Speaking in Tongues (24 page)

“Prints,” Tate said.

“A prince among men—yes, I am. So, what’s going on?”

“I want you to run the letter through Identification. Something’s up. Bett’s acting funny.”

“You complained about that when you were married,” Konnie pointed out. “Crystals, mumbo jumbo, long distance calls to people’d been dead a hundred years.”

“That was cute funny. This’s weird funny. Witnesses’ve been disappearing and not calling back and it’s just too much of a coincidence. And I think I know who’s behind it.”

He also told Konnie about his run-in with Jack Sharpe.

“Ooo, that was bright, Counselor, and you were packing your gun to boot?”

Tate shrugged. “Was your idea for me to get one.”

“But it
wasn’t
my idea to threaten an upstanding member of the Prince William mafia with it. Grant me that at least.”

“I’ve been on his bad side since I routed his lawyers at the injunction hearing last week.”

“What’s wrong with a nice theme park ’round here, Tate? You’d rather have what we got
now
in Manassas? A track fulla big wheels slugging it out in a mud pit.
I’d
vote for Disneyland, with them fun rides and cotton candy and knock-the-clown-in-the-water shit.”

“I’m just telling you that Jack Sharpe would love for me to be out of commission come that argument at the Supreme Court in Richmond next week. And I think he’s had somebody in a van following me. Sorry, no tag, no model.”

Konnie nodded slowly. Then added, “But he’s got boys he’d hire for that. And they could hire other boys. No way could you trace it back to him. And you think anybody’d snitch on Jack Sharpe?”

“I’m not a prosecutor anymore, Konnie. I don’t want to make a case. I want to find Megan. Period. End of story.”

“And kneecap the prick who did it.”

Tate pushed the bags containing the letter and the bone toward Konnie again. “Please.”

Another mournful glance at his cooling dinner. “Be right back.”

“Wait.” Tate handed him another Baggie. “Exemplars of Megan’s prints on the keys and mine on that glass. And remember you handled the note too.”

Konnie nodded. “The prosecutor in you ain’t dead, I see.” Carrying the bags, he walked down the hall toward the forensic lab. He returned a moment later.

“Won’t be long. I
was
looking forward to supper.”

Tate ignored the red-and-white KFC bag and continued. “Now, there was a gray Mercedes following her. Can you check that out?”

“Check what out?”

“Registered owners of gray Mercedeses.”

“I was asking before: year, model, tag?”

“Still none.”

Konnie laughed. He typed heavily on his computer keyboard. “This’ll be worth it just to see your expression.”

As he waited for the results Konnie peeked into the tallest Kentucky Fried bag, kneaded his ample stomach absently. “You know what the worst is? The worst is when the mashed potatoes get cold. You can eat the chicken when it’s cold because everybody does that. On a picnic, say. Same with the beans. But when mashed potatoes get cold you have to throw them out. Which is bad enough but then you think about them all night—how good they would’ve been.
That’s
what I mean by the worst.”

The screen fluttered. Konnie leaned forward.

“Here’s what we got. I did Fairfax, Arlington, Alexandria, Prince William and Loudoun. Mercedes, all types, all years, gray.”

Tate leaned forward and read:
Your request has resulted in 2,603 responses.

“Two thousand,” Tate muttered. “Man.”

“Two thousand
six
hundred.”

Tate knew from his prosecuting days that too much evidence was as useless as too little.

“If you’re just not buying the runaway stuff”—Konnie sighed—“we’re gonna have to do more thinking. All right, you think Sharpe’s a possibility and I don’t think he’s above snatching a girl. But there anybody else? Think hard now, Tate. Anybody hassling her?”

“Recently?”

“Like last year’s weirdos don’t count?” Konnie snorted. “When
ever!”

“Not that I know of. I have to say there was a rumor . . . it was just a rumor . . . she might’ve been seeing . . . well, having sex with some older men. And maybe there was some money involved. I mean, they were paying her.”

If Konnie felt anything about this he didn’t show it. “You have any idea who? Where?”

“Some kids at this place called the Coffee—”

“—Shop. They been trying to close that piss hole down for a year. Well, I can poke around there. Ask some questions. Now, was she in any cults or anything?”

“No, don’t think so.”

“You or Bett in anything like that?”

“Me?”

“All right, your wife.”

“Ex,” Tate corrected.

“Whatever. She did that sort of stuff.”

“It was strictly softball with her. No Heaven’s Gate or Jonestown or anything like that. Bett wouldn’t even put up these Indian posters because they had reverse swastikas on them. Nothing to do with Nazis; she just thought it was bad karma.”

“Karma,” Konnie scoffed. “Any relationships of yours go south in a big way recently?”

“I—”

“ ’Fore you answer, think back to every one of them twenty-one-year-olds you promised diamonds to and then ran for the hills.”

“I never proposed to a single one,” Tate said.

“Never proposed to
marry
’em, maybe.”

“You don’t get
Fatal Attraction
after three dates. That’s about the longest term I went.”

“Sad, Tate, sad. How ’bout Bett?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t think so.”

“Any relatives acting squirrelly? Might’ve wanted to take the girl and run?”

“Only relative nearby’s Bett’s sister, Susan. Outside of Baltimore. She’d never do anything to hurt her. Hell, she was always joking about adopting Megan.”

This got Konnie’s attention. “Adopting her? You sure she’s not involved in this? Maybe she went over the edge, decided to get herself a daughter.”

“Imagine Bett but fifteen pounds lighter. She couldn’t kidnap a bird.”

“But she could’ve
hired
somebody to. She could have a wacko boyfriend.”

“I just can’t see it, Konnie.”

“Gimme her name anyway.”

Tate wrote it down.

“Okay, how ’bout any business associates of either of y’all? Clients? Or the bad guys? Other than Sharpe.”

“Bett’s got this interior design business. I don’t think her clients’re the sort for this kind of thing. Me, all I’ve been doing are wills, trusts and house closings—except for the Liberty Park case.”

Konnie grunted. The detective got a call. Grabbed the phone. Nodded. Slammed it down. “Interesting . . . That was the lab. Only her prints and yours on the bone. And mine, yours and hers on the letter. But . . . there were some smudges on the bone that might’ve been from latex gloves. Can’t say for certain. But that starts me wondering. Think it’s about time to do a Title Three.”

“A wiretap?”

“Yours and your wife’s phones both.”

“Ex.”

“You keep saying that. Broken record. That’s in case you get a ransom call.”

“I thought this wasn’t a case.”

“It’s becoming one. Tell me again what happened this morning at your place. I mean exact.”

Tate remembered this about Konnie: he was a working dog when it came to dredging for evidence and hammering on suspects and witnesses. Only exhaustion would slow him down—and even then it never stopped him.

Tate gave another recap of the events.

“So you never actually saw her at your house?”

“No,” Tate said. “I got back home about ten
A.M.
from the office then got suited up and went to check on a busted pipe.”

“The sharecroppers there?”

“No. Not on Saturday. I never saw anybody at all. Just the lights go out around ten-twenty.”

“All of ’em?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t you think that was funny?”

“No. Megan doesn’t like bright lights. She likes candlelight and dimmers.”

This gave Tate a burst of pleasure—proving to Konnie that he knew
something
about the girl after all.

“It was dark as pitch this morning,” the detective mused. “With all that rain. Most people’d want
some
light, you’d think. ’Less they didn’t want to be seen from the outside.”

“True.”

“And shit, Tate, wait a minute. Why’d she go to your place at all?”

“To leave the letters and get the backpack.”

“Well, doesn’t she have any suitcases or book bags at your wife’s? Sorry, your
ex’s.
Your dee-vorced spouse’s.”

“Sure she does. You’re right.
Most
of them are there, as a matter of fact. And she had her book bag with her at Amy’s. And a lot more clothes and makeup at Bett’s place than mine.”

The cop continued, “You and Megan hardly ever saw each other.”

“True again.”

“So you wouldn’t go into her room much, would you?”

“Once a month maybe.”

“So why’d she leave the letters there? Why not at her mother’s?”

That would’ve made more sense, true. The detective added, “And hell, why go to the house and leave some letters this morning around the time you were going to meet her? I tell you, if I was going to leave a note to diss my folks and run I’d leave it someplace they
weren’t
going to be. Don’tcha think?”

“So he made her write ’em and planted them himself. Whoever he is.”

“That’s what I think, Counselor . . . Here’s what I’m gonna do. Order some serious forensic work and then have a chat with the captain. Guess what? This’s just become a case. And in a big way.” Konnie pulled a drumstick from the bag and charged down the hall.

•   •   •

Tate returned home.

No messages and no one had called; the caller ID box was blank.

Twelve hours ago he had wanted Megan and Bett out of his life again. He’d gotten his wish and he didn’t like it one bit.

So Brad had left Bett. He didn’t know what to make of that. Why? And why now? He had a feeling that whoever was behind Megan’s disappearance was behind this too.

Then his thoughts segued to Belize, the trip he and Bett had planned to take. A second honeymoon. Well, a
first
honeymoon technically—since they’d never taken one after their wedding.

He looked out over the dark sky, at the spattering of a million stars. Tate laughed to himself. What a kick if they’d run into each other. He wondered how Bett would have reacted to Karen. No, Cathy.

Probably not well.

Not a jealousy thing so much as a matter of approval. She’d never liked his taste in women.

Well, Tate didn’t either, now that he looked back at his lovers over the past ten years.

Belize . . .

Was there actually a possibility that he and Bett might take that trip together still—after they found Megan?

Whatever happened with Brad, the presence of a fiancé didn’t seem as insurmountable as simply the concept of Tate and Bett taking a trip together. At one time their joined names had been a common phrase among their friends. But that was a long, long time ago.

Yet—this was
feelings
again, not Cartesian logic—yet somehow he believed that they’d get along just fine. The fight today had been as bad as any they’d had fifteen years ago. And yet there’d been a reconciliation. This astonished him. That never would have happened in the past.

He sighed, sipped his wine, looked out at the Dalmatian nosing about in the tall grass. Thinking now of Megan.

But even if husband and wife were to get together again, what would the girl come home to? And more important . . .
who
was the person coming home?

Was the girl’s drinking and the water tower incident more than just a onetime fluke? Was
that
the real Megan McCall, a bitter young woman who slept with men for money? Or was there another person within her? One Tate didn’t know well—or maybe one he hadn’t even yet met?

Tate Collier felt a sudden desperation to know the girl. To know
who
she was. What excited her, what she hated, what she feared. What foods she liked. What clothes she’d pick and which she’d shun. What bad TV shows she’d want to watch.

What made her laugh. And what weep.

And he was suddenly stung by a terrible thought: that if Megan had
died
this morning, the victim of a deranged killer or an accident, he’d have been distraught, yes, terribly sad. But now, if that happened or—the most horrifying—if she simply vanished forever, never to be found at all, he’d be destroyed. It would be one of those tragedies that breaks you forever. He remembered something he’d told Bett when they’d been married, a case he was working on—prosecuting an arson murder. The victim had run into a burning building to save her child, who’d survived, though the mother had perished. He’d read the facts, looked up to Bett and said, “You’ll kill for your spouse but you’ll die for your child . . .”

In rhetoric, lawyers use the trick of personification—picking words to make their own clients seem human and sympathetic and their opponents less so. “Mary Jones” instead of “the witness” or “the victim.” Juries find it far easier to be harsh to abstractions. “The defendant.” “The man sitting at that table there.”

It’s a very effective trick and a very dangerous one.

And it’s just how I’ve treated Megan over the years, Tate now thought. He rose, walked into the den and spent a long time looking for another picture of her. He was terribly disappointed he couldn’t find one.
He’d given his only snapshot to Konnie and Beauridge that afternoon.

He sat down in his chair, closed his eyes and tried to create some images now. Images of the girl. Smiling, looking perplexed, exasperated . . . A few came to mind. He tried harder.

And harder still.

Which was why he hadn’t heard the man come up behind him.

The cold finger of a pistol touched his temple. “Don’t move, Mr. Collier. No, no. I really mean that. For your sake. Don’t move.”

Jimmy, Tate recalled.

His name was Jimmy. And he was the man who’d been far more willing than Tate to engage in some gunplay in Jack Sharpe’s immaculate foyer.