Habit (14 page)

Kettering had described her as “tough to pin down,” but faithful, for all he knew. And Brendan believed Kettering. It had been an important question, one that Brendan had carefully slid into their conversation, whether or not Kettering and Rebecca had been “exclusive.”

“I hope so,” Kettering had answered, and Brendan had felt something resonate. There was a sense of truth to that. It hadn’t sounded even remotely threatening, like “She better have been,” but really, a display of true male vulnerability. All a guy could do, in the end, was believe his woman would be faithful, and hope that she was.

If she was promiscuous in the general sense, then she was clandestine about it. Maybe she hooked up with absolute anonymity – that was still possible. Brendan knew very little about her life outside of the region. But it was only in the context of the region that Kettering had known her. It was certainly possible, even likely, that someone from her life outside the area had portaged in and done the deed, but Brendan just had a hard time wrapping his mind around Rebecca Heilshorn inviting some random person to her hideaway home in farm country, when she seemed to fiercely guard her privacy in other ways. Or was he missing the obvious? Had she just been cheating on Kettering, and that was it? Leading a double life of some kind?

It was someone specific who’d sent her the book. That was the feeling. Someone with real cause, and not just a previous sexual partner who wanted more from her.

The medical examiners had so far been unable to show conclusively that she had been raped. Rape wasn’t always so violent that it left marks, or anything for serology. Coercive sex was always possible, with an aggressor who covered his tracks well. But what was known definitively was that the victim had been stabbed multiple times in a savage fashion. The killer had been more than disgruntled; the killer had been absolutely enraged. Sadistic and brutal. It didn’t fit together, the idea of a “mild” almost invisible rape, and then a violent killing. It was almost as if there were two different aggressors at work.

Brendan drove past the residences on Floyd Avenue. They were Colonial, Victorian, Federalist. Mostly white or yellow with black shutters. Large pick-up trucks and minivans in the short driveways. A few people were out, wearing light coats. A mother pushed a stroller, and two young boys rode on their bikes. A person would never know that murder existed in a world this quiet and simple.

The air that blew in through the open window smelled of leaves and impending rain. Indeed, the clouds had knitted together overhead, and were ready to open.

The questioned gnawed at him. The reason for someone giving Rebecca this book was elusive. And how did he even know it had been given to her? The note said “Danice” after all. Didn’t that make it even more likely that
she
had been planning to give the book to someone, and just hadn’t gotten the chance?

He hoped and trusted that Delaney and Colinas were running the name Danice right now, and looking to match it with Rebecca.

“Eternally endured,” Brendan said softly as he drove.

What else would cause someone to have multiple sexual partners? Casual sex certainly wasn’t the worst possibility. Two consenting adults with mutual respect could, theoretically, “enjoy” their congress eternally. Sure, it would be better to spend eternity with that person you loved most, but it was possible to enjoy multiple partners, too.

So who wouldn’t enjoy their partners?

“Prostitutes,” he said to the empty interior of the Camry.

Prostitutes. Certainly a woman who had sex with innumerable partners over the years, likely deriving little to no enjoyment out of any of them, would be a candidate for suffering them eternally.

It would be hell, when you thought about it. All those men, all those experiences, repeated for eternity.

And, Brendan supposed, porn fell into the category, too. Porn was another form of prostitution. Most people didn’t think of it that way, but the people involved in porn got paid to have sex. That was the prostitution of their
corpus
, if you asked Brendan.

And, to C.S. Lewis’s thinking, the prostitution of their soul, too, for which there was no redemption.

As he headed back to Stanwix, still debating on whether or not it could work to drop in on Kettering, Brendan imagined the killer standing in the doorway of Rebecca Heilshorn’s home on the morning of Thursday the fourteenth.

Who was he? Kettering, in a fury driven by romantic rejection? This mystery man Eddie, come for retribution for his lack of custody over the daughter he shared with Rebecca? Kevin, her brother, who had been, as Delaney suggested, into some kinky incestuous relationship with his sister (which corresponded to Kettering’s description of her icy, isolated nature), upset she had broken it off? Or come back to break it off himself? Had he then turned the gun on Olivia Jane because he had told her about it in a moment of grief? Was he terrified of having the information about a sordid relationship with his sister come out in public?

The killer, standing there, alarms Rebecca, who calls 911. Then the killer goes and gets a knife from the kitchen while Rebecca flees to her bedroom and shuts the door. Or maybe the killer already had the knife, and Rebecca had seen it, and her alarm prompted her to place the emergency call before seeking refuge in the bedroom.

The killer climbs the stairs, the knife glints in the early sun blooming in the windows of the clerestory room. He savagely kicks in the door. He tells her to get on the bed, now. He gets on top of her, but does not necessarily rape her. Instead, maybe, they have a brief and tense exchange. He asks her something, or he blames her, or he pleads with her, or he just starts slashing at her.

When it’s over, he goes through her drawers. Either it’s a slipshod attempt at making it look like a robbery, or there’s something he wants. Something he’s trying to find.

“Ah,” said Brendan.

If it was the killer who had given Rebecca the book, wouldn’t he have taken it back then? Why leave anything for the police that could be linked to him?

It seemed more and more likely that Rebecca had been the one to give the book to someone. That, or some third party calling her “Danice,” had given it to her. The former scenario sounded more probable, but Brendan still gave due consideration to the latter.

The killer then leaves the house. Does he burn the laptop and throw it in the shed? No, not enough time, and nothing was hot or freshly burned. The stuff had to have been burned in the fireplace the night before. Someone should ask the neighbor, Folwell, about any odd smells coming from the Heilshorn house that evening before the murder. Like burning plastic.

Rebecca was likely the one to have done it. But why? What was she hiding? And from whom?

The killer, likely. Anticipating his arrival, perhaps. But then why call 911 right away?

Brendan sighed. He was almost home. He had to get his mind cleared – it was all jumbling up again, with overlapping puzzle pieces and gaps where none seemed to go. He had to wash up and get dressed; he had a meeting with Olivia in two hours, and he had things to do first. Time to get moving.

And while he showered and put his clothes on, that image lingered – the silhouette of the man in the doorway. Rebecca’s killer, leaving, slipping away. He disappears as the sun rises, and the heat burns the dry land. The police scour the big, rambling house and ask their questions.

Who was he?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN / SATURDAY, 12:15 PM

Olivia Jane had insisted that her suggestion for a noon meeting didn’t mean a lunch date, but Brendan was able to persuade her anyway. “You need to eat; keep your strength up.”

She finally conceded, but he knew it wasn’t because she agreed with his reasoning. She didn’t want to meet at her own house, and she wasn’t about to go to his house, so a neutral location made sense.

They met at the Rome Savoy. At noon on a Saturday in the summer, the place was busy. The décor was friendly and familial. Framed photographs adorned the wood-paneled walls. The images showed large families, black-and-white weddings, and regal men wearing double-breasted suits. College sports team pennants hung from the crown molding.

It took Brendan a moment to realize that he was bothered by the place. It reminded him too much of a bad time. A time he wished, and would wish forever, could be taken back. The Reckoning.

He forced himself out of the sour feeling and made small talk with Olivia about the weather. They ordered their food and drinks. Brendan sipped on a coke while Olivia opened a bottle of water and poured it over ice.

“I’ve been removed from the case,” he told her.

Olivia’s eyes widened a little. “Why?”

He looked at her levelly and said nothing. He let her put it together.

After a moment, she asked, “Is that unusual?”

He shrugged.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Take the weekend, show up for work on Monday, get reassigned to something else.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“I feel great about it.”

She smirked and raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah, it sucks. They’ve brought in State Police Detectives.”

“Now, I know that’s not unusual.”

“They were at your house.”

“They were at my house, yes.”

“And your lawyer, too.”

“Are you driving at something, Detective?”

“What did they say to you?”

She surprised him by laughing. She had a pleasant laugh, and her teeth flashed briefly before she pressed her lips together. “Does this usually work for you? You know I can’t talk to you about yesterday.”

“You can’t? Why not?”

She cocked her head. “Are you trying to exasperate me? We haven’t even gotten our food yet.”

“What
can
you talk about?”

She looked at her water for a moment, and took it with both hands. “I can talk to you about Thursday. As a friend. About what happened. About how you feel about it.”

“I feel great about it.”

“Now that’s just bad taste. Have you ever had to shoot anyone before in the line of duty?”

“No.”

“Do you remember what we were talking about the other day? Before . . . everything happened? About absorbing a tragedy?”

He shifted in his seat. “I think so. You were saying that it’s not normally the first stage of grief to want to sit down and
talk about it
.” He hung his fingers in the air to indicate quotation marks around “talk about it.”

“Right,” she said.

“But you’re asking me to do just that.”

“I’m wondering whether or not it was a tragedy in your eyes.”

He scowled. “Of course it was. What else would it be?”

“Getting the bad guy.”

“Why would I think Kevin Heilshorn was the bad guy?

She scowled at him. “I don’t know . . . because he tried to end our lives? Boy, you like to be contrary. Let’s talk about
that.
”

He leaned forward. “Wait. That has to come from somewhere. Your meeting with the State Detectives yesterday. They’re looking to hang the murder on him, too?”

Her gaze became evasive. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

He was growing a little flustered, but kept his cool. “Please, Ms. Jane. Olivia. What do you think? You spent an hour with him. Do you think he did it?”

“I can’t say.”

“Off the record, come on. Why do you think he came after us?”

“Us? Maybe he came after you.”

“You don’t think he resented you for talking to him? Like you say, about how people aren’t ready for that. Did it set him off?”

“Are you insinuating that my brief encounter with the aggrieved brother of a dead girl prompted him to come back and try to kill me? Or you?”

He leaned back. “No.”

“It sounds like it. Where are you from?”

“Where am I from?”

“Yes. Where were you born? Where did you grow up?”

“I was born in New York City. St. Luke’s-Roosevelt. We moved to Westchester when I was a kid. New Rochelle, then Hawthorne.”

“With both of your parents?”

“With my mother.”

“Your father stayed in the city?”

“He was a doctor. He couldn’t do a commute.”

“Was a doctor? No longer a doctor?”

“He passed away.”

“I’m sorry. So you were raised by your mother. Where is she now?”

“Buried next to him.”

Olivia blinked. She took a drink of her water. “I’m sorry for that, too. They were buried together?”

“They never divorced, just separated. Neither one of them found anyone else.”

She looked across the table at him. Her brown eyes were soft. “What about you?”

He drank his coke. “What about me, what?”

“Ever find someone? Ever been married?”

He took a breath and looked around the restaurant. People chatted and ate and rattled their silverware. A little boy dropped his napkin on the floor, got off his chair, retrieved the napkin, and then started to crawl around underneath the table.

“Yes,” said Brendan.

“Yes what? You were married?”

“I was.”

Olivia watched him closely. She let up on the line of questioning. A few moments passed, and they both observed the rest of the restaurant. Then their food came.

Once the plates were in front of them, the conversation livened up again, kindled by some idle chatter. Then Olivia got back to business.

“Why did you want to see me?”

Brendan felt a little stubborn. He responded with his own question. “Why did you agree to be seen?”

Olivia looked up from her plate, with a frown. Brendan pulled something from his valise. He set the brown paper bag down on the table and reached inside of it. At the same time, Olivia sat up and pulled away from the table, as if the bag contained something dangerous. “I told you,” she began. “I’m not able to help you with this case.”

Brendan pulled the paperback book out. “I’m not on the case anymore. This is a book I picked up at a bookstore around the corner. Have you ever read it?”

She looked dubious, gauging him, but then she lowered her eyes and read the title aloud, “
The Screwtape Letters
.” Something registered in her gaze. She nodded. “I think so. Years ago.”

“What did you think of it?”

“I don’t really remember.” She picked it up and then read the subtitle. “
Letters from a Senior Devil to a Junior Devil
.” Her eyes flicked up to him. “Sounds like inter-office politics in hell. Why do you have this?”

“It’s a copy of the book found at the scene of Rebecca Heilshorn’s murder.”

She dropped it like it was suddenly contagious. “You’re outrageous. This is unprofessional. Are you trying to get me to leave? I can go, you know.” Her voice remained calm, but her eyes danced with electricity.

“It’s not unprofessional. You and I are two people sitting down, discussing a book.”

“Is this how they do things in Hawthorne?”

“I wasn’t a detective in Hawthorne. I was a cop.”

“You’re telling me that if your boss knew we were here together that he wouldn’t suspend you immediately? Or fire you? I shouldn’t be here; I’m putting your job and mine on the line.”

She started to make moves like she was about to leave. He reached across the table and gently took her hand.

“Look.” Brendan kept his voice very low, but emphatic. “A girl was murdered. We know very little about her. She’s not from the area. Seems to have no friends. Comes from a wealthy family. Her brother shows up and finds out she was killed. Now, I don’t think, and neither do you, that his grief threw him into a homicidal rage. Nor do I think he was the one who killed her. I don’t know why, I only spent about as much time with him as you did, but it just doesn’t sit. Unless he was absolutely crazy, and returned to the scene of the crime less than an hour after killing her. And you don’t think he was that crazy, or egomaniacal. I know you don’t. Was he antisocial? Bipolar? You don’t think so, and neither do I. But his father put pressure on the department to take me off the case. Not because I was doing a poor job, but because of what happened with Kevin. It’s understandable, but listen. I believe the killer is still out there.”

Olivia looked at his hand. She sighed. “Then let your co-workers handle it. Leave it to Delaney. I’m sorry, I just can’t be involved.” She pulled her hand away, but she remained seated. Brendan was nonplussed by her mention of Delaney.

Neither of them had touched their food for a while, and now their waiter seemed to take notice. He materialized next to their table.

“Everything okay here, folks?”

“Fine,” said Brendan. He offered a smile. The waiter eyed their plates, and then returned the smile and left.

Olivia was looking at Brendan.

“You weren’t a detective in Hawthorne. You were a cop, you said.”

“Yes.”

“So you’ve been a detective for . . .?”

“Three months.”

She shook her head, as if to say,
This isn’t how it is done.
“Why did you become a policeman in Hawthorne?”

“I do think Kevin was involved somehow. I think he knew something. The question is, what?”

“Did you always want to become a cop?”

“Just help me. Please.”

She dropped her hands onto the table in frustration, rattling the silverware against the ceramic dishes. “Just what do you think it is I can do? Detective, this book could mean nothing. Nothing at all. You’re off a case which has no leads, and you’re probably grasping at straws. Want to know why?”

“Why?”

“Because of what happened two days ago. You have your own grief to deal with, Mr. Healy, and you’re trying to cope with it by rushing to solve a case you’re no longer lawfully allowed to. You think that by finding this killer you say is out there that you’ll be able to release yourself from these feelings.”

“Oh, don’t try to therapize me,” he said, feeling a stab of anger. “You were there, too. You were shot at, too.”

“I’m not trying to therapize you. You and I both
know
I can’t therapize you. What I can do – what I’m trying to do – is be a friend to you. But you’re not making it easy because you keep acting like such a jackass.”

She fell silent, and then began gathering up her things.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve got skin in the game. We both do.”

She glanced at him briefly, but kept on readying herself to leave. She took money from her wallet and set it down on the table.

He watched her.

“I asked Kevin Heilshorn if he was willing to sign a release so I could potentially share any pertinent information with the police. But he wouldn’t sign anything. And unless he told me he was the killer, or was going to hurt himself or hurt someone else, our relationship was confidential. I hoped to help him through his tragedy. But he remained volatile.” She stood up. Her eyes seemed to charge him with being “volatile” himself. “If you ever feel like you want to talk to me about this – as a friend – stop your obsession and give me a call.”

“Please take your money back. It’s on me.”

“I’d feel better if I left it.”

“Okay.”

She lingered for a moment. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too.” He didn’t know what else to say. He watched her walk out of the restaurant.

* * *

Brendan spent the afternoon on the computer and phone. He found the house Rebecca Heilshorn had rented and dialed the property manager. A woman answered. He asked if it were available for rent. It wasn’t, and he then inquired about a former tenant.

“Rebecca Heilshorn. This would be about two years ago,” she said.

“What about her?”

“I’m an old friend and I’m just trying to track her down. Do you remember her? Did you rent to her?”

“No.”

“You’re sure. You don’t want to check your records or anything?”

“Sir, I’ve been recently contacted by the State Police about this same person. I’ll tell you what I told them, I have no records of a person by that name renting the house. We’ve represented the owner for six years.”