Heartsick (31 page)

Susan delighted in the double compliment, striking a cheesecake pose, arching her back and placing one hand on her nude hip. “As if.”

“So what did you learn?”

Her stomach clenched again. She rolled onto her belly, stretched out diagonally across the bed, and pulled a loose blanket over her naked body. “That I’m a bad reporter. I totally let her get to me.”

“You’ve still got a story, though, right? Facing the cold stare of death and all that.”

She was up on her elbows, the joint held over the edge of the bed. A tiny chunk of ash drifted to the floor and landed on one of the Great Writer’s Persian eBay carpets. Susan watched it fall without even the faintest thought of picking it up. “Oh yeah. She gave up another body. Some college girl in Nebraska.” Susan remembered the smiling girl. The peace sign. The arm around her shoulder that belonged to some left-behind friend who had been cropped out of the photograph. She gave herself a mental shake and took another hit off the joint. “They found her buried on top of an old grave in a cemetery off the highway.” The pot was smoothing all the hard edges, and she felt the stress of the day start to bleed from her body. With it went the need for her companion. “Shouldn’t you be getting home?” she asked, raising an eyebrow purposefully at Ian.

He had settled back onto the bed in his boxers, feet crossed at the ankles. “Sharon’s at the coast. I can’t spend the night?”

“I’ve got to get up early tomorrow. Claire Masland is picking me up.”

“She’s a dyke, you know.”

“Why? Because she has short hair?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Go home, Ian.”

Ian swung his feet on the floor and found the rest of his clothes. He pulled on one of his black socks. “I thought I told you to leave the Molly Palmer thing alone,” he said, pulling on the other sock, not looking at her.

Susan was taken aback. Molly Palmer? “Okay,” she said, raising her hands in mock defensiveness. “You got me. I left a few messages for Ethan Poole.”

“I’m talking about Justin Johnson,” he said, an irritated edge to his voice.

It took a minute for Susan to process this. Justin Johnson? And then the confusion lifted and she thought,
Holy shit.
All this time, she’d thought that Justin had something to do with the After School Strangler case. She had connected him to the wrong story. Justin Johnson had nothing to do with Lee Robinson, nothing to do with Cleveland. “What does Justin have to do with Molly Palmer?” she asked.

Ian laughed. “You don’t know?”

She felt stupid, and stupid for feeling stupid. “What’s going on, Ian?”

He stood and pulled on his black jeans. “Ethan gave Molly your messages. She called the senator’s lawyer. He called Howard Jenkins.” He zipped and buttoned the jeans, then bent and picked his black belt up off the floor and began to thread it through the belt loops. “Jenkins called me. I told him that you weren’t working the story anymore. But apparently little Justin’s mother hired a PI to watch him.” He finished buckling the belt and sat on the edge of the bed. “She thinks he’s dealing pot, see. And who shows up at school to talk to him but Susan Ward from the
Oregon Herald.
They recognized the pink hair.” He pulled on a black Converse. Tied it. “So now everyone thinks you’re on the story. That it’s all going to break wide open.” Pulled the other Converse on. Tied it. “So the lawyer gets the bright idea of slipping you a note with the kid’s juvie record file number on it. With the thought that if you know he has a record, you might not trust the little bastard’s story.”

“Seriously?” Susan said, trying not to smile. “That guy really was a lawyer?”

Ian stood up, half-dressed, and faced her. “You’re going to get us both fired. You know that, right?”

Susan scrambled into a seated position, forgetting about the blanket, letting it fall around her waist. “What does Justin know about Molly Palmer?”

“He was the senator’s son’s best friend. When they were kids. Inseparable. Molly Palmer used to baby-sit them both. So I’m suspecting he saw or heard something he shouldn’t. You might recognize Justin’s mother’s maiden name. Overlook?”

Susan’s heart sank. “As in the family who owns the
Herald
?”

“She’s a cousin.”

“Castle really did it, didn’t he?”

“Oh he did it. It’s just not a story that will ever run in this town.” He reached into the pocket of his gray wool jacket and withdrew something and tossed it on the bed.

“What’s that?” Susan asked.

“It’s your nine-one-one tape. If I were you, I’d get back on the story we’ll actually run, and dance with the fella who brung ya.”

Susan picked up the cassette and turned it over in her hands. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank Derek. He spent all day tracking it down for you.” Ian gave his Columbia Journalism School T-shirt a shake, the way he always did, to get out the wrinkles. “I think he likes you.”

Susan took another drag off the joint. “Well, if I ever want to fuck a frat boy ex-football star,” she said, holding the smoke in her lungs, “I’ll know who to call.”

“Whom,” said Ian.

After Ian was
gone, Susan sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed. The worst of it was that the Molly Palmer story actually mattered. It wasn’t exploitation. It wasn’t advertising. It wasn’t another disposable feature. It could make a difference. A teenager had been wronged, and the man responsible was going to enormous lengths to cover it up. A man with power. A man elected by a public who had a right to know that he was the kind of man who would take advantage of that power to screw a fourteen-year-old. So okay, yes, maybe she had something personal at stake. And now Susan had somehow both landed the Molly Palmer story and lost it at exactly the same time. Justin was in Palm Springs, or wherever. Molly wasn’t talking. Ethan wasn’t even returning her calls. She wanted to nail Senator Castle. More than Ian even knew. She didn’t care if it got her fired. She was going to get someone, somewhere, to go on the record. She looked down at the cassette tape in her hands. Gretchen’s 911 tape. And that’s when Susan Ward was filled with a sudden desire that was entirely foreign to her. She didn’t care about prizes or prose or voice. She didn’t care about a book deal. She didn’t care about impressing Ian.

She wanted, for the first time in her professional life, to be a good reporter.

She padded over to the living area and, sitting on her bare heels, popped the tape into the stereo. She had read the transcript of the call dozens of times. But it was still thrilling to finally get a glimpse into the real-time moment. She pressed
PLAY
.

“Nine one one. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“My name is Gretchen Lowell. I’m calling on behalf of Detective Archie Sheridan. Do you know who I am?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Good. Your detective needs to get to a trauma center. I’m at two three three nine Magnolia Lane in Gresham. We’re in the basement. There’s a school two blocks away where you should be able to land a helicopter. If you get people here in the next fifteen minutes, he just might live.” She hung up.

Susan sank back into a seated position on the floor and ran her hands over her forearms, which were scattered with tiny goose bumps. Gretchen had sounded so calm. When Susan had heard Gretchen’s voice in her mind, it had been more panicked, frantic. She was, in effect, turning herself into the police, giving up the ghost. She could have been killed. But she hadn’t seemed concerned at all. Her voice did not bear a single tremor. She did not stammer or search for words. She was direct, articulate, and professional. Her call almost sounded rehearsed.

Archie didn’t ask
Henry to go with him to interview Reston. It was Sunday afternoon and he felt bad enough about dragging Henry to the state pen every weekend, though he knew Henry would never let him go alone. He also wanted, if at all possible, to protect Susan’s privacy. So Archie let Henry drop him off at his apartment. He was numb and tired from the pills, so he made a pot of coffee. Then he checked his voice mail for messages. There were none, which meant that Debbie had never called back. Archie didn’t blame her. It was a mistake to talk to her at all on Sundays. He had promised himself that he’d keep Debbie and Gretchen separate, compartmentalized; it was the only way this would work. But he was selfish. He needed Debbie, wanted to hear her voice, to be reminded of his old life. But the phone calls would have to stop eventually. They both knew it. They just prolonged the pain of their emotional entanglement. He would stop the calls. He just couldn’t bear to do it yet.

He called Claire and checked in. There were no leads. The tip line was quiet. Even prank callers took Sundays off. It had been four days since they had discovered Kristy Mathers’s body. Which meant that the killer was probably already looking for another victim. Archie sat alone in his kitchen and drank half the pot of coffee, pausing only long enough to refill his cup. When he felt suitably revived, he took two more Vicodin and called a cab.

Reston lived in Brooklyn, a neighborhood south of Cleveland High. It was a tangle of telephone wires and trees densely packed with little middle-class Victorians and eighties duplexes—a nice neighborhood. Safe.

Archie told the cabdriver to wait and then got out and began to climb the mossy cement steps that led up the little hill to Reston’s one-story house. It was late afternoon, and while the houses across the street still glowed in the sun, long shadows streaked Reston’s terraced hillside. Reston was on the porch, painting a door that he had propped up on two sawhorses. He was wearing project clothes; paint-splattered work pants, an old gray sweatshirt, a Mariners baseball cap. His expression was relaxed, showing obvious pleasure in the task. He looked up when he saw Archie, and then he went back to painting. Of course he knew Archie was a cop. Archie looked like a cop. It didn’t matter what he wore. It wasn’t always that way. The first few years, everyone had always been surprised when they found out what he did. He wasn’t sure when the change had happened. He’d just noticed one day that he made people nervous.

When Archie got to the top of the porch stairs, he sat down on the top step and leaned up against the square porch column a few feet from where Reston stooped over the door. An old wisteria, still leafless, its branches as thick as human wrists, knotted up the post and along the railing.

“Ever read
Lolita
?” Archie asked.

Reston dipped the brush in some white paint and slid it along the door. The wall of paint fumes pushed away every other sensation. “Who are you?” Reston asked.

Archie opened his badge and held it out. “I’m Detective Sheridan. I have some questions for you about a former student of yours, Susan Ward.”

Reston glanced at the badge. No one ever bothered to look at it up close. “She told you we had a relationship,” he said.

“Yep.”

Reston sighed and adjusted his stance so his eyes were level with the surface of the door. He applied more paint, a quick dab and drag along the wood. “Is this on the record?”

“I’m a police detective,” Archie said. “I don’t do off the record.”

“She’s confused.”

“Really.”

A rivulet of paint had collected and Reston smoothed the brush along the wood until the paint was perfectly dispersed. “You know about her father? He died her freshman year. That was very hard on her. I tried to be kind. And I think she misunderstood my interest.” He frowned. “Built it up in her mind.”

“You’re saying that you never had a sexual relationship,” Archie said.

Reston exhaled. Looked off across the yard for a minute. And then carefully placed the brush on the paint can. The can was on top of a piece of the
Herald,
so that the wet end of the brush hung suspended above a corner of it, a thread of paint pooling on the newsprint. He turned to Archie. “I kissed her, okay?” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Once. It was bad judgment on my part. I never let it happen again. When I rejected her, she started a rumor that I’d had an affair with another student. It could have gotten me fired. But there was nothing to it. There was never a formal investigation, because everyone knew it was bogus. Susan was just”—he searched the air with his hand for the right word—“damaged. She was distraught by her father’s death and lashed out. But I liked her. I always did. She was a charming, pissed-off, talented kid. I understood the pain she was in. And I did everything I could to help her.”