Fortunes of the Dead (7 page)

I rested my forehead on my knees and tears leaked down the sides of my cheeks. I could spend my life in the bathtub, alone, because Joel would never speak to me again. I missed my cup of coffee. Every morning Joel made coffee and brought me a cup. I wondered if he would ever bring me a cup of coffee again. Maybe he would be taking a cup of coffee to some other woman, one of those women who say,
I don't know, I have to ask my husband first
.

On the other hand, if Joel wanted to spend his life with a woman like that, best to know early. He didn't know about the warehouse, and he'd still gotten furious and refused to talk and made me feel like my paycheck was the equivalent of thirteen gold coins. Unreasonable and unfair. It didn't show respect for my work or my judgment; it didn't show respect for me. Was this Joel's way of getting out of the deal? Had he changed his mind about buying a house with me? Maybe he'd gotten cold feet.

Maybe I should turn the water off before I caused a flood.

The door to the bathroom opened abruptly and I looked up, startled, to see Joel hesitating in the doorway. He knelt down by the side of the tub, and put his arms tightly around me, getting his suit, tie, and shirt wet.

“Are you crying?” he said.

“No.”

“You lie.”

Joel had gotten his tie off, as well as his shoes, and I was wrapped in a towel that he was peeling away while kissing the back of my neck when the doorbell rang.

“Ignore it,” I said.

The bell rang again.

“I'll get it,” he said. I tossed the wadded towel to the end of the bed and got back under the covers. Unlike Joel, I didn't have to worry about being late for work.

I heard his footsteps in the hall, heavy and precise. “Lena?” Joel stood in the doorway, hanging back. His face looked closed and he seemed miles away again. “Miranda Brady is here to see you.”

“What?”

“Mir—”

“I heard you, I just don't believe you. It's … what time is it, Joel?”

“Seven-forty.”

“What in the hell is she doing here at seven-forty?”

“Why don't you ask her?”

“I will, dammit.”

I pulled on jeans and a sweater over my damp skin, and ran barefoot down the stairs. Miranda wasn't in the doorway. No doubt Joel had invited her into the living room, though it seemed pointless, as there were no chairs. But Miranda wasn't in the living room, she was in the kitchen staring out the back window in the little dining nook.

“Miranda?”

She paused for a long moment before turning around, as if too absorbed in my soggy backyard to register my voice.

“Has something happened?”

She smiled and extended her hand. “I stopped by to give you the key to Cheryl's apartment. I talked to Daddy last night and he asked me if I'd remembered to give it to you.” She paused, registering my lack of makeup, no bra beneath my sweater, bare feet, and the curling damp edges of my hair. “Did I come by too early?”

I didn't answer, just took the key. Miranda was clearly one of those unfortunate and annoying people whose timing and social skills could use some fine-tuning. I saw no sign of the stunned girl who had left my house late yesterday. Miranda looked well rested, and wore low-rise khakis and the same clogs. No backpack today.

“Daddy wanted me to give you this, too.” She handed me a folded slip of paper. “It's just a note that says we authorize you to be in the apartment. Daddy didn't really sign it, he had me do that.”

“Thanks. Ask your father to give me a call, will you?”

She smiled brightly. “Sure.”

I studied her. “And nothing's happened? You haven't thought of anything else you want to tell me? You're okay after … yesterday?”

“Yeah, I am really. I'm sorry, I—” She looked over my shoulder and I turned my head and saw Joel in the doorway.

“Lena, I'm headed out.” Joel's voice was leaden.

“Don't you want some coffee?”

“I'll get it at the office.”

“Detective?” Miranda said.

She didn't look surprised to see Joel. My theory had been correct; I'd been hired because of my relationship with Joel. I didn't even want to think what he'd say if he figured that out. He wouldn't hear it from me.

Miranda was twisting the end of her shirt and looking up at Joel. “Since you're here, I mean, is there anything new on Cheryl?”

“No, Ms. Brady. If there was, I'd have called you.”

Miranda watched him like a crow tracks a shiny object. “Well, I guess two heads are better than one.”

I didn't have the nerve to look at Joel after that comment, and I decided to keep Miranda and Joel apart for the duration of the investigation. I also decided that I needed an office out of the house, and wondered if I could possibly afford it. On the other hand, I didn't think I could afford not to have one.

Joel nodded at her. “Good-bye, Ms. Brady. Lena.”

“Stay in touch,” Miranda said.

She was not at her most charming this morning, but I recognized the tendency for someone in her position—a position of helplessness and frustration—to try to exercise some kind of control. Joel didn't kiss me good-bye, and I didn't blame him.

“I'm having coffee, Miranda, would you like some?”

“I'd like to stay, but I've got to go to work. Sorry, that's why I'm here so early. I'm already late.”

“Where do you work?”

“Michael's Sporting Goods, off Man-of-War. We're taking inventory, and I'm supposed to be there at seven-thirty.”

“Thanks for coming by, Miranda.”

“Sure. I like your backyard.”

“I do, too.”

“You don't have to walk me to the door.”

“I don't mind,” I said. I figured it was that or let her roam the house.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Cheryl Dunkirk's apartment was on Euclid, a red brick fourplex set between bungalow houses built in the twenties and thirties. Some of the houses were residential, but most of the ones facing Euclid were offices or small shops. I knew the police had gone through everything in great detail, but I always like to see for myself.

Certainly there was more to Cheryl Dunkirk than her love life. She was an ATF intern, she had ambition, she had goals, she had opinions that were loud and clear. On the other hand, when a woman disappears or turns up dead, more often than not there's a sexual connotation to the crime, which is usually committed by someone in her life: a lover, a husband, an ex. Reality 101.

I parked the Miata and made my way up the stained concrete steps, wondering why Cheryl lived in Lexington and not Richmond, where she went to school. I'd ask Miranda next time we talked. Better still, I'd ask Paul Brady.

Cheryl lived on the second floor, and I followed the concrete walkway around to the back of the building. Two guys in sweats and heavy trainers were playing an intense game under the hoops, the basketball mud-streaked from pounding the wet, grimy pavement. As soon as I opened Cheryl Dunkirk's door, they stopped and looked up. I waved and went inside.

No doubt the rent was cheap. The apartment had the basic layout: living room, with the regulation worn mushroom-colored carpet; an opening into a small kitchen—stove, refrigerator, no dishwasher; two bi-fold doors separated the washer and dryer from the hallway between the bedroom and the kitchen. On the other side of the living room, a small hall, with the bedroom on the left and the bathroom on the right.

I smiled just a little. Cheryl and I were kindred spirits.

To the untrained eye, the eye of one who is not a connoisseur of disorder, the living room would be shrugged off under the classification
mess
. Those who are compulsively neat are too distracted by panic to see a mess for what it is, or what it can be. Being disorderly myself meant that I was not blinded by conventional opinions.

It was clear that Cheryl enjoyed her mess. The result was not so much a sloppy lifestyle as a personal expression of comfort. It was likely Cheryl's pretense that the disorder was unconscious. But for those of us who are appreciative of the art, Cheryl's mess was as studied and intricate as calculus, and inhabited space as boldly as red lipstick on a white ceramic mug. Her disorder had logic that would be difficult for anyone other than Cheryl to replicate.

My number one observation: Cheryl's state of disorder pushed others away, keeping them at the edges of intimacy, where they would fall or stick according to their nature, level of stubbornness, and sheer ability to endure. She had obvious standards. Garbage and old food were a violation of this unnatural order, and I would not expect to see either unless Cheryl was feeling particularly outrageous, generally hostile, or purposely trying to annoy someone, or possibly just very short of time. Cheryl's priority in life was her work, made clear by the stacks of manuals on the floor, the neat piles of notes, the computer that was only lightly layered with dust and completely absent of clutter. The web of wires that come with technology were not disguised or hidden; judging from the proliferation of this intricately entwined population, the cords and plugs seemed “in your face” enough to be downright celebrated. There were ATF manuals, and several books on forensics and crime scene investigation, all with an EKU bookstore sticker on the spine. Textbooks.

An open phone book, one of my personal cluttering favorites, was facedown on the floor no more than eighteen inches from the front door. I picked it up, gratified to find it open to a list of pizza places. I was liking Cheryl now; she was no longer in the category of good-looking and vulnerable young victim. She was real.

An EKU sweatshirt hung over a lampshade, an arrangement that was perfectly safe as there was no bulb in the socket. My guess was that the shirt was a reminder for Cheryl to pick up lightbulbs the next time she was out.

A second stack of books, including the
Revised Legal Statutes of Kentucky
, were piled just left of center of the computer where they were visible, ready to hand, and in no danger of being toppled. Location, location, location.

An absolutely mad disarray of opened, half-folded, and occasionally wadded and smudgy newspapers seemed to be a useful and inexpensive way to fill a corner. Magazines added a welcome touch of color—
Vogue, The Economist
, and two law enforcement journals. Clearly, Cheryl was a well-dressed conservative.

Coffee mugs (inevitable) were placed around the room with a harmonious randomness that smacked of feng shui. All of them were stained but drained. Bills, paid and unpaid, were filed beneath the top book in the tallest pile. The danger, and I know this from personal experience, is that this bill paying system frequently goes awry if additional books are added to the top of the pile. But the book stack method is at least as effective as the drawer toss of a more orderly soul.

Faceup next to the computer was a hot-pink class and assignment schedule. I flipped it open, wondering that the police had left it behind. No personal entries—everything school related. It was sobering to see the hoops Cheryl went through to get the ATF internship in the first place, all noted in a detailed list that included her adviser's approval before she could register, an interview with a being dubbed “the coordinator,” a formidable list of forms to fill out, and a note about a waiver. Requirements, once the internship was acquired, included a minimum forty-hour workweek and a professional work journal to be handed in to Cheryl's professor at the end of her internship. The journal would be used to determine her grade.

I wondered where the journal was. Joel hadn't mentioned it; neither had Miranda. But Joel either had it, or was looking for it. An interesting tidbit he'd held back.

The kitchen was disappointing. Cheryl survived on bee pollen, CQ 10, black cohosh, soy capsules, iron pills, and Chocks Chewable Vitamins. I would bet her mother gave her Chocks when she was a little girl. I had grown up on Flintstones vitamins, and my favorite were the purple ones shaped like Dino the Dinosaur.

A cloud of energetic gnats circled three deflated and blackened bananas that were beginning to make a puddle on the countertop; the trash can had the vintage odor of garbage that has gone beyond ripe. The sink was clean save a coffee cup and juice glass. I counted enough knives in the drawers to assume none were missing. The fridge had catsup, mayonnaise, one open can of Dr Pepper, and a pizza box from Papa Johns. The crisper held a packet of soy, several spongy-looking apples, and an unopened container of limp, dispirited bean sprouts. The small freezer held Lean Cuisines, banana Popsicles, and two empty ice-cube trays. Wheat germ, Cheerios, and a small pillow of blue mold that looked to have once been multigrain brown bread were all that occupied a sparse pantry. I wanted to throw the bananas away, but it seemed pointless, as the trash can wasn't going to be emptied anytime soon.

The bed was neatly made, which surprised me. The bedspread was inexpensive white chenille with pink rosebuds. In the corner was a small pressboard desk that had been turned into a vanity table by nailing tacks along the edges to hold a ruffled pink skirt. I pictured Cheryl and her mother sewing the skirt and nailing it to the desk, years and years ago. My sister had something very like it that she and my mother put together when Whitney was eight. Whitney was the
froufrou
member of the family. I still feel strange buying clothes without her approval.

I sat down on the bed. A bamboo bedside table held two pictures, one framed and holding pride of place: a candid shot of Cheryl and a woman who was surely her mother. Cheryl got her good looks from Mom, both of them auburn-haired and slender, their faces attractive and catlike. A loose photograph of a blond male, college-age, in a green polo shirt and beige Dockers, had been torn in half and then taped back together. I turned it over and saw that Cheryl had drawn two hearts on the back, framing the name Rob. I vaguely remembered Joel mentioning an ex-boyfriend, also at EKU. The ex had been out of town attending a forensics workshop at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville when Cheryl first disappeared. He had been seen constantly by numerous people while there and Joel had crossed him off the suspect list early on.