Inspector Specter (20 page)

“Not bad,” I echoed. “You've obviously done well.”

She waved a hand; I had not yet truly grasped the enormity of her accomplishment. “I started working out of my own kitchen in Belmar, driving everywhere myself for six months, until I could hire a kid who had a car. Now I have five running kitchens in the area, and I employ thirty people.” Clearly, there was more in her soup than lentils—she'd struck gold.

“That's great,” I said. How to segue, how to segue . . . “So after your divorce, you made quite a bundle. Did that mean Detective Ferry wasn't paying alimony anymore?” As smooth a shift as in a '49 Studebaker in need of a ring job.

Elise's face darkened at the mention of her ex-husband. I have an ex-husband, and no doubt I don't look pleased when his name comes up, but this was actually a little bit scary. She went from the proud business owner to the Grim Reaper in under a second.

“
Detective Ferry
paid alimony until the day he died,” she answered. “No matter how much money I made, I was owed restitution for the years I wasted on him. And then he stopped sending child support for Natasha, and I was about to serve him with papers when he got his brains blown out.” I felt it best not to mention that Ferry had been shot in the midsection.

“I know what you mean,” I lied. “My ex is often late with the child support. After what he did to me, that takes some nerve.” To be completely honest, what The Swine did to me was sleep with another woman, which in the scheme of things was atrocious but not actually done to
me
. One rationalizes.

“Nerve!” Elise seemed to think I was excusing Martin of something, but I didn't know what. “Martin Ferry was a husband like King Kong was a headwaiter.” That didn't make any sense, but there was no time. “He never spent any time with me. He was always out on a case, getting snitches to talk to him, spending time in the most hideous places. The man was a boarder in his own house. I'm not sure his daughter could've picked him out of a standing lineup.”

That wasn't what Natasha had told me, for the record. She remembered Martin always taking time to play with her when she was little, and while he was “obsessed” with being a cop, he listened to her when she had a problem. It was clearly another Martin Ferry that Elise was describing.

Saying that to Elise would not help me, so I didn't. “Do you have any idea who might have been angry enough with your ex-husband to shoot him?” That was, after all, what I was really here to find out.

Elise sort of rolled her eyes and gave me her best long-suffering look. “I was angry enough,” she said, “three years ago. Not now. I wasn't angry enough to shoot him now, if that's what you're asking.”

“That's not what I'm asking,” I said. That
was
what I was asking. “Right now my first priority is actually trying to locate Lieutenant McElone, who was last known to be digging around in Detective Ferry's death—”

“What do you mean, locate Anita?” Elise said, suddenly concerned. “Anita's missing?”

It was interesting to me how everyone who'd known both McElone and Ferry seemed to have much stronger, and warmer, feelings for McElone. Except Lay-Z. I didn't know Martin Ferry terribly well, so I had an excuse, but even then, I'm fairly certain that McElone wasn't even on my holiday-card list.

I'd have to make a mental note to rectify that situation. If I ever saw her again.

“Her husband hasn't heard from her for a few days,” I said. Maybe getting Elise upset would speed up the process of getting some information here. “And I was working with her on something, so it's odd that she hasn't been in touch. Do you have any idea where she might go if things were tough?”

There was no hesitation. “Have you checked her bungalow in Point Pleasant?” Elise said. “Martin told me that when a case was really bothering her, and she really couldn't crack it, Anita would go to a bungalow she had in Point Pleasant. It was like her place to think, I guess. So maybe she went there.”

Suddenly I knew where my next stop was going to be.

Except, I didn't go right to Point Pleasant. There just wasn't time before the afternoon spook show, and I did, after all, have to start watching the baby I was sitting, paying some attention to my own daughter, and running the guesthouse I'd spent pretty much every cent I had buying and renovating.

Also, I wanted someone to come with me when I went to McElone's bungalow. In case I found . . . anything.

Paul listened to the voice recordings I'd made at all my interviews for the day while I checked on the rest of my family and our youngest guest. Mom informed me that Dad had gone on another Maxie quest, although everybody's favorite poltergeist, once again using the “visiting my mom” dodge, had promised to be back in time for the afternoon performance.

Oliver was, as Mom had told me when I came home, obviously tired of this whole crawling business and was channeling his energy into the idea of standing and moving at the same time. He hadn't actually conceived of walking yet but clearly understood it had something to do with feet. He was staring at his own, no doubt wondering why they hadn't gotten the idea yet.

Wendy had come over to visit Melissa, and they were treating Oliver like any eleven-year-old girls would, as a remarkably interesting toy. Since he didn't really have to do anything to maintain this status, Ollie was being good-natured about it, which is another way of saying he hadn't noticed.

“He's trying to get the doll,” Wendy said, pointing at Oliver's toy Big Bird. Mr. Bird inhabited the low table in the den and Ollie was propped up against the sofa, and his head positioning and eye movements showed he was trying to figure out how to navigate the distance, which was at least three feet. This was a conundrum for Oliver.

“It's not a doll,” Liss corrected her. “He's a boy. It's an action figure.” They had a good laugh over that.

Paul drifted in from the movie room with the voice recorder in his pocket. “The only lead we seem to have on Lieutenant McElone is this bungalow in Point Pleasant,” he said. Paul needs a little help with his segue skills.

“Do you think she's there?” Mom asked him.

Wendy looked up, startled by the question, and saw Mom looking at what she would consider to be a spot just over the piano. She looked at Liss, who said simply, “Paul,” and nodded. They went back to hovering over Oliver, ready to catch him if he stumbled. So far, the job was easy because Ollie hadn't tried to move yet.

“If she has gone to her hideaway, it answers one question and raises any number of others,” Paul answered, not acknowledging the exchange between the two girls. “It's one thing for her to ignore your texts and calls, Alison, if she's stewing over the case. But it's something else entirely for her to uncharacteristically cut off contact with her family. That's very troubling.”

“So I have to go to Point Pleasant. I'll call Malcolm and see if he wants to meet me there. I wish you could come with me, Paul.”

Paul, who was trying to light the chandelier with his pinkie, answered, “So do I.”

“I'll go,” Mom offered. I was a little reluctant, since Mom has a tendency to embarrass me on investigations, mostly by letting everyone know she's my mother. You never caught Philip Marlowe dragging his mom along on a case. On the other hand, he might have, if he'd had my mom.

“Meanwhile, we have made some progress in the files Lieutenant McElone kept on the flash drive,” Paul said. “Maxie's not back yet?” He looked around to confirm her absence, then added, “I'll be right back,” and vanished into the ceiling.

Before any of us could comment, Stephanie and Rita entered through the beach doors, having cleaned off their feet with a hose I keep on the deck. Wet feet I don't mind on my wood floors; sandy ones made scratches. A little sand coming into the house is inevitable—this is a shore town, after all—but I appreciate the effort of the guests to keep the place from becoming a beach all its own.

They seemed agitated. “Rita saw the hat on the beach again,” Stephanie announced. “And I saw it, too!”

Mom agreed to stay back with Oliver because there wasn't time to pack him up, while the girls and I hustled out the beach doors and followed Stephanie and Rita onto the beach behind my house.

They led us to a spot near the public beach (which, frankly, overlaps my property a little, confusing lifeguards and tourists alike) and started looking around, shading their eyes with their hands.

“Do you see anything?” I asked, because at that moment, I didn't.

“Hang on.” Stephanie seemed a little peeved, perhaps at herself for losing sight of what they'd concluded was a ghost. “I'm looking.”

She kept looking for some time, and so did Rita. For that matter, Melissa, Wendy and I scouted the location for a while as well, no one saying a word. Finally Rita sighed loudly.

“We've lost it,” she said.

I wasn't sure we'd ever had it, but I refrained from saying so.

“I'm not sure what to make of it,” I said. “But I'll ask around, okay?” Stephanie nodded, and Rita looked a little less freaked out.

“Alison?” Wendy said.

“What's the matter, sweetie?” I asked. Wendy's voice had an edge to it. She was looking back toward my house, which was about two hundred yards away.

“Why is there a ladder up next to Melissa's room?”

I looked up toward the house and squinted, since the sun was starting to tilt in that direction. I didn't understand—or believe—what I was seeing.

There was indeed a ladder running up the right side of my house, all the way to the third floor, to Melissa's attic bedroom. I couldn't tell if the window was open, but I knew for a fact that I had not put that ladder there.

“That's my room,” Melissa breathed. She sounded absolutely appalled, as well she might.

Someone had tried—and for all I knew, succeeded—to break into my house. I had no way of knowing if the ladder had been there two minutes or four hours. And my mother and Oliver were in the house.

I started running immediately, hearing vague sounds behind me. The crash of the surf, the wind, tourists on the beach, Rita and Stephanie asking why I wasn't looking for the hat any more. But Melissa and Wendy were right by my side the whole way.

Until we reached the property line, I wasn't even aware that I was winded. But once we got there, I saw Paul trying desperately to move his foot past the line he hadn't been able to cross since “moving in,” and I started taking in long gulps of breath. I hadn't run that far in a number of years and wasn't pleased with the shape I was in.

“Your laptop is gone,” Paul reported, watching Wendy pat me on the back like I needed burping.

“My laptop?” Melissa sounded panicked. She probably wasn't as concerned about the homework she hadn't deleted since June as the fact that she probably couldn't remember her Facebook password.

Paul shook his head. “Your mom's. The one Maxie uses. There is a ladder—”

“We know,” Melissa told him, sighing with relief. “Wendy saw it from the beach.”

Paul, who hadn't known we were going to the beach but had still managed to find us running back, didn't ask questions. “I should have been more vigilant.”

I stood up straight again, having reoxygenated my blood. “Don't worry,” I said. “If we find McElone, she'll only blame me, anyway. She doesn't think you exist.”

“There is nothing she can blame you for,” Paul said. “I removed the files from the desktop every time we logged off. It's all still on the flash drive, and we have that.”

“You're a genius.” I started to lead Wendy and Liss toward the house, quickly, with Paul backing up without walking. “Are Mom and Ollie okay? My guests?”

“No one saw anything, and nobody's hurt,” Paul said. “If we'd known someone was in the house, I would have done something about it.”

At least everybody in the house was okay. That slowed my pace a bit. “So you think whoever took the laptop was looking for McElone's files on Martin Ferry's murder?”

“They weren't going after it because of the high technology,” Melissa said. Wendy giggled a little. I considered, and rejected, the idea of giving my daughter a day-old mackerel for her next birthday.

“It's true,” Paul agreed. He would continue to have birthdays, but wouldn't get any older, which was a double annoyance for both of us. I suppose I could get him gifts for his birthday, but what do you buy for the man who doesn't have a pulse? “The only real value that computer has is the data they think is kept on it.”

We walked inside after washing off our feet. Mom, with Oliver sitting on her shoulders, was approaching as we entered. Rita and Stephanie weren't far behind us.

“You heard what happened?” Mom asked. I acknowledged that we had. “It's terrible!”

Well, yeah, but that seemed a fairly oversized reaction. “It's bad, there's no denying that,” I said. “I'm not sure it's terrible.”

“Okay.” Mom sounded skeptical. Ollie, on the other hand, was thoroughly enjoying his unaccustomed height and laughing with delight at how short the rest of us were.

“Am I missing something?” I asked. “Is he hurting your neck?”

“No, he's fine, but I guess you haven't considered the implications.” Despite her protestations, Mom handed Oliver off to Melissa, who let him sit on
her
shoulders to avoid a grumpy mood.

“Of course I have,” I said. “Someone broke into the house and stole my laptop. There are likely to be gangsters involved, and I'm probably going to have to go talk to them even though I'd rather do pretty much anything else. McElone is still missing, which can't be good, and someone not only knows where we live but where I keep the laptop, and was brazen enough to climb into Melissa's bedroom window—you're locking that thing and letting the air-conditioning do its work, young lady—to steal it. How much worse can that get?”

“Well, you're going to have to tell Maxie that her laptop is missing,” Mom said.

Dad burst through the ceiling. “I followed Maxie. She'll be here in a couple of seconds.”

“Okay,” I said. “That's worse.”

There wasn't time for Dad to give us a Maxie report because she filtered in through the kitchen wall to the den immediately after. It was hard to read Maxie's mood, which was unusual: Lately, especially, she'd been either floating on a cloud of her own construction or breathing fire without a recognizable catalyst. Now, she was just sort of bland, barely paying attention.

That didn't last long.

“My
laptop
?” she screamed. “You can't be serious. Someone stole my
laptop
?” I refrained, nobly I thought, from pointing out that the article in question was actually
my
laptop, and let her go on. “How am I going to get by?”

I hadn't realized she was so taken with her role as Internet research arm for our investigative team. But as usual, I had misinterpreted Maxie.

“I need that thing!” she went on. “How am I going to see my Twitter feed? Check my Facebook page? Watch videos of people falling off things?” She turned toward me, the flames back in her eyes. “How did you let this happen?”

That figured. “Me? How is this my fault?”

“It's your house, isn't it?” This was progress, as she usually maintains that it's still
her
house. Maxie's tempo, swirling around the crown molding on the ceiling, picked up. She does laps when she gets agitated.

“This isn't solving anything,” Dad said. If I'd said it, Maxie would have beaned me with the pasta pot.

“That's true,” Paul said, “but finding Lieutenant McElone is the priority. Alison, when can you get to her bungalow in Point Pleasant?”

“Maybe tonight, after dinner,” I said. I had to check for any other missing items and call the cops about the break-in. “I'll drive down after Oliver is asleep. But I need someone to come with me, and Josh is busy with an inventory tonight. Volunteers?” I turned toward the girls. “Over the age of twelve?” They looked crestfallen; a trip to a spooky bungalow! What could've been better?

“I'll go,” Dad said. “When's the last time I was on a stakeout?” I love the man, but his use of terminology is always just a little left of center.

“You've never been on a stakeout,” I told him. “And you're not going to be on one tonight, either. This is more in the area of a going-to-see-what's-happening. But thank you. I don't know what we'll find.”

Maxie, who had slowed down to a pace that made her at least visible to everyone in the room but Wendy, narrowed her eyes and dropped a foot or so toward the rest of us. “You think she might be dead?” she blurted. That ghost has tact like Jamaica has an Olympic bobsled team: It happened once, and shouldn't be expected again.

“Mom . . .” Liss began, sounding worried.