Love Gone Mad (11 page)

“Pat, I need help on something.” Adrian hears a nervous treble in his voice.

“Name it, Adrian.”

“Well, there’s a good chance there’s a guy stalking Megan.”

“Your girl’s getting stalked?”

“Yes. In fact, Pat, I may’ve run into him. Remember that drive-by shooting at King’s Corner?”

“Sure do.”

“The guy who did it may be Megan’s ex.” Adrian’s tongue goes to his lips and tries to find moisture, but they’re Sahara-dry.

“You have time, Pat?”

“For you, Adrian? Of course I have time.”

S
itting at his desk, Mulvaney dials Adrian’s cell. It’s eight in the evening, a day after they talked on the telephone. Adrian picks up after the second ring.

“Adrian, guess who we found.”

“Conrad Wilson?”

“Yup, he’s here at the station. I’d like you to come down and ID him … see if he’s the guy from King’s Corner.”

“How’d you get him?”

“We picked him up early this evening. He was in New Haven.”

“So he
is
back. How’d you do it?”

“Easy. We ran Wilson’s name through Colorado DMV. His pickup’s registered there. We got an address, contacted Denver PD. They learned he broke his lease and left no forwarding address, so they talked to a neighbor. The guy said Wilson went back East, somewhere in New England. So we assumed it was New Haven. In this business, you learn people are creatures of habit. We spoke to your girl, Megan, and she told us that Wilson used to hang out at a Tex-Mex place, the Mesa Bar & Grill in New Haven.

“So we contacted the New Haven PD, and they were on the lookout for a black Ford F-250 with Colorado plates. Bingo. The thing was parked there, right at the corner of State and Beech Street. Can you get down here real soon?”

“T
hat’s the guy,” Adrian says, peering through the one-way mirror. Looking at the man in the interrogation room, Adrian feels a cold tingling run down his spine. And something drops in his belly; it feels heavy, like a dead weight.

“No doubt about it?”

“Patty, I’ll never forget that face or those eyes. The Vandyke’s gone, but that’s him.”

“So he was at the bar that night, and he owns a black pickup. Doesn’t prove he shot the place up,” Mulvaney says. “But it says somethin’ about him.”

“It shows he’s been hanging around, stalking Megan.”

“Yeah, and maybe you, too. We’ll find out what we can. The ID helps, Adrian. I’ll let you know what develops.”

B
ack in his office, Mulvaney thinks about the call he made to his old friend Lieutenant Joe Morris, district manager of the State Street Patrol District in New Haven. As a courtesy, he told Joe his men picked Wilson up for questioning.

“Looks like a stalking situation, Joe. The guy may’ve also done a drive-by at a bar in Eastport and possibly a B and E.”

“Pat, do whatever you gotta do,” Morris said.

Leaning back in his high-backed leather chair, Mulvaney thinks about his job. He’s thankful he’s Eastport’s police chief. It’s a lovely town, for the most part: stately homes and high-end condos in Fairfield County—one of the wealthiest in the nation—filled with law-abiding citizens, especially compared to New Haven. Even with Yale, a good part of New Haven’s still a shit-hole. And it was just his luck to be recruited by the Eastport Town Board after thirty-five hard-core years on the New Haven force.

In Eastport, you got mostly upper-middle class types—commuters into the Big Apple—and some leftovers from the old days of the blueblood WASP elite. Yup, there’s plenty of old money still lingering in Eastport, especially in the Green Hills section. And there’s no serious crime, just the everyday bullshit of the burbs: traffic enforcement, neighbors’ petty squabbles over dogs or noise, and underage drinking, teen pranks, DUIs, minor crap like that.

Yup, Mulvaney thinks, it’s good to be chief. Actually, he’s lucky to be alive, thanks to Adrian Douglas. He’d just begun his stint as chief when the chest pains began—felt like the Jolly Green Giant sitting on his chest—crushing pain right in the center and goin’ straight up his back and down both arms. He was rushed to Eastport General.

Adrian got in there and fixed his pipes—real fast, skin to skin in less than three hours. Since then it’s been a social thing—no more doctor-patient bullshit. Adrian’s a regular guy, and he’s modest, too. Not some grandstanding braggart like so many of these guys with sheepskins. Mulvaney realizes Adrian’s got all the bases covered. A top-notch surgeon and a former baseball player too—center field at Cornell. He was scouted big-time by the pros—was offered a trip down to Vero Beach to try out for the Dodgers. But he nixed it for med school.

Because of Adrian, Mulvaney’ll work another five years, till he’s sixty-five. Then he and Marge’ll head down to the Carolinas, where retired cops fade away on the golf course. It’s what Marge has wanted for a while now, and it’s time to give her a break, get her away from these Connecticut winters, which make her arthritis flare up.

Mulvaney’s reverie is broken when Lieutenant Ed Harwood pokes his head into the office.

“It’s been nearly two hours and we’re getting nowhere, Chief. Soon he’ll be all lawyered up.”

P
eering through the one-way mirror, Mulvaney knows Wilson’s a rough customer, not like most of the punks he’s dealt with over the years. He looks like a rugged guy, one you’d never wanna run into in a dark alleyway. Mulvaney turns to Harwood and says, “We won’t get much outta him, Ed.”

Harwood’s a twenty-year veteran and knows the nuts and bolts of police work. “He fits the profile of a stalker,” Harwood says. “Was married to the vic, was abusive, she left him, and he’s stalked her before.”

“Any priors?” Mulvaney asks.

“Not here. We contacted Colorado. Just some minor barroom crap, nothing serious. There’s no real rap sheet.” Harwood grunts. “He’s just tumbleweed and trailer trash; that’s how I see this guy.”

“Too bad the prints on the beer bottle at Kings Corner were smudged.”

“Yup,” says Harwood.

“Anything from NCIC?”

“Nope, not a thing.”

“This stinks out loud,” says Mulvaney. “It’s the kinda thing you hear on the six o’clock news. He stalks the ex, kills her, kills the kid, and then shoots himself in the head.” Pressure builds behind Mulvaney’s eyeballs. He feels another headache comin’ on—a real brain squeezer. Maybe he’ll take that antimigraine shit, Imitrex.

M
ulvaney enters the interrogation room, a cinder-block cubicle with semigloss painted beige walls. The place is cramped, brightly lit by a recessed fluorescent light above the oak veneer table. A faint odor of cheap cologne—the crap Detective Bill Casey uses—lingers in the air. Casey’s his best interrogator; he took courses with the FBI down at Quantico. The guy could sweat a block of granite. He spent an hour and a half with Wilson and got shit-on-a-stick outta the guy.

Up close, Wilson’s even bigger-looking than before. And those eyes: like some strange fish peering up at you from the depths—a shark. Mulvaney feels a hole in the pit of his stomach. Wilson’s wearing a light-blue work shirt and faded Wrangler jeans along with tan hiking boots—typical workman’s outfit. The guy’s thighs bulge with massed muscle and look like they’re ready to burst outta the jeans.

“What do we have here, the chief of police?” Wilson says, eyeing the row of silver stars on Mulvaney’s starched blue collar.

Sitting opposite Wilson, Mulvaney tastes acid in his throat. “Pat Mulvaney, police chief,” he says, meeting Wilson’s eyes. Mulvaney makes sure to hold Wilson’s stare—eyeball-to-eyeball, no flinching.

Wilson sits casually, his hands—with fingers clasped—rest on the table’s laminated top. Jesus, those mitts are huge meat pies, thinks Mulvaney. They’re thick-fingered, rough, calloused—a working man’s hands.

“Mr. Wilson … you were livin’ in Colorado?”

Wilson nods.

“Whendya come back to Connecticut?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Why was that?”

Wilson shrugs his massive shoulders. Fuckin’ guy’s built like an NFL linebacker, thinks Mulvaney. It’s rare to see a guy with such dense muscle bulk.

“Get fired?”

“Laid off …”

“These are bad times, huh?”

Wilson nods. He seems to be merely tolerating Mulvaney’s presence.

“You been workin’ since you got back to New Haven?”

He shakes his head.

“Why not?”

“Like you said … bad times.”

“Mr. Wilson, you own a Ford pickup, don’t you?”

You go from the known to the unknown. Take it step by step; ask yes-and-no questions to pin him into a corner; get some tidbits that might begin opening the door a crack
.

Wilson nods again, a slow, ponderous motion of his head.

“Mr. Wilson, you ever been in King’s Corner here in Eastport?”

Wilson shrugs.

“Someone shot the place up … used a shotgun.”

Wilson’s stare reminds Mulvaney of the prefight stare downs when he was heavyweight champ in the interdepartmental boxing matches in New Haven—a thousand years ago. Beat the shit outta plenty of cops and firemen.

“You own a shotgun?”

Wilson shakes his head.

“
Ever
own one?”

Wilson nods.

“Where is it?”

“With the New Haven police, last I knew.”

“Why?”

“They took it.”

“Why?”

“Part of a restraining order …”

“Who got the order?”

“My ex.”

“Why’d that happen?”

“She claimed I got physical with her.”

Mulvaney wonders where to take this little chitchat. Wilson stonewalled Bill Casey, so Mulvaney’s certain he’s going to have to settle for this Q and A going nowhere. Maybe it’s time to use some of what he’s learned from Adrian.

“Got any kids, Mr. Wilson?”

“Nope, not one.”

“Most men I know have kids.”

“The ex has one, but it’s not mine. Kid’s a bastard.”

“How do ya know?”

“I know.”

“Speakin’ of your ex, you telephone her?”

“Nope.”

“Send her flowers?”

“Why would I send flowers to a whore?”

“A whore? Why do ya say that?”

“Just is.”

“So, you’re not workin’. I guess you have plenty of time on your hands.”

No response.

“Lots of time to spend here in Eastport?”

He says nothing.

“In your black pickup … Colorado plates 254WKB.”

The guy still says nothin’. No blinking, no movement.

“A Ford F-250 with an overhead light rack and a silver toolbox in the back of the cab?”

Wilson’s eyes remind Mulvaney of a blizzard of pure nothingness. Those pupils—deep black holes in the middle of that icy paleness—fuckin’ creepy.

“Ever been to the flower shop near Eastport General?”

Wilson shakes his head.

Wilson’s sitting in this hard-backed interrogation chair—purposely designed to give you ass-ache—with those huge, lunch-box-sized mitts clasped, looking like they could rip the New Haven County Yellow Pages in half.

“No flowers?”

“Flowers are for faggots.”

“I send flowers to my wife every Valentine’s Day. That make me a faggot?”

“Only you can know, Chief.”

“You a homosexual, Mr. Wilson?”

Mulvaney looks for a tell—a flicker in the eye, a twitch, a few blinks—anything to show he’s touched a raw nerve, penetrated the guy’s armor, put a needle up his ass. But the guy sits there, calm, unruffled; he’s impenetrable.

Mulvaney leans in, palms on the table, his face inches away from Wilson’s.

“I asked if you’re a homosexual, Mr. Wilson.”
Jesus. This guy’s coldness could cause freezer burn
. “In my experience, a guy who calls other guys a faggot has homosexual tendencies,” Mulvaney says. “Ya know what I’m sayin’?”

“Maybe you got lots of experience with faggots, Chief …”

“I wonder if I’m lookin’ at one now.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then I’m outta here,” Wilson says, rising from his chair.

“You’re outta here when I
say
you’re outta here.” Mulvaney feels his heart kick into a gallop.

Wilson sits down. Stays cool, unshaken.

A twinge of apprehension crawls through Mulvaney. It’s Wilson’s stare, the brooding silence, the guy’s fearlessness—even lifelessness. And right now, of all the goddamned things, the fuckin’ guy’s nostrils are widening. Even quivering, just slightly; Mulvaney
sees
it. It’s barely detectible, but Mulvaney can see the nostril edges flaring outward. Maybe the guy’s getting’ annoyed, or maybe, just maybe, the son of a bitch smells somethin’. Mulvaney recalls reading that people give off fear odor; it comes from somewhere deep inside. Actually, all animals give it off. And Mulvaney realizes he’s thinking about fear odor because he’s certain Wilson’s sniffing
him
.

Yes, Mulvaney’s sure the bastard’s getting a whiff of his damp pits. It’s not a Niagara of sweat, but it’s there. So Mulvaney finds himself inhaling—discreetly—trying to sniff his own sweat, but there’s not a hint of that primal juice. Yet Wilson’s sniffing him like a goddamned dog.
Jeez, is this guy some kind of animal?

“Lemme tell you something, Mr. Wilson.”

The man stares. The fluorescent light buzzing above them reminds Mulvaney of a horsefly on a hot summer day, or maybe a goddamned hornet.

“We have our eye on you.”

The light keeps humming.

“You’d better be careful about who you follow or harass.”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“I’m telling you to be careful.”

“I’m always careful. It’s my nature.”

“Well, we’re onto your
nature
.” Mulvaney waits a beat, then says, “And I’ll tell you somethin’ else …”

Wilson waits, silent and stone still.

“We know it was
you
who shot up King’s Corner. We know you’ve been hanging around Eastport General … and we know you’ve been following Megan Haggarty. And ya know what? You show up in Eastport, we’ll be on you like shit on a pig.”

Wilson stands. It’s a sudden movement, quick, catlike.

Mulvaney feels his pulse bound as he pushes back from the table.