Red Rain: A Novel (28 page)

“To me too,” he said. He could feel himself getting hard, getting ready again. What the hell? He had time. He wasn’t on duty till six.

“What it meant was good-bye.” Sari was staring hard at him now.

“Huh?”

“I wanted to say good-bye, Andy.”

“But . . . we just said hello.”

She shook her head. A smile crossed her face. It seemed so out of place. “Andy, you’re sweet.”

“Sweet?”

“But you’re such a jerk.”

He blinked. He waited for her to continue.

“We had lunch, right? We sat across from each other? We talked. We ate. We even held hands for a few minutes?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So you didn’t see the ring on my finger? You’re supposed to be a cop, Andy. You’re supposed to see everything?”

She waved her left hand in his face. The ring sparkled in the sunlight from the window.

He felt the muscles tighten on the back of his neck.

“I married Rod, see.”

“What the fuck? You married the tennis hat guy? When?”

“Sunday. We got married last Sunday. So I wanted to tell you. You’ve been calling me and following me and trying to bring back the past and—”

“Only because I still have feelings for you.”

Stop sounding like a girl.

“That’s why I wanted to say good-bye.” She stood up and searched for her T-shirt on the floor. “I have nice memories, too, Andy. So now we had another nice memory and a nice good-bye.”

“Jesus, Sari.”

His phone beeped. It took him a moment to remember it was in his uniform pants draped over the bench at the foot of the bed. He heard Chaz’s voice: “Pavano? You there? Got an early call. Pavano?”

Andy lurched to the bottom of the bed and fumbled the phone from the pants pocket. “Chaz? What’s up?”

“Where are you? Got to roll.”

“Uh . . . Nowhere. I can meet you.”

Sari, straightening her T-shirt, squinted at him. “Nowhere?”

Pinto gave him an address on Madison Street.

He clicked the phone off and stuffed it back in the pocket. He scrambled out of bed and grabbed up his clothes. “Hey, Sari—it’s been real. Happy marriage. I enjoyed the honeymoon.”

“I
can’t do this, Chaz. I admit it. I don’t have the stomach for it.” Pavano hung in the doorway, unable to step into the small bedroom.

Pinto scowled at him. “Are you actually trembling? Pavano, how long were you a cop in the city?”

Pavano swallowed. His Adam’s apple rode up and down his throat. “You know I was Housing Authority. I never . . . I never saw anything like this. I . . . don’t think we should fucking be here.”

“We’re fucking here, aren’t we?”

“First the guy in the car. Now this. I’m having such a bad day. This isn’t working out for me.”

“It didn’t work out too good for this kid, either,” Pinto muttered. “Actually, you’re doing better than he is. That cheer you up?”

“You’re a riot,” Andy said, eyes on the window. Avoiding the corner by the bed. Avoiding it.

A few minutes ago, I was in bed with Sari. And now . . . a fucking horror show.

Pinto softened his tone. “Look, we got the call. We’ll do what we can do. You saw me radio Vince. The crime scene guys are on their way.”

“Chaz, there’s no one here. Who made the call?”

“A neighbor. Said she smelled something bad.”

“Yeah. Smells bad, okay. Maybe we should wait for the CS to get here.”

“Take a breath, Andy. You’re not a fucking rookie. Be a pro.”

“I . . . I never—” Pavano stopped himself. He forced himself not to look in the corner.

But what
was
that sick, sharp smell? It smelled like when Susannah burned a roast.

The bedroom was spotless. Not a thing out of place. A kid’s room without even a dirty sock on the floor. No sign of a weapon. A row of track lights across the ceiling sent bright circles of white halogen light over the room. Brighter than daylight. Cheerful.

Posters of New York Rangers hockey players on one wall. A movie poster hanging a little crooked over the desk. Pavano recognized Buzz and Woody.

His eyes moved too far and he glimpsed the dark lake of blood on the carpet. And were those chunks of . . . burnt skin?

“He’s burned up, Chaz. I mean, like someone took a torch to him. Like the guy in the car. It’s fucking sick.”

“You’re babbling. Just shut up.”

“But where are the parents? Where are the fucking parents? Why was he alone in the house?”

Pinto removed his cap, scratched his thinning flattop. Beads of sweat glistened on his broad forehead. His little bird eyes trained on Pavano. “Now you’re starting to think like a cop.”

Still eyeing Andy, Pinto slid the cap back on. Then he turned and took a few steps toward the corner.

“Saltzman. The mailbox said Saltzman, right? I think I met the kid’s mother. On the pier one night. She’s divorced. I remember she’s divorced. She said the kid was troubled.”

“He ain’t troubled now. Come over here. Take notes.”

“Wh-what are we looking for?”

“Are you stuttering now? Are you totally going to lose it?”

“I feel sick, Chaz. I mean really.”

“Suck it up, man. We’ve got to look for clues. For anything. Till the ME gets here.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

Pinto leaned over the perfectly smooth white bedspread. Nothing to see. “You going to toss your dinner? Do it downstairs. Don’t contaminate this room.”

“The room—it’s totally clean. It’s almost like it’s
sterile
or something. A kid’s room without a piece of paper out of place. No dirty clothes. No backpack hanging over a chair. Nothing. But there
had
to be a fire or something. Right? It smells like there was a fire.”

“Yeah. Smells like a barbecue.”

Chaz bumped open the closet door with his hip, careful not to leave fingerprints.

He sighed. “No sign of a murder weapon.”

“This is worse than the guy in the car. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Chaz whirled around. “Do you think I have?” His cigarette-hoarse voice went up two octaves. “It’s a fucking nightmare.”

Andy froze at the sound from the hall. Footsteps on the stairs.

“Vince radioed for CS backup,” Chaz said. “Has to be the ME. And he had to tell Franks. Franks will probably bring some state guys. Now we got some kind of fucking serial killer creep, right?”

The red-haired woman burst into the room, eyes wide with fright, a raincoat flying behind her. “What are you doing here? This is my house. What are you doing here?”

Andy recognized her from that night on the pier. This was the same Saltzman, the victim’s mother.

“Get her out!” Pinto waved to Andy with both hands. “Get out of here. Get her out!”

“I don’t understand,” the woman planted her feet and glared at Andy. “Why are you here? Where is my son? Where is Derek?”

“Get her out!” Pinto lurched toward Andy. “Out. Now. Out of here.”

Andy felt in slow motion. Like coming out of a nightmare. Pulling himself awake slowly.

He took the woman by the shoulders. Too late.

“I don’t understand!” Fear replacing anger. “I don’t understand. Tell me—”

“Get her out! Get her out!”

Andy couldn’t budge her. She saw. She saw the kid’s body.

“My Derek! Is that my Derek? I don’t understand. I don’t understand. Do you hear me? Talk to me. Please. I don’t understand.”

“Come with me.” Andy tried to turn her away. He held her shoulders and spoke softly. “Come with me. Please.”

“I don’t understand. I don’t understand.”

I’ve seen people go into shock before. But I’m not trained for this.

“Is that my son? Is that Derek?”

“Pavano—get her out of here. Don’t stand there. Get her
out
!”

“Is that my Derek? But where is his head? Where is his
head
?”

Pavano managed to wrap his arm around her shoulders. She was screaming now, shrieking and sobbing. It took all his strength to force her into the hall.

Two uniformed cops were on the stairwell. Pavano motioned them up. “Take care of her. Call a doctor. This is her house. It’s . . . her son.”

He passed the screaming woman on to them. The two cops struggled with her on the stairs. She stumbled and they had to block her to keep her from tumbling down the stairs.

His stomach churning, Pavano returned to Pinto. He found him bending over, hands on his knees. “Pinto? You okay?”

“Not really.”

“Huh? What?”

“Look under the bed, Andy. What’s that thing under the bed?”

Andy sucked in his breath. He squatted down and peered at the round, dark object half hidden in shadow near the wall under the bed. “What the fuck?”

Pinto straightened up. He sighed. “Andy, I think we just found the kid’s head.”

M
ark gripped Autumn around the waist of her white tennis shorts. He intended to lift her off his lap. But she took one of his hands and slid it between her legs. Then she lowered her face to his and began to kiss his neck. Slowly, she moved her lips to his cheek, then his mouth.

“No. Autumn.”

She giggled and nibbled his ear.

“Lea is right upstairs. She could come down—”

“But she won’t,” Autumn whispered. “She never stops working up there.”

She sat up straight, her white-blond hair falling over her eyes, holding his hand against the front of her shorts. “What is she writing?”

Mark glanced nervously to the office door. He could feel his erection pushing against his jeans. “I’m not even sure. A long piece. Something about death rituals. She used to share her work with me.”

“And now?” Brushing her hair against his cheek.

“She stays up there day and night. I’m really worried about her. I can’t even drag her away for meals. She’s . . . not right.”

“That’s why I’m here for you, Mark.” Whispered against his ear so that the skin tingled all down his body.

“No. Autumn—please.” He worked his hand free and gripped her waist again. “Get up. Come on. Really. I’m serious.”

She made a pouty face, her round blue eyes wide, mouth all satirical. “Don’t you like me anymore?”

“We can’t do this.” Another glance to the door. Did he hear footsteps or just the house creaking? “Roz is home, too. And the boys are out back.”

She nuzzled his neck. Her lips were hot and dry. “Doesn’t that make it more exciting for you?”

“No. It just makes it more wrong.”

“Wrong?” Her smile faded. “You don’t really think it’s wrong, do you?”

Is she delusional?

“Yes. Wrong. I mean, look. I have too much to deal with now. I’m so worried about Lea and stressed about the kids and . . . We can’t do this. We—”

The front doorbell chimed.

Autumn scrambled to her feet. She frowned at him as she smoothed her short hair with both hands. Then she tugged down the legs of her shorts. “Wrong?”

“Of
course
it’s wrong.”

What’s that song? “How Can It Be Wrong If It Feels So Right?”

“Mark. It’s those two policemen again.” Roz’s shout from the front entryway. “Shall I send them back to your office?”

Mark stood up and straightened his blue polo shirt over his jeans. He squinted at Autumn. “What the fuck?”

She began straightening the stack of files on the desk. “Guess I’ll go home. Say you’ll miss me.”

Mark didn’t answer. He was trying to figure out why the police had returned. He heard their clomping footsteps, heard their voices as they made small talk with Roz.

Autumn slid out with her pouty face on. She glanced back as the two cops entered, then vanished down the hall.

Mark had a sudden fright.
Do I have lipstick on my face?

Then he remembered Autumn wore only a clear lip gloss.

The two officers entered and apologized for disturbing him.
They sat down in their usual places on the couch. The one named Pavano looked tired, weary, as if he hadn’t been getting much sleep. His partner didn’t waste time getting to the point.

“Mr. Sutter, I’m sure you’re aware that one of the students in your sons’ class was murdered last Wednesday.”

Mark nodded. “Yes. It’s so horrible. So shocking. I spoke with our three boys—Ira and the twins—and tried to see if they needed counseling.”

“Well, Officer Pavano and I think—”

“My wife and I—we know the Saltzmans. I mean, we knew them before the divorce. My wife was in a reading group with Elaine Saltzman. She . . . she must be beyond devastated.”

The two cops nodded. Pavano tapped something into his phone.

“My son Ira wasn’t friends with Derek. But they knew each other since fourth grade, I think. Ira is very sensitive. I think he had a nightmare last night. You know. About Derek.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Pavano said, glancing up from his phone. “They brought in grief counselors to the school.”

Mark cleared his throat. “Yes. That’s smart. I’m trying to work with Ira on my own.”

“We went to the school yesterday,” the big cop, Pinto, continued, keeping his small eyes steady on Mark, as if studying every reaction.

They couldn’t think I had anything to do with the kid’s murder. Why are they here?

“We spoke to Mrs. Maloney and to the teacher. What’s her name?”

“Montgomery,” his partner offered.

“You know. We’re trying to cover every angle. Grasping at straws, really.”

He and Mark stared at each other. Mark waited for him to continue. He could smell Autumn’s lemony perfume. Was it on his cheek?

“We asked the principal to go over everything that happened on Wednesday,” Pinto said. “We just asked if anything concerning the deceased stuck out in her mind that day. Anything at all.”

“What were you looking for exactly?” Mark asked. He leaned forward and crossed his arms over the desk.

“We didn’t know,” Pinto said. “Just trying to get an idea of the boy’s day.”

“I don’t understand,” Mark said. “You talked to the principal. So . . . why did you come here?”

“Well . . .” Pinto removed his cap and tossed it onto the arm of the couch. “The principal remembered that Derek Saltzman had a fight with your boys that morning.”