Kelly nodded. She almost told Monica about her brother, how he’d been even younger when he was murdered. But she’d spent so many years not talking about what had happened to Alex, to do so now felt wrong.
“So, you got a man in your life?” Monica continued after a pause.
“Not really, no,” Kelly said uncomfortably. She never liked discussing her personal life.
“Really? Wow, that’s hard to believe, a looker like you.” Monica kept rocking, eyes shifting across the lawn, and asked, “What do you think of Howie?”
“You mean Dr. Stuart?” Kelly asked, suppressing a smile.
Monica shook her head. “I swear, I don’t know what it is about glasses, they just get me every time. And I mean, the bigger the better. Give me a man with Coke-bottle lenses any day of the week.”
“Seriously?” Kelly asked.
“Yup. Let me tell you, I spent the first half of my life chasing every boy that drove past on a motorcycle. And you can see how well that worked out for me,” Monica said ruefully. “This time, I’m going after a guy with some brains. Nowadays I’d rather have someone I can sit and talk to without being afraid to use words with more than one syllable. You know what I mean?”
“Mmm.” Kelly responded noncommittally. She had a tough time imagining Monica and Howard together, but stranger things had happened. “So, have you two…uh…”
“Haven’t hooked up yet, but we’re working up to it. He’s coming over for dinner tonight, figured I’d see where it went from there,” Monica said cheerfully. “But I tell you, I certainly wouldn’t mind a little…”
Her cell phone rang, cutting off Monica, and Kelly silently heaved a sigh of relief.
Ten minutes later, warrant in hand, they were in the living room. “Well, no sign of him. But he definitely had some help with his spring cleaning,” Monica noted drily.
Kelly nodded her agreement. They’d been through the whole house, but there was no sign of Sommers. The rest of the place was in the same condition as the living room: drawers overturned, furniture tossed about, walls ransacked. “Let’s have Doyle put out an APB for his car. See if we can track him down.”
“Sure. What do you want to do in the meantime?” Monica asked.
Kelly gazed around the house. “We got a warrant, right? Let’s see what we can find out about our friend Mr. Sommers.”
Eleven
He had two hours to find out what the hell was going on. Ten minutes ago his wife had left, taking the girls for a swim at the club so he could get some work done. He’d waited in his study until they’d pulled out of the driveway, just in case they’d forgotten a juice box or a toy or some other such nonsense. After a decent interval had passed he grabbed his keys and trotted to his truck. He’d stop by Berlin Pizza, just across the border in New York. There were always a few cops in there grabbing a slice during their shift. He’d have to be careful, though.
There wasn’t any reason for them to suspect him, he reminded himself. Ten fucking years! he thought, pounding the steering wheel with his fist, then forcing his breathing to steady. And he’d always been so careful. Unlike that asshole Bundy, he took the time to bury them, and targeted boys that wouldn’t be missed. Hell, he was doing a public fucking service, taking out the trash no one else had the balls to deal with. He’d bet that if they knew, most of the town would be thankful.
He couldn’t understand how they had found the boy from the other night. He’d taken extra precautions, crossed another state line to a completely new location, had even dug the hole four feet deep instead of his usual three. No animal would bother digging that deep, not this time of year when there was plenty of food lying around the forest floor. And on the phone Chris had mentioned they’d found two bodies, not just one. So what the hell was going on?
A trickle of sweat snaked its way down his neck. He flicked a switch, powering up the car windows, flicked another one and a whiff of cold air seeped out of the vents. The Beemer had better AC, but he’d taken the truck to be less conspicuous. It was too hot, and there will still too many goddamn people around. He should’ve waited, held out until the last of the summer crowd had departed and there were fewer prying eyes. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, acknowledging the impossibility of that thought. There was no controlling the desire to take them. Once he’d chosen one, it was only a matter of weeks.
He flicked on his left turn signal and waited for a truck to pass before taking a slow, arcing turn into the pizza parlor parking lot, noting with satisfaction the police cruiser parked in the handicapped spot even though the rest of the lot was empty. Berlin Pizza was a victim of the 1960s obsession with space exploration. The building was all angles, bars jutting up to smack into each other, faded blue and silver planets splayed across the roof. The letters e and a were out on the neon sign. He met his own gaze in the rearview mirror and forced his expression to settle, features melting back into the complacent mask he wore for the rest of the world.
Inside, he ordered a “Galactic” slice, then leaned against the counter, tapping his keys in a staccato. The cop was waiting for his order, hands crossed over his crotch. His face was lobster-red.
“Looks like you got some sun, there,” he said conversationally to the cop.
The cop barked a short laugh. “You know it. Had one too many at a barbecue, woke up in a lawn chair three hours later completely cooked. Man, my wife was pissed.”
“Damn, hate it when that happens.” He laughed in agreement. “Was going to take the kids over to the Cherry Plain Park today, but signs say it’s closed. You know what’s up with that?”
The cop eyed him. “You live around here?”
“Nope, just across the border. Course, we usually go to Clarksburg,” he continued hurriedly, noting the cop’s skeptical look. “But that’s closed, too. We got the long weekend coming up, and there’s nowhere to take them to cool off.” He let his voice ascend to a whine at the end.
The cop grunted. “Yeah, it’ll be tough this weekend. You’ll just have to dust off the sprinkler, ’cause from what I heard, they won’t be opening either of ’em anytime soon.”
“Damn, really?” He shook his head. “My wife’ll be pissed. She’ll be all over me again to put in a damn pool. Like I could afford that.”
“Yeah, mine, too,” the cop said, squinting up his blue eyes thoughtfully. After a pause, he continued, “Tell you what, you just let her know they found a couple of boys there.”
“What, like a suicide?”
“Nope.” He lowered his voice. “Murdered. Looks like it might be the same nut who killed those boys in Massachusetts.”
“Damn.” He let out a low whistle. “Who were they?”
“Couple of pansies—you know the type.” The cop flicked a limp wrist at him.
“Were they shot?”
“Not so lucky.” The cop paused, deliberating, then continued, “Nicked off their privates, dumped ’em right off the parking lot. Did a job on them, too, from what I heard. Tell your wife that, she’ll probably never want to go there again.” He chuckled.
“Yeah, I will. Thanks.”
The pizza boy slid a slice with pepperoni and mushrooms on a paper plate across the counter toward the cop. “Thanks, Matt. Have a good day,” the cop said, then headed out the door without paying.
Binoculars to his eyes, Dwight observed the exchange through the plate-glass window. He was parked across the street, his car tucked away in a line of vehicles shaded by an elm tree. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he sure could imagine it. His lips curved up at the corners with delight. A minute later the cop left the pizza parlor, shoving the tip of a slice in his mouth, then wiping a greasy hand on the front of his uniform before opening his car door. Dwight watched as the Captain followed a minute later. As he exited, the Captain slid the paper plate holding his untouched slice into the trash can just outside the front door.
“Must’ve lost his appetite,” Dwight chuckled to himself. The Captain got into his truck, a top-of-the-line Dodge, no shitty Tercel for him. He sat there without moving for a long time. Dwight checked his watch, counting off the minutes; four passed before the Captain finally turned the key, shifted into reverse and drove to the street. As the truck waited for a break in traffic, left turn signal on, Dwight twisted the focus knob on his binoculars, zooming in on the Captain’s face. Dwight slapped the steering wheel with his free hand. “Damn, he looks pissed,” he said jubilantly. Served the bastard right for telling him he’d never make the grade, humiliating him in front of everyone. Well, he’d discovered the Captain’s dirty little secret. And soon enough, everyone else would know, too.
Twelve
“What do you think?” Monica asked, sounding worried.
Kelly shook her head. “Honestly, I’m not seeing it.”
“Yeah, me neither. But I’ve been wrong before.”
They were standing outside the interrogation room at the police station, peering through the smudged one-way glass at Calvin Sommers. He looked like hell, Kelly thought, a far cry from the well-assembled man she’d spoken with just three days ago. His face was smudged with blood and dirt, and his hair was greasy. He was working a faded trucker hat through his hands like it was a set of rosary beads. They’d seized his clothes for evidence, so he was wearing an enormous gray Berkshire State PD T-shirt and gym shorts. Doyle was storming around him. Every time he slammed a hand on the table, Sommers cringed.
Monica let out a low whistle as Doyle sent a chair skidding across the room, where it tipped over and landed with a clatter. “Why am I not surprised that he does such a great ‘bad cop’?” she muttered. “I think you better get in there, see if the carrot works better ’n the stick.”
Kelly nodded, picked up the envelope and opened the door. At her entry they both turned toward her, Sommers with a hint of hope in his eyes. She perched on the edge of the table at his elbow and waited a beat before speaking. “You’re in a great deal of trouble, Mr. Sommers.”
“I swear, I didn’t do anything. I have no idea where Jim went after he left.”
“And what time was that?”
“After midnight, maybe as late as one o’clock.” Sommers paused, lowering his eyes. “I was waiting up for him. We had a fight when he got in.”
“Right, you mentioned that. And then he left, and you didn’t see him again.”
“That’s right.” He nodded enthusiastically.
Kelly opened the envelope she had entered with. “But you went after him, didn’t you?” She withdrew a baggie that contained a gun and held it up to him. “And you took this.”
He didn’t answer immediately. “All right, yes, I took the gun. But I swear I didn’t use it.”
“Where did you go?”
“I went back to where I found him.” He paused. “There’s a sort of flophouse down in North Adams. I went there, talked to one of the other boys—Danny. You can ask him, he said he didn’t know where Jim was. So then I went home.”
“Bullshit,” Doyle snarled. “See, we talked to that kid, he claimed you had the gun shoved so far up his nose it scared the piss out of him.”
Sommers examined his cuticle. “I just wanted—I needed him to tell me where Jim had gone.”
“Because he’d stolen from you,” Kelly said. “That must have been upsetting. Anyone could understand why you’d be angry. Right, Lieutenant Doyle?”
Doyle shifted his jaw back and forth a few times before reluctantly responding, “Sure would piss me off.”
“If Jim had needed money all he had to do was ask,” Sommers said, almost to himself. “But the things he took, they’re simply irreplaceable. I wanted to find out who he sold them to.”
“Of course, because Jim would have to sell them through a middleman. He certainly couldn’t handle that sort of transaction himself,” Kelly noted.
Sommers nodded vigorously. “Exactly! See, I figured it probably wasn’t even his idea, he wasn’t sophisticated enough for that. Someone must have told him exactly what to take, because otherwise the chances of him stealing the most valuable pieces from my collection…”
“Just doesn’t make sense,” Kelly said, finishing his thought. “So there was someone manipulating Jim, forcing him to steal from you.”
“Yes!” Sommers said, then dropped his focus back to the hat in his hands. “Jesus, if I’d only known. I was so angry with him, the things I said…” A tear snaked down his cheek.
“I’m sure Jim knew you didn’t mean it,” Kelly said sympathetically. “Where did you go after you left the flophouse? Danny must have told you where to find Jim.”
“That’s the thing,” he said, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “I—I don’t remember.”
Doyle snorted. “I can’t believe this crap.” Kelly shot him a warning look.
“I swear! All I know is, I woke up in my car out by the dance festival. I started to drive home, and that’s when the cops pulled me over.”
“But you have no idea how you got there?”
He shook his head. “Not a clue.”
“Were you taking any drugs last night, Mr. Sommers?” Kelly asked.
He shook his head vehemently. “No. At least—not last night,” he concluded weakly.
“What about drinking?”
“Just a glass of wine at dinner.”
“And you wouldn’t mind submitting a sample to confirm that?”
“What, like a drug test?” Sommers hesitated, then said, “Sure, I wouldn’t mind. But you should know, I might have had just a few hits off a joint, too. Not last night, but the night before. Would that show up?”
Kelly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I’ll have you escorted to the lavatory, an officer will watch while you provide the sample. We’re also testing your clothes, we need to determine if any of the blood found on them belonged to Jim.”
“Right, okay.” He looked down at the hat, which was still clutched in both hands. “Jesus, I feel like I’m losing my mind. This is such a terrible nightmare….”
“Mr. Sommers, thanks so much for your cooperation, we really appreciate your time. If you could just give us a few minutes, I need to speak to Lieutenant Doyle outside.” Kelly motioned for Doyle to follow her. He grunted his discontent but joined her in the hallway. She waited until the door had shut behind them.
“Bastard didn’t lawyer up,” he complained. “What the hell are we doing out here? I swear, five more minutes with that pillow biter, I’ll get him to confess to everything.”