wedmore said, slipping her own hands down to her lap, not wanting to give him the opportunity to reach out and hold hers, which she figured he might do at some point. Not that there wasn’t some part of her that didn’t long for his touch after all this time. “It’s good to see you, Heywood.”
He grinned. “You always used to call me Woody.”
She smiled. “I did.” She cocked her head. “And I wasn’t the only one.”
He flicked his hand, as if shooing away a fly, dismissing the comment. “You’re looking good.”
“I’ve put on a few since you saw me last,” she said.
“More to love,” he said.
She brought up her left hand not only to wave a finger at him, but to let him see her ring. “I’m spoken for,” she said.
“That was not a pass, just an observation.” He smiled warmly. “How are things with Lamont? I heard he had a rough go of it in Iraq.”
Rona nodded. “He’s good. It was hard for him over there. He saw things no one should have to see.”
“I heard he didn’t say a word for months.”
“Well, he’s talking now,” Wedmore said with a forced laugh. “And he’s got a job, with Costco. They’re good to him there.”
“I’m glad to hear that—I really am.” Heywood Duggan’s face fell. “I wondered, when you called, if, you know, maybe something had happened. Maybe the two of you were going through a rough patch. That maybe you needed someone to talk to.”
Wedmore’s eyes narrowed. “Or fall into the sack with.”
He raised his palms. “I did not say that.” Heywood shook his head. “You hurt me, Rona.”
“Oh, bullshit,” she said.
A waitress came by and they both ordered coffee.
He grinned. “You and I, we had a good run there, you have to admit.”
She tried to hide her smile. “When’d you quit being a trooper?”
“Eight, nine years ago,” he said.
“Why?”
He turned a simple shrug into a ten-second shoulder exercise. “You know. Different opportunities. Didn’t want to be with state police forever.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“And what’d you hear?”
“I heard some evidence—cash—went missing after a drug bust and not long after that you decided to take an early retirement rather than face an internal affairs investigation.”
Another wave of the hand. “You can’t believe everything you hear.”
“Is that when you started to go freelance?”
“I’ve done a bunch of things, private security—you know the drill. So why the hell did you ask me to meet you tonight? I’m starting to think this isn’t as personal as I was hoping it might be.”
“Eli Goemann,” Rona said.
“Eli what?”
“I hope, for your sake, that your hearing is the only thing you’ve lost since I saw you last.”
“I just didn’t catch the name.”
“Eli Goemann. Don’t be cute.”
“Eli Goemann, Eli Goemann.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know the name.”
“Then why did you go ask his former roommates where you could find him?” Wedmore asked.
He pushed himself back against the seat. The space was so tight, he suddenly looked trapped to Rona. The waitress put two mugs of coffee on the table in front of them and walked away.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
“I want you to tell me why you’ve been looking for Eli Goemann. I’m guessing someone hired you. Who wants you to find Eli and why?”
“Rona, come on, you know how this works. Clients expect confidentiality, and I can’t be bought for a cup of coffee.” He smiled slyly. “If you were offering something more substantial . . .”
“Stop acting like you’re twelve,” Rona said. “So you admit you’re looking for him.”
“Okay, yeah, I am. But it’s a private matter.”
“Not when there’s a homicide.”
His eyebrows went up. “Say again?”
“Goemann’s dead. His body was found at Silver Sands.”
Duggan grimaced. “Son of a bitch.”
“Help me out here.”
He put a hand over his mouth, rubbed his chin. “Shit.”
“I’d like to know who killed him, Heywood. And you’ve been asking around about him. Right now, you’re my best lead to finding out what happened.”
“They figure out how long he’s been dead?”
“So now you want me to answer your questions?” Wedmore said.
“Okay, look, I’ll have to talk to my client, clear it with him before I talk to you.”
“It’s not his call,” Wedmore said.
“Here’s what I can tell you. Goemann called my client, said he had something he believed my client would like to have returned to him.”
“Goemann stole something from him and was trying to get your client to buy it back?”
“Half right. He didn’t steal this item—at least that’s what he told my client—but had come into possession of it. And yes, he was willing to sell it back.”
“What’s the item?”
“He wasn’t found with anything. And we haven’t figured out where he was residing.”
“Then all I can tell you is, it was a personal item. Not the sort of thing you’d assign a commercial value to. Well, only partly.”
“But it’s worth a lot to your client. How much was Eli asking?”
“He threw out a crazy number. A hundred thousand. I told him that wasn’t possible. My client is not a rich man.”
“Rich enough to hire you.”
He shrugged. “I come for a lot less than a hundred g’s.”
“So this Goemann character approaches your client, asks for a hundred grand to get this thing back, and then what happens?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“My client doesn’t hear from him again. He didn’t even know who it was who called him. He hires me, I get the number off his phone, find out it belongs to Goemann, then trace him through DMV to that house where he once lived with the other students, but he hasn’t lived there in a year or so. Sounds like he was bouncing around, sleeping on couches, working odd jobs the last twelve months or so, no fixed address. When he never called back with a counteroffer, to try and set something up, started to wonder whether he ever had anything to sell.”
“You still working it?”
Another shrug. “Client’s only got so much to spend. And I said to him, Look, this may have been a bluff. Maybe there’s nothing to this.”
Wedmore took a sip of her coffee. “Woody,” she said, and he smiled, “this is me you’re talking to. Off the record. What the hell was Goemann selling? What was your client trying to get back?”
“Basically, he was trying to get back what you were to me.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“He was trying to get back the love of his life.”
TWENTY-SIX
CYNTHIA had sent Vince a sympathy card when she’d seen the item in the paper’s death notices that his wife had died.
She didn’t mention it to Terry. After those two disastrous visits to Milford Hospital to see Vince during his recovery, Terry had been adamant that they were done. We’ve made an effort, he’d said. We tried to show our appreciation, and he doesn’t want any of it. There’s nothing else for us to do.
Cynthia agreed, to a point, but she still felt she owed Vince something for helping them seven years before. If Vince hadn’t helped Terry put together some of the pieces in the puzzle of what had happened to her parents and her brother, Todd, Terry would never have found her and Grace in time.
They nearly died.
The way Cynthia saw it, she owed Vince. For her life, and the life of her daughter. The least she could do was send a card. So she picked one up at the mall, as unsentimental a one as she could find, but wrote inside:
I was very sorry to learn about the passing of your wife, Audrey. You, and Jane, are in my thoughts at this time. But I also wanted to tell you that I’ve been thinking of you. You made a tremendous sacrifice on our behalf, and I remain immensely grateful. I understand you may not have been in the mood to hear that message when we last saw you, but it remains as true today as it was then. With every good wish in this difficult time, Cynthia.
She could have signed it from herself and Terry, but decided not to. The note, really, was from her. Even though she hadn’t told Terry about it, if it ever came up, she wouldn’t deny it.
Cynthia hadn’t heared anything back from him. And that was fine.
But a few days after she’d settled herself into the apartment, she noticed an old Dodge Ram pickup roll up to the curb as she pulled into the driveway. She’d gotten out of her car and saw Vince Fleming open the door and slide off the seat.
“Hey,” he’d said.
He was thinner and grayer—not just his hair, but even his pallor—and when he walked toward her, she noticed a deliberateness in his gait that suggested low-level pain.
“Vince,” she said.
“I was at a cross street back there, saw you drive by, was pretty sure it was you. Thought I’d say, you know, hello. But this—this isn’t your house.”
“No,” Cynthia said. “When I finish work, I like to sit on the porch with a beer. Join me?”
He hesitated. “No reason not to, I guess.”
She went up to her room, dropped her purse, kicked off her heels, grabbed two Sam Adams, and came back down in her bare feet. Vince was in one of the porch chairs staring out at the street.
She handed him a bottle, beads of sweat already forming on it in the humid air.
“Thanks,” he said.
Cynthia sat down, tucked her legs up under her butt, and put the bottle to her lips. “You doing some work around here?” she asked, like he was a friendly neighborhood contractor or something. If Vince was doing work around here, it was probably best to alert Neighborhood Watch.
“No,” he said, not looking at her. “Listen, thanks for the card.”
“You’re welcome,” Cynthia said. “I’d seen the notice in the paper.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Had she been sick for a while?” Cynthia asked.
“About a year.” He swallowed some beer. “Hot today.”
Cynthia fanned herself with her left hand. “Yeah.”
“So, you guys downsize? Renting a room? Doesn’t seem big enough for you two and the kid.”
“Just me.”
“Oh. So you guys split up.”
“No. I just needed some time.”
“Time to what?”
“Just some time.”
He grunted. “I get that. Sometimes it’s nice living alone. Lot less drama.”
“Jane still with you?”
He shook his head. “Nope. She’s living with some half-wit.”
“A what?”
Vince shrugged. “Half-wit, dipshit, fucktwat, whatever. A musician. Plays in a band. I don’t like it, her living with him. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but that doesn’t sit right with me.”
Cynthia asked, “Were you and Audrey married when you first started living together?”
“That’s different,” he said. “We’d been around. She’d been married before. Nobody’s business what we do at that age.”
“Maybe that’s what Jane thinks. That it’s nobody’s business what she does.”
He gave her a look. “Did I come here for you to bust my balls?”
“I don’t know. Did you?”
Vince glowered at her. “No.” Long pause. “I came by to apologize.”
“For what?”
“When you came to the hospital to see me. I was a horse’s ass. This might seem kinda late coming, but I take my time when it comes to admitting I was wrong.”
“Forget it,” Cynthia said. “All is forgiven.”
“Well, shit, that was easier than I thought it’d be.” He drew on the bottle. “So, I opened up to you. Now tell me what happened between you and Terry.”
“You call that opening up?”
“I said I was sorry. So what are you doing here?”
She settled back in the chair, watched a car go by. “I lost it. With Grace. I was . . . out of control. So I’m on a self-imposed time-out.”
“You smack her around some?”
She shot him a look. “I did not smack her around. Jesus. But I’ve been trying to control her every move. We’re fighting all the time.”
Vince looked unimpressed. “That’s what parents do. How else kids going to learn?”
“It’s beyond that. I’m fucked-up, Vince. You find that surprising?”
“What, you mean about that shit with your family?” Vince shook his head. “That was years ago.”
She eyed him incredulously. “Really? So I should, what, just walk it off?”
He looked at her. “Thin
gs got sorted out. Move on.”
Cynthia studied him with a small sense of wonder. “You should have your own show. Dr. Phil’s got nothing on you.”
“There you go.” Vince stretched out his legs. He seemed to be struggling to get comfortable in the chair. “I’m not trying to be an insensitive asshole.”
“It just comes natural.”
“But you have to move forward. No sense looking back.”
“How about you, then? You moved on? You nearly died.”
He twisted uncomfortably in the chair, lightly touched his abdomen with his free hand. “I’ve been better.”
He drank some more beer.
A Cadillac came charging up the street, turned into the driveway, and parked. Nathaniel Braithwaite got out, slammed the door, spent about half a minute brushing dog hair off his clothes, and approached the house. As he mounted the steps to the porch, he slowed when he saw Cynthia and her guest.
“Oh, hey,” he said. He glanced at Vince, nodded.
“Hi,” Cynthia said. “Nathaniel, this is my friend Vince. From high school. Vince, Nathaniel.”
“Nice wheels,” Vince said.
Nathaniel smiled. “Thanks.”
“Always liked Caddies. But not so much now. They’re trying to turn them into Kraut cars. I liked them when they were big and long and had huge fins on them. Like the ’59. Bit before my time, but that was a car. Thing spanned two zip codes.”
Vince craned his neck, took another look at the car, then cast his eye back at the house. Cynthia could guess what he was thinking. Nathaniel had a pretty nice car for someone renting a room in an old house like this.
“What line of work you in?” Vince asked.
“Used to be in computer software,” Nathaniel said.
“Not anymore?”
“I’m taking a break from all that.”
Vince, motioning to Nathaniel’s pants, said, “If you’re having an affair with a collie, you’re gonna have to do a better job hiding the evidence.”
Nathaniel looked down at himself. “Occupational hazard.”
Vince cocked his head, waiting for an answer. Cynthia didn’t feel it was her place to explain what Nathaniel did for a living now.