The Husband (5 page)

10

W
hite ceiling, white railings, white floorboards, white wicker chairs, punctuated by the gray-and-black moth: Everything about the porch was familiar, open and airy, yet it seemed dark now to Mitch, and strange.

His gaze still downcast, Taggart said, “One of the jakes on the scene eventually got a closer look at the victim and recognized him.”

“Jakes?”

“One of the uniformed officers. Said he arrested the guy on a drug-possession charge after stopping him for a traffic violation about two years ago. The guy never served any time, but his prints were in our system, so we were able to make a quick match. Mr. Barnes says you and he went to high school with the vic.”

Mitch wished that the cop would meet his eyes. As intuitive and perceptive as he was, Taggart would recognize genuine surprise when he saw it.

“His name was Jason Osteen.”

“I didn’t just go to school with him,” Mitch said. “Jason and I were roommates for a year.”

At last reestablishing eye contact, Taggart said, “I know.”

“Iggy would have told you.”

“Yes.”

Eager to be forthcoming, Mitch said, “After high school, I lived with my folks for a year, while I took some classes—”

“Horticulture.”

“That’s right. Then I got a job with a landscaping company, and I moved out. Wanted an apartment of my own. Couldn’t fully afford one, so Jason and I split rent for a year.”

The detective bowed his head again, in that contemplative pose, as if part of his strategy was to force eye contact when it made Mitch uncomfortable and to deny eye contact when Mitch wanted it.

“That wasn’t Jason dead on the sidewalk,” Mitch said.

Opening the white envelope that had been on his lap, Taggart said, “In addition to the identification by an officer and the print match, I have Mr. Barnes’s positive ID based on this.”

He withdrew an eight-by-ten color photo from the envelope and handed it to Mitch.

A police photographer had repositioned the cadaver to get better than a three-quarter image of the face. The head was turned to the left only far enough to conceal the worst of the wound.

The features had been subtly deformed by the temple entrance, transit, and post-temple exit of the high-velocity shot. The left eye was shut, the right open wide in a startled cyclopean stare.

“It could be Jason,” Mitch said.

“It is.”

“At the scene, I only saw one side of his face. The right profile, the worst side, with the exit wound.”

“And you probably didn’t look too close.”

“No. I didn’t. Once I saw he had to be dead, I didn’t want to look too close.”

“And there was blood on the face,” Taggart said. “We swabbed it off before this photo was taken.”

“The blood, the brains, that’s why I didn’t look too close.”

Mitch couldn’t take his eyes from the photo. He sensed that it was prophetic. One day there would be a photograph like this of his face. They would show it to his parents:
Is this your son, Mr. and Mrs. Rafferty?

“This is Jason. I haven’t seen him in eight years, maybe nine.”

“You roomed with him when you were—what?—eighteen?”

“Eighteen, nineteen. Just for a year.”

“About ten years ago.”

“Not quite ten.”

Jason had always affected a cool demeanor, so mellow he seemed to have surfwaxed his brain, but at the same time he seemed to know the secrets of the universe. Other boardheads called him Breezer, and admired him, even envied him. Nothing had rattled Jason or surprised him.

He appeared to be surprised now. One eye wide, mouth open. He appeared to be shocked.

“You went to school together, you roomed together. Why didn’t you stay in touch?”

While Mitch had been riveted by the photo, Taggart had been watching him intently. The detective’s stare had the sharp promise of a nail gun.

“We had…different ideas about things,” Mitch said.

“It wasn’t a marriage. You were just roommates. You didn’t have to want the same things.”

“We wanted some of the same things, but we had different ideas about how to get them.”

“Jason wanted to get everything the easy way,” Taggart guessed.

“I thought he was headed for big trouble, and I didn’t want any part of it.”

“You’re a straight shooter, you walk the line,” Taggart said.

“I’m no better than anyone else, worse than some, but I don’t steal.”

“We haven’t learned much about him yet, but we know he rented a house in Huntington Harbor for seven thousand a month.”

“A
month
?”

“Nice house, on the water. And so far it looks like he didn’t have a job.”

“Jason thought work was strictly for inlanders, smog monsters.” Mitch saw that an explanation was required. “Surfer lingo for those who don’t live for the beach.”

“Was there a time when
you
lived for the beach, Mitch?”

“Toward the end of high school, for a while after. But it wasn’t enough.”

“What was it lacking?”

“The satisfaction of work. Stability. Family.”

“You’ve got all that now. Life is perfect, huh?”

“It’s good. Very good. So good it makes me nervous sometimes.”

“But not perfect? What’s it lacking now, Mitch?”

Mitch didn’t know. He’d thought about that from time to time, but he had no answer. So he said, “Nothing. We’d like to have kids. Maybe that’s all.”

“I have two daughters,” the detective said. “One’s nine and one’s twelve. Kids change your life.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Mitch realized that he was responding to Taggart less guardedly than he had previously. He reminded himself that he was no match for this guy.

“Aside from the drug-possession charge,” Taggart said, “Jason stayed clean all these years.”

“He always was lucky.”

Indicating the photo, Taggart said, “Not always.”

Mitch didn’t want to look at it anymore. He returned the photo to the detective.

“Your hands are shaking,” Taggart said.

“I guess they are. Jason was a friend once. We had a lot of laughs. All that comes back to me now.”

“So you haven’t seen or spoken to him in ten years.”

“Almost ten.”

Returning the photo to the envelope, Taggart said, “But you do recognize him now.”

“Without the blood, seeing more of the face.”

“When you saw him walking the dog, before he was killed, you didn’t think—
Hey, don’t I know that guy?
”

“He was across the street. I only glanced at him, then the shot.”

“And you were on the phone, distracted. Mr. Barnes says you were on the phone when the shot was fired.”

“That’s right. I wasn’t focused on the guy with the dog. I just glanced at him.”

“Mr. Barnes strikes me as being incapable of guile. If he lied, I expect his nose might light up.”

Mitch wasn’t sure if he was meant to infer, by contrast to Iggy, that he himself was enigmatic and unreliable. He smiled and said, “Iggy’s a good man.”

Looking down at the envelope as he fixed the flap shut with the clasp, Taggart said, “Who were you on the phone with?”

“Holly. My wife.”

“Calling to let you know she had a migraine?”

“Yeah. To let me know she was going home early with a migraine.”

Glancing at the house behind them, Taggart said, “I hope she’s feeling better.”

“Sometimes they can last all day.”

“So the guy who’s shot turns out to be your old roommate. You see why it’s weird to me?”

“It is weird,” Mitch agreed. “It freaks me out a little.”

“You hadn’t seen him in nine years. Hadn’t spoken on the phone or anything.”

“He was hanging with new friends, a different crowd. I didn’t care for any of them, and I didn’t run into him anymore at any of the old places.”

“Sometimes coincidences are just coincidences.” Taggart rose from his chair and moved toward the porch steps.

Relieved, blotting his palms on his jeans, Mitch got up from his chair, too.

Pausing beside the steps, head lowered, Taggart said, “There’s not yet been a thorough search of Jason’s house. We’ve only begun. But we found one odd thing already.”

As Earth rolled away from the slowly sinking sun, afternoon light penetrated a gap in the branches of the pepper tree. A dappled orange glare found Mitch and made him squint.

Beyond the sudden light, in shadow, Taggart said, “In his kitchen there was a catchall drawer where he kept loose change, receipts, an assortment of pens, spare keys…. We found only one business card in the drawer. It was yours.”

“Mine?”

“‘Big Green,’” Taggart quoted. “‘Landscape design, installation, and maintenance. Mitchell Rafferty.’”

This was what had brought the detective north from the coast. He had gone to Iggy, guileless Iggy, from whom he’d learned that indeed a connection existed between Mitch and Jason.

“You didn’t give him the card?” Taggart asked.

“No, not that I remember. What color was the card stock?”

“White.”

“I’ve only used white for the past four years. Before that, the stock was pale green.”

“And you haven’t seen him in like nine years.”

“Maybe nine years.”

“So although you lost track of Jason, it seems like Jason kept track of you. Any idea why?”

“No. None.”

After a silence, Taggart said, “You’ve got trouble here.”

“There must be a thousand ways he could’ve gotten my business card, Lieutenant. It doesn’t mean he was keeping track of me.”

Eyes still downcast, the detective pointed to the porch railing. “I’m talking about this.”

On the white handrail, in the warm stillness, a pair of winged insects squirmed together, as if trysting.

“Termites,” Taggart said.

“They might just be winged ants.”

“Isn’t this the time of year when termites swarm? You better have the place inspected. A house can appear to be fine, solid and safe, even while it’s being hollowed out right under your feet.”

At last the detective looked up and met Mitch’s eyes.

“They’re winged ants,” Mitch said.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mitch?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Take a moment. Be sure.”

Had Taggart been allied with the kidnappers, he would have played this differently. He wouldn’t have been so persistent or so thorough. There would have been a sense that it was a game to him, a charade.

If you had spilled your guts to him, Mitch, Holly would be dead now.

Their previous conversation could have been recorded from a distance. These days, high-tech directional microphones, what they called shotgun microphones, could pick up voices clearly from hundreds of feet away. He’d seen it in a movie. Little of what he saw in movies was based on any truth, but he thought shotgun microphones were. Taggart might have been as oblivious of the taping as Mitch had been.

Of course, what had been done once could be done twice. A van that Mitch had never seen before stood at the curb across the street. A surveillance specialist might be stationed in the back of it.

Taggart surveyed the street, evidently seeking the object of Mitch’s interest.

The houses were suspect, too. Mitch didn’t know all of the neighbors. One of the houses was empty and listed for sale.

“I’m not your enemy, Mitch.”

“I never thought you were,” he lied.

“Everyone thinks I am.”

“I’d like to think I don’t have any enemies.”

“Everyone has enemies. Even a saint has enemies.”

“Why would a saint have enemies?”

“The wicked hate the good just because they
are
good.”

“The word
wicked
sounds so…”

“Quaint,” Taggart suggested.

“I guess in your work, everything looks black-and-white.”

“Under all the shades of gray, everything
is
black-and-white, Mitch.”

“I wasn’t raised to think that way.”

“Oh, even though I see proof every day, I have some trouble staying focused on the truth. Shades of gray, less contrast, less certainty—that’s so much more comfortable.”

Taggart took his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. From the same pocket, he withdrew one of his business cards.

“You already gave me a card,” Mitch said. “It’s in my wallet.”

“That one just has the homicide-division number. I’ve written my cell phone on the back of this one. I seldom give it out. You can reach me twenty-four/seven.”

Accepting the card, Mitch said, “I’ve told you everything I know, Lieutenant. Jason being caught up in this just…mystifies me.”

Taggart stared at him from behind twin mirrors that portrayed his face in shades of gray.

Mitch read the cell number. He put the card in his shirt pocket.

Apparently quoting again, the detective said, “‘Memory is a net. One finds it full of fish when he takes it from the brook, but a dozen miles of water have run through it without sticking.’”

Taggart descended the porch steps. He followed the front walkway toward the street.

Mitch knew that everything he had told Taggart was caught in the detective’s net, every word and every inflection, every emphasis and hesitation, every facial expression and twitch of body language, not just what the words said but also what they implied. In that haul of fish, which the cop would read with the vision of a true Gypsy poring over tea leaves, he would find an omen or an indicant that would bring him back with warnings and new questions.

Taggart stepped through the front gate and closed it behind him.

The sun lost its view through the gap in the boughs of the pepper tree, and Mitch was left in shade, but he did not feel a chill because the light had not warmed him in the first place.

11

I
n the den, the big TV was a blind eye. Even if Mitch used the remote to fill the screen with bright idiot visions, this eye could not see him; yet he felt watched by a presence that regarded him with cold amusement.

The answering machine stood on a corner desk. The only message was from Iggy:

“Sorry, bro. I should’ve called as soon as he left here. But Taggart…he’s like fully macking triple overhead corduroy to the horizon. He scares you off the board and makes you want to sit quiet on the beach and just watch the monsters break.”

Mitch sat at the desk and opened the drawer in which Holly kept their checkbook and bank statements.

In his conversation with the kidnapper, he had overestimated their checking-account balance, which was $10,346.54.

The most recent monthly statement showed an additional savings-account balance of $27,311.40.

They had bills due. Those were in a different drawer of the same desk. He didn’t look at them. He was counting only assets.

Their monthly mortgage payment was automatically deducted from their checking account. The bank statement listed the remaining loan balance as $286,770.

Recently, Holly had estimated that the house was worth $425,000. That was a crazy amount for a small bungalow in an old neighborhood, but it was accurate. Though old, the neighborhood was desirable, and the greater part of the value lay in the large lot.

Added to their cash on hand, the equity in the house made a total of approximately $175,000. That was far short of two million; and the kidnapper had not sounded like a guy whose intention was to negotiate in good faith.

Anyway, the equity in the house couldn’t be converted to cash unless they took a new loan or sold the place. Because the house was jointly owned, he needed Holly’s signature in either scenario.

They wouldn’t have had the house if Holly hadn’t inherited it from her grandmother, Dorothy, who had raised her. The mortgage had been smaller upon Dorothy’s death, but to pay inheritance taxes and save the house, they’d had to work out a bigger loan.

So the amount available for ransom was approximately thirty-seven thousand dollars.

Until now, Mitch had not thought of himself as a failure. His self-image had been that of a young man responsibly building a life.

He was twenty-seven. No one could be a failure at twenty-seven.

Yet this fact was indisputable: Although Holly was the center of his life, and priceless, when forced to put a price on her, he could pay only thirty-seven thousand.

A bitterness overcame him for which he had no target except himself. This was not good. Bitterness could turn to self-pity, and if he surrendered to self-pity, he would
make
a failure of himself. And Holly would die.

Even if the house had been without a mortgage, even if they had half a million in cash and were wildly successful for people their age, he would not have had the funds to ransom her.

That truth brought him to the realization that money would not be what saved Holly.
He
would be what saved her if she could be saved: his perseverance, his wits, his courage, his love.

As he returned the bank statement to the drawer, he saw an envelope bearing his name in Holly’s handwriting. It contained a birthday card that she had bought weeks before the day.

On the front of the card was the photograph of an ancient man festooned with wrinkles and wattles. The caption declared
When you’re old, I’ll still need you, dear.

Mitch opened the card and read
By then, the only thing I’ll have left to enjoy is gardening, and you’ll make excellent compost.

He laughed. He could imagine Holly’s laugh in the store when she had opened the card and read that punch line.

Then his laugh became something different from a laugh. In the past five terrible hours, he had more than once come close to tears but had repressed them. The card ruined him.

Below the printed text, she had written
Happy birthday! Love, Holly.
Her writing was graceful but not flamboyant, neat.

In his mind’s eye, he saw her hand as she held the pen. Her hands looked delicate, but they were surprisingly strong.

Eventually he recovered his composure by remembering the strength of her fine hands.

He went to the kitchen and found Holly’s car keys on the pegboard by the back door. She drove a four-year-old Honda.

After retrieving his cell phone from the charger beside the toaster oven, he went outside and moved his truck to the garage at the back of the property.

The white Honda stood in the second bay, sparkling because Holly had washed it Sunday afternoon. He parked beside the car.

He got out of the truck and shut the driver’s door, and stood between the vehicles, sweeping the room with his gaze. If anyone had been here, they would have heard and seen the truck approaching, would have had ample warning and would have fled.

The garage smelled vaguely of motor oil and grease, and strongly of the grass clippings that were bundled in burlap tarps and mounded in the bed of the pickup.

He stared at the low ceiling, which was the floor of the loft that overhung two-thirds of the garage. Windows in the higher space faced the house, providing an excellent vantage point.

Someone had known when Mitch had come home earlier, had known precisely when he had entered the kitchen. The phone had rung, with Holly on the line, moments after he had found the broken dishes and the blood.

Although an observer might have been in the garage, might still be here, Holly would not be with him. He might know where she was being held, but he might
not
know.

If the observer, whose existence remained theoretical, knew where Holly could be found, it would nevertheless be reckless for Mitch to go after him. These people clearly had much experience of violence, and they were ruthless. A gardener would not be a match for any of them.

A board creaked overhead. In a building of this vintage, the creak might have been an ordinary settling noise, old joints paying obeisance to gravity.

Mitch walked around to the driver’s door of the Honda, opened it. He hesitated, but got in behind the steering wheel, leaving the door open.

For the purpose of distraction, he started the engine. The garage door stood open, eliminating any danger of carbon-monoxide poisoning.

He got out of the car and slammed the door. Anyone listening would assume he had pulled it shut from inside.

Why he was not at once backing out of the garage might puzzle the listener. One assumption might be that he was making a phone call.

On a side wall were racked the many gardening tools that he used when working on his own property. The various clippers and pruning shears all seemed too unwieldy.

He quickly selected a well-made garden trowel formed from a single piece of machined steel. The handle featured a rubber grip.

The blade was wide and scooped and not as sharp as the blade of a knife. It was sharp enough.

Brief consideration convinced him that, although he might be able to stab a man, he should select a weapon more likely to disable than to kill.

On the wall opposite from the gardening implements, other racks held other tools. He chose a combination lug wrench and pry bar.