On the Street Where you Live (9 page)

“Tell him to call me back fast,” Tommy ordered. “I have to leave here
soon,
not presently.”

“Better than I expected,” he told Pete as they compared the results of the other calls. With the exception of two elderly couples who could not possibly have been involved in Martha's death, all the other people who had been at the party were planning to attend the Mass on Saturday.

He dialed The Seasoner restaurant again, and this time Bob Frieze accepted the call. The request to meet at Stafford's house brought a vigorous protest.

“Saturday afternoon and evening are very busy in my restaurant,” he snapped. “We've spoken any number of times, Detective Duggan. I can assure you I have nothing further to add to what I've already told you.”

“I don't think you'd want it leaked to the press that you're resisting cooperating with the police,” Tommy retorted.

When he hung up with Frieze, he smiled in satisfaction. “I like leaning on that guy,” he told Walsh. “It feels good.”

“It felt good listening to you lean on him. When I was on the force in Spring Lake everyone had that guy's number. The first Mrs. Frieze is a lovely woman who got dumped after giving him three nice kids and putting up with his little escapades for over thirty years. We all knew that Bob Frieze was a womanizer. And he's got a lousy disposition. When I was a rookie eight years ago, I ticketed him for speeding, and trust me, he did everything he could to get me fired.”

“What I'm beginning to wonder is whether or not his second marriage has cured him of womanizing,” Tommy said thoughtfully. “He's suddenly getting mighty defensive.”

He got up. “Come on. We have just enough time to grab some lunch before we meet Graham.”

Tommy suddenly realized that he hadn't had a bite of food since someone had brought in coffee and bagels hours earlier. For a moment he wrestled with his own demons, then settled on the order he would place at McDonald's. A Super Mac, complete with a double order of french fries. And a large Coke.

A
T TWO FORTY-FIVE,
Emily parked in front of the home of Clayton and Rachel Wilcox, on Ludlam Avenue. Half an hour earlier, she had called Will Stafford and asked him to suggest where she should
begin her research into the disappearance of Madeline Shapley.

A hint of apology in her voice, she said, “Will, I know you thought you'd be finished with me after we closed on the house yesterday, and you should have been. I feel as if I'm in danger of becoming a pest to you, but I
do
want to get some background on Spring Lake at the time my family lived here. I intend to ask about obtaining police reports of Madeline's case, if they still exist, and there may be newspaper stories somewhere as well. I just don't know where to start.”

“Our own library on Third Avenue has excellent reference material,” he told her, “but the Monmouth County Historical Society in Freehold is undoubtedly the primary resource.”

She thanked him and was about to hang up when he said, “Wait a minute, Emily. A good shortcut might be to talk to Dr. Clayton Wilcox. He's a retired college president, and has become the town's unofficial historian. Something else may interest you about him: he and his wife, Rachel, were guests at the Lawrence home the night before Martha Lawrence disappeared. Let me give him a ring.”

He called her back fifteen minutes later. “Clayton would enjoy meeting you. Go right over. I told him what you wanted, and he's already putting together some material for you. Here's the address.”

And here I am, Emily thought as she got out of the car. The morning had been bright and relatively warm, but the fading mid-afternoon sunshine and the light wind had combined to create a chilled and somber atmosphere.

She quickly walked up the steps to the porch and rang the bell. A moment later the door opened.

Even if no one had told her, she would have guessed instinctively that Dr. Clayton Wilcox was an academic. The full head of shaggy hair, the glasses perched on the end of his nose, the heavy-lidded eyes, the bulky sweater over a shirt and tie. The only thing that's missing is a pipe, she thought.

His voice was deep and the tone pleasant when he greeted her. “Miss Graham, please come in. I wish I could say, ‘Welcome to Spring Lake,' and leave it at that, but under the tragic circumstances of the discovery of the Lawrence girl's body on your property, that doesn't seem appropriate, does it?” He stood aside, and as she passed him, Emily was surprised to realize that he was almost six feet tall. He had a way of slouching forward that at first impression had minimized his height.

He took her coat, then led her down the hall, past the living room. “When we decided to move to Spring Lake twelve years ago, my wife did the house hunting,” he explained, as he waved her into a room where, except for the window, all four walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves. “My one criterion was that I have a true Victorian and that one room would provide ample space for my books, my desk, my couch, and my chair.”

“That's quite an order.” Emily smiled as she glanced around. “But you got what you asked for.”

It was the kind of room she liked. The wine-colored leather couch was deep and comfortable. She would have liked to have the opportunity to peruse
the bookshelves. Most of the books appeared to be old, and she guessed that the ones in a glass-enclosed section were probably rare.

A stack of books and papers was piled haphazardly on the left-hand corner of the massive desk. At least a dozen notebooks were crisscrossed around an open laptop computer. Emily could see that the screen was lit.

“I've interrupted you,” she said. “I'm terribly sorry.”

“Not at all. My writing wasn't going well, and I looked forward to meeting you.”

He settled in the club chair. “Will Stafford tells me that you are interested in learning about the history of Spring Lake. I've been listening to the news reports, so I know that your ancestor's remains were found along with those of poor Martha Lawrence.”

Emily nodded. “Martha's murderer obviously knew that Madeline Shapley had been buried there, but the question is how
could
he know?”

“He?
You're assuming the present-day killer is a man?” Wilcox raised an eyebrow.

“I think it's more than likely,” Emily said. “But can I be sure? Of course not. Nor do I have any certainty about the killer over one hundred years ago. Madeline Shapley was my great-great-grandaunt. If she'd lived to be eighty, she would have died a couple of generations ago and been forgotten by now, as we all will be in time. Instead, she was murdered when she was only nineteen years old. In a peculiar way, to our family she's not dead. She's unfinished business.”

Emily leaned forward and clasped her hands together.
“Dr. Wilcox, I'm a criminal defense attorney and a pretty good one. I have a lot of experience collecting evidence. There's a
connection
between the deaths of Martha Lawrence and Madeline Shapley, and when one of those murders is solved, it may be that the other one will be solved too. It may sound ridiculous, but I believe that whoever learned that Madeline Shapley was buried on the grounds of her family home also learned how and why she died.”

He nodded. “You may be right. It's possible there's a record somewhere. A written confession perhaps. Or a letter. But then you're suggesting that whoever found such a document not only concealed it but used the grave-site information in it when he committed his own crime.”

“I guess that
is
what I'm suggesting, yes. And something else. I believe neither Madeline in 1891, nor Martha four and a half years ago, was the kind of young woman who would have gone off with a stranger. More likely both of them let themselves get trapped by someone they trusted.”

“I think that's a big leap, Miss Graham.”

“Not necessarily, Doctor Wilcox. I know Madeline's mother and sister were in the house when she vanished. It was a warm September day. The windows were open. They would have heard her if she had screamed.

“Martha Lawrence was jogging. It was early, but she surely wasn't the only jogger. There are houses overlooking the boardwalk. It would have been pretty daring, and pretty tough, to somehow overcome
her and drag her into a car or van without being observed.”

“You've done a good deal of thinking about this, haven't you Miss Graham?”

“Please call me Emily. Yes, I guess I
have
done a good deal of thinking about it. It isn't hard to focus on the subject when a forensic team is sifting through my backyard for bones of murder victims. Fortunately, I don't start my new job in Manhattan until May 1st. I can do a lot of crash research till then.”

She stood up. “I've taken enough of your time, Doctor Wilcox, and I must get back to meet with a detective from the prosecutor's office.”

Wilcox hoisted himself to his feet. “When Will Stafford phoned, I pulled out some books and articles about Spring Lake that might be helpful to you,” he told her. “There are also some copies of newspaper clippings from the 1890s. These are only the tip of the iceberg, but they'll keep you busy for a while.”

The pile of books and papers she'd noticed on the desk was what he had put together for her. “Wait a minute. You can't possibly carry them like this,” he said, more to himself than to her. He opened the bottom drawer of the desk and pulled out a folded cloth bag with the words “Enoch College Book Store” printed across it.

“If you always keep my books in this, they won't get separated,” he suggested. He gestured to the desk. “I'm writing a historical novel set in Spring Lake in 1876, the year the Monmouth Hotel was opened. It's
my first attempt at fiction, and I find it quite a challenge.” He smiled. “I've done a fair amount of academic writing, of course, but I'm learning that it's much easier to write about factual subjects than to write fictional ones.”

He walked with her to the door. “I'll put together more material for you, but let's talk after you've had a chance to go through all these references. You may have some questions.”

“You've been very kind,” she said as she shook his hand at the door. Emily did not know why she had a sudden feeling of discomfort, even claustrophobia. It's that house, she thought as she went down the steps and got into the car. Except for his office, it's utterly cheerless.

She had glanced into the living room as she passed it. The dark upholstery and heavy draperies were the worst of the Victorian-era decor, she decided, everything heavy, dark, formal. I wonder what
Mrs.
Wilcox is like?

F
ROM THE WINDOW,
Clayton Wilcox watched Emily drive away. A most attractive young woman, he decided, as he reluctantly turned and went back to his study. He sat at the desk and pushed the
ENTER
key on the computer.

The screen saver disappeared, and the page he had been working on came into view. It concerned the frantic search for a young woman who had come to Spring Lake with her parents to attend the gala opening of the Monmouth Hotel in 1876.

From his top drawer, Clayton Wilcox took out the
copy he had made from microfilm of a front-page story in the
Seaside Gazette
of September 12, 1891.

It began: “Foul play is suspected in the mysterious disappearance five days ago of Miss Madeline Shapley of Spring Lake . . .”

“I
CAN'T DO IT ANYMORE,”
Nick said aloud. He was standing at the window of his corner office in the law firm of Todd, Scanlon, Klein and Todd, looking down at the street thirty floors below. He watched as cars disappeared into the tunnel that ran from Fortieth to Thirty-third Street under Park Avenue South.

The only difference between the cars and me is that I'm stuck in the tunnel, he thought.
They
come out the other side.

The morning had been spent in the conference room working on the Hunter case. Hunter's going to go scot-free, and I'll have helped to make that possible. The absolute certainty made Nick feel physically sick.

I don't want to hurt Dad, but I can't do it anymore, he acknowledged to himself.

He thought about the old words of wisdom: “This above all: To thine own self be true and it must follow as the day the night thou canst not then be false to any man.”

I can't be false to myself any longer. I don't
belong
here. I don't want to be here. I want to prosecute these creeps, not defend them.

He heard the door of his office open. Only one person would do that without knocking. He turned around slowly. As he expected, his father was framed in the doorway.

“Nick, we've got to do something about Emily Graham. I must have been out of my mind when I told her she could wait until May 1st to start work. A case just came in that's tailor-made for her. I want you to go down to Spring Lake and tell her that we need her to be in here within the week.”

Emily Graham. The thought that had struck Nick when he saw her in action in court ran through his mind. Emily and his father were like two peas in a pod. They were born to be criminal defense attorneys.

He'd been within inches of telling his father that he had to resign from the firm.

I can wait a little longer, he decided. But once Emily Graham's on board, I'm out of here.

T
HE QUESTION
to the prosecutor from the shrill reporter during the televised new conference delighted him:
Do you think Martha's killer is a reincarnation?

But then the prosecutor's brusque dismissal of the possibility affronted him.

I
am
reincarnated, he thought. We have become one.