The Request

by David Bell

  “It’s not like that,” I said, shaking my head.

  And I was ready to come clean, to tell her everything. Wouldn’t someone crack apart under the pressure of being two-faced all the time?

  “Then what is it like?” she asked.

  Somebody rang the doorbell. At the front of the house.

  “Who the hell is that?” Amanda asked. “Who would come to the door this early in the morning?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll get rid of them.”

  As I stood up, I noticed an unpleasant odor emanating from Henry’s direction. Either the milk had given him gas, or he needed to be changed. Badly.

  “Did you—”

  “I smell it,” Amanda said. “I’ll take him.”

  “I’ll get rid of whoever it is,” I said. “And then we can finish talking.”

  Amanda pulled Henry out of his high chair and took a whiff of his bottom. Every feature on her face curled. “Ugh. Funny how you get to go to the door, and I get the pile of shit.”

  “We can switch if you want. Maybe it will be Blake. Would you like to talk to him?”

  She shook her head. “He’s worse than the smelly diaper.”

  “What happened to turning the page and moving on?”

  “Oh, right. Okay . . . I’ll be kind.”

  While she went upstairs, I went out to the front of the house. Before I opened the door, I peeked through the front window. I saw a woman in business attire—blue suit, white shirt—on the stoop. Middle-aged. Serious looking. As if she felt my eyes on her, she turned and looked at me, locking on to my eyes through the glass.

  She waved. Not a friendly wave that said Hello. It was a wave that said Hurry up and open this door.

  So I did.

  “Ryan Francis?” she asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m Marita Rountree, with the Rossingville Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions about an ongoing investigation.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Detective Rountree looked around the living room when she came in, sizing up the furniture, the letterpress prints on the walls. I offered her a seat, and she sank into the end of the couch while I opted for a chair. She had brown hair in long braids. She looked fit and wore a Garmin watch on her wrist, the kind you could use to track all of your exercise. I didn’t see a wedding band on her long fingers.

  “Do you know why I’m here, Mr. Francis?”

  “Ryan. And, yes, I think I do.”

  She raised her eyebrows, encouraging me to explain.

  “You’re here because someone tried to break into our house last night,” I said.

  “Oh, I know about that, yes,” she said. “But that’s not why I’m here. Do you have another guess? I’ll give you one more.”

  “I saw on the news that Jennifer Bates was murdered.”

  “And how did you know her?” Rountree asked.

  I explained that we had once made a bid on a project for her nonprofit. But they’d gone with someone else.

  Rountree waited patiently. She looked like a woman with all the time in the world, even as her watch buzzed twice to indicate incoming texts. She didn’t even look down at it. She clearly had more discipline than I did when it came to ignoring texts and notifications.

  Finally, she asked, “Did you know her in any other capacity?”

  I was thankful for one thing—the secret about the Facebook messages sent to me by Jennifer hadn’t come out for the first time with the detective sitting there. Wherever Amanda was in the house—and I suspected she was still upstairs—I had no idea if she could hear us or not. If Henry was blathering and fussing while she changed him, she probably couldn’t. Nevertheless, I was glad she’d heard it from me already.

  “We didn’t have a relationship outside of that one work experience,” I said. Then added, “Although she tried to establish one with me.”

  Rountree’s face remained impassive while I told her about the Facebook messages. The ones six months ago and the more recent one in the last couple of days.

  “What did this message from a couple of days ago say?” she asked.

  “Nothing really. Just that we should talk. Soon.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Just talk. Do you think it was work related?”

  “I guess it could have been. Maybe. I just don’t know. I unfriended her and didn’t respond.”

  Rountree didn’t show surprise, and I guessed, although I wasn’t certain, she already knew what the messages said. Why else would she be at my house?

  Unless something else had pointed her in my direction.

  Fingerprints.

  A witness, like the dog walker.

  I said, “You know her job, that nonprofit—they worked with prisoners, men returning to the workforce when they get released. Could one of those guys have hurt her?”

  “We’re well aware of her job and the people she might have met. So, outside of this work transaction and these Facebook messages, you didn’t know her. You didn’t see her socially or spend time with her?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And just for my records, because I know my boss will ask about it, where were you yesterday?”

  “What time?”

  “Oh, any time. All day. Humor me. Account for all of your movements. Where were you?”

  I summarized my day. Work from morning until evening. Stopping by the Pig after work. The coffee with Blake. Then home. And then . . .

  “I played basketball at the Y last night. They have a league that goes late on Thursday.”

  She nodded. “But I want to go back to your friend Blake Norton.”

  I heard Amanda on the stairs, the wood squeaking as she came down. She swept into the living room, carrying Henry on her hip.

  “What about Blake?” Amanda asked. “Did something happen to him?”

  Rountree stood up and smiled when she saw Amanda and Henry. Her face showed more warmth than it had shown to me. I stood up as well and introduced them.

  Rountree reached out and shook hands with Amanda. Then she turned her attention to Henry. “Who is this handsome little man?”

  “This is Henry,” Amanda said.

  Rountree leaned in and rubbed her index finger against Henry’s cheek, prompting him to smile toothlessly. She had no idea how lucky she was not to have shown up fifteen minutes earlier, when he smelled like a toxic-waste dump.

  “Did you say something about Blake?” Amanda asked.

  Rountree appeared reluctant to take her attention away from Henry, but she did, straightening up. And once she did, her face went back to being all business.

  “Right, Mr. Norton. You all are friends with him, aren’t you?”

  “We are,” I said.

  “Mostly Ryan,” Amanda said at the same time. “But, yes, we both are.”

  Rountree withheld comment. “Do you know where he is? We’d like to talk to him.”

  “Isn’t he home?” I asked. “Or he’ll be at work eventually.”

  “Wait. Why do you want to talk to him?” Amanda asked.

  Rountree looked at both of us. “Because of his relationship with Jennifer Bates. Didn’t you know he was romantically involved with her?”

  Amanda gasped. For the second time that day. Her mouth formed an O that made her look like Henry. And then she raised her hand to cover her mouth.

  “He was in a relationship with her,” she said once she’d lowered her hand. “You mean . . . an ongoing one? Right now? What a . . .” She cut her words off, showing deference in the presence of the police officer.

  “He broke it off when he got back together with Sam,” I said.

  “So you did know about that relationship, Ryan?” Rountree asked, turning to me.

/>   I felt three sets of eyes on me, all of them, including Henry, staring at me with great expectation. “He mentioned it,” I said. “He said it ended a few weeks ago.”

  “And he wasn’t cheating on Sam?” Amanda asked, her voice skeptical.

  “He says he wasn’t. He told me last night.”

  “Last night? When he came to the house?”

  I took a deep breath. “No. I saw him after work. We got coffee.”

  “You were talking to him and not Tony?” Amanda asked.

  “No. I did talk to Tony about his boyfriend. I did. But when I was leaving, I ran into Blake. He said he wanted to talk, so we got coffee at the Ground Floor.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” Amanda asked.

  Rountree lifted her eyebrows and looked at me.

  “No, I didn’t,” I said. “He’s been persona non grata around here. So I didn’t tell you.”

  “So you saw Mr. Norton twice last night,” Rountree said. “I think I need to know more about these chats with Mr. Norton.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  We all sat down, Rountree on one end of the couch with Amanda on the other, Henry balanced on her lap. I returned to my chair.

  “What was Mr. Norton doing here last night? What time was this?”

  I looked at Amanda and then back to the detective. “It was late. Amanda had gone to sleep already. Maybe midnight or so.”

  “And this was after someone tried to break into your house?” she asked.

  “We don’t really know if someone tried to break in,” I said.

  Amanda cleared her throat. “The back door rattled. And the two officers who came found tracks outside. So did Ryan. None of that is normal, is it?”

  Rountree agreed by nodding. “And why did Blake come by?”

  “He was following up about his marriage,” I said. “He’s getting married on Saturday.”

  “He told you about his marriage in the coffee shop?”

  “He did.”

  I shifted my eyes to Amanda, and she was watching me. Brow furrowed, thoughts swirling. She knew I’d withheld the information about seeing Blake. Yes, I’d had a good reason, but that didn’t mean she was going to like it. Her disapproval radiated off her body like summer heat from asphalt. Rountree had to have noticed. Any halfway intelligent detective would have picked up on it.

  “Does he always come over late at night? Is that odd?”

  “He’s not a conventional guy,” I said.

  “Even though he knows you have a baby, he shows up late at night.”

  “I was awake,” I said. “He came by and must have seen the light on in my office.”

  “Could he have . . . ?” Amanda said.

  “What’s that, Amanda?” Rountree asked.

  She shifted Henry’s weight from one side of her lap to the other. He found a strand of her hair and started tugging on it, making Amanda wince. She shifted him again, hoping to break his grip.

  “Could he have been the one outside the house, trying to open the door?” Amanda asked.

  “You think Blake was outside your house when you were home alone with the baby, but he didn’t ring the bell or anything?” Rountree asked.

  “He and I have had our differences,” Amanda said. “Which I’m trying to get over. Although this news about this woman . . . Never mind. If he thought Ryan wasn’t home, he wouldn’t have knocked. He might not knock at all if he thought I was home.”

  “But the shoe prints,” I said. “I’m not an expert, but the shoe prints looked smaller than Blake’s would have. And Blake wasn’t wearing sneakers when he came over. I don’t know.”

  But I wondered, Smaller feet. Sneakers. Dawn Steiner?

  Rountree arched one eyebrow as she thought about the tracks. “So we do know Blake came by around midnight, talked to you, and then left.” She turned to me. “Where was he going?”

  “I don’t know. Home, I assumed.”

  “Have you talked to him today?” Rountree asked.

  “It’s pretty early.”

  “Do you know what he was doing yesterday?” Rountree asked, ignoring my comment. “Did he say? You saw him in the evening at the coffee shop, and then you saw him last night here. What about the rest of the day?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He must have gone to work. I mean, I assume he did.”

  “Did he say if he went to see Ms. Bates?”

  “I think . . . he might have mentioned that he went to her house early yesterday.”

  Rountree nodded, her face a portrait of sagelike patience. “Did he say why?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” I said. “I assume to talk about their relationship. Probably to make it clear it was really over.”

  “And did he say how it went?”

  “I don’t know. I assume not well. None of it sounds good.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “A neighbor saw him there yesterday,” she said, drawing her words out. “Late morning, early afternoon. They’re not exactly sure. And the neighbor thought he heard arguing. Shouts coming from the house. Faint, considering the distance and the closed windows and everything. But he heard voices raised. We don’t know yet how that visit lines up with the time of Ms. Bates’s death. But we’ll know that soon.”

  I thought of the frozen watch hands: twelve fifteen. Likely the time of death, because wouldn’t it make sense to think the watch broke when Jennifer was killed? And Blake had been there around that time. . . .

  I felt hollow inside. Like a rotted tree trunk.

  “You should talk to Blake about all of this,” I said.

  Rountree hadn’t taken a note since she’d been in the room. I’d assumed all detectives took notes on little pads and then went back to the police station and typed their notes up on a computer. But Rountree must have had a good memory.

  She ignored my question and instead waved at Henry, then stood up from the couch, adjusting her suit coat as she did. Smoothing it down, making sure it was in place. I thought she was ignoring my question, withholding the information from me. But then she answered.

  “We haven’t been able to get ahold of Blake,” she said. “So if you hear from him or see him again, you need to let us know.”

  “He’s not at home?”

  “He hasn’t been,” she said. “And neither has Samantha. Samantha Edson. That’s his fiancée, right? The woman he’s marrying on Saturday? The wedding he came over here to tell you about, again, late last night?”

  “That’s her.”

  “If you hear from either one of them, let me know.”

  “Sam’s not at work?” Amanda asked. “She goes in pretty early.”

  “We’re about to check there,” Rountree said. “Don’t worry.”

  “She might have things to do for the wedding,” Amanda said, sounding perfectly reasonable.

  “True,” Rountree said, her voice neutral.

  Henry started to whine and fuss on Amanda’s lap. She stood up with him, trying to keep him quiet. “I think he needs more to eat. Thank you, Detective.”

  “Thank you.” She waved to Henry again as Amanda took him out of the room and back to the kitchen. Henry stared at Rountree, all wide-eyed fascination, until he disappeared out of sight.

  I walked to the door with the detective. Her movements were smooth and unhurried. She walked like someone wandering through a garden on a spring day, not like someone investigating a murder. At the door, she held out her hand, and we shook.

  “And you’re sure, Mr. Francis, that there isn’t anyone else who would want to harm you? Business deals gone wrong? Debts? Dissatisfied customers?”

  Maybe because I’d thought of her just moments before, Dawn Steiner’s face again popped into my mind.

  “Nothing like tha
t,” I said.

  Then Rountree spoke in a voice so low Amanda couldn’t have heard over Henry’s chattering.

  “You’re sure you didn’t know Ms. Bates better than you said you did?”

  Her words slipped out like a knife. They were meant to puncture me, force me to release something I didn’t mean to admit.

  “I didn’t,” I said. “That I can promise you.”

  She looked around the room one more time, taking it all in.

  “Well, if you hear from either one of the lovebirds, you’ll let me know, Ryan. It’s very important that things not get held back in a case like this. You never know what detail could tip the scales the way we want them to go. We’re talking to all the neighbors over by Ms. Bates’s, anyone who might have seen something. We’ll talk to your neighbors too about that possible prowler. More people are awake now. Who knows who saw something?”

  She didn’t wait for me to respond before she slipped out the door and back to her car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I went out to the kitchen after Rountree left. The news she’d brought—Blake was nowhere to be found, the cops knew he’d been at Jennifer’s house and the two of them had argued while he was there—left me shaken almost as much as the events of the day before. Her words clouded my mind as though I’d taken a blow to the head, one that left me dizzy and slightly incoherent. It took effort to move my legs, I was so thrown by them.

  Amanda had Henry back in his high chair, and she was spooning applesauce into his mouth. He greedily gummed it, his jaws moving like those of a wizened old man. She put the spoon aside, wiped her hands on a napkin, and started texting someone. The message whooshed away, and then she looked up at me.

  “Who are you writing to?” I asked.

  “Sam. I want to let her know what’s going on. That the cops are looking for Blake and they want to talk to her too. She has a right to know all of this. If she knew, she’d do something about it.”

  “Have you heard from her at all today?” I asked.

  “That’s the first time I wrote. I haven’t heard from her in a week or so.” She picked up the spoon again and fed Henry more. “It’s been a little awkward since the thing with Blake and Henry. But she’s not a bridge burner. We keep up with each other. We keep trying to get together, but stuff comes up.”