“Are you aware that Whalen’s been released from prison?”
Almost dreamily, Harris peeled his eyes off the mug, planted them on Michael.
“I’m aware of it,” he nodded. “I try and keep up on the perps I had a hand in sending away. Meaning, it’s in my best interest to keep up with their releases.”
“You feel the need to watch your back?” Michael asked.
He shook his head.
“Not in this case anyway, Whalen’s been quiet. He’s registered with the necessary data bases according to Megan’s Law. He checks in regularly with his parole officer.”
“You’re sure about that?” I asked.
His eyes shifting back to me.
“I would be aware of it if he didn’t.”
“But you wouldn’t be aware of it if he was following me.”
“I’m aware of that possibility now,” he said. “But I’m going to need a little more to go on than just your word before I can go pulling him back in here. The last thing I need is a harassment accusation.”
That’s when I leaned down, unzipped my portfolio bag, slipped out Franny’s paintings.
Harris eyed the canvases quickly up and down. Then he looked at me rather quizzically.
“You’re an artist.”
“I wish I could say I painted them. But they’re the work of an artist-in-residence where I work at the Albany Center Visual Art Galleries. His name is Francis Scaramuzzi. He’s an autistic savant. You might have heard of him.”
He shook his head, sat back in his chair. “What’s all this have to do with Whalen?”
I swallowed a deep breath and told him. I told him about the abduction and assault that occurred thirty years ago, almost to the day. I told him about Franny’s paintings; told him about the voice I heard in my bedroom; told him about the man I might have seen inside the parking garage.
I thought the wall plaster would crack from the silent tension. Until Harris brought his hands to his face, rubbed his eyes. In a word he appeared visibly shaken, if not pale-faced. He inhaled and exhaled a profound breath. Then, reaching down with his right hand, he opened the bottom desk drawer and came away with a bottle of Seagrams 7. He uncapped the bottle, poured a jigger into his ‘I love my job’ mug and downed the shot in one swift expert pull. Capping the bottle, he put it back in the drawer, closing it back up.
He must have realized he’d taken Michael and me by more than a little surprise because he pursed his lips and opened his eyes.
“Shocked?”
“A little,” I said, motioning a glance at Michael. “My dad was a trooper with Rennselaer County.”
Harris pursed his lips. “What’s his name?”
“It was Daniel Underhill. He and my mother passed away not long after my sister died.”
He gave no indication of whether he knew my father or not; no indication of whether or not my father might have had a hand in Whalen’s arrest. But then, if he had, I wasn’t the least bit aware of it.
Instead he said, “Tell you what, Ms. Underhill, I’m going to request that you leave the paintings with me for a while. I’ll have the lab draw up a print analysis. That is you don’t mind.”
“They’re kind of expensive,” Michael said.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Hoffman. The lab people are very careful. They’ll be well cared for.” Eyes back on me. “Have you considered seeing your psychologist about this, Ms. Underhill? Or is it Hoffman?”
“Please call me Rebecca,” I said. “And I’m not crazy if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He shook his head, raised his hands in surrender.
“I’m sure you’re not. But keeping a secret of the magnitude you have for all these years can be considerably traumatizing. A psychologist can treat you for PTS.”
“Post Traumatic Stress,” Michael interjected. “Is that what you think my wife has been experiencing Detective Harris?”
The cop cocked his head. “It’s possible,” he said.
“Gentlemen,” I said. “I’m not crazy.”
Harris got up.
I stood up along with him.
“I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do,” he exclaimed. “I’m going to give Whalen’s probie a call before I leave tonight, find out where he’s living; find out what he’s doing for a job. If he lives and works anywhere near you, I’m going to alert New York State Sexual Predators about it. At your discretion of course.”
I nodded. Meaning, he had my discretion and permission.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me before you go? Anything else you need to show me?”
I thought about it as I slung the bag over my shoulder. That’s when I recalled the old black and white photo. Reaching into my jean’s pocket, I set the snapshot onto his desk.
“What’s this?” he said, picking it up with his fingers by the narrow white border.
I told him.
“So you found this picture only this morning on the porch of your parents’ Brunswick home?”
“It matches perfectly a little painting Francis Scaramuzzi produced years ago. A painting that is now stored under lock and key inside his personal basement storage room.”
He shook his head, rolled his eyes.
“Strange coincidence, I will admit,” he said. “I’d like to hold onto this as well, check it for prints along with the paintings.”
“You have my blessing.”
“You sure that’s everything?” he asked once more.
I spotted Harris’s cell phone set on the desk top. I was immediately reminded of the strange texts I’d been receiving for some months now. I went to open my mouth up about it. But something held me back. I knew I should have told Harris everything. But something inside my gut stopped me from doing the right thing. Something entirely to do with Molly.
I knew that if I told Harris about the texts, he might confiscate my cell and look for a way to break into the data base to find a way to expose the unknown caller’s ID. He might take away my only physical link to Molly.
Michael slipped on his jacket and his beret. Harris took special notice of the beret, squinting his eyes and slipping out from behind his desk. He opened the office door, held it open for us.
“I understand you write detective novels, Mr. Hoffman,” he smiled. “Anything published?”
“ The Hounds of Heaven,” Michael said. “Came out a few years ago. I’m working on something new right now.”
Reaching into his pocket the detective handed us each a card.
“Give me a call anything else happens,” he said. “Call anytime day or night. My cell number is also on there.”
I thanked him.
He told me not to worry; to get a good night’s rest.
As we started to walk out, I said, “I do have one more question, Detective.”
His eyebrows perked up.
“You never asked me why my sister and I didn’t come to you about the attack thirty years ago.”
He picked at his right earlobe quickly with an extended index finger.
“I’ve been working this job for thirty-eight years,” he said with a resignation I hadn’t noticed until now. “I know precisely why you didn’t come to me, Rebecca. It’s not your fault.”
With that I turned, led Michael toward the exit. Handing in our visitor’s passes to the watch commander, he asked us to have a nice day. But it seemed a little late for that.
Chapter 31
“Why didn’t you tell him about the texts?”
Michael was speaking to me out the side of his mouth as he pulled out of the police station onto South Pearl Street.
I turned to him, watched his profile while he drove. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
He was quiet for a minute, pretending to concentrate on the road when in fact he was filled with thought.
“It’s your call,” he said after a while. “I know how you feel about the texts; about them coming from…” Instead of finishing his thought he allowed it to dangle, as if it were too strange for him to say it.
“Coming from Molly,” I uttered for him. “From heaven above… You don’t have to be afraid to say it.”
“That the tangible proof you need that heaven exists? That God exists? That Molly lives? A cell phone?”