One of Us (21 page)

Billy notices me first and he blushes all the way to the tips of his big ears. He gets even pinker than Heather.

“Hi, sweetheart,” I gush from across the room.

I walk over and plant a big kiss on his lips.

“I missed you.”

His blush darkens to the color of a plum and I swear I can feel heat coming from his skin. I hope he doesn’t burst into flames.

“You must be Heather’s grandfather,” I say to the other man at the desk.

“Yep.”

I extend my hand.

“I’m Scarlet Dawes.”

He takes it but he doesn’t stand up. He doesn’t have Danny’s manners.

“Rafe Malloy,” he says.

“What can I do for you boys?”

He gestures to another metal chair sitting next to the one where Billy sits. He really doesn’t have any manners.

“Have a seat,” he says.

I debate leaving. I only came because I thought it might be fun to mess with the local po-po, but I expected to be treated well.

I shed my coat and hang it over the back of my chair, letting it drag on the dirty floor. Nothing says
I’m better than you
than mistreating an object that’s worth a year of your pay, Rafe Malloy.

He reaches into a bowl filled with hard candy and extracts a pink piece.

“Care for one?” he asks.

“No, thank you.”

“Why did you come back here?”

The abruptness and irrelevance of his question catches me off guard but I recover quickly. It takes much more than a bumpkin cop to rattle me.

“To visit my family.”

He unwraps the candy and puts it into his mouth, where he clicks it noisily against his teeth.

“I thought you didn’t get along with your family.”

“How would you know anything about that?”

He leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head, and studies me. I’m sure he expects me to get nervous and agitated. He has an effective gaze, the kind that would break most people’s resolve and get them to say just about anything in order to get him out of their heads. It won’t work with me, though. No one’s ever been able to stare me down.

“You missed your daddy? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I have a good relationship with my father.”

“Walker Dawes doesn’t care about anyone but Walker Dawes.”

“I suppose you know him well enough to make that determination?”

He shrugs.

“Rich people.”

“You don’t like rich people, do you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Do you know a lot of them?”

“Don’t have to.”

“But you’d like to be one.”

“Not particularly. How about you? Do you like rich people?”

I reach for a piece of candy. I take a green one then put it back and take a pink one, too. I slowly unwrap it. I get the feeling this is pissing him off.

“So I hear you and Officer Smalls had quite a night last night.”

“We did.”

“Ending at his apartment?”

I put the candy in my mouth and suck.

“Yes.”

“Where you decided to steal his gun?”

“Steal his gun? Why would I do that?”

“His gun is missing and you’re the last person seen holding it.”

“I was holding a lot of things last night.”

I glance at Billy, who grows even redder. I notice Troy not far away at another desk trying to look busy while straining to hear every word we’re saying. The same can be said for everyone else in the station.

“I’ll tell you what,” I say. “I didn’t take it, but I’ll buy him a new one.”

“Guy in Charge!” a high-pitched voice calls out.

Everyone turns their attention away from me and toward an emaciated Goth cherub wearing bedazzled granny glasses and an Hermès foulard scarf rushing toward Rafe. I can’t imagine where he’s come from.

“Guy in Charge! I’m so glad we found you. Wade has been frantic with worry over you.”

A terrier in a bluish-green fur jacket and matching boots and tam comes rushing out of nowhere. He slides to a stop directly in front of Rafe and begins hopping straight up and down on three-inch-high legs that appear to be spring-loaded.

“He says you’re in grave danger,” the cherub adds.

“For Chrissakes,” Rafe growls.

The dog sits back on his tiny haunches and lets loose with an ear-splitting howl.

“Get that animal out of here!” Rafe shouts.

“Don’t call him an animal. You’ll hurt his feelings. He’s only trying to help.”

The little dog leaps onto Rafe’s lap then up onto his desk, where he sits frozen in a begging position with his eyes closed.

“What’s he doing?” I ask.

“He’s in a trance,” the cherub answers.

“Is this the great psychic?”

The dog returns to all fours and begins barking at Rafe in a strange staccato that almost sounds like a form of speech.

“Do you speak dog?” I ask him.

“Shut up,” Rafe tells Wade.

The dog keeps barking.

“I said, shut up!” he yells and slams his open palm down on the desktop.

Wade does what he’s told. He walks around in a circle then lies down facing me with his muzzle between his front paws and stares.

I get up from the chair. I’ve had enough. This isn’t fun or even mildly amusing.

I take a big handful of candy and dump it in my purse.

“I’m going. Feel free to search my purse or my father’s house or my rental car. You’re not going to find Officer Smalls’ gun.”

Rafe gets up from his chair, too. I expect him to try and stop me or maybe offer an apology, but he says, “Hold on. I’ll walk you to your car.”

Our journey is a silent one except for his clacking and crunching. I think it’s over but he pulls another piece of candy out of his coat pocket, a horrible camouflage thing with a hood.

“Your granddaughter’s sweet,” I say. “I’ve really enjoyed spending time with her. I’ve been considering hiring a personal assistant. Maybe I should offer her the job. She could come live with me in Paris. What do you think?”

“The farthest she’s ever been is Monroeville Mall to do some Christmas shopping. She won’t even go to Pittsburgh. But if she wants to go, why not?”

He’s bluffing. My suggestion has to terrify him. He’s underestimating me. He doesn’t think I can convince her.

We end at my car. He shoves his hands into his pockets and starts rocking back and forth on his heels while squinting into the spitting snow like he can see the future.

“Seems like you made a big impression on Danny,” he says without looking at me.

“I did?”

“He told me he met you at your father’s place. Then he called me after your lunch today while you were on your way over here and we talked about you some more.”

“What did he say about me?”

“He said you’re fascinating.”

“Fascinating?”

“Yeah, well. You know how it is. He’s a shrink. He loves it when he meets a crazy person.”

I step up beside him and lean in very close until my lips are almost touching his ear.

“Can I give you some advice? You’re out of your league.”

“Can I give you some advice?” he says, still staring at the sky. “You’re wrong about that.”

We hear a skittering sound behind us and both turn.

Wade comes tearing across the parking lot and stops beside Rafe.

I reach down to pet him and he snaps at me, his needlelike teeth barely missing my fingers.

I’m not upset. I understand his jealousy.

“Really, Wade?” I say as I pull the collar of my mink up around my neck. “Teal faux fur? So last season.”

twenty-one

DANNY

T
HE WISHBONE KILLER WAS
a psychopath. He wasn’t a rich, beautiful one like Scarlet Dawes. He worked odd jobs and had long, greasy hair and an unkempt beard that led to the prison guards describing him as Jesus on a bender.

He didn’t have Scarlet’s sophistication either, or her intellect, but he was much more personable. It was impossible to have a conversation with him and not be entertained by his self-deprecating stories and attracted to his affability. Each time I interviewed him, I could easily understand how he was able to convince a certain kind of woman that he was someone she wanted to keep around, who would make her laugh and who would care for her emotionally and spiritually while she paid the bills until that fateful surprise turkey dinner he inevitably made for her that ended with their pinkies tugging at the wishbone to see who would come away with the bigger piece.

Twelve of them lost.

Friendliness was his affect, his particular con to manipulate and use others to get what he wanted. Scarlet’s is simply her presence. She doesn’t have to do anything. She knows only too well the appeal of wealth and physical beauty. Most people are as helpless in the face of it as the proverbial deer in the headlights, a constant source of crushed fenders and smashed windshields in these parts.

Rafe is convinced Scarlet killed Marcella Greger, and so am I. He’s
also begun to seriously wonder if she murdered her nanny and a high school classmate, too. I have no doubts about this either. He has no evidence placing Scarlet at Marcella’s house or a motive or even a case at this point since the state police have taken over, but I know he won’t be dissuaded.

I agreed to have lunch with her as part of my own investigation. I wanted to see if my suspicions were correct. I knew they were based on very little. I wasn’t able to get a confession out of her and I didn’t think I would, but after a meal at Chappy’s combined with the information I’ve been able to gather, I know what she is.

Rafe wouldn’t give me any details about what went on between Scarlet and Billy Smalls, but he did tell me his granddaughter Heather was involved, too, along with Troy Razzano.

I’ve decided after my earlier date with Scarlet that I deserve a drink. I’ve chosen the Barclay Holiday Inn’s atrium poolside bar and grill. If I happen to run into Heather, who just happens to be a waitress here, maybe I’ll ask her a few questions.

I’m leaving in two days to attend Carson’s execution. I told Tommy I can come back again soon to help with Mom, but he insists he wants me to return to my job and get on with my life. He also pointed out that he won’t be around that much longer and soon enough Mom will become my sole responsibility. It was one of our more depressing conversations.

I take a seat at the bar and find out that Heather called in sick tonight. I have a feeling Rafe is behind her sudden illness. If she’s crossed Scarlet’s path, it’s probably a good idea to keep her under lock and key.

I think about going back to Tommy’s house, but the sensory overload of the blaring music, six competing TV screens, and the overpowering scent of chlorine mixed with burnt nacho cheese has already lulled me into a dollar-draft-night stupor. I order a beer from the kid behind the bar. He looks to be about Troy’s and Billy’s age. Unshaven with a thick crop of messy hair and a pierced lower lip, he’s listening to his iPod and nods.

I gesture at him to take out his ear buds.

“How can you hear anything?”

“Can’t. I read lips.”

“You must be good at it.”

“People only order like five different things here.”

“Junior,” he thinks to add, pointing at himself.

“Me Danny,” I say.

He smiles suddenly and waves at someone behind me.

“Anything happen at the gallows last night?” he calls out.

I turn my head and see Bambi and Z Mac walking to a table. Z Mac’s dressed like a normal human being tonight and I wouldn’t have noticed him at all in Philly, but since he’s the only African American within a hundred miles of here, he sticks out.

Bambi’s in the same leather catsuit she was wearing the other day at the police station and I can’t help wondering if it’s actually her skin.

“You gotta wait and watch the show, man,” Z Mac calls back.

“I wonder if Wade’s coming,” I comment.

“I doubt it,” the bartender says. “He was in here last night and kind of embarrassed himself. That guy was crazy. I had to cut him off.”

“You served alcohol to a fox terrier?”

He shakes his head.

“Virgin piña coladas. Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t mind if he came back. He’s a big tipper.”

A woman sitting a few bar stools away gives me a smile. I nod back. She takes it to be an erotic invitation and pushes a tangle of limp, margarine-colored hair out of her eyes, licks her lips, and turns toward me, strategically positioning her cleavage for fullest exposure. One of her breasts is marked by a dull red blotch that could easily be a scar where an ex-husband stubbed out a cigarette during a heated argument, but I have a feeling twenty years ago it was a rose tattoo.

The next step in the courtship is her attempt at conversation.

I’m drinking my beer as quickly as possible, but it’s not fast enough. She gets up from her stool and heads toward me.

“Hey, baby.”

I smell lilac and cinnamon behind me.

Brenna slides her arm around my shoulders and glares at the woman at the other end of the bar.

“Back off, sistah. He’s mine.”

“Thank you,” I tell her as she takes a seat beside me and the other woman picks up her drink and heads for greener pastures.

“No pro-blay-mo.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Frackers,” she says.

“Frackers?”

“Didn’t you see all the trucks outside? They’re staying here while there’s work in the area. I had a date with one. He turned out to be a total jag-off.”

She reaches for a bowl of pretzels. Junior brings her a beer. I signal for a refill.

“So you’re pro-fracking?” I ask her. “At the very least it’s providing you with a new pool of potential sex partners.”

She ignores my gibe.

“Oh, yeah, I’m thrilled. Can’t wait to get fire out of my kitchen tap.”

She takes a few gulps from her beer.

“First they rip up the land for coal. Now they’re going to poison everything sucking up the gas.”

“We have to get energy from somewhere,” I say, goading her on.

“The wind and the sun can provide energy, but nobody takes that seriously. You know why? No one can make money off them. No one can own the sky.”

“You’re sounding rather subversive tonight.” I try joking some more. “Where’s that capitalist spirit? What happened to a job’s a job?”

“Sometimes I just want to grab my guns and my pots and pans and my books and throw them in the back of my truck and drive the hell away from here and live in the middle of nowhere and never have to see anyone ever again. People are fucked.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Do you know how big my family is? I have nine brothers and sisters. All of them married multiple times with tons of kids who have kids, too. When I haven’t been living in the midst of them, I’ve been liv
ing with a bunch of soldiers. I know I could never stand a life of isolation for long, but it’s fun to think about.”

“What’s that like?” I ask her. “Having a big family?”

“They can drive you crazy, that’s for sure. But I can’t imagine what it would be like without all of them.”

She looks like she’s going to say more, then she catches herself.

“I’m sorry. I forgot about your sister and your mom . . .”

“It’s okay.”

“You don’t have much of a family.”

“No.”

“But you have Tommy,” she points out, encouragingly. “And your dad.”

“My dad and I never got along very well.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

“Me too.”

We fall into a comfortable silence while we drink our beers until I notice Scarlet walking into the bar. At first I don’t believe it. My shock must show on my face because Brenna asks, “What’s wrong?”

Before I can begin to formulate an answer to that question regarding this particular person, Scarlet spots me and slinks over.

She smiles, but just like the ones she gave me earlier today, there’s no warmth or joy in it. She’s forced her lips into an expression the situation requires and nothing more. Happiness is the most difficult emotion to playact I’ve learned from my years of studying human performances under the most desperate circumstances. Everyone has experienced negative feelings such as grief, anger, jealousy, and fear, and therefore has a well of knowledge from which to draw if they find it necessary to put on a show; however, the same can’t always be said for the positive. The type of person who has to fake happiness is usually the type who can’t feel it.

“Danny,” she says. “I thought you would’ve been done in by all that gravy, but here you are out whooping it up with some of the local talent. Who’s your friend?”

I feel Brenna stiffen beside me and her face becomes the impregnable mask of soldiering.

“This is Brenna Kelly. Brenna, this is Scarlet Dawes.”

“We met once a long time ago,” Brenna says. “You wouldn’t remember.”

“Try me.”

“The elementary school after the explosion in number six. You were there with your nanny. I was there with my sister. She lost her husband. They’d only been married for two months.”

“Are you the little girl Anna tried to get me to talk to near the swings?”

“You did talk to me. You told me I had ugly hair,” Brenna answers without a trace of emotion in her voice.

“I remember. You did have ugly hair. It’s not much better now.”

I’m not sure exactly what’s taking place between the two of them, but I sense it’s much more serious than a hair critique, or maybe hair critiques are much more serious than anything I previously imagined.

Scarlet’s eyes widen, and if I didn’t know better I’d think she was going to give Brenna a hug.

“Your sister was the girl with the red shoes,” she says almost gleefully.

“Moira.”

“Why does that name sound familiar? Don’t tell me that cow behind the convenience store counter used to be that skinny little blond disco queen?”

Brenna doesn’t flinch, demonstrating the exquisite self-control required by her former profession, but I feel the anger coming off her in waves.

Scarlet is obviously getting some personal satisfaction from all this. She leans forward as if about to take Brenna into her confidence.

“Does she still have those shoes?”

Brenna doesn’t respond.

“Please tell me she still has those shoes.”

Brenna gets up quickly, almost knocking over her stool, and pulls some crumpled bills from her purse, tossing them onto the bar.

“I gotta go.”

“Wait, Brenna.”

Scarlet smiles at me again.

“Did I just ruin your evening? She’s not going to believe you if you tell her we’re just friends. No one ever does.”

“I don’t know what just went on here between the two of you, but you obviously upset her and I think it was intentional.”

“I’m innocent as a lamb,” she says. “Have a drink with me?”

“No.”

I hurry outside to see if I can catch Brenna in the parking lot.

A freezing wind has kicked up since I went inside. The snow clouds above are the same shade of white as the snow on the ground. It’s not exactly dark and not exactly light and difficult to tell where earth and sky and day and night begin and end.

I find her about to get into her truck.

“How can you have anything to do with that . . . that . . . that thing?” she stutters at me in her rage. “Are you sleeping with her?”

“What? I barely know her.”

“She seemed to know you pretty well.”

“I just met her the other day.”

She begins pacing back and forth rather than get in her truck and leave.

“What was she talking about?” I ask her.

She continues pacing. I don’t think she’s going to answer me and I know better than to ask again. I think she might belt me.

“Moira’s husband,” she blurts out. “They were only married two months. He died in the explosion. She, she . . .” Her voice begins to quaver. “She went there to identify him. She wore this dress and shoes he bought her on their honeymoon.”

She stops and draws in a sharp breath. She begins pacing again. Tears glisten on her cheeks among the melting snowflakes.

“It was out of respect. I suppose she looked ridiculous. Who cares?”

She’s openly crying now.

“She loved him so much. She was so happy. She wanted to have a bunch of babies. Instead . . . instead . . .”

She doesn’t have to say more. I think of the Moira I know, unmarried, childless, and not exactly the happiest person I’ve ever come across.

Brenna regains her composure with a swipe of her coat sleeve across her face.

“She never got over it,” she finishes.

THE SNOW IS COMING
down hard by the time I get back to Tommy’s house. His truck is gone. He could easily end up stranded somewhere tonight or be in an accident. I curse again the fact that he refuses to get a cell phone. He’s impossible to track down.