The River Killings (10 page)

I remember how the comforter tangled as I tried to throw it off, and how much time it seemed to take to bolt out of bed and run down the stairs. Cell phone in hand, I fumbled to unlock the door and race outside, punching numbers with trembling hands.

This time, when I called 911, I had something real to say.

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been vandalized. I hadn’t noticed at first, but every picture of Nick in the house had been defaced. His head had been cut off in Molly’s room. His face slashed to bits on my nightstand. In the picture of the three of us at the shore, Nick’s face had been scribbled out and an awkward skull drawn over mine. Someone had taken time with the pictures, opening frames and maiming the photos, then replacing them on shelves. The intruder had even enjoyed a cup of coffee. Or half of it—until the mug had fallen or been dropped onto the kitchen floor.

I couldn’t reach Nick. His voice mail still answered. And Susan hadn’t gotten home yet. I redialed their numbers, one after another, reaching no one until the police arrived. Robert Bowman, the responding officer, looked like he might be sixteen, and his hat, too big for his head, slid down over his eyebrows, held up by his protruding ears. He took out a notebook and pen, firing questions faster than I could answer. “Who knew your schedule, ma’am?” he asked. “Who knew that you’d be out of the house this morning? Who has access to the property? How many people live here?”

I tried to remember the questions, to answer them in order. He wrote as I spoke, raising an eyebrow when I had trouble answering how many people lived there. Two. Sometimes three. But really two, just my daughter and I.

“You’re not married?”

What did that have to do with a break-in? “No. Divorced.”

“And your ex-husband and you … Do you get along?”

“Sure.” Actually, I hadn’t heard from Michael in months, not since his wedding.

Officer Bowman didn’t look convinced. “Is your ex upset about your current relationship, ma’am?”

Finally, I understood; he thought Michael might have broken into my house and defaced Nick’s pictures because he was jealous of Nick.

“A little. I mean, he knows there’s somebody, and I’m sure he’d prefer it if there weren’t. But he doesn’t care all that much. He just got married.”

Officer Bowman frowned. “Are there custody issues? Or child support?”

“No, nothing like that. Michael—my ex-husband—isn’t my daughter’s father.” Lord. That didn’t sound right. “Actually, I don’t know who her father is. I mean, Molly’s adopted. I adopted her after the divorce. I’m a single parent.”

He rubbed his chin, as if categorizing me as a Single Parent. “Do you work?”

“Yes, at the Psychiatric Institute. I’m an art therapist.”

“So, why were you home in the middle of the day?”

“Oh, I’m not working right now.”

His eyebrow rose again, as if not working were grounds for suspicion. Again, I felt the need to explain. “I’m off for a few weeks. Vacation.”

“So, you’re some kind of a shrink?”

“Not exactly, but I work with the shrinks.”

Officer Bowman puckered his lips, as if he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He looked around the living room, his eyes drifting across furniture and artwork, landing on the damaged photograph, moving to the sliding doors.

“Did you see anything unusual? Or hear anything as you came in?”

“No, not that I remember.” Just that electric tingling sensation. “Are you sure? Because that broken coffee cup, ma’am,” Officer
Bowman explained. “It bothers me. It’s possible you surprised the perp and he dropped it as he escaped out the back, through those sliding doors in the living room.”

I swallowed, absorbing that possibility. I might have walked in on the intruder.

“Have you noticed anyone lingering in the area? Anyone observing your home as you leave? Anyone watching you or your family members?”

Automatically, I shook my head, no. Nobody had been watching us. Nobody except the media, Agent Ellis and her FBI team, Sonia and the priest and whoever they represented, and possibly members of a slave trafficking cartel. Lord, had anyone not been watching us? Should I tell him about all that? Something told me not to; something else insisted that I should.

“Well, the press was here this morning,” I said. “About the nineteen bodies.”

His eyes widened.

“The women in the river. My friend and I found them.” “That was you?” “Yes. And my friend.”

“Your name was all over the news this morning.”

He nodded, as if making a connection between the press coverage and the break-in. But I couldn’t see it. Media attention didn’t explain why someone would come into the house only to defile some photographs.

“It could be some kook, somebody drawn to you by the news. Or it could be personal. Can you think of anyone who’s angry with you? Or with your—I assume he’s your boyfriend?” He pointed at the vandalized picture on my living room shelf.

I felt my face get hot, as if there were something embarrassing about being a forty-year-old woman with a boyfriend. “Nick and I are close. Actually, he’s a homicide detective. Nick Stiles.”

“Is he?”

“Yes. I thought you might know him?”

“No, ma’am. Never heard of him. But if he’s a homicide detective like you say, that may be what’s going on here. If you catch my drift.” I didn’t. Not even a little.

“Look whose face is messed up in the pictures. His, not yours, ma’am. Off the record, I’d bet my boots this isn’t about you. It’s about him. The guy’s in homicide? He puts bad guys away. So it follows that some of those bad guys must be very mad at your

husb-” Officer Bowman’s ears reddened at his mistake. “At

your boyfriend. What cases had he been on lately?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me. But last night, he was with me down at the river.”

“After you found the women?”

“Yes, but the FBI’s taking over that case.”

“And have you talked to your detective friend, ma’am? Is he aware of the break-in?”

No, and no. Where was Nick, anyway? Why hadn’t he called back?

Officer Bowman finally finished writing. “Have you made a list of what’s missing?” he asked. “Nothing’s missing.”

Officer Bowman cleared his throat, as if asking how I could be sure. “When we’re through here, be sure to go through the house and take an inventory of anything that’s been damaged or taken. For insurance purposes. And you’ll need the number of my incident report for your claim.”

I nodded. What was wrong with him? Why didn’t he understand the words “Nothing’s missing”? Why was he insisting that I make a damned list? I sat on my purple sofa holding on to Molly’s raggedy teddy bear, wondering why neither Nick nor Susan had called back. Where were they?

Officer Bowman wandered through the room, peeking at windows, examining the sliding doors. I had no idea why. I closed my eyes, picturing the seashore, trying to go there in my mind. It was a relaxation technique I used sometimes with patients, mentally
visiting a happy place. I imagined myself there with Molly and Nick, walking along the water, feeling moist sand under my feet, hearing the ocean, smelling the sea, feeling the breezy salt air—

“Found it!” Officer Bowman yelled, and I jumped, startled, back to dry land. “Look at this, son of a blinkin’ gun.”

Officer Bowman was in my little studio/office, pointing his pen at the corner of a window. The pane had been cut along the frame. The glass had been removed and then replaced, concealing the break.

“That’s how they got in, ma’am.”

“Are there fingerprints? Do they need to dust for them?”

“Frankly, I don’t see any fingerprints, ma’am.” He sighed. “Fact is, for the department, this isn’t what you’d call a high-priority case. We simply can’t send a crime lab team out for every break-and-enter.”

“Even though a homicide detective lives here?”

“He lives here?” There went his eyebrow again.

“Well, no. He’s here a lot, though.”

Officer Bowman sighed. “I’ll be honest with you. According to you, nothing’s been taken. Without even a theft, it’s going to be tough to get them to dust for fingerprints. Now, if millions in valuables had been taken, or if someone had been assaulted or killed here, that’d be a different story. But just a break-in? Realistically, you’re not going to see a crime scene team.”

“But what if you’re right and Detective Stiles is the target?”

“I’ll turn it all in, ma’am. I’ll do my best. I’m just trying to be real with you.” Officer Bowman’s eyes avoided mine; he looked at his shoes. They were well buffed and shiny.

“But maybe there are prints on the picture frames. Maybe they could identify the—”

“Like I said, ma’am. I’ll do my best.” His ears were the color of radishes, embarrassed at his lie.

“Don’t you need to take the frames?”

“No, ma’am. You can keep them here. I’ve taken my report.” I knew he wasn’t going to do anything. I’d watched enough crime shows to know that, for the evidence to be used in court, it
had to be bagged, labeled and protected at the scene. Officer Bowman made no such move.

“But officer. Maybe they’ll come back. Maybe they were just here to check the place out—to see how to get in. Think about it. Who’d break into a house just to have a cup of coffee and attack some pictures? Why would anyone want to do that? They must be planning something bigger—”

“Ma’am, calm down. Don’t try to figure out logical motives; these people don’t think like you and I. Take it from me; if I’ve learned one thing in my four years on the job, it’s never try to comprehend the criminal mind.” Officer Bowman closed his notepad, handing me a carbon copy of a form he’d filled out. “Take my advice. Go over your belongings, double-check, and figure out what’s been taken.”

“I told you. Nothing.”

“Ma’am. When there’s a break-in, most people are too upset to notice at first. Eventually, after they have some time to think about it, they find that a lot of their valuables have gone missing. Cameras. Televisions. Jewelry. Heirlooms.”

“Everything’s here—”

“And so, for insurance purposes, they amend their original police reports. You can do that, too. If you catch my drift.”

Oh. I finally did; he was telling me to lie so I could collect on my insurance policy. Officer Bowman stood to go. “Just come down to the precinct, anytime. Give them that form number and itemize what’s gone.” He headed down the hall, toward the front door.

“You’re leaving? You’re all done?” I followed him, not anxious to be left alone.

“I have all I need. If you think of anything else, you can always call.”

I trailed after him, asking questions, stalling to keep him there. “Well, what happens next?”

“I’ll file this. And keep your eyes open. You never know what can happen.”

I stood at the door, watching him leave, feeling abandoned by
a skinny guy with a bad complexion and an oversized, sagging uniform.

“Oh, there is one thing, ma’am.” Officer Bowman called to me from the street. “You better call a repairman and fix that window.” I shut the door and bolted it, hoping nobody else had heard.

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fro m room to room, calling Susan and Nick on their cell phones again and again, reaching nobody. I understood that Nick might be busy, but why wouldn’t susan pick up her cell phone? I called her home number and left a message there, too. I checked my voice mail, hoping to find a message, but heard only a dozen calls from friends and coworkers who’d seen my name in the paper and wanted to know how I was. Ileana, Davinder, Karen, Marla, Lanie. They were all concerned, each wanting to hear how I was, what had happened. But I couldn’t talk about it again, not yet. wasn’t ready to go over everything that had happened, answer questions, revisit each moment. I felt unable to connect with friends, isolated from the life I’d had just two days before. carrying my cell phone, waiting for it to ring, I went through the house, looking for things that weren’t there, hoping I’d notice something missing, some stolen item that would explain the break-in. But I couldn’t; everything I owned was there. The only things Nick kept at my house were clothes. Maybe something of his was gone. His sweatshirt from the Boston PD? I couldn’t find it. But maybe it was in his condo. Or the trunk of his car. Besides, who would break into a house, leave diamond earrings and steal a sweatshirt?

I tried to ignore it, but the answer taunted me, obvious and inescapable. Maybe the intruder hadn’t taken the diamonds because he hadn’t been a thief. Maybe he’d been a slave trafficker. After all, the priest had warned that the cartel would try to find out what Susan and I knew. Maybe they’d sent someone to question me, but
since I wasn’t home, they’d broken in and left a warning. Destroying Nick’s photographs was a threat, a way of telling me what they’d do if I talked to the police. Oh, God. what was I supposed to do?

Alone, distraught, I paced through the house, examining each room inch by inch, feeling invaded, defiled. My home had been contaminated, the intruder’s presence coating it like a dense and rancid stench. I couldn’t breathe without inhaling it. what had he touched? where had he stepped or sat? I ran around opening the windows, every single one, letting fresh air into the house, expelling that through which the intruder had moved.

I’d have to find a glazier to seal the pane, repair the damage. Meantime, I duct-taped the glass into place. Then I set about removing every trace of the stranger from my home, expunging the vile oils and grime of his touch. I went into Molly’s room and gathered up her scattered clothes, tossing them into the washer. I sponged her shelves with Lysol, then her headboard, bureau, nightstand. I stripped all the beds, changed the linens. while Molly’s clothes spun in the dryer, a load of towels and sheets sudsed in the washer. I went downstairs and wiped down the treasures on my living-room shelves, one at a time. I scrubbed upholstery, furniture, anything—from knickknacks to nightgowns— that the intruder might have contacted. I sprayed Lysol everywhere, wanting to fumigate the entire house, clean the very space through which the stranger had moved, sterilize everything touched, even by his gaze. I mopped the floors to erase his footsteps. I swabbed the kitchen cabinets, throwing out all opened food packages—saltines, Oreos, cheese doodles, even coffee beans. I stood at the kitchen sink scraping the windowsills with steel wool, aware of the view outside. was the intruder out there even now? was it someone from the neighborhood? were they watching? I looked out, saw a few passing cars, a couple of sweaty pedestrians. Not much traffic; there was even an open parking spot in front of Victor’s house. Victor, who never came outside. I checked his windows but didn’t see him there. Still, maybe Victor had been looking out earlier; maybe he’d seen the guy approaching my
house. I’d ask him. But not now. First, I had to scrub the window over the sink, and the countertops, and the cabinets. By the end of the day, I’d almost finished emptying and sterilizing the refrigerator. Pine Sol, Lysol, Comet, Scrubbing Bubbles—I used them all, a mixture of chemicals lethal enough to exterminate any trace, if not any memory, of the break-in and, possibly, of the day.