The Bullet (13 page)

Twenty-two

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 20, 2013

I
spent the weekend alone.

I had let everything slide, and now I devoted myself to restoring a semblance of order to my life. Mail was sorted, houseplants watered, bills paid. I got the car washed and collected my dry cleaning. Will and I texted each other, flirty “thinking of you” messages. I phoned him on Saturday, but he did not come by, and I found that I was fine with that. The thing about being an introvert is that people get on your nerves after a while, even people you like. Whether Will could sense this, or whether he was just busy, I didn't know. But after the demands of interacting with so many new people in Atlanta, I was grateful to retreat and spend time on my own.

The exception to this—and one of the reasons I'd always considered myself closer to them than to anyone else—is my parents. They didn't exhaust me the way other people did. Sunday afternoon I drove over and let myself in the kitchen door as usual. My mother cooked; my father leaned against the counter, scratched Hunt behind the ears, and chatted about the Le Carré novel he was reading. They seemed determined to carry on as though nothing had happened. To preserve the rhythms of our prior life. I understood. Informing this display of nonchalance was a desperate, almost tangible current of love. You
could read in their eyes the words they were not saying out loud:
You are our daughter, this is your home, nothing has changed.

I watched my mother shake an ungodly amount of salt into a bubbling pot. She glanced around, held out her hand, said nothing. I passed her the pepper grinder. When you've cooked beside someone for thirty years, you know what ingredient she wants before she knows it herself. My mother scowled at the pot. Stirred, sniffed, hesitated.
Nutmeg
. I passed it over. The glorious smell of chicken browning in butter filled the kitchen. For the thousandth time I marveled at how she stayed so slim when she cooked like this every night. Seventy-four years old, but from the back you would mistake her for a girl. Her movements had a lightness, a nervousness, like the skittish peck-and-hop of a sparrow. So different from the way I moved. I had never thought about it before. She held out her hand.
Paprika
.

Over bowls of chicken and dumplings, I shared a heavily edited account of my trip to Atlanta. They already knew the headlines. I told them about my visit to Sibley Hospital, about Marshall Gellert and my decision to go ahead with surgery. They seemed to take this as a given. Apparently I was the only one who had needed time to come round to the idea.

My mother's chief concern appeared to be timing. Were the surgery and the convalescence going to conflict with my birthday dinner? My birthday fell late next month. The Cashions do not take birthdays lightly. My brothers, their wives, all my nieces and nephews, would be under strict orders to appear.

“Do you think we should push the date for the party forward?” Mom asked. “I need to know to get the food ordered. I'm planning a surprise for dinner.” If the last twenty years of birthday dinners were any guide, that meant baked potatoes and grilled T-bones. Mom is an excellent but exceedingly predictable cook. Creative menu planning is not her strength.

“I'll pick up some merlot to go with the steak,” said my father.

“Tom! It was supposed to be a surprise.”

From across the table he winked at me, then said, “Change of subject. I found a great new running trail down along Rock Creek. Four-mile loop. You should come with me one of these days.”

That was what he said.

What he meant was
I love you, I will take care of you, I am so sorry
.

Twenty-three

I
wondered whether I'd hear from you.”

“I figured you'd been waiting thirty-four years, another three days wouldn't kill you.”

On the other end of the phone line Beamer Beasley chuckled. “Fair enough. How you holding up?”

“Okay. Considering. I've been thinking.” I had turned things over in my mind as I drove home from my parents' house, had called him the moment I walked in my own front door. “I'm going to get the surgery to remove the bullet.”

“Course you are.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that? I could end up paralyzed. In fact, that's probably a bigger risk if I go ahead with the surgery than if I leave things alone.”

“I don't know about surgical risks and whatnot,” he replied in that even, steady way of his. “I was just reckoning, if it was me, I couldn't live with knowing where that bullet has been.”

Exactly. Beasley had articulated my reasoning better than I had myself, at dinner tonight with my family. You could analyze the medical pros and cons until you went blue in the face; the fact remained that the slug of metal in my neck had been responsible for the death of my biological mother. You couldn't just
leave
it there.

“The surgeon says he'll try to extract it, intact. So I was thinking, maybe you would want to take a look?”

“As evidence, you mean?”

“Well, you tell me. Would it be of interest to the police? I mean, given how long ago everything happened?”

“Absolutely. Unless and until you get a conviction, a murder investigation remains open. New evidence is always of interest. There's a Cold Case Squad, that's what they do.”

“What about the statute of limitations?”

“Isn't one. Not for murder.”

“And how does it work?” I asked with genuine curiosity. “What would they do with the bullet?”

“Run all kinds of tests on it. Measure it. Weigh it. Ideally, they'd have something to try to compare it with. A gun seized from a suspect, say. Or another bullet taken from the crime scene.”

“But you don't have that, right? You said the bullet that killed Boone Smith was dug out of a doorframe, you never found it.”

“True. I'm just telling you the ideal scenario. A good ballistics tech could still do something with your bullet, though. Check for distinctive grooves on it. Maybe tell you what kind of gun fired it.”

“That's something, I guess.”

“Sure. But, Ms. Cashion?” He hesitated. “What are your expectations here? It pains me to keep saying it, but I couldn't catch your parents' killer back in 1979. And that's when the case was fresh, and we had a team working it full-time. I'd caution you against getting your hopes up that anything much is likely to happen now.”

“Oh, I know that. I'm not expecting some dramatic arrest.”

“Mm-hmm. Still. You never know. I'll make a call or two, find out what's left of the file on your family.”

“What's left?”

“Safe to say those files would have been shifted off-site many years ago.”

“You mean stuff might have gotten thrown away.”

“Let's say
misplaced
.”

I ran my good hand through my hair. “One more thing. The suspect you arrested. Or not arrested, but questioned. Cheral Rooney says he's still alive. She gave me an address for him.”

Beasley sighed. “Did she now.”

“I'm wondering if you should go talk to him.”

“Why?”

“She's convinced it was him. She told me—”

“Ms. Cashion.” Beasley's voice turned stern. “I'm sorry your mama's old neighbor has got you riled up. And I don't blame you, Lord knows, stumbling on this mess after so many years. But he didn't do it. The suspect, the one she wanted us to question—he didn't do it. He had an alibi, couldn't have been over on Eulalia Road that day. We never had diddly on him. Nothing but her say-so.”

“You had me. I pointed to his picture.”

Beasley made an exasperated clicking sound. “Yes, ma'am, you did. Right before you started pointing for a lollipop and your dolly. I've seen more reliable witnesses, is my point. You were
three
. You were a
baby.
There's not a prosecutor in the whole great state of Georgia who would hang a murder case on the testimony of a three-year-old. Certainly not one who's been scared so bad she won't speak.”

Twenty-four

MONDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2013

I
n the morning I woke early and walked to Saxbys. It's not my favorite breakfast spot—that honor belongs to Pâtisserie Poupon—but I have to walk right past it to get from my house to the library. So does half the student body of Georgetown; by midmorning, the line of students jostling for lattes and chocolate muffins would be out the door. At six, though, when Saxbys opened, I had the place to myself. I grabbed a table in the window, an enormous mug of Darjeeling, and settled in to work.

I have never lost my sense of wonder that I get paid to read all day, to steep myself in the literature of another country, and another century. It is a scandalously pleasant way to earn a living. I sat marking papers until nearly nine, then pushed my glasses back on my head and looked up. My cell phone was ringing. An Atlanta number, area code 404, lit up the display.

“Hello?”

“Sweet Caroline.” The oleaginous voice of the
Journal-Constitution
's managing editor oozed into my ear. “This city is a sorrier place for your having left us, I'll tell you. Like a light's been turned out.”

“Hi, Leland.”

Oddly, he began to hum. I pressed the phone closer, straining to make out the tune. “Tell me you're not humming Neil Diamond.”

“You must get that a lot.”

“Thankfully, no. First time in quite a while.”

“I've been sitting here dreaming up ways to lure you back,” he drawled. “We never did get that drink together.”

“We never will, Leland. Was there something I can help you with?”

“Got a few messages to pass on to you. More calls coming in, people who read our article. One man says he flew with your daddy, for Delta. And a lady called—think her name was Susie. Says she and Sadie Rawson were sorority sisters, up in North Carolina. I said I'd let you know. I'll send you all their contact information.”

“Thanks. That would be great. Hang on a sec.” I cranked up the volume on my phone. In the hours I'd sat working, Saxbys had filled. Rihanna blared from the ceiling; three baristas sweated over the hissing espresso machine. The entire varsity soccer team appeared to be here, dressed in matching gray-and-navy shorts and logo sweatshirts,
2012 BIG EAST CHAMPIONS—BLEED HOYA BLUE!

“Where are you?”

“Coffee shop. Trying to get work done.”

“Sounds more like the Kappa Alpha frat house on a Saturday night. Anyhow, listen. I spoke to Cheral Rooney.”

“Did you?” I sat up. “Why?”

“Follow-up story. People are intrigued. We got such a big response to last Thursday's piece. I
told
you that running it was a good idea.”

“Oh, no. Please. I don't want to be in the paper again.”

“Just a little story this time. Inside pages, most likely.”

“But what's the follow-up? There's no news.”

“You know—‘Community Comes Together,' that type thing. We'll mention all the folks who knew the Smiths, how delighted everybody is to learn you're alive and well. I got a nice quote from Cheral about how you're the spitting image of your mama. How she couldn't believe her eyes when she saw you walking up her driveway. ‘Like watching a ghost,' she said.”

“Did she say anything about the investigation? Into who killed my parents?”

“Noooo.” He stretched the word out. “Why? Is there anything to say?”

“Not that I know of. Just wondered.” So Cheral had not shared her infidelity theories with Leland Brett. That was one thing to be grateful for, that a lurid account of Sadie Rawson Smith's love life would not be plastered across the front page.

“People are asking about the bullet, though. Whether you're going to leave it be or get operated on.”

I hesitated, could think of no reason not to be honest. “I'm scheduled for surgery next week. Here in Washington. Cross your fingers for me.”

“I'll send the biggest bouquet of get-well flowers you ever saw. Which day, you reckon?”

“A week from Wednesday. The thirtieth.”

“And you sure I can't tempt you down to Atlanta for a drink in the meantime?”

“Good-bye, Leland.”

“I'll let you know when the link to this story goes up. Bye for now, pretty girl.”

I hung up and looked around. Rihanna had given way to Radiohead on the speakers above me. A stink of scorched bagel hung in the air. The soccer players stood huddled in the corner, scarfing down bananas and supersize cinnamon buns.

I gathered my papers and relinquished the table. In fifteen minutes, I was due to meet Madame Aubuchon.

•   •   •

TO SAY THAT
I was dreading this would be an understatement.

Hélène Aubuchon intimidated me at the best of times. Which, needless to say, this was not. She sat waiting for me in her office, immaculately dressed as always. Tastefully rouged lips, a silk scarf knotted
around her shoulders. At her ears and throat were pearls. The head of Georgetown's French Department was not a classic beauty. She was bone thin, with a severity to the set of her jaw. But she was elegant, in that manner particular to Frenchwomen of a certain age. It required money. I suspected it also required weekly visits to the hairdresser, devotion to all manner of mysterious skin creams and potions, and—above all—fanatical vigilance to never put on a pound. I wondered when a cheeseburger had last crossed those crimson lips.

“
Alors, Caroline, ma pauvre.
You have had quite a week, I believe.” She arched perfectly groomed eyebrows. “And you discovered more than you bargained for in Atlanta?”

That was certainly true.

“It is shocking.
Tout à fait affreux
, about the bullet in your neck. I am so sorry.”

Madame Aubuchon and I had never discussed our personal lives. Aside from the occasional polite inquiry into my summer vacation plans, she had never asked about my life outside work. We were colleagues, not friends. So I was surprised to hear real concern in her voice. I seized the moment. “I went to see a surgeon at Sibley. About removing the bullet. He wants to operate next week. On Wednesday. And after that he's told me to allow at least ten days to rest and recover at home, before returning to work.”

“Ten days?”

“I'm afraid so. I realize the timing is awful, midsemester. I would put it off until Christmas break, but the doctor says the sooner, the better.”

“Oui, oui, bien sûr.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “That will be fine.”

“It will?” Had I heard her correctly?

“
Pas de problème.
In fact, I've spoken already with Robert.” Robert was one of my more capable graduate students; he had already subbed for me twice last week. “He can handle your classes for the rest of the term, under my supervision. That way you can rest.”

“Oh, no. That won't be necessary. I'll be back by—”

“It is easier this way.
Vraiment
. Less disruptive for everyone.”

“No, really. I'll be back by mid-November. And I want to teach. Those students are my responsibility.”

“And the smooth functioning of this department is mine.” She smiled in a way that made clear the matter was not open to further discussion. “Surely you can see it is not in your students' best interests to have a new professor every other week.”

“Of course not. But we're not talking about a new professor every other week. We're only talking about ten days—”

“That's if
your surgery proceeds without complication, and you don't require additional time to convalesce.
Franchement
,
ten days sounds optimistic.” She crossed trim ankles sheathed in sensible, beige support stockings, a rare concession to her age. “Robert did well teaching last week. He's happy to help. He will follow your syllabus.”

I sat seething. How could she have turned my course load over to Robert? Before even consulting me? Could she really just banish me from doing my job?

“Your salary will continue as usual. I checked the records. It appears you've never taken a single sick day. You've accumulated weeks of paid medical leave, so there's no issue there.”

“It's not my paycheck that concerns—”

“It's settled then,” she cut me off firmly. “Consider it sabbatical. You will rest and recuperate. And then return to us, healthy, after winter break.”

Unbelievable. “This is effective immediately?”

“That might be best, yes. Tie up any loose ends directly with Robert. Now, do you have someone to look in on you every day, after the operation?”

“My family lives nearby,” I muttered through clenched teeth.

“
Trè
s bien.
I'll visit you as well. We are neighbors, you know.
Voisines
. Jean-Pierre and I live on R Street.”

Oh, great. That was all I needed, to have my boss popping over for
coffee. The social custom of calling on people when they are unwell has always mystified me. By definition, you're not feeling or looking your best. Why on earth do people assume you might want visitors? That you would enjoy nothing more than to play hostess and chitchat? I could picture the scene: Madame Aubuchon, perfumed and pristine in full Hermès splendor; me, sore and sedated and still in my nightie.

I forced a weak smile and stood to go.

Madame Aubuchon watched me cross the room. “I read the article in the Atlanta newspaper. I pulled it up online. Your parents' murder was never solved.”

“No.” I stopped with my hand on the doorknob. “It wasn't.”

“Will the police want to interview you? Formally, I mean?”

“I don't know. I was so young—I don't remember anything.”

“But the bullet in your neck might be evidence,
n'est-ce pas
?” The perfect eyebrows shot up.
“Merde. Quel bordel. C'est dingue.”

My jaw dropped. Madame Aubuchon had just uttered a vulgarity that, loosely translated, meant something along the lines of “Shit, what a goddamn mess.”

“Hélène?” I had never addressed her by her first name, but this seemed a reasonable time to start. “Did you just say—”

“Wouldn't it be incredible if they found something? After all these years?
J'espère qu'ils arrêtent le salaud.”

Good Lord. Not again. Still, she had a point. I hoped they caught the bastard, too.

•   •   •

AT LUNCHTIME, MARSHALL
Gellert called from Sibley. “No need for alarm, but I wanted to let you know about a security incident that took place here over the weekend.”

“Oh. Okay. What kind of incident?”

“Unauthorized entry. Somebody gained access to the medical building yesterday morning. Building security is still checking things out, but the lock on our office door was definitely tampered with.”

I tried to think why anyone would bother breaking into a doctor's office. “Was it somebody after prescription drugs, do you think? Narcotics?”

“That's a possibility. There's a pharmacy on the ground floor, as you may have noticed. And various samples and supplies locked up in cabinets all over the building. The good news is, it doesn't look like any of our computers were compromised. But I've got my receptionists calling around to patients, so they can watch out for unusual activity on the credit cards we keep on file for billing purposes.”

“Right. Well, thanks for the heads-up.”

Dr. Gellert coughed. “I'm reaching out to you myself because of . . . uh . . . an additional irregularity. Your chart seems to have disappeared.”

“My chart?”

“That purple folder that I was taking notes in. You didn't happen to take it with you, did you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Weirdest thing. I'm sure I left it on my desk, so I could review my notes and follow up today. Not to worry. Your test results are backed up online, and I can re-create everything else.”

“Maybe one of the nurses filed it?”

“They say they didn't. They all know not to touch papers on my desk. Anyway, sorry to have disturbed you. I'll be in touch in the next few days. Everything's on track for your surgery next week.”

I sat thinking. “You'll let me know if my file turns up?”

“Absolutely.”

“And if they find the guy who broke in?”

“Sure, if you like. Security thinks they caught him on a CC camera as he exited through the parking garage. Heavyset guy with dark, curly hair. Couldn't see his face.”

•   •   •

AT HOME THAT
evening, I kicked off my shoes and collapsed on the sofa. It would be hard to pinpoint which of the day's events I found most
unsettling. The news that Dr. Gellert's office had illegally been entered and my chart was missing? The revelation that my elderly boss could outcurse a Marseilles dockworker?

It was infuriating, meanwhile, to admit that Madame Aubuchon's judgment in ordering me to take time off was probably sound. I was in pain. My wrist hurt steadily, exhaustingly. The throbbing in my neck was less reliable but more frightening when it came. Even if the surgery went beautifully, I would need weeks to heal. And there was no denying that I was emotionally drained.

I made it upstairs to my bedroom and was changing into my oldest jeans and a soft, dove-gray cardigan when a knock sounded at the front door. I frowned. One of my brothers, stopping by for a drink on his way home from work? I peeked out the window, expecting to spot the blond head of either Tony or Martin.

It was Will Zartman.

I had not seen him since we'd parted ways at National Airport on Friday. I swiped a brush through my hair and ran downstairs. Neither of us spoke right away. We stood a few feet apart, me in my front hall, just inside the door, Will still out on the front step. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and on his face was the same mix of sheepishness and defiance that I remembered from the last time he'd shown up un­announced, in the hotel lobby in Atlanta.