Six-thirty. Pitch black outside. The only downstairs light in the house was from the television screen’s glow as the videotape of JoAnn Cuddy’s funeral service dragged into its twentieth minute. The priest droned on. Candles flickered. A somber group of five men and the woman’s only child lifted the bronze casket into a waiting hearse. Downing had seen most of this on the local news, only with better camera work.
Downing checked his watch again. No way he’d get out to Outcrop tonight. “Who’d you say shot this?”
“Truman, her brother. Thinks he’s Cecil B. DeMille. Set up a tripod and videotaped his own angioplasty two years ago.”
Cuddy obviously needed to talk. Sometimes it paid off when grieving relatives mind-dumped on willing strangers. Sometimes it was just a pain in the ass. And so far Downing hadn’t seen or heard anything that struck him as useful. Cuddy had relived their courtship, their wedding, the birth of their son. Their vacation to western Canada two years ago. Her fondness for artichokes and Rice Krispies squares.
The cemetery. Truman was relentless. He zoomed on the red burst of roses on top of the casket, on the priest, on Mark’s blank face as a spray of holy water hit him square. Truman pulled back to show the shuffling assembly, its breath turning to vapor in the chilly mid-November air. Dark suits. Black dresses. Red eyes.
“That’s JoAnn’s father there, in the wheelchair,” Cuddy said, pointing at the screen. “Her mom died in ’83. Breast cancer. JoAnn was religious about mammograms.”
Downing nodded, checked his watch again. He wanted to get to Outcrop before Corbett went to bed.
The priest committed JoAnn Cuddy to the earth and sketched a cross in the air over the open grave. A few people stepped forward to kiss the casket, but most walked toward their cars. Truman pulled back, but kept rolling straight into a panning shot of the cemetery. Three hundred and sixty degrees, starting with the line of mourners’ cars parked along the curb. A distant mausoleum. A grove of flame-red maples. A utility building. The gravedigger’s backhoe. A sturdy oak. Neat rows of headstones stretching up and over a hill.
“Go back,” Downing said.
Cuddy stopped describing his wife’s collection of Hummel figurines. “What?”
“Rewind it a little, but just a little.”
Cuddy aimed the remote. The tape skittered back to the mausoleum. “Like that?”
“Let it run again.”
Downing got up from the couch and crawled toward the screen, “Now stop,” he said. “Right there. Wait, back up again. There.”
The videotape paused. The oak tree filled the screen. Downing focused on the base.
“What?” Cuddy said. “Is that somebody?”
Somebody, shit. Downing leaned closer, then turned around. “Can you stop it from jiggling like that?”
“It’s an old VCR.”
Downing looked again. The image wasn’t good, but no fucking question. It was Corbett’s hairline. “Any idea who that might be?”
“Who?”
“Behind that tree, the guy leaning out in the flannel shirt.”
Cuddy squinted. “Nobody I know, but it’s hard to tell. Don’t remember him at the funeral.”
“That’s the thing. Doesn’t look like he was at the funeral. Looks like he was watching it, but not part of it, know what I mean? How far away was that tree?”
“Never even noticed the tree,” Cuddy said. “I was kind of a mess that day. Looks like a hundred feet or so, maybe.”
“And you don’t recognize the guy at all?”
Cuddy looked again, then turned on a table lamp beside the couch. “No. Why?”
“Does he turn up in any other footage of the funeral?”
“Not that I remember. Maybe it’s one of the people who work at the cemetery.”
Downing wanted to kiss the screen. Unfuckingbelievable. Videotape of Ron Corbett as an uninvited guest at JoAnn Cuddy’s funeral. The dumbest goddamned jury in the world would recognize Corbett’s hairline. What had he done right to deserve this?
“Could be,” Downing said. “Probably is. Tell you what, though. I’d like to borrow this tape, maybe have our lab guys clean it up a little and get a better look, just to be sure. This the original?”
Cuddy hesitated. “I can ask Truman. Probably first generation. But I don’t know. It may mean something to Mark one of these days and I’d hate to lose it.”
Downing gritted his teeth. Patience. Patience. The VCR had two tape bays. Downing patted it gently. “You could copy it and give me the original, see. That way our guys would have the best possible version to work with.”
Cuddy squirmed. “You really think it’s that important?”
“Won’t know until we look at it closer. Sure hate to overlook something, though,” Downing said. He summoned his best trust-me smile. “Assuming it turns out to be nothing, Mr. Cuddy, I’ll get the original right back to you. You have my word.”
Chapter 26
Downing closed his notebook. He was taking the new information directly to Kiger—fuck DeLillo—and his list of things to do first was fairly short. Double-check the Irondale Ranch Bounty supermarket for the pedigree of Corbett’s Bounty Club card. Get the videotape to Randy to see if he could pull a clearer frame of Corbett from the funeral footage. If he had time, check on that name, the one Sandra Corbett mentioned.
He opened the notebook to the first few pages, held it up to the light from the Waynesburger Restaurant sign. Peebo Balkin, or Balken, or something. He tried to make sense of the scrawlings he made after their strange discussion: “S. C. sez R. quit sending checks after Peebo Balkin???? nearly drowned.” Probably another blind alley, but he’d try to scan incident reports for the name. Maybe something would turn up.
God, he was tired. His leg ached. Even the buzz from the day’s progress was wearing off, and he wanted to sleep more than anything else. He started the car, then turned it off again when he noticed the pay phone on the outside restaurant wall. It was nine already, at least an hour from home. He dialed his number, then punched in his calling-card number.
“Where the fuck have you been?” No hello. No who’s this. He expected sarcasm, but this was serious attitude.
“Hey, baby. On my way home.”
“That’s just fine. I’ve been trying to find you since eight-thirty this morning. Your office said you called in sick. Jim Christensen’s called here four times since noon looking for you, and he sounds more like Chicken Little every time.”
“Trix, I said I’m on way home. I’m down in Greene County.”
“I don’t care if you’re with the goddamned Pope, Grady. I’m done. I stuck around all day to make sure you weren’t dead, but I spent the time packing. I stayed in 1986 because I loved you and didn’t understand what the hell was going on. Now, I don’t even care. So I’m done. I don’t need this.”
“Trix—”
“You haven’t learned a thing, Grady, in ten years not a goddamned thing. Have a nice life.” The receiver banged down, hard.
Downing faked a pleasant “See you in a bit, then” and hung up, checking to see if anyone was watching. She’d done this before. She’d be back. She was pushing fifty-three. Where would she go?
What had he told her when he left that morning? Or had they even talked? He got up, made a couple calls, and was gone before she woke up. She must have called him at work, then gone berserk when they said he wasn’t in. Shit. He should have told her what was up. DeLillo thought he was home sick, and she may have blown it.
She’d be back.
Downing dialed Christensen’s home. His hand shook. Maybe he should have called Christensen before he left. It wasn’t like him to call the house. He tested his voice to make sure it betrayed nothing. Hello? Hello? Deep breath. The answering machine picked up. Downing waited for the beep.
&nbs
p; “Grady Downing, Jim. Got your messages. Sorry I’ve been out of touch all—”
Christensen picked up after a screech of feedback. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Having a great day until about five minutes ago. What’s up?”
“How soon can you get here?”
“I’m at least an hour away. What’s that noise?” It sounded like running water and breaking glass.
“I’m throwing out every goddamn open container in my house. I’ve sent the girls over to Brenna’s. I’m halfway out of my fucking mind.” A soggy thud, more breaking glass. “Shit. We’ve got to talk. Now.”
“I’ll come straight there.”
“You do that.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
“Something’s way off here, Grady, and either you’re not playing straight with me or the FBI profilers are way off guessing your Primenyl guy is a random killer.”
“Nonspecific multiple murderer.”
“I think that’s wrong. I think we’re dealing with somebody here who’s got a very specific agenda, and at this point I’m pretty sure I’m part of it. I got this videotape in the mail that scared the bejeezus out of me.”
Downing felt a jolt. He tried to talk but couldn’t. He shut his eyes, tight, trying to blink away the scene that was replaying in his mind, an ordinary scene of him with Carole in his car outside her apartment, kissing, saying good night, a scene videotaped just days before she died. It had also arrived by mail.
“Videotape?” he managed.
“Somebody’s been following me, Grady. Me and the girls. And I think it started that first day when you came to my Pitt office and told me about Sonny. So whoever it is apparently is following you, too. Followed you straight to me.”
Downing felt dizzy. He put his head against the cold metal of the pay phone, felt its bite between his eyes. What could he say?
“It’ll be okay, Jim. Don’t panic.”
“Oh, shut up. Right now I’m not inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“I can be there in forty minutes,” Downing said. As soon as he hung up, he wished he’d added, Destroy everything in the refrigerator and medicine cabinets. Take no chances.
The dog stopped thrashing. It happened exactly as Downing had imagined it. A foil-wrapped packet of meat tossed over the fence. Rodney devouring it without hesitation. The sudden collapse. The struggle. The last shuddering gasps in the drifted snow.
“Jesus,” he said.
Christensen let the tape play on. “It looks like it was poisoned, doesn’t it?”
“Uh, maybe,” Downing said.
“What else could it be? The whole goddamned thing’s an implied threat, Grady. I was almost ready to write off the sample-products thing as a coincidence, but not now. It all started when you cranked up this investigation again.”
Downing held up his hands, then put them down when he realized how defensive it looked. He needed time to think. “How much longer does it go?”
The address tiles blinked onto the screen, then off. “That’s it,” Christensen said. “I fast-forwarded to the end. The rest is blank.”
Downing laced his fingers together and squeezed. His heart was pounding. He took an evidence bag from his coat pocket, and when his hand stopped shaking, he wrote the date on it in black Sharpie. He ejected the video, used the pen to pull it out of the VCR, and dropped it into the bag. After sealing it, he put it on one of the end tables.
“Did you save the wrapping?”
Downing pulled on a latex glove that was in his other coat pocket and folded the wrapping paper into another evidence bag. He laid it beside the videotape.
“Mind if I use the head?” Downing asked.
He locked the bathroom door, but didn’t turn on the light. He wasn’t sure he could handle a mirror right now. In the darkness, he felt like someone had him from behind and was crushing the air from his chest. The pace of his breathing picked up, shallow and forced, and he knew what was coming. He couldn’t stop it. He groped around, found a damp bath towel on a rack, and crumpled it into his face just as he started to hyperventilate. He held it there until the carbon dioxide did its work.
Think, Downing told himself. Christensen didn’t know Rodney was his dog. Did he need to know? Of course he did. Just like he needed to know about the video Corbett mailed him ten years earlier and the 9-1-1 recording he mailed him right after the Primenyl anniversary. Like he needed to know about Carole. But what could he tell him? That the last time Corbett sent one of his innocuous little video threats, he followed through within days? That when the threat didn’t back Downing off the 1986 investigation, Corbett slipped a bad capsule into the Primenyl bottle in Carole’s unlocked car and destroyed the only woman Downing ever really loved? That the FBI’s behavioral science team was wrong?
In the end, it would come down to the question of why he hadn’t told Christensen all this before. He imagined Christensen’s rage if he told him the truth now: Ron Corbett isn’t just capable of random killings. He’ll find a way to the soul of anyone who gets too close.
He flipped the light switch, avoiding the mirror. When his eyes adjusted, they fell immediately to the two toothbrushes beside a small toilet kit on the counter. One was an unremarkable blue; the handle of the other was covered with Power Rangers. Christensen must be taking this stuff to his daughters over at Brenna’s, thinking they’ll be safe there. He forced his eyes to the mirror, startled less by the sickly face and raccoon eyes than by the question that popped into his head. If something happened to Christensen’s girls, could he ever look in the mirror again?
The knock made him jump.
“I’m fine,” he said, then flushed the toilet. “Be right out.”
He turned on the faucet, letting the cold water run into his cupped palms. He lifted handfuls of it to his face until his head cleared, then dried himself with the towel and smoothed his hair. He was close, maybe closer than he’d ever been. The new evidence might be solid enough to make the Greene County case stick. Might be. But say Sonny did remember something significant, maybe not enough to charge Corbett in the 1986 killings, but enough to show a pattern. Then you’ve got a fifty-fifty shot with a jury. Without Sonny, Kiger might not even take the Greene County evidence to Dagnolo. And even if he did, would the DA file charges in a high-profile case without a slam-dunk guarantee? Especially a case where he didn’t trust the cop?
He hung the towel on the rack. Settled. He needed Christensen, because he still needed Sonny. The less Christensen knew, the more likely he was to continue. Downing took two deep breaths, practiced his trust-me smile, and turned the doorknob, ready to lie some more.
Chapter 27
Christensen was scanning the nearly empty refrigerator shelves when the bathroom door finally opened. Downing’s color was back, but he still looked like hell.
“Sorry,” Downing said. “Long drive.”
Christensen closed the refrigerator door. He’d thrown out everything that could be opened, pricked, or otherwise penetrated. “Spare me the bullshit, Grady. I feel like you suckered me into getting involved with Sonny.”
Downing pulled a chair out from under the breakfast table and sat down. Big smile. “You want out now? Just when things are getting good?”
Christensen glared. He was sick of the attitude, the shoulder-shrugging indifference to what he was going through. “That’s it. I’m done.”
“Jim, what does that accomplish?”
Christensen knew he was pacing, knew he looked agitated as he moved back and forth across the kitchen floor between the sink to the far cupboard. But he didn’t care.
“It at least gets us out of harm’s way, Grady. I’m not a cop, remember? I’m a psychologist. I see clients in air-conditioned comfort. We talk about things that make them sad and how to make
their spouses appreciate their feelings. I do a little research, write a paper about the brain and memory now and then. And I spend a lot of time trying to raise two daughters by myself. Throw in a full-time job as a homicide investigator and you can imagine my schedule!”
Christensen hated that kind of sarcasm, knew it made him sound like a man trying to rein in his rage. But he couldn’t stop himself, just like that time outside Tataglia’s house when he and Downing were crouched in the bushes with shotgun blasts whizzing overhead, waiting for the SWAT team. It felt good to lose control.
“So you can see, detective, there’s damned little time left in the day to deal with mass murderers who decide to stalk my family. Did I mention I’m the only parent my kids have?”
“Jim—”
“Oh, I suppose there are orphanages that would take them in. But it’s not a great option, really. Hey! How would you feel about adopting? Just a thought. Talk it over with the wife.”
Downing returned the glare. “Don’t lay this on me. You knew we weren’t dealing with a scout leader here. You read the file. You knew the situation when you agreed to work with Sonny.”
“Did I?”
Downing didn’t hold his gaze. His eyes moved quickly to the floor, a body-language red flag. Christensen bore in.
“You told me everything I needed to know to make an informed decision?”
“You know what I know, goddamnit. Probably more, since Sonny’s been talking to you, not me. All I’ve got is your promise to tell me if he says anything relevant to Primenyl.”
“I keep my promises.”
“Meaning what? What promises did I make? I know you’re rattled, and I’m sorry. This is scary. But we’re on the same side here, working two different angles. I came up with some good stuff in Greene County today. Corbett’s fingerprints are all over that killing. And if you’ve made any progress at all with Sonny, any progress, we’ve got a shot. We’re close.”
Christensen gripped the edge of the counter, anchoring himself to stop the pacing. “You don’t get it, Grady. What’s wrong with this picture? We’re supposedly after a nonspecific multiple murderer, or at least that’s what you’re telling me. I’m no genius, but I know that whoever sent that video doesn’t fit that profile. It’s very specific.”
Time Release Page 19
