If Joe was home, I would have to confront him. If he wasn’t home, that would only prolong the agony until he arrived. He had told me he was at the airport.
He told me that. And that was a lie.
I pushed the key into the lock. Martha woofed, and as I opened the door, she tore around the corner from the living room into the foyer and hurled herself at me, nailing me in the solar plexus.
I bent down, gave my doggy a pat and a kiss, and then went into the living room, expecting my lying son-of-a-bitch husband to get up from his chair.
But the chair was occupied by our sweet, gray-haired neighbor with the big heart.
I’m sure my face was rigid, but I greeted her and apologized for being so late. I asked after Julie and if Mrs. Rose could hang in for another minute so I could walk Martha.
She said, “Of course. Are you hungry, Lindsay?”
I hadn’t thought of food for hours, but the idea that something warm could be waiting for me made my stomach growl. I walked Martha in a tight rectangle on Lake Street, down to Tenth, across the street, and back up to Twelfth, and after Martha did her business, we went home.
A plate of meat loaf and mashed potatoes was waiting for me on the kitchen bar, along with a glass of wine. I thanked Mrs. Rose, hugged her, and asked about the Fringe marathon. I didn’t hear anything she said about her show. How could I? The whiteout whirled in my mind and the warm food went down without my tasting it.
I came back to the present when Mrs. Rose said she’d just changed Julie, the new box of diapers were in her room, and she’d see me in the morning.
We said good night and I went to my daughter’s room.
Julie has Joe’s dark hair and long lashes, and looking at her made me think of the Chan children, who wouldn’t be sleeping tight for years to come. I kissed my fingers and touched them to Julie’s cheek. My precious girl.
As I cleaned up the kitchen, I thought about Shirley Chan trying to make sense of her late husband’s behavior, wondering what he had done and why he had done it, and what would become of her family now.
I was having some of those feelings, but my husband was alive. He could speak to me. And he would.
While the dishwasher did the dirty work, I booted up my laptop and downloaded the camera van’s street view to my PC. I had to see Joe staring into the camera’s eye again.
And there he was.
Big, handsome, looking into the lens like he was a movie star and this was his close-up. After he moved on, I sped through the rest of the footage and saw nothing out of the ordinary. No one slunk through the bushes. Apart from Joe’s Mercedes, no one slowed down in front of the Chan house or sped past it. Not even a stray cat raced across the road.
I calmed myself, and then I called Joe. I imagined his voice nearly drowned out by the sounds of an airliner taking off behind him, and my tremendous relief that I’d been wrong.
But no. I got a digital voice saying that Joe’s mailbox was full, good-bye.
I took a therapeutic shower, toweled off hard, and slipped into a nightgown. I went to Julie’s room. Her diaper was dry and she was sleeping soundly, so I sat in the rocker and stared out the window onto Lake Street.
When I next saw Joe, I would just ask him, Why were you in Palo Alto? Why did you lie to me?
I went to bed, and when Julie’s cries woke me, it was 6:15. I turned my head, absolutely sure that Joe would be sleeping next to me.
But the spot on my left was empty and cold.
I touched that empty place anyway and felt my resolve shatter and tears leap out of my eyes.
Where was Joe?
Why wasn’t he home?
CHAPTER 16
MRS. ROSE ARRIVED at 7 a.m., cheerful and rosy.
While I made breakfast for Julie and fed her, Mrs. Rose scrambled some eggs for me. She talked about her grandchildren in North Carolina while I combed Julie’s hair and played patty-cake with her, and once the baby was laughing, I handed her off, strapped on my gun, pulled on my Windbreaker, and said good-bye.
As I made my twenty-minute drive to work, I was in the grip of ugly feelings. My lying liar of a husband had lied. And yet, as furious as I was, I was even more terrified, because he hadn’t called me and hadn’t come home. Was he hurt? Was he dead?
I didn’t even know the names of the people Joe worked for, that’s how wrapped up I’d been in the Job over the last crazy months.
And that made me mad at myself.
Roaring mad.
By the time I parked my car, I was more of a mess than I wanted anyone to see. I entered the Hall from the rear and immediately ran into Jacobi in the lobby. My old partner, friend, and now chief of police knew the workings of my mind almost better than I knew them myself.
“What is it, Boxer? What’s eating you?”
“Just deep in thought. The Four Seasons case.” That was the half of the story I was willing to tell him.
Jacobi said he was assigning a couple of teams to work with me on the hotel murders.
I said thanks, gave him a weak wave, then headed up the stairs to Homicide.
Conklin was at his desk.
When he looked up, I said, “I screened the video from our van on the street.”
“And?”
“I hope you’re going to tell me I’m crazy.”
He looked at me like he was already of that opinion. I’ve tried, but I just cannot hide my feelings from people I know. I sat down behind my computer and Conklin stood behind me as I downloaded the surveillance tape from Waverley Street.
I ran the footage, halting it a few seconds before the heart-stopping incident.
“Look at this,” I said. “Tell me what you see.”
Conklin watched intently, and when we got to the part where Joe turned to the camera, I hit Pause.
My partner said, “Is that Joe? What’s he doing driving by the Chans’ house?”
“That’s the sixty-four-million-dollar question, and I have no answer. As far as I know, we’re looking at Joe’s last known whereabouts.”
“No way.”
“Right.”
“No,” he said. “I mean, that’s why he looks familiar.”
“I’m not following you.”
Conklin said, “The guy in the hotel,” he said. “The one with the bulky jacket who eluded the cameras. Look, Lindsay.” He went over to his desk, moved some papers around, and came up with the screen shots we’d taken of the stealthy man crossing the hotel lobby on the day of the shootings.
“Lindsay, don’t you see it?” Conklin asked me, shoving the photocopy under my nose. “The man in the lobby is Joe.”
CHAPTER 17
I TOLD CINDY I had to see her, and she met me on the front steps of the Hall fifteen minutes later.
“What have you got for me?” she said.
She was wearing a different T-shirt and steel-tipped work boots. The boots signified something. My guess was that she wanted to kick butt. She was in serious bulldog mode.
“We need to identify these people,” I said.
I showed her the pictures on my phone of the three unknown subjects: the mystery blonde and the morgue shots of the two PI kids, slightly ’shopped so that they looked less dead.
“Send them to me,” she said.
I did and she asked, “Are they wanted for questioning in the hotel murders? What can you tell me?”
“Let’s just start with you putting them out under a headline, ‘Do you know these people?’ and see how it goes.”
“OK, OK, OK,” said Cindy. “You’re not giving this to anyone else, right?”