He had left the Lexus with the radio blaring in the loading zone. With the radio and the jets overhead, no one would ever hear Timmy, should he wake up sooner than expected. Besides, the trunk was tight, almost soundproof, meaning there was also very little air.
He got into the car just as a security guard with a pad of tickets started in his direction. He squealed away from the curb and zipped around the unloading vehicles. It would be pitch-black by the time he got Timmy settled in, but the detour had been worth seeing the look on Special Agent O’Dell’s face.
The wind had picked up, creating swirls of snow and promising drifts by morning. The kerosene heater, lantern and sleeping bag in the back seat, originally packed for the camping trip, would come in handy, after all. Perhaps he would drive through McDonald’s on the way. Timmy loved Big Macs, and he found himself getting hungry.
He eased into traffic, waving a thank-you to the red-haired lady in the Mazda who let him in front of her. The day had not been a waste. He gunned the engine, ignoring the slip and slide of the tires on icy pavement. He was in control again.
Chapter 52
“This guy’s making a fuckin‘ spectacle out of you,” Antonio Morrelli lectured Nick while looking quite comfortable behind Nick’s desk, twirling back and forth in the leather chair that was once his. It was the only piece of the elaborate furnishings Nick had kept when replacing his father as sheriff.
“You need to spend some time with those TV people,” his father continued, “reassure them you know what you’re doing. Last night Peter Jennings made you sound like some country hick who couldn’t find his own ass with a flashlight. Goddamn it, Nick, Peter fucking Jennings!”
Nick stared out the window, past the snow-covered streets and toward the dark horizon beyond the streetlights. A hint of an orange moon peeked from behind a veil of clouds.
“Did Mom come with you?” he asked from his window perch without looking at his father, ignoring his insults. It was the same old game they played. His father hurled insults and instructions, and Nick kept quiet and pretended to listen. Most of the time he followed the instructions. It was easier. It had come to be expected.
“She stayed with your aunt Minnie and the RV down in Houston,” his father answered, but his look told Nick he wouldn’t be sidetracked from the real subject. “You need to start hauling in suspects off the street. You know, the usual scumbags. Bring ‘em in for questioning. Make it look like you’re on top of things.”
“I do have a couple of suspects,” Nick said suddenly, remembering that he did, indeed.
“Great, let’s haul them in. Judge Murphy could probably get a search warrant by morning. Who are your suspects?”
Nick wondered whether it had been that easy with Jeffreys: a late-night search warrant used only after the evidence had been carefully planted.
“Who are your suspects, son?” he repeated.
Perhaps he just wanted to shock his father. Common sense should have kept his mouth shut. Instead, he turned from the window and said, “One of them is Father Michael Keller.”
He watched his father stop rocking in the chair. The older man’s face registered surprise, then he shook his head and frustration creased the leather-like forehead.
“What the fuck are you trying to pull, Nick? A fucking priest-the media will crucify you. Is this your idea, or that pretty, little FBI agent the guys told me about?”
The guys. His guys. His department. Nick could imagine them laughing and making jokes about Maggie and him.
“Father Keller fits Agent O’Dell’s profile.”
“Nick, how many times do I have to tell you. You can’t go letting your Mr. Johnson make your decisions for you.”
“I’m not.” Nick’s face grew hot. He turned back toward the window, pretending to stare down at the streets, but his vision was blurred by his anger.
“O’Dell makes a good point. And I’m sure she makes a good omelet for breakfast after a night of fucking. Doesn’t mean you should listen to her.”
Nick rubbed a hand across his jaw and mouth to prevent the rage that formed its own words. He swallowed hard, waited, then turned to face his father again.
“This is my investigation, my decision, and I’m bringing in Father Keller for questioning.”
“Fine.” His father held up his hands in surrender. “Make a fucking asshole of yourself.” He got up and started for the door. “In the meantime, I’ll see if Gillick and Benjamin can round up some real suspects.”
He waited until his father was out the door and down the hall. Then Nick turned and slammed his fist into the wall. The rough texture ripped open his knuckles and pain shot up his arm. He tried to control his breathing, waiting for the rage to settle, for the frustration and humiliation to be overwhelmed by the pain.
Then, without thinking, he wiped at the blood running down the wall using his white shirtsleeve. He already had to pay for a broken glass door; he couldn’t afford to have his office repainted, too.
Chapter 53
The house was dark when Christine pulled into the driveway. She loaded the warm pizza box on top of her laptop computer and realized she’d probably be eating the pizza herself if Timmy was still at one of his friends’ houses. He’d come home with storybook descriptions of something they called meatloaf and mashed potatoes-food that didn’t come from a can, a box or a carton. Surely he remembered the days when she had actually fixed real dinners and had them on the table at the same time every night. She wondered if he missed their life as a family. What had she cost him for the price of her own self-respect?
She fumbled through the dark foyer until she found the light switch. For some reason the quiet sent a chill down her spine. Perhaps it was only the wind. She kicked the front door closed and made her way to the kitchen, stopping by the answering machine. No blinking red light, no messages. How many times did she have to tell Timmy to call and leave a message? There was no excuse, especially now that she had a cellular phone, although even she hadn’t memorized that number yet.
She threw her coat over a kitchen chair and piled her computer and handbag onto its seat. The pizza’s aroma reminded her how hungry she was. After Eddie Gillick’s visit at Wanda’s, she had lost her appetite and left most of her lunch unfinished.
She poured herself a glass of wine, tucked a folded newspaper under her arm and scooped up a piece of pizza, using only a napkin as a plate. Hands filled, she kicked off her shoes and padded into the living room, finding refuge on the soft sofa. No food was allowed in the living room, especially on the sofa. She expected Timmy to come in at any moment and catch her in the act.
She set her dinner on the glass coffee table and unfolded the newspaper. This evening’s paper carried the same headline from the morning: Second Body Found. Only underneath, she had now confirmed that the body was Matthew Tanner’s. Tonight’s article also included a quote from George Tillie. She found the paragraph and reread her handiwork, letting George confirm that the murders were the work of a serial killer, since Nick wouldn’t.
She had closed the article with a quote she had gotten from Michelle Tanner on Monday, a melodramatic plea for her son’s return. Christine followed the quote with, “A mother’s desperate plea has, once again, fallen on deaf ears.” Now, seeing it in print, it seemed a tad too much; however, Corby had loved it.
She flipped through the rest of the paper and scanned the readers‘-comment column to see whether her name was mentioned. Suddenly, she remembered the time, frantically searched for the remote and turned on the TV, flipping to Channel Five.
As usual, Darcy McManus looked impeccable in a deep purple suit and crimson red blouse. Christine examined McManus’s silky black hair, large brown eyes, darkened even more by the eyeliner and smudge of highlight on the eyelids. The lipstick was bold, a red to match her blouse. Christine couldn’t imagine herself in McManus’s place. She’d need a whole new wardrobe, but then she’d be able to afford one with what Ramsey was offering to pay her.