Innocent Bystander (6 page)

Burnett, flanked by the two detectives, strode along a winding gravel path behind the campus. The evening felt warm and comfortable, while the setting sun illuminated broken clouds with shades of crimson and violet Burnett had never before seen. He could not appreciate it. The beautiful view offered the perfect foil to his inner turmoil.

Neither detective had spoken since they’d exited the building. This alone amplified his anxiety. They paused by a row of benches along the walkway. Farrow raised his left leg and smacked his shoe on a bench. Not another person was in sight.

“I’m not one to beat around the bush,” Farrow said, “so let me get right to it. I’m a homicide detective.”

“You really believe I killed him?” Burnett asked. “You think I concocted this absurd story to cover it up?” He searched their faces for a reaction, but neither man obliged.

“I treat every suspicious death as a possible homicide, Mr. Burnett,” Farrow said. He paused to re-flatten a crop of hair. “And they don’t come more suspicious than Mr. Laroche’s. You see, I’ve been in this business twenty-six years, and frankly, I never heard a story like yours. I’ve had people tell me they were possessed by the devil. I’ve had people tell me they heard voices in their head telling them to murder someone. I even had a guy tell me he enjoyed the taste of human flesh and that was why he barbequed his landlord. But I never had anyone say a teenage girl popped in from the future, drove their friend to suicide, then disappeared.”

“I never claimed she just popped in, then disappeared,” Burnett said. “And I don’t expect you to believe her story any more than I do. But there was a girl in his apartment.”

“Four people went over the surveillance videos from that building,” Farrow said. “Four. No sign of her entering. No sign of her leaving. Can you explain that to me?”

Burnett shook his head.

“We also have three witnesses,” Mayweather said in a quiet, relaxed tone, “who saw you and Mr. Laroche struggling on the balcony.”

The younger detective stared at him. In his stare Burnett sensed not a presumption of guilt, but genuine curiosity. Mayweather reminded him of Eddie, a young man who worked in the next cubicle at the insurance agency. The two men shared not only a physical resemblance, with their dark hair, narrow faces, and keen brown eyes, but an understated inquisitiveness. Burnett didn’t know his former co-worker well, not even his last name, but they often discussed baseball and movies. Eddie was one of the few people he’d genuinely miss.

“I was trying to stop him from jumping,” Burnett said.

“All three said punches were thrown,” Farrow said. “Doesn’t sound to me like someone trying to prevent a suicide.”

“Talk to Emma,” Burnett said. “She’ll tell you the same thing.”

“I think we’re talking to you,” Farrow said.

“He punched me,” Burnett said, startled by the anger in his voice. “He was trying to get me off him. He wanted to jump. He was off his medications. Her story upset him.” He reasserted control over his ire. “I tried everything to stop him. Almost everything.”

Farrow’s reaction indicated he, too, had been caught off guard by Burnett’s tone. He removed his shoe from the bench and sat on the edge.

“There’s one thing in your favor,” Mayweather said. “A witness in the building across the street claimed he saw someone inside Mr. Laroche’s apartment. While the two of you were struggling on the balcony.”

“It was her,” Burnett said.

“He couldn’t identify the person as male or female,” Farrow said. He shot an incensed glance at his partner and vaulted to his feet. “This alleged person was behind the sliding door, partially blocked from view by Ms. Blankenship. He couldn’t even be certain it wasn’t her reflection he saw.”

“Find her,” Burnett said. “Find her and ask her why she told Henri that insane story.”

“I take my job seriously,” Farrow said. “And I refuse to waste time poking my nose into every garage, looking for a souped-up Delorean. Now, would you like to try a more plausible explanation for Mr. Laroche’s death?”

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” Burnett said. “I have no idea who this girl is or where she came up with her story, but that’s what she said. And that’s why he jumped.”

Farrow thrust his fists into his pockets. “Then it’s time we move this discussion to the station.”

* * *

Emma and another woman, an Oriental lady in her mid-fifties, circled each other on the turquoise foam mat. Off-white robes with dark belts draped their bodies. Both wore hard rubber helmets.

Emma centered her balance and tightened her midriff. She shifted her weight to her left foot and swung her right leg at the woman’s head. Her opponent, whom she knew only by her first name, Ning, which loosely translates into English as “tranquility,” easily deflected the kick with her forearm. In a flash Emma spun three-hundred-and-sixty-degrees. The tornado kick found Ning’s right temple, depositing her on the mat.

Emma reached down and helped her to her feet. The two women faced each other, bowed mindfully, then, shoulder to shoulder, descended a staircase and silently entered a tiny room. Ning lowered herself to the floor and assumed the lotus position. Emma fell back into a wicker chair opposite her.

At that moment Emma needed to speak, but her brain couldn’t formulate a coherent sentence. The dimly lit room felt ten degrees too cold. She shifted from side to side in her chair, but a comfortable position always remained one shift away.

“You put something extra into that kick,” Ning said.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

Ning gently shook her head. As calm and centered as a gray-bearded Zen master, she leaned closer. “Why did you come this evening?”

“Why did you let me win just now?”

“I’ve heard that in your country it’s not polite to answer a question with a question.”

“I never claimed to be polite.”

Ning smiled, sat motionless. “My question remains.”

“I guess I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You have a family that cares about you. Many friends.”

“None of them have been through what I have.”

“Ah, you believe that because my husband was killed back in China when we were both young that I understand your pain?”

“I don’t know what I believe right now,” Emma said. “I’m so confused, so …”

“Conflicted?”

Emma nodded.

“Your conflict is well represented by your body.”

Emma’s hands quivered in perpetual motion. Her left leg trembled. She shifted her weight once again in her seat. Each time she became conscious of a tremor and stifled it, a fresh one surfaced elsewhere.

“I wish you had joined us for meditation classes as I suggested,” Ning said. “They would have served you well.”

For Emma, neither an apology nor an excuse felt appropriate.

A borderless photograph of a Buddhist monastery on the wall behind Ning looked so peaceful. The building had been perfectly centered, and the trees and shrubbery framing the structure granted the image a pleasant symmetry.

The black-and-white print, with its overcast skies and washed-out stone masonry, also depressed her.

“There’s far more going on,” Ning said, “than poor Henri’s death.”

“Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself.”

“I can tell when a person is deeply troubled. And you, my dear, have every sign.”

“So much has happened that doesn’t make any sense,” Emma said.

“Tell me as much or as little as you like.”

“You have a couple days?” Emma forced a smile through the confusion and pain.

“For you, my dear, I have all the time in the world.”

Unable to latch onto any specific emotion, Emma slid forward off the chair and wrapped her arms around Ning.

Burnett stumbled into his house at 9:30 p.m. He unlaced his shoes and flung them against the wall. They caromed off his
By the Water
Renoir
print, cracking the glass, and settled on the living room carpet.

Half-an-hour in a police interrogation room was thirty minutes he would not choose to repeat in this lifetime. He could not fathom who or what had convinced Farrow that he’d pushed Henri to his death, but the man had become incontrovertibly convinced. Surely Emma had told them the same story. She was Henri’s goddamn girlfriend. She wouldn’t lie to protect a man who’d just tossed her boyfriend off his balcony.

Of course Burnett understood why the police didn’t buy Audrey’s story, but he couldn’t figure out why Farrow refused to even consider she exists. At least Mayweather believed the witness who’d spotted someone inside Henri’s apartment. If he hadn’t, Burnett suspected he’d still have a seat in the interrogation room, if not a holding cell.

He sighed and stepped into the living room. Once inside, he observed what anyone else in the house would have noticed immediately—his shoes were the only things out of place.

His childhood home, he had the entire four-bedroom colonial to himself. Six months ago he’d returned, nine-and-a-half years after his mother’s death and one week after his father’s car accident
.
He kept the house immaculate. In truth, it didn’t require much effort. Aside from the bathroom, he used only one bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room where his computer and an entertainment system sat.

He collapsed onto the sofa, snatched a remote from the coffee table, and punched a series of buttons. Moments later a hanging guitar note and Ringo’s vibrant drumming introduced “Tomorrow Never Knows.” The music altered his state of mind faster and more effectively than any pill or drink.

As the song progressed, he could feel the tension drain from his muscles and the stress flow from his body. Normally he would never listen to a CD out of sequence, especially the Beatles. Tonight, an exception needed to be made.

After John Lennon’s creation faded into the void from which it had emerged, the CD player thoughtfully played “Taxman.” Curious, he thought, that the greatest album of all time, the very pinnacle of rock music, should have been reached half a century ago. Most experts believed that that summit had been reached the following year. They gushed over
Sgt. Pepper
like a parent gushes over their child’s first piano recital. It was a masterpiece, Burnett agreed, but a flawed one.
Revolver
, on the other hand, was a masterpiece without flaw.

As his train of thought slowed, he understood what he was doing—or more precisely, not doing. Audrey needed to be found. Instead, his mind replayed unimportant thoughts he’d had dozens of times.

He wanted to phone Emma and hear her voice. More than that, he needed to hear her. This surprised him. It had been years since he’d needed someone. He dated occasionally, but wasn’t looking for a long-term commitment. Problem was, most women his age were husband-hunting. He wasn’t thinking about marriage, not yet.

At that moment, so much uncertainty clouded his mind he wasn’t certain he could trust his own thoughts. Maybe Audrey had spoken the truth. Maybe she had come back from the future. As ridiculous as it sounded, it was the one explanation that jibed with the facts.

He shook his head as if trying to shake the idea from his brain. His mind seemed determined to journey down that path at every opportunity.

He needed Emma to bring some sanity to his life. Since she hadn’t returned his calls nor replied to his e-mails, he assumed she wanted to grieve in private. Until he heard from her, he wouldn’t try to contact her again. Just in case, he checked his Galaxy S6 to see if she’d called or e-mailed in the last ten minutes. She hadn’t, and he set the device on the cushion beside him.

Midway through “Eleanor Rigby” the doorbell chimed. He pressed his fingertips to his forehead.
The cops again
, he assumed.
Maybe they decided to take me back to the station.

The bell rang a second time. He clicked off the music center and dragged himself from the couch. With each step his trepidation grew. He refused to indulge his secret hope that Audrey waited on his front porch.

He arrived at the door and pressed his eye to the peephole. Emma stood beneath the porch light. She threw a glance over her shoulder. He whipped the door open. A rain shower had developed and soaked her clothes.

“Come in,” Burnett said.

She did, and he eased the door halfway shut. A dark sedan parked diagonally across the street lured his attention. There was nothing remarkable about the vehicle; he’d just never noticed it before.
I bet the police are watching me
.

That wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. If he located Audrey, he could lead them right to her.

“You’re soaked.” He disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with a dish towel. Emma massaged the towel through her hair.

“Can I get you some dry clothes?” he asked.

“Don’t worry.”

“How are you?”

She halted the towel mid-stroke. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“Sit down,” he said and guided her into the living room.

“No,” she replied. She stared at him with an intensity that unnerved him. “I do know how I am. Scared.”

He waited for her to elaborate.

“They think you killed Henri,” she said. “At least that guy Farrow does. What are we going to do?”

“You’re not going to worry about it because they don’t suspect you.”

“But if they believe I’m making up a story to protect you,” she said, not needing to complete the sentence.

“If you want to change your story, I won’t blame you.”

“Change it to what? I saw her. I talked to her. I touched her scrawny little arm.” Her gaze descended to the floor. “We need to find her ourselves.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure where to start. I spoke to half the people in your building today. Nobody saw her go in or out. One witness who saw me struggling with Henri noticed someone in his apartment. Farrow believes it was just your reflection.”

“He’s already convinced we’re lying.”

Burnett nodded his agreement.

“My father knows this guy,” she said. “He’s a private detective. My father hired him once to spy on my mother.”

He chuckled inside.

“He might know how to find her.” She stared intently at him for nearly a minute.

His body temperature climbed. All his old worries began their unwelcome chatter.
Did I say something wrong? Did I look at her the wrong way?

“I lost so much the other night,” she said. “I won’t lose anymore.”

Did she consider him more than just a friend, or had he read too much into it? More likely she was concerned about one or both of them landing in jail. On any other day his brain would have loved to delve into it. At that moment too much else occupied his mind.

Emma slipped an iPhone from her Fendi handbag. While she made a call, he drew the curtain aside. The sedan still sat there, midway between two streetlamps.
Am I becoming as paranoid as Henri was?

Burnett heard her ask her father for the PI’s phone number. She hung up and dialed another number.

Emma spoke briefly with the person who answered. She mentioned who she was and how she and a friend needed to locate someone ASAP. She added that money was not an issue.

Burnett, his attention still directed out the window, noticed no other cars parked anywhere on the street. It occurred to him that parking wasn’t permitted on that side of the road. People occasionally parked there, but only if they wanted a ticket.

“We got an appointment,” Emma said as she slipped her iPhone back into her handbag. “Ready?”

He bent his arm to check his watch. “At ten o’clock?”

“These guys don’t work nine to five.” She fished out her keychain and dangled it beneath his nose. “Let’s take my car.”