The Request

by David Bell

  “Kyle Dornan,” she said. “And he’s on foot?”

  “He was when he left here.”

  Rountree stepped away and raised the radio. She passed along the information about Kyle Dornan, giving his location and the direction he was heading. She listened as someone said something back to her, which I couldn’t hear. Then she signed off and came back over to me. But she remained silent, which unnerved me. By design. Even though I recognized her strategy, it still worked.

  I decided to break the silence.

  “You think he did it?” I asked. “Kyle?”

  “I don’t know who did it, Mr. Francis. Why do you think Mr. Dornan is guilty?”

  “He was involved with Jennifer. He came here and got into this house.”

  “Blake was involved with Jennifer at one time too. And you had a flirtation with her. Should I consider you a suspect, Mr. Francis?”

  “You’d have to be the one to tell me.”

  “When I was at your house earlier, I got the feeling there were things about this matter that you didn’t want your wife to know. I assume she knew about the flirtatious messages from Ms. Bates since you spoke so openly about them. Although my guess is it’s still tough for a spouse to hear about such things. People get jealous. It’s understandable. If someone was moving in on my partner . . .”

  “That’s a misunderstanding between my wife and me,” I said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with what’s going on with Blake. Or this Kyle Dornan guy. It really doesn’t have anything to do with Jennifer. I never wrote back to her.”

  Rountree crossed her arms and considered me like I was a painting on a museum wall. With the sun in my face and with the early hour and the stress of all the craziness, I probably looked like something surrealist or cubist, a distortion of a human figure. “What about Blake and Samantha? Does what happens between them remain private? How was their relationship? Any insights you have might help matters.”

  I thought back to Rountree’s arrival at the house that morning. She said the police hadn’t been able to find either Blake or Samantha.

  “She called me,” I said. “Samantha.”

  “She did. When?”

  “When I was inside there with Kyle. About fifteen minutes ago. She called me, wondering if I knew where Blake was. And I told her I didn’t. But weren’t you looking for her earlier?”

  “Where was she? Did she say?”

  “She said she’d just got to work. You know she teaches at Cherry Lane Elementary, right? Kindergarten.”

  Rountree looked surprised. “She said she was at the school?”

  “Yes. She said she went in because she wanted her life to be normal, to stick to her normal routine.”

  “That’s odd,” Rountree said. “We went by there looking for her an hour ago, and her principal told us she hadn’t arrived, that she was running late. I guess I would think it odd for a woman to be at work at all the day before her wedding. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Francis?”

  “Yes, I guess it is. I’ve known people who worked right up until their weddings so they could save as much vacation time as possible for the honeymoon. Sam’s a teacher. Maybe she can’t miss too much.”

  “Did Samantha say anything else?” Rountree asked.

  “She said she couldn’t find Blake, and she was worried about him. I’m afraid I couldn’t help much with that.”

  The two uniformed cops came out the back door and stood off to the side, waiting to make their reports to Rountree. She went over, and I heard them tell her they’d found nothing out of the ordinary inside. No signs of robbery. No sign of injury. Just a broken liquor bottle in the foyer and two empty glasses on the counter.

  “That was Kyle,” I said. “His method of persuasion.”

  Rountree looked over at me and then back at them. She appeared to be processing their reports, letting her eyes move away from the cops and over to the house.

  She pointed at me. “Keep an eye on him for a minute,” she said. “I’m going to take a look inside.”

  “Yes, Detective.”

  Before she went in, she looked at me. “You will behave, Mr. Francis?”

  “Haven’t I so far?”

  “That’s up for debate,” she said, and went inside.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The cops ignored me while they waited for Rountree to come back outside. They stood close together, about ten feet away from me, and held a low conversation I mostly couldn’t hear. Only scattered words reached me.

  Can’t believe it . . . does she think we missed something . . . overtime . . .

  Their radios crackled. The cop on the right listened and then said something back. When she clicked off, she turned to her partner and spoke in a voice I could hear.

  “They’re trying to find that guy,” she said. “The one he says was here.”

  “Kyle Dornan,” I said.

  They both turned to look at me but didn’t respond. They went back to their conversation, speaking even lower so I couldn’t make out anything.

  So I waited. I leaned back against the house, letting the sun wash over my face. It was turning into a really nice spring day. I wished I was able to enjoy it. Go to the park with Amanda and Henry. Sit outside and drink a beer in the evening. Open the windows and air out the house.

  Rountree came back out. She nodded at the two officers, and one of them told her about Kyle Dornan.

  “They haven’t found him yet,” she said.

  “I heard,” Rountree said. “They’ll keep looking.” Then she turned to me and asked, “How did you say you knew Mr. Norton again?”

  “We met in college. At Ferncroft.”

  “Freshman year?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would you say he’s a sentimental man?” Rountree asked.

  It was such an odd question, delivered in such a casual tone. It took me a moment to understand she was serious.

  “Blake? He fancies himself a romantic. I guess sentimental can go along with that.”

  “Is he sentimental about your college days?”

  “No. No more than anyone else.” We avoided a lot of talk about college because of the way it ended. The hazing. The accident. Like it was a healing scab, I tried not to put any pressure on it, although from time to time I bumped up against it accidentally, bringing on a new rush of pain. “Why do you ask?”

  “What was Sigil and Shield?” she asked.

  The sun suddenly felt warmer. The two uniformed cops had turned to watch Rountree’s questioning of me like curious bystanders. A bead of sweat trickled down my back under my shirt.

  Where was she coming up with all of this?

  “Why are you asking about Sigil and Shield?”

  “Can you just explain it to me?” she said, her voice weary. “You see, I had to go to a public university. Where I grew up in Nebraska. I paid my way through by working in a fast-food restaurant. Worked my way up to assistant manager in two years. We had sororities and fraternities, but nothing called ‘Sigil and Shield.’ Can you enlighten me on what that is? It sounds like a Dungeons and Dragons–type game, but I’m guessing it was more than that.”

  The two officers looked even more curious, watching from behind Rountree.

  “It’s a social club. At Ferncroft. We didn’t have fraternities and sororities, but we had social clubs. A group you had to be invited to join. We did charity in the community. Social things.”

  “And you partied too?”

  I swallowed. My back grew wetter from the sweat. My throat drier. “Of course. We were in college.”

  “And you and Mr. Norton were in this group together?” Rountree asked.

  “That’s right. With a lot of other people. We weren’t officers or anything.”

  “But he wasn’t sentimental about it? Not the kind of guy to go traipsing down me
mory lane? Not the type to reminisce about the good old days in Sigil and Shield?”

  “We talk about the past. Sometimes. Why are you asking me this? I’m sorry I don’t see what it has to do with—”

  “You’ve been in this house before today, right?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “So you’ve been all through it? Upstairs and down?”

  “I have.”

  “You know Mr. Norton has an office upstairs? He has a desk, a computer, reference books for his job, all that kind of stuff. I’ll give him credit. He keeps it pretty neat and tidy. Nothing out of place. Everything orderly. Is that him or his fiancée who insists on that kind of order?”

  “Blake always kept his desk pretty clean. We roomed together for three years in college. He could go weeks without doing laundry or getting a haircut, but he kept his desk clean.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Are you going to let me in on the secret?” I asked.

  Rountree looked back at the other officers, who stared at her like kindergartners waiting to see if their teacher was going to let them out for recess. She turned back to me and nodded.

  “I went all through the house. They were right. There was nothing ransacked, nothing damaged outside of that bourbon bottle. Rowan’s Creek. Good stuff too. A shame to waste it. But I did notice in the office that Mr. Norton had his college yearbooks out. What is it called? The Bower?”

  “That’s it.”

  “The Bower. Anyway, all four years of college yearbooks out on the desk. Nothing else out, nothing out of place. But there were those yearbooks. And one of them was opened to the page about the Sigil and Shield. From what must have been your senior year. It was the most recent yearbook. That’s why I ask if he was sentimental. Why would he have those out and be looking through them now? It seems odd, given the complications with Jennifer Bates and his impending wedding. You’d think his mind would be on other things, right?”

  “I don’t know, Detective.”

  And I really didn’t. There was nothing in the yearbook about the accident. Nothing about the Sigil and Shield being suspended for a year. They kept things like that out of a yearbook. No one wanted to look back on bad memories.

  What Blake wanted from The Bower’s pages, I couldn’t guess.

  Rountree turned to the two officers. “Will one of you close that window and make sure everything is locked? Then sit on the place in case anyone comes back.”

  The two officers jumped to it. Rountree folded her arms again and studied my face. She even tilted her head a little, trying to get a better angle.

  “I need a favor from you, Mr. Francis. I need you to answer a question. Something I learned a little earlier today just came back to me, and it’s really sticking in my craw.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We had a witness come forward a little while ago. A gentleman who lives in Ms. Bates’s neighborhood. It turns out he was walking his dog last night, not long before the body was discovered.”

  I stayed still, tried to keep my face neutral. I felt like an insect pinned to somebody’s display board. Exposed. Helpless.

  Desperately in trouble.

  “He saw a man creeping around the area, and he gave us a description of the man. You weren’t around there last night, were you?”

  “I told you where I was.”

  “Not exactly an answer,” Rountree said. She turned and started to walk off, but she abruptly stopped and came back to me. “You know what we can do, Mr. Francis? We can go down to the station. You can stand in a lineup and this gentleman can come in and, well, then he can tell us if it was you who he saw near the crime scene. How does that sound?”

  “Not pleasant.”

  “It isn’t.” She toed the ground, her arms still crossed. “When those officers come out of the house again, I could get them to cuff you and bring you down to the station, whether you like it or not.”

  “I guess you could,” I said. “And I could call a lawyer who probably wouldn’t want me to stand in any lineups. I’ve already been cooperating with you.”

  “By trespassing in your friend’s house.”

  “I need to go, Detective. I need to check on my family.”

  Rountree reached into her pocket and brought out an iPhone. She held it in the space between us.

  For a second I thought it was Jennifer’s. Recovered from where Blake had ditched it.

  But it wasn’t the right color. This was Rountree’s phone.

  “I could take your photo,” she said. “Snap it right here and show it to our witness. I know you like Instagram. Which filter would you like? Crema? Juno? Hashtag no filter?”

  I held her gaze. Steady. Unwavering. No blinks.

  She lowered the phone.

  “But we don’t really need that. I can easily find a photo of you online to show our witness. I’m talking to him again today. I trust you’re not leaving the area anytime soon, are you?”

  “I’m not.”

  The two uniformed officers came out of Blake’s house, and once they walked past, Rountree followed them.

  “Good day, Mr. Francis. Do your best to make it a good day.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  I sat back in the driver’s seat of my car.

  Sweat—a river of it—still poured down my back, making my shirt stick to my skin like flypaper. I took short, sharp breaths, trying to get air into my lungs.

  A witness. The dog walker. He had seen me. Rountree was going to show him my photo.

  And I’d invoked a lawyer. I looked guilty as hell.

  And I was.

  My phone buzzed. Amanda.

  Call me when you get the chance.

  And then:

  Call me.

  And then:

  Ryan, where are you?

  I called, but she didn’t answer. I let the phone ring for a while, hung up, and tried again. Still no response. I checked the time on the phone. Almost nine on a Friday morning. She gave Henry a bath around nine. I pictured her up to her elbows in sudsy water with a wet, squirming infant in her hands. She wouldn’t answer.

  And I’d told her to head out, to go to her parents with Henry. She might have been packing to do that. Or she might have been on her way, driving and not responding. Even with the Bluetooth in the car, Amanda refused to talk on the phone when she was driving Henry somewhere.

  As Rountree had told them to, the two uniformed cops remained parked on the street, observing Blake’s house. I felt certain they were observing me, wondering why I hadn’t driven off like Rountree. I didn’t need any more trouble with them, so I started the car and drove off, out of the neighborhood and away from the prying, curious eyes of the police.

  A new strip mall sat a few minutes away, occupying a space where a small warehouse once stood. It held a check-cashing place, a Chinese restaurant, a dollar store, and a fitness center. I stopped on the outer edge of the parking lot, away from all the other cars, and decided to call Sam.

  Rountree had sounded like she was ready to head right over to the school and look for her. It was possible Sam wouldn’t answer, either because she was involved with her students or because she was being questioned. But she deserved a heads-up if the police hadn’t arrived yet.

  Samantha answered on the fourth ring. Her voice sounded buoyant and hopeful. “Did you find him?”

  She’d placed a lot of faith in me, counted on me as his close friend to deliver the goods. But I hadn’t been able to do that.

  “No, not yet,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  The joy and hope went out of her like air from a balloon.

  “Have you heard anything from him?” I asked.

  “He called me this morning. Just a little while ago. He said I shouldn’t worry, that he was taking care of some things for the wedding. Things tha
t will make everything go more smoothly. I’m trying, Ryan. I’m trying to keep my sanity as all of this goes on. I’m not a fool. I’m trusting him. But . . . it’s getting hard. Really hard.”

  “He must know the cops are looking for him by now.”

  “He does. He said he’ll talk to them soon.”

  “He should go to them now,” I said. Then I thought, Probably. Maybe. Hopefully. “I’m a little worried about you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “That Detective Rountree, she’s looking for you. I’m pretty sure she’s going to come to the school to talk to you. She may very well be pulling in the lot right now. I just wanted to give you fair warning.”

  “She’s been calling me.”

  “I know. I saw her at your house. I went there looking for Blake.”

  “Well, I’m not at school anymore,” Sam said. “I left about ten minutes ago. I came in a little late, trying to work a normal day, but my principal told me to leave. She knows I’m getting married tomorrow, and I guess I seemed kind of distracted.”

  “Then where are you? Are you going home?”

  “Eventually. I have some errands to run for tomorrow. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Sam?”

  “Ryan, do you think tomorrow’s going to happen? The wedding? If I can’t get ahold of Blake, and the police are looking for him . . . maybe we should just call it off. My God. It would all be so embarrassing if we had to stop it. But I’m trying to be reasonable. We threw this whole thing together in a rush. Maybe this is the world telling us to slow down. What do you think?”

  “Where are you? Can we talk in person?”

  “I’m on . . .”

  I heard a rushing of wind, air through an open car window. Then the clicking of a turn signal.

  “I just turned onto Bricker from Montero. You know where that is, right?”

  “I’m right there. You know where that Chinese restaurant is? The one with the fortune cookie on the sign?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I’m in the lot there. Turn in, and you’ll find me.”