Simple (16 page)

“Yeah, but you can't call out ‘ex-senator.' The word is, it might be governor soon.”

“No fooling. You think we're going red-state?”

“That's the buzz. It could happen.”

Man, she's got to pay more attention to politics. She determines to make herself read about it every day. She mainly manages to digest what the Steelers are doing, who killed whom, and the mixed blessing of the G-20 coming to town. She's heard all cops, all of them, of every stripe and rank, will be in meetings every day starting any day now and will be on call through
all
of the G-20. There's talk that they have to carry a toothbrush and jammies to work and to load in food. It's kind of like preparing for war, just in case.

After the next governor and his entourage go inside, things seem dull. She talks to the newsmen for a while in hopes of something good, but they don't have much to add to what she knows. They dismiss the Pirates—pitching bad, relief pitching worse—and land on the Steelers as a safe topic. The offensive and defensive lines are looking good at this point, and fingers are crossed to keep the players healthy and crime-free.

Colleen entertains the guys with a story she heard. “You know Troy Polamalu is married to a Greek woman and he goes to the Greek church? Well, I heard the Greeks love him so much they decided he simply must be Greek. Here's how they explain it. ‘Look at his name,' they say. ‘Troy. See. Troy. And Pola-malu.' Anyway, I can't say it the way they do. But they say it means ‘many hairs.' Multiple hairs or something like that. So they've decided he's Greek!”

The cameramen laugh, but the laugh is not as hearty and gratifying as the one she got from Potocki, who loves wordplay.

When she is just about to give up and go inside, she is rewarded by the appearance of the oldest of the remaining Price siblings. The girl comes right up to Colleen. “I couldn't stand it in there,” she says.

“Let's take a walk. Get away from these bozo paparazzis.”

“Are they being awful?'

“No. Just doing their job. But I hate to be bothered, you know. Let's walk.” There is no place to walk except a small-town block, but it's something. Colleen starts moving. “You're Carrie, right?”

“Yes.”

There is a funny thing about their names. Colleen thought her hearing was tricking her at first. It was Cassie, Carrie, Caddie, and Cammie. “Why are your names so similar?” she asks now.

“My parents liked the idea. They're a little weird.”

Colleen laughs. “All parents are a little weird. Are the names all shortened?”

“No. Mine and Caddie's aren't. But Cassie was Cassandra and Cammie is Camille. I'm really not Caroline or anything, just Carrie. We could never tell which one of us was being called to set the table—that's sort of a joke. We have a schedule of tasks on the refrigerator. But anyway, we started to call each other S, R, D, and M just to be silly. Get it? The middle sound.” Her hair glints in the sunshine. It's a luscious light brown with blond, slightly lighter than Cassie's. This girl and her sisters have beautiful suntans. They could sell hair products, swimsuits, makeup, just about anything.

“You must know you and your sisters are very beautiful. You have to be aware of that if you're going to stay safe.”

Carrie swallows hard, but doesn't say anything. Survivor's guilt, Colleen guesses.

They pass a series of houses in silence before they turn a corner and begin talking again. The real estate has turned commercial. A bank, a coffee shop that's closed on Sunday, a camera store.

“Do you know anything that could help us? We're not quite done putting things together.”

“Oh. Well, the guy did it, right?”

“Are you talking about Cal Hathaway?”

“The newspaper said so.”

“Yes.”

“You don't doubt it, do you?”

“I would like more information. Facts. Did she ever talk about him?”

“No. She just said some guy was working on her house. That's all. I guess I heard his name from her, but I'm not even sure about that.”

“Do you think she was involved with him?”

“No.” Carrie almost laughs. “No, she wouldn't be. She always liked guys who were a challenge.”

“A challenge? Really, like who?”

“Oh, you know, like the president of the class. Or her English teacher. Or people who had a lot going for them.”

“I see. She had little romances with these people,” Colleen asks offhandedly. “Or crushes or something.”

They turn another corner. “She was always in love. She had a lot of love to give. Then some jerk just got rid of her.”

“Maybe the person who killed her was in love with her and they had some sort of relationship … Maybe she just didn't tell you.”

Carrie shakes her head. “That can't be right. I'd know.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

“One of her co-workers thought she was seeing someone who was, let me think how she said this, a simple fellow, humble.”

“She would have told me,” Carrie insisted.

“On the other hand this fellow, Cal, thought she was in love with someone else.”

The girl draws in a breath. “He said that?”

“Yes. He thought she was sad because of it.”

“She wouldn't tell him. She wouldn't tell someone like him, just a worker, about her personal life.”

“Maybe … maybe he observed. Do you think she was sad?”

“No. She was happy.”

They turn the corner back to the funeral home, and Colleen asks more urgently, “Do you know who she was in love with? We should talk to this person.”

“I don't know who he was.”

“But wait a minute, you said she told you things.”

Carrie shakes her head. “She told me there was somebody, but she wouldn't tell me who. I got mad at her because I could tell there was something big going on in her life—we had a fight.” Carrie starts to cry. “What if she died thinking I was her bitch of a sister?”

“I'm sure she didn't. I'm sure.” Colleen hands over a handkerchief. “You were a good sister to her.”

“How do you know?”

“You talked to her. Right? You cared?”

“I got jealous.”

“That's totally normal.” After a while Colleen says, “I wonder who this guy was. He could maybe shed some light.”

Carrie shakes her head. “I don't know. It had to be from work. She never went out otherwise.”

“Was the relationship very developed? I'd better not mince words. Were they having sex?”

“Um … I mean she didn't exactly say, but I'm sure.”

“Was he older?”

“I think so.”

“Well, I'll be very discreet. I'll try to find out, and I promise I'll contact you when I do.”

“Thanks.”

“How often did you talk to her? I guess she called you.”

“No. We never talked like that on the phone. My parents could have heard. She'd come home on Saturdays.”

“All the time?”

“Not at first but lately, yes. She'd get in about noon on Saturday and then stay through church on Sunday.”

Not Friday night, though, because once she got to her parents' house, she couldn't just leave. Colleen feels a trickle of excitement at this new information.

“But the handyman … he did it, right?”

“Probably. We don't have all the facts lining up just yet. Are you able to keep a confidence?”

“Yes.”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd keep this particular conversation we just had between us. We can do our work way better if you do.”

The girl nods.

A risk, saying this much to Carrie. Colleen had to take it.

A married man. If Cassie wasn't talking, it was a married man. All Colleen has to do is imagine herself in Cassie's life and she zeroes in on who it would be.

*   *   *

THE CONNOLLY ENTOURAGE
has paid respects to the Price family and has turned, one by one, to the open casket. They are clearly upset. The women are crying openly, and the younger Connolly has tears welling up, too. All look lost. Stay longer? Talk? Go?

Dolan tells Christie, “We can help focus them.”

“You bet.” They approach the Connolly family.

Dolan says, “I did some of the inquiries up at the office. Detective Dolan. This is Commander Christie, head of Homicide. He was away on Friday, but he's back in town and on the case now.”

“Good, good,” says the elder Connolly vaguely.

Christie moves in closer. “It's good of all of you to come this whole way.”

“But of course,” says the elder.

“I don't mean to interrupt you here. I realize the media are after you, too. But I'd like to talk to each of you sometime in the near future. Let me know what's possible.”

“Oh,” says the senior Connolly. “I thought the case was closed.”

“We need to build details for court. These things go on and on.”

“Of course. Could you come to the office tomorrow? I could see you then. We need to get back to the city now.” He looks at his watch.

Golf? Dinner party? Christie wonders. He feels a rare bitter envy of the privileged.

“Also,” hand up as if in school, “that's best for me,” says the older brother—a slightly sour-looking fellow, but it might not be mood coloring his face. It could be just the unlucky chance of his gene combination.

“That's fine,” Christie says. He turns to Michael Connolly, about to ask, “You, too?”

But Mike Connolly says, “I could see you today. Here or—” He stops, no doubt realizing an interview would hold up his family. “As my father said, we need to get back, but I could go into the office tonight. Or you could come to the house.”

“I'll come to the house.” Christie looks at his watch. “About six all right? Or would you rather after dinner?”

“Before, before.”

The eagerness is interesting. Puzzling.

“I could get to the Connolly offices tomorrow,” says the man Christie has identified as Todd Simon. “If you want to see me, that is. Right now I'm more concerned that our boy has to handle the damned media.”

“I understand. Go ahead.”

He lets them go out to the hall, but he can see enough to see the handler, Simon, doing some sort of pep talk, coaching. It makes him curious about what Connolly will say on camera. He gestures to Dolan. “Let's go outside, watch the news being made.”

They go outside, where they find Potocki talking to Greer while making notes in his small notebook. There is no time to confer because the cameras are setting up to catch the Connollys on the way out of the funeral home, and one of the reporters gestures to Christie to hold on.

Christie knows he always comes off well on camera. He isn't sure why, when cameras whir, he always finds the words he needs and seems utterly reasonable.

Even so, he is nothing compared to Mike Connolly, whose very exit from the building and entrance to the arena have star quality. For one thing, the man wears his clothing well, and it is surely very good clothing—tailored to thirty-seconds of an inch. And he looks sort of beautiful in his sadness, as an actor would.

He allows the microphones to come at him. He faces them square on, doesn't hide the moist eyes or the catch in his voice.

“This is a very sad day. We have lost a valued worker, a young woman who … was just on the brink of what would no doubt have been … a wonderful success in law school and after. Her life stood for something, and I won't let it be lost in vain. She cared about civic works. The city. Improving the city. I take that mission seriously, too. This is a sad day for all of us.”

He made a move away from the microphones, but one of the newsmen said, “About the care of cities—are you still planning to run for governor?”

He pretends he hasn't quite heard, that he's busy getting to his family and getting an arm around his wife.

The newsmen follow him to his limo, asking more questions. “Not today,” he says kindly. He allows them to film him, but he doesn't add anything.

“What did you think?” Dolan asks Christie.

“He's interesting.”

“He's very interesting and very handsome,” Colleen observes.

“You noticed,” Dolan quips. “Is that really all women want?”

“Nonsense. I'd prefer the handler. He looks like he has more jokes up his sleeve. But listen. I've got something. It isn't surprising but it's important. The next-oldest sister told me in confidence that Cassie was having an affair with someone and wouldn't say who, not even to her. Has to be a married man.”

Dolan whistles. “I like it.”

“Lots of men in that law office,” Christie ventures, but his eyes drift to where Connolly's car has just driven off.

“She liked them high up.”

“Okay. We'll have to think how to proceed. Where was our next governor Thursday night, for a start?”

Potocki says, “Do we bother with these others? I talked to about ten guys who wished they were her boyfriend. She had opportunities for sure. These were guys from high school and college and two from work.”

“Do some preliminaries on them? Just in case. We have to screen them, take a look. And go by and help Littlefield with the computer e-mail.”

Potocki nods.

“I've got to get moving. I'm seeing Connolly at his house. I can drive Artie back.”

Take Artie along to Connolly's? No, he decides. His gut tells him he should go in alone.

*   *   *

“YOU WANT DINNER
when
I
finish up at the office?” Potocki asks.

“Oh, what the hell. We're in deep shit anyway.”

“Tell me about the handler.”

“I dunno. A glint. Something unusual. Something wild.”

They watch Christie and Dolan drive off. She tweaks a pinch at his waist. “Don't worry. I'm not nuts.”