The Edge of Normal (21 page)

Reeve sits watching while Ewing pours two large mugs of coffee.

“Sugar? Cream?”

“Yes, please.”

Handing her a mug on a saucer, Ewing says, “It’s just shocking to think that, if I hadn’t got that listing, that poor girl might never have been found! I mean, I can’t really take credit or anything, but it was some kind of lucky fluke, because it wasn’t all that obvious that the house even had a basement.”

Reeve mutely accepts the coffee, takes a polite sip, and tries not to wince at the taste. She stirs in more sugar and wonders if coming here was a mistake.

Ewing sits across from her and continues talking. “The furnace and the water heater were in the garage. So it wasn’t like you’d say, ‘Hey, something’s wrong with this picture,’ you know?”

Hit with her own private vision of concrete walls and a heavy door, Reeve sets the coffee aside. “You mean, the furnace and water heater are usually located in the basement?”

“Heavens, no! There usually is no basement at all! None! I mean, it’s common that the furnace and water heater are in the garage. But if they aren’t in the garage, then you wonder, well gee, where the heck could they be! You see?”

Reeve frowns. “You’re saying that basements are rare?”

“In this area, pretty much. I’ll bet I’ve only listed a dozen houses with basements in the past decade.”

“I see.”

“And Vanderholt had it all walled up! Isn’t that weird? Like some kind of horror movie, you know what I mean? Anyway, do you want to know how I figured it out?”

Reeve nods.

“It was a no-brainer, really. It was in the listing!”

“I’m confused. Didn’t you just say that you listed the house?”

“Oh, that!” Ewing slaps her knee and pops out of her chair. “It sounds confusing, I guess, but it’s not.”

Reeve thinks the woman has already drunk way too much coffee.

“See, when I list the house for sale, I consult the MLS—the Multiple Listing Service—which has a full description of the house. How many square feet, what kind of roof, how many bathrooms, all those details.
And,
of course, whether there’s a garage or shed or basement. You see?” She leans forward, her eyes shining.

“You mean, you have to research all that before putting the house up for sale?”

“Oh, no, no, no. All the specs are compiled and put on file when the house is built. It’s all recorded based on the blueprint and permits and such. You know, from the builder. The data is maintained by the county. The tax assessor needs to keep those property taxes coming in, you know.” Ewing rolls her eyes. “Anyway, all that info is compiled, and then it just filters right into the MLS.”

“Oh.” Reeve sits back, thinking. “Well, if it’s not too much trouble, could I see a copy of the listing for the house on Redrock, where Tilly was held?”

“Well, sure. Absolutely. I mean, it’s not a big secret or anything.” Emily Ewing sits at a computer terminal and pulls another office chair up beside her, saying, “Come take a look.”

Ewing’s fingers skip across the keyboard while Reeve watches the screen. A form appears with a brief description of the house. Emily Ewing scrolls down and then points to the word “basement” with a checked box next to it. “See?”

“That’s it?”

“Yep. So, when I was writing up the ad, I called the owner and said, ‘What’s up with this? Where’s the basement?’ Because it wasn’t obvious at all, you know, with no windows or anything to indicate there’s another level to that structure. But it has that extra square footage, you know, so it’s important.”

“Okay. So the owner of the house confirmed there was a basement, and then—”

“Then I called in the home inspector, who told me that one whole freshly painted wall—the most horrible color, too—was actually newer construction than the rest of the house,” Ewing says, waving her hands and talking fast. “Weird! So, we consulted the owner again and got his permission, and we had that wall knocked down and—dang!—there was the basement door. So I called the police!”

Reeve sits back. “So, all the houses in the county with basements are traceable?”

“Sure.” Emily Ewing checks her watch. “Oh, lord! I’ve got to get going. My dog’s at the vet, and if I don’t pick her up in thirty minutes, they’ll charge me extra. She’s a pug. The cutest little thing ever, but you know dogs. You have dogs? You love ’em like your own children, but—”

“Just one more thing,” Reeve interrupts. “What about the other house, the one way out of town that Vanderholt moved to, where he was arrested. Do you know anything about it?”

“Yep, that one’s up for sale now, too.”

“That was quick.”

“Warp speed! But it’s not my listing, thank heavens, ’cause it’ll never get sold.”

“How come?”

“Are you kidding? In this market? After such bad publicity? Ugh!”

“Would you have access to that listing, too?”

“Well, sure. Do you want a copy?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

Ewing turns back to her computer, clicks to another screen, scrolls for a moment, then makes a growling sound. “Grrr, my crappy machine is frozen.” She clicks madly but nothing happens. “This damned old thing. I’ve been meaning to upgrade, but…” She checks her watch again. “I’m sorry, I really need to get going, but if you’ll give me your e-mail address, I’ll be happy to send it to you.”

Reeve scribbles her e-mail address on a notepad while Emily Ewing slips into her coat, clicks off the coffee machine, and snatches up her purse.

As they head toward the door, Ewing hands her a business card, trilling, “Here’s my card, because you never know when you might need a Realtor!”

FORTY

When Reeve returns to her Jeep, Duke turns the key in his ignition and follows at a leisurely pace. He’s had no trouble keeping her in sight, thanks to the GPS locator, a good-quality, Raytheon-made device that emits a strong signal.

He wonders what the hell she’s up to. He followed her to the first house where Tilly was held, where she apparently broke in. He felt sure there was nothing for her to see, but still … What took her so long?

Next, unfortunately, she’d made a visit to that damn real estate office.

And now, to his surprise, Reeve is cruising past the courthouse, parking in the lot adjacent to police headquarters. He drives past, then makes a U-turn and swings back around, parking across the street. He scans the entrances, thinking he has missed her, then realizes that she’s still sitting in her car.

What is Edgy Reggie up to? Probably checking her phone. Kids these days, so tied to their electronic devices.

He fishes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and as he lights up, notices a group of smokers standing outside the building. He takes a long drag, studies them. Studies Reeve.

She’s watching them.

He’s smoking, while watching Reeve watch cops who are smoking. This is an irony that would ordinarily amuse him, but not today. He has been in a foul mood since listening to the recording of Tilly’s stupid disclosures. His Sniffer program had caught the reference to “Mister Monster,” and he’d replayed the long conversation.

He found the whole “swear on your mother’s grave” bit melodramatic. And then things got worse. Much worse than he’d imagined. So he’d listened again, more carefully, getting angry again at Vander-dolt for being so stupid, angry at himself for letting the dolt know that he was aligned in any way with law enforcement.

He rolls down his window, flicks out his cigarette butt, lets the chilly air fill the van, and considers his options. Killing Vanderholt had been a necessary task, but he’d hoped that, when things quieted down, he could resume his private activities. Now Silly Tilly has spilled too much, and her friend, this meddling cunt, is becoming a major distraction.

She had almost caught him in the act of securing the GPS device inside her bumper this morning, but he’d used the “oops, dropped my change” ploy after quickly fixing the small gray box in place.

He’d figured that tracking her would be enough of a precaution, that Edgy Reggie was no problem for him, still barely more than a kid herself. But he hadn’t expected her to make that detour to Buster Ewing Realty. Which was irksome. Because even though that scrawny Ewing woman may not realize it, she could stir up serious trouble.

He lights another cigarette and smokes, watching while Edgy Reggie gets out of her Jeep.

Now what? If she sees a tall cop with dark hair, she’ll rush up and demand to see what brand he’s smoking? Ask to see his tattoos?

But Reeve walks slowly past the cluster of smoking cops, continues down the street. And damned if she doesn’t stop at the door of the Jefferson County District Attorney’s Office.

FORTY-ONE

Four people stand outside police headquarters, puffing away, huddled in their dark coats, stomping their feet in a recessed area that offers partial protection from the brisk winter wind. To Reeve, they look furtive as criminals, and she keeps a sharp eye on them as she walks past, wondering if Vanderholt was really working with a sadistic cop. Or was that just some ruse to scare young Tilly?

As soon as Reeve steps inside the district attorney’s office, she wants to turn around and go. Two men just inside the door are arguing in hushed tones, and they glare at her as she enters, as if she’s interrupting.

She approaches the receptionist’s thick window, which seems designed to block any assault, and waits. After getting no acknowledgment, she says, “Excuse me?”

The woman behind the glass shakes her head, points at something, and looks away.

It takes Reeve a moment to realize what she means, but then she sees the dispenser, plucks out a numbered tag—forty-four—and finds an open seat beside a lump of a man with ugly tattoos on his neck. The two men by the door continue arguing. The artificial light buzzes overhead.

Last time she entered this building, a deputy met her and escorted her upstairs. Now she realizes how simple that made things. She perches on the plastic chair, careful not to touch anything and contract a disease while dropping off this file.

“Forty-one!” the receptionist barks.

No one moves.

“Forty-one!”

People glance around, someone coughs, but no one responds.

“Forty-two!”

A gaunt woman with a whimpering child rises, gathering her things. She balances the child on her hip and hurries over to the window, where she begins a lengthy complaint.

Reeve waits. More people enter the office. The envelope in her hands feels like kryptonite.

The woman with the whimpering child is buzzed inside a blank metal door.

“Forty-three!”

The two men arguing by the door abruptly turn toward the window. One speaks in short, clipped sentences. The receptionist shakes her head. The second man speaks to her sharply. She matches his tone. The first man begins speaking, and she slams her window shut.

The two men grumble at the window, at each other, and then stomp out the door.

Reeve tenses, expectant. “For Deputy District Attorney Jackie Burke,” is written plainly on the front of the envelope. She will just hand it to the receptionist and get out of here.

“Thirty-nine!”

Reeve stifles a groan as the tattooed man next to her rises to his feet, saying to no one in particular, “Me again, sorry,” and hurries to the blank door, where he’s buzzed inside.

A minute later, the receptionist barks: “Forty-four!”

Approaching the window with a tepid smile, Reeve offers the envelope and deferentially explains that she’d like to simply leave it for Jackie Burke.

“You can’t leave that with me,” the receptionist protests.

“But I—”

“Nope. Just sit down and wait.”

“But can’t someone deliver it?”

The woman gives her a pained look. “If you want it delivered, why don’t you just mail it?”

“Because I promised to get it to her today.”

“Then fill out this form,” the receptionist says, pushing a pink notepad under the window, “and I’ll let them know you’re here.”

Done with being polite, Reeve makes a face and hastily fills out the form, using a pen leashed to the counter. She pushes the completed form back to the woman, who snaps it up and waves her away, calling out, “Forty-five!”

Reeve groans and resumes her seat. The last thing she wants is another encounter with Jackie Burke. The envelope has obviously been opened, and she can just imagine the grilling she’s about to get.

A tall man in uniform enters the office, shedding his coat. Wasn’t he just outside, smoking? He nods at the receptionist and walks past Reeve to the blank door. She studies his biceps, wishing she could see through the fabric, then glances up and finds him scowling at her. She looks away as he’s buzzed inside.

Closing her eyes, she tries to think. Actually, if she were to buy an envelope and find a post office, she could mail the file to Burke. And what’s the harm, really, if it doesn’t arrive for a day or two? It would arrive by Monday, at the latest, and she could just explain to Dr. Lerner that—

“Hey, Reeve, are you okay?”

She opens her eyes to find Nick Hudson bending over her.

“Oh! Yes, I’m fine!” She scrambles to her feet and proffers the envelope. “I just wanted to deliver this to Jackie Burke.”

“Okay, sure,” he says, taking it from her. “But she’s not in, and it’s lunchtime, so I have two questions: Are you hungry? And do you like sushi?”

*   *   *

It’s walking distance to the restaurant, so they hurry through the blustery weather, just making the front door as fat raindrops splash down around them.

The restaurant is bright and welcoming, and Nick Hudson suggests sitting at the sushi bar. Reeve assesses the layout and the clientele while taking a seat beside him. She eyes the sharpness of the knives, the freshness of the fish in the display case, then asks the sushi chef a couple of questions in Japanese.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises?” Hudson says, grinning.

“I used to work at a Japanese restaurant.”

“So, what was all that about?”

“It’s a good idea to ask the sushi chef what he suggests, that’s all.”