The Caller (19 page)

‘Are you OK?’ Anna said, her voice softer.

‘No! No I’m not.’

‘You’ve changed so much.’

Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Why do women say that shit?’

‘What?’

‘Look – it’s not a bad thing if I have changed, Anna. People change. At forty, you want to be married to some immature asshole with no clue about responsibility or no major ambition who likes to get drunk every weekend with the guys? You can’t start idealizing this guy you married.’

‘That’s the thing, it’s not idealizing you. I didn’t need to. You were—’

‘Don’t give me that crap. I used to drive you nuts, same as always.’

‘We never fought like this.’

Joe looked down. ‘No. We didn’t.’

‘What is
wrong
with you?’ said Anna.

‘OK. You want to know? You really want to know? I’m furious! You know, I’ve tried to be cool, but I’m not. We have one more year before
Shaun goes to college and I thought great, just the two of us, you know? I cannot believe that right when I think my life is going to go one way, someone hits rewind and I’m right back where I was eighteen years ago. I feel like I’ve worked my ass off for nothing, Anna.’

‘That’s not how it is.’

‘Yes, it is! I feel paralysed here! This baby feels like an excuse for something.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Like an excuse for you not to have to face what has happened to us. An excuse for you not to have to go out there—’ He pointed to the window.

‘Out where?’ said Anna.

‘Anywhere,’ Joe shouted. ‘Anywhere! Look at how you’ve been living. You’ve hardly gone outside the door, you fall apart when you do, you’re here all day, in the evenings—’

‘I’m depressed!’ she shouted.

‘Exactly,’ shouted Joe. ‘Which is why we should not be having this baby. Who wants to bring a kid into this home?’ It hung there in the silence.

‘We have a wonderful home,’ said Anna. She started to cry.

Joe sat down on the bed. ‘Doesn’t feel that way,’ he said. ‘Or maybe I’ve forgotten. I don’t know any more. I don’t think about it. I never think about us any more.’

‘I know,’ said Anna, pressing her sleeve against her eyes.

He looked up at her. ‘I … love you so much, you and Shaun. You’re everything to me. But we’re not the same. I mean, things have changed.’

‘Maybe the baby will …’

Joe shook his head sadly. ‘That’s one hell of a scary job for a newborn.’

The sun beamed down through a slice in the grey sky over Denison, Texas. Wanda Rawlins held her hand up to the television set, the bones in her fingers rigid and spread.

‘I have been clean and sober for—’ The telegenic preacher, his grey hair smooth and waxy, paused for his audience to fill in their ‘time spent walking with Jesus’.

‘Sixteen years, three days and seven hours,’ said Wanda.

‘Before I walked with Jesus I—’

‘Danced with the devil.’ Wanda’s voice was as fiery as the man with the headset microphone striding the stage in the crowded white marquee.

‘My salvation was—’

‘Vincent Farraday.’ Wanda shouted. She was talking about her husband, the singer who plucked her off a strippers’ stage in Stinger’s Creek, cleaned her up and welcomed her into this loving home
in Denison, forty miles south. The studio audience had already answered ‘The Lord’.

‘Oh yeah, the Lord,’ said Wanda. ‘Duh. My salvation was The Lord and Vincent Farraday.’

The preacher stood with his arms outspread, his hips thrust forward. ‘My power is in—’

‘My sobriety,’ said Wanda.

‘My love,’ said Wanda.

‘My destiny,’ said Wanda.

‘My denial. My detachment. My ice cold soul.’ Duke Rawlins stood in the doorway, gripping the frame above his head, his long, lean body rocking gently back and forth. The audience cheered.

‘Dukey,’ said Wanda, struggling to get up from the floor.

Duke looked at the television. ‘You won’t recall this, Mama,’ he said, ‘but it was soap operas you used to watch. All day sometimes. I would run all over the house, all over the yard. I would come in to you, lying there and I would have scratches and bruises and dirt on me, just, you know, to see …’ He shrugged. ‘And you would lean your head around me, use all your weakness to push me aside and you would say, “Mama’s got some other people’s lives to watch.”’ He smiled. ‘Well I see now that Mama’s got her some Jesus to watch.’ His face twisted into an expression of the hate down deep and rising.

Wanda’s eyes were love and fear and sixteen years, three days and seven hours of veneer.

‘You’ve done some very bad things, Dukey. A lot of people want to talk to you. That detective in New York …’ Duke’s expression stopped her. She raised calming hands. ‘But I understand why now,’ she said, ‘why you did those things.’

Duke tilted his head.

Wanda nodded. ‘I understand. The devil entered my body with the sin of my ways. I opened my lifeblood to him and he flowed right in. He rested alongside you in the womb. And he grew alongside you. And when you came out of inside me, he was gone. And the only place he could …’

Duke had a new laugh for this, one he had never used before, high and staccato and minutes long. ‘You crazy motherfucking bitch,’ he said at the end. ‘Damn, you’re crazy. Maybe the crazy fairy fucked you up the ass. He went in one way, the devil went in another. Maybe they met in the middle, had themselves a little party. Hell, maybe I joined in.’ He laughed again and started walking towards her.

‘I want to help you, Dukey. I want to redeem—’

‘Yourself, Mama. As per usual. You want to redeem yourself.’

‘No, no!’ said Wanda. ‘I’ll do whatever you want. You need money? I got money.’ She pointed at her pocket book. ‘I won’t tell anyone you were here. You can even stay here! I won’t tell a soul.’

Duke let her panic run its course.

‘I’ll … what do you need, Duke? I’ll do it. I’ll … whatever it is.’ She saw how he was looking at her. She stumbled back, grabbing for the cell phone on the arm of the pretty pink sofa. She held it in her trembling hand. Duke’s right leg shot out and kicked it away.

Wanda screamed. ‘You broke something.’

‘So did you,’ said Duke.

Wanda sat with her back to her son’s chest. He sat behind her, taking the full weight of her body, his legs wrapped around her, pinning hers to the ground. With skills honed throughout his childhood, he quickly wrapped the tourniquet around her left arm, pulled out a syringe and shot the purest heroin to ever course through Wanda Rawlins’ veins. Her stricken face was quickly replaced by one he knew better: the slack one; the face that danced on shiny poles, the face that stood outside the school gate, the face that baked burned cookies, the face that opened his bedroom door to johns whose needs no woman could ever meet.

One hour later, Vincent Farraday arrived back from the grocery store and walked in on the wife he thought he’d saved – her body limp, her eyes dark and glassy. She gave a half smile and turned back to the TV.

Vincent turned to the twin teenage girls standing beside him.

‘Your mama is not feeling well,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking, let’s go on that vacation a day early. Go pack your bags.’

Vincent Farraday took off his hat and rubbed his head over and over. He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to the corner of his eyes.

The preacher’s voice rose from the television through the quiet. ‘And if a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand.’

The audience cheered.

‘And whoever rewards evil for good, evil will not depart from their house.’

Joe sat at his laptop with the VICS file opened. The last time he used it, he had added the photo of David Burig. Now he added Dean Valtry. The faces of five murdered men looked out at him from the screen. And underneath was a photo of Mary Burig. He shifted the boxes around and made two sections that he separated with a thick red line. To the left were Gary Ortis, William Aneto, Preston Blake, Ethan Lowry. To the right were Mary Burig, David Burig and Dean Valtry. Joe drew a black border around Preston Blake and Mary Burig – the ones who got away. Then he focused on the three names to the right of the red line – the line that marked the point when the motive changed. He had no doubt that the killer knew Mary Burig, David Burig and Dean Valtry. Joe just had to figure out how. And who else could be next on that list.

* * *

The steps to Preston Blake’s house were edged with crisp brown leaves, blown by a wind that had whipped up out of nowhere in the warm afternoon. Danny and Joe stood waiting on the front step after ringing the doorbell.

‘I can just feel my retina being scanned,’ said Danny. ‘Or maybe my ass. He’s taking some kind of outline of my ass to make sure it fits with the groove I left on the sofa from the last visit.’

Joe leaned close to Danny’s ear. ‘Shut the fuck up, he can probably hear you.’

‘Yeah. Well. He. Can. Probably. Read. Our. Lips. Any. Way,’ said Danny.

They rang the doorbell and knocked again.

Joe pulled out his phone and dialled Blake’s number. It went straight to voicemail.

‘Mr Blake, it’s Detective Joe Lucchesi, here. We’re right outside. We’d like to talk to you about a few things. We don’t want to hold you up too long.’

One minute later, the door opened and Preston Blake stood in front of them, his face passive. He leaned out, glanced past them, onto the street, left and right, then looked at their badges.

‘Come in,’ he said. He brought them to the same room they had been in before, guided them to the same sofa.

‘We appreciate this,’ said Joe.

Preston Blake shrugged.

‘How have you been doing?’ said Danny.

‘Great,’ said Blake, his voice flat. ‘How’s your investigation?’ He smiled.

‘That’s why we’re here,’ said Joe, ‘we’ve a few more questions for you.’

‘Go ahead. For what it’s worth.’

‘Have you ever come across a David Burig?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just connecting a few dots.’

‘No. I don’t know a David Burig.’

‘What about a Dean Valtry?’

‘No. Are these guys suspects?’

‘Like I said, their names have come up, we’re just cross checking things. We were looking to see if maybe you knew them or if there’s anything else you might have remembered.’

‘Look, about remembering stuff, no, OK? I told you that. This is something I’ve gone over in my mind constantly. I’m not going to start randomly remembering extra details later on. It just doesn’t happen that way.’

‘For some people, it does,’ said Danny.

‘Not me.’

‘Have you been reading the papers?’

Blake stared at them. ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘Not any more. My reluctance probably started around the time my house was under siege.’

‘We didn’t leak your name,’ said Joe. ‘We gave you a promise. And it’s just not in the interest of the investigation.’

Blake frowned. ‘So it wouldn’t have helped to
have me out there – just in case the killer wanted to finish me off.’

‘He would have known where to find you if he wanted to do that. Look, there’s no point in going over old ground …’

‘Maybe I believe you, Detective,’ said Blake. ‘And you,’ he said to Danny. ‘But what about the rest of your men? Do you trust them? All of them?’

Joe’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, standing up and walking a few feet away.

‘Joe, it’s Denis Cullen. I’m running a check on that Alan Noder guy and—’

‘Moder,’ said Joe. ‘M-O-D-E-R.’

‘Oh, shit, sorry. That’s why it wasn’t adding up,’ said Denis. ‘Someone wrote it down here—’

‘Danny’s scrawl. Not a problem.’

Joe sat back down. ‘My apologies. Back to the article – if it helps, I will call the journalist right now and try again to get his source. You know how they are about that, though, right? It’s not going to be easy. But if I do it, if he gives me that information, it will be dealt with.’

‘There’s no need to call him,’ said Blake. ‘I’m over it. It’s done now. I guess I’ll be forever linked in every article, website, whatever. I don’t think anyone gets how hard that is.’

‘I get it,’ said Joe.

‘That’s why I thought maybe it wasn’t you personally.’

‘Look, we need your help. I’m sure you can
understand why. We’ve had years talking to people, just talking and you’d be amazed at what can come back to people when they have to tell a story more than once—’

‘A story,’ said Blake. ‘That’s how you see it. That’s how the press see it. A nice little story. An angle.’

‘Come on,’ said Joe. ‘You know what I mean. I’m not—’

Blake stood up suddenly. ‘I’m sorry. Would you excuse me, please? I just remembered. I’ve got a client coming to pick up a piece. Let me just bring it up.’

He left them sitting there.

‘He isn’t as pissed as I thought he’d be,’ said Danny.

Joe let out a long breath. ‘He’s hard fucking work.’

‘You have to watch what you say the whole time,’ said Danny.

‘He looks like shit,’ said Joe.

‘Why not get his teeth fixed?’

‘Dr Mak says he’s too scared.’

‘That’s what he says about everyone …’

‘Well because you’ve brought it up, you can be the first to know: I am scheduled for surgery.’

‘You what?’ said Danny.

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘Decision is made.’

‘Like major surgery?’

Joe smiled. ‘Like probably the most minor surgery you can get.’

Danny laughed. ‘Then what’s the point?’

‘It’s supposed to really work and it doesn’t screw you up for ages, no major recovery time. I can go in, get it done, come out again, go right back to work. I’m doing it for you …’

Danny shook his head. ‘I’m in shock here.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve had enough with the pain.’

‘When you going in?’

‘The end of the week – a slot came up …’

‘Does Rufo know?’

Joe nodded. ‘He’s always happy when people address their problems.’

Danny smiled. They sat in silence for a while.

‘You know something?’ said Joe. ‘He said “up”.’

‘What?’ said Danny. ‘Who?’

‘Blake. He said, “Let me just bring it up”. Last time we were here, he told us his workshop was upstairs. If that was the case, he’d be bringing the jewelry down.’

‘So?’ said Danny. ‘So he brought the thing upstairs, now he’s bringing it down.’

‘Why has he been gone ten minutes?’ said Joe, standing up.

‘Jesus, relax,’ said Danny. But Joe was already drawing his gun.

Danny sat up, then stood up. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to find him.’

‘Put the gun away – the guy’s probably gone to take a crap and he’s going to freak out if he
comes back and that’s in his face. We’re here to mend a few bridges, not fucking burn them down.’

‘I don’t think he’s coming back,’ said Joe, walking into the hall, through the hanging bookshelves. He looked carefully at the ones that were moving, very slightly, coming to rest after being knocked against.

‘Mr Blake?’ Joe called out. ‘Mr Blake?’ He heard nothing. He looked at Danny. He was also drawing his gun. Joe pointed to the basement door. Danny pointed to the stairs that led to the second floor. Joe shook his head and walked towards the basement door and slowly turned the knob.

The basement was still, airless. Joe shone his flashlight up to the ceiling, the light tracking across a wide wooden beam stretching overhead with a notch at its centre. He continued slowly down the stairs, the flashlight sweeping across glossy industrial grey steps and walls. Danny followed slowly behind.

‘Mr Blake?’ said Joe. ‘Mr Blake?’

Silence. They reached the bottom of the steps. Joe moved the flashlight over a thick work bench with a small shelf above it that held clear plastic boxes of wires, metals and clasps. Mood boards on the wall behind it were inspirations for the jewelry that was pinned to bronze velvet backing in front of them. Spools of soft black leather hung from the shelf onto the bench top. Tools were lined up along the surface: a mandrel, burrs, pliers, filing discs.

‘Told you he worked downstairs,’ said Joe. He slid open one of the six small drawers down the right-hand side of the desk. It was empty.

‘Look,’ said Danny. He walked over to a machine standing four foot tall in the left-hand corner. The upper part was a small oven, mounted on a blue base with retro red and black start/stop buttons and clunky dials.

‘The Oakville Gas Appliance Co.’ Joe shone the light on the wide-tracked blocky caps embossed on the steel door, its enamel finish worn away by years of high temperatures.

‘Motherfucker,’ said Joe. ‘That’s like an old-style version of the oven Valtry used to burn off the wax.’ He pointed to the dials, the top one marked AIR, with a dial that from numbers one to eight could increase or decrease the flow. Underneath, was a dial marked GAS, that could be turned from OPEN to CLOSED on a scale of one to five. To the right was a temperature gauge, set at 1500 Fahrenheit, below that, another dial with a red and green light.

‘Blake makes jewelry,’ said Danny. ‘He burns metal.’

‘Blake’s the fucking perp,’ said Joe. ‘He’s been fucking with us. He’s the fucking perp.’

Danny stared at him. ‘Holy fuck.’

‘It’s the same deal – make a mould in wax, burn it off, shoot the stuff through … you get a ring or you get a crown.’

‘Holy fuck,’ said Danny. He glanced down at the oven, panic in his eyes. ‘That’s off, right?’

‘Yeah. The dials are at neutral, no lights on. Anyway, we’d smell gas or feel the heat.’

‘Fuck me,’ said Danny, staring at Joe, shaking his head. ‘Son of a fucking bitch.’

‘Let’s take a better look around.’ He reached over and hit a light switch on the wall behind the bench. No light came on. He turned to Joe and their eyes locked.

Rufo sat at his desk in front of two massive piles of papers, trying to decide which would get his attention first.

Denis Cullen knocked and walked in. ‘I think we might have a problem,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying Joe for the last half hour and I’m getting his voicemail. His cell is always on and—’

‘No-one’s cell is always on,’ said Rufo. ‘Come on.’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Denis. ‘And he was waiting for information. He was out in Preston Blake’s house with Danny, right? And I checked the address – 1890 Willow Street. That’s exactly the address I got for this other guy I was doing a background check on. Alan Moder.’

‘Who the hell is Moder?’

‘A friend of Dean Valtry from college. I ran his records, I got last known address this house on Willow Street.’

‘Any other residents in the home?’

‘At that same time –1994 – I’ve got a Mrs Joan Blake.’

‘Any Mr? Any children?’

‘This is weird. I’ve come up with Mr Preston Blake. But I did a search and this Preston Blake died in ‘94. And he was, like, sixty-seven at the time.’

‘And the last known address for Alan Moder was there?’

‘Yup. So he went off the radar around the same time as this Preston Blake died.’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Well that’s too good to be true, isn’t it? Let me try Lucchesi again.’ He dialled Joe’s number, then Danny’s – both went straight to voicemail.

Joe and Danny froze as the dull roar from above fused with a rumbling vibration that penetrated the walls, the floors, everything solid that surrounded them. Joe looked up and saw how quickly the notched beam snapped as the weight from the ceilings above crashed down. He caught a glint of silver as something plunged down towards him. Danny grabbed for his arm and pulled his focus, mouthing something he couldn’t hear, pointing desperately towards the work bench. Joe watched as Danny’s face, then his body, were swallowed up, quickly disappearing into a thick cloud of acrid dust.