The Blue Journal (4 page)

Randi deleted that one too.

“Hello Randi, it's Bob,” the next message began. “Look, I'm having dinner at the club Friday night with some of the usual suspects. Linda may or may not make it, she's got one of her charity things, off to save the whales or something. Either way, I'd love to have you join us. Give me a shout.”

After saving that one, an electronic voice told her the messages were finished. She sighed, then returned to sorting through her mail when the chime at her front door rang. She was not expecting anyone, but surprises were part of her profession. She made her way back through the foyer and, when she opened the door, she found Kyle Avery's mother standing on the small wooden portico.

“Joan.”

“I'm so sorry to bother you. After we spoke on the phone I went to the police station, but he'd already been taken away. To a hospital,” she added with pained look. “Then they told me they need to get a statement from us about what happened tonight.”

“I understand. They have to speak with you because he's a minor,” Randi explained. “Come in, please,” she said, then shut the door behind them.

Joan said, “Yes, that's what the police chief told us.”

“Did they ask for the statement there?”

“No, Mitchell's on his way back from New York and I didn't want to do anything without him. They said they would come to our home.” Her distress was mixed with confusion. “What can we possibly tell them?”

“They're only going to ask for some very basic information. It'll be fine. When are they coming?”

“Right now,” she said. “I'm so sorry to impose, but I would feel so much better if . . .”

“It's all right, Joan. I'll follow you. Let me just get my bag.”

In the dark, as they climbed into their cars and headed off to the Averys', neither of them noticed the car that remained parked across the street from Randi Conway's house. Or who was seated at the wheel.

CHAPTER 4

Walker parked his Explorer in the circular driveway at the address Gill had given him, walked to the double doors and rang the bell.

A few moments later, he was greeted by a man who looked to be in his early fifties, about a dozen years older and a couple of inches taller than Walker. He had a spreading middle, broad shoulders, and a balding head. He was wearing neatly creased slacks, a crisply pressed shirt, and an embarrassed look.

Walker was dressed in the wrinkled trousers and shirt he had been wearing all day, having tossed off his sweats and pulled his clothes back on after the chief's call. He suddenly felt he should have done a better job of dressing for this visit.

“Mr. Avery? I'm Detective Anthony Walker from the Darien Police. I hope my timing is all right, coming over here like this.”

Avery stuck out his hand and forced a smile. “It's Mitchell,” he said. “Chief Gill told us you were on the way. Just got back from New York myself.”

Walker looked directly into the man's eyes as they shook hands. He generally gave himself high marks for the ability to judge people quickly, but he figured Kyle's father was going to be a tough read. Just a couple of hours ago Mitchell Avery was told that his son had spent the early part of the evening peering over the edge of a four-story roof. Then he was informed the boy would have to be held for psychiatric evaluation in a high-security hospital ward. Now a police detective arrived at his home for questioning, all of which might throw the average guy off his game. But, other than that first uncomfortable grin, Mitchell Avery acted as if an old crony had dropped by for cocktails.

“Come on in,” Kyle's father said, leading them into a two-story-high foyer, which Walker judged to be about the size of his entire apartment. It was adorned with textured wallpaper, had a granite tiled floor, and featured an impressive crystal chandelier.

“Nice place,” Walker said. He was not a jealous sort, at least not when it came to possessions. All the same, since coming to Connecticut he had wondered more than once what it would be like to exist in this sort of world, feeling that you really belonged, that you really deserved to be here.

He reckoned he would never know.

“This way,” Avery urged him, “the ladies are inside.”

They passed through an arched entrance into a spacious living room where Avery said, “This is my wife, Joan. Joan, Detective Walker. And this is Randi Conway. My wife asked Randi to be here. She's our, uh . . .”

“Doctor Conway and I have had the pleasure,” Walker told him.

The two women were seated on the other side of the room, and Walker took the dozen or so paces he needed to navigate the expanse of a very large Oriental carpet to get there. As he approached them, he noticed that Randi had removed her dark jacket to reveal a cream-colored blouse. He also noticed, in the soft light, that she looked even better than she had before.

“Didn't expect to see you again so soon, Doctor,” he said.

“No,” she replied, “likewise I'm sure.”

Joan Avery was seated beside the therapist on a long, ivory-colored sofa. She was a smart-looking woman, smartly dressed, with smart eyes that were green and warm and sad. She looked somewhere between distraught and exhausted.

Walker liked her.

“I really hate to bother you folks like this,” he told them. Joan Avery stood up and they shook hands. “This is one of those routine things we have to do.”

“We understand,” Joan said politely, although her turned-down mouth told him she really did not understand at all.

Randi Conway, who remained seated on the couch, said, “Perhaps you could explain to the Averys exactly what this routine thing is you have to do?”

“Well, in the case of, uh, a case like this, we have to get a statement from the parents.” He turned back to Joan. “Your son is under age, and he's, uh, well, the subject of, uh . . .”

“All right,” Mitchell intervened. “Let's get on with it then. Sit down, Detective.” When he pointed to a plush armchair, Walker sank into it, grateful to be rescued.

“Can I get you something?” Joan Avery asked. “Coffee?”

Walker smiled. “No thanks, I'm fine. Funny though, how people think policemen want coffee all the time.”

“That is funny,” Randi Conway said with a knowing smile, “especially in your case.”

Walker turned back to Mrs. Avery, who had resumed her seat beside her therapist. “Look, about the beer . . .”

“Detective Walker,” Joan interrupted wearily, “Doctor Conway told us what you did. I'd prefer to think that Kyle was confused and never really intended to . . . to . . . do himself any harm. Whatever part you had in putting an end to the incident, I just want you to know that we're very grateful.”

“Glad we got that out of the way,” Mitchell jumped in. “So how about it, Walker? Beer? Gin and tonic?”

“No sir, but thanks. On duty, you see.” Walker turned back to Joan Avery. At the moment she seemed to be the only one there concerned about Kyle. “For what it's worth, ma'am, I don't believe your son was the kind of kid who really wanted to hurt himself.”

“Tell you the truth,” Kyle Avery's father said, “I'd like to know exactly what kind of kid he is.”

“Please, Mitchell,” his wife intoned in a way that provided Walker some additional insight into the Avery family dynamic.

“You know, Mr. Avery,” Walker jumped in, “I've dealt with a lot of kids over the years. Good kids, confused kids, some real punks too. Everything from serious crimes, when I was with the NYPD, to suburban pranks here in town. In fact, I just realized, wasn't your son one of the boys who tore up part of the golf course with a Ski-Doo last winter?”

“That was him, all right,” Mitchell sighed.

“I didn't put that together till just now,” Walker admitted.

Randi tilted her head slightly, as if about to say something, but remained silent.

Walker stayed focused on Kyle's father. “Hell, kids do that kinda stuff all the time. It's not right, of course, but it happens. Point I'm trying to make is that a kid who actually wants to, uh, who really wants to hurt himself, believe me—and this may sound harsh—but they know how to do it. Kyle has some concerns, that's why he was on the bank roof.”

Walker saw Mitchell wince at that statement. “What concerns?” the man asked.

Walker decided not to push the issue. He said, “I think your son just needed a little attention, is all.”

“Thank you for your psychological evaluation,” Randi Conway interjected. “Are you giving a statement here or taking one?”

“Right.” Walker turned to Joan Avery. “I had a chance to speak with your son for a while. Up there on the roof and afterward.”

Joan responded with a curious look.

“Obviously Kyle has issues, I understand that, but there was one thing in particular seemed to be gnawing at him. You have any idea what that might be?”

Joan shook her head and began to say something, but her husband broke in.

“Do you?” Mitchell asked Walker, the question sounding more like an accusation than an inquiry. When Walker met his gaze the man did not blink. “Did he say something?”

“Not much in the way of detail, but whatever's eating at him, he certainly believes it's a big problem.”

The look on Avery's face was more relief than concern. He said, “Too bad he didn't tell you more,” then leaned back in his chair. “So, what else do you need to do here?”

“Just a few questions and I'll be out of your way.”

Walker completed the remainder of his
pro forma
interview as quickly as he could, pulling out a notebook and making a show of jotting down a few things. Then he stood, assured the Averys everything would be just fine, and said good night. Mitchell escorted him to the door, where he shook his hand energetically and thanked Walker as if he'd just delivered some extraordinarily good news. It was obvious, of the two of them, Avery was even more relieved the interview was over than Walker.

Walker strode down the driveway, then decided to wait.

A couple of minutes later he watched as Randi Conway bid the Averys good-bye at the front door. After Mitchell and Joan went inside, Randi turned and saw Walker leaning on her car.

He said, “You're pretty tough, you know that?” Randi began walking toward him, so Walker straightened up. She was taller than he was, so he figured there was no reason to make it worse. Before she could speak, he added, “I was just doing my job in there. I was also trying to help.”

“Help? These people are in distress. When you mentioned the golf course vandalism, was that your idea of being helpful?”

“A little perspective can be a good thing. Kids do crazy things for all different reasons. Haven't you ever done anything crazy?” Before she could respond, he said, “No, of course you haven't.”

They stared at each other for a moment. “Was there something else?” she asked. “I've had a very long day.”

“I don't know. I just wanted to say it's been interesting meeting you.”

Randi tilted her head slightly to the side. “Interesting? I wonder what that's supposed to mean.”

“You're the psychologist,” he said with a grin, “you figure it out.” Walker turned toward his SUV, then stopped and looked back at her. “You know,” he said, still smiling, “you're kind of edgy, even for a shrink.”

Randi Conway stood there without responding as he climbed into his Explorer and drove away.

CHAPTER 5

The following morning the Knoebels' maid, Nettie Sisson, arrived at their home, made her way up the winding staircase, then quietly approached the door to the master bedroom. It was closed. She listened, heard nothing, then knocked and, getting no answer, turned the knob and pushed it open.

She stood there, stock-still, and viewed the scene.

Elizabeth was lying in the comfort of the soft sheets, the goose down duvet thrown back exposing her naked form, her long, well-formed legs parted slightly. Even from the doorway, in the dim light that peered through the curtains, it was apparent that Elizabeth's skin, always silky and smooth, had turned gray.

Elizabeth's arms lay peacefully at her sides, as if she were resting. The only evidence of her violent end was the blood that stained the pillows and headboard and her once beautiful face.

Nettie did not scream. There was no one to hear it. She drew a deep breath to steady herself, then went down to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed 911.