“Poor thing. So why am I here?”
“Some of the prints found at the murder scene match prints found in the other burglaries.”
“No surprise, based on what you’re telling me.”
“But then the computer spit out another possibility, and our analyst confirmed the finding. Prints from this murder scene match prints we found at Timmy Flynn’s apartment. Prints on the phone that didn’t belong to Flynn.”
“Shut up.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“No, I mean shut up, you can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack,” said Scott. “And at my age, at my weight, that’s serious as hell.”
“The same phone that called Justin Chase at about the same time Flynn died?”
“That’s right.”
“Shut the fuck up. Flynn’s house is nowhere near the region where these other burglaries were perpetrated, right?”
“Right.”
“Was anything of value taken from that shit hole?”
“No.”
“So it’s something else.”
“The motive?”
“The connection. Was there any relation between this girl and Mackenzie Chase? Or Justin Chase? Or any relation at all between the families?”
“I don’t know. We’re just getting started here.”
“Find out. Fast. Kingstree should be on this.”
“He didn’t pull this homicide.”
“I don’t care, there’s a connection here, somewhere, and we’re going to find it. Get him on the horn and get him down here. And make sure there’s someone looking hard for anything that was taken in any of these thefts. All we need is one link to solve both cases at once.”
“Will do.”
“And you keep your eye on that Justin Chase. Maybe he got himself a new flatscreen TV.”
“He didn’t.”
“How are you so sure?”
“He doesn’t watch television.”
“Everyone watches television.”
“The kid doesn’t. He doesn’t drink or use drugs or seem to want anything material. It’s just not his way.”
“No one’s too pure for money. Keep your eye on him.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.”
“One more thing,” said Scott. “And this is peculiar and speculative, but something you should know. The fingerprint analyst I talked to mentioned something interesting in what she found. She said it offhandedly, like it was just an amusing piece of information, but it might be something to keep in mind.”
“Go ahead.”
“She said the prints that matched the phone were a little unusual. There was a larger-than-expected incidence of loops that pointed toward the pinky, something called ulnar loops, coupled with a lower ridge count than usual.”
“So?”
“Well, she said it was interesting, is all. It’s the kind of thing you sometimes find in Alzheimer’s patients and might be a way to detect the disease before symptoms manifest themselves.”
“Let’s catch him first, and then cure him, okay, Detective?”
“But she said, and this might be more interesting, you also sometimes find these patterns in individuals with some sort of intellectual disability. The patterns weren’t as obvious as you find with severely handicapped patients, so his mental functioning would be relatively high, but they were there nonetheless.”
Mia felt a chill ripple down her spine. She tried to make sense of this and couldn’t. Rikki had a niece named Julia who had Down syndrome, a lovely girl Mia often cared for. It was more than a pleasure to be with her; Julia was so full of love and joy it was almost as if Mia were touching something sacred when she ran her fingers through the girl’s silken hair. But from the very first time she sat for the girl, she realized how strong Julia was, almost freakishly strong.
“How did this Rebecca Staim die?” said Mia.
“It’s preliminary, but it looks like first she was banged in the head, because there’s a pretty decent crease in her skull. But that didn’t kill her.”
“What did?”
“After she was down, someone lifted her head, took it in both hands, and twisted hard enough to snap her neck in two.”
33.
AMERICAN SOUR
Justin spied the SUV standing outside his alleyway at the end of his run, the vehicle a monstrous black thing of the kind you don’t spot much in the city because it is near-impossible to find a spot big enough to park it.
As he jogged toward the truck, he could see the back of the driver’s head, a woman with silken blonde hair streaked with all kinds of expensive highlights and cut in a perfect line at the shoulders. It was like a glossy helmet, that hair, designed to be no different than thousands of others just like it, designed to look designer. And he imagined the face on the other side, hard and pretty and entitled, with big round sunglasses. All these suburban bottle-blondes had the same round sunglasses, as if purchased en masse from the Jackie O collection on QVC. When he passed her, he noticed that the sunglasses were exactly as he had imagined, forcing a smile at another vile prejudice confirmed.
Only a moment later did he recognize the face behind them.
He stopped, turned around, stared for a bit, wondering what she was doing there. When she saw him and smiled tightly, he knew she was there for him. He stood and wiped his face on the bottom of his shirt as he waited for his sister-in-law to open the door and climb down from the behemoth. She was wearing slacks—that’s what they’re called when you buy them at Neiman Marcus—and a string of pearls that peeked out from beneath the fashionably raised collar of her blouse. She had been earnest and pale and decidedly unstylish when she married Frank.
“I knocked at the house first,” said Cindy. “When you weren’t in, I decided to wait.”
“I’ve been running,” said Justin, and then he laughed at the obviousness of the comment. “What’s up?”
“Do you have a minute?”
Involuntarily he looked around, as if for an escape route. He had never had a conversation with Cindy outside the confines of a family event and wasn’t certain he wanted to. As he scanned the street, his gaze caught on a strange car parked at a meter on the edge of the square. There was someone sitting inside, which was a bit peculiar. He turned back to Cindy and thought about sending her off. He was already behind schedule for meeting up with Annie at Austin Moss’s house; whatever Cindy wanted to get into, he didn’t want to go into it now. But despite her obvious nervousness, there was a determined set to her jaw that told him he didn’t have much of a choice.
“Sure,” he said.
“Can I park the car here?”
“Car?”
“Well, technically it’s a truck.”
“I guess you and Frank are doing okay.”
“Can I park here?”
“No.”
“Will cops ticket me?”
He glanced back at the parked car with the figure inside. The car was brown and boxy, the figure had a big head and sloped shoulders and looked a bit…Damn. He waved at the figure sitting in the car.
“There’s a cop sitting right there,” he said.
“Staking out the parking spot?”
“Something like that. Give me a moment, okay?”
He headed over to the car, watching the man inside watch him as he walked on over. When he reached the driver’s door, he scooted low so that his head was equal height to the window. He waited for it to roll down.
“Neighborhood watch?” said Justin.
“Of a sort,” said Detective Scott. He sat slumped in the front seat, looking at Justin over reading glasses perched low on his nose. A folded newspaper was in one hand and a pencil in the other.
“I feel safer already,” said Justin.
“Not too safe, I hope. People are dropping like stones in the big city. I’m keeping my eye on things, hoping I might be able to avert another tragedy.”
&nb
sp; “I can take care of myself.”
“The morgue is full of folks who could take care of themselves.”
“What are you really doing here, Detective?”
“The Jumble.”
“You any good?”
“Not really. Here’s one, see if you can help. R-Y-S-W-E-C.”
“Harassment?”
“No, that’s not it, there’s only one S. Did that guy who gave you the warning come back yet?”
“No.”
“He will. You have any idea who sent him?”
“No.”
“You’d tell me if you did, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Leastways you’re honest. Can you describe him for me?”
“I only got a glimpse.”
“A glimpse might have been enough. And if he’s the guy I think he might be, you’re lucky you’re still alive.”
“I guess I’ve got good karma.”
“Your father thinks he’s going to find a fall guy for your mother’s murder. You have any idea who he has in mind?”
“No.”
“I’m supposed to find out. And to hound you if necessary until I do.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re a hound dog. Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“See that big black SUV parked illegally on the corner there?”
“The Escalade.”
“Right. Could you make sure it’s not ticketed?”
“Who’s the girl?”
“My sister-in-law.”
“I must say, Chase, you get around.”
As Justin approached Cindy after his visit with Scott, he thumbed the car. “It should be okay there. So, you want to talk?”
“If we can.”
“Sure,” he said. “Come on in. Why don’t you make some tea while I take a shower, and then we can get down to it.”
34.
DARJEELING
He tried to figure out what she wanted while the cold water beat upon his neck. It had something to do with his visit to Frank. It had something to do with the fearful way she had stared at him from the steps that night. It had something to do with everything, but exactly what, he had no idea. Cindy and Justin had never gotten along in the years between his brother’s marriage and his mother’s death. He hadn’t wanted it to be cool between them, he had hoped she’d be the sister he had never had, but there was some barrier of resentment coming from Cindy, always, which made Justin always wonder what Frank was saying behind his back. Or it could have been simply that Justin in those days was an asshole.
“I found some Darjeeling in the cabinet,” said Cindy when Justin, in jeans and a T-shirt, joined her at the table, two mugs steaming on the tabletop. “But I couldn’t find your sugar.”
“I don’t have sugar.”
“No sugar?”
“White poison.”
“I thought that was cocaine.”
“I don’t have that either, but I have some honey if you want.”
“I’ll drink it straight, thanks.” She lifted her mug and took a sip, smiling slyly. “You seem to be doing okay. I caught a whiff of some very nice perfume. Jasmin Noir, I believe. Bulgari. It’s nice to see you’re keeping busy.”
“She was just a friend,” said Justin.
“Past tense?”
“Yeah.”
Cindy glanced down, gathering her words. “You look good. A lot better than you did before you left.”
“That’s not saying much, considering my condition then. I look okay, but you…” He stopped talking and gestured at her up and down. “You look transformed, like a different person.”
“Thank you,” she said, beaming into the compliment, although Justin hadn’t meant it as such. “When did you come back?”
“A few months ago.”
“I didn’t know you had returned until you showed up at the house. Frank never told me.”
“Things are still tense between us.”
“But even so, I knew something was up. He’s been drinking more than usual lately, which means he’s been drinking a lot.”
“I seem to have that effect on people.”
“We’ve missed you here.”
“No, you haven’t.”
She looked at him, her eyes blinking the truth, before she broke contact and took another sip.
“So where were you? What adventures did you have?”
“I went out west. It seemed just so American to head out there and find myself. So Jack Kerouac.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
“What did you find instead?”
“That Kerouac is dead.”
“You didn’t have to leave Philadelphia for that.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I know it’s been difficult for you,” she said, “and I’m sure no matter how you might minimize the difficulties with flippancy, the last couple years haven’t been easy ones. But think about this for a moment, Justin: at least you had the chance to run away. Frank didn’t have that option. He was married, and had a baby, and the business needed looking after, and there was the house. And your father’s legal case kept going and going and going, through all the appeals. Whatever other plans he might have had for his life—that we might have had for our life together—they got lost in the shuffle.”
“Frank made his choices,” said Justin.
“No, Justin. You made your choice to leave the whole mess in his lap, and Frank was left to try to put the pieces together.”
“What do you want from me, Cindy?”
“I want you to know that we’re doing better. That things have calmed down. However hard you think you had it, it was just as hard for Frank. Or harder. You can see the consequences on his face. You look young still, but he’s aged twenty years in six. And he’s so wound up he has to drink himself to sleep at night.”
“Then he should get some help.”
“But there have been moments, lately, when your brother smiles at the little things. Like when Ronnie makes a catch in Little League and he looks so surprised. Or when Ellie rolls on the floor like a little wound-up dog and laughs. Things are getting better. It might be hard to believe, but things are approaching normal. After years, it’s like we can finally exhale. We thought we could almost put what happened behind us and look to the future with some sort of hope. We thought we’d reached some sort of equilibrium. And then you showed up.”
“I’m not trying to cause problems, Cindy.” Justin glanced at his watch.
“Do you have someplace to go?”
“I’ve planned to meet someone. I have some questions I need to ask.”
“About what happened to your mother?”
“Maybe.”
“What the hell are you up to, Justin?”
“Since I’ve been back, questions have been raised about my mother’s death. You know about my father’s motion for a new trial, and Tim Flynn’s changed testimony, and his strange death. Maybe you don’t know that the cops think it might have been a murder and that I might have had something to do with it, which is why that cop is sitting there on the square. Or that this bruise on my cheek came with a warning that I should stop asking questions about what happened to my mother.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know, but it might not have ended with just a bruise if that policeman outside hadn’t shown up at my house when he did. All of this has got me thinking. I’m not out to upset anyone’s equilibrium. I’m just trying to find out what really happened to my mother.”
“To what end, Justin? What the hell are you trying to do?”
“It’s my mother. Doesn’t the truth matter?”
“I don’t know anymore. But I do know that Frank is starting to lose it again. And my family is starting to suffer. And you need to think about what might ultimately happen as a result of your muddying the waters, of all you might be putting at risk.”
There was something in her tone that
struck a nerve, and Justin suddenly remembered why they had never gotten along before. It was as if she had internalized the twisted family dynamic between Frank and Justin and thereby treated her brother-in-law as the enemy in some sort of family battleground, projecting toward him a condescending bitterness. And he could feel it now, just as he had always felt it, and it twisted something inside him.
“You mean your wonderful house, Cindy, that’s not really your house? Or the stylish new hair, or the black gas-guzzler parked on the square? You came here to tell me that I’m risking your wonderful new lifestyle, is that it?”
She stared at him with a hard, defensive anger, but there was something else in her eyes, some pleading that he took as a sort of shame. Like he had hit on it exactly, but not exactly. Yes, he was threatening her sweet upper-middle-class lifestyle, but there was something else, too, something else that he wasn’t getting.
She was about to spit out a reply reflexively bitter and hard, it was in her expression as her mouth opened to deal her crushing riposte, and then she stopped herself. She took a moment to smooth the lap of her slacks, pushed her chair back from the table, stood.
“Good-bye, Justin. Thank you for the tea,” she said before heading toward the door.
“If I’m full of shit, tell me,” said Justin to her retreating back. “Don’t just take it and walk away. Tell me off, but first tell me why everyone is suddenly so worried about what I might discover. What the hell are you so afraid of, Cindy, if it’s not losing your damn lifestyle? What are you protecting other than your stuff?”
She stopped and just stood for a long moment, the line of her back hunched and angry. But when she turned around, what he saw was not anger but fear.
“Do you really want him back in our lives, Justin? Do you really think that’s the best for anyone but him?”
35.
COSMOPOLITAN
For Annie they were always there, on the other side of things, mute specters haunting the dramas of seduction and submission she playacted with married men. The wraiths glowered sullenly from the darkened corners of plush bars, where Champagne sloshed over the rims of thin, languid flutes. They stared from behind the kitchen doors that swung open to dark, intimate restaurants, where family budgets were wrecked upon the shoals of overpriced wine lists and racks of lamb. And they writhed in anguish over the hotel beds where the stage productions reached their terribly unsatisfying Act III climaxes, each apparition with the same ghostly face, pale mouth open in voiceless outrage, there but not there, always felt, never heard.
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