by Linda Barnes
“Please, I’m fine. I might stop and have lunch or something.”
“Good idea.”
I thanked him, smiling, trying to radiate confidence and competence until the cruiser pulled out and drove away. I waited till it vanished, making a right turn at a stop sign. I knew I needed to move, drive. The officer might take another right, circle the block, come up behind me again.
I breathed deeply, in through the nose, out through the mouth. It was all right; nothing terrible had happened. The tightly bunched afternoon had unexpectedly opened like a late-blooming rose. I had free time. I would do it, drive to Dennis Port, find Detective Russell Snow, speak to the man at a time of my own choosing. He’d hand over Brooklyn Pierce’s tape, safe and secure in a sealed brown envelope.
He wanted to talk to me; I wanted to talk to him. Feigning confidence made me feel confident. I could handle it.
CHAPTER
twenty-two
My idea of a police department was based on the movies. Malcolm’s own Red Shot provided an iconic image, an urban ghetto outpost, a grim structure that might have been a run-down elementary school or an abandoned factory, with a tattered flag sagging on a rusted pole over a row of barred windows.
The Dennis Port Police Department was a cheerful building that could have doubled as an old-time general store, with a broad front porch, wooden railings, and shutters that framed windows that looked like they ought to be filled with merchandise. Inside, the space was awkwardly partitioned into small alcoves and offices, but the old rafters still gave a sense of what it used to be, a massive single room where people came to buy and share necessities, corn and grain and gossip. The creaking floorboards announced my arrival to a plump man at the front desk, who lifted a phone, barked a few short interrogatory sentences, and buzzed me through a locking gate with the admonition to enter the third door on the left.
The door was wide open, the interior small. The man behind the metal desk rose as I came in, but not without difficulty, and I read illness in his pinched features, gray skin, and labored movement. He had deep-set, light-colored eyes, a sharp nose, and a thin mouth balanced in a narrow, bony face. His dark hair was disheveled, as though he’d just run his hands through it, and lightly streaked with gray. He looked in his late forties, but he might have been younger. His blue shirt and wrinkled gray trousers probably fit better when he weighed an additional twenty pounds.
He didn’t hold out his hand. I wondered whether policemen didn’t offer to shake hands as a rule, if they didn’t want to risk contamination, discover at some later date that they’d shaken hands with a criminal.
A calendar featuring photographs of lighthouses was pushpinned to one white plasterboard wall. Another wall was covered with maps. A round schoolhouse clock ticked as the sick man recited his name, Detective Snow, and stared at me expectantly.
“Em Moore. Teddy Blake’s colleague, his partner. He died in a car accident?”
“Speak up, please.” Snow subsided into his chair.
I blushed and repeated myself.
“I left you a message.” His response wasn’t accusatory; it sounded as though he himself had only just remembered.
“Yes, but I forgot. And then I was told you wanted to speak to me.”
“By?”
“His wife. Teddy’s wife, Caroline.”
He jerked his chin to indicate that I should take the chair facing his desk, a metal upright with a green padded seat, scarred and saggy with use. The policeman’s chair, a wooden swivel, looked considerably more comfortable.
“You weren’t at the funeral,” he said.
“No. I couldn’t make it.”
“And Caroline Blake went out of her way to help me?”
“She didn’t. Go out of her way.”
The room, bright as a laboratory, seemed too small, the walls too close, every detail overly clear, hallucinatory: the dark circles under his eyes, their red-veined whites, the washed-out grayness of his skin, the sweat stains under his arms. The room was too hot; no wonder he was sweating. I thought about Jonathan’s office, how pleasant it was by contrast, how Jonathan had feared I might faint. Here, I thought, I might fulfill his nightmare and actually pass out. The air was motionless and oppressively thin, robbed of oxygen.
Detective Snow swiveled his chair; it squawked like a protesting parrot. He used both of his big, capable-looking hands to type on a keyboard. He stared at a computer screen, then focused on me as though memorizing my features for a wanted poster. The computer screen was angled so I couldn’t see the display. I felt the urge to rearrange my hair, cross my arms. I twined my fingers around the strap of my purse, then wondered whether he’d think that meant I was nervous. This was worse than seeing a therapist about my anxiety. I did that once.
I said, “Mrs. Blake thought you might give me Teddy’s computer, if you’ve finished with it. I mean, I don’t know whether or not it was in the car, or whether it got damaged or anything, but Caroline doesn’t have it and I thought—” I let the sentence go. There was no way to salvage it.
He checked with the computer screen. “We gave the widow his effects.”
“All of them?”
“I can check, but I think so.”
I kept my voice casual. “There would have been a small tape as well. A microcassette, like this one.” I held up the tape Caroline had relinquished. My palm felt damp.
He tapped an index finger on his lips and regarded the tape with a level stare. “Little thing like that, anybody coulda missed it.”
I wanted to ask whether he had missed it, whether he was the one who’d seen you lying broken behind the wheel, tried to help, called the ambulance. “Could you find out?” I asked instead.
“Now?”
“It’s something I need. For my work, to finish Teddy’s work.”
“Vehicle’s still in the garage. I can run by, take a look, but I wouldn’t count on anything.”
“You’ll let me know if you find it?”
“You leave your number, I will.”
I considered telling him I’d call later to inquire. I didn’t like the idea of giving a policeman my cell phone number, which was foolish. Even if I didn’t reveal the number, he could find it easily enough. He was a policeman, after all. He could ask Caroline; she’d delight in telling him. I recited it, he wrote it down, and I stood, ready to leave.
“Since you’re here, you mind if I ask a couple questions? If that’s okay?”
I sat again, mildly puzzled. In the movies, cops demanded answers. This man didn’t fit my vision of a cop any better than this converted general store fit my image of a station house. He moved too slowly, talked too softly, like a clerk in an insurance office. I wondered suddenly, abruptly, wildly, if he carried a gun, if he was armed and dangerous. I hadn’t noticed a holster when he stood.
“Was your boss a careful driver?”
“He wasn’t my boss.”
“Sorry. Your partner, was he a careful driver?”
“He had a fender bender last year.”
“Did you drive with him often?”
“I didn’t really notice his driving one way or the other.” I waited for another question, but he didn’t say anything, so I asked whether your car was badly damaged. I’m not sure why. I was wondering if he’d actually bother to search for the tape. That was better than envisioning the twisted metal that had once been the Explorer. I didn’t know if there’d been a fire, and I didn’t want to ask.
“Badly damaged?” He shrugged wearily. “It was damaged, all right. If he’d been wearing a seat belt, who knows? He might have walked away.”
“He wasn’t wearing his seat belt?”
“He usually buckle up?”
“I don’t know. I assumed so. I thought he did. Most people do.”
“A lot don’t. More than you think.” He looked at me as though we were finished, as though he expected me to stand again, say good-bye, and leave.
“But he wasn’t driving—uh, he wasn�
��t impaired?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You were seeking a witness.”
“The newspaper said we were.”
“He didn’t drink and drive.”
He swiveled his squeaky chair and consulted the computer screen again. “Would you say Mister Blake was a happily married man?”
The question caught me off guard, so much so that I felt giddy, like I might retch or burp or giggle, emit some entirely inappropriate noise. There was no air in the office, none at all.
“Was he?”
“You met Caroline. You should have asked her.”
“I did.”
I was imagining Caroline’s haughty response when it occurred to me that Snow was seriously pondering the possibility that you’d deliberately smashed into a tree as a preferred alternative to life with the ice queen. Had he never heard of divorce?
Caroline had mentioned divorce earlier in the day, in Lexington: I wasn’t about to divorce him, she’d said. I knew you’d never leave her. Because of the money. But what if she’d issued an ultimatum, ordered you to get out?
I stood, clinging to the back of the chair, glad of its upright sturdiness. Maybe Snow wasn’t as dull and unimaginative as he seemed. Maybe any single-car fatality caused the police to wonder whether the driver had impulsively tried to end it all. I considered sinking back into the uncomfortable embrace of the chair and requesting a glass of cold water.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. You’ll call if you find anything?”
“I will.”
“Don’t get up.” I couldn’t bear watching him try to rise, no longer wanted to shake hands even if he offered.
I sat in the car, breathing in and out—in through the nose, out through the mouth—till I’d composed myself, till I felt strong enough to brave the highway again. I fastened my seat belt carefully, tugging at the strap to make sure.
CHAPTER
twenty-three
No seat belt, Teddy.
I merged onto 6, got wedged behind a black SUV, and the minute I took note of it, a fleet of black SUVs, speeding like a herd of giant cattle, seemed to surround my undersized car. So many people chose huge vehicles, few with Melody’s need for one. You, for example, liked to sit high above the road; it made you feel safe, invincible. I considered the dark blue crocus-killing van the neighbor lady had mentioned. Not the sort of rental I’d associate with a movie star, but if you had recorded the missing tape at the house, Brooklyn Pierce, desperate to retrieve it, might have dropped by and peered in the window, hoped someone might let him in to search for it. I accelerated, hedged in by Lincoln MKZs bristling with bike racks, Honda CRVs topped by ski racks, unadorned Toyota Sequoias, and Fords like yours. If the van’s driver had been Brooklyn Pierce, movie star, it was likely the neighbor lady would have recognized him.
If you’d buckled your seat belt you might have survived. How tirelessly I’d have sat by your hospital bed, read to you, nursed you back to health. Lips pressed into a flat line, I kept up with the press of traffic while straining to listen to a faint intermittent thump, the first symptom of engine failure. Miles and minutes later, I realized I was hearing the wheels hit the highway seams.
By the time I pulled into the driveway, carefully avoiding the neighbor’s crushed flowers, each muscle that controlled my arms, neck to shoulder to fingertip, was paralyzed with tension. As I opened the car door, my tingling hand brushed the seat and the microcassette leaped into the air as though propelled by a slingshot. It took ages of groping to locate the tiny square against the dark carpet.
Anyone might have missed such a thing if they hadn’t known it was there. I would tell Brooklyn Pierce his interview had been lost in the accident. I’d need to make it sound convincing so that he’d believe me and agree to sit for a second taping.
I was so eager to lock myself indoors that I didn’t notice the slip of paper on the floor until I’d walked over it. When I unfolded it, the print as well as the words seemed strange and unfamiliar.
First Encounter, it said. Sunset. The stiff paper was bent into tiny folds at one corner. I reopened the front door and studied the casing. A folded note stuck in the crack could have fallen to the floor when I opened the door.
First Encounter? I plunked tape recorder and laptop on the desk, marched into the kitchen, and ran the tap water. While it chilled and cleared, I studied the scrap. Underneath the three printed words was a scrawl, low and to the right, like a signature on a painting. I filled a glass and drank thirstily. The first letter was a W. No, an M. Once I deciphered the M, the rest was apparent: Capital M, lowercase C, capital K.
Jonathan had asked about McKay. And hadn’t you gotten an e-mail from
First Encounter? Sunset? Outside the kitchen window the sun hung low in the sky. As if on cue, the doorbell rang and even though I’d half-expected it, I flinched and grabbed my purse, sure receptacle of the pointed and ready bastard file.
A glance through the peephole and I relaxed my grip on the sharp-edged tool. The bearlike lady who lived with sweet-voiced Ruthie rocked back and forth in heavy boots on the stoop
“Leona, from next door,” she affirmed as I edged the door ajar.
“Yes?”
“Ruthie said to tell you: He was here again, hanging around, peeping in the windows.”
“The man in the van?”
She nodded curtly. “Ruthie stares out the window a lot, now she’s out of work. She’s nervous as a cat, says you better call the cops. Woman got murdered up in Truro not long ago, and she keeps nattering on about it. I’d call them myself, but she doesn’t want any cops ringing our doorbell.”
“He came by today?”
“Soon as your car pulled up, Ruthie shooed me over to tell you.”
“Well, thank you. And thank her.” I started to shut the door.
“Don’t you want the license number? To tell the cops?”
“Ruthie got it?”
“I did.” She tapped her head to indicate that she’d memorized it.
I hesitated, overcome by an aversion to hospitality. If I let the woman through the front door, it seemed to me I’d need to offer coffee or tea, answer questions, make small talk. A face-saving thought intruded: the folded note sat on the small table in the entryway. I could write the digits beneath the cryptic message and keep the screen door shut.
Leona recited the plate number, peering through the screen, watching as I took it down, then surprised me by saying, “First Encounter? You heading to the beach?”
At first I thought she might be talking to herself, but she was smiling, expectant. “Great sundowns over there. Seen some beauts there, me and Ruthie.”
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“Didn’t mean to pry, couldn’t help seeing what you wrote. You’ll enjoy it.”
“What?”
“The sunset. First Encounter Beach, half mile or so from here? Off Samoset Road.”
CHAPTER
twenty-four
Samoset Road cut a narrow, winding path through scrub grass and low furrowed hills, and I drove along in spurts and starts, hurrying, slowing abruptly, alternating between hope and anxiety. In a kind of waking fantasy, the man in the blue van, the mysterious McK, with a courtly bow and a gentle smile, handed over the Brooklyn Pierce tape. He looked a little like you, Teddy. I shook myself out of the rose-colored fog. In the real world, he might be trouble, might even be dangerous. A crocus killer.
A public beach on Cape Cod at sunset is not an abandoned urban warehouse at midnight. Beaches were open stretches of level ground, and I’d stay in the car until I figured out the drill. The locked car would serve as a suit of armor.
The road twisted and doubled back. A graveled parking area opened on the right, but the road turned left, continuing, closing in on the shoreline. I followed till the road ended in a narrow, semi-paved rectangle. A blue van sat on its haunches, looming over two smaller cars. Its Massachusetts plate matched Leona’s license number.
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I parked in a slot that offered a glimpse of ocean waves through high dunes. Along the water’s edge, a ponytailed woman walked an elderly golden retriever. I found their presence comforting, reassuring. I sat for three minutes. When nothing happened and no one approached, I decided to venture onto the sand. I kept the car keys clutched in my right hand as a precaution: homemade brass knuckles.
Sand layered the concrete, grinding beneath my heels. I detoured to peer inside the van. Through tinted side windows I made out stacks of paper, overflowing crates, messy piles of clothing, signs indicating that the van doubled as a domicile. I circled it warily, then headed toward the beach. The path was softer than the parking lot, sand clear through. Flattened by thousands of footsteps, it humped over the dunes and descended in a steep rush to the beach.
The lady dog walker nodded and smiled. A trio of youngsters, engaged in piloting a homemade kite with a multicolored tail, ignored my arrival. A man hovered over them with the anxious concern of a parent. I mentally assigned the dog walker to the azure Subaru, the kite flyers to the silver Volvo. The man standing alone at the high-tide mark, staring out at the ocean, was the only other human in sight.
In his late teens, possibly early twenties, his stooped posture declared his discomfort with his stringy height. His large head rested on a thin stalk of neck, and his skin looked pale in the faltering sunshine. A three-day growth of dark stubble covered his face. He smoked a cigarette in short jerky puffs.
He didn’t raise his head till I was twenty feet away. Then he not only looked at me with piercing brown eyes, he darted glances left and right as though he expected I’d brought along a posse who were even now encircling him. He wore a faded gray jacket, cowboy style with patch pockets. The straps of a lumpy backpack cut his shoulders.
I stopped five feet away. Why are you bothering me? was the thought foremost in my mind, but I didn’t get to say it before he spoke.
“Glenn McKenna,” he said. “Em, right? You got ID on you? Lemme see it.”
