Slice (16 page)

T
HIRTY

D
etective Wolfowitz plopped himself down in the chair in front of Chief Belinda Walters's desk.

“You know, Wolfie, John Manning is perhaps the most admired author in the country,” the chief said, leaning back in her chair, her strong jaw clenched firm. “And he donates huge portions of his profits to hundreds of charities. Cancer, AIDS, scholarship programs for underprivileged kids.” She paused. “The Policemen's Benevolent Association.”

“I don't care if he's Jesus, I still think he had something to do with that girl's death.”

Wolfie folded his arms across his chest. He missed the days when Joe Martin had sat in the chief 's chair. He never felt right reporting to a woman. How Belinda Walters had gotten the promotion and not Wolfie, he'd never understand.

“I'm not telling you to call off your investigation,” Walters said, sitting back in her chair. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman, with a square face and iron-gray hair cut in a pageboy style. “I'm just telling you that you're going to have to find some indisputable evidence before going public with any kind of accusation, because the man has a lot of friends in high places.”

“Come on, B'lin. You were just as skeptical as I was when he claimed not to see his wife take that tumble off the deck.”

“Skepticism needs to be matched up with hard evidence. We never found any.”

Wolfie unfolded his arms and reached across Walters's desk, slapping the stapled papers he had placed there. “How do you explain this?” he barked.

“I can't,” she said, glancing down at the sheets of paper. “But neither do these hold any proof that Manning murdered the German girl.”

Wolfie snatched up the papers and read from them. “Confidential report, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. Suspect Emil Deetz cornered in house with [names redacted] by Mexican drug police at intersection of Vial Juan Gabriel and Niños Heroes. Massive shoot-out, six dead, including suspect.”

Walters nodded. “You didn't need the FBI report for that, Wolfie. That much was reported in the
Sayer's Brook Crier
.”

He turned over a page of the report. “Large crowds gathered around the building prior to, during, and following the shoot-out. Identified was bestselling American author [name redacted.]” Wolfie threw the papers back onto Walters's desk. “I can fill in the blank.”

“Oh, really? Let's see. Bestselling American author? That could be John Grisham, or Stephen King, or Anne Rice, or Stephenie Meyer, or Dan Brown, or Patricia Cornwell, or—”

“None of those people also keep a dossier on Emil Deetz in their private files.”

“How do you know?”

Wolfie could feel himself getting hot under his collar. “None of them subsequently then went and bought property right next door to Emil Deetz's former girlfriend.”

Walters just sighed.

“He was there when Deetz was killed! Why was he in Mexico?”

“Lots of people go to Mexico.”

“Ciudad Juarez isn't Puerto Vallarta or Acapulco. It's the most violent place in Mexico, riddled with drug violence.”

“Manning's a writer. Maybe he was gathering information.”

“He writes about vampires and werewolves and sexy male witches.” Wolfie grunted, remembering the nights when his ex-wife stayed up so late at night reading that trash, keeping him from falling asleep.

“Look, Wolfie,” the chief said, leaning toward him. “I agreed to let you pursue this because I, too, want to know why Manning kept a dossier on the Deetz case. He wasn't even living in Sayer's Brook then. But you're a better detective than to sit there and start making all sorts of presumptions without gathering all the information first.” She leaned back in her chair. “At least, you used to be a better detective than that.”

He frowned. “I'm not making presumptions. I'm asking questions. And don't worry, I've requested the FBI review its classified information and consider revealing the names it redacted in the report, for law enforcement purposes.”

“Well, that's a first step.”

“But come on, B'lin. You know what this smells like. You were a good detective, too, once. Sometimes puzzles just suddenly fit into place even before you find all the pieces.”

“I'm just telling you to dot your i's and cross your t's, Wolfie.”

“I mean, don't you just have to wonder why, after seeing Deetz get shot to death in Mexico, Manning comes to Sayer's Brook and makes Monica Bennett an offer on a piece of family property that wasn't even for sale?”

“He's said in interviews that he liked the town.”

“But there were other properties that
were
for sale. Why buy a chunk of the old Clarkson estate?”

“He liked the brook. He liked Hickory Dell.”

“Or maybe he knew where Emil Deetz had stashed his cash, or his drugs, or whatever it was that he stashed out there before he fled.”

Chief Walters sighed again. “Wolfie, we went all over that property for
weeks
. Metal detectors, bloodhounds. We found nothing.”

“Doesn't mean something wasn't there, hidden really deep down.”

She made a sound of dismissal through pursed lips. “I think you're reaching now.”

“But I can keep looking into it?”

The chief nodded. “Yes. Just don't write your final report until you've done all your homework ahead of time.” She lifted the papers from her desk and slipped them into a drawer. “Have you asked Manning yet why he had the dossier on Deetz?”

“Not yet. I don't want him to know quite so soon that I've discovered that little factoid about him. I want to ask him about it when I have more information to throw at him, like confirmation from the FBI that he was indeed in Mexico when Deetz was killed.”

“Now, that's spoken like a good detective.” The chief stood. “Thanks for the update, Wolfie.”

He stood and gave her a little salute in jest.

Wolfie left the chief's office. He'd show her. He'd prove that not only had John Manning been involved in Deetz's crimes, but that he had killed the German girl as well. Maybe she'd stumbled onto something that connected him to Jessie's ex-boyfriend while she was at the house.

Wolfie had believed Manning should have gone to jail a long time ago. Maybe he'd never pay for killing his wife.

But Wolfie would make sure he paid for something else.

T
HIRTY-ONE

J
essie tugged and tugged and finally the stubborn bittersweet root gave way, ripping through the soil and sending her backwards onto her butt. She laughed out loud, then got back on her haunches to attack the next invasive vine.

She was cleaning out the patch of land on the side of the house, where her property adjoined John Manning's. It was all overgrown with weeds and vines. In the spring, she thought she might put in a little pond here, where she could maybe have some koi in the summer—with a protective scrim on top to keep the raccoons out—and a couple of benches. It was the perfect place to sit in the afternoons, shaded by the tall fir trees. She could even write out here.

She'd forced herself to return to the spot where Inga had died so that she could exorcise those particular demons from her head. Building a garden on the spot would make her feel better. Indeed, being outside these last few days had restored much of Jessie's equilibrium. She was still unable to write, so this was definitely better than just watching television all day. She knew that when she
did
start writing again, she'd be better able to describe dealing with such trauma. She'd explain that you don't force yourself to do what you think you
should
be doing. You confront your fears, but you're gentle with yourself, and you give yourself the time you need to heal. For right now, getting her hands dirty with soil and earth was more soothing than sitting at her computer.

And it was working. As Jessie cleared out vines and weeds and pruned back perennials in the hopes of a second bloom, her spirits were rising. She had been worried that her old jitters and fears were returning. Abby's imaginary playmate and her use of the word “brother”—and the coincidence of her new friend Aaron's name—had threatened to send her spiraling back down into the anxieties she'd lived with in New York. The nightmares had returned—but thankfully only briefly. Jessie realized she was stronger now than she'd been when she'd first moved to New York. She had written a book about survival and was starting on another. She had to remember who she was, not who she had been.

True, she wished Abby's friend at school wasn't named Aaron. But she was just glad that her daughter had a friend. It was so wonderful to see how happy Abby was when she came home from school these days.

“Mommy!”

The sound caused Jessie's ears to perk up.

It was a child's voice, but it wasn't Abby. Abby was with Aunt Paulette in town, shopping for new shoes.

“Mommy!”

Jessie felt a strange trickle of fear.

It was a little boy's voice.

And then she saw him through the trees.

It was little Ashton Pierce. Bryan and Heather's kid. He was running up John Manning's driveway. Following behind were Heather and the little girl, Piper.

Jessie could make them out through the thicket of pine trees. If she stayed quite still, she didn't think they'd notice her. She wasn't sure why she wanted to remain unnoticed and watch them, but she did. She stopped moving around and settled in to see what she could see.

“Mommy, hurry up!” Ashton was demanding. “I want to see the brontosaurus.”

“Well, press the buzzer,” Heather was telling him.

“I can't reach it! Come on, Mommy! Why do girls have to walk so
slow
?”

Heather had reached the front gate of Manning's house by now.

“I don't care about any stupid brontosaurus,” Piper was telling her brother. “I want him to take us into the greenhouse so I can see the orchids.”

“Orchids are stupid!” Ashton shouted.

“Mommy! Ashton said orchids are stupid!”

“Be quiet, both of you,” Heather said, as she pressed the buzzer on Manning's gate. “He won't be able to hear me with you two squawking.”

Jessie noticed that Heather was wearing extremely short denim cutoffs, and a sleeveless white midriff blouse, revealing her belly button. Her hair was tied in a ponytail with a big pink bow. Jessie thought Heather was too old, at twenty-seven, to be dressing like Miley Cyrus, especially in front of her kids.

“Caleb,” Heather said into the intercom. “It's Heather. You meanies changed the code on me so I can't come in. I'm with the kids, Ashton and Piper. Say hi, kids!”

“Hi!” shouted Piper.

“I want to see the brontosaurus,” demanded Ashton at the top of his voice.

Caleb said something back to Heather that Jessie couldn't quite make out. But she did hear Heather grumble, “Jesus Fucking H. Christ.”

Jessie wasn't terribly religious, but she always cringed when she heard someone using Jesus's name like that. What did Jesus ever do to deserve such disrespect except tell people to love one another?

“How come he's not buzzing us in?” Piper asked.

“Because he's a prick,” Heather said with a long sigh.

“I. Want. To. See. The. Bronto. Saurus,” Ashton insisted, enunciating his syllables for emphasis. Jessie could see this was one a very impatient kid. She could never imagine Abby acting like that.

“Just hold on,” Heather told her son. “He's coming down.”

Jessie waited and watched. She heard a clang, and then the gate opened from the inside. John Manning appeared.

He didn't look pleased.

“I told you not to come by unannounced,” Manning snapped at Heather.

“The kids wanted to see you,” she replied. “Didn't you, kids?”

“I want to see the brontosaurus!” Ashton whined.

“And I want to see the orchids in the greenhouse,” Piper sang.

Manning looked at them and then back at Heather. “This is low,” he growled at her. “Using your kids to get to me . . .”

“Please, Unca John!” Ashton yelled. “I want to see the brontosaurus!”

“I'm sorry,” Manning told him. “I'm in the middle of writing. I told your mom I can't be disturbed.”

“That's not fair!” Ashton shrieked, and he kicked the gate. The action set off a security alarm. A long, high-pitched wail suddenly soared out through the neighborhood. Startled, Jessie stood up, and as she did so, she was afraid she might have been spotted. But no one looked in her direction. Manning was hurrying back inside the gate, where he evidently tapped in a code on a keypad and switched the alarm off.

Ashton and Piper were still covering their ears when the angry author came back outside.

“You really have to go now!” he ordered. “Heather, I'm telling you for the last time. Do not show up here unannounced!”

“You're a meanie!” Piper spit.

“I should have kicked
you
!” Ashton shouted.

John Manning just glowered down at them.

“Come on, kids,” Heather said, shooing her children back toward the road. “We don't stay anyplace we're not wanted!”

Jessie watched her wiggle her ass down the driveway. The two brats ran ahead of their mother, Ashton's squeaky little voice was echoing through the trees. “But I wanted to see the brontosaurus. . . .”

What a pathetic display
, Jessie thought, her eyes following them as they made their way back down the road to their house.

When she returned her gaze to John Manning's front gate, it was still open. But Manning was nowhere to be seen.

Jessie turned, intending to resume pulling up the bittersweet.

But as she did so, she nearly collided with someone standing right beside her.

John Manning had snuck through the trees while she had been watching Heather and the kids make their retreat.

“Oh!” Jessie shouted, startled.

“I thought Gert Gorin was the only snoop in the neighborhood,” Manning said, looking intensely at her with those deep dark eyes of his. He stood only inches from her.

Jessie's heart started thumping wildly. She felt an absurd jolt of fear.

But John Manning was smiling.

And not a mean smile, she realized.

“I'm sorry if I startled you,” he said.

“Well, I—I—” Jessie struggled to catch her breath and find her words. “I didn't mean to snoop. I wasn't eavesdropping. I was just clearing out this patch of all the weeds and vines and then I looked up and saw . . .”

“It's fine, Jessie,” Manning told her. “I was just joking.” His smile faded. “I'm sorry you had to witness that.”

Jessie wanted to get away from him. She didn't trust this man. He might have killed Inga. . . .

“Look, I've been meaning to come by and speak with you,” Manning said. “Might I have just five minutes of your time?”

Jessie just looked up at him. She had the same sense of being somehow mesmerized when she looked into those mysterious, reflective eyes as she had on the day of the picnic. She found she couldn't speak.

“I just want you to know how sorry I am about Inga. I've stayed away because of all the harassment from the police. I figured it was best. But I know how close the two of you were. She was a lovely girl. And you have my deepest condolences.”

Was he being sincere? Jessie studied his eyes, but she could see nothing there but reflections of herself.

“You know,” Manning said, “I was hoping you and I could be friends. We have a great deal in common.”

“We do?” Jessie asked.

“Yes, we're both writers.” And he smiled, sadly this time. “And one half of the town thinks you had something to do with Inga's death, the other half thinks I did.”

“Did you?” Jessie found herself asking, even before she was aware that the words were on her lips.

Manning's smile faded. “The police went over every square inch of my house. They found nothing.”

Jessie stiffened. “That's not answering my question.”

“I didn't kill Inga,” Manning told her.

For some reason, Jessie believed him.

“If I can be of any help to you, Jessie,” Manning said, “I'd like to be. Whether that's as a writer, or as a neighbor, or as a friend. I know what it's like to be looked at and whispered about. This town has been saying all sorts of things about me ever since Millie died. So if you need a friend ever, I'm here.”

“Thank you,” Jessie said. “But I'm doing okay.”

“You seem very strong,” Manning said. “Bittersweet roots can be tough to get out. And if you don't get it all, it'll just keep growing.”

He bent down and grabbed hold of one gnarly root and gave it a good yank. It resisted, but under his strength it finally gave way, cracking through the soil and mulch and pine needles to reveal its long orange tail.

“Thank you,” Jessie said, smiling.

“No problem,” Manning said, and he started back toward his house.

“Hey,” Jessie called after him.

He looked back around.

“Do you really have a brontosaurus in there?” she asked.

Manning smiled. “I have the partial skull and jaw of one. I picked it up on one of my travels. Maybe Abby would like to see it sometime.”

“I think she'd prefer the orchids in the greenhouse,” Jessie told him.

“I'd be happy to give her a guided tour,” Manning replied.

Jessie smiled.

Manning smiled back, then disappeared through the trees.