Since You've Been Gone (19 page)

“She's twenty-one and available.”

“Are you matchmaking?” Clay sat down and withdrew his flatware from his napkin. “You seem too sensible for that kind of nonsense.”

Myra's brown eyes twinkled from a web of crow's-feet she'd had since her thirties. “I wouldn't presume to know your taste in women, but I'd guess it wouldn't be a young lady with a voice like a bullhorn.”

Clay nearly burst out laughing. “I thought you nurses were supposed to be warm and compassionate.”

“This one is brutally honest.” Myra took a sip of her coffee. “So what's new with you?”

“Not much.” Clay dug into his salad. “Except that I've seen Molly Ryan.”

Myra's smile immediately vanished. “The mother of the kidnapped boy?” He nodded, mouth full. “Oh, that poor thing. I have felt terrible ever since I heard about the child. They haven't found him, have they?”

“Not as of last night.”

“I read about their finding Todd's stuffed animal in the attic of Klein Furniture. I thought the police tried to keep information like that a secret.”

“They do. Bill thinks there's a leak in the department.”

Myra raised an eyebrow. “‘Bill'? The chief of police? You two close?”

“His sister is Suzanne Ryan. She married Frank Hardison after her first husband Patrick's death and I was a Mend of Frank's son Doug. I got to know the family years ago.”

“And Molly is Patrick Ryan's niece. How is she holding up?”

“Not too well. I had to sedate her after Bill gave her the news about the stuffed toy.”

“What horrible news to bring.”

“It could have been worse.”

“Yes, but with the blood and all—” Myra broke off. “Someday you'll have children and you'll know how something like this is a parent's worst fear. I worried constantly about my two girls. I thought when they grew up I could relax, but you never really do. But when I think of what this poor woman is going through, I realize how good I had it. Nothing bad ever happened to my kids.” A crease formed between Myra's eyebrows. “And this has happened twice in the same family. Of course they have money.”

“Molly doesn't.”

“She has access to it. Her parents.”

“Bill says they're trekking merrily around the wilds of Africa taking photographs. They don't even know. They're not close to her anyway.”

“Her own parents? Is it because she's never married?”

“Yes and no. When she got pregnant, they weren't morally outraged—they just didn't want to be bothered. Suzanne stepped in to help Molly and they gladly let her.”

“Certainly she'd help Molly with ransom money.”

“I'm sure she would, but money didn't save Jonnie Ryan.”

“No, it didn't.” She shook her head. “What a world. I hope Molly isn't alone.”

“She isn't. Doug and his father see her all the time. And Bill Garrett.” He finally broached the subject that had made him impulsively sit down with Myra. “Her next-door neighbor is Jean Wright. I think she's on vacation. She's been spending nearly all her time with Molly.”

“Really? Hmmm. Well, I guess it's good Molly has a full-time medical professional to watch over her.”

“You sound a little uncertain.”

“Ido?”

“Come on, Myra. What bothers you about Jean Wright?”

Myra hesitated, apparently deciding whether or not to
commit herself. “All right. I don't know the woman very well. I've worked with her and she's extremely competent. And caring. Her parents died when she was about nineteen and she suddenly had a much younger brother and sister to look after. They were twins—”

“And they died?” Clay asked anxiously.

Myra grinned. “My, aren't you melodramatic today? No, they didn't die. They left for college last year. They're both spoiled rotten. The boy insisted on going to Princeton even though he could get only a
partial
scholarship there but a full one to West Virginia University. Wendy isn't the studious type and her grades didn't qualify her for a scholarship anywhere. She's going to WVU and spending at least twice what she gets in financial aid. Money was so tight Jean was working overtime here and freelancing night-sitting with elderly homebound patients. She nearly collapsed from exhaustion. She's not on vacation—she's on leave.”

“Oh.”

“Now you sound disappointed. What's the matter?”

“I just thought there would be more than that to her. Something about her seems a little off. She doesn't like me at all—”

“Then clearly she's unbalanced.”

“My feeling exactly,” Clay returned with a straight face. “But it's not her appalling lack of taste in men that disturbs me. She's odd. Are you sure she didn't have a breakdown?”

“Well, I wasn't going to say it, but she was a little rocky emotionally before she left. She made some mistakes—nothing serious—and she cried a lot. Maybe she's pulled herself together but it was such a short time ago …”

“You don't think she's in any condition to be looking after Molly.”

“Honestly, no, especially in such an emotional situation. And I'm surprised she'd try. She knew how important it was for her to rest. At least if she wants her job, which she needs desperately. Oh well.” Myra looked troubled, glanced at her watch, then stood up. “This has been nice, but I've
spent too long gabbing. Good to see you and … well, just forget what I said about Jean.”

But of course he wouldn't.

“You pull this again and you're out of here, Cochran,” old man Maloney growled. He'd always reminded Larry of a bloodhound, and now with his jowls flapping and his voice lowered in menace, the resemblance was even stronger. “Did you hear me?”

“How could I help it?” Larry muttered.

“You are a smart-ass. I should never have let Frank Hardison talk me into hiring you. Get on out in the garage and get to work.”

Larry limped out. On good days his limp was barely noticeable. Today was not a good day. The leg ached badly although the orthopedic surgeon who'd operated on it said when he healed, he would have no pain. At the time Larry had been too hopeless to care. After all these years, though, the constant pain often had him on the edge of control.

“Take the Buick Regal next,” one of the guys yelled to him. “Needs a front brake job.”

Larry went out and turned on the car. Country music blasted in his ears. He savagely flipped off the radio. He hated country music almost as much as he hated gospel. He pulled the car carefully onto the lift, emerged trying to hide his limp, and raised the lift to head level.

The other guys were openly snickering at him. When he got the job, Doug had told him to “be cool,” to “roll with the punches.” Well, that had never been his and Lynn's way and he was proud of it. He didn't intend to sell out like Doug, whom he'd come to hate with all his clean living and good advice. The jolly little ball of dough, that's how Larry thought of him. Also, Larry had made no effort to befriend anyone at the garage. He'd actually gone out of his way to be aloof and superior, letting them know he
neither needed nor cared for their friendship. The result was that no one liked him. Old man Maloney couldn't stand him.

Larry reached for the impact wrench and went to work on the lug nuts, reveling in the wrench's loud hammering noise as it twisted the nut, the high-pitched whine as the nut loosened.

So he'd missed a day of work, Larry seethed inwardly as he pulled off the tires and inspected the brake rotors, seeing the grooves that meant the car needed new brake pads. One lousy day in six months. Maloney said he was pissed off because he hadn't called in. Larry had claimed illness. “I don't believe it,” Maloney had thundered. “Even your sister came here looking for you.”

“We don't live together. She didn't know I was sick.”

Maloney hadn't bought it. Rightly. Larry had not been sick—as Lynn had seen when around noon he'd walked up to his tiny apartment to find her planted outside the door.

“Where have you been?” she'd demanded.

A wave of white-hot anger had flowed over Larry. “What business is it of yours?”

“You didn't show up for work. You weren't home when I called last night.” She'd looked like she was going to cry and nearly shouted, “What about Skeeter Dobbs?”

The harridan in the apartment next to his had swung open her door and stuck out her head, glaring. He'd glared back, then hustled Lynn inside. Lynn kept going on and on, loudly, and he'd turned on the television to cover her voice. On the noon news Kelly Keene had rattled on about murder victim Carson “Skeeter” Dobbs while Larry coldly denied having even seen the old creep for weeks.

“Then where
were
you?” Lynn had persisted.

“You mean if I wasn't murdering Skeeter, which is the most likely answer? Not everyone in this town hates me. I have a girlfriend, Lynn. I stayed with her.”

“All
night!
Till
noon!
Have you forgotten that you're on
parole
and you have
curfew!
”

Her platinum hair and light eyes seemed to vanish in the
glare of the sun coming through the front window. She was only a pair of cruel crimson lips. “Will you stop screeching?” Larry snarled. “God, you sound like Mom. Always shouting, demanding, accusing, always afraid we'd embarrass her.”

“Gee, I wonder why she worried about that?” Lynn said sarcastically.

Larry shot her a murderous look. “Maybe if she hadn't always expected the worst of us, punished us for stuff we hadn't done, we would have turned out different.”

“And maybe she just saw us for what we were: a couple of self-centered, lazy snots who only cared about getting high!”

“What this? Another chapter from the Douglas Hardison Clean Living Manual? ‘Lesson One—Take Responsibility for Your Own Mistakes'?”

“What's wrong with taking responsibility? It's not Mom's fault we messed up. At least I had the sense to turn myself around. I thought you had, too, but look at you! Bloodshot eyes! Two days' growth of beard! I guess this girl doesn't like you for your looks. Who is she?”

“That doesn't concern you.”

“Everything about you concerns me.”

He'd looked at her levelly. “I'm over twenty-one, little sister. Way over.”

“You also have a job. Frank worked hard to get you that job!”

“He did not. Most people in this town owe him a favor. He just called one in.”

“That is beside the point.”

Larry had felt as if his head might split. He told her to sit down and be quiet while he took a couple of aspirins. Then he said as calmly as possible, “Look, I drank too much. And her alarm didn't go off. I screwed up. It's not her fault so you don't need to go nosing around trying to find out who she is. And I won't let this happen again.”

Finally he'd gotten rid of Lynn and put his pounding head in his hands. He might as well be back in prison for
all the freedom he had. With Lynn, Doug, his parole officer, and old man Maloney breathing down his neck, he had about as much freedom as he'd had a year ago in the penitentiary. For the first time in his life he hated his sister almost as much as he did Doug. Her love and concern had become just as imprisoning as bars.

Larry had gotten through the rest of the day, then braced himself for a return to the garage. Now he'd gotten the expected verbal assault from Maloney, much to the delight of his co-workers, and he had another whole day in this place ahead of him. But he could get through it. He had to get through it.

Because better days were ahead.

Deputy G. C. Curry stepped into Bill's office. Bill noted how haggard the man looked. He clearly hadn't been getting much sleep. “What's up, Chief?” he asked.

“Got the ME's report on Skeeter. Come on in and get a cup of coffee. You look like you could use it.”

Curry poured coffee and picked up a Danish. Bill couldn't help thinking of Skeeter Dobbs and his ecstasy over the “foreign food” offered to him on the last night of his life. Curry sat down with the groan of an old man even though he was only thirty-four. “So what does the ME have to say about Skeeter?”

“Want me to wait until you've finished eating?”

“I don't have a weak stomach. But you can skip all the mumbo-jumbo and just give me the basics.”

“Okay, basically Skeeter died of a puncture wound to the brain, causing severe hemorrhage.”

“We needed an autopsy to know that?”

“Lungs were pale and light. Petechial hemorrhaging poorly limited in right eye.”

“So we know Skeeter died almost instantly and we assume the killer was facing him to jab him in the left eye,
so he or she must be right-handed,” Curry said. “That's helpful.”

“We also know the incised wound must have been swift and unexpected because there are no defensive wounds on Skeeter's hands and arms. He'd probably been dead less than twelve hours because there was only redness and swelling around the wound. Scabbing starts after about twenty-four hours. Pus after thirty-six.”

“You could have left out the part about pus,” Curry said, laying down his last bit of cream-filled Danish.

“I thought you didn't have a weak stomach.”

“Even I have limits. Murder weapon?”

“Common ice pick. Metal handle so no convenient traces of skin left in wood. Also no fingerprints. A couple of traces of latex where the handle joins the spike. Killer must have worn latex gloves.”

“So how easy is it to get latex gloves?”

“They're everywhere: around a hospital. Dentist's office. Vet's office. Of course you don't have to work in one of those places to get them. Just
be
in one. And there are medical supply stores everywhere.”