Authors: Ellen Kirschman

Tags: #Fiction, #Retail, #Suspense, #Thriller

Burying Ben (18 page)

BOOK: Burying Ben

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I stay where I a
m
, clutching the cushion. Eddie says nothing, just stares, splattered across the chair like so
m
ething dropped from
a g
r
eat height. Ice cubes, hard as stones, clatter into the pla
s
tic
bi
n in
m
y freezer,
m
ak
i
ng my heart beat even faster. Outside, the blackness is broken only by the
headlights of a passing car.
I stand, slowly. I don
’
t want to startle him. My legs are shaking. He
h
ears
m
e
m
oving, but he doesn
’
t look up. I clear my throat.

“This conversation, Officer Ri
m
ba
u
er, like all the others I have had with police officers in your agency, including Ben Go
m
ez, is confidential.”

He raises his head slowly. “You
’
re shitting
m
e, right?
The
m
i
nute I lea
v
e, you’re going to call the chief, tell him
I barged in here and threatened you.”

“Not if you don’t tell him I live like a tra
n
sient and drink wine with popcorn.”

He jerks his head, as though I’d slapped hi
m
. “Expect
m
e to believe that shit? I’m
a cop. As far as I’m
concerned if your lips are
m
oving, you’re lying.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to wait
and see if you can trust
m
e.”

He pushes hi
m
self out of the chair, nev
e
r taking his eyes off
m
e. So
m
ething
m
etal jangles as he readjusts his duty belt.

“
W
ell, fuck
m
e,” he says. “That’s a stand up offer. I didn’t expect that from
you.”

I walk to the
door and open it.

“I’ll t
a
ke the deal,” he says. “Not like I have any other choice.”

The night air rushes
i
n, cool and
m
oist, with a pro
m
ise of rain. Eddie
’
s hair is sticking limply to his fore
h
ead, like the strings of
a
m
op. He walks out onto the front step, turns, takes his cell phone
out of his pocket, s
m
iles broadly, and snaps a picture of
m
e, barefoo
t
, in
m
y bathrob
e
.

“Evidence. Just in case you change your
m
i
nd.”

Chapter Twenty

The Patchers live in a gated com
m
unity of baronial
m
ansions and golf courses,
m
ore expensive but no less anony
m
ous than the t
o
wnhouse develop
m
ent where I live. There is an oppressive confor
m
ity to the houses, all light colored stucco and
tile with gratuitous architectural
variations.
Landscaped
walk
i
ng paths braid through t
h
e sub-division like a river of stone. The streets are e
m
pty – no p
e
ople, no dogs, no flags, no garage doors open to reveal their
m
essy innards.

It has taken
m
e a
l
m
ost a week to convi
n
ce Eddie to give
m
e the Patcher’s address, and only after I swore that
m
y
sole intention was
to write M
r
s. Patcher a lett
e
r. He us
e
d the police computer, in direct
violation of those al
m
ighty general orders. I hope this will pro
m
pt h
i
m
to go easy on Manny’s discipline, but I don’t want to ask.
E
ddie’s being nice to
m
e, doesn’t want to tick
m
e off and send
m
e running to t
h
e chie
f
. I can tell he still doesn’t believe that I
w
on’t.

Vinnie Patcher’s work schedule is on his carefully scripted outgoing voice
m
ail
m
essage. He
is at court today. I park
m
y car on the boulevard that borders his develop
m
ent and walk to where the wrought i
r
on fence enclosing the property ends in greenery. I push
m
y w
a
y through the bushes. It is
a joke to think that the aged guard at the sec
u
rity gate or the
d
ec
o
rative fence would keep out any
deter
m
ined burglars. I brush the leaves off
m
y jacket and head d
o
wn the walking path that runs behind a row of ho
m
es, darting across so
m
eone’s lawn to the street.

The Patchers’ cul-de-sac lies in wait for
m
e. I walk to the front door and ring the bell.

”Just a
m
i
nute, please.” Belle Patch
e
r’s
m
uffled voice co
m
es through the closed door followed by the sound of her footsteps. “Who is it
?
”

A peephole in the front door clicks open. I can hear a s
m
all ga
s
p. “Go away. My husband isn’t ho
m
e.”

“I don’t want to talk to your husband, Mrs. Patcher. I want to talk to you.”

“I have nothing to say.
G
o away.”

“I won’t take
m
uch t
i
m
e
. Please, I need your help. I’m
trying to understand why your son-in-law killed hi
m
self.”

The
r
e is s
i
lence.

“I don
’
t want this to happen again, ever.”

More silence.

“You
wouldn’t want another young wo
m
an to go through what your daughter
is
going
thro
u
gh now, would you
?
”

“My husband told you never to contact us.”

“
W
ould you want another young wo
m
an to suff
e
r like your daughter is suffering? Would you want another
m
other to hurt as
m
u
ch as you do watching your child in pain
?
” I sound like I’m
channeling
m
y father
’
s gift for fl
a
m
ing oratory. “Please, help
m
e to help others. I don’t know who else to
turn
to.”

There
is
silence again, but no receding footsteps.

“I don
’
t know why
m
y
s
on-in-law took his own life. I had nothing to do with it.”

“I know that. I’m
not here to acc
u
se you of anything.”

“If I talk to you, will y
o
u leave us alone?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I can
’
t talk here. There’s a s
m
all park
a
m
ile south, near the Community College. Sta
m
per Park. I’ll
m
eet you there in a few
m
i
nutes.”

“Pro
m
i
se?”

“Only if you pro
m
ise not to bother us again.”

At Sta
m
per Park, children scra
m
ble on gym
bars and dig in a sand pit as though they are at the
b
each,
not a lan
d
l
o
cked park
h
ours from
the ocean. I
pi
ck a bench
o
n the far si
d
e, near a gardening shed.
T
he air is fragrant w
i
th redwood chips and newly cut grass. If and when Belle Patcher shows up, I can observe her as she gets out of her car. I’m
acting like a cop, feeling edgy and s
m
art. Self-inflation is
an occupational hazard of police work. It hasn
’
t taken
m
e long to catch the bug.

A dark blue SUV pulls to the curb and
parks. Belle Patcher swings her legs out the door and slowly takes the long step to
the street, holding onto the car fr
a
m
e for support. She is shorter and stouter than she had appeared at the funeral, her bulkiness exaggerated by a blousy green silk jogging suit. She walks quickly across the lawn. There are dark, puffy crescents under her eyes.

“Thank you so
m
uch for co
m
i
ng. Please, sit down.”

“My husba
n
d would kill
m
e if he found out I was
tal
k
ing to
y
ou.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

“He’ll wa
n
t to know where I was this
afternoon. He likes
m
e to accou
n
t for
m
y ti
m
e.”

“This won’t take long.”

“He’s been in a terrible mood. April wants to move out. She shouldn’t be by herself, pregnant and all.”

Mrs. Patcher tears up. She keeps l
o
oking
at
the
street, following the passing cars with her red-rim
m
ed eyes.

“
W
hy is she
m
oving out
?
”

“I don’t know. She talks to her father
m
ore than
m
e.” She looks at her
w
atch. Barely five
m
i
nutes have passed. “
T
his is a
m
i
stake. I shouldn’t be talking to you. I have to go.” She starts back to
her car. I go after her.

“Do you know so
m
ething or so
m
eone who can help
m
e
?
”

“Please don’t follow
m
e. I can’t be s
e
en with you.”

She begins running, a funny jiggly
m
otion as though her legs are different lengths. “I c
a
n’t help you,” she calls over her shoulder. “I can’t even help
m
yself.”

She scra
m
bles into her car and drives off.

I drive ho
m
e with nothing to show for
m
y
e
fforts. Mrs. Patcher is frightened and deeply troubled, barely able to keep herself together. I debate telling Eddie about my visit, but decide against it. I fill the
m
i
crowave
bowl with popcorn and turn on the ti
m
er.

The telephone rings.

“So, were you ever going to call
m
e
?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from
m
e again.”

I hadn’t realized how much I feared that was true until I hear myself saying it out loud to Frank.

“
W
ell, I was
m
ad,” he replies. “And hurt. But I’m
a f
o
rgiving type, up to a point. I got to thinking ab
o
ut it. I had a really good ti
m
e until you
m
et the Go
m
ezes. Under the circu
m
stances, it was pretty a
m
azing that you
could enjoy yourself, even a little. I don’t know how I’d feel in your shoes.
The worst thing that happens to
m
e at work is that so
m
eone whines at
m
e because the job is over
b
udget or taking too long. Nobody ever kills the
m
sel
f
.”