Very Bad Men (37 page)

She stood by the counter, holding a glass of lemonade. “We talked to the police in Sylvania,” she said. “They know about him. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia a couple years back. They've picked him up a few times, for shouting at people on the street. He has an unhealthy fascination with roadkill. Once they caught him walking along the highway near his parents' house, dragging the carcass of a deer.”

She paused for a drink. “He had a backpack with him today. Two things inside—a copy of Lucy's novel, and a dead squirrel wrapped in a garbage bag. He said he's been feeling thirsty for human blood, but thought he'd better stick to squirrel.”

“That's admirable,” I said. “What did you do with him?”

“We sent him back to Ohio. His parents are going to have him evaluated. The Sylvania police said they'd look around his parents' property—there's a wooded area nearby. They think it's possible he's involved somehow with Lucy's disappearance. I think he made it all up. He saw a story about her on the news and spun out a fantasy about her. The only thing he's guilty of is wasting half my day.”

Elizabeth fixed herself leftovers, and I finished cleaning up. Then she went off to meditate over the file on Anthony Lark, spreading the pages over the dining-room table and jotting notes on a legal pad. She was making a timeline of the events surrounding the deaths of Charlie and Terry Dawtrey and Henry Kormoran, the attack on Sutton Bell. It's something she does when she's working through a problem. When you put things in order, sometimes you can see connections you didn't see before.

Jeremy Dechant made the local news at ten o'clock. The story was thin on detail, and I got the feeling the reporter just wanted the chance to say the words “bizarre confession.” He gave his pitch from the front lawn of Dechant's parents' house. An eager-looking cop from Sylvania talked about an ongoing search. No one from the Ann Arbor police made any comment.

I switched the TV off afterward and told Elizabeth I was going in to
Gray Streets
. I said the same to Sarah, who was sitting on the front porch, talking with a friend on her cell phone. She looked at me dubiously. “Really,” I said.

And that's where I went. I left my car behind the building and rode the elevator to the sixth floor. Sat at my desk with the window open and the notes of a saxophone wafting up from the street. Ann Arbor on a Friday night.

I lasted twenty minutes, working on the story of the detective and the heiress. After that I closed the window and locked the door and drove north to Summit Street. The curtains of number 315 were drawn tight, but I could see some light behind them. I circled the block and dialed Alan Beckett's number. He took his time answering.

“Mr. Loogan.”

“I've said it before. You're very good.”

He let out a labored breath, as if he were getting up from a chair. “You'll have to speak plainer.”

“Very good or very lucky,” I said. “Have you seen the news?”

I came around to the front of number 315 again and pulled over to the curb.

“Not plain enough yet,” he said. “I've seen a great deal of news.”

“Jeremy Dechant.”

“The young man who confessed to killing Ms. Navarro.”

“That's the one. Where'd you find him?”

I imagined him pacing behind the curtains.

“I've no idea what you mean,” he said.

“It's convenient for you,” I said. “Dechant showing up. People don't want to think that Lucy's disappearance is connected with Callie Spencer. Now they don't have to. They can believe it was some misfit who read Lucy's book and got ideas. Doesn't matter if the police don't buy his confession. It's out there now.”

“I had nothing to do with Mr. Dechant's confession.”

I listened to the hum of the car's engine.

“Maybe not,” I said. “Maybe it's just my active imagination.”

“That seems likely,” said Beckett. “By the way, someone broke in here yesterday. You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?”

“Why should I?”

“I've a feeling it was someone with an active imagination. Naturally I thought of you.”

“It was probably kids from the neighborhood.”

“It was certainly childish,” he said. “And whoever did it had an accomplice. A young woman, though I don't think she was from the neighborhood.”

“Is that so?”

“Charming really. She used my phone to call her father. Only her father's number turned out to belong to a shop that sells art supplies.”

“That's odd.”

“There was something familiar about her, but I only realized it after. She reminded me of Detective Waishkey.”

“That's—”

“—odd, yes.” He drew a breath. “I trust your visit eased your suspicions, and you won't need to come 'round again.”

“I've no idea what you mean.”

“Of course not. Good night to you, Mr. Loogan.”

We disconnected. I waited a moment on the quiet street, then rolled along to the end of the block and turned south.

Fountain Street took me to Miller, and from there I drove east. A handful of minutes later I came to a stop on Bedford Road at the spot where I'd sat with Lucy in her yellow Beetle only two days before.

Light glowed in the windows of Callie Spencer's cottage. Some of it spilled out into the driveway and glinted off the hoods of two cars: Callie's Ford and another I didn't recognize.

I left the engine running but switched off the headlights. I focused on the window next to Callie's desk, hoping to catch sight of her.

After a while I shifted my attention to the front door. Dark, rough wood, unpainted. I thought of walking over and knocking on it. Tried to work out what I might say if she let me in.

The door opened. A man passed through. I recognized him from his posture as much as anything else—Callie's husband, Jay Casterbridge. He walked by the silver Ford and got into the other car, an Audi. Backed it into the street and started toward me. He came as far as the intersection with Arlington Boulevard and swung a left.

I switched on my lights and followed him.

He drove less than two miles. The house where he stopped stood in the middle of a block on a street call Fernwood, under the shelter of old oak trees. It had an American flag hanging from the front porch, and a FOR RENT sign on the lawn with a phone number and the words CASTERBRIDGE REALTY.

He pulled into a driveway that led back to a detached garage. I drove past and parked on the street. The moon shone somewhere, but not under the dark of the oaks. I walked carefully along the uneven sidewalk, slowing as I approached the end of the driveway. Casterbridge's car sat there empty. I saw a lighted window on the side of the house.

I was about to step into the driveway when I caught a flash of movement farther down the sidewalk. A shadowy figure slipping behind the trunk of a tree.

S
he waited for me there, as still as if she had grown up out of the grass.

“Are you supposed to be hiding?” I said.

“I haven't decided.”

“What are you wearing?”

“I don't think that's relevant.”

“Levi's and sandals. Not very senatorial.”

“I'm not a senator yet.”

The jeans were faded. The T-shirt she wore with them had a tear in the collar and the logo of the University of Michigan. I was getting a glimpse of what Callie Spencer must have looked like as a law student in her twenties.

“You followed me,” I said. A brilliant deduction. I could see her silver Ford parked behind her on the street. I'd been so preoccupied with tailing Jay Casterbridge, I hadn't noticed I had a tail of my own.

“You followed my husband here,” she said. “Why?”

“I'm looking for Lucy Navarro.”

Her tone had been serious up till now, so her laugh came as a surprise.

“You think Jay has her?” she said.

“I should've thought of it before. Whoever took Lucy felt threatened by her. She's been asking questions about the Great Lakes Bank robbery. What was Jay doing seventeen years ago?”

“Law school,” she said, stepping close so she could study my face. “You think Jay was the fifth bank robber?”

“Why not? Floyd Lambeau recruited idealistic students. He took pleasure in the idea that he could corrupt them. I think he would have gotten a kick out of recruiting a senator's son as a getaway driver.” I waited a beat. “It explains the cover-up too.”

“The cover-up?”

“Your father never gave any description of the driver. Maybe that's because a United States senator asked him not to.”

She reached up to touch the tear in her collar. “That's an intriguing theory. Am I in on this plot too, or do I get a pass?”

“I haven't sorted it all out yet,” I said. “But you should go home.”

“Why?”

I pointed at the house. “I'm going in there. You won't want to be around.”

That brought another laugh. “I don't think I can stay away.”

“I'm not kidding.”

“Neither am I. If my husband's holding a reporter captive in there, I think I'd like to know.” She stepped out of her sandals and started walking barefoot along the sidewalk toward the house. I had to hurry to catch up to her.

“Should we burst in,” she said, “or should we look around a little first?”

I started to respond, but she silenced me with a finger raised to her lips. I followed her in the dark, passing the front of the house, pausing for a moment at the edge of the driveway.

There was still just one lighted window on the side of the house, near the back. The curtains were parted slightly, leaving a gap wide enough to see through, if you could get close. You'd need something to stand on though; the window was above eye level.

Callie had come to the same realization. She touched my arm. Pointed to a plastic recycling bin leaning against the side of the garage.

She waited by her husband's car while I retrieved the bin and set it topdown in the grass beneath the window. I glanced a question at her and she gestured in answer:
After you.

A last look around. No one on the street. The house next door seemed deserted.

I took my time planting my left foot on the bin, stepped up, steadied myself.

Through the space between the curtains I saw a kitchen counter. Cabinets in dark wood, stainless-steel dishwasher. Granite countertops. A radio mounted under one of the cabinets. I could hear it faintly through the closed window: the BBC World News on NPR.

Jay Casterbridge stood near the dishwasher. Oxford shirt and gray slacks. He had a woman with him—but not Lucy Navarro. The woman was tall and thin. I could have counted her ribs if I wanted to, because Casterbridge had her blouse off and was making good progress on her bra. He slipped the last hook free and peeled it off—an insubstantial thing, white and plain—and ducked his head to kiss her breasts. His hands moved down her back and underneath the waistband of her skirt. He lifted her off her feet, spun her around, and sat her on the counter.

I'd seen enough. I stepped down soundlessly to the grass. When I looked to Callie Spencer, she wore the kind of carefully composed expression that told me she had a good idea of what I'd seen. I started to shake my head as if that might dissuade her, but she had already put one bare foot up on the bin.

I helped her up and laid a hand on the small of her back to steady her. She needed the support; she had to stand on tiptoe. I waited, listening to her breathing. She stayed up there for a few seconds, long enough to take things in. And long enough for me to realize my mistake. I wasn't the one she'd been following tonight. That should have been obvious. I'd parked on her street and watched her house, but she would've had no reason to know I was there. She had been following her husband.

She braced a hand on my shoulder getting down, said nothing, walked off barefoot along the driveway. I left the recycling bin in the grass and went after her. Back at her car she stepped into her sandals and turned to me. Too dark to read anything in her eyes. She looked away and rounded the car to the driver's side. “I'm going home,” she said.

Not quite an invitation, but as close as I was likely to get.

By the time I walked to my car she had disappeared around the block. But I didn't need to follow her; I knew the way. The moon put in an appearance on Bedford Road, a sliver high over the roof of the cottage. Callie's Ford sat in the gravel drive.

I rolled east past the cottage and left my car on the street. Admired the neighbors' manicured lawns in the light of the streetlamps. The same light fell on the vines along the cottage walls, sending curled shadows over the brick. Callie had left the door ajar.

I closed it behind me, loud enough for her to hear. She stood by a leather sofa with her back to me, her head bowed. When I got close she spun around. Lips pressed together, a woman trying not to cry.

I reached for her and she came to me, hid her face against my shoulder. Her hair silky and smelling of strawberries. I touched a palm to the back of her neck and felt the heat of her skin. She got her arms around me and held on with a strength that surprised me.

I lost track of how long we stood like that. I felt the damp of tears against my shoulder. Pain where her arm squeezed against the wound in my side. I moved my palm down between her shoulder blades and rubbed her back through the thin fabric of her T-shirt.

Eventually Callie pulled away and wiped her face. I watched her transformation. She stood straight and lifted her chin. She was locking away whatever vulnerability she had shown me.