Mother's Day (29 page)

Let down, Karen hung up the phone. “He’s away for the weekend,” she said.

“Let’s go to the police,” Jenny cried. She whirled around in a spin and hugged herself. “I’ve saved him,” she crowed. “I’ve saved my dad.”

“Hush,” said Karen sharply, staring down at the documents she clutched in her hand. “Hush, I’m thinking.”

The Harborview Bar was in Dartswich,
a fishing town about twenty miles from Bayland. It was a considerably less popular and prosperous town than Bayland, having suffered from the shutdown of a cannery and a much publicized problem with chemical wastes. The bar, like the town, had a dreary, depressed aspect to it. Its decor was a tired, nautical theme, with a fishnet canopy across the ceiling and scarred captain’s chairs surrounding the tables. There was a jukebox for music, and hits from the fifties filled the smoky length of the gloomy tavern. Greg found it almost funny that he felt overdressed in his borrowed chinos and golf shirt. Most of the patrons wore T-shirts or rumpled work shirts. A few of the patrons looked up disinterestedly when he came in, then went back to their beers. Greg slid onto a barstool, gave the guy two stools down a forced smile, and then gazed at the female bartender, waiting to catch her eye.

Finally she came down to his end, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her rather sloppy torso encased in a loose T-shirt that read “Surf’s up” on the front. “What’ll it be?” she asked.

Greg knew better than to try to get information without ordering a drink, although he was so ill nourished that he was apprehensive about the effect alcohol might have on him. The girl, who had clearly pegged him as the imported bottled-brew type, nodded approvingly when he ordered a draft. She drew it and set it in front of him. Greg placed a five-dollar bill on the bar and waved off the change when she rang it up. It was almost the last money he had, but, he thought wryly, there was nowhere he could spend it anyway. He pretended to sip his beer and waited. As he expected, she drifted back down in his direction when her scattered customers were satisfied.

Greg began a jittery conversation about the weather and segued into the Red Sox. The woman, who answered to Yvonne from the other customers, shook her head as if to separate the greasy bangs that brushed her eyebrows. She lit a cigarette and leaned back against the shelves of liquor. Like any good bartender, she let him lead the conversation. Greg could feel his heart hammering, and his lips were dry as he approached his purpose.

“Look,” he said in a low voice, “I’m not just here for a beer.”

Yvonne took a drag on her Marlboro, screwed up her lips, and nodded, regarding him coolly.

Greg fished in his pocket and pulled out the picture. “The truth is, I’m looking for some information.”

Yvonne shook her head in disgust. “A cop,” she said.

“I’m not a cop,” Greg protested, placing the picture carefully on the bar. “This is my wife.”

“Oh,” said Yvonne, ignoring the picture.

“I know she’s been running around on me. I found the name of this place in her diary with a notation for a week ago, Monday. No offense, but this is not the kind of place she would ever go to with the girls.”

Yvonne smiled ruefully, acknowledging the truth of that.

“I have my suspicions about who the guy is,” he said. “But I need to know.”

“Why don’t you just ask her?” Yvonne suggested, stubbing out her cigarette.

Greg shook his head. He picked up the photo and offered it to her. “Were you working that night?” he asked.

Yvonne thought back. “Last Monday? Yeah.”

“Can you just look?”

Yvonne tried to appear disinterested, but curiosity had the best of her. She took the picture and glanced at it. Then she handed it back to Greg. “Yeah,” she said.

“Yeah, what?” Greg asked, his heart leaping.

“She was here.”

“Just like that?” It was like the car door snapping open. It was his luck changing.

“You want to know or don’t you?”

“With…”

“A man.” Yvonne shrugged.

Playing his role, Greg smacked his hand on the bar. That bitch. Do you remember what he looked like?”

Yvonne chuckled. “I wouldn’t forget those two,” she said, enjoying the surprise and curiosity on Greg’s face.

“Hey, Yvonne, another round here.”

Yvonne gave Greg a Cheshire cat smile. “Customer,” she said.

Greg sat back on the stool, amazed. A witness. It was so easy—if you knew where to look. Hope flared inside of him. She could save him. Surely this would save him. It proved that Linda was with someone else that night, someone long after he was home. He would be free. He tried not to think of the problems, the possibilities that awaited him from here. The main thing right now was to be able to rid himself of a murder charge. He looked down the bar at the unlovely Yvonne, and she seemed like a guardian angel.

As she meandered back down the bar, lighting another cigarette, Greg wanted to grab her up in an embrace. Thank you again, Lord. I don’t deserve it, but thank you.

Yvonne pointed her cigarette at his glass. “Something wrong with that beer?”

Greg shook his head. “My stomach’s in a knot,” he said truthfully.

“Beer’s good for that.”

Greg did not want to waste any time. “I’m surprised you remembered them so easily,” he said.

“Oh, they were easy to remember all right,” she said flatly, “He’s a cop.”

Greg stared at her as if she were speaking another language.

“Your wife’s boyfriend is a cop.”

Greg felt suddenly light-headed and weak. “How do you know he’s a cop?”

“How do you think I remembered them?” she asked, pleased with the effect of her revelation. “He came up to the bar, and I noticed he had a piece under his jacket. 1 : I thought for sure I was about to get robbed, or worse. But when he went to pay, I saw the shield in his wallet. It gave me a few bad moments, though.”

“A cop.” Greg slumped on the barstool, hope leaving him like air from a punctured tire.

“Wasn’t who you thought, eh?”

Greg shook his head.

“Hey, maybe she’s not fooling around. Maybe it’s something else. They didn’t even look friendly to me, never mind lovey-dovey. Besides, the guy was old enough to be her father.”

Greg tried to collect his thoughts. “What did he look like?”

Yvonne thought it over for a minute. “Gray hair, glasses, those wire kind. Oh, and a weird dent in his j forehead. Some kind of scar.”

Greg recognized the description at once. The detective in charge of Linda’s case. Walter Ference. It couldn’t be. He did not ever remember Linda mentioning anyone on the police force. Although, he had to admit to himself that there was very little he knew about Linda at the time of their affair. He knew she was troubled, but she was quiet about it. She was secretive, and he had not tried to find out why. But why would Walter Ference…? Well, whatever the reason, it explained a lot of things. All along Greg had been thinking that whoever framed him had known about his affair with Linda for years. Walter Ference may only have known about it for hours. After the witness he mentioned came forward with the information, Ference saw a suspect with an ideal motive staring him in the face, and he framed Greg with the room key. He had been in the ideal position to frame Greg. Yes, Greg thought. It made sense. But it also destroyed his hope of exoneration. He tried to visualize himself going to the police and accusing Walter Ference. Hey, guys, I’ve got a suspect for you. Your boss. He looked back at Yvonne. He had only one hope left, and before he spoke, he had a good idea of what her answer would be. Most people were definitely reluctant to start pointing the finger at the police. But he had to try to convince her.

Greg leaned over the bar. “I need your help,” he said urgently.

Yvonne barked out a derisive laugh. “I know what’s coming. No way, hon. Forget it.”

“Please,” he said. “I need someone who can identify him.”

Yvonne shook her head. “Rat on a cop? Sure buddy. I’ve got a death wish.”

“You’re the only one who can help me,” Greg pleaded.

“Look,” said Yvonne. “I’m sorry for your problem, but I don’t mess with cops. Hire a private dick to follow them and take pictures. Leave me out of it.”

Greg felt both light-headed and nauseated. He had only had a few sips of the beer, to placate Yvonne, but combined with the stress, it made him feel sick. “You don’t understand,” he said helplessly. He realized that he could not explain. He was a fugitive from a murder charge. “Please,” he said, feeling muddled, trying not to sound desperate. “I could have a lawyer call you.”

Her eyes narrowed at his persistence, his ingratitude. Most of all, she disliked the mention of the lawyer. She wanted to make it perfectly clear that she did not intend to cooperate. Period. “Look,” she said in a shrill voice, “get this straight. I never saw you. I never saw them. I don’t know anything. That’s what I tell anyone who asks me. Capisce?”

“But…” He tried to reach for her forearm, as if it were a life preserver.

“Are you having problems here, babe?” A burly, red-faced customer approached the stool where Greg was sitting, his glowering eyes on Greg, who averted his face, fearful of being recognized.

“Get out of here,” said Yvonne. “Beat it.”

Greg slid off the stool. It was useless to try to pressure her. She didn’t owe him anything. She wasn’t about to change her mind. And it was definitely not a good idea to draw attention to himself this way. He had to think, and he couldn’t think here.

“Okay,” he mumbled. “Thanks for talking to me. Sorry.” He kept his eyes lowered as he hurried toward the door, anxious to get out of range of the suspicious gaze of Yvonne’s pot-bellied knight in shining armor.

Walter cautiously circled the parking lot
of the giant Cape Shore Mall in Phyllis’s gray Volvo and finally chose a space in the middle, toward the front. He didn’t want an outlying space. Some bored employee might stare at it long enough and realize the car hadn’t moved for days. Here, where it was busy, nobody kept track of which cars came and went. It could be weeks before anyone noticed the car. And time was important. He needed time.

The rain was a lucky factor for him. Not even teenagers were idling in the parking lot in this weather. He got out of the car, with his hat pulled down and his collar up, and walked quickly into the main entrance of the mall, just in case anyone had watched him pull in. It would look strange for someone to park a car at a mall and then walk away from the mall. He went up and down two aisles of the indoor maze and then headed back out into the night. He kept his head down and walked quickly to the bus stop. There was a smaller mall within a few miles of his house, one he could have walked home from, but he knew how conspicuous he would look walking along in the rain. He couldn’t take the chance that someone might recognize him, might offer him a ride. No, he had chosen the Cape Shore Mall because it was new and huge and out of the way. To bring in the maximum business, the store owners supported a bus service to all the surrounding towns Walter had plenty of company on the bus on this rainy night. He took a seat near the back. People were trying to keep their distance from one another to avoid wet coats and umbrellas. He looked out into the darkness and saw his own face reflected in the window, raindrops sliding like tears down the glass.

It was a plain, normal face, except for that dent over the eyebrow made by the hammer. There was nothing about his face that suggested he had beaten a woman to death an hour earlier. Walter folded his gloved hands in his lap, and as the bus bumped along, he went over his plans in his mind.

Before he left the house, he had moved Phyllis’s body down to the basement. The basement door gave out onto the driveway, and his car was right beside it. Later tonight he would be able to load the body quickly into his trunk and take off. No one in the neighborhood thought anything of his coming and going at all hours. It was part of his job. As far as where he would take the body, he had given that a lot of thought.

He had considered stuffing Phyllis into the trunk of her own car and leaving her, and her car, at the mall. But, after examining the options, he decided it would be best if it looked as if she had been abducted from the mall. That would make it seem random. He wanted to dump the body where it wouldn’t be found for months, so that it could decompose. The less that was left of her, the less evidence there would be. Every cop knew that. He had been lucky with Rachel Dobbs, the girl they all called Amber. Even he thought of her as Amber by now. He had not been so lucky with Linda.

The Dumpster had seemed like a good idea for Linda’s body. If only that couple had not been tossing out their trash illegally, Linda would have been hauled off to the nearest landfill without incident. He could not help but feel that things were beginning to turn against him. A frown crossed his face, causing the pale-skinned scar on his forehead to pucker. He had never set out to kill anyone. He was not that sort of person. The thing with Amber had really been an accident. It was really unfair for anyone to blame him for that.

A heavyset woman cleared her throat and glared at Walter. He looked up to see her eyeing his umbrella disapprovingly. He moved it off the seat beside him. The woman made an ostentatious show of wiping off the seat with a shredding tissue, and then she wriggled into it. Walter pressed himself up against the side of the bus.

He found most adult women rather repulsive. For as long as he could remember he had a preference for young teenage girls. His sexual fantasies all involved bondage and discipline, B & D, as the vice cops called it. But they were just fantasies, for years. He’d had a taste of the real thing in Vietnam, where teenage prostitutes were commonplace. He’d even broken a girl’s nose, but some American dollars had smoothed it over with the madam of the brothel. When he came home to the States, he just told himself that he would have to be satisfied with fantasies. And he probably would have been. But then fate stepped in.

It started when he was investigating an armed robbery, doing his usual thorough job, and by chance he came across that information about Randolph Summers. And he knew he recognized that face. It took him a while to figure it out. It was ironic—the answer had actually come to him in church. He was in a pew behind Jack Emery and his family. He was not paying attention to the sermon, just sitting beside Emily, staring at the beautiful young girl in front of him, imagining what her budding body looked like under the flower-printed dress she was wearing. She had a white lace mantilla resting on her dark, shiny hair, and her father would squeeze her hand now and then and smile at her. One of those times, it came to him in a flash. Walter suddenly realized where he had seen Randolph Summers’s face before. It was Jack Emery. If they had been on the street, he might have collared the man then and there. But they were in church. He couldn’t very well jump up and rip the rosary out of the man’s hand and haul him in. So he sat quietly, waiting for the mass to end. And it was while he was sitting there, preparing to arrest the man, that the idea came to him about Jack Emery’s daughter.