Playtime (13 page)

But when he glances back at the computer, it is
showing the date to be the fourth day after Renee's death: today. He sees his
watch sitting on the table, checks it. It does too. He puts his head in his
hands, takes a deep, sobbing breath. Behind him he hears Todd then feels hands
on his shoulders. 

 "It's all right, man." Todd says.
"Let it out. I know you loved that girl."   

 And just like that his doubts are answered. He
sneaks another look at the screen. Still four days after. How could your mind
play tricks on you like that? Really, though, it was nothing. He had read some
documented stories about people who saw loved ones after they died. Not as
uncommon as you might think. Real as real could be to the person experiencing
it, too. They'd see them flitting up the halls or poking their heads through
doorways. Especially couples who had lived together for many years. It was like
they were so accustomed to seeing their partner that they manufactured them if
they weren't really there. 

 His brother bends down and hugs him from behind,
as he sits at the computer, head bowed, then straightens up, says "Do you
want to talk about it?" Blaine shakes his head and Todd says, "I'll
be outside getting the boards and pulling the truck out." And he is gone,
back door slamming behind him. Blaine hears the garage door open and after a
minute the rumble of the Dodge. He takes another deep breath. Focus. 

 He is thinking about the detective and Renee's
mother. Something about the detective's attitude and the case bothers him. It's
not like he doesn't care, it's his focus on it. To Blaine he doesn't seem to be
doing all the things that you should be doing for a murder. The DNA thing is
just one example. The sketch is another. Something doesn't ring true. And
Renee's mom. She seemed torn up; that was true enough, but there was a tension
about her that didn't equate. Sorrow yes, but why the tension, as if she were
under some type of pressure. And the grief and sorrow from her were not of the
magnitude that he would have figured. With all the issues about her upbringing,
and no father figure and the different men her mother had been involved with,
it was easy to forget that her mother had scratched and clawed to put food on
the table and a roof over their heads. He knows their relationship had been
very strong. And the deal with the body. He had wanted to see her, still wants
to, no matter what she looks like. He had been taken back at Charlene's
refusal. It just didn't seem like her. 

 A horn honks, and he goes to the back door and
hollers at Todd to go on without him. His brother stares at him silently for a
minute, then nods and guns the big truck down the drive. He looks at the
blueness of the sky for a moment, smells the faintly bitter exhaust of the
truck and listens to the south wind move through the trees in the yard. The dog
in the next yard barks. Over the cedar fence, he can see clothes hanging from
the neighbor's line. Not much of that going on these days. She is an ecology
nut, always trying to save water or energy. Drives a Prius. 

 He goes back inside, listens to the miniature
grandfather clock hanging on the wall tick for a moment, makes some coffee and
sits back down at the computer. The date on the screen reflects the time that
has passed since Renee's death. He thinks about that. He recalls somebody
somewhere speaking about a loved one's death. They had been asked if they were
feeling better, had said something about never really feeling better. Wasn't
the kind of thing you got over. It was the kind of thing that was always in the
back of your mind, even after time had passed and you had gone back to the
normal routine. It was like a dull ache in your soul instead of your body. That
was how he felt. It just didn't seem like something he was going to shake off. 

 Renee's mom and Detective Nielson circle around
the edge of his consciousness as he drinks his coffee. Too much tension and
wrong direction. Astute judgments from a guy who is hallucinating dates on a
computer screen, he thinks. But still. 

 He noodles around with this and that listlessly
on the computer for a while, then gets dressed in jeans and a sports shirt and
is about to call a cab, when he hears the Beast rumble back up the drive.
Outside, Todd is spraying off stuff with the hose when he goes out the back
door. 

 "Didn't stay out long," he says to
Todd. 

 "No waves," his brother says.
"Just ripples." His blue eyes are steady on Blaine, take in the jeans
and shirt. "You want some company, man?" 

 "No, I'm good. Just need to run a few
errands." 

 "Okay." 

Blaine knows Todd is worried about him. He doesn't
look back up as Blaine rolls back out the drive, focused on washing the salt
and sand off his stuff. He is trying to hide it, act like all is cool, but he
is concerned. Blaine knows he hasn't been the paragon of normalcy. He is
probably pushing that envelope fairly hard. Hallucinations. Emotional outbursts.
Irrational actions. He doesn't give a damn. Something is wrong with this
picture. His gut is telling him that. 

 Nielson is in his office, on the phone, looking
out that tiny window, and swivels his chair and looks up when Blaine looms in
the doorway. He is chewing on the glasses again. He does not look happy to see
Blaine. Or maybe it's the conversation. He puts up a finger, swivels back to
the window, listens intently for a moment then says a few short words into the
receiver that Blaine can't quite make out. Finally he hangs up and swivels back
to Blaine. 

 "Mr. Hadrock, what can I do for you?"
he says, in that tone that Blaine has always found to be used when someone
really doesn't want or expect to do anything at all for you. He guesses being a
homicide detective probably doesn't lend itself to displays of warmth. Nielson
seems distracted. His eyes are darting all around the room.   

 "You could tell me what the hell is really
going on in this case," Blaine says. It comes out harsher and more
demanding than he'd planned.   

 "Sit down a second," says Nielson. He
points to the chair and waits.   

 "I'll stand," says Blaine. Nielson
raises his eyebrows, gets up and shuts the door in the tiny office.   

 "Okay," Nielson says. "What is
bothering you about the way we're handling the case?" He is standing now,
too, on the other side of the desk, adjusting his shirt and tie. The shirt has
come partially untucked from his time in the chair. 

 "I know there are things you're not telling
me," Blaine says, "and I get it that you can't tell civilians all
that is going on, but the way you're handling this deal doesn't make sense. I
tell you about a possible suspect in the bar and you don't seem to be in any
rush to get a sketch of the guy who could be your murderer. And even though I
know I didn't kill Renee I don't understand why you wouldn't try and get DNA
from me as soon as you possibly could, for no other reason than ruling me out
as a suspect. It just doesn't add up." 

 "Citizens always think they know how we
ought to do it," says Nielson. "I'm amazed that they aren't solving
all the stuff we've messed up left and right." 

 "I want to talk with somebody else,"
Blaine says. "Somebody higher up." 

 "You can talk to whoever you want,"
Nielson says, but his eyes are darting around the room again. Blaine thinks he
has hit some sort of nerve. 

 "What could it possibly hurt to tell
me?" Blaine says. "I don't believe that you think I did it. Even an
idiot could see how torn up I am. I'm barely motoring, man. Tell me what you've
got." He can see beads of moisture on Nielson's forehead. Finally his eyes
settle on Blaine again and he sighs. 

 "Sit down," he says and points at the
chair again. Blaine shakes his head. "Sit the hell down," Nielson
says, "or leave. I'm not going to tell you this standing." 

 Must be something important, Blaine thinks, and
sits the hell down. Nielson sighs again. "She might still be alive,"
he says. 

 A jolt like a lightning strike runs through
Blaine. Something in him shouts: I knew it! He fights for breath but keeps his
eyes steady on Nielson. 

 "How could that be?" he asks.
"What about her body?" 

 "Never was a body," Nielson says.
"This guy calls, he tells me that he's got her, and if I don't put it out
as dead to the friends, then she will be. I believed him," he says.
"I did it that way." 

 "You lied to us," Blaine says. 

 "For a chance to save her life: yes." 

 "He's still got her, then." 

 "Don't get your hopes up too much,"
Nielson says. "Guys like this say they'll let their captives go, but they
don't. Somebody does something like this is usually ready to go all the way
with it." 

 "Her mom knows, doesn't she?" Blaine
says. It would explain the tension in her. Also, the refusal to allow him to
view the body. 

 Nielson nods. "We had to tell her." 

 "Why the stuff about the strangling:
defensive wounds and all?" 

 "We figured if we had to play by his rules,
at least we could put out a story that would let us gather evidence,"
Nielson says. "DNA: whatever." He eyes Blaine. "Our man is in
the crowd watching somewhere." 

 "So why would this guy want people to think
she was dead?" Blaine says. He is standing again, leaning on the desk.
Nielson is standing, looking out the window. 

 "It's just a guess," Nielson says,
"because who really knows why people do what they do, but I'm thinking he
wanted to see somebody suffer." 

 "Somebody," Blaine says, "or
me?" 

"Let's get out of here," Nielson says,
"Go for a ride in your truck." 

 Blaine isn't exactly sure what he's up to, but
for the moment he doesn't care. Renee could be alive. He feels like dropping to
the ground right here and kissing it. He feels a weight like an automobile drop
from his shoulders. Nielson locks up the office, and they head out to the
truck. Blaine asks where he wants to go, and he shrugs. The sky is crystalline
blue; the wind shaking the trees, a bird warbles a plaintive refrain. Alive! He
had known it all along. 

 They cruise down the boulevard in silence for a while.
Blaine has questions, but he wants to take a moment to process this deal. The
parade of life is still going on the beach: dogs, Frisbees, surfers, swimmers;
but it doesn't seem so ironic now. He focuses back in. Okay, maybe she's still
alive, but we need to get her away from this guy. He could have killed her
already. Blaine pushes that thought away. She's still alive. He hasn't gone
through all this to lose her now. They will find her, and they will save her.
He is looking out at the life all around them. They will save her. Maybe denial
is not a river in Egypt, but that is how he feels. 

 They pull up to a light behind a bunch of cars
full of beachgoers and summer frolickers, and he looks over at Nielson. Nielson
has one arm on the seatback and the other spread on the door. He appears to be
enjoying the day. 

 "So do you have some kind of plan?"
Blaine asks. 

 "Not much of one," Nielson says. He
reaches into his pocket, pulls out a sheet of paper and unfolds it. Even from
here, Blaine sees it is a sketch of the guy he hassled that night in the bar. 

 "Where'd you get that?" he asks. 

 "Somebody else in the bar saw him that
night," Nielson says. "We got them to do the sketch." 

 "Who?" 

 "That's not really important," Nielson
says. The traffic is moving again. Blaine returns his attention to the road.
The sketch looked like a fair likeness, but not great.  

 "We haven't found any information on this
guy," Nielson says. "We don't know who he is or where he lives. We
don't have any idea if he's involved in this thing. We don't know shit."
Blaine looks back over. Nielson is chewing on a thumbnail. He doesn't look
happy, but then again, Blaine doesn't think he has ever seen him look happy. He
has taken the tie off in the heat and tossed his jacket in the back seat. 

 "So that's all you got?" says Blaine.
"You don't know where she is or who took her, no leads or clues or
anything?" 

 "Fucking citizens," Nielson says.
"It's not always like the movies. Sometimes it just doesn't happen for us.
Sometimes we come up empty." 

 "You aren't giving up, are you?" 

 "Giving up isn't in my vocabulary,"
says Nielson. 

 "What about the phone call? Didn't he call
you guys at least once to tell you he had her?" 

 "Prepaid cell phone," Nielson says.
"No help at all." 

 "No witnesses that saw him? Nothing?" 

 "The crime scene was real," Nielson
says. "That spot on the beach is where he grabbed her. But nobody saw him.
No real physical evidence. Nothing we can use." 

 "Jesus," Blaine says. His mouth is a
thin white line across his face as he watches the traffic. He darts another
look at Nielson, thinking. His stupid, momentary euphoria at the news she is
alive has completely vanished now. She is in deep trouble someplace, and they
can't find her. He breathes through his nose: slowing it all down, focusing.   

 "Hell," Nielson says, "If we had
anything, I never would have told you. We could be screwing up right now, just
cruising down the beach together. This guy might be keeping an eye on one of us." 

 "He's got to be watching her, though,
right?" Blaine says. He wonders for a second why Nielson hadn't just
pretended to go along with this deal and told him before. Quick as that, he
realizes that Nielson had thought Blaine might have done it. Must have thought
so. That the false details he had been given earlier had been subtle taunts
thrown at a possible killer: someone who would know they were lies, and maybe
give himself away when he heard them. 

 "Not necessarily," Nielson says.
"He could have her tied up, locked in a desolate place where people can't
hear her, some type of deal where he's free to roam." He doesn't say she
could be dead, but Blaine hears it anyway. 

 "What about guys who have done this sort of
thing before?" Blaine says. "Don't you have computer databases for
these kinds of crimes?" 

 "Yes, but guys that do this type of crime
are usually living in prison long-term, dead, or unknown. We've got our lists
of the little neighborhood pervs that are all over the place, but nothing much,
really, on guys like this." 

 "All over the place?" 

 "You would be amazed at the number of guys
who just can't keep it in their pants," Nielson says. "Got to be
flashing it around. Some like kids, some like little old ladies, some even
flash it at good-looking women like the rest of us like, though that is rarer
than you would think." 

 They are getting into the west end of the island
now, and the traffic is still stop-and-go. Blaine looks at Nielson, and for the
first time thinks that he might not be the only one unraveling over this deal.
Nielson seems to be on the verge of losing it himself.   

 "So what's the plan, then," he says.
"Hope that he gets religion: finds Jesus and lets her go?" 

 "That's about what we're down to at this
point, kid," Nielson says. He has taken a knife out of a pocket and is
cleaning beneath his nails with it. "He never mentioned money or wanting
anything. That's what makes it tough. This guy is just crazy. I could give you
some song and dance about pursuing all avenues and following up leads, but the
truth is that is what we're down to. We need a break."   

 "What about a media blitz?" Blaine
asks. "Pictures of her, the sketch, ask all citizens if they know anything.
That might turn up somebody who saw him or her, somebody who knows
something." 

 "We've been considering it," Nielson
says. "There is always the possibility that somebody did see something. We
don't know if this guy had anything to do with it at all. All we really know
about him is he likes pretty women. Odds are he is just some guy who went to a
bar. We've been showing the sketch to people that were in the bar that night.
We've checked with everybody we could locate in that area to see if anybody had
seen anything. There were some kids partying on the beach, and we talked to
them. Nobody saw anything. That part of the beach where they were is fairly
remote, off the beaten path, not much traffic that time of night, except for
lovers and such. 

 "Of course," he says, "if we go
public like that we might push this guy over the edge. He just might kill
her." He looks over at Blaine, thinking about it. "We can't keep
wraps on it forever, though. We've given it a couple of days hoping we could
come up with something, track him down, but it hasn't happened. If Winslow and
I and the rest of the force don't make something happen soon, we won't have any
choice. There are going to be some folks who will wonder why we didn't go
public right from the first. Always some armchair quarterbacks in the damned public.
If you do something and it works, they ask why you didn't do it sooner. If it
doesn't work, they ask you why you did it at all." He sighs. "You
can't win. Somebody always bitches, no matter how it goes."