Feeling the weight of the tape in his pocket, his thoughts turned to Naomi Waters. He envisioned her sitting across from him, all fired about seeking justice for the woman she'd just found out gave birth to her.
Was it possible that the murdered man was one of the two who abducted Mary Rose Francis that night, all those years ago? Would solving this cold case be that easy? Didn't seem likely. Banks probably had that article in his wallet for some other reason entirely.
Maybe he was just taken with the girl's story. Lots of people in town were. Although you don't usually cut a story out of the paper if it has no personal connection to you.
Well, he'd find out soon enough. Debbie Banks would certainly know her own husband's voice when she heard it. The tape in his pocket suddenly felt like a small, nasty animal.
Chapter Nineteen
Sergeant Nelson sat in Debbie Banks' neat, modestly furnished living room. The news he'd delivered minutes ago hung in the air like the silence following a terrible explosion. She sat across from him, folded in on herself, on the brown rust velvet-covered sofa, reminiscent of one his mother owned in the eighties, but newer. Her eyes were swimming with tears and she was shaking, but trying to hold it together. She didn't scream or cry out when he told her, just whimpered and put a hand over her mouth, her eyes begging him to tell her it wasn't true. But she knew; he'd seen the fear in her eyes when she opened the door and saw him standing there. Then she'd wept softly. He hadn't shared with her the gruesome details of her husband's murder. She would learn them soon enough.
Now she was mopping at her tears again with an already sodden wad of tissues, getting shakily to her feet, asking him if he'd like tea. Being hospitable was apparently important to her, no matter the circumstances. Just a part of who she was. Strange how in times of great suffering, we adhere to our basic natures, reverting to old tribal practices that allow us to go through the motions of civility. Or maybe she just felt a need to do something with her hands.
"No thanks," he said quickly, before she could disappear into the kitchen. She nodded and sank back down on the sofa.
"But I do need to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Banks," he said. "I can come back later if you prefer, I know this is hard for you. But the more answers I have, the faster we'll find your husband's killer. And we will find him, I promise."
More promises he may not be able to keep. Story of his life. It was why Jeannie left and took the kids. They were grown now. She was married again, to an insurance broker. A safe, predictable life. He couldn't fault her. And why was he wallowing in the past?
"I know this is difficult," he said. "I'll try not to take up too much of your time."
"No, it's okay. Take whatever time you need. Ask your questions. Please, Sergeant. I want his killer found and punished more than anyone." She sniffed into the tissue, then set the hand that held the tissues in her lap and settled herself stoically, ready to do whatever she could to help solve her husband's murder and bring the man responsible to justice.
Everyone wants justice. It was his job to see that they got it. Unfortunately, his powers were sadly limited. But he would try his damndest.
Debbie Banks looked small and helpless sitting there on the sofa, eyes leaking tears, between questions, staring at her hands as if they might belong to someone else. Someone else whose husband had been murdered. She was trying so hard to stay strong. He fondled the tape in his pocket, eager for an answer, but if it was her husband's voice on the tape, she might come apart at hearing it, literally within minutes of finding out he was dead. It would be cruel to test her limits.
"I don't understand," she was saying. "Who would do this? We live a quiet life. Our kids are grown. Normie didn't have any enemies."
He had one, Graham thought. "That's what we aim to find out, Ma'am. It wasn't a mugging, that much we know. He had money on him. Three twenties and a ten. A credit card. Did he seem different to you lately? Uptight? Nervous?"
Her thin shoulders shrugged and she shook her head. "I don't think so. But he was working a lot of overtime, so I didn't see much of him lately. I work evenings—Sears, the kid's department," she added vaguely. "I worked till ten Friday night."
"And you have no idea what he would be doing down by the wharves?"
She shook her head, still fighting tears. "No. None."
Sergeant Nelson could think of one reason for setting up a meeting down there at night: you didn't want to be seen together. He thought of the article in Banks' wallet."Mrs. Banks, do you know a woman named Lillian Waters?" It was always possible Naomi's adopted mother was the connection, and not the girl herself.
She shook her head. "Lillian Waters? No, I don't think so. Why?"
"Mrs. Waters was a retired nurse. She died recently. Cancer. She left a daughter behind. An adopted daughter, Naomi Waters."
A light of recollection came into her eyes. "Oh, that piece in the paper about that girl looking for her birth mother's attackers. I thought it was such a sad story when I read it." She wiped her nose into her tissue. "Why? What has she got to do with Normie?"
"Probably nothing. But that article was found folded up in your husband's wallet. I wondered if you might know why."
She gave him a puzzled look, then began sifting through a stack of newspapers in the magazine rack at the end of the sofa. She found the paper in question and opened it. The article was intact. She looked absently at the photo of Naomi Waters, then dropped the paper back onto the rack. It slid onto the floor. She didn't bother to retrieve it. "He didn't take it out of this paper," she said, bewildered. Questioning.
So her husband had cut the story out of another newspaper, which told Sergeant Nelson he didn't want his wife to know it had any meaning for him.
After a space of time in which Debbie Banks had drifted a million miles away, she said quietly: "Normie was sick a lot when he was a kid. He spent time in the hospital. Maybe she was one of his nurses. Was nice to him. Made him feel special." She blew her nose delicately into the tissues, then went on. "Some of those nurses can be bitches, you know, but there are some who are angels, too." She reached into her pocket and Nelson realized she was out of tissues. Seeing the box of Kleenex on the sideboard he rose and brought it to her, also picking the newspaper up off the floor and putting it back in the rack. She thanked him.
"The diabetes?" he asked, still standing.
"Yeah. Asthma too, you name it. He grew out of most of it. Now he was okay as long as he got his shots." The tears spilled over again, giving way to gut-tearing sobs that made him want to get the hell out of there. He tentatively touched her shoulder, said he was sorry and quietly let himself out. He left his card by the phone. The tape still in his pocket.
He'd come back. A couple of days wasn't going to change anything. In the meantime, they'd interview neighbours and co-workers, see who might have held a grudge against him, if he'd been involved in activities his wife might not know about.
He sat in the cruiser a good five minutes, mulling over questions. For example, why would Norman Banks, at some point in their long marriage, not mention this nurse who had left such a lasting impression on him, if that was the case? Was she the sort of woman who didn't want to hear about other women in her husband's life, no matter their age or how innocent the association? He didn't think so. She didn't strike him as the type, and he liked to think he was a pretty good judge of character. Why then didn't he cut the article out of his own paper? The answer didn't change: he didn't want her to know the story held that much interest for him. He was hiding it from her.
Why?
That's what he needed to find out.
Chapter Twenty
It was already dark outside her window when Naomi fixed herself a grilled cheese sandwich, poured a glass of milk and carried them into the living room. There was a small dining room adjoining the living room, but she rarely ate in there, preferring the kitchen, or here in front of the TV.
She watched some local news, hearing about the stabbing of the man down
by the wharves, but made no connection to herself, thinking only of the poor man's family and the growing violence in the world. Later she watched an unfunny comedy that relied mainly on crude jokes for ratings. Or maybe it was just her. Not much was funny lately.
She needed new evidence if she had any hope of persuading Sergeant Nelson to reopen the case. She had hoped the tape would do that for her, but she'd obviously been wrong about that. Maybe it was best to leave it alone for a while and pray for the call that would shed new light on the case. After all, that man had phoned her out of the blue. Have a little faith, she told herself.
Around nine-thirty she switched off the TV and went into her studio, Molly padding behind her. The publisher had sent her a new teen mystery titled Secret at Fog Lake to narrate. She wasn't in the mood, but she'd read the book in bed last night and enjoyed it. It lent itself to a dramatic read. Just the sort of distraction she needed to get herself back on track. No more procrastination. She'd get to work.
What if the phone rang? She wouldn't hear it. She'd leave the inside door open. Edit out any noise later. If it didn't work, she'd just have to do it over. What the hell, she had nothing else to do. Not until she heard from Sergeant Nelson. Or her caller.
The story reminded her of those Nancy Drew books she'd read as a child, which also reminded her of the sergeant calling her by the heroine's name. She didn't think it was meant to be complimentary.
In this book, though, there were references to Hilary Duff, and the dialogue was sprinkled with computer jargon. And of course, the main character has a cell phone, something Naomi didn't even have, probably should, but so far she'd resisted.
The protagonist, Lois, while trying to solve the murder of an old hermit, was also dealing with the divorce of her parents. It was a well-written story with believable characters, a creepy atmosphere, clever plot, and should do well for its author. She would do her best to do it justice and not let her own problems get in the way.
Like Mary Rose, the thought of performing in front of a live audience was far too daunting to Naomi. She much preferred imagining an audience of one little girl who sent her fan mail and called her the storybook lady. Aside from the pleasure of the work itself, and getting paid of course, there were other perks to her job. She loved getting fan mail from audio book lovers, but the biggest reward was always a happy author.
After booting up the computer, she brought up her audio editor, hit record and went into the studio. Tucking the errant strands of her hair behind her ears, she fitted on the padded headphones. After a sound check, she shut the door and settled down in front of her beloved ElectroVoice RE20 mic, and opened the book to the first chapter.
With the headphones snug against her ears, it was like being shut off from the outside world. Maybe a little like being inside a mother's womb, she mused, thinking of Mary Rose. Did she feel me inside her, growing, tiny hands closing into fists, feet kicking as her own body cradled and nourished me? Naomi believed she did. She believed they had connected in their silent worlds. And she has never really left me. But my world was not really silent, was it? I would have heard her heartbeat, the blood coursing through her veins, and into mine.
Knock it off, she told herself, and removed the headphones. She wouldn't be able to hear the phone with them on. Quit naval gazing—literally, she told herself. Focus on the story. On Lois. Read!
And she began.
And was soon immersed in the tale, had slipped into Lois' skin and was sitting in the small rowboat, almost able to feel the chill of the air at her shoulders, hear the slap of water against the sides of the boat as the oars dipped and rose rhythmically, each stroke bringing her closer and closer to the shore of the fog-shrouded island.
* * *
The lone figure moved stealthily through the back field, coming off Keel where he'd parked the van. The night was moonless, dark, and smelled of rain. Perfect for his purpose. He drew nearer to the back door of 233 Elizabeth Avenue. Once there, he sat the gallon can of gasoline he carried in some nearby bushes; the liquid inside made a deceptively gentle sloshing sound.
"If they get the bastard," one of the guys at the gym said this morning, "he'll be easy to nail. His DNA will match hers." The conversation went on, but that was all he heard. The single statement made his bowels turn to ice that quickly melted.
Suddenly staring through imaginary bars, his hands had turned sweaty and he had nearly dropped the barbell on his chest. Funny—he hadn't thought about that. But it wasn't going to happen. He'd make damn sure of that.
Leaving the gas can in some bushes, he moved to the door and with a black-gloved hand picked the old lock easily—a skill he'd learned as a teenager and never lost. The door swung inward with a faint creak, and his stomach muscles tensed. He cocked his head, like a dog sensing danger. Then, hearing nothing, he let out his breath and stepped across the threshold. He stood silently in the dimly lit kitchen, listening, ready to bolt if she wasn't alone. But he didn't think that was case.
There'd been only one car parked in her front driveway when he drove past, a dark blue Cavalier, and he knew it was hers. He'd made it his business to know.
The kitchen smelled faintly of grilled cheese. He saw the frying pan upturned on the dish rack, and grinned to himself. He wondered what she would have eaten if she'd known it was her last meal. That she was his biological daughter meant nothing to him except that she could bring him trouble. That the Weaz had thought it made him laugh. The Weaz was a sentimental fool. He'd taken care of that problem.
The fluorescent light above the kitchen window shone softly on the tiled floor beneath his boots.
As he left the kitchen and stepped onto the softness of the living room rug, he became aware of someone talking in a far room, and froze where he stood. But there was no pause in the talking. No sign of alarm. Was she on the phone?
It took him a few seconds to identify what he was hearing; she was reading aloud. The paper said that's what she did for a living, make recordings of other people's books so you could listen to them on tape or CD. He wasn't much for books himself, preferred movies he could watch on his TV. Liked his action. All kinds.
He took another step, and another, testing each soundless footfall on the rug, until he was deep in the living room, just outside the door of the room from where her voice was coming.
The door was open a crack. The words were muffled, but slightly louder here. As he stood in the dim light from the lamp by the sofa, he glanced down at the clown on the coffee table, and barely aware of his action, compulsively flicked the yellow pom pom on its hat with a gloved finger, sending the clown into his predictable performance on its parallel bars.
Turning his back to its antics, he fixed his gaze on the door behind which the voice rose and fell: a voice that threatened to cause him problems, one he would silence forever.
She wouldn't be asking any more questions, nosing around, dredging up old bones. He stood very still. Very quiet. The sound of his breathing would have been hard to detect even by someone standing next to him. He was practised at stealth, at being silent—as adept as he was in silencing others.
He continued to listen to the sound of her voice as she read, but had little capacity to appreciate its warm, melodious quality or gift of storytelling. He reached into his back pocket and drew out the other black glove.
Calmly, taking his time, he worked his large hand into it. Then he flexed his fingers in the glove, smiling faintly. A smile that failed to reach his cold grey eyes. They should have aborted you. Well, better late than never.
His gloved hand gave the door a light push inward. In the same instant, the doorbell rang.
Chapter Twenty-One
At first, deep into the story, Naomi wasn't even sure it was the doorbell she'd heard, but then she saw Molly hissing at the door with hackles raised and ears flattened. Setting the book aside, the world of Lois and her adventures already fading from her mind like rags of dissipating cloud, she stood up.
"What's the m
atter, Molly?" she asked quietly. The doorbell rang again, and this time there was no mistaking it.
Molly was scratching at the door, frantic to get out. It wasn't like her to get so wrought up over a ringing doorbell. As soon as she opened the door, Molly scampered out between her feet and leapt up on the back of the sofa, hackles still raised. Naomi had started for the front door when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a movement and turned to see the little clown on the coffee table rocking to and fro, as he did when his flurry of somersaults had wound down. Strange. A draft from somewhere?
She peered through the peephole in the door before opening it, something she rarely had done before the article appeared in the paper. Frank. She unlocked and opened the door.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Naomi," he said apologetically. "I know it's late, but I wanted to get this to you before heading home. The file you wanted...."
"No, you're not disturbing me at all, Frank," she said, glad to see him, and especially pleased to see the file. "Thank you so much. Please come in." She took the manila envelope from his hand, noted with disappointment but not surprise, its thinness.
"I've been working too, but I was just about to quit so your timing's perfect. I'll put the coffee on. Did you have dinner? I can offer you a grilled cheese sandwich, which is what I had for my dinner, or scrambled eggs..."
"I've already eaten, but coffee would be great. I won't stay long," he said, following her out to the kitchen. "Sam's been out of sorts lately, so I want to get home. He's getting old. Hell, so am I. Anyway, I scanned the file and I wish I could say I uncovered something that would break the case open, but I can't. I don't think there's anything in it you don't already know."
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