And possessed, I thought, holding my stinging cheek. Don’t forget possessed.
Both of us ignored the man, and he stood there a moment, huge arms folded, before he drifted back toward the closest building, a bank fronted by fake granite. As he did, I stared at the old lady, surprised and shocked by what I saw: hate. Pure hate.
“We all have fears, Albert Shipway.” Her features softened, almost sympathetic now, or maybe a little pleased and smug. “You are about to meet yours.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” I shouted the words, surprising myself. I surprised even the man leaning against the wall. He bounced off and came over again. If I wasn’t so rattled I would have turned on him, glad to have something to punch, but the old lady had me completely shaken.
She raised up on her pointy tiptoes, and I flinched again, but she did not slap me. Instead, she reached up and touched my face. Her hands were as dry as parchment, the kind that would contain secrets written in blood. She cocked her head slightly and studied my face. The hate was gone from her eyes.
“You brought this on yourself, Albert Shipway. And you brought this on my family.” Her accent was so thick I could barely understand her. “Family” came out like “fem-lee.”
“Brought what on your family?”
“The boy is gone, but he will be found.” As she spoke, I had a feeling she was gazing through me like a crystal ball that held bad news. Her rheumy eyes grew distant and her eyelids fluttered. She could have been in a trance. Or having a seizure, some old-lady thing they get when they are riled and vengeful and looking around for a cane to beat somebody with. “But will he be found alive? Ah, that is the question. I see you will be with him. Maybe. I also see you dead, consumed by your fear. The future is always unknown. But I know a little bit.”
That narrows it down. In the future, I’m either dead or I’m not.
She gripped my face a little tighter with those wiry talons. Though I wanted to step back, I sensed a strange, almost electric connection, a spiritual bond, and that if I broke it too soon, something bad might happen.
Or you might just be losing your mind. What can be worse than this?
She squeezed tighter still and said, “There is good in you, Albert Shipway, but you brought this on my family, and you will receive no mercy.”
And with that she released me, and as she did, the strange connection was broken. I blinked as if I had just walked out of a carnival funhouse, only it hadn’t been so much fun.
She turned and quickly shuffled off. Just a little old woman with baggy clothes and crazy hair. She didn’t look back. Not sure what the hell had just happened, I don’t think I blinked or breathed for a full minute. The man on the cell phone watched her go, too, looked over at me, then turned and went into the bank.
What was all that nonsense about a boy?
I glanced at my watch. No time left for lunch.
But a drink only took seconds if I did it right.
And I planned to.
Chapter Three
Still rattled and still hungry, I pushed my way through the glass doors to American Auto Insurance, carrying a cold, greasy sack of fries I’d picked up at the bar. I hated eating at my desk but today I had no other choice.
As crazy as my life had been over the last few years, I should have been used to it, but somehow crazy kept itself fresh, always coming up with a new twist.
I hate it when that happens.
And I was beginning to connect the dots between crazy past and crazy present.
But I wasn’t sure. I needed to make some calls.
As I entered my building, the two fingers of tequila burning in my gut like jalapeños, I saw them waiting just outside my office. There were two of them, both dressed in dark suits. One, a woman, stood looking at the painting on the wall near my door. The second was a man, and he was sitting in a client chair, legs crossed, playing with the seam of his trousers.
Detectives.
The dots connected themselves without any help from me. My stomach sank and the last shred of hunger faded. The tequila sluiced up the back of my throat like lava and I swallowed it down, wishing I had something stronger to pour on top of it and put out the fire.
Something bad had happened. I still didn’t know what, or to whom, but I had my suspicions, and they grew stronger with each step I took into my office and toward the waiting detectives. And I knew they were detectives, too. I had worked with too many of them to not know the look, and my ex had brought around her share, and I’m sure I wore the look of somebody who’d done something wrong.
Even though I hadn’t. Well, not recently and nothing more than a misdemeanor.
The young receptionist staffing the front desk watched me eagerly, glad for a break from boredom and driver complaints. As I drew closer, she said, “They’ve been waiting here for you since just after lunch.”
“Who are they?” I asked, but I knew the answer. I think, more than anything, I was buying time to gather my thoughts.
“Police,” she said. “Homicide detectives.” Her pretty face was trying its best to look professional, but her excited eyes gave her thoughts away: Police detectives! In our offices! Are you in trouble? Can I watch? This is just like television. I can’t wait to tell the boss!
“Hold my calls,” I said.
She nodded in disappointment and studied me as I passed her desk. All eyes were on me in the office, wondering what I’d gotten into this time. I ignored them all and headed toward my glass-enclosed office, which was part of a long row of such offices that ran along the east wall. I was what was called a “negotiator,” which meant I often worked with attorneys to craft settlements. Which meant that attorneys and I, usually over the phone, often got into it, because they billed by the hour to act like they cared. Which meant negotiators needed enclosed offices to do their jobs. It was nice having my own office. I felt important. I had worked many years to reach this level, and only a few of us could tell the receptionist “Hold my calls.”
All that work and ambition suddenly felt for naught. The old lady had foretold this bad turn of events. The old lady had also known about the mouse. She’d also said something about my death. Hopefully, two out of three was as good as she got.
I slowed as I approached my office and the waiting detectives. As I did so, the woman caught me in her peripheral vision and turned her head away from my Magritte print of a faceless man. I’d have given anything not to have a face right then.
But I was stuck with the mug I had. The door was too far to make a run for it, and, anyway, curiosity doused whatever anxiety I felt. Not as good as a drink could have, but I took what I could get. I smiled weakly...and approached them.
Chapter Four
The two detectives showed me their badges—Fullerton P.D.—and I pretended I’d never seen one before. They asked if we could speak in private, and I suggested my office. They thought that was a grand idea, and I showed them in, shutting the glass door behind them. Although we were alone in my office, we weren’t really alone. Two dozen prying eyes watched us curiously.
Just a rat in the cage.
I motioned toward the two client chairs in front of my desk and as they moved toward them, I stepped around my wide desk and sat behind it. My bowels felt like water. Or booze.
“You are an insurance negotiator,” said the male detective. He was adjusting the seam to his slacks again. As he did so, he looked from the seam to me, and then back to his seam again. I could sense anger within him that I couldn’t quite understand. He was younger than me, but he looked tougher, meaner. He also looked like he wanted to kick my ass, and focusing on his seam, diffusing his anger, was the only thing keeping him from doing so.
“Yes,” I said. “Can I ask what all of this—”
“Where were you between five and six a.m. this morning, Mr. Shipway?” asked the female detective.
I blinked at her. Her question seemed so foreign to me. I had never in my life been questioned about my whereabouts. A
t least not by the cops. My ex was another matter.
I swallowed carefully. “I get up for work at six-thirty. So I was asleep—”
“Is there anyone who can verify that statement?”
“No, I live alone—”
“How long have you been divorced, Mr. Shipway?”
Now they were taking turns asking me questions. My head snapped back and forth between the two, and I suddenly found myself disoriented, even forgetting who had actually asked the questions. I found myself looking at both of them as I answered.
“I’m married. Been separated about ten months.”
“Do you have any children, Mr. Shipway?”
“No, may I ask—”
“What is your wife’s name?”
“Gerda Shipway.”
“She retained her married name?”
“Yes, as far as I’m aware.”
“Why?”
“She hated her own last name. Mostly, she hated her fa—”
“We know all that. Do you know where your wife is, Mr. Shipway?”
“No, she moved out the day after we decided to divorce. How would I know—”
“When is the last time you saw her?”
“Ten months ago. We don’t go to the same gym or anything, and she’s not my friend on Facebook, either. What’s all this about?”
They stopped their questioning for a moment. I was about to insist they tell me what the hell was going, but the woman’s face went cold. As she spoke, there was absolutely no expression in her eyes.
“Amanda Mead was found murdered this morning, stabbed to death.”
The air in the room vanished in an instant. I heard myself make a noise but I couldn’t tell you what the hell kind of noise it was. A strangled cry, I suppose. Something close to the sound a man makes when he’s told that someone he loves—loved—very dearly is dead.
No, murdered.
“You seemed surprised, Mr. Shipway.”
I couldn’t speak. I felt as if someone had hit me in the stomach with a baseball bat. The only thing that I heard coming out of my mouth were the words: “Are you sure?”
The male detective smiled but didn’t answer. He shook his head and continued adjusting his seam. If that baseball bat had actually existed, I would have shoved splinters down his throat.
“We’re quite sure, Mr. Shipway,” said the female detective. “She was murdered this morning, in her house. It was a very violent scene.”
I found myself rocking.
“We’re going to ask you again, Mr. Shipway: do you know where your wife is?”
“I assume she’s at home—”
“She’s not at her current residence and hasn’t been seen for some months.”
I stopped rocking. I looked at the female detective. “Why do you want to know about my wife?”
“She’s a person of interest. With her history...well, you understand.”
“Do you think she killed Amanda?”
“Why would you say that, Mr. Shipway?”
“You keep asking about her—”
“Did you know Amanda Mead?” This was the male detective asking the question. I think. I was still wrapping my head around Gerda’s being a person of interest. A very sick feeling overcame me and I nearly vomited. The sack of fries stank up the room with its congealing grease, and the man’s macho cologne didn’t help. Perhaps it was a good thing I hadn’t eaten lunch, after all.
“Yes,” I said. “I know her.”
They looked at me coldly, noting I’d used the present tense. When you hear of a sudden death, it takes a while before it happened in the past. And Amanda was too full of life not to imagine her walking through the door laughing, though that hadn’t happened in a long time.
“How did you know her?”
Both detectives were looking at me. My affair with Amanda hadn’t been a secret. At least, not with Amanda’s family. And, apparently, not Fullerton’s finest, either. I wondered what else they had in their files.
I wasn’t averse to lying, but I didn’t see any strategic advantage in it at the moment. “I had an affair with her.”
“For how long?”
“Nearly six months.”
“Is that why you and your wife divorced?”
I sat back in my leather chair. At least, I think it was leather. It could have been faux leather. Either way, it made rude noises as I adjusted my position. All three of us ignored the moist squeaks.
“Gerda found out about us,” I said. “And left me.”
“Did you continue seeing Amanda?”
“No.” This was incredibly hard for me to talk about, and so I paused for a moment, collected my thoughts, wondering if it was time to lie. Not yet, I decided. “She didn’t know I was married.”
“She found out you were married, then?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Gerda contacted her, told her over the phone.”
“Have you seen Amanda at all during these past, what, ten months?”
“No. She refused to answer any of my calls or to see me again.”
“Did you ever try to see her?”
“Once.”
“And what happened?”
“She got a restraining order.”
Ah, the detective would have known about the restraining order, of course, and put two and two together. They looked at each other now. Then the female detective spoke, and as she did so, emotion crossed her face for the first time. A slight quivering to her lower lip, pain in her moist eyes.
“Were you aware that Amanda recently gave birth?”
Another gut shot. This one harder. So much harder. I felt my jaw drop open. I couldn’t close it if I wanted to.
The male detective quit playing with the seam. He sat forward in his chair, which creaked under his weight. He folded his arms over my desk, and leaned his weight on his elbows. He looked me directly in the eye.
“Either you’re the world’s greatest actor, Mr. Shipway, or you really didn’t know she was pregnant.”
“But I....” I couldn’t speak.
“Of course, it could have been some other guy’s,” the jerk continued, trying to get me to crack. Maybe he thought I’d killed Amanda and this was his way of getting me to confess.
Yeah, I loved her but she screwed around on me and then I found out she had a baby and, hey, that just shoves it in your face. What’s a guy to do? Some women just need killing.
That’s the kind of thing he was hoping for, and so I gave him the opposite. Nothing. Mostly because I couldn’t feel anything but numbness.
“The baby is missing, Mr. Shipway,” he said.
I looked at the woman cop for sympathy, but her glare said maybe it should have been me that had been murdered instead of Amanda. Some men just need killing, too, maybe.
But I knew Amanda, and she was as true as a dictionary. I was the liar, the cheater, the con artist, the low-down dirty dog. And somewhere out there I had a kid.
Whom I hoped to God wouldn’t turn out like me.
“And your ex-wife is missing, too,” the male detective said, fishing a plastic baggie from his pocket. He tossed it on my desk. The baggie held a crudely sewn rag doll. It had no face, just the barest outline of a human form, but on its chest, written in dried blood, was my name: AL.
Gerda never could sew worth a damn.
“See why we’re interested?” the detective said.
Chapter Five
After the world’s shittiest day at work, a day that couldn’t have ended soon enough, a day I’d lost the woman I loved forever and gained an offspring, I found myself in my garage and sitting on my still-throbbing Harley. Yes, the motorcycle was a result of a serious mid-life crisis I had gone through. Hell, still going through. My entire life seemed like a crisis, not just the middle of it.
I finally shut off the bike and booted down the kickstand. But I just sat there straddling the ticking motor, thinking about Amanda. I could barely wrap my brain around the fac
t that she was dead. And it was damn near impossible for me to wrap my brain around the fact that she had a baby.
My baby.
Damn.
I’m a daddy.
And now the baby was gone. And not just gone.
Kidnapped.
And Amanda was murdered.
And my ex-wife, Gerda, was a person of interest.
Sweet Jesus. Sweet, sweet Jesus.
Yes, I had cheated with Amanda. Yes, I had single-handedly ruined my marriage, no matter if I felt justified or not. I had been a weasel and a jackass at the same time. But that didn’t mean I didn’t love Amanda.
I had loved her more than anything, and I had respected her decision to never talk to me again. The cops would never understand, and I couldn’t blame them for doubting me, but I loved her enough to let her be rid of me.
Who would do this to her? And why?
And as I sat there in my garage, with the door closed and the great machine still warm between my knees, I found myself crying in my helmet, the sound of my anguish echoing in there where my tears were safe and no one would ever see them.
When I had cried myself out, I stepped off the Harley and, still wearing the helmet, headed through the dark for the laundry room door, which was a buffer to the kitchen door.
As I reached for the laundry room doorknob, dreading the empty house that awaited me, I heard the first scraping noise.
My breath caught in my throat. My heart beat quicker, harder. Like a thrash-metal drummer on speed, careless, frantic, loud.
The noise came again, from behind me. It sounded like a dead leaf skittering over concrete, blown along by wind. Except there was no wind here in the garage.
Something bumped my foot. Actually, something ran over my boot.
I jumped backwards, gasping.
A rat? A...mouse?
I reached for the garage light switch, flicked it on. No good. The single light bulb had burned out weeks ago. I’d been meaning to change it ever since, and now I regretted my procrastination.
Cursing, I yanked open the door to the laundry and darted out of the garage, tiptoeing like a ballerina in case there were others. I slammed the door behind me, rattling the thin wall that ran between the garage and laundry room. Revulsion coursed through me. I wanted to shower.
Scott Nicholson Library Vol 3 Page 2
