I passed the station on my way down to the waterfront. I was tempted to stop for a moment, ask Detective Shea if there’d been any developments yet, but hell, it had only been a matter of hours. Things just don’t move that fast.
I drove all the way down to the Rondout Creek. The shops and restaurants were all lit up, lots of cars parked on the street, a few boats in the slips. People walking around, enjoying the warm night. I looped around past Block Park to the neighborhood of small, dark houses down the creek and stopped in front of the familiar duplex. The Schuler family on one side, my client Wayne among them, the kid I still hadn’t hooked up with, come to think of it. On the other side Sandra and her husband, and for the life of me I couldn’t even remember her last name at that point, if I had ever known it.
I got out of the car and went to her door. I knocked, waited a minute, knocked harder. The windows were dark. On the scrubby little lawn there was the same lonely pinwheel decoration, only now it was bent over halfway to the ground.
I went next door and knocked at the Schulers’, figuring I could talk to Wayne’s mother, find out if she knew anything, had heard anything through the thin wall. There was nobody home there, either. Or if they were, they were doing a great job of hiding it.
I stood there in front of the place, looking at the bent pinwheel. For some reason it made me feel a little sick to my stomach, like it summarized the lives of both families who lived here. My Laurel, I said to myself, what have I done here? Did I stick my nose in a bad situation and make it even worse? Tell me what to do.
And why do I feel like I just lost you tonight? Marlene’s the one who was killed, her body not even in the ground yet, and all I can think about is you. What in goddamned hell is wrong with me? I can’t even grieve the right way.
I heard music up the street, then a dog barking. A moist wind came in off the creek, smelling like something primeval. I didn’t want to be there anymore. It was time to go see two of the last people on earth who actually looked forward to me knocking on their door.
Howie and Elaine lived just south of the city, on the far side of the creek. They were still in a condo while they waited to buy a house, but it was the greatest condo in all of Ulster County exactly once a year, when you could sit on the back deck overlooking the creek and watch the July Fourth fireworks.
Elaine answered the door. She had been my first real girlfriend, if you went all the way back to eighth grade. Come to think of it, she had my virginity tucked away in a sock drawer somewhere. But that was one summer among kids, and in the end she hooked up with Howie and never looked back. We’d all stuck together ever since—Elaine was the one with the great basement and the parents who didn’t give a crap what we did down there as long as we didn’t kill anybody or burn down the house. We had a whole gang that used to hang out in that basement, smoking pot and doing other things that it was now my official job to discourage and Howie’s job to actually arrest you for.
“You look horrible,” she said.
“Thanks. It’s good to see you, too.”
“I’m serious. Look at your eyes.”
“Elaine, a person can’t look at his own eyes.”
“And your hands! Why are they all taped up?”
“Where’s Howie?”
“He’ll be out in a minute. Come on in.”
She pulled me through the doorway and hugged me. Then she looked at me for a long moment, apparently trying to think of something else to say. I saved her by excusing myself and going to the bathroom. When I looked in the mirror I saw what she had been talking about. My eyes were so red, you’d guess I was up all night playing poker with six chain-smokers.
I ran some cold water and splashed it on my face. When I came back out, Howie was waiting for me.
“JT,” he said. “Tell me everything. Start with what the hell happened to your hands.”
“Let the man sit down,” Elaine said. “Pour him a drink or something.”
He did. A few minutes later, we were all sitting at the table, having Elaine’s world-famous lasagna and starting in on a bottle of red wine. Only then did Howie press me for the details again.
“So Billy the Kid,” he said. “He’s some piece of work, huh? You think the chief would let me get an earring like that?”
“Not happening,” Elaine said.
“On me, I think it would work.”
“Not. Happening.”
“Tell me,” he said, turning to me. “Did he work you over?”
“No, not really,” I said. “He seemed to want my help more than anything else. He even made me write down everything I could think of. I mean, like every single little detail about Saturday night. He said it was some kind of self-hypnosis.”
Howie dropped his fork. “He made you do what? Self-hypnosis?”
“It prompts your mind,” I said. “Makes you remember more. At least that’s what he said.”
“Did it work?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, I didn’t remember anything useful.”
He looked at Elaine and then back at me. “JT, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of. Self-hypnosis, my God …”
“He mentioned something else.” I wasn’t even sure if I should bring it up, but what the hell. “He was wondering if maybe I might be the connection somehow.”
“The connection between what?”
“Between Laurel and Marlene. That they might be connected. Through me.”
“You’re not serious,” Howie said. “I mean, what is this guy smoking?”
“It was just an idea. That somehow, I don’t know … Somebody from my past … I know it sounds crazy.”
“It is crazy. They bring this jackass all the way down from Albany …”
“But then I couldn’t help thinking,” I said. “I mean, think about it. If I have to violate someone …”
“Stop,” he said. “Stop right there. You’re saying that if you have to violate somebody and they go to jail, they’re gonna blame you for it? And then when they finally get out of jail, they’re gonna come after you? But instead of coming after you, they’re gonna go after the women in your life? Assuming you can even call Marlene that based on one freakin’ blind date? Is that the theory?”
I shook my head. “You’re right. It’s insane. But he brought it up, so it’s been in my head all day.”
“That would be worse,” Elaine said.
“What would be?”
“Killing the people around you. That would be worse than just killing you. Much worse. Just think about it.”
We both stared at her.
“Of course, maybe it wasn’t someone you violated,” she said. “Maybe it was someone you didn’t violate.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if somebody should have gone to prison but didn’t? Because you kept them out. And then later on they did something horrible to someone else.”
“And then that person …” I said.
“You’re gonna drive yourself crazy with this,” Howie said.
“I’m sorry,” Elaine said. “I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
I didn’t get much more chance to think about it. The phone rang at that moment. Howie got up to answer it. Elaine topped off my wineglass.
“What do you need?” I heard Howie say into the phone. He looked over at me, a cloud of unhappy confusion passing over his face.
“Do I know where he is? Yeah, he’s right here. We’re having dinner. Why do you—”
He stopped and listened.
“What?”
Still looking at me. Listening and shaking his head.
“What’s her name? Hold on … How do you spell that?” He grabbed the pad and pen by the phone and began writing.
“And this was where?” He kept writing.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Do they have him now? They do. Yes. Yes, I know. Yes, I will. Okay, goodbye.”
He hung up the phone.
“What’s going on?” I said.
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“Do you know a woman named Sandy Barron?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so … Wait. Sandy as in Sandra? She lives over on Dewitt Street?”
“Yeah, that’s her.”
The way he said it. I could feel the cold needles all the way down my back.
“Howie, don’t tell me …”
“She’s dead. They just found her.”
“No. No way.”
“They’ve got her husband at the station …”
“This isn’t happening,” I said. “Please tell me this is a bad dream.”
“Come on,” he said. “They say they need your help again. Right now.”
EIGHT
Howie drove. We crossed over the bridge, the Rondout Creek far below us, the lights of the waterfront, the people down there, eating, drinking, just walking around, having normal lives with their loved ones.
He parked behind the station. I should have my own designated spot back here, I thought, and while I’m at it, a special red phone on my desk for calls from the chief.
Mike was sitting at his desk. “Detective Borello,” he said, with more energy than I’d ever heard from him. “Mr. Trumbull.” If manning the night shift was usually a boring job, it sure as hell wasn’t tonight. “They’re waiting for you upstairs.”
The chief was already coming out of his office when we hit the hallway. “Joe,” he said to me. “Sorry to drag you down here again.” He turned to Howie. “Detective, I need to see you in my office.”
“What happened?” he said. “Where’s the husband?”
“I’ll fill you in,” the chief said, “while the BCI men are talking to Joe.”
“BCI men? There’s more than one of them now?”
“In my office,” the chief said. “Joe, I’ll take you down to the interview room.”
Howie stopped him. “Can I talk to them, at least?”
“No, Detective. You cannot talk to them. You lost that privilege the last time Shea was here, remember?”
“That’s some privilege.”
Brenner looked at him for a long moment. Maybe he was counting to three in his head before saying anything, one of the essential skills of a police chief.
“Go sit down in my office,” he finally said. “I’ll be there in one minute.”
I could see Howie’s face getting red. Never a good sign for whoever he was mad at, going all the way back to the playground. Didn’t matter who it was, even a teacher or, most memorably, his boss at the ice cream stand. I guess he’d grown up a little bit, though, because he swallowed whatever he wanted to say and went into the chief’s office.
“This way,” the chief said to me, his voice instantly back to a perfect calm. “The same room.”
“You should start charging me rent.” That sick feeling was starting to come back.
He smiled but didn’t say a word.
“Her husband killed her,” I said. “Is that what you’re telling me? She came back to him today and he killed her?”
“It may not be as simple as that, Joe.”
“What do you mean?”
He opened the door to the interview room. I was surprised to see it was empty.
“They’ll be with you in a moment,” he said.
“Chief, tell me what happened to her. I need to know.”
“They’ll be right with you,” he said, looking me square in the eye. “Just have a seat.”
He closed the door again. This time I sat down. There was nothing to look at in the interview room, nothing to distract me. It was just me and everything going on inside my head. Two women dead now, one after spending the last few hours of her life with me, the other apparently because I tried to help her get away from an abusive husband.
I saw Marlene on the ground, an image I knew would stay with me for the rest of my life. If she had been curled up in that tall grass, or lying with her arms and legs stretched out randomly in every direction … Somehow it would have made more sense to me. I could have processed it and moved on. To see her carefully posed like that, as if a mortician had prepared her for a funeral…
I closed my eyes, wondering if I was about to throw up right there in the interview room. I leaned back in my chair and wished for a cold bottle of water.
I had no image for Sandra’s death. I could only imagine. She went back to her house … Did he kill her right away, the moment she stepped through the door? Or did he wait for the darkness? Did he have to work himself into a rage, fueled with alcohol, before he could take the life of the woman who loved him?
I looked at my watch. It was after eleven now. I was just about to get up and look out the door when it opened and Shea came in. Another man followed him. They were both carrying thick notebooks.
“Joe, this is my partner,” Shea said. “Harold Rhine-hart.”
I stood up and shook his hand. Rhinehart was older than Shea by at least twenty years. He was mostly bald, with thin brown hair holding on for dear life over each ear. He wore thick glasses. If Shea looked like a rock star, then Rhinehart looked like a high school science teacher.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Shea said. “We were talking to Mrs. Barron’s parents.”
He sat down across from me, just like he had earlier. It was hard to believe it was still the same day. His partner sat next to him. They both looked tired.
“I was there,” I said. “At her house.”
“At the Barrons’ house?”
“I wanted to check on her. Apparently, she came to see me at the gym today, but I was at work.”
Shea opened his notebook. “When did you go to her house?”
“Around seven thirty. I was on my way over to Howie’s house.”
“That’s Detective Borello.”
“Yes.”
“And when did she come to see you at the gym today?”
“I don’t know exactly. I can ask Anderson. Sometime in the afternoon.”
Shea was writing everything down. Rhinehart just sat there watching me.
“She could have found you at the office,” Shea said. “It’s just down the street, right?”
I thought about it. “Anderson got the impression that she only came by to tell me to leave her alone. That she had a change of heart and didn’t need my help anymore.”
“She said that?”
“I don’t know exactly what she said. Again, I’ll ask Anderson about it.”
“He’s the owner of the gym,” Shea said, writing. “He’s there most of the time, right?”
“Yes.”
“I understand Mrs. Barron came to see you last night. You arranged for her transport to the women’s shelter.”
“That’s right,” I said. I took them through the whole episode. Sandra showing up at the gym. Anderson, Maurice, Rolando, and I, all there after hours, having a quiet drink. Me insisting that we do this right, calling Protective Services instead of going down and taking care of her husband ourselves.
“Sounds like you played it exactly the right way,” Shea said.
“Yeah, and look what happened,” I said. “Howie said you have her husband in custody. Have you charged him yet?”
Rhinehart finally spoke up. “Billy assures me that you’re going to help us, Joe.”
“If I can.”
“This is a second murder in as many days.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think there could be a connection?”
“I don’t see how there could be. Sandra was killed by her husband. Unless you’re suggesting that he was the one who happened to—”
Even as I was saying this, Rhinehart was opening his notebook and taking out a large color photograph. He put it on the table, spinning it so it faced me.
“This was taken an hour ago,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”
A second went by. Then another. Finally, the image came together for me. I was looking at Sandra. She was lying on her back in the middle of what must have been her living room. The edge of a couch in one corner
of the frame, a table leg in another. Sandra lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Something thin … Shoelaces? Shoelaces wrapped several times around her neck. Her hands folded on her stomach.
The recognition came first, the intellectual comprehension of what I was seeing. The physical reaction came next, the cold, sick wave washing over me. I looked up at Rhinehart, at his unfamiliar granite face. Then at Shea with his six-shooter earring. There was so much more life in that face, so much more empathy, understanding. His was a face not yet hardened by the job.
I tried to say something. I let out a noise like somebody had hit me hard in the gut.
“Let’s start from the beginning,” Rhinehart said. “You’ll have to forgive me, I wasn’t here when you talked to my partner earlier today.”
I kept looking at Shea. I kept waiting for him to say something. To help me make some sense of this.
“Joe,” Rhinehart said, “are you okay? Are you with us here?”
I swallowed hard. “I’m with you.”
“You’ve had some time to think about it. About Marlene Frost, anyway. Now that you see what happened to Sandra Barron, tell me … Do you have any idea who could have done this?”
“No. Like I told Detective Shea, I honestly have no idea.”
“I know. But now if you consider that the same person most likely killed both of them …”
“I don’t see how …”
“You work with a lot of criminals,” Rhinehart said. “Am I right?”
I looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“As a probation officer, I bet you see more criminals in a week than I do in a month.”
“Maybe,” I said. “If you’re counting young offenders as criminals, yes. Anything hardcore and I’m not even going to see them. Probation’s not even an option.”
“You get the minor leaguers,” Rhinehart said. “The first-timers. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Pretty much.”
“And your job is to keep them out of prison.”
“It’s more than that. But yeah, that’s a big part of it.”
Night Work Page 10
