The Bone House (37 page)

    'No,
as I told you, it was too dark.'

    'Have
you seen a photo of the girl who was killed?'

    Jensen
nodded. 'Yes, I've seen photos of her in the paper.'

    'Do
you remember seeing her at all during the time you were in Florida?'

    'No,
I don't. I'm not saying I didn't, but there were teenage girls all over the
hotel. I don't remember her specifically.'

    'Have
you told anyone else about what you saw?' Cab asked.

    'No,
I didn't give it a thought until I saw what had happened. Then I called your
department.'

    'What
about the girls on the Green Bay team? Did any of them mention seeing anything unusual
in Florida? Have you heard any discussion among them about the murder or about
the girl who was killed?'

    'No,
I haven't.'

    'I'd
like a list of the girls who were on the school trip with you. As long as I'm
in the area, I'd like to interview them personally.'

    'You
mean today?' Jensen asked.

    'If
that's not a problem.'

    'No,
no, no problem. I could just jot down a list from memory right now, if you'd
like. I don't have their contact information, though. You'd have to get that
from the university.'

    'That
would be fine,' Cab told him.

    'It'll
take me just a minute.'

    Jensen
got up and opened a kitchen drawer and retrieved a notepad and a pen. He
scribbled names on the paper, then hesitated with his pen poised in the air, as
if he was trying to remember. 'I heard you have a suspect,' he told Cab. is
that true? Is that the man I saw?'

    'I
can't comment on that,' Cab said. 'It would be much better if you didn't read
any more articles about the case, Mr Jensen. You shouldn't talk to anyone about
it either. If this goes to trial, you'll need to testify, and you'll be asked
about things that might have influenced your memory.' 'I understand.'

    He
finished writing, tore off the page from the pad, and handed it to Cab, who
studied the list of names.

    Tracey
Griffiths

    Bracey
Berard

    Katie
Baumgart

    Nancy
Gaber

    Sally
Anderson

    Paula
Davis

    Michelle
Palmer

    Lenie
Korbijn

    Laura
Hansen

    Carol
Breidenbach

    Deb
Bodinnar

    'This
is the whole team?' Cab asked.

    Jensen
nodded. 'Those are my girls.'

    Cab
folded the paper and slid it into the pocket of his suit coat. He stood up.
'Thank you for your help, Mr Jensen. I think that's all for now. If I have any more
questions, I'll give you a call.' 'Of course.'

    Jensen
led him out of the kitchen. As the coach opened the front door, Cab glanced up
the stairs, and Jensen followed his eyes and gave him an awkward smile.

    'I'll
let you get back to what you were doing,' Cab told him. 'Thank you. Good luck
with your investigation, Detective.' Jensen closed the door, and Cab ducked
through the swaying trees to the Corvette. He climbed inside, eyeing the dirty
sky, which promised to open up in heavy rain before it was night. The wide
street was empty of traffic. The upstairs level of Gary Jensen's house was
barely visible through the thick web of maple branches, but he could see
curtains drawn across all of the windows.

    He wasn't
impressed with Jensen as a witness. The man qualified everything he'd seen with
'maybe' and 'I'm not sure', as if he'd begun to regret opening his mouth in the
first place. A smart defense attorney like Archibald Gale would shred him on a
witness stand. There was also something about Jensen's demeanor that made Cab
uneasy. He didn't like him.

    He
retrieved the coach's list from his pocket. He wanted to know what the rest of
the Green Bay dance team had seen in Florida. He was ready to drive back to the
university, but before he pulled away from the curb, his phone rang.

    Cab
heard a raspy voice when he answered. 'Detective, my name is Peter Hoffman.'

    He
searched his memory and was coming up blank when the man added, 'My son-in-law
was Harris Bone.'

    'Yes,
of course, Mr Hoffman,' Cab said. 'What can I do for you?'

    'We
need to meet.'

    'I
know. You're on my list. Where do you live?'

    'I'm
not far from the ferry landing in Northport. When can you be here?'

    Cab
checked his watch. 'I'm about ninety minutes south of you right now, Mr
Hoffman. I'm in Green Bay, and I have some other interviews to conduct in the
next few hours. Can I come by your place first thing in the morning?'

    'This
can't wait,' Hoffman told him curtly.

    Cab
paused. He was curious. 'What is it you want to talk about?'

    'I
have information for you, Detective. It's urgent.'

    'What
kind of information?'

    Hoffman
practically spat into the phone. 'I can help you prove that Mark Bradley is the
man who killed Glory.'

    Mark waited
at the pier in Northport for the three o'clock ferry back to Washington Island.
He couldn't see the boat out on the water through the fog and haze. His jaw
ached where Peter Hoffman had connected with an uppercut of his fist, and he
worked it carefully with his hand, feeling a loose molar. He sat and fumed,
angry at himself for losing control. It didn't matter that he'd been assaulted
and provoked by the old man's threats. He wished that he had ignored Hoffman
and pushed his way out of the store. Instead, news of their altercation was
probably already flying through the county.

    Impatiently,
Mark got out of his truck. His Explorer was the second vehicle in line for the
ferry, and no one had pulled up behind him. It would be a quiet ride back to
the island. He walked with his hands in his pockets down to the end of the
pier, where he stared out at the white boulders of the breakwater and the
choppy waves in the passage. The island wasn't even five miles away, but it was
invisible on the mist-shrouded horizon. The afternoon sky was threatening and
black. It mirrored his mood. The bright spirit in which he'd started the day,
in Hilary's arms, had descended into a storm of depression.

    He
realized that he hadn't called Hilary yet to tell her what had happened between
him and Peter Hoffman, but he wondered if she already knew. Their friend Terri
in Fish Creek was a lightning rod for gossip, and if word of the fight had
reached her, her first call would have been to Hilary. On the other hand, if
his wife knew, she would have called him. His phone hadn't rung all day.

    Things
were going from bad to worse. Their lives were spinning out of control. He
didn't know how to stop it.

    Mark
reached into the pocket of his jacket but discovered that his phone wasn't
where he usually kept it. He patted all of his other pockets and couldn't find
it. Thinking that he had left it on the passenger seat of the truck, he tramped
back from the shore to his Explorer. He checked the front seat and the glove
compartment and then under the seats, but his phone was missing.

    He
remembered that he'd dropped it in the farmers' market when Hoffman hit him. In
the confusion, he'd never picked it up again. He cursed and shook his head.
There was no time to drive back to Sister Bay. If he skipped the three o'clock
ferry, the last ferry of the day wasn't for two more hours. He'd have to let
his phone go until tomorrow.

    He
walked twenty yards to the ticket booth for the ferry. The crews on the boats
and at the pier all knew him. In the old days, they'd shared jokes and talked
sports with him while he waited, but not anymore. They were like everyone else
now, believing the rumors. The fat man in the booth, Bobby Larch, slid open the
customer window when Mark tapped on it. He was reading a copy of
Playboy,
eating fries from a styrofoam box, and drinking a bottle of Baumeister's cherry
soda. His daughter Karen had been in Mark's English class during his first year
teaching in Fish Creek, and Bobby had told Mark back then how much Karen had
raved about his class. He was her favorite teacher.

    None
of that mattered now. In the days since Tresa, every parent looked at him as a
predator.

    'Hey,
Bobby,' Mark said.

    The
man barely looked away from his magazine. 'What do you want?'

    'Can
I borrow your phone?'

    'Why?'

    'I
lost mine,' Mark told him. 'Come on, Bobby, I want to call my wife.'

    Bobby
shrugged and dug in the pocket of his dirty jeans. He handed a Samsung
flip-phone to Mark. It was warm and greasy.

    'Thanks,'
Mark said. He added without thinking, 'How's Karen doing? Is she in college
now?'

    Bobby
didn't answer and slid the booth window shut with a bang.

    Mark
dialed his home number. The phone rang over on the island, but after four
rings, the answering machine took the call. He left a message: 'It's me. I lost
my phone if you've been trying to reach me. I'll be on the three o'clock. I'll
see you soon.'

    He
decided to dial his own mobile number to see if someone had found his phone and
turned it in at the market. He wasn't anxious to be showing his face in there
again after what had happened.

    Mark
dialed.

    A man
answered on the second ring and said in a gravelly voice, 'Who is this?'

    'This
is Mark Bradley. I think you've got my phone.'

    'Bradley,'
the man said. 'I was wondering when you'd call me.'

    Mark
recognized the voice now. He wished he hadn't dialed the number. It was Peter
Hoffman. The old man must have picked up his phone at the store and kept it.
Instinctively, Mark's temper, which he'd tried to tame all day, flared again.
He struggled to keep a lid on his emotions.

    'Mr
Hoffman, I'm sorry about what happened between us. Really. I hope you're OK.'

    'Don't
you worry about me, Bradley. I just hope that glass jaw of yours is broken.'

    Mark
didn't take the bait. 'I didn't call to pick up where we left off. I just want
to get my phone back.'

    'I've
got it right here,' Hoffman said.

    'I
don't know why you took it with you. I wish you'd left it at the store.'

    'I
could have done that, but then you wouldn't have had to face me again, would
you? If you want your phone back, you can come and get it.'

    Mark
checked his watch. The ferry was due in ten minutes. Hoffman's home wasn't far,
but he doubted that he had time to go to the man's house and make it back to
the port in time. He also didn't think it would be a simple matter of Hoffman
handing him the phone. The man wanted another confrontation.

    'I
have a ferry to catch.'

    'In
other words, you don't have the guts to look me in the eye. I suppose tomorrow
you'll send your wife to collect it.'

    Mark
grimaced, because that was exactly what he'd planned to do. Hilary wouldn't let
him cross Hoffman's doorstep. Not with what had already happened.

    'Good
night, Mr Hoffman,' he said.

    'Yeah,
you hang up, Bradley,' the man cut in. 'Go back across Death's Door and get a
good night's sleep. But let me tell you something. I already talked to that
detective in Florida. He's coming to see me.'

    'Good
for you.'

    'When
he knows what I know, he'll be heading out there to arrest you, Bradley.'

    Mark
slapped the phone shut, cutting off the abuse from Hoffman's mouth. He got out
of the truck. He smelled the approaching downpour in the thick air. He shivered
and hiked to the ticket booth, where Bobby Larch slid open the window and took
back his phone.

    'Thanks,'
Mark said.