The Next Accident (6 page)

"A defective seat belt is a civil, not criminal, matter, ma'am. Being underworked cops with an unlimited budget, we would love to focus on things outside of our jurisdiction, of course, but that would entail spitting in the face of standard investigative procedures."

Rainie blinked twice, then scowled when she finally detected the sarcasm underlining his amiable drawl. Here was the difference between formal and informal police practices, she thought not for the first time. If she'd come across an accident like Mandy s when she'd been a small-town cop, she would've checked out the seat belt. But small sheriffs departments didn't rigidly follow things like standard investigative procedures. Hell, half of their volunteer staff probably couldn't spell investigative, let alone procedures.

"I made a phone call," Officer Amity said abruptly. His face remained expressionless, but his voice dropped, as if he were about to confess a sin.

"About the seat belt?" As long as they were being co-conspirators, Rainie lowered her voice, too.

"I didn't like the fact that lack of seat belt made it a fatality," Amity said, "and it just so happened that the seat belt was broken. So I called the garage that serviced the Explorer. Seems that the broken seat belt wasn't new; it happened a month before. The driver called about having it replaced. Even made an appointment. But she never came in."

"When was the appointment?"

"A week before the crash."

"Did the garage know why she canceled?"

"She called to say something had come up, she'd reschedule shortly." He shrugged. "So now we got a driver running around for four weeks without a proper harness system. Then she crawls behind the wheel dead drunk. I don't know about suspicious, ma'am, but in my book the accident is looking stupider all the time."

Rainie chewed her bottom lip. "I still don't like the
nonoperative
seat belt."

"Makes Daddy nervous," Officer Amity shrewdly guessed.

"Something like that. What about the pedestrian victim, the old man?"

"Oliver Jenkins. Lived one mile from the crash site. According to his wife, he always walked his dog along the road and she always told him it was dangerous."

"Any chance this had something to do with him?"

"Mr. Jenkins was a retired Korean War vet. He lived on a small pension from the state and loved butter pecan ice cream. No, I don't think he did anything to deserve being run over by a Ford Explorer. The dog, on the other hand, had a long history of eating shoes."

Big Boy's face remained so impassive; Rainie almost missed the sarcasm again. Were all Southern boys so charming, or was she just in for a special treat?

"No sign of braking," she tried, still working the suspicious angle.

"Never met a drunk who did."

"Could've gotten tapped by a second vehicle," she rallied.

"No fresh scratches, dents, or paint chips on the SUV. No marks on the tire walls. No additional sets of tire tracks. Look at your photos,
ma'am."

Rainie scowled. Competent policemen could be such a pain in the ass. "What about a second person in the vehicle? A passenger?"

"I didn't see one."

"Did you look?"

"I looked in the passenger's seat. There was no one there."

"Did you dust for prints?"

Amity rolled his eyes. "What the hell would you gain by printing a car? First off, the dashboards and most side panels are too rough to yield a print. Second, the smooth surfaces that would work, such as seat belt clasps, door handles, or steering wheels, have been handled by so many Tom, Dick, and Harrys, you'd never get clean ridges. Again, I refer you to standard investigative procedures – "

"I get the point. You're the greatest police officer that ever lived and there is no evidence of a second person at the scene."

"Why, yes ma'am, I think we're finally in agreement."

Rainie smiled thinly at him. Then she leaned forward. "Did you happen to try the passenger-side door?"

Amity's eyes narrowed. She knew he followed her train of thought, because he started to nod. "As a matter offact…"

"The door was operable, wasn't it?"

"Yes ma'am."

"And you looked down for footprints?"

"Too much undergrowth. Couldn't get a sign of anything."

"But you were looking. Officer. Why were you looking?"

Officer Amity grew silent. He said finally, "I don't know."

"Off the record."

"I don't know."

"Way off the record. You followed up on this case, Officer, even after you knew the driver was dying. As you kindly pointed out, you state boys are much too overworked to randomly do such a thing. Something bothered you. Something's still bothering you. I'm even willing to bet that you're not that surprised I'm here."

Officer Amity remained silent. Just when she thought he was going to continue to play hard to get, he said suddenly, "I didn't think I was alone."

"What?"

His lips thinned. He continued in a rush. "I was standing at the vehicle staring at that poor, poor girl and this guy is puking out his guts behind me and I swore… I swore to God I heard someone laughing."

"What?"

"Maybe it was all in my head. Jesus, the sun wasn't all the way up yet and it gets kind of hinky on those rural routes. All the trees and brush, half of it hasn't been cleared in the last fifty years. Million and a half places for someone to hide, if they had the mind to. I looked around, checked things out. Never saw a thing. Probably was all in my head. The puking Samaritan didn't help much either. He almost got my leg."

"I want to see the car."

"Good luck."

"Come on, just a quick peek in the impound lot."

Amity shook his head. "It's been fourteen months. Sure the vehicle started in our lot, but only until the insurance company settled. They took it away months ago, probably towed it to some salvage yard where it's already been broken down for parts."

"Shit," Rainie muttered. She worried her lower lip again, not expecting this and trying to think of more options. "I thought there was some rule that seat belts from a wrecked vehicle couldn't be resold as parts. They're no longer guaranteed after the first accident."

"Yes, ma'am."

"So in theory, the salvage yard should at least still have the seat belts."

He shrugged. "If they haven't tossed them into a dumpster by now."

"I'll take my chances. Name of the salvage yard?"

"Hell if I know. The insurance company handles all that."

"Officer…"

She gave him an intent look. He sighed heavily. "I suppose I could make a call…"

Rainie summoned her charming smile again. Officer Amity was a smart boy, though, because this time he merely grunted and shook his head.

"You should've opened with that, you know," he told her.

"With what?"

"That you used to be a cop."

"I was just a local. I'm surprised you could even tell."

"I got a good head for these things."

She nodded grimly. "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."

Society Hill, Philadelphia

Bethie was nervous.
She shouldn't be doing this. She liked her solitary lifestyle; she was comfortable spending her evenings alone. What had she been thinking? And did these earrings go with this dress? Maybe the earrings were too nice. Maybe the dress was too nice. Oh God, she was going to have to start over again and she was already five minutes late.

She changed from her little black dress to a below-the-knees black skirt with an electric blue satin top. More coverage; she liked that. But she kept the same tall, strappy heels. At her age she was proud of her calves and figured it didn't hurt to show them off. God knows she had a few extra pounds tucked in other locations, let alone what gravity had done to her butt. She had aged well, but on the eve of her first date in over two years, she still felt bitter about Father Time. How is it that men fill out with age, while women fall down?

Earrings. Which pair of earrings? Come on, Bethie, it's just a date. She grabbed the first gold pair she came to, told herself firmly that they were perfect and headed for the door.

She had not expected to have dinner with Mr. Shandling. It had started out as coffee yesterday evening. He felt so bad at having upset her, and she was too topsyturvy to resist. So he took her to one of South Street 's little cafes, plied her with cappuccino, and told her stories until the tears dried on her cheeks and she began to smile.

She stopped looking at his side so much. She started listening to his words more. Tales of travel to Ireland, England, Austria. Scuba diving off the coral reefs of Australia, shopping for precious gems in Hong Kong. He had a rich baritone voice, perfect for spinning fabulous tales and in the end, while she wasn't sure if one man could have really done all those things, she found that she didn't care. She liked listening to him talk. She liked watching the corner of his sparkling blue eyes crinkle every time he grinned. She liked the way he looked at her, as if his sole purpose in life was to make her happy.

He'd asked her to dinner the very next night. She hemmed and hawed. It was moving so fast, she really didn't know…

He was only in town for a week. Surely one dinner couldn't hurt… She'd caved in with a yes. He'd chosen Zanzibar Blue, a renowned jazz club and one of her favorite restaurants. She'd promised to meet him there.

Bethie was not a complete neophyte to dating; she read
Cosmo.
On a first date, always arrive on your own, therefore you can leave anytime you choose. Don't give out too much personal information, such as your home address, right away. Get to know the person first. Just because a man was well dressed and charming didn't mean he was safe. Just ask her ex-husband, Pierce.

Bethie flagged down a taxi, and took the short ride up to Zanzibar 's.

Tristan Shandling was waiting for her outside the club. Tonight he wore black pleated slacks with a plum-colored shirt and strikingly patterned silver and turquoise tie. In deference to the hot, muggy weather, he'd eschewed a jacket. With his hands tucked comfortably into his pockets, one foot crossed over the other, he looked dignified, handsome, and totally in control. Bethie took one look at him and promptly wished she'd gone with the little black dress. This man shouldn't be dating some middle-aged mother. A man like him should be meeting some bubble-gum blonde, some little bit of arm candy.

She got out of the cab, self-consciously fingering her matronly skirt. Tristan turned, spotted her, and promptly beamed. " Elizabeth! I'm so happy you made it."

For the life of her, she couldn't think of a thing to say. She stood there silently, clutching her small black purse while his eyes crinkled and he held out his arm to her. Her breath had caught in her chest.

He was still smiling, his blue eyes patient and kind. He knew, she realized abruptly. He understood that she was nervous and by grinning so effusively, he was trying to make things easier for her.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she managed.

He waved away her apology, taking her hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow. He patted her fingers, which she knew must feel like ice. "Jazz is my favorite," he told her amiably as he escorted her to the doors and the first notes of bluesy horns washed over them. "I hope you don't mind."

"I love jazz," she volunteered. "It's always been my favorite as well."

"Really? Davis or Coltrane?"

" Davis."

"' 'Round Midnight' or 'Kind of Blue?"

"' 'Round Midnight,' of course."

"Ahh, I knew from the first moment I saw you that you were a woman of impeccable taste. Of course, then you agreed to go out with me and cast my whole theory in doubt." He winked.

She found herself finally smiling back. "Well, there's no rule that says you can't enjoy water as well as wine," she said more gamely.

"Dear heavens, have I just been insulted?"

"I don't know. Depends if you're water or wine. I guess I have the whole evening to find out."

" Elizabeth," he said heartily, "we are going to have a smashing good evening!"

And she said with the first real emotion she'd felt in months, "Honestly, I would like that."

Later, over plates of steaming mussels and vegetarian pasta, and a bottle of a very fine Bordeaux, she asked the question that was burning in her mind.

"Does it hurt?" Her eyes drifted to his right side. She didn't have to say more for him to understand.

Slowly, he nodded. "Not as bad as it did, though. Just no more jumping jacks for a while."

"But you're feeling better?"

He smiled at her. "I was born with two bad kidneys, love. The first one failed when I was eighteen. The second one started going last year. I spent sixteen long months on dialysis. That felt bad. Now, as far as I am concerned, things can only feel good."

"Is there… is there still a chance of rejection?"

"In life, love, and organ transplants. But I take my truckload of meds like a good dooby and say my prayers at night. I don't know why God gives second chances to old rascals like me, but as long as I have one, I hate to complain."

"Your family must be very relieved."

He smiled again, but this time she caught a trace of sorrow in his gaze. "I don't have much family, Bethie. One older brother. He went away a long time ago and I haven't seen him since. There was a woman once. She said she carried my child. I was young though, and I'm afraid I didn't take it too well. When I learned I needed a kidney – well, that hardly seemed the time to call. I don't have patience for fair-weather friends, let alone fair-weather fathers."

"I'm sorry," she said honestly. "I didn't mean to dredge up bad times."

"Not to worry. I've made my mistakes and taken my licks and I still think a quiet life is overrated. I'm going to die with my boots on." He grimaced. "Probably once again hooked to a dialysis machine."

"Don't say that. You've come this far. Besides, you still have plenty of things to do. Like finding your child."

"You think I'm going to find my long-lost child?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you brought it up in a conversation with a woman you've just met, so obviously you've been thinking about it."

He grew silent. His fingers thrummed the curve of his wineglass. He said seriously, "You're an extremely astute woman, Elizabeth Quincy."

"No, I'm just a parent, too."

"Ah, I don't know…" He backed off from the conversation, picking up his glass and taking a sip. "I don't even know if the child is a boy or girl, let alone if it's mine. And even at my age… I'm running around the world most of the time. Hardly father-of-the-year material."

"What is it you do?"

"I specialize in doohickeys."

"Doohickeys?"

"Doohickeys," he chuckled. "I scour the globe for the cute, the strange, the interesting, and most of all, the cheap. Wooden boxes from Thailand, black lacquer from Singapore, paper kites from China. You go into a gift shop, fall in love with some hopelessly overpriced, crudely carved figurine, and that's me, Bethie. I found that just for you. At a hundred percent markup, of course."

She shook her head in mock protest. "And you can make a living at this?"

"I make a very fine living at this. Bring things in by the container loads. Volume is the key."

"You must have a fine eye."

"No, just lots of experience as an impulse shopper." He grinned at her. "And yourself?"

He'd meant the question kindly. He had just volunteered more than a little about himself. Still she flinched, and the instant she did, the smile faded from his face.

"I apologize," he said immediately. "I'm sorry, Bethie. I have this habit of speaking before thinking. I swear I've been meaning to quit – "

"No, no. It's a logical question and you've been very generous about sharing your life – "

"But things are difficult for you, now. I know and I shouldn't have pried."

"It's not… it's not that," she ventured.

He nodded for her to continue, his expression patient, his crinkling blue eyes sincere. It was easy to talk to him, she discovered. Much easier than she would've thought.

"I was raised to be a wife," she told him. "A high-society wife. To create a beautiful home, throw lovely parties, always wear a smile when my husband is at my side. And be a good mother, of course. Raise the next generation of high-society wives."

Tristan nodded gravely.

"And then… then I got divorced. It's funny, I didn't notice it right away. I had Kimberly and Amanda to think about, and in all honesty, things had been rough for them. They needed attention. I needed to give it. I guess I went from being an extension of my husband to being an extension of my daughters. It seemed so natural at the time."

"Except little girls don't stay little girls forever," Tristan filled in.

"Kimberly went away to college three years ago," Bethie said quietly. "Things haven't been the same since."

She looked down at her lap. She couldn't help it. The music was blues jazz tonight, some older woman belting out the aching strains of "At last, my love has come along…" and Bethie felt the melancholy all the way down to her bones.

Her beautiful, empty brick town house. Room after room of so much silence. Four separate phones that rarely rang. Hallways lined with framed photographs that were all she had left of the people she loved.

And standing on that hillside a month ago, staring at that freshly dug, gaping black grave.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

She was forty-seven years old, and she didn't know who she was anymore. She was forty-seven years old, no longer a wife, no longer Mandy's mother, and she didn't know where she belonged.

Tristan's hand reached over, tangled with her own. He drew her gaze up and she saw he wasn't grinning anymore. Instead he wore a somber expression, not unlike her own. For an uncanny moment she had an image of him, waking up in the hospital after his transplant surgery, and discovering no one at his side. No wife or children to hold his hand. He knew, she thought. He knew.

Her fingers curled around his. The woman continued to sing, "My love has come along…" and the moment went on and on.

"Bethie," he said gently, "let's take a walk."

Outside, the air was heavy and hot, but the sun was beginning to set and Bethie had always loved this time of day. The world became muted, velvety, offering less color but also fewer sharp lines and hard objects. It comforted her.

They walked in silence, not heading anywhere in particular, but by some mutual understanding of the city, working their way toward Rittenhouse Square.

"My turn to ask a question," Tristan said abruptly. He had loosened his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves in deference to the wet-wool humidity. He still looked elegant, and Bethie was aware of other people casting them covert glances.

"Ask," she prodded, becoming aware that Tristan was still studying her.

"You promise not to be insulted?"

"After two glasses of wine, you have to work very hard to get me insulted."

He stopped walking in the middle of the block, then turned her so she'd have to face him. "It's not just the kidney, is it?"

"What?"

"This. It's not only about me having your daughter's kidney, is it? I know it's a rude question, and I don't want to upset you, but this evening is going even better than I imagined, and well, I need to know. Some people think when you get someone's organ, you get a piece of her soul as well. Is that what this evening is about? Am I just a proxy for your daughter?" He added in a rush, "Because I'm seriously considering kissing you, Elizabeth Quincy, and I don't think a proxy for your daughter should be doing that."

Bethie felt dazed. Her hand fell free of his, fluttered at the base of her throat, toyed with the collar of her satin shirt. "I don't… Of course not! That's… that's foolishness. An old wives' tale. Silly superstition."

Tristan nodded with satisfaction. He seemed ready to resume walking, when she ruined her own argument by saying, "You don't… You don't feel any differently, do you?"

"Pardon?"

"We did run into each other by chance," she continued hastily, "and yet you knew who I was right away, even though I'd been pointed out to you only once before. That's a little odd, don't you think? God knows when I go to parties I have to meet someone three or four times before I can put a name to a face."

"You helped save my life. That's a bit more significant than some stuffed suit at a black-and-white soiree."

"There's something else."

"What?" He looked genuinely concerned now. The evening had been so beautiful. It pained her to say what she had to say next.

She whispered, "You know my nickname."

"What nickname?"

"Bethie. You've called me Bethie. Many times. Always Bethie, never Liz or Beth. I never told you that was my nickname, Tristan. And how many Elizabeths do you know who go by Bethie instead?"

The blood drained out of his face. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he appeared so horror-struck she wished she could recall her words. Simultaneously, both of their gazes slid to his side, where the scar still puckered pink and raw beneath the protective cover of his shirt.