"So who knew Helen Gaines besides Stephen and
Beth?" Amanda said. "And who knew Stephen besides
Rose Keller?"
"The question isn't necessarily who knew Helen and
Stephen," I said, "but who else knew Rose and Beth?
Beth-Ann Downing had a daughter. Sheryl Downing, who now goes by the name Sheryl Harrison. She's thirty-five, and according to the Indian Lake officer who spoke to Sheryl, she and Beth hadn't spoken in nearly ten years, ever since Sheryl moved to California.
For there to be that kind of estrangement, something had to have driven mother and daughter apart."
"But it could be anything," Amanda said dubiously.
"Maybe Beth disapproved of her daughter's husband.
Maybe Sheryl didn't like her mom's cooking."
"Or maybe there was something else," I said. "It took a lot more than burned meat loaf to make me want to leave a burning trail of rubber when I left Bend."
"So how do you plan to get in touch with Sheryl?"
"She lives in Sherman Oaks. We have her name.
She's on her way to New York, but will likely still be checking her messages. Give me one minute."
I went to my laptop and booted it. Opening Internet
Explorer, I went to 411. com. I plugged in Sherman
Oaks as the city, then entered the name Sheryl Harrison.
The page loaded for a few seconds, and then three names popped up, along with their phone numbers.
"Let's hope this works."
I called each of the three numbers. The first Sheryl
Harrison picked up. I told her I had a question about her mother, Beth. She said her mother had died years ago.
I thanked her and hung up. Neither of the next two were home. One of them might have been the right one. I had no idea if they were, or which one. But I left them both the same message:
"Hi, Sheryl, my name is Henry Parker. I'm so sorry for your loss. I have a question about your mother. I don't mean to pry, and I know this is a difficult time for you, but I wouldn't be contacting you if this wasn't of the utmost importance. If you can, please call me back at the following number."
I left my number on both machines, and thanked them again for their time. One Sheryl would call me back. I had to believe that. And to believe that, all I had to do was wait.
After a quick slice of pizza, I threw off my clothes and stepped into the shower. I immediately noticed there were no towels hanging on the racks. Either we'd used them all and they were in the laundry waiting to be shipped off, or Amanda had purposely taken them all out so I'd have to beg for one. I had a feeling it was the latter.
For some reason she got a kick out of seeing me open the bathroom door just a crack, then squirt through the apartment naked looking for something to cover myself up with. She called this game "hide and peek," and I'd be lying if I said she was the only one who enjoyed it.
For some reason, I was too scared to play it on her.
The water felt wonderful, hot and nearly scalding. A long shower would do my body good, just to take my mind off everything. We had to start up again soon, but every brief respite was a moment to be savored.
After that, I threw a pair of shorts on while I airdried, then went to the bed and passed out. Amanda was already asleep, surrounded by enough pillows to build a fort big enough for both of us. No reason to ask where all my towels were. Sleep came easily.
It must have been several hours later when a shrill ring woke me up from the darkness. I blinked, noticed
Amanda was no longer on the bed. I groped around for the phone, forgetting where I'd placed it. Then I heard
Amanda from the living room.
"Henry, your phone is ringing!"
"Who is it?" I replied, picking crust from my eyes.
"Check the caller ID."
"I don't know, but it's an 818 area code."
Eight-one-eight. That was a California area code.
I leaped out of bed, toppling half a dozen pillows onto the floor. I was wearing nothing but a towel. Not like whoever was calling would notice. Then I bolted out of the bedroom-stark naked, the towel fluttering to the floor-and made a beeline for the phone.
Amanda was standing there, holding it in one hand while trying to stifle a laugh with her other.
"Sweet dreams?" she said, looking south.
I scowled at her, crossed my legs, grabbed the phone, looked at the ID and pressed Send.
"Hello?" I said, hoping I'd made it in time.
"Is this…Mr. Parker?" It was a woman's voice I did not register in my memory.
"Yes, who is this?"
"Sheryl Harrison. I had a voice mail from a Henry
Parker asking to call back at this number. Something about my mother."
"Yes, Mrs. Harrison, thank you so much for calling me back. I was wondering if I could talk to you about your mother, Beth. Do you have a few minutes?"
"I'm leaving the church right now. My mother's funeral is tomorrow. I have an hour before my appoint ment with the florist, that's all the time I can give you. If you can meet me on Twenty-seventh and Third, you'll have whatever time is remaining before my appoint ment."
"I'm leaving right now," I said, looking around to see where I put my pants.
"Just so we're clear, I know who you are, Mr. Parker.
You're a reporter. To be honest, I really want nothing to do with you, and you're not going to get much more than a 'no comment.'"
"This isn't for my job," I said. "It's personal. It's about my father. He's linked to this crime. You'll under stand when I see you."
"Is that right. So none of this will end up in print."
"Not a word."
"In any event, everything that passes between us is officially off the record."
"I understand," I said. "You have my word."
"So if any word of our conversation ends up in print,
I'll own your newspaper, your apartment and every pen and pencil you've ever held."
"I swear on my life, this is personal."
"We'll see." She hung up.
I looked up to see Amanda standing there holding a pair of slacks and a clean blue shirt.
"If you're not out this door in three minutes," she said, "I'm going down there to meet Sheryl Harrison in your place."
16
The good and bad thing about New York is that if you don't have time to sit stuck in traffic while your cab racks up forty cents every one-point-two blocks, you can pick from myriad transportation options. There are dozens of subway and bus lines that crisscross the city like a drunk doctor's stitching, and even if the Second
Avenue subway remains a figment of the city's imagi nation, there's always a way from point A to point B.
Of course, even though there happens to be a large public transportation system, it was still as spotty ser vicewise as your average Wi-Fi connection. Which is why I stood sweating in a dank station for nearly half an hour before the 4 train rumbled to its stop. By the time I took a seat across from a heavily tattooed couple playing tonsil hockey like they were trying out for the
Rangers, my nice blue shirt was soaked through with sweat and my pressed slacks looked like they'd been crumpled in a ball in a Russian steam bath for a week.
Thankfully, the one place in New York that was airconditioned was the subway cars, so when I transferred to the 6 and got off at Twenty-eighth and Park, my clothes looked only mildly rumpled. I couldn't decide whether this appearance would make Sheryl Harrison more or less skeptical of my motives.
Hustling over to Twenty-seventh and Third, I saw an attractive black woman standing on the corner. She was finishing the last of what appeared to be a sandwich or a wrap, and held a gigantic iced coffee in her other hand. The smart yet subdued suit she wore seemed to work for someone in mourning, yet keeping her ap pointment book up-to-date.