I look at Tek with as sweet a smile as I can muster. “You’re probably right. My overactive imagination. So let’s get back to the reason we came.” I flash another smile and adjust my hideous blue jacket. “Those photos from the Sweeney case. Shall we go get them now?”
I tuck my hair behind my ears and wait for the brush-off. I can hardly wait to hear it.
“Well, we don’t have to do that,” he says.
I knew it.
“Oh, no?” I begin, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Why?”
“Because they’re already here,” Tek says, flashing a smile of his own. He pulls out a brown corrugated cardboard box from behind the security desk. It says “Evidence,” in red capital letters. Underneath, in black marker, someone’s block-printed “Sweeney.”
As I watch, dumbfounded, Tek lifts the lid, placing it on the counter, and then pulls a manila envelope from the box. He carefully unwinds a thin red string from around one paper disc, then another, then back to the first.
Holding the envelope open over the counter, he tips out the contents. A batch of glossy eight-by-ten photographs slides across the marble. Tek spreads them apart, one by one, putting them in a row, each one perfectly visible.
There are six photographs in front of us. All women. Five of them are mystery faces. The last one has dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. A peaceful smile, a touch of makeup on a middle-aged and still-pretty face. It’s Dorinda.
“Your tax dollars at work,” Tek says. “You need copies?”
CHAPTER 14
Botox jumps onto my lap, pretending it just happens to be where she was going to sit anyway, and turns several times, swiping her tail across my face, making sure her calico body is situated in exactly the right place. I lean over her, dealing eight-by-ten photographs like a hand of poker onto the glass top of my living room coffee table. No matter how I look at the black-and-white lineup of middle-aged women, it’s a losing hand. For me. And for Dorinda.
My phone is tucked under my chin, and I hear the answering machine kick in. “Hi, it’s Franklin and Stephen. We’re away from the phone, so-” There’s a click and a silence, and then a real voice interrupts.
“Hello?”
I waste no time on pleasantries with Franklin. “Me,” I say. I lean back on the couch, propping my bare feet on the edge of the table. Botox, with a glare, rearranges herself on my gray sweatpants, almost spilling the glass of white wine I’m holding. “Fun day at the archives. Got the photos and almost got killed.”
I spew out the entire story from blue jackets to labyrinthine halls to identical doors to laundry chutes. To guns. To the vanishing Tek. And non-guarding guards.
“Just another day at the office,” I finish. “And to top it off, the photo array looks totally by the book. We’ve got to show them to Will and Rankin at some point, but if this is what they displayed to the witnesses that night, and they picked out Dorinda, so much for the botched ID theory.”
Botox sweeps her tail across my face again, and I bat it out of the way. “You get anything? In Swampscott? Please tell me you did. Save the day.”
“I did, actually,” Franklin answers. “But you’re okay, right? Not hurt? Hang on, I have to put down the groceries and get my notes.”
I take a sip of wine as I wait, glancing at my front door, checking that the security chain’s in place. Tek said he’d put in a report about what happened-might have happened, as he put it-in the archives. And I’m certainly going to file a report of my own, just to make sure it’s on the record. But I’m happy to be home with my door chained. Even if there’s not really any danger.
“Okay, listen,” Franklin says. “I went to the bar, The Reefs? Where Ray Sweeney was last seen. The owner was here, a guy named…” He pauses, and I can hear notebook pages flipping. “Del DeCenzo. D-e-C-e-n-z-o. He says he wasn’t there the night of the murder, but he was the next day when the cops came with a picture of Dorie. The bartender ID’d her, right away. Some patrons, too. Pointed right at her, he said. But here’s the scoop.”
“Did you find out about the bartender? Who he is? Or is it a woman?” I ask.
“It’s a man, Charlotte, and I did, but hang on. Like I said, here’s the scoop on Ray Sweeney. DeCenzo had one word for him. And I’m quoting now. ‘Asshole.’”
“Lovely,” I say, taking another sip of wine. “Evocative.”
“I thought so, too. He’s a real poet. But anyway, Del describes Sweeney as a loudmouth, a town politico with, as he described, ‘illusions of grander.’ And he was trying to, as Del so delicately put it, ‘screw them’ on the price of liquor licenses. Sweeney’d apparently visit all the bars in town, cadging liquor. Expect to drink free. ‘Like we owed him,’ Del said. ‘If we didn’t pour up, we figured he could yank our licenses, somehow.’ Seems like Ray was not number one on the Swampscott popularity charts.”
“Fun town,” I say. “Corruption, extortion, and a murder. So the bartender picked out Dorinda? Where’s he now?”
“Yeah, that’s probably not a good use of our time,” Franklin says. “He’s ‘in the wind,’ according to Del. Only worked there a week or two, then split. And the witnesses who saw the photos, all strangers. He has no idea who they are or where they are. Police might know, I guess. Speaking of which. Tek’s ex-partner?” I hear the notebook pages again. “Name’s Claiborne Gettings. Moved to Detroit. Retired. I suppose we could call him.”
I stare at the photos and they stare glossily back at me. Telling me nothing. “So if Dorinda was at the bar drinking with her husband, like everyone in the bar remembers, she couldn’t have been at work. But if the time sheets and tapes are correct, she was at work. Only one can be true.”
I hear a click on my phone “Rats,” I say. “Call waiting. I’ll-”
“Could be Will,” Franklin says. “Call me back.”
Franklin hangs up and I push the button. I mentally cross my fingers that Franklin’s right. It’s Will. Dorinda’s saying yes, and this day will end on a high note.
“Hello?” I say. I can almost sense Will’s voice ready to speak on the other end.
“Hi, um.” I hear.
It’s Penny. I glance at the clock on the mantel. It’s just after nine. Outside, in the real world of vacations and oceanfront cottages, the last of the sun is disappearing, so maybe Penny and Josh just got back from dinner. Or an early movie. But why would Penny be calling me? Maybe something’s wrong.
“Hi, Penny,” I say, steeling myself for bad news. “How’s everything in Truro?”
“Fine.”
So I guess there’s nothing wrong. There’s a pause on her end and I’m not sure how to fill it. Or if I should. She’s eight, she certainly knows how to talk on the phone. Intimidated by an eight-year-old. Doing fine here.
“So what’s up, Penny?” I continue. I take my last sip of wine. “Did you go to the beach today?”
“Yes.” Pause, pause. “Dad wants to talk to you.” I hear a fluster of motion on the other end. I think I can make out Penny’s voice saying “You talk.”
“Hey, sweets.” Josh’s voice wraps me in warmth, almost as if he’s in the same room. I stroke Botox, head to tail, and she leans into my touch, purring.
“Hey, you sweets,” I say. “Nice to hear from Penny,” I add, laughing. “Not much of a talker, huh?”
“She’s been loading my new cell phone,” he says. “At age eight. She’s choosing ring tones, putting numbers in speed dial, all that. I’m instantly ancient. I thought it would be fun if we called you together.”
“Yeah, apparently not exactly her idea of fun. Anyway, it’s wonderful to hear your voice. Tell me everything.” No need to fill Josh in on my archive adventures with Tek. Or whoever.