Imogen could not imagine how you kept two ten-year-old boys occupied all day.
“When Louisa was watching you, did you stay home the whole time?” she asked the twins.
Billy answered. “No way. We always did something fun.”
“Not always fun,” Neil corrected. “We had to go to the library a lot.”
“I like the library.”
“You would, loser.”
Imogen smiled. “Besides the library, where did you go?”
“We had swimming lessons Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,” Neil said. “I’m in the red group. That’s the highest one.”
“Yeah, and youth group on Thursdays at the church,” Billy added.
“When you had swimming or youth group, did Louisa stay with you?”
“She was on the diving team, so she had practice too,” Neil explained. “But she was there with us at church. All the kids are together but they do different things depending on what they like.”
Imogen led them through soccer practice, trips to the library, Frisbee at the park. No strangers talked to them and they never went to any carnivals or arcades or movies or racetracks, and they were always home by five when Cynthia got home from work. The family spent weekends together, often going to visit friends on the shore. They had been planning to do that the weekend before Louisa disappeared, but all three kids had come down with colds so they stayed home.
Imogen looked over her notes again, praying that something would catch her eye. She asked, simply to feel thorough, “How did you get colds?”
“Yes,” Arthur said, teasing his boys. “Tell Ms. Page about that.”
Neil and Billy suddenly looked sheepish. “We had a snowball fight,” Neil said cryptically.
“In June?” Imogen asked.
Billy opted for a full disclosure. “It was at the end of our sno-cone sale. You know, to raise money for the youth group’s annual trip? After it was over there was still a lot of ice left and—”
“—and it was the kind that is perfect for snowball making,” Neil put in.
“So we made snowballs and threw them at the girls.”
“And then they threw them back at us.”
“And then—”
Imogen nodded. “Where was this?”
“At the Somerville five-K run. We had our booth at the end. We thought maybe the runners would want to have sno cones because it was so hot.”
“Were there other booths?” Imogen’s heart was suddenly pounding.
The boys shrugged but Cynthia said, “A few. It’s a real community event. Lots of people turn out to run in the race and lots more just to watch. At first only the local merchants set anything up, but this year there were a few commercial things.”
“Commercial things?”
“The kind they have at carnivals,” Billy offered. “Like ring toss.”
“And Strongest Man,” Neil said. “You know, where you use a hammer and try to hit a bell to show who has the biggest muscles. That was the most fun.”
“Did you win when you played?”
Neil looked chagrined. “No, but I’m going to next year. I’m going to lift weights. There was a Pokémon toy I really wanted.”
Imogen barely resisted the urge to kiss both boys, and only managed to because she knew that if she did, Neil and Billy would never be allowed near another ring toss again. The Greenways were strong, incredibly strong, but they could not be blamed for keeping their boys away from what Imogen was now fairly confident was the kind of place Louisa had met her killer. Louisa had not come home with a stuffed animal, but Imogen now thought that the killer had. The idea that if she could find the origin of the thread, the stuffed animal, she would find the killer was lodged in her head along with the taste of oranges, and she could not shake it.
The ringing of the doorbell interrupted her thoughts and spared her the awkwardness of having to make up more questions. She had learned what she had come for.
“I think that is my ride,” she said as Arthur went to open the door.
“Hi, I’m Ben—”
“You’re Benton Arbor!” Neil said, peering around his father with eyes like UFOs. “You’re famous! Dad, that’s Benton Arbor. Benton Arbor’s at our house!”
Arthur moved to one side but the expression on his face was almost as comical as Neil’s. “Please come in, sir. It is an honor to have you here.”
Benton looked large and sheepish and handsome in the foyer of the house as Arthur and Neil told him about having watched him on TV just two days before. He nodded and smiled and apologized when they said he’d had them really worried for a few minutes. Neil almost exploded when Benton promised him a private tour next time they were doing tests on the Boston track.
While Neil ran around the house in raptures, Benton introduced himself to Cynthia Greenway and finally turned to Imogen and said, “If you aren’t ready, I can wait in the car.”
Imogen felt like a sixteen-year-old being picked up for a date from her parents’ house.
“No,” she stammered. “No, I think we are done.” She went to Cynthia Greenway and took the woman’s hands in hers without thinking about it. “It makes me so happy to see you, your family like this. Thank you for meeting with me today.”
They moved to the door, but before they reached it Neil appeared, carrying an album and a pen.
He shifted from one foot to the other and finally blurted, “Um, Mr. Arbor, can I have your autograph?”
When Benton handed it back to him, his mouth gaped. “He wrote ‘To my friend Neil,’ ” he read aloud. “The boys at school are never going to believe this. Thank you, sir, thank you.”
Benton was so good at being famous, Imogen thought, but for the first time it did not rankle her. She turned to look for her scarf and found that Billy was holding it, and an album like Neil’s, out to her.
“Could I have your autograph, Ms. Page?” he asked shyly.
“Mine?”
Billy nodded. “When I grow up, I want to be an FBI agent just like you.”
Don’t be just like me, she wanted to tell him. For the fourth time that morning, the world swam in front of Imogen’s eyes and she found her hands were not steady. Her first autograph ever and it was going to be illegible.
After another round of good-byes, Imogen and Benton finally managed to leave.
“It looks like your errand went well,” Benton said as he started the engine of the rental car.
“Yes.” She looked at him. There was something wrong with his expression. “Where did you go?”
“Just to visit the garage I used to work at when I was in college, Robby T’s. I always like to make sure they’re not seeing a lot of our cars.”
“Are they?”
“Fortunately, no.” He was frowning as he drove and seemed to be searching for something. “The Greenways weren’t what I was expecting,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He was pensive for a moment. “I guess I thought that any family who had lost a child would be decimated.”
Imogen tasted something besides surprise in the tone of his voice. Something like oversweet envy. She didn’t know what it was and was about to ask about it when he seemed to find whatever he had been looking for. He turned the car into a parking lot and pulled into a space.
She peered through the front wind-shield and saw a Korean bar. “What are we doing here?”
“I’m afraid I have some news you aren’t going to like, Imogen.”
The sense of dread she had felt standing on the front steps of the Greenways’ house reasserted itself, squeezing her stomach.
“What has happened?”
“This.” He was holding up a tabloid with that day’s date in the corner. Across the front, under the announcement “Global Weekly News Exclusive Interview,” the headline blared:
“LOVERBOY SPEAKS: ‘IMOGEN PAGE IS MY GIRLFRIEND.’ ”
CHAPTER 41
Imogen held the paper in her hand for a moment without ope
ning it, her eyes on the flashing green neon sign for Korean beer in front of them. “Is it a real interview?” she asked him finally.
“Read it and see what you think. I would not put it past the Global Weekly News to make something like this up but on the other hand, it has often been my experience that the tabs have the most accurate news because they’re less squeamish than the big leagues.”
She opened to the second page and started reading.
A Killer Speaks
By Leslie Lite
Global Weekly News star reporter Leslie Lite was granted an exclusive interview with the man the FBI is now calling Loverboy. At the request of Loverboy, this telephone interview is reprinted here in its entirety.
Loverboy: I had a feeling you’d be calling.
LL: Thank you for granting this interview.
Loverboy: You’re welcome, Leslie. Professor Kidd tells me you are very beautiful. Is that true?
LL: I would rather talk about you, Mr.—
Loverboy: You can call me Loverboy. That’s one word, not two. What are you wearing?
LL: What are you wearing?
Loverboy: Wouldn’t you like to know. Hey, here is someone who wants to say hi to you.
(Confused background noises)
LL: What is that?
Loverboy: (Laughing) Not what. Who. That is Rosalind Carnow.
LL: May I speak with Dr. Carnow?
Loverboy: Hang on, I’ll see. Ros, do you want to talk to Leslie?
(More confused noises)
Loverboy: Sorry, she says she is busy.
LL: What are you doing to Dr. Carnow?
Loverboy: Right now? I’m just cleaning her up. I want her to look just right.
LL: For what?
Loverboy: For when Imogen Page gets to meet her.
LL: Who is Imogen Page?
Loverboy: Imogen Page is my girlfriend. My special friend. She works for the FBI.
LL: When will she meet Dr. Carnow?
Loverboy: When the time is right. Imogen knows.
LL: Tell me about yourself, Loverboy.
Loverboy: I’m a charming, good-looking white male between thirty and forty who is organized and educated. Also, I like to eat fish.
LL: Me too.
Loverboy: Goldfish. Raw.
LL: I see. Do you have any hobbies? Special activities you enjoy?
Loverboy: Long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, drives through the mountains, romantic picnics. You know, the usual.
LL: You sound like the perfect date.
Loverboy: You got it. Basically, I like to see everyone around me happy. Isn’t that right, Ros? What, Ros? I can’t hear you.
(Confused noise)
LL: I guess the question everyone would like to have answered is, Why are you killing these people?
Loverboy: Torturing them first. Then killing them. Get it right, Leslie.
LL: I’m sorry I—
Loverboy: Because I can. Wouldn’t you? I mean, if you could get away with it? Ask Professor Kidd. She’s my instructor. She knows all about it. Plus, they all deserve it.
LL: Why?
Loverboy: They’re liars. Every one of them. Hey, you’re going to print all of this, aren’t you?
LL: Of course. We might have to edit—
Loverboy: No editing.
LL: But you will sound better if—
Loverboy: I’ll tell you this, Leslie Lite. You print this the way I told it to you, every word of it, and all the sounds too, or I’ll come and cut off your titties right in front of your face. And you know the best part? You won’t even know it was me until it’s too late. You’d come home with me in a heartbeat if I asked you to. Any woman would. Have you got that? Just wait until you see what I’m going to do to Rosalind. Stop squirming, Ros. Look, I gotta run. Ciao for now.
This reporter subsequently visited Professor Kidd, known as the Connoisseur, in her cell in White Haven Correctional Facility in Ohio. After listening to the tape transcribed above, the professor made this comment about Loverboy:
“He is a very talented boy. He knows what he wants. And the FBI is going to have a hard time catching him.”
To the question of how she knew Loverboy she replied simply, “Those who cannot do, teach.”
When asked if she were conducting the investigation, what she would do, she said, “Whatever Imogen Page is doing.” She added, “I’d try to find out how he transported Rosalind Carnow’s body from the Bellagio.”
But employees at White Haven Correctional, where some of this nation’s most dangerous criminals are held, offered a different opinion. “Takes a man to catch a man,” one prison official who asked to remain anonymous said. “Get Imogen Page off the case and put on someone with some real muscle.”
On one side was a photo of Imogen that looked to her as though it had been snapped at Sam’s funeral, with the caption, “Takes a man to catch a man?” beneath it. On the other side was a picture of Martina Kidd, smiling, and the words, “I believe in Imogen!”
“Imogen, I—” Benton started to say, but she shook her head once, hard.
“Don’t talk to me. He read off our profile list to show he’d been in my room, then threatened my fish. The goddamned bastard—” She was dialing as she spoke and cut off when Bugsy answered. “Bugsy, it’s me. It’s about Rex, is he— What? Oh. No, he didn’t tell me.” She slowly turned to look at Benton. He kept his eyes aimed straight out the window, hands at ten and two like a driving-school mannequin. He felt her gloved hand touch his arm and she said, “Thank you. For calling to find out if Rex was okay.”
He shrugged. “It was the only thing I could think of to do.”
Their eyes locked for a moment and he saw that the article was having the same effect on her that it’d had on him, so he looked back out the window, trying to give her some privacy. He heard her take three deep breaths and say into the phone, “Bugsy, are you still there? I need to find out how Leslie Lite got in touch with Loverboy. I want her tapes. And I want to interview her. On the phone, if necessary, but in person would be—” Silence. Then, “So no one knows where she is?” More silence. “Wait, do you still have her editor on the other line? Ask him if Leslie wears pink and if she smokes Camels.”
The silence was longer this time. Benton watched her out of the corner of his eye so she wouldn’t feel it. She slouched, phone pressed against her ear, forehead against the window, drawing dots with her fingertips. He said, “Do you think we can use the fact that he was in your room, saw that profile list, to find him?”
Imogen shook her head. “There are so many people in and out of there, delivery people, room service, it could be any of them. And he made it so obvious, telling Leslie to print exactly what he said, that he must be pretty confident we won’t pick him out. I’ll get someone to go over the security tapes, but I doubt we’ll find—” She broke off, listened for a second, tucked her hair behind her ear, and said into the phone, “No, and I would look stupid in a cape. But I do know where she is. Hang on a second.” Turning to Benton to say, “Do you have your plane here?”
He shook his head. “No, I flew commercially. I didn’t like the weather reports. I can drive you to the airport if you want.”
Imogen went back to her phone. “Bugsy, get me two seats on the next flight from Boston to Cleveland.”
When she’d ended the call, Benton asked, “We’re going back to Ohio?” Suave, not emphasizing the we, afraid to make any assumptions.
She didn’t look at him but said, “Yes. We are.”
And his heart started to beat faster. What an idiot. He said, “What do you think Leslie can tell us?”
“I’m not sure, but she’s the only person we know who has communicated directly with Loverboy. Maybe there’s something on the tape, or in her interview with Martina. Or maybe there’s nothing.” Her voice cracked at the end, and it was only then that Benton saw just what it was costing her to stay so composed. She put the heels of her hands over her eyes and took a ragged bre
ath. “I can’t stand this.”
He shifted the car into first and said, “I know,” wishing there was something he could do to help. Adding, “So if you’re psychic, does that mean I’m not really predictable? That it’s you?”
In his peripheral vision he caught half a smile from her, just a little one, but he knew he’d done his job. She said, “More driving, less talking, Mr. Arbor. I think a horse and buggy just passed us.”
CHAPTER 42
Imogen knew the sign they pulled up next to said, Luxury Adult Living, but it was barely legible in the darkness because one of the bulbs had burned out and someone had painted the letter C over the first two letters of adult. Looking at the place, Imogen thought, Luxury Cult Living was more apt anyway.
White stuccoed buildings with sloping roofs and built-in balconies rose up on all sides around the parking lot. Partially closed vertical blinds let out strips of light from the windows of the second-story condo in front of them, making her think of prison bars. Or maybe it was just her memory of the last time she had been here.
“Is this the part where you tell me why we’re here?” Benton asked, craning his neck to look over the wide dashboard of the rental car. They had arrived on the heels of the World Tupperware Congress, the woman behind the Hertz counter at the Cleveland airport told him apologetically, and the only car that was left was a forest green Lincoln Continental.
“They must call it that because it’s as big as a continent,” Imogen had said when Benton pulled up in front of her. They had engaged in a brief battle of wills over who would drive—her line: “You have two options, Mr. Arbor: move over or get in the back. I want to get there before dawn”; his line: “No way”—and she now addressed him where he sat on the passenger side of the green velour front seat.
“This is Dirk the Dick’s secret hideaway,” she said. “The prison warden.” She realized her fingers were tapping on the steering wheel like she was nervous, which she wasn’t. At all. She twined her fingers together.
Benton said, “I don’t want to know how you know that, do I?”
“No.”
“And you think Leslie Lite is in there?”
Bad Girl and Loverboy Page 59
