Simple (6 page)

“Yep. Then it started raining.”

“You must have relaxed.”

“In my fashion.”

“We didn't expect you back until Monday. We thought you'd get in Sunday night.”

“We left early because of the rain.”

“Bummer.”

“I pushed and did the whole drive today. Fourteen hours.”

“I'd say you're pretty tired.”

“I am.”

“You got curious about this case.” She laughed.

“You know it.
You
have any ideas about it?”

“No. Wallet is missing. Also apparently a cell phone. The usual theories. In spite of the theft, which might not be a theft, of course, Coleson and McGranahan are pretty hot on the handyman.”

“So long as you all run everything. Cover all the bases.” He yawned.

“I think they will,” she said carefully. “You should get some sleep.”

“Right. Couple of hours will do wonders. I'll check back in the morning.”

Christie wondered if he was losing his smarts, his instincts. He'd always relied on his intuitive abilities. Cal Hathaway. Was he wrong about him? He'd only seen him briefly. What, twenty seconds. Hathaway was supposedly
slow
—a person who needed a longer processing time than most people did. He knew nothing else about him.

He went home and climbed into bed. Marina had managed to put the kitchen things away, but the suitcases and other beach paraphernalia sat in piles in the living room. She was out. Exhausted. He counted some sheep, worked on the family budget by calculating things in his head, which he was still good at, thought about how happy his children had been playing in the waves, that is, when they could
get
waves—which wasn't all the time, Cape Cod being less surf-friendly than New Jersey.

He managed to drift off.

*   *   *

ELINOR SAID TO THE
woman at the desk, “I need to see my boy. Calvin Hathaway. I called his house. He must still be here.”

“Yes. He's here. I'm Detective Littlefield. Are you a witness to the investigation?”

“I guess I am.”

“Did you see anything?”

“Nothing like that. I was at work. Cal is my son, and I'm worried he's not all right.”

“How do you mean?”

“He can't take stress. I'm serious. He can't take it.”

“It isn't easy on anybody.”

“That's not what I mean.”

“I'll call the detectives. Would you sit? Can I get you something?”

“No, nothing.”

“Water?”

“Yes, water.”

Elinor watched the lady detective pour water from a cooler. The woman brought it to her, patted her hand, and said, “Now you wait just a moment.”

Two men wearing ties came out of a room. Was that where her son was? Elinor stood to walk toward the room, but they stopped her. “Just a minute. Are you Mrs. Hathaway?”

“Yes.”

“We're glad you came. We want to talk to you.”

The woman detective who had greeted her told them, “Greer is finished. Conference room is free.”

“Good, good. You have water?” The man who asked her this was trying to sound polite. He looked tired. “Follow me.”

The other man had a less polite look. He slumped as he walked.

If they were tired, what did it mean for Cal? Had they been grilling him all day?

The conference room had a large wooden table and vinyl upholstered chairs that were on rollers.

“Sit, Mrs. Hathaway.”

She sat. Her chair rolled, making her grab the edge of the table.

“The floor slants some,” the larger detective said, smiling. “You've come to tell us something about your son? Is that right?”

“I've come to make sure he's okay. He can't handle stress. He probably won't tell you that he can't handle it, but I'm here to make sure somebody knows it.”

The detectives stared at her. “What exactly are you saying?” the skinny one asked.

“That I want to talk to him. In private. Not”—her hand swept the room's ceiling—“not with some listening device.”

“There isn't anything like that in here,” the big one said, looking first at her, then at his partner. “We could let them talk in here.”

The other one grunted. He turned to her. “He called you?”

“He did. Am I supposed to get him a lawyer?”

“Is that what he asked for?”

“He didn't ask me anything. He just said he was having a bad day. He found a body and he was upset that he couldn't get out to go home. Why … why are you keeping him here?”

“He's a key witness. He found the body. He's a witness.”

“Did he do it?” Everything stopped moving. Her words hung in the air.

“We thought perhaps you were here to tell us that.”

“I won't let him be bullied. He's had a hard life. He—did he tell you he's deaf in one ear? Did he let you know he doesn't always hear what you're saying?”

“No, he didn't mention that.”

“It slows him down.”

“We thought it was something else.”

“There are other things.”

“Can you tell us?”

She studied them. She didn't know what to do except explain. So she began. “When he was a boy, he got beat up at school. Badly. He had a concussion that … did not reverse, or whatever, right away. And after that he got a seizure one day at school, and so the same boys beat him again. Nobody should have to go through that. The boys got away. Nothing ever happened to them.”

“I'm sorry. That's terrible.”

“Yes, it is. He fought to make a comeback. He did okay in school in the long run, but he's never been totally … confident. The doctor said a brain injury is … tricky.”

“What are you trying to tell us?” the skinny one asked, and again she felt afraid of him. “That he has excuses for certain—”

The other one quieted him. “Just a minute. I'm interested in this injury. How is he not okay? Can you be specific? Seizures?”

“Just the one to my knowledge.”

“Did he ever sleepwalk?”

“I don't think so.”

“Black out?”

“Yes.”

“He did?”

“For a couple years he had memory problems. Things he just didn't remember.” It was the truth. Would the truth help him if he did it or would they just hold it against him? “Please don't batter at him. I'm afraid for him. A seizure is a terrifying thing.”

The two detectives sat for a long time as if thinking. Finally the friendlier one said, “I'm going to let you talk to him while my partner and I talk to each other.”

“Thank you.”

“Should I—” She stood.

“No. You stay here. We'll bring him to you. Maybe you can get him to tell us what happened.”

It seemed to her she waited a long time, though it was probably four minutes. She couldn't sit. When her son came in, she stood and hugged him for a long time.

“I'm sorry I bothered you,” he said.

“Just a minute.” She waited until the detectives left and closed the door. “Are they being hard on you?”

“Yes. I'm tired.”

“Did you eat?”

“They fed me once.”

This froze her blood. If they fed him, they must be
keeping
him, booking him. What did they know?

“Can you remember today?” she asked.

He looked at her, puzzled.

“Everything. Finding the woman. Can you remember?”

“I remember okay. At first I thought she was sick. But then her nightgown was torn. Then I realized…”

She didn't know what to think. “Did you get near her?”

“I touched the body—maybe I shouldn't have, maybe that's what they're on me about, but I needed to know if she was dead for sure. Then I called 911.”

“How did you know she was dead?”

“She was cold. No pulse.”

“Did you black out?”

“No.”

“So you remember everything?”

“I said I did. You didn't need to come here.” He looked about irritably, almost as if he wanted to go back to the others.

She couldn't help herself. She asked, “Did you go over there last night, to see her?”

He frowned, giving her a hard look. “No.”

“Could you have gone and not remembered? Blacked out?”

He shook his head.

“You are so upset. I can see how upset you are.”

He winced. It was almost a smile. “I felt good around her. And now she's dead.”

Elinor was afraid to ask him anything more. She thought there might be a listening device in the room after all. She wanted them to know at least that he had a kind heart and a serious medical condition, that the two of those things together might have mixed him up, and that if they did, he was a creature not in control, a victim of bullies from twenty-some years ago.

*   *   *

THERE ARE MANY
phone calls coming at Mike Connolly up to midnight. “Keep you out of the news. Do only one interview, just one, very sober, and use it, talk about crime, cleaning up our cities, wiping out drugs, getting jobs for people. This is your one good clip or sound bite or whatever. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“But not multiple appearances.”

“Okay.”

“They'll play the one good clip over and over. Rehearse it.”

“Right.”

“Fine. Any questions?”

“There's going to be a funeral. I'm going to that, too.”

A pause. “Important. Of course. I was going to move ahead and talk about the funeral. One visit to the laying out or whatever it's going to be if we deem it necessary. There are going to be news people around. But probably cops. And you can't control the coverage. It wouldn't look good if some cameraman got a long shot of a cop bugging you.”

“I already talked to the cops at the office.”

“You never know. They're not
smart.
Let me think this out. We could maybe make something of it. No. No. Just go with your wife to the funeral home or whatever, go once, be prayerful. And then ditto the funeral. No staying after and chatting over the meal.”

There probably wouldn't be a meal, he thought. The Prices were poor upstate people, highly religious, private types, not people who entertained. He tried to work out if he should do something, pay for a meal, but he never proposed it to Haigh. He heard the message, all right: Keep it simple. One key light appearance, a glorious quiet song, then exit.

He didn't want white wine, which was what Monica had brought to him. She was running back and forth, putting the kids to bed, checking on him, catching bits of the news. He wanted bourbon. The good stuff.

There was a concealed bar in the TV room, for the purpose of keeping the liquor from the kids. He had to use a keypad and a code to unlock it. It was new—well, only five years old, and still felt new. He touched in the code. The mirrored doors slipped aside, and he had more than a few choices. He went for the Booker's. Oh, there were going to be gifts handed to him constantly, much fancier bourbons than these, but this would do the trick. He poured about six ounces into a bistro glass for a start. If he didn't get rid of the voices he would never sleep at all.

He left the compartment doors open. The sliver of mirror showed him his haggard face. If he looked this bad during the shoot, Jack and the video crew were going to be back for another try—all the time bellyaching about the huge amounts of money they'd lost.

He heard Todd's voice in his head even after he got half the bourbon down. When they'd hovered over the maps, before the detectives came to talk to them, he asked Todd, “Do you know anything about this?”

“Not a thing. I mean, I liked her. I could see why you liked her. I went out for a drink with her. She was funny—though she's a shitty drinker. I talked to her seriously. She was sad, but she agreed to back off. She said she would do what was best. She said law school was going to take up her time, and when she wasn't up here at the offices anymore, she wouldn't find it so hard.”

“She said all that?”

“She's an awfully smart girl. Practical, I thought.”

It didn't sound like Cassie. But Todd's face was open, innocent-looking. He seemed suddenly gloomier. “I used the present tense,” Todd said. “I made that mistake people make.”

“It doesn't add up.”

Todd's face had hardened. “You have to forget you ever knew her that other way. You have a campaign to think about. Get it in your head how you have to react—she was an employee here. Likable and smart. You hardly knew her. Back it up three months and you have the reality you need.”

The detective was nice, a young man, nice. Treated them well. Denman.

Connolly almost pointed to Todd, said, “Ask this man. Take him in.” But he didn't.

When the detective left, Todd lifted the campaign map. His hands shook. Did that mean anything? They had shaken before. Underneath the good spirits he projected was a nervous guy. Well, he had a nervous job. He was rattled. He kept scratching at his neck irritably.

Mike kept at the bourbon. He heard bits and pieces of things Todd had said before he took his leave of the office. “Death is always sad, always. I don't care who it is. She was young, and that makes it really blister.”

He was shocked by the ideas that had run through his head all evening.

Now there was this idea that Cal did it. Elinor's boy.

He switched channels back and forth.

There it was again—video shots of the neighborhood, people on the street. An older woman identified as Iris Mender, a neighbor, saying, “She was young and dignified. She was lifting up the neighborhood.” You could tell the woman wanted to say something else, but the cameras moved off her.

Monica came into the room, looked at him, then at his glass. “That's not going to kill it,” she said.