Safer (29 page)

Maya Lamb is on the scene, bundled in a North Face parka and earmuffs, strands of dark hair blowing wild in the dawn breeze off the river. You’d never know she’s been up all night. Behind her, in the distance, rescue workers load a white plastic body bag onto a bright yellow stretcher.

It doesn’t seem real, watching this on television. Two hours
ago, I was at the same river that I see on the screen. Standing beside my car, on the side of the highway, I could smell the water, hear the
whop- whop- whop
of the rescue chopper, feel the heavy sense of disaster in the air. Now I’m sitting up in bed drinking bourbon, and all of it seems like anything else you’d watch on the news.

These facts are known, according to Maya Lamb’s ongoing field report:

On December 19, Clark Falls residents Peter and Melody Seward had reported their daughter, Brittany Lynn, age thirteen, missing.

The family had spent most of the day at the office of a Clark Falls attorney. Late in the afternoon, Brittany had excused herself to the restroom. After a noticeable amount of time had passed without her return, Melody Seward had gone to check on her. Mrs. Seward had found the restroom empty, her car keys missing from her purse, and the family vehicle gone from the parking lot.

At approximately 5:30 p.m., the Clark Falls Police De part ment issued a lookout bulletin for a silver Lexus RX 350. Ap proximately five hours later, a motorist called the state patrol’s emergency number to report an abandoned vehicle and a pile of winter clothing on the Decatur toll bridge.

By approximately 10:45 p.m., the responding trooper had matched the license plate on the vehicle to the bulletin out of Clark Falls.

Ice floes made search conditions treacherous. Teams had worked through the night.

I like the funny ones,
she told me once.
But the sad ones seem more real.

Read the funny ones,
I’d advised her.
You’ve got plenty of time for the sad ones.

Which book had she taken from my library that day?

It doesn’t really matter. I just wish I could remember.

•    •    •

“I’m sending Debbie to pick you up.” Douglas Bennett is gentle but firm. “The room is under our account, so if you don’t answer your door, she’ll just get the management to open it for her.”

“Maybe I won’t be here,” I tell him.

“It sounds to me like you’ll be there.”

“If I am, then I’ll answer the door.”

Silence.

“It’s a bad day,” Bennett finally says. “But it isn’t your fault, Paul.”

I drop the phone on the night table by the bed. I top off my glass, but then let it sit.

Remember,
TV Roger tells me. On-screen, he’s wearing a sweater and blue jeans, standing on a patch of green lawn in front of a swing set.
Simple precautions, awareness, and common sense can help make your neighborhood a safer place.

Back to Maya Lamb, standing on a patch of frozen mud in front of a swollen river. The camera cuts away, following the county sheriff and a brace of deputies as they escort a grim, haggard couple up a steep slope. The faces of the man and woman are so bereft that I honestly don’t recognize them as Pete and Melody until a caption labels them, with all the sensitivity of a rib spreader,
Parents of Teen Bridge- Jumper.

I jump at the buzz of the cell phone beside me. The phone glides across the table on its own vibration, stopping against my glass. Each ring causes the bourbon in the glass to ripple. I think of helicopter blades rippling water.

I pick up the phone. “I’m not going anywhere, Bennett. Send her already.”

A pause. “It’s me.”

The surprise of Sara’s voice in my ear is almost more than I can take. It’s as if the last of my will runs out of my body through my fingertips.

“Paul?” Another pause. “Are you there?”

I clear my throat, sit up. I can hear noise in the background. “Where are you?”

“I’m at PHL.”

I picture Sara at Philly International, her roll- around suitcase beside her, cell phone to her ear. “Are you coming home?”

“Trying.”

“When will you be here?”

“I don’t know. There are snowstorms in Chicago and Minneapolis. I’ve already been canceled twice. I just got on standby through Dallas, but everything’s jammed.”

I picture her looking around the terminal, sighing at the long lines. I wish she’d keep talking. I’d listen to her read the departures board if that’s all she had to say.

Neither of us says anything for a minute. The silence doesn’t feel hostile. Just awful.

“How are you?” I’m only flailing at the silence between us now.

“I’m stuck in an airport.” She lets out a ragged sigh. “Mom is trying to ring in, I’m stuck in an airport, and my heart is breaking for a woman I really need to be able to hate right now.”

I don’t know what to say to all that.

“God, Paul.” Her voice catches. “Poor Brit.”

There’s a sharp knock on the door.

“Sweetie, hang on.” I switch the phone to my other ear, walk out of the bedroom, through the front. The knock comes again before I’m halfway to the door, louder this time. I check the peephole.

Debbie the Intern drives fast.

There’s a small conference room tucked away in the crannies of Bennett & Partners Trial Law. Debbie deposits her bag in a chair at the far end of the long table. I see boxes of file folders, stacks of paper, index cards laid out in a grid.

“Mr. Bennett is on a call,” she says. “He asked me to have you wait in here. Will that be all right?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Debbie the Intern seems to dislike me somewhat less this morning. “Can I get you anything?”

I haven’t slept in the past thirty hours. It’s Tuesday, and all I’ve had to eat since Saturday night is a piece of pie on the other side of Iowa. It’s eight- thirty in the morning and I’m half in the bag. “I don’t think so,” I tell her. “But thank you.”

She glances toward a coffeepot on the credenza in the corner. “Help yourself, if you feel like it. Mr. Bennett should be ready soon.”

Once Debbie leaves, I realize that the coffee smells pretty good after all. I take off my coat and pour myself a cup. While I wait for Bennett, I sit down and glance over the stuff fanned out on the table.

When it comes to tracking down an address, Bennett’s intern may not be quite as quick on the draw as Maya Lamb, but I have to give credit where credit is due: she’s accumulated and notated an impressive amount of material in the space of a single business day.

Just like Maya, she’s obtained copies of police reports involving our address, beginning with my complaint call against Roger three weeks ago, going back to our break- in, dated 12 July.

But I see that Debbie has gone back even further. There’s a third report, this one dated eight years ago.

The reporting party named in this older document is Webster, Myrna, 34 Sycamore Court. I sit forward in the chair.

I’ve spoken with Myrna Webster. I called her on the phone not two weeks ago to ply her for information about Roger. Myrna and her husband, James, now separated, are listed as previous owners of 34 Sycamore Court. Their names are listed in the county assessor’s online database I showed Douglas Bennett on the computer in his office.

I scan the summary section of the report.

Debbie has highlighted Roger’s name in bright yellow. In bright green, she’s highlighted the signature of the cop who took the report:
Ofc. T. Harmon.
It’s the same signature she’s highlighted, in the same color green, on our own burglary/assault record:
Det. Lt. T. Harmon.

I feel a quick tingle of association at the sight of Detective Harmon’s matching signatures. Only the rank is different. He was Officer Harmon eight years ago, when he filed Myrna Webster’s report. He was Detective Lieutenant Harmon by the time he filed ours.

Debbie’s system is simple but effective. She’s color- coded her research so that I can find overlaps at a glance. Specific names each get their own color—for example, yellow for Roger, green for Detective Harmon, and so on. Each color corresponds to index cards Debbie has scribbled with notes.

In the supplemental reports attached to Myrna Webster’s case, the presiding officer’s signature is highlighted in sky blue:
Det. Lt. J. Gardner.

I cross- reference blue with blue, finding my way to a hard-copy printout from
The Clark Falls Business Guide.
The printout is a business profile for Sentinel One Incorporated, our security alarm company. The company owner’s name is highlighted:
John G. Gardner.
My eye jumps to a thin slash of yellow halfway down the page. Topping a short list of Sentinel One’s consulting business partners:
Roger M. Mallory.

I can almost hear Roger speaking to Officer Bill and Officer Stump that day in his driveway, two weeks ago:
Either of you guys know Johnny Gardner before he retired?
I can almost see John Gardner standing at his office window, watching me through the blinds.

I go back to the material attached to Myrna Webster’s police report and start reading. According to the report, a three-week investigation declared James Webster a “Voluntary Missing Adult,” and the case was turned over to the Iowa Department of Human Services for child support collection. The commanding officer’s signature is highlighted in purple:
Cpt. Gaylon Stockman.

My pulse kicks up a notch. I know from my own research that Gaylon Stockman was Clair Mallory’s father. I flash on the image of an old man in a recliner, a Foley bag between his ankles, a death rattle in his chest. I find the index card with the purple dot in the corner, same as the color highlighting Captain Stockman’s name. There’s only one note jotted on the card:
Rm 242, CF Mercy General.

A hand falls on my shoulder. I jump in my chair, jostling my mug, sloshing coffee onto one of the index cards. A few lines of Debbie’s careful notes run together in the spill.

“Careful,” Douglas Bennett says. “Debbie’ll have your ass.”

I look up at him.

He smiles. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

I look back at the index cards on the table. Bennett joins me for a moment, and says, “When you lay them all out side by side like that, it starts to look a little clubby, doesn’t it?”

My thoughts are swirling like Debbie’s handwriting in the puddle of coffee from my cup. Detective Thomas Harmon. Re tired detective John Gardner. Retired captain Gaylon Stockman. Active sergeant Van Stockman.

Retired sergeant Roger Mallory.

34 Sycamore Court.

I look at Bennett. “What is all this?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to say.” Bennett moves a card
with his finger, tilts his head to look at it. He shrugs. “We’re just trying to connect all the dots for now. It’s probably all coincidental. Smallish town, Clark Falls.” He doesn’t say this as though he really believes it. “Anyway, it’s good practice for Debbie.”

My mouth feels dry. I take a sip of coffee.

“And we have more important things to focus on at the moment.” Bennett sits down. “How are you doing?”

“Do you want an honest answer? Or do you want to hear me say that I’m doing fine?”

“It’s a tough day.” He looks off for a minute, shakes his head. “And not a very merry Christmas for Pete and Melody Seward.”

It occurs to me that every Christmas from now on will bring them a white body bag. “Not very.”

“It’s not my field,” Bennett says, “but if there’s anything you feel like talking about, we’ve got a little time.”

What could we possibly say? “It is what it is.”

“I suppose it is.”

I sit back in my chair. Pull my eyes away from all the stuff on the table in front of me. “So what happens now?”

This question brings us back into Bennett’s area, where I think we both feel more comfortable. “The police want to speak with you.”

“Why do they want to speak with me?”

“It’s pretty clear what’s happened, but they’ll need to make an official ruling. Given the circumstances, your whereabouts yesterday will need to be verified.”

The circumstances.
“You mean I’ll be questioned.” This truly hasn’t occurred to me before now. “Like a suspect?”

“Just procedure, Paul. I’ve arranged a voluntary interview at Central Station for ten- thirty this morning.”

I look at my watch. It’s 8:45.

“In the meantime, why don’t you start with buying Rachel McNally an iPod. We can go from there.”

A DETECTIVE BRINGS IN LUNCH from Petrow’s. Cheese burgers and fries for everyone.

Douglas Bennett and I eat our meals in the interview room, which is carpeted and has a plant in one corner, along with the one- way glass window I’ve seen in the movies. Otherwise, it’s not an uncomfortable spot for lunch. I wonder if Detective Bell is eating his cheeseburger on the other side of the glass.

The last time I saw Detective Bell before today, he was arresting me. Except for the warrant and the overcoat and the Taser- toting officers on either hip, he looks the same as I remember him. We’re just finishing our food when he returns to the interview room and sits down on the other side of the table. Bell reviews his notes a moment, then says, “Yesterday afternoon. What time did you say you left Clark Falls?”

We go on like this for nearly two more hours. Following
Douglas Bennett’s counsel, I confine my comments strictly to my “unanticipated” run- in with Rachel McNally at the mall, and my subsequent trip to visit Timothy Brand. I mention nothing related to Sergeant Van Stockman. I don’t get into my position on Roger Mallory. By all means, I steer entirely clear of the topic of Darius Calvin.