I’ve got my blue book out and I’m writing down these observations and reflections, the pencil scritching rapidly, in the background the burbling of my second pot of coffee.
My second observation is that there have been seven conversations within that same three-month period, with the contact listed as “JTT.” Most were on Mondays, in the afternoon, perhaps making arrangements to go see that night’s Distant Pale Glimmers. The final call, incoming, lasting a minute and forty seconds, this past Monday at 1:15.
Interesting—interesting—very interesting. Thank you again, Officer McConnell.
It’s my third observation that really gets my heart pumping, that’s got me sitting here at the table with the phone in my hand, ignoring the eager beeping of the coffeemaker, staring at the screen, my mind rolling and gunning. Because there’s a number with no name assigned to it, to which Peter Zell had placed a twenty-two-second telephone call at ten o’clock on the night of his death.
And a forty-two-second call at exactly ten o’clock the night before that.
I scroll through the list again, my fingers dancing across the screen, faster and faster. Every night, the same number. Ten o’clock. Outgoing call. Call less than a minute long. Every single night.
Peter Zell’s phone is getting service in my house, two bars, the same as me. I call the mystery number and it is picked up after two rings.
“Hello?”
The voice answers as if from within a haze, whispering, confused—which is totally understandable. You don’t get calls every day from a dead man’s cell phone.
But I recognize her right away.
“Ms. Eddes? It’s Detective Henry Palace, from the Concord Police Department. I’m afraid we’re going to need to chat again.”
She’s early, but I’m even earlier, and Ms. Eddes sees me waiting and comes right over. I half rise, the ghost of my father in the small ritual gesture of politeness, and she slides into her side of the booth. And then, before I am fully back in my seat, I tell her I appreciate her coming, and she’s got to tell me everything she knows about Peter Zell and the circumstances surrounding his death.
“My goodness, Detective,” she says mildly, lifting up the thick glossy menu. “You don’t mess around.”
“No, ma’am.”
And I give it to her again, my whole tough-guy deadpan speech about how she’s got to tell me everything she knows. She lied to me before, left things out, and I’m trying to make it clear that such omissions will not be tolerated. Naomi Eddes looks back at me with raised eyebrows. She’s wearing dark red lipstick, her eyes are dark and wide. The white curve of her scalp.
“And what if I don’t?” she says, looking down at her menu, untroubled. “If I don’t tell you everything, I mean.”
“The thing is, you’re a material witness, Ms. Eddes.” I practiced this speech several times this morning, hoping I wouldn’t have to deliver it. “Given the information I now have, I mean the fact that your number is all over the victim’s phone…”
I should have practiced more; this sort of tough-as-nails posturing is a lot easier with Victor France. “And given that you chose, last time we spoke, to keep that information to yourself. The fact is, I have cause to take you in.”
“Take me in?”
“Have you held. Under state statutes. Federal, also. Revised New Hampshire criminal code, section—” I pluck a sugar packet from the caddy in the center of the table. “I’d have to look up the section.”
“Okay.” She nods solemnly. “Understood.” She smiles, and I exhale, but she’s not done. “Held for how long?”
“For the…” I look down, look away. I give the bad news to the sugar packet. “Held for the rest of it.”
“So, in other words, if I don’t start spilling everything right this second,” she says, “then you’ll throw me in a deep, dark dungeon and leave me there until Maia makes landfall and all the world is consumed in darkness. Is that it, Detective Palace?”
I nod without speaking, look up and find her smiling still.
“Well, Detective, I do not think you would do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think you have a little bit of a crush on me.”
I don’t know what to say to that, I really don’t, but my hands are really doing a number on the crimped paper border of this sugar packet. Ruth-Ann comes over, fills my coffee, and takes Ms. Eddes’s order for an unsweetened iced tea. Ruth-Ann scowls at the little mound of sugar I’ve left on her table and heads back to the kitchen.
“Ms. Eddes, on Monday morning you told me you weren’t that close to Peter Zell. It turns out this is not true.”
She purses her lips, exhales.
“Can we start with something else, please?” she says. “Aren’t you wondering why I’m bald?”
“No.” I turn a page in my blue book and begin to recite. “‘Detective Palace: You’re Mr. Gompers’s executive assistant?’ ‘Ms. Eddes: Please. Secretary.’”
“You wrote all that down?” She’s unwrapping her cutlery bundle, idly playing with her fork.
“‘Detective Palace: Did you know the victim well?’ ‘Ms. Eddes: To be totally honest, I’m not sure I would have noticed him not being here. Like I said, we weren’t that close.’”
I set down my book and lean forward across the table, lift the cutlery from her hands like a gentle parent. “If you weren’t that close, why did he call you every night, Ms. Eddes?”
She takes her fork back. “Why don’t you need to ask me why I’m bald? Do you think I have cancer?”
“No, ma’am.” I scratch my mustache. “I think, based on the length and curve of your eyelashes, that you have very long, thick hair. I think you decided that, with the world ending, it was no longer worth the time and trouble to deal with it. Style it and comb it and all that woman-type stuff.”
She looks at me, rubs a palm across her scalp. “That’s very clever, Detective Palace.”
“Thanks.” I nod. “Tell me about Peter Zell.”
“Let’s order first.”
“Ms. Eddes.”
She raises her hands, palms up, imploring. “Please?”
“All right. We’ll order first.”
Because I know, now, that she’s going to talk. Whatever she’s holding back, she’s going to give it to me, I can feel it, it’s only a matter of time, and I’m starting to get this kind of powerful nervousness, a sweet humming anticipation against my ribs, like when you’re on a date and you know that there will be a goodnight kiss—maybe more than a kiss—and it’s just a matter of time.
Eddes orders the BLT, and Ruth-Ann says, “Good choice, dear.” I get the three-egg omelet with whole wheat toast, and Ruth-Ann notes dryly that there are other kinds of food besides eggs.
“So,” I say. “We’ve ordered.”
“One more minute. Let’s talk about you. Who’s your favorite singer?”
“Bob Dylan.”
“Favorite book?”
I take a sip of coffee. “Right now I’m reading Gibbon. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.”
“Yeah,” says Eddes. “But what’s your favorite?”
“The Watchmen. It’s a graphic novel, from the eighties.”
“I know what it is.”
“Why did Peter Zell call you every night at exactly ten p.m.?”
“To make sure his watch was working.”
“Ms. Eddes.”
“He was a morphine addict.”
“What?”
I’m staring at the side of her face, she’s turned to look out the window, and I’m flabbergasted. It’s like she just said that Peter Zell was an Indian chief or a general in the Soviet army.