A Child Is Missing (29 page)

Will followed Brokaw through a metal door and into a long carpeted corridor. Brokaw's shoulders were wide, and he moved like an athlete. Which he was, Will recalled.

Brokaw stopped at a wood-panel door, which he opened with a key. He gestured for Will to enter first.

The room had a giant desk with an easy chair behind it, a sofa and table along one wall, and several television sets with videocassette recorders. A window behind the desk faced onto the road.

Brokaw took off his coat, draped it over the easy chair, and invited Will to sit on the sofa. Then he reached into a bottom desk drawer and took out a bottle and two glasses.

“I have ice if you prefer,” Brokaw said. “But I suggest you drink it straight.” He poured into both glasses. “Glenlivet, Mr. Shafer. In my opinion, there is no better single-malt scotch. Do you agree?”

“On my salary, I wouldn't know.”

Brokaw smiled and paused. “My prayers were answered when my son was returned to me. Your reporting has consistently been a step out in front of everyone else's.” Brokaw saluted with his glass and sipped.

Will drank. Brokaw was right: Will had never tasted better scotch.

“But what's your interest in my divorce, Mr. Shafer? Why are my personal troubles any concern of yours or your readers?”

Of course, Will thought. “How did you know I was checking?”

Brokaw smiled as if to say, Aw, come on. Then the smile vanished. “Small town, Mr. Shafer. As you've no doubt noticed. I know your publisher. I could call Lyle Glanford right now.”

Will knew Brokaw was serious. He also knew there was only one way to handle a threat like that, so he said, “Do it. It's your phone.”

Brokaw waved off the challenge. “So what if I keep something out of your paper by calling Lyle. That wouldn't tell me what's in your head.”

For a moment, Will didn't know how he felt about this rich, arrogant man who didn't mind throwing his weight around, this powerful man who had seemed,
seemed
to have suffered terribly when his child was stolen.

Will felt at a terrible disadvantage. He was on Brokaw's turf, and drinking his scotch. Finally, Will said, “I wanted to know as much as I could about you. There are a lot of questions about the kidnapping that are still hanging in the air. I'd heard that your divorce was bitter. That caused me to wonder…”

Brokaw's eyes flashed in sudden comprehension. “You thought I might have … Jesus Christ!” He drained his glass and set it on the table.

“I hadn't come to any conclusions,” Will said. “I mean…”

Brokaw shook his head in disgust. “Do you believe I could have done such a thing?” Brokaw's face was unchanged, but there was no hiding the pain in his eyes.

“Not now, I don't. I hadn't met you before. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry,” Brokaw repeated. “Sorry. That word works sometimes. Other times … There are things I can't undo, things I wish I hadn't…” He shook his head. “My son is back. I thought that was all I wanted in the world. But being human, I want more still. To have things the way they were.”

Will finished his drink. “Your divorce, your personal troubles are your business, and they'll remain so. You don't have to call Lyle Glanford. I'm sorry.” He stood to leave.

“I'll buzz Tony.”

“Is your son all right? I'm not asking as a newsman.”

“He is, thank you. A wonderful boy. Making wonderful progress.” Brokaw seemed to want to say more.

“Best scotch I ever had,” Will said to mark time.

“The divorce papers aren't that interesting, you know. They contain allegations that I fooled around. And I'm ashamed to say…”

“It's not my business.”

“I travel a lot. I've always felt at ease around women. Sometimes it seemed inevitable. Have you ever been tempted?”

Will felt his face warm. He thought of Heather Casey, and nodded.

“I've promised her I'll stop. I'm going to try very hard.”

“Good luck. On everything, I mean.”

“And to you.”

On the way back to the hotel, Will said nothing to Tony. Will knew he might be passing up a great story opportunity, if Tony would say anything at all about the night of the kidnapping, but he didn't feel like trying.

He wrote a simple, straightforward story, patting himself on the back only slightly when he referred to the chief's grudging near confirmation of the kidnapping suspect's identity. He called his wife and told her to expect him the following night. He told her only a little about his meeting with Brokaw. She thought Will sounded cold, and said so. He apologized, said he was just tired. That was a lie.

As he lay in bed, he thought of his early suspicions about Brokaw. He thought about Heather Casey, how he had used her to get information, how he was attracted to her. He thought of the proverb about no pillow being as soft as a clean conscience.

He slept fitfully.

Twenty-nine

In the morning, Will called Heather Casey. “I'm out of here in a little while. I wanted to thank you for everything, wish you well, and…” And what?

“As they say, Will, it's been real. Good luck to you, too.”

He wanted to say more. No, not just say more; he wanted to be with her and…

“So it's home to Bessemer,” she went on. “Do you think you'll get back this way soon?”

“No telling.” And what if he did? The spell might be broken.

“Well, then. I hope things go well for you, newspaperwise. Am I saying that right? Newspaperwise?”

“You're saying it just fine.”

“I'll keep my ears open. That man from the woods, I mean. And everything else.”

“Good. Thanks.” His words, his voice sounded wooden to him. He would not have this chance again, the chance…

“Drive carefully.”

“I will.” The chance to say…

“Bye, then.”

“So long.” The chance to say that he thought of her as a special woman, a lovely woman, and that any man who—
Click.
And the chance was lost.

He had a cup of coffee and a doughnut at the diner and bought another coffee and two doughnuts for the road. He was eager to get started. But first, one last stop.

The police station had ceased being the command post in a major crime investigation and had become once again the dirty, drab storefront of law enforcement in a broken-down town.

Will parked at a corner, pulled up his collar against the cold, and walked the half block to headquarters. I owe you this much, Frannie.

The owlish sergeant at the front desk looked at Will over his half-rim glasses and raised his eyebrows. He was curious but not friendly.

“Good morning,” Will said. “I'm with the
Bessemer Gazette,
and I wanted—”

“You got a name, mister?”

Fuck you, Will thought. “My name is Shafer.”

“Oh, right. You're the one who knows what we're doing even before
we
do.”

“That one, yes. Before I leave your fair city, I wanted to check one more time to see if I'm missing any last-minute reports on the kidnapping case.”

“Any information comes from the chief.”

“And how might I find him?”

“You might find him plenty pissed off.”

“Touché. Can he spare a moment for me?”

“I doubt it.”

Steady, Will thought. “Sergeant, I would very much appreciate it if you would inquire if Chief Howe can spare a moment. As long as everything has to come from him.”

The sergeant muttered something and left Will standing alone. Will hadn't expected much cooperation, so the little confrontation was partly charade. What he hoped to do was get a feeling about what they might be hiding. Perhaps he could do that by seeing what questions annoyed the chief the most. As Will waited, he idly flicked the big metal-shaving paperweight with his thumbnail.

“Yes?” Chief Howe had appeared at the desk with the sergeant at his side.

“Good day to you, Chief.”

“I have nothing whatever to report,” Howe said.

“Are you still pursuing—?”

“I have nothing whatever to report.” Louder this time.

Will had an idea. It wasn't the best time for an idea, with a dozen pairs of eyes on him, but it was worth a try. In for a dime, in for a dollar. “Chief, would there be anything new on the Luna homicide?”

“My detectives haven't reported to me yet.” A light of recognition in the chief's eyes. “And I never said we were calling it a homicide.”

“So you're not ruling out—”

Too late, Will realized that in his nervousness, and without thinking, he had kept on flicking the paperweight. He saw the chief's eyes, and he knew at once that Howe saw the gesture as contemptuous.

“Chief, if you could check with your detectives, I'll try not to bother you anymore.”

“Mister, I don't run this department for you or anyone else.”

Steady, steady. “I know that, Chief. I'm only asking you to ask your brother…”

A hush in the room. Will was appalled at his own blunder. He should never have said “ask your brother.”

In two seconds, the chief had come to the other side of the counter. He was two inches taller than Will, and forty pounds heavier.

“Mister, all I want to hear from you now is good-bye. You've had all of my time you're entitled to. I've seen the car you drive, and I think I could find a dozen equipment problems on it. Care to try my patience?”

“Nope.” Will managed to keep his voice from cracking. He held himself together long enough to walk more or less steadily to the exit. Outside, he breathed the cold air in great gulps. His knees were knocking so badly that the hearty slap on his back almost made him stumble.

“Shafer, you are one cool head,” Raines said.

Will laughed, letting the tension flow out of him. “You saw?”

“From a safe distance. Sort of like watching a volcano. You won't get anywhere like that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Will said more seriously. “I put my foot in it real good.”

“Let's walk over here.” Raines led Will around a corner of the building. “That's your car up the block, isn't it?”

“The one with the rust spots, yes.”

“Okay, two things. When you pull out, I'll watch for a while. It's not much, but it's something I can do. Just in case someone wants to tail.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I'm a cop, remember? Even here. Second thing is this: I hear tell the cop who investigated your friend's accident is due back. Name's Ted Pickert. Maybe I can get something from him.”

“Terrific.” It was the first break Will had had on Fran's death since the death of Carmine Luna. “Do you think this Pickert might have … you know?”

Raines shrugged. “I'm not close to him or anything, but he doesn't have any reason not to trust me. If he does know anything about Luna, I might be able to tell something just from his reaction.”

“I'd love to know if he ever busted Carmine Luna for anything.”

“You're thinking the right way, Shafer. Listen, get going and don't shake hands. I know how to reach you.”

“All right. And thanks.”

“Don't try to call me at the station. I'll be in touch with you.”

With that, Raines was gone.

As he headed up the two-lane toward the expressway, Will felt paranoid at first. He kept checking his rearview mirror for police cars. Seeing none, he relaxed a little. He ate the doughnuts, then sipped his coffee, resting the cup in a recess on the dashboard. He would make Bessemer by dark probably, assuming he didn't stop for lunch and didn't hit a snow-storm.

Once he got on the expressway, he'd let go of the hermit and his dog and Heather Casey and Luna and Fran and his stupid accident—he'd let go of all of it, let it fall away with the miles.

Bullshit.

Will pulled off the road. He was near where it had started to happen to Fran. No, he would not let it go. He was a better friend than that.”And a better newsman, too,” he whispered.

He started up again, slowly, and soon he came to the gouges in the earth where Fran had crashed. Just past the top of the hill, he saw a house, a two-story frame a decade overdue for a coat of paint. What's to lose?

He drove up the hill and pulled into the driveway, stopping behind a pickup truck that had last been in good condition when the house had been.

Will went to the door and knocked. He waited a long time and knocked again. It was a long shot but worth the attempt. Come to think of it, it wasn't such a long shot. The accident had been followed by the sounds of sirens, and if anyone had been home here that night…

Just as Will was turning to leave, the door opened. In the doorway stood a woman, white-haired, eightyish, face as wrinkled as the skin of a chicken's feet.

“I'm sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you might know anything about a bad accident down the hill there several nights ago.”

“Crazy bastard slammed into a woman and almost killed her. Yeah, I called the cops. They got here quick.”

“Ah. Do you, I mean, can you tell me…?”

“Who're you and what's your interest?”

“A friend of mine was involved. He died of his injuries, and I'm just checking on what happened.”

“Can't say I'm too sorry, the way that crazy son of a bitch was driving.”

“I know the accident was my friend's fault, legally anyhow. But is that hill more dangerous than it looks for any reason?”

“Hell no. Just gotta use common sense. There's a sign and an arrow. Tells people there's a hill and they gotta slow down. That goddam fool didn't.”

“How do you know that?”

“Christ sake, I heard the son of a bitch coming. First one way, then the other.”

“One way and then the other?”

“You hard of hearing, sonny? I was standing right near that window there. Had it cracked open, 'cuz I had the Franklin stove going that night—it was cold out—and it made so much heat inside, I needed air.”